Then the final impact. Hard earth meeting broken ribs.
The air drives from my lungs in a single violent expulsion. Blood spews past my lips. White hot agony blazes through my ribcage, each attempted breath a fresh knife wound.
My vision fractures.
Dark spots dance at the edges.
Above me, unfamiliar constellations of leaves and branches weave patterns against a sky I no longer recognize.
Pain radiates from everywhere: shoulder, ribs, a dozen cuts from the metallic leaves. I lie still, waiting for the world to steady, but then the wounds begin to close.
Fast. Horrifyingly fast.
I watch, transfixed with horror, as the gash on my forearm seals itself. Droplets of blood crawl back toward me. Skin flows like water, muscle restructuring beneath with a sensation that is not painful but intensely present, like watching myself be unmade and remade in real time. My shoulder reforms, bone grinding back into alignment with sounds I should not be able to hear, tissue weaving itself together in patterns that feel efficient rather than human.
The broken ribs shift. Crack. Reset.
I gasp, but the pain is already fading. Six seconds, maybe less. I should be broken, dying.
Instead I am whole.
Hands shaking, I push myself upright and stare at them. Unmarked skin. No silver light.
The memory of the field haunts me. That perfect silence, the disconnection from gravity and sound and the world itself. Inside the rotating shell, I had been separate.
Could I summon it again? Coat myself completely, start the rotation, sever the threads that tie me to reality?
The thought thrills and terrifies in equal measure. That power. That isolation.
The Skathrith pulses, dim and recovering, its light fractured but present. The bond aches where the field collapsed, like a muscle strained past its limit.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. Binah.
She stands at the edge of the clearing, half hidden by twisting trunks, but something is wrong. Her form is fainter, translucent, like morning mist beginning to burn away under sunlight. Her pale features remain serene, but I see it now, the way she seems less present than before, as if some vital has been drawn away.
The tightness in my chest spreads.
The healing. The impossible, horrifying healing. What did I take from her?
Her violet eyes meet mine. No accusation in them, no fear, just that same calm observation. She raises her hand, points upward, behind, then steps back into shadow, her form flickering like a candle in wind.
Pain lances through my skull. The torq burns against my neck, its message etching itself into my consciousness:
Victorious. Defeated. Victorious.
Opponent: Castor Urisius
Conquered: Skathrith Claimed
Energy Assimilated: +10 Units
The cold calculations scroll through my mind while I stare at the space where Binah stood, while I try not to think about what "energy assimilated" might truly mean.
I force myself to look away.
The sky is not a sky. Interlocked panes of glass seam the world above, hairline joins like veins, and the false sun sits inside that lattice, its flat light breaking on the panes and throwing colors across my skin.
The clearing stretches perhaps twenty meters across, ringed by metallic trees whose trunks gleam like polished pewter. Their leaves glow with inner luminescence: blue, purple, green, shifting in hypnotic patterns. The branches twist in impossible angles, creating archways and spirals that hurt to follow. The ground is uneven, scattered with twisted roots that break the surface like knuckles through skin.
Movement in the shadows to my left, near the clearing's northern edge.
The first thing I see is the light: small, flickering points moving in calculated arcs through the undergrowth. Then the shapes emerge, three from the north, two circling east through the tree line. Figures cloaked in shadow, their weapons glowing faintly at the tips. The silence unnerves me more than their weapons.
These are not beasts or constructs.
These are Armigers.
The realization settles as another beam tears through the clearing, forcing me deeper into cover. They are hunting me specifically. Five against one. Coordinated assault. Professional execution.
I could end this. Let the Skathrith loose, let it tear through them the way it tore through Castor's construct. Hunger coils through my limbs, begging for release.
A sharp, searing light pierces the clearing.
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I throw myself behind a tree as the beam slams into the ground where I had been standing, sending shards of molten earth scattering. The impact site glows, heat radiating outward in waves.
Another beam streaks past, tearing into the tree's bark.
The surface ripples unnaturally, metal flowing like water, rejecting the wound. Within three heartbeats the bark smooths over, seamless. The forest seems to respond to the attack, its geometry shifting subtly as if preparing for what is to come.
I peer around the tree, scanning the shadows for my attackers.
Their coordination is too precise, not the instinctive pack hunting of beasts but formation, training, shared purpose. They are not here to test me.
They are here to kill me.
Another blast of light rips through the clearing, tearing into the ground just meters away. The heat of the attack scorches the air around me. The forest shifts again, its metallic trunks twisting subtly.
I watch their reflections in the glass sky above, distorted and fragmented but clear enough to track. Five of them, moving with practiced efficiency. A fallen trunk lies between us, half buried in the metallic soil. Cover or obstacle, depending on who moves first.
Shafts of energy burst forth again, forcing me back into cover. I press a hand to my side, forcing the panic from my mind. Focus. Think. Survive.
The attackers close in, their light cutting through the shifting shadows.
The Skathrith urges me toward violence in a language older than words, but I close my eyes and settle into Horizon's Breath.
The form brings stillness, like the moment before dawn breaks. My breathing slows. My heartbeat steadies despite the fear. Silent Sky settles into my bones, quieting the storm of need that rages through our bond. The Skathrith fights against it, but I hold firm.
The shadows shift. The light draws closer.
I open my eyes as another beam strikes the tree beside my head. Bark explodes, molten droplets searing my cheek. I roll left, pressing against cold metal as another shaft of light tears through where I crouched.
Movement at the clearing's edge, not the Armigers.
Binah.
She stands half-obscured by twisted trunks, form solid again. Her violet eyes meet mine across the space between us. Waiting.
How many times has she watched me struggle for my life, only intervening when deemed necessary? Too many.
What exactly can she do? The thought surfaces and drowns in the same breath.
Another beam screams past my shoulder, close enough to sear.
"Show me," I whisper. "Show me what you can do."
She moves.
The nearest Armiger's kiran jerks upward mid-shot, yanked by invisible strings. His beam tears into the glass canopy overhead, raining crystalline fragments.
"Contact!" His voice cracks. Young. "Something grabbed it!"
He crashes sideways, legs tangled in nothing.
"Wren!" A sharp command cuts through chaos. "Report!"
"Cannot see it!" Wren scrambles backward, kiran raised, tracking empty air. "Invisible! It is—"
"Null Predator!" The leader's voice. Sharp. Controlled. "Formation Sigma! Two-meter spacing! Weapons high!"
They cannot see her.
The realization hits like cold water. Whatever these five perceive, it is not the pale girl flowing through them like smoke through branches.
They think they are fighting something else entirely.
They execute Formation Sigma with desperate energy. Two meters between each fighter, backs exposed, kirans sweeping coordinated arcs. Hunting for threats they cannot perceive.
Binah flows into Wave of Stillness. I recognize the form even as she executes it. My mother's teaching made manifest in spectral hands.
"Ash, three o'clock!" The leader's command.
The stocky Armiger designated Ash spins, kiran tracking shadows. His finger tightens.
His balance vanishes.
He pitches forward; the shot screaming wide. His kiran clatters across metallic earth.
"Ash down!" Another voice. Higher pitched. Younger. "Did not see anything! Nothing there!"
But there was. I saw Binah's hand pass through his center of gravity, threads winding through muscle and bone, stealing equilibrium with surgical precision.
They saw their teammate collapse. Nothing more.
Binah's outline wavers at the edges. Light passes through her fingers for half a heartbeat before she forces solidity back into her form.
The formation tightens. Four remaining now, spacing collapsed to one meter. Professional. Disciplined.
Doomed.
A metallic branch creaks overhead. One of them, tall and lanky, all defiant energy, tracks the sound instantly.
"Movement! High left!"
The branch whips down.
Binah's threads wrap its length, turning alien metal into weapon. It crashes into his shoulder with a wet crack, spinning him sideways.
"Terrain manipulation!" The leader's voice, still controlled despite what must be mounting terror. "Expected behavior! Hold formation!"
Expected behavior? I watch Binah step through the space he occupied, her form flickering like heat shimmer. They have trained for this. Drilled protocols for fighting invisible predators that use the environment as weapon.
Training will not save them.
The one who took the branch strike, Edge the leader called him, pushes himself upright. Blood streams from his shoulder but his kiran does not waver.
Another rushes forward, trying to reach Ash's fallen form. Loyalty or tactics, I cannot tell.
Binah's hand rises toward his legs.
Her fingers pass through his knee like mist through stone.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then she forces solidity back with visible effort, threads snaring his ankles. He crashes hard.
Binah sways. Almost imperceptible. Her edges blur like watercolor in rain.
She is fading. The healing. The combat. Each intervention burns her away, and I am letting it happen because I want to see what she can do.
Three Armigers remain standing.
They form a tight triangle, backs nearly touching, kirans sweeping the clearing in synchronized arcs. The leader, the one called Flint, maintains perfect weapon discipline despite the sweat streaming down his face. Beside him, the smallest of them, limping slightly, breath coming in ragged gasps.
The third circles, trying to maintain spacing, trying to follow protocols designed for threats that obey natural laws.
Binah circles them, translucent as morning fog.
The smallest one is weeping. Quiet. Controlled. His kiran does not waver.
"Sir." His voice barely above whisper. "Permission to break and run."
"Denied." Flint's response immediate. Absolute. "We hold. Whatever this is, we hold."
They are going to die. Not because they lack courage or skill. Because they refuse to abandon each other even when survival demands it.
Binah moves.
Her threads snap outward, invisible filaments catching light that should not exist. They wrap the smallest one's torso, his legs, coiling tight. He screams as he is yanked upward, kiran clattering to metallic earth.
The third Armiger spins toward the sound. Too slow.
Threads seize him mid-turn, wrapping his chest and arms. He rises, suspended, weapon falling. Both of them dangle fifteen feet above the clearing, threads wound through overhead branches like marionette strings. Their legs kick at empty air. Choking sounds tear from their throats as the silver filaments constrict.
Flint does not break formation. Does not look up at his dangling subordinates. His kiran tracks the space between trees, searching for targets that refuse to materialize.
"Show yourself!" His voice cracks but holds. "Face me!"
Binah steps into the clearing.
Still translucent. Still wavering at the edges. But visible enough now that even he must see her outline against the fractured light. She moves with terrible purpose, each step measured, inevitable.
Silver light blooms around her right hand.
Not threads this time. Something denser. More present. The light coalesces into substance, wrapping her fingers, her palm, her wrist. It pulses with the same rhythm as the Skathrith's hunger, as if drawing from the same incomprehensible source.
Flint fires.
The beam passes through her chest, scorching nothing, illuminating the clearing in white-hot brilliance. She does not slow.
He fires again. Again. Each shot tears through her translucent form without resistance.
She reaches him.
Her hand rises toward his throat, silver light blazing brighter. The glow reflects in his eyes—wide now, discipline finally breaking into recognition of his own death.
I taste copper, not blood. Shame.
"Enough!"
Book One of Shattered Empire is complete on Patreon.
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Nightbreak (Patreon-exclusive)
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Ablations (ongoing)