Silpha moves.
Fast.
Savage.
She rips a thermal charge from her belt, sets it fast with bloody fingers.
"Silpha—NO!" Traz roars.
She flashes him a crooked grin.
Tired.
Fierce.
Free.
"Get them home," she shouts.
And then she’s running—straight into the heart of Petru’s men—blasting rounds and curses and rage.
For one frozen breath, time stops.
Traz surges forward, desperate.
I scream his name, grabbing him back.
Because we both know.
We bothknow.
A flash of light.
A deafening boom.
The hangar shakes.
Fire erupts, a screaming wall of heat and fury that throws bodies and debris into the air.
Petru’s men scatter.
Screaming.
Burning.
Silpha’s gone.
Traz stumbles back, face twisted with something worse than pain.
Something worse than loss.
I crawl out from behind the crate, dragging the kids, heart hammering so loud it drowns out the world.
Traz scoops us up without a word, cradling us tight against his body.
We run.
Through fire.
