Chapter 10 Vael
VAEL
Istand in the debriefing chamber, fists clenched tight enough to crack bone.
The words on the screen blur. Not because of injury. Because my pulse is pounding in my skull like a war drum.
CLEARANCE GRANTED: Limited Exterior Simulation Testing
Designation: DRAYKORR, VAEL. Category: Combat-Tier Rehabilitation, Phase 3.
I should feel pride.
I don’t.
I feel watched.
Tarek had his claws in this. I know it. His voice is all over the decision logs, even if the words are clean. He wants me in the field. He wants me reactive. He wants to know what happens when I’m cornered again.
They think they’re studying me. Controlling the test.
Idiots.
You don’t control a storm. You ride it. Or it drowns you.
The shuttle hums as it cuts across the scrub-plain perimeter of Corven-7, heading for the sim-range on the outer shelf. Fake cliffs. Real heat. The kind of terrain that grinds down the unfit and tempers the rest into steel.
There’s only one other person in the carrier.
Kael.
Newer rehab intake. Mouthy. Human. Smells like stim chews and rebellion.
He leans back against the shuttle’s bench, arms crossed like he’s about to nap.
“Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get paired with the Deathmarch Prince himself,” he says, grinning.
I don’t smile. “You talk a lot.”
“Yeah. It’s a thing. Makes people either like me or want to put me through a wall. Jury’s still out with you.”
I stare at him for a beat. Then shrug. “Wall’s an option.”
He laughs, unbothered. “Good. I like a little spice in my drills.”
The sim starts easy.
Too easy.
Targets rise from sand—glimmering drones made to mimic humanoid movement. I strike the first with a two-punch combo that sends it flying in pieces. My limbs sing with the rhythm. My core locks in.
I’m almost myself again.
Kael sweeps around beside me, tagging targets with energy arcs, his aim sharp and wild.
“You weren’t kidding about the wall thing!” he shouts over the din. “These bots are toast!”
I don’t answer. The air’s too hot. The scent of burning composite triggers something sharp in my mind.
We advance toward the ridge.
Then it happens.
A flash of light. A sound. Just wrong enough.
And I’m not on Corven-7 anymore.
The canyon becomes jungle. Smoke. Screaming.
I smell blood.
Not mine.
The sharp scent of metal and ozone after a plasma burst. The weight of a body in my arms. The way her voice cracked when she said my name.
Vael, please—
“Stop,” I growl. “Stop—”
Kael says something. I can’t hear it.
My knees lock. My breath hitches.
Another flash. Another scream—no, it’s feedback from the sim, but it’s wrong. Wrong sound. Wrong smell. Wrong timeline.
I spin.
And I attack.
Not the drone. Not the sim.
Kael.
I grab him by the chest rig and slam him into the dirt. Sand sprays. He chokes, eyes wide.
“Whoa—Draykorr—!”
I’m on him, knuckles raised, ready to strike. The edge of a roar in my throat.
But he doesn’t fight back.
He just stares.
“Hey,” he breathes. “You’re not there. You’re here. Sim’s off. Look.”
My chest heaves. The world swims.
And I see it.
His hands raised. No weapon. The sim paused. Frozen.
I back off.
Shaking.
He scrambles up, panting, brushing sand off his rig.
“Damn,” Kael mutters. “Guess I found out which button not to push.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
My hands are trembling. My body’s steel, but my mind—my mind is fractured glass.
The locker room reeks of ionized sweat and sterilizer.
I sit on the bench, head low, towel clenched in my hands.
I can’t breathe right.
I can’t see right.
I don’t want pity. Or analysis. Or whispered words behind glass walls.
I want to control it. To own it.
To never lose myself again.
Footsteps echo down the hall. Light. Precise.
Rynn.
I know it’s her before she speaks.
She pauses at the edge of the row.
“Your neural sync logs flagged an anomaly.”
I don’t answer.
She takes another step forward. Her eyes catch mine in the mirror across the locker wall.
“You lost control.”
Still I don’t speak.
She glances at the towel clenched in my hands. “Your biometric feedback surged. Spike followed by collapse. That’s not just fatigue.”
“Were you watching?” I ask, voice raw.
“I’m monitoring everyone.”
I finally look at her. Really look.
Her jacket’s zipped too high again. Hair tied too tight. Lips pale.
“I remember what it felt like to trust you,” I say, voice quiet. “And I remember what it felt like to be destroyed by that trust.”
She flinches. Just slightly.
“That wasn’t my choice,” she says, barely audible.
“Then whose was it?”
Her mouth tightens. “You don’t want the answer.”
“Yes, Rynn,” I growl, standing, stepping close. “I do.”
She’s breathing fast. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t back down.
We’re inches apart. Heat between us like an open flame.
“I can’t give it to you,” she whispers.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
I stare. Long and hard.
And in that silence, something breaks.
Not between us.
In us.