“*And she brought you right to me.*” Static hissed over the ruin of the hideout as the patriarch's clipped drawl faded. Kholat kept his grip clamped around her upper arm, fingers digging into scorched fabric and singed skin. His stare remained fixed on the grill overhead. “The Scion patriarch,” Kholat murmured. He stated it flatly, piece clicking to piece. Before she could even attempt to construct a new lie, his heavy boot struck a sparking comm unit on the floor, crushing it. “This mission is scrubbed. Pull out, now!” he barked into his wrist-comm, his gaze still fixed on the wall, not on her. The unit’s green indicator light turned red, then died. His eyes finally swept to Yashira, a glacial appraisal. “You didn’t just lead me to a Scion nest, did you, *Yashira Ravan*?” The sarcasm in his tone was a whip-crack. He didn’t wait for an answer, pulling her roughly to her feet. “Back to the Spire. Now.” Inside his gunship, neither spoke. Yashira stared out the reinforced viewport at the neon girders flashing across Kravoya's middle belt. The patriarch knew. Kholat knew. Her leverage had narrowed to a pinprick: wire the untraceable funds immediately and disappear before dawn. At Aegis Munitions Spire, the logistics deck lay abandoned, dark terminals reflecting emergency strobes. Kholat shoved Yashira through the reinforced hatch of his command suite, the hydraulic locks sliding shut with a pneumatic hiss. Chrome and bare plating lined the bulkheads. He paced the center of the deck, boot heels ringing on the grating. “*He knew your name, little ghost*,” Kholat said, halting mid-stride. “He knew you were on my flank. That wasn't an intercepted comm. He anticipated our entry.” He pivoted toward her. “And you, with your data-clerk cover and your broken panic... you navigated that fortified den without tripping a single perimeter relay.” He closed the distance between them. “You played the helpless clerk while leading my sweep team straight into his broadcast grid.” “Why play along?” she asked, voice steady despite the burn in her ribs. Kholat’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “Because you’re interesting. Because you’re useful. Because a ghost from the Scion syndicate, skilled enough to take down a tracker and navigate one of their fortified boltholes, is a prize. And because your family wants their heir returned in iron.” His eyes narrowed. “The question isn’t why I pretended, *Yashira*. The question is, what game are *you* playing?” He stood motionless, reading the tension in her posture. Every exit route out of the spire ran through checkpoints he controlled. “The payout,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. “You promised a bounty for the breach.” A low chuckle rumbled in Kholat’s chest. “Of course you do. Untraceable. Enough to flee Kravoya forever. The same bounty I earmarked for the infiltrator who cracked my security net.” His eyes glittered with a dark amusement. “So, you *are* her. The one who breached my living quarters.” He took another step, closing the distance between them. “The one who cracked my safe and vanished into the lower vents.” “The Spire is locked down,” Kholat stated, his voice now a low growl. “Every exit monitored. The Scions have enforcers ascending the lift shafts, and my strike teams hold the choke points. You have no clear corridor to ground level.” He gestured toward the main console. “Take the payout.” He moved to the station and slotted an obsidian keycard. Blue phosphor flared across the monitor, unlocking a sequestered corporate routing account. With three keystrokes, he bypassed the verification filters and opened an off-world ledger. The untraceable sum glowed in pale digits on the display, staged for offload. “Route the coin,” Kholat said softly. “Prove you don't need an escort. A smuggler's skiff sits fueled on pad six of the outer ring. Take it and run from your bloodline.” Yashira stared at the blue digits. Two keystrokes would finalize the route to an offshore burner account, buying passage past the planetary blockades, past the syndicate's hunters, and past Kholat. As her finger brushed the activation key, a frantic comms ping blared from her wrist-mounted device. It wasn't an encrypted corporate channel, but an open frequency, raw and desperate. Jibbs. A scrambled video feed flickered to life. Jibbs, gagged, his face bruised and swollen, strapped to a grimy medical table in what looked like a derelict surgical bay. Around him, figures in blood-stained aprons moved, their cybernetic tools gleaming ominously. He thrashed against rusted iron cuffs, blood dripping from his nose onto a corroded drain table. Behind him stood two butcher-drones holding bone saws. Scavengers from the rust tier. The message flashed beneath the feed, in crude block letters: *YOUR FRIEND. YOUR CHOICE. DEPOSIT VOID IF DELAYED. 1 HOUR.* One hour. The outbound ledger glowed on the screen, her planned flight from Kravoya sitting one tap away. But Jibbs's bloody face filled the comm-lens. The idiot scrapper had tried to patch her comms route and walked straight into a scavenger nest. Her fingers snapped into a fist away from the keyboard. Yashira spun toward the blast door, shoulder lowered, and collided straight into the armor plating of Kholat's chest.

The Price of Secrets