Chapter Thirty-Five
The square burned behind them—floodlights flaring, rifles barking, the thunder of Perileos rising in defiance. But they moved away from it, into shadow.
Hawk led the way, his broad frame hunched low as he cut down a narrow path running along the fortress wall. Imara ghosted at his shoulder; Lysa was close behind with her staff collapsed to half its length.
Christian stayed at Gemma’s side. He tried to mask it, but every step carried a hitch, his thigh having caught Cho’s blade. She matched her pace to his without comment. He would hate pity, so she would not give it. But stars help anyone who tried to use his limp against him.
Hawk slowed at a rusted service hatch tucked behind a bank of generators. “This is it. Leads right into the basement. They don’t usually guard it heavily. Too narrow for a squad to move through fast.”
Imara ran quick fingers over the seam, eyes sharp. “It’s locked, and I don’t have my pick.”
“I got it,” Hawk replied, crouching. He pulled a short-bladed knife and jammed it into the old security plate. Sparks spat as he worked the catch, metal groaning.
Christian leaned against the wall beside Gemma, his breath tight with the effort of moving on his injured leg. She touched his arm, her glow faint. “You should let me wrap that. And your shoulder,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not enough time.”
She was about to argue when the hatch gave way, and Hawk eased it open.
Christian tipped his head forward as if saying “see what I mean?” Gemma’s jaw clenched.
Hawk slipped inside first, his frame barely fitting through. Imara went after him, fluid as smoke even with her prosthetic. Lysa ducked low and vanished next, her staff strapped tightly to her back.
Christian gestured Gemma forward, but she shook her head. “You first.”
For once, he didn’t argue. She steadied him as he squeezed through the hatch into darkness, then she followed.
The corridor beyond was so narrow that Hawk’s shoulders got stuck several times. Pipes hummed overhead. The walls sweated with condensation. But not far down, the passage opened to the basement.
Hawk raised a fist, halting them. His voice was a low rasp. “Watch out for lingering guards. Dad likely sent most of them into battle; he thinks this house is impenetrable. But I’m sure he kept a few around him for protection. Move quiet and fast.”
“Quiet”—Imara snorted, smirking—“your specialty.”
“Definitely not yours,” Hawk countered.
“You don’t seem to mind when we’re—”
His cheeks turned red. “Shut up and keep moving.”
Gemma smiled.
Step by careful step, Gallowood House swallowed them.
They stepped through what looked like a makeshift prison cell, and Imara flicked a tiny device, stating they had thirty seconds to get past a camera.
Christian’s limp was small but constant, his body trained to keep moving even when wounded.
Every hitch in his step was a twist in her chest.
She tightened her grip on her blades as they climbed the stairs into the heart of Gallowood House.
The fortress was alive with sound: the faint vibration of orders barked through comms, the rumble of boots, the distant scream of gunfire from the streets outside.
Hawk guided them with sure steps, pausing at junctions when the sweep of a security officer passed before pushing forward.
Imara took out camera feeds; Lysa covered their backs, her staff at the ready.
Gemma stayed at Christian’s side. His limp was heavy now, the pain held in his jaw rather than his stride.
She wanted to steady him, but he refused anything more than the brush of her hand when he stumbled around a turn.
Hawk raised a hand, fingers curling in for silence. They pressed tight against the wall, listening. Voices drifted down the corridor ahead, calm and steady. Hawk was right—they never expected Gallowood House could be penetrated.
Hawk nodded at a door. His lips pressed thin, his jaw a line of iron. “Cover me,” he whispered.
Together, they ran out into the open hall, weapons raised. Hawk jammed his blade between the latch and frame, and the lock snapped. The door swung wide, they burst into the office—
Everything stilled.
Governor Philip Gallowood stood inside, his red hair disheveled, his vest half-unbuttoned like he’d been roused from bed.
But he was not alone. Across from him, in full Systems black, was the Kaizen.
Her uniform gleamed in the low light, stark against her red hair.
Her stance was perfect, and her presence filled the room with cold authority.
The air snapped taut.
“Mother,” Hawk spat, his voice a blade of disdain.
Gemma’s head snapped toward him. Her pulse stumbled. Mother?
Hawk was the Trials competitor Phoebe feared would lose.
The Kaizen’s sharp gaze cut across the room, resting on her son as though she’d been expecting him. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes before they hardened to polished obsidian.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said, her tone devoid of warmth. “Now I’ll have to kill you.”
Imara tensed, her pistol trained on the Kaizen. The woman shifted, resting her hand on her own weapon.
The silence in the room quivered, thick and biting. Hawk’s blade was already in his grasp, his chest heaving with fury, but before he could speak again, his father stepped forward.
“Enough,” the governor said, his voice hoarse but sharp. His eyes moved from Hawk to the Kaizen, back and forth, as if he could stitch them together by sheer force of will. “Phoebe. Hawk. Stars above, look at you. Both armed, both ready to spill each other’s blood like strangers. This is madness.”
The Kaizen’s jaw ticked, but her hand stayed on her weapon. “He chose his side. He’s no son of mine.”
Hawk’s lips pulled into a snarl, his grip white-knuckled on the hilt of his blade.
“You know what? Fuck you,” Hawk bit out, his uncovered eye burning with sorrow and fury. He turned his rage on his dad. “And fuck you too. I never had a mother or a father. You left me here, alone, when I was two years old, like you forced me to do to Melody.”
The governor flinched as if struck. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for Hawk, then it dropped uselessly to his side.
“I told you,” the governor said, “this is our family’s way. I grew up in the same manner as you. Do you really think we didn’t miss you every single day? Even your mother grieved your absence.” He turned toward the Kaizen, pleading. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”
The woman’s stare was unflinching, colder than stone. “I didn’t marry you to live quietly, Philip. And I didn’t bring a son into this world to watch him kneel with rebels.”
Hawk’s voice tore from him, jagged and grief-stricken. “These ‘rebels’ are more family to me than you’ll ever be.”
Gemma’s pulse throbbed in her ears. She could feel the shift, the moment the balance tipped. The Kaizen punched a button on the wall, and Hawk lunged, his blade arcing toward the mother who’d become his enemy.
The instant his blade met her bracer, the room erupted into a maelstrom. Guards flooded from the hall, weapons raised.
Gemma took a deep breath and pulled on her powers. With them in charge, she’d barely have to think about fighting. She needed to keep an eye on her friends if they were going to all make it out alive.
Time slowed. Her senses heightened.
One of the guards lunged for her, dagger flashing. She slid sideways, slamming both blades into his gut. Sparks exploded as his armor’s shield flared cerulean, but her strike bit through anyway. He crashed against the governor’s desk, blood streaking down the wood before she ripped her blade free.
Another came at her. She spun low, her tattoos flaring as she ducked his strike then snapped her blade up in a vicious swoop, cutting his throat open. He dropped before he even realized he was dead.
Christian fought at her side, limping hard but still feral, his knives carving brutal, efficient arcs.
Across the room, Imara and Lysa wielded their own weapons with practiced precision. Lysa took a hard blow to the chest, but she recovered quickly and spun her staff. The end connected with the guard’s face, filling him with blue shocks of electricity.
Guard after guard fell as Hawk and the Kaizen were locked in a brutal duel, blades sparking with every furious clash.
Phoebe fought like a storm, relentless and perfect, her strikes forcing Hawk back, step by step.
He was strong, but she was sharper, faster.
Only his fury kept him standing against her.
Hawk’s blade clanged against his mother’s as the Kaizen parried with surgical precision.
Every strike was answered, every furious lunge redirected.
Hawk’s breathing came ragged, sweat running in rivulets down his temple.
But his eyes burned with something Gemma had never seen in him before: the will to kill his own blood.
Yet the Kaizen wasn’t yielding. She moved like wind, each counter as inevitable as the turning of the planet. Hawk’s anger kept him upright, but it wasn’t enough.
Gemma’s own duel tore her attention in flashes—parrying one soldier’s blade, ducking the hammer strike of another—but her gaze snagged on Hawk’s fight as his dagger scraped along Phoebe’s breast plate.
The sight was wrong. No blue sparks.
Realization snapped through her like lightning.
Gemma twisted her wrist to slice a guard’s throat before spinning clear of his falling weight. Her tattoos ignited violet fire, and she thrust her palm toward the Kaizen.
Power ripped from her, slamming into the woman. Phoebe’s body wrenched back as if hit by a comet, her dagger skidding across the floor. She struck the wall with bone-jarring force and collapsed in a sprawl of shattered revarium steel.
With a roar that cracked, more grief than rage, Hawk drove forward, blade pointed at his mother—
He faltered as a sob broke free of him.
She leered up at him, snarling.