I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, searching for that thread of connection that had been growing stronger every day since I'd met her. Like a gossamer strand woven through my chest, delicate but unbreakable, thrumming with warmth.
Merrilee.
The bond wasn't complete—I'd refused to finish it, refused to chain her to a prisoner's fate. But even incomplete, I felt her. A warmth in my chest that hadn't to do with my own heartbeat, a presence that settled in the hollow spaces behind my ribs. A sense of her that went deeper than thought, deeper than reason, deeper than anything I'd ever experienced with another living being.
And right now, that sense told me she was alive.
Safe.
I'd done what I needed to do. Kept her alive long enough to get away. Given her the Welati stone and told her to run. She'd listened. She'd survived.
That was enough.
It had to be enough.
The sound of boots on stone pulled me from my thoughts. Multiple sets. Heavy. Purposeful. The rhythmic march of guards who knew exactly where they were going and what they were about to do.
The guards were coming.
I opened my eyes and straightened, rolling my shoulders despite the protest of the chains, despite the way the metal cut deeper into already raw flesh. If I was going to die, I'd do it standing. I'd do it like a warrior the Vaktaire trained me to bebefore everything went to hell. And if there was even half a chance, I'll kill Hewes before I took my last breath.
The door scraped open—metal on stone, a sound that set my teeth on edge and sent shivers down my spine.
Four guards. All armed with blasters and electro-staffs. All watching me like I might explode into violence at any moment, their bodies tense, ready to react.
Smart.
"Time to go," one of them said. An Ardesian with scarred hide that spoke of battles survived and a face that had seen too much violence. His eyes were dead, empty of everything except a cold professionalism. "Hewes wants you in the square before the sun clears the horizon."
"Of course he does." I kept my voice flat. Emotionless. "Wouldn't want to waste good light. An execution should be a spectacle, after all."
The Ardesian's mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile. "You've got a sense of humor. That's good. You'll need it where you're going."
They unlocked the chains from the wall but left my wrists bound, the metal still digging into skin that was already bruised and bleeding. Added shackles to my ankles—short chain between them, just enough to walk but not enough to run or fight effectively. They weren't taking any chances.
Then they led me out into the labyrinth.
The corridors of Fange City's lower levels were a maze of scavenged metal and stone, lit by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls and made the whole place look like something out of a nightmare. We passed other cells—some empty, their doors hanging open like broken jaws, some occupied by prisoners who watched me with hollow eyes that had long since given up hope.
They knew where I was going.
What was about to happen.
Some of them had probably seen executions before, had watched other prisoners walk this same path to the same bloody end. Grateful it wasn't their turn yet, knowing it would be eventually.
We climbed. Up through the levels, through passages that grew wider and better lit as we approached the surface. The air changed—less stale, less thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and despair, taking on the dry, dusty quality of Palaydium's atmosphere. My heart rate increased despite my efforts to stay calm, and I felt sweat beginning to bead on my skin.
Then we emerged into the square.
A crowd had assembled. Hundreds of them. Bodies packed into every available space, pressed against the buildings that ringed the square, climbing on top of structures for a better view of the entertainment. Aliens of every species I'd ever seen and some I hadn't—Ardesian, Kerzak, Trogvyk, Romvesian, all of them here to watch a Vaktaire warrior die.
Entertainment.
A spectacle.
A warning to anyone else who might think about challenging Hewes's authority.
The execution block stood in the center of the square—a massive slab of stone that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of rock, worn smooth by time and use. Dark stains covered its surface, layers upon layers of them, creating a macabre mosaic. Old blood that had soaked into the stone over years, the life essence of countless victims.
