And I don’t look at it.
Not even once.
Instead, I reach into the lining of my sleeve, fingers finding the small, concealed device embedded there, the one I’ve carried without activating until now.
I hold it for a second.
Then press it.
A soft vibration hums against my skin as it comes online, the signal initiating, broadcasting outward into channels I shouldn’t have access to, into places that will hear it whether they want to or not.
“Let’s see who’s listening,” I murmur.
CHAPTER 26
TYROK
By the time I reach the lower access corridor, I already know.
Not because of a report.
Not because of confirmation.
Because the ship feels wrong in a way that only happens when something irreversible has already happened, when the structure is still standing but the foundation has shifted under it, and everything that follows is just delay catching up to consequence.
The air down here is colder, sharper, carrying the sting of exposed metal and fuel residue, the hum of auxiliary systems vibrating through the deck in a way that feels too open, too uncontained, and it settles into my bones like a warning I should have acted on sooner.
“Seal the bay,” I snap into the comm, not breaking stride as my boots hit the deck in hard, measured impacts. “Lock every external exit point.”
The response comes quickly, but there’s hesitation threaded through it.
“Already attempted,” the comm officer answers, his voice compressed like he’s choosing every word carefully. “Primary doors responded. Secondary access… didn’t.”
I slow slightly, my jaw tightening as I process that.
“Explain that,” I say, my tone dropping.
“Override authorization,” the officer replies, and now the hesitation is clearer, heavier. “Command-level clearance.”
Vihl.
Of course.
My claws flex once at my side as I push forward, the corridor opening into the shuttle bay just as the last echo of engine ignition fades into nothing, the air still unsettled, heat lingering in waves that distort the edges of everything.
I stop in the center of the bay.
Empty.
Not untouched—no, there are signs everywhere—but empty where it matters.
“She’s gone,” one of the deck crew mutters from behind me, his voice low, like saying it too loudly might make it worse.
I don’t turn toward him.
I don’t acknowledge it.
Because I already know.
