And over it all I scream.
“WHERE IS SHE?”
The last one drops his weapon. Tries to crawl.
“Red Eye!” he cries. “We didn’t take her—it wasn’t us!”
I yank him up by the collar, lift him like a rag doll. His skin peels where my gauntlet presses.
“Thenwho?”
“Ghost Jaws,” he pants. “The—the rival camp, three ridges over. We—we just tracked her signal. They got her first. Swear it.”
I drop him.
Let him scramble.
Let him live.
Just long enough to warn the others what’s coming.
I march through the rest of the camp, stepping over corpses, breathing like a storm engine. My armor’s slick with blood. My hands tremble—not from exhaustion.
From rage.
In the center of the clearing, under a rusted-out solar dish, I find it.
Her scarf.
Torn.
Stained red.
Still warm.
I sink to one knee, fingers trembling as I lift it to my face.
It smells likeher.
Jaela.
She’sbleeding.
She’shurt.
And she’s not in my hands.
A low growl builds in my chest. Grows. Grows.
Until I throw back my head androar.
The sound cracks off canyon walls. Shakes loose dust. Startles crows into flight.
It’s not just rage.
It’swarning.
Because no one touches what’s mine.
