The air in the Drosk reception hall detonated. Praxton’s swollen, misshapen form lunged forward, a violet streak aimed at Vorstag. But the Ghol patriarch was already in motion, a force unto himself. His own marrow flared, cold and measured, matching the instinct of a seasoned apex predator. A concussive wave, unseen but tangible, slammed into Praxton mid-leap, throwing him back against a shattered archway. Debris rained down as Vorstag snarled, “You touch what is mine, Praxton, and I will show you a true war.” Vorstag seized Kerym’s arm, pulling him towards a concealed escape hatch. Sennira, already drawing her twin sidearms, covered their retreat while scanning the falling masonry. The Drosk guards, recovering from the initial blast, scrambled into action, but Vorstag’s protective aura was absolute, repelling any who dared approach. They plunged into a sub-level passage, the rumble of destruction echoing behind them. Praxton’s roar, now more beast than man, vibrated through the very stones. “He’s a ghost! A decoy! And I will gut him!” Hours later, Kerym lay cocooned in the impossibly soft covers of his suite within the Obsidian Spire. He’d barely made it through the debriefing with Vorstag and Sennira before the exhaustion claimed him. Praxton’s manic declaration had been followed by a frantic retreat, but the threat was clear. Now, a low thrumming vibration shook the building, subtle at first, then growing into a deep, guttural growl that resonated through the reinforced floors. Kerym, burrowing deeper into the pillows, vaguely registered the distant shouts, the staccato rhythm of automatic fire. *Perhaps they’ll just burn out the lower levels*, he mused, a hazy thought before drifting back towards the edge of sleep. The thrum intensified, becoming a piercing shriek. The shriek culminated in an explosion that ripped through the ferro-composite plating of his bedroom window. A projectile, shaped like a fat, stubby fish, spun end over end, trailing smoke. It was aimed directly at his head. Kerym, without opening his eyes, simply flicked his wrist. The air around the rocket shimmered. It veered sharply, arcing away from the bed, and detonated harmlessly against the far wall of the suite, scattering pristine white shrapnel onto the plush carpet. He sighed, the sound barely audible. So much for an uninterrupted nap. Footsteps pounded outside his door, frantic and heavy. “Heir Jorian! Are you harmed?” Sennira’s voice, sharp with urgency, cut through the din. The door hissed open, revealing her, blasters already raised, alongside two Ghol Praetorians. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the rocket’s impact crater, the scattered debris, and Kerym, still lying in bed, a single strand of dark hair falling across his face. He pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, a faint, annoyed frown creasing his brow. “Just a poor shot,” he mumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “They’re inside, aren’t they?” “The Drosk strike is coordinated,” Sennira reported, her voice clipped. “Field dampeners in Sector Gamma. We’re losing control of the service elevators.” Kerym just nodded, stretching languidly. He moved towards his walk-in wardrobe, pulling out a dark, fitted combat suit. “Lead the way, then. I suppose I can’t sleep through this one.” The hallway was a maelstrom. Drosk storm-troopers, clad in segmented plating that shimmered with contained charge, clashed with Ghol Praetorians. Explosions rippled through the air, sending shards of marble and twisted metal flying. Kerym, moving with an unnatural smoothness, threaded through the chaos. A raider lunged at Sennira, his forearm coiling for an impact thrust. Kerym, seemingly without effort, reached out. His fingers brushed the man's elbow. The man stumbled, thrown by a sudden, impossible acceleration of his own momentum, slamming into a pillar with a dull crack as his chestplate caved inward. Sennira spared him a quick, appreciative glance. “They’re pushing towards the command deck. Vorstag is directing defensive formations.” Kerym merely hummed, his apathy a thin veneer over something far more potent. He walked directly into three raiders. Their barrier shields flared to absorb what they assumed was minor force. Kerym didn’t strike. He simply *pushed*. Not with his body, but with an internal surge of hyper-dense marrow that twisted the momentum around them. The air crackled, then popped. The barriers imploded, crushed inward by their own stored force and mangling the men within. A chilling silence fell over that section of the hall, the Drosk forces momentarily paralyzed by the sheer, casual brutality. A Drosk squad leader stepped back, shouting, “It’s him! The decoy! That’s Drosk bloodline force!” He raised a heavy pulse cannon, its barrel glowing with stored energy. Before he could fire, Sennira launched herself forward, a force barrier snapping up to deflect a volley of flechette fire from flanking gunmen. The squad leader leveled a heavy cannon. It ripped through her shield, the impact throwing her back, slamming her against a data conduit. A sickening crack echoed through the hall. She slumped, blood blooming on her side, her pistols clattering to the tiles. Kerym stopped. The lethargy, the carefully cultivated apathy, evaporated like morning mist under a scorching sun. His eyes, usually half-lidded, snapped open, revealing a startling, vibrant emerald. A low growl, utterly unlike his usual languid tone, vibrated in his chest. “She… is not for you to touch.” The air around him condensed, becoming heavy, almost viscous. The surviving squad, confident seconds earlier, backed away. This wasn’t the same ‘decoy’ they’d faced. Kerym moved. Not with speed, but with an absolute, undeniable authority over every ounce of momentum in the corridor. He didn’t run; he simply *was* among them. A kick, too fast to see, snapped a soldier’s leg in half, splintered bone piercing through cloth. Another swipe hurled a raider through a reinforced wall, punching through structural alloy. His movements were minimalist, efficient, each blow landing with the dull precision of a hydraulic ram. His targets weren't just hit; they were *erased*, their momentum snuffed out before their bodies crumpled to the floor. The squad leader tried to scramble backward. Kerym stepped in, his fingers clamping onto the leader's helmet rim. With a sharp twist, momentum snapped through the neck joints, wrenching the helmet around. The corpse slumped flat. Within seconds, the hallway was littered with inert forms, the stench of ozone and scorched flesh hanging heavy. Kerym stood over Sennira, his gaze fixed on her shallow breathing. Her pulse was weak. “Sennira,” he murmured, a flicker of something akin to panic in his voice. He knelt, his touch surprisingly gentle as he checked her wound. It was bad. Too bad for field medics. Too bad for the Spire’s trauma ward to fix quickly enough. Just then, the outer wall of the corridor exploded inward. Not a destructive blast, but a controlled demolition. A sleek, black dropship, its Ghol markings crudely painted over with a snarling white skull, hovered outside the gaping hole. The ramp lowered, revealing Madame Zykhan, her chain-smoke dangling precariously from her lips, a grim smile on her face. “Looks like I’m just in time for the party, dearie,” she rasped, her eyes falling on Sennira. “She took a good hit. Come on. My clinic is faster.” Kerym carefully lifted Sennira into his arms. He carried her towards the dropship, his steps firm. Zykhan watched him, her smile fading into something serious. “I can patch her up,” she said, gesturing to the open bay. “But there’s a price, Kerym. A steep one. That pure marrow of yours? The kind that makes you such a lovely decoy? The city’s exploited, those poor souls running on fumes for the elites, they need a cure. And you, my dear, are it. Give me a full harvest, and Sennira walks away from this. Refuse, and…” Her gaze was unwavering. “She dies.”

Blood in the Spire