25. Jax
JAX
T he broadcast comes through a speaker that shouldn’t still work.
The casing is cracked, one corner melted, wires spliced together with scavenged filament and stubbornness. It sits on a crate in the middle of camp, usually reserved for weather warnings and rotation calls. Right now, it spits static and distortion into the air, whining like something wounded.
Someone curses and smacks the side of it.
Then the voice cuts through.
Smooth. Measured. Calm in the way only men who never expect to be contradicted can afford.
“—let this serve as a reminder?—”
Every sound in camp dies.
No one shushes anyone. No orders are barked. The silence just… happens. Like an instinct older than language kicked in all at once.
I feel it in my gut before my brain catches up.
Dzu.
The scout holding the receiver looks at me, eyes wide, knuckles white. “Jax?—”
“Turn it up,” I say.
My voice comes out flat. Controlled. That scares me more than if it had cracked.
The volume jumps. Static tears at the edges of the signal, but the words punch through clean.
“—that no individual is above order.”
I step closer without realizing I’m moving. The map table digs into my hip. My hands curl on its edge hard enough to splinter old wood.
The voice continues, unhurried. Confident.
“Sophie Hawthorne?—”
The name hits like a physical blow.
The camp exhales all at once. Someone whispers, “No.”
The broadcast rolls on, relentless.
“—execution scheduled at first light. Public demonstration.”
First light.
I don’t hear anything else.
The speaker keeps talking, but it’s like the world has tunneled down to a single point just behind my sternum, pressure building there until it feels like something’s going to give.
The scout swallows. “Jax…?”
“Clear it,” I say.
“What?”
“Clear the channel.”
“Jax, people need to?—”
“Clear. The. Channel.”
My voice snaps, sharp enough to cut through panic. The scout fumbles, kills the feed. Static floods the air, then silence.
For a heartbeat, no one moves.
Then the camp erupts.
“Did he say execution?”
“They can’t—she’s not?—”
“That’s a bluff.”
“First light is hours away?—”
I slam my fist down on the table.
“Enough.”
The sound cracks like a gunshot. Everyone freezes.
I straighten slowly. My hands are shaking. I tuck them into fists and keep them there.
“This isn’t a bluff,” I say. “Dzu doesn’t bluff. He performs.”
Someone swears. Someone else mutters a prayer.
I turn, scanning faces—fighters, mechanics, scouts, people who’ve already given more than the world ever planned to repay.
“Ragon!” I shout.
I don’t have to shout twice.
He steps out from between two stone shelters, hood down, coat flaring slightly in the wind. His eyes meet mine, and whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten.
“She’s alive,” he says.
“For now,” I reply.
We don’t shake hands. Don’t nod. Don’t exchange pleasantries.
“This is it,” I say. “No more patience. No more surgical taps.”
He nods once. “Agreed.”
That single word carries more weight than any speech.
I turn back to the camp. “You all heard it. Dzu’s killing her to make a point.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd—anger now, hot and sharp.
“He wants witnesses,” I continue. “Which means eyes on the square. Troops redeployed. Patrols tightened in the inner ring.”
“And thinner everywhere else,” someone calls out.
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s our opening.”
A woman with burn scars climbing her neck steps forward. “You’re talking about open war.”
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
Silence follows. Not fear. Consideration.
“Anyone who doesn’t want in,” I add, “walks now. No judgment.”
No one moves.
Ragon steps closer to me. “We need to talk.”
I jerk my head toward the rocks. We walk until the camp noise fades into wind and distant metal.
I don’t ease into it.
“You love her.”
The words fall out of my mouth before I can second-guess them.
Ragon stops.
Turns.
Looks at me like there’s no point pretending now.
“Yes,” he says.
No excuse. No joke. No deflection.
The honesty hits harder than denial ever could.
“Me too,” I say.
The admission feels like tearing open old scar tissue—painful, overdue.
For a long second, neither of us speaks.
“She chose her path,” Ragon says quietly.
“I know,” I reply. “Doesn’t mean I let her die for it.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Good. Because neither do I.”
Something loosens in my chest. Not relief. Alignment.
We head back together.
“Maps,” Ragon calls. “Every version. Now.”
They come fast—slates flickering to life, paper maps slapped down, half-remembered schematics sketched from memory. Patrol cycles. Supply tunnels. Maintenance shafts Dzu thinks are sealed.
I lean over the table, finger tracing routes. “We light up the outer districts. Uprisings. Sabotage. Anything loud.”
“That draws his elites,” Ragon says.
“Exactly where I want them,” I reply.
A young fighter frowns. “You’re talking about hitting the square head-on.”
“Yes.”
“That’s suicide.”
I look up. “Good.”
The word ripples through the group.
“I’ll lead it,” I continue. “Front and center. Make myself impossible to ignore.”
Ragon studies me. “You’re planning to die.”
“I’m planning to get her out,” I say. “Everything else is negotiable.”
Silence stretches.
Then Ragon says, “I’m going with you.”
I spin on him. “No. You coordinate.”
“I’ve coordinated my entire life,” he replies evenly. “Not this.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Probably,” he agrees. “But I’m not staying behind while she’s on a tower.”
We lock eyes.
“Assault’s my call,” I say.
“And infiltration’s mine,” he counters.
I grin, sharp and feral. “Deal.”
The camp explodes into motion.
Weapons checked. Charges assembled. Runners dispatched. Signals lit one by one across the badlands like stars answering a call.
I stand at the edge of it all, heart pounding, listening to the sound of rebellion shifting gears.
Ragon steps beside me.
“She changed the board,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “She always does.”
Dzu wanted to kill hope.
Instead, he taught it how to go to war.