Chapter 10
GYON
Blood. Sweat. Fear. Her scent is etched into the seams of the Maze like a signature. It's faint—old—but real. Real enough it makes my pulse throb and my claws flex.
The air in this new corridor stinks of scorched metal and ozone. Something shifted. Something old, awakened. I follow the heat, the echo of the Maze’s warped breathing, until I step into a room that hums like a living heart.
I stop cold.
The chamber is wide, circular, lit by veins of blue light that pulse through the floor and ceiling like arteries. And all around the walls—etched deep, not holographed—are glyphs.
Reaper glyphs.
None should be here.
These markings... they’re sacred. Forbidden to all but the eldest of our kind. Battle records, prophecies, bloodlines traced in bone language. Not for prey. Not for display.
My lip curls. “What the fuck did you build, jalshagar?”
Because this—this isn’t an easter egg.
This is desecration.
I step forward, talons scraping stone. The carvings flicker faintly as I pass, reacting to my proximity. They know me. Recognize the heat signature of one born in the spires of Dar'khon. One who bled into the soil of a hundred conquered worlds.
At the center of the chamber, there’s a statue.
It shouldn’t be here. And yet it is.
A Reaper, nine feet tall, regal and snarling. One arm outstretched like he's offering a challenge—or asking for trust.
The eyes are hollow.
My breath catches.
I know this pose. It’s part of the Prophecy of the Returning Maw—the tale whispered to children before they learn to kill. A Reaper lost to the stars, who returns when his fate is sealed not in war, but in love.
Bullshit, of course.
Except the walls are humming.
And her scent is everywhere.
I step closer. “Let’s see what secrets you spit.”
When I touch the outstretched hand, everything stops.
The air crystallizes. My claws freeze mid-grip.
Then I see her.
Not a memory. Not a playback.
Now.
She’s crouched in a corridor I’ve never seen—laughing and crying at once. She’s got dirt on her cheeks and blood on her knees. Her voice cuts through static: “I built this. And now it’s a grave.”
I see her lips move. I see her eyes shine. I feel her pulse through my chest.
The bond flares.
Jalshagar.
The Maze did this. Twisted tech and fate together and gave us a window.
Then it rips it away.
The room slams back into motion. The floor tilts. The statue cracks in half.
I roar.
Sound shreds through the chamber like a sonic boom. I drive my claws into the wall, tear out a panel, punch through circuits, smash through layers of alloy and carbon foam until I’m climbing raw into the next vent shaft.
I don’t care if it’s a trap.
I don’t care if the Maze collapses around me.
I will reach her.
The shaft opens into another corridor—blood-slick and buzzing with rot.
Two civilians stand there—ragged, stunned.
One of them sees me and screams.
The other pulls a weapon.
I don’t hesitate.
He’s dead before the barrel clears his hip.
The second runs.
I let him.
His fear stinks, but I don’t care. He’s not the prize.
I smell her again. Not old this time.
Fresh.
I’m close.
So close I can almost hear her heartbeat.
And when I find her—when I take her back—this Maze won’t hold us.
Nothing will.