The world tilted. Brez slammed against the cold steel of the desk, the impact jarring her ribs. Dust and debris rained down from the vault’s ceiling as a secondary tremor rumbled through the floorboards. Rhovis, surprisingly, had already moved, his large frame shielding her partially from the immediate fallout. He wasn’t looking at her, though; his gaze was fixed on the mangled entrance to the vault, where twisted steel groaned and smoke billowed in. The air thickened with the acrid scent of ozone and burnt stone. “Stay low,” he commanded, his voice a dangerous rumble that cut through the chaos. He didn't wait for a response, already drawing a compact Aethium-charged pistol from a holster concealed beneath his tailored coat. The firing chamber ticked with pressurized charge. Outside, shouts and the rhythmic crunch of combat boots cut through the discharge of galvanic rifles. The raiders were mounting a coordinated assault. Brez’s mind raced, recalling the novel’s schematics. The Caldani Grand Exhibition Grounds weren't just a lavish display; they were a fortress, designed with multiple defensive layers. The primary line of defense rested inside the master foundry's primary distribution dais. “The assembly floor,” Brez gasped, pushing herself upright despite the ringing in her ears. “The primary distribution dais. We need to trip the floor grid.” Rhovis glanced at her, a flicker of surprise in his obsidian eyes. “You know the defensive protocols?” he questioned, a brow raising in suspicion even amidst the active siege. Before she could offer a plausible lie, another volley of shots echoed from the corridor, closer this time. “They’re breaking through the outer perimeter,” he muttered, holstering his pistol and drawing a longer, more ornate blade from his cane. “Follow me. Keep up, boy. If you’re truly useful, prove it.” They burst from the crumbling vault, dodging falling masonry and the panicked scramble of fleeing servants. The corridor ahead was already a warzone. Armed figures in dark, utilitarian uniforms bearing the Obsidian Cog mark were engaging Rhovis’s private security detail, their galvanic rifles spitting emerald light. Brez slipped through the smoke, her knowledge of the manor's maintenance conduits steering their course past the heaviest crossfire. They navigated tight service conduits thick with venting steam. Rhovis moved with brutal efficiency, his cane sword clearing their path of any infiltrator. Brez, meanwhile, was focused on Miro. Sarya. She knew Sarya wouldn’t let this opportunity pass. Miro's powers were too valuable. They broke into the cavernous assembly hall, bathed in the erratic flicker of copper-filament emergency bulbs. The floor, usually crowded with apprentices, had turned into a skirmish line. Operatives led by an officer with a cog etched into his neck were ripping up lead-sheathed cables to sever the compound's perimeter wards. “Varrick,” Rhovis called out, his voice sharp and level. The raider turned with a sneer, his men fanning out beside him. “You trespass on Caldani ground.” “And you bleed on it, Caldani,” the officer rasped. “The Obsidian Cog takes what it claims. The raw fuel, and any viable assets.” The man's gaze flicked toward the domestic corridors. He was hunting Miro. Brez didn’t hesitate. While Rhovis engaged the line of raiders, Brez bolted for the distribution dais—a heavy brass console lined with dormant valves. Her fingers flew over the worn controls, a forgotten memory from the novel’s schematics guiding her every move. She slammed a series of levers, then spun a large, ornate dial marked ‘DEFENSE: TECTONIC GRID.’ A deep, mechanical groan rippled through the floor. The very ground beneath the syndicate’s feet began to shift. Plates of polished marmol split, revealing intricate clockwork mechanisms and grinding gears. The intruders stumbled as slabs of stone sheared upward and sank in uneven steps. Two men pitched forward as bronze counterweights burst up through the floor. The lead officer stumbled, swearing as the tiles tilted beneath his boots. Brez hauled back an auxiliary manifold. Brass pipework along the rafters shrieked, venting superheated vapor in overlapping barricades across the floor. “What mechanism is this?!” the officer snarled, lunging back as a burst of white vapor scalded his shoulder. Rhovis drove two more raiders back into the churning gears, pressing his advantage. But the moment of triumph was short-lived. From the entrance to the servant’s quarters, Sarya emerged, clutching a small, bundled figure to her chest. Miro. His small chin trembled against the folds of a wool shawl that flared with unstable blue luminescence. She was making a break for it, using the chaos as cover. “Sarya, no!” Brez shouted. She lunged forward, but an errant rifle slug shattered a copper stanchion beside her, showering her collar in sparks and driving her down. Just as Sarya reached the hall's eastern threshold, a figure lunged from behind a stack of iron gearboxes. Gidgen threw his entire weight around her waist, dragging her down across the flagstones. Miro cried out as he was jostled. Sarya, enraged, scrabbled for something at her hip. A flash of silver. A stiletto. She plunged it into Gidgen’s shoulder. He yelped, a choked gasp, but his grip remained stubbornly tight around her, shielding Miro with his body. “Run, Brez!” Gidgen wheezed, crimson soaking through his canvas apron. “Take him!” Sarya wrenched sideways, trying to pull the blade free. Before Brez could close the distance, an errant canister bomb hit the flagstones ten paces away. The shockwave hurled Brez against an iron support column. Her temples rang with a sudden, vicious throb as the blast shredded her wool tunic, snapping her chest wraps and ripping the flatcap clean from her skull. Dust hung thick over the ruined stone. She pushed up on trembling elbows, dark hair spilling loose over her bare shoulders and the frayed remains of her linen chest-wrap. Distant gunfire rattled down the far corridor, but the air immediately around her fell dead quiet. Through the swirling haze of dust and smoke, a tall, imposing figure materialized. Rhovis Caldani. He halted mid-stride, staring down at her face, her exposed throat, and the dark curls pooling over the broken masonry. His weapon, forgotten, clattered to the ground. His lips parted, a single word, soft as a whisper, tearing through the din of war, through her carefully constructed lies, through everything. “Brezala?”

Gears of War