“Infected,” Milena stated, her voice devoid of emotion, each word a chip of ice. “Vanguard law is clear. Execution.” My vision narrowed to the cold glint of her rifle’s scope. The world beyond it faded. Dragomir lay unconscious, his skin slick with sweat and the faint shimmer of residual magic. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven intervals. He was dying. And this woman, this *sniper*, was going to finish him. “You will not,” I said, my own voice a low growl, utterly foreign to my ears. I didn’t recognize the raw fury that sparked behind my words, but it burned. I pushed myself up, placing my body squarely between Milena and Dragomir. The Soul-Tether pulsed, a phantom ache in my sternum, reminding me of the connection I now cherished, the one I had once so desperately tried to sever. Milena’s brow arched, a hint of surprise—or perhaps annoyance—crossing her carefully composed features. “Ozerov, get out of the way. He is compromised. A threat to the outpost, to us. You know the protocols.” “Protocols be damned!” I spat, my gaze flicking to the dark stains on Dragomir’s skin, where the beast’s corruption had tried to take root. He’d taken it *for me*. He’d saved me. He hadn’t murdered me; he’d rescued me from a fate worse than death itself. Milena sighed, the sound barely audible over the distant rumbling that suggested more of the Sable Guard were nearing. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Zivana. Your sentimentality will get you killed. Step aside.” Her finger tightened on the trigger. The *click* of the safety disengaging was a sharp crack in the silence. “Borscht!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Now!” My six-legged companion, who had been huddled nervously behind a jagged rock, unfurled himself with startling speed. His usually grumpy eyes glowed with an unnerving, sickly green light. With a guttural hiss, he spat. A thick, emerald stream of highly concentrated acid arced through the air, hitting Milena’s rifle barrel with pinpoint accuracy. A sickening *sizzle* filled the cavern. Smoke plumed upwards, acrid and metallic, as the hardened steel of Milena’s prized firearm warped and melted like soft wax. The barrel drooped, then disintegrated, leaving behind a steaming, useless stump. Milena stared in stunned disbelief, her icy facade splintering. Her lips parted, but before she could utter a single word, I plunged my hand into my belt pouch, pulling out a small, spherical device. I slammed it onto the ground. With a muffled *thump*, a thick, grey cloud of smoke billowed outwards, instantly engulfing us. The approaching shouts of the Sable Guard, now much closer, turned into confused coughs and muffled curses. I heard boots slip frantically over loose shale, accompanied by panicked shouts of “What in the blazes?!” and “Where are they?!” “Move!” I barked, grabbing Dragomir’s arm. His skin was burning, his weight a dead stone against my smaller frame. The bond, a constant invisible leash, snapped taut as I pulled him forward. It was a bizarre choreography of shared agony and forced proximity, each pull of his body against mine mirroring a sharp tug at my own core. I half-dragged, half-carried him out of the smoke, past Milena’s stunned, cursing form, and into the biting wind of the Volgari tundra. The faint glow of a flickering torchlight from the approaching Guard was already visible through the swirling snow. We didn’t have much time. “We need a ride,” I mumbled to myself, scanning the desolate landscape. A faint, distant hum caught my attention. A snow-skiff, its powerful engines roaring faintly, cut through the blizzard. It was a trader’s transport, laden with crates and barrels, its pilot a bundled-up figure struggling against the wind as he secured a loose tarp. “Perfect,” I snarled. I ignored the agony in my arms and the relentless yank at my ribs. Dragomir’s head lolled against my side, his fevered groans a constant, unsettling counterpoint to the howling wind. I could feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the glacial air that bit at my exposed skin. Reaching the skiff, I didn’t hesitate. With a grunt, I heaved Dragomir onto the cargo bed, then vaulted aboard myself. The driver, a scrawny man with a frost-bitten nose, spun around in alarm. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing? This is private transport!” “It’s not anymore,” I snapped, shoving him away from the controls. My fingers flew over the ancient console, recalling the basic schematics of a standard Volgari snow-skiff. The engines roared to life with a satisfying surge of power. “Stop! Thief! Someone help!” the driver shrieked, lunging to grab my arm. Before he could make contact, a low, guttural growl ripped through the air. Dragomir, who had been completely inert moments before, suddenly surged upwards, his eyes blazing with an unsettling, feverish intensity. He reached out, a claw-like hand snapping around the driver’s wrist. The man yelped, his face draining of color. Dragomir’s grip was like iron, even in his delirium. “Mine,” Dragomir slurred, his voice rough and distorted. He pulled the driver closer, his face contorted in a terrifying snarl. “She’s *mine*. Don’t touch her.” The man whimpered, looking from Dragomir’s wild, red-rimmed eyes to my own, then back again. He looked utterly terrified. “He’s… unwell,” I offered, a weak explanation that did little to soothe the man's raw terror. I wrestled the skiff’s steering column, turning it sharply away from the approaching Sable Guard. The twin beams of their searchlights swept across the snow, narrowly missing us as we picked up speed. Dragomir let out another possessive growl, tugging the captive arm hard enough that I heard a faint *pop*. “Leave her alone. Mine. *My* Zivana.” The driver, clearly deciding discretion was the better part of valor, twisted free and scuttled to the very back of the skiff, huddling among his crates. I sighed, a strange mix of exasperation and a wholly unexpected warmth blooming in my chest. *My Zivana?* The wind whipped past us as the skiff sped across the frozen wasteland. Dragomir, still half-delirious, leaned heavily against my side, his burning forehead pressed against my shoulder. The tether pulsed, warm and insistent, a lifeline between us. “I wouldn’t have let it,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the engine’s roar. His arm, still hot with fever, tightened around my waist. “The beast… I would have let it take my soul… before I ever let it hurt you again.”

The Great Escape