Chapter 40
ALAINA
Isettle Troka into a shadowed alcove behind the ruined buffet stand—its cracked granite top dripped with congealing sauces. The air is thick with burnt grease and desperation. He presses his forehead to mine, amber eyes blazing in half-darkness. Every heartbeat screams.
I swallow against the choke of heat, the stink of smoke and sweat clinging to the place. “I dragged you into hell,” I whisper, voice ragged. “I—didn’t mean to.” My fingers twist around the cuff of his sleeve; I feel calluses, strength, danger.
He shakes his head, chest rising and falling in a fierce rhythm. “You didn’t drag me. I walked in.” His voice echoes faint in the steel-cold hall. A bead of sweat drips from his brow, trailing down the side of his face. He brushes it aside without breaking his gaze. “We’re here now.”
I taste acid fear in my mouth, but I force the secret out: “Troka… Caelix is yours.” I say it soft, like a confession, like I’m letting him in on the final chord of everything.
His chest stills, then a strangled breath.
His hand comes up, trembling, and covers mine.
“I knew,” he murmurs. His lips quaver. “Somewhere beneath the noise I always knew.” His grip tightens.
“I promise you—my son, our child—I will be the best father in the galaxy.” His voice low, resolute. He pulls me closer.
We lean into each other. His heartbeat thrums like a drum against my ear—solid, trembling. I feel his ribs beneath his uniform, the hard lines of muscle. A bullet grazes the wall behind us—metal on stone—and both flinch. He presses a shoulder against me, protective.
“What now?” He murmurs, voice rough.
I shift, gaze scanning the hall. Gun barrels glint. Faces tremble. Some hostages cry. I swallow. “We free who we can. We can’t let this become another massacre.” My lips crack with dryness.
He nods, chin firm. “Your words. Your command now.” His eyes flick to the shadowed ranks of AIV fighters behind me.
I breathe, force the words: “Release the weak—old, children, wounded.” I step from our alcove, posture straighter than I feel. “Get them out. We can’t hold them and fight at once.” My voice rings.
A gunman balks. “You’re giving them away?” he hisses.
I hold his gaze. “I’m saving our cause. I’m saving lives—and letting use spread this message. Let them go.” My hand tightens on Troka’s as I pivot, ushering trembling hostages forward.
The first ones stumble—an old woman, limp in a young man’s arms. They shuffle away under tension and rifle fire, slipping past guards. Others catch the cue—some lower weapons, some flinch.
Two guards behind me shift, unsure. The scarred lieutenant steps forward, voice low: “You want them freed now?”
I nod, voice steady: “Yes—those who can’t hold out. We’ll protect the rest.” I glance at Troka—the steadiness in his eyes gives me courage.
Gun barrels drop slowly, small clicks. The line of hostages parts. I guide them into the corridors, arms trembling. I see their faces: hope and terror and shame tangled. One man murmurs, “Thank you,” in broken tone. I nod, throat tight.
Back in the hall, dozens remain. Women clutch children. Men bow heads. Caelix stirs in my arms. I press him closer. His breath is small. I brush a lock of his hair from his forehead. He looks at Troka with terrified trust.
I whisper: “I need your plan. Because I don’t have another.” My lips almost touch his shoulder.
Troka squares his jaw, voice low but fierce: “I do. Listen to me.” He leans in, mouth by my ear. “We draw a path through the northern service corridors—vent shafts, emergency doors. Some distractions. Use the freed hostages as cover. We move in waves.”
I nod, swallow. “We’ll do that.” I step forward, raising my voice. “We will hold here until the exit is clear. Troka leads. Follow us.” My words land like stones among the fighters. Muffled murmurs. Some nod. Some stare. The guns, still raised, wobble.
I press Troka’s hand. The air between us crackles. The cost ahead smacks in my gut. But here in his eyes, in Caelix’s trembling warmth, I feel lifeline.
We breathe together in the silence before the storm.