The lock rasped, a sound like teeth grinding stone, and the heavy oak door swung inward. Jasker filled the frame, his uniform jacket open, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. His eyes, the color of a winter sky before a blizzard, locked onto Runa. His gaze dropped from her face to the print and sheets clutched in her hand, then swept around the room, taking in the disturbed music box, the slight disarray. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping at his temple. “What in the name of the Rhedian Blight are you doing in here?” His voice was a low growl, vibrating with the controlled fury of a man whose sanctuary had been defiled. “This room is off-limits. You *know* you are barred from here.” Runa didn't flinch. Her own fury, cold and pure, burned through her veins, a stark counterpoint to his explosive rage. “Off-limits?” she retorted, her voice dangerously calm. “Barred to you, Jasker. Not to me. Not when the answers to your sister’s death, and my exoneration, have been gathering dust in here all along.” She took a step forward, shoving the faded card into his chest. He staggered back, caught off guard, his hands instinctively coming up to catch it. His eyes, still narrowed with suspicion, scanned the image. Inga’s carefree smile, Runa’s arm draped over her shoulder. Then he saw her. Linnea, lurking in the background, a shadow of venomous hatred clinging to her. A faint frown creased Jasker’s brow, a seed of doubt planted in the hardened soil of his grief. He looked up, his gaze searching Runa’s face for explanation. “Look closer, Jasker,” Runa pressed, pushing the unsent correspondence into his free hand. “Don’t just see what your grief wants you to see. See what Inga *saw*. See what Linnea *is*.” Her voice cracked, betraying the raw emotion beneath her defiance. “She killed Inga. And she framed me. She’s been pulling your strings since the moment you were foolish enough to believe her lies.” Jasker’s fingers tightened on the aged vellum, crinkling it. His gaze, fixed on the print, hardened into slits of disbelief. “This is… impossible,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Linnea… she cared for Inga. She grieved with me.” He looked at Runa, his fury reigniting, battling against the nascent doubt. “You're twisting this. You always twist things, Volgatis. You’re grasping at straws.” “Keen to live, yes,” Runa shot back, refusing to cower. “Driven to expose the viper you’ve let into your heart, the one who is even now sending you to your death!” She pointed a finger at the print. “Inga was terrified of her, Jasker! Linnea wasn’t just jealous of *me*, she was jealous of Inga’s happiness, of anyone who took your attention away from her. This isn't some petty rivalry. This is cold-blooded, meticulously planned murder, designed to tie you to the only woman she knew would *never* betray you: me.” Jasker stared at the silver-nitrate print, then at the correspondence, his breathing becoming shallow. The anger in his eyes warred with something akin to horror. The image of Linnea’s shadowed face, the uncharacteristic intensity of her gaze, gnawed at the edges of his certainty. He wanted to dismiss it, to roar at Runa, to lock her away for good. But the evidence, however inconvenient, held a chilling resonance with the ghost signal’s warning. A sharp rap echoed through the hall, startling them both. Jasker cursed under his breath, shoving the bundle into his jacket pocket. He strode to the door, pulling it open to reveal Marek Borg standing on the threshold, a leather satchel slung across his shoulder. Marek’s gaze flickered between Jasker’s dark face and Runa, still standing in the locked study, her expression a mix of defiance and exhaustion. “Borg,” Jasker bit out, his voice laced with venom. “What in the name of the Bastion are you doing here? I gave explicit orders. No contact.” Marek, usually so meticulous, looked disheveled, his uniform slightly askew, a smudge of soot on his cheek. “Chief Codemaster Varla, forgive my intrusion,” he said, his voice strained. “But I felt it imperative to deliver this in person. It’s regarding the investigation into Inga Varla’s incident.” He glanced at Runa, a subtle nod passing between them. Jasker’s eyes narrowed. “The investigation is closed. The culprit has been judged.” “Perhaps not entirely,” Marek countered, stepping inside, his eyes locking onto Jasker’s. “I found the original report from the airship mechanic, the one who died in the ‘training accident’ a week later. His supplemental notes were never properly cross-referenced. He reported seeing someone near the engine compartment just hours before the explosion.” Jasker scoffed. “A disgruntled junior technician. His statements were unreliable.” “He described a woman,” Marek pressed on, ignoring Jasker’s interjection, his voice gaining urgency, “matching Linnea Sten’s description. Fair hair, slender build. And she was carrying a botanist’s case. Said she was ‘inspecting the air filters for exotic fungal spores’ at the time.” The words hung heavy in the air, each one a hammer blow to Jasker’s shattered worldview. Linnea. Botanist. Near the engine. The details aligned with clockwork precision, exposing a betrayal that eclipsed even Runa’s accusation. His face went ashen, his previous fury draining away, replaced by a dawning terror. Linnea’s plausible lie. Runa’s warnings. Inga’s terror. The print. “No,” Jasker breathed, the sound barely audible. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white, trembling with a fury far more profound than any he had ever directed at Runa. His entire world, built on grief and revenge, disintegrated around him. His gaze darted between Runa and Marek, a silent demand for denial, for a way out of this nightmare. Marek, sensing the shift, pulled a dispatch folio from his satchel. “That’s not all, Chief Codemaster. A few moments ago, a priority override command was logged. Issued under your personal command codes, with full fleet authorization. It altered the deployment vectors for the Oakhaven fleet.” He paused, letting the implication sink in, the air thick with dread. “They’re not going to Oakhaven, Jasker. Linnea has sent them directly into the Rhede ambush.” Jasker stared at the dispatch sheets, his skin blanched pale as the truth struck home. Linnea. The trap. His fleet. His men. All condemned by his own hand, manipulated by the woman he loved. He had walked them into a slaughter. And Runa… Runa had tried to stop him.

An Alliance of Rivals