Late Winter, 2178

  Northern Territories - Continental Authority Border

  The sky bled gray over the ruins of the old rail yard.

  Regal Eldain stumbled through the wreckage, his boots crunching over brittle ice and rusted rails half-buried in frozen mud. Each breath burned in his throat, vapor curling from cracked lips. Snowmelt dripped in slow, steady beats from the skeletons of shattered cargo cars, the sound like a broken clock ticking down what little time he had left.

  The cold had long since numbed his fingers, making them clumsy as he pressed against the wound in his side. Fresh blood seeped through the makeshift bandage—warmer than the air, almost steaming as it met the bitter chill. Three days on the run, and still it wouldn’t stop.

  The girl sagged against him, barely conscious. He adjusted his grip around her shoulders, dragging her weight higher, forcing one more step. Then another. And another. Her skin burned with fever against his arm, a stark contrast to the biting cold around them.

  “We’re almost there,” Regal murmured, though he wasn’t sure either of them believed it.

  A gutted maintenance shack loomed ahead — its roof half-collapsed, one wall leaning at a sick angle. Shelter enough.

  He shoved the door open with his shoulder. The rusted hinges shrieked in protest, but no one came running. Only the wind answered, threading cold fingers through the gaping holes in the walls.

  Regal lowered the girl gently to the floor against the most intact wall. She curled in on herself instinctively, a low, broken sound escaping her lips. He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her, tucking it close against her frame.

  A curl of dark golden hair slipped free across her forehead. Regal brushed it back automatically, his gloved hand clumsy but careful. For a breath, her eyes fluttered open — gold, not brown, not green, but something else — catching the firelight like molten metal before sliding shut again.

  Still breathing. Still fighting.

  Good.

  Ignoring the fire in his side, Regal forced himself toward a pile of moldering wooden crates stacked against the far wall. His movements were mechanical, driven by habit rather than thought. He broke the driest planks apart, splintering them into kindling. From an oilskin pouch tucked against his chest, he withdrew flint, steel, and a twist of cloth soaked in accelerant.

  Three strikes. A spark caught. He fed it carefully, cradling the nascent flame in trembling hands until it took.

  Soon a small fire burned in a rusted metal barrel, flames casting dancing shadows across the broken walls. Smoke seeped through the gaps in the roof. Risky — but without heat, they wouldn’t survive the night.

  Regal gathered the girl and moved her closer to the warmth, shielding her from the direct heat but letting it reach her chilled limbs. Only then did he allow himself to sink against the opposite wall, sucking air through gritted teeth.

  His side throbbed with a relentless, deep ache. He peeled back the sodden cloth and grimaced at the wound — deep, ragged, still weeping blood. He bound it tighter with what supplies he had left, knowing it was only a stopgap.

  That was when he saw it.

  The axe.

  The shattered remains of his father’s axe lay on the floor beside him, the blue tinted steel dulled and splintered, broken nearly clean through the haft. The head of it — cracked wide, useless.

  Something inside Regal cracked with it.

  With a roar torn from his chest, he grabbed the broken axe and hurled it across the shack. It slammed into the far wall with a hollow metallic clatter, shards of old wood scattering across the floor.

  The girl stirred at the noise but didn’t wake. Her breathing rattled in her chest — thin, but steady.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Regal pressed his forehead against the cold siding, his fists clenching until torn knuckles bled anew.

  And memory dragged him under.

  The alarm wailed overhead, lights pulsing red against white walls. Regal pressed his back against cold concrete, the axe gripped tight in his bleeding hands. Bodies lay scattered behind him — Union guards who had stood in the wrong place.

  Another intersection. Another gamble. The facility sprawled like a labyrinth, designed to disorient, to trap.

  A scream cut through the noise — high and thin with terror.

  He ran toward it without hesitation.

  The laboratory door hung half-open. Inside: white coats, huddled around a table. Strapped to it, a figure — thin, wild-haired, pale against the sterile white. Tubes threaded from her arms to humming machines drawing something unnatural, something that gleamed faintly green.

  They looked up too late.

  The axe bit deep.

  What followed was chaos — blood, steel, shouting — and then silence.

  He didn't bother with the paper instructions anymore. He had found what he came for.

  “Can you walk?” he asked, cutting through the restraints. Weak fingers clutched at his sleeve.

  Heavy boots thundered down the hall outside.

  Regal lifted her light, broken weight against his chest.

  “Hold on,” he said, voice low.

  “Whatever happens, we’re leaving.”

  The memory faded, leaving only pain, cold, and the hissing of snow against the broken windows.

  The Enforcer’s blade. The clash. The shattering of his father’s axe.

  The wound tearing into his side.

  The desperate flight through wastelands where even the dead gave no refuge.

  And before all that —

  The fire.

  The screams.

  The family he couldn't save.

  Because of her.

  Because of Shori Ashford.

  He spat the name into the dirt, bitter as the blood in his mouth.

  She would pay.

  All of them would pay.

  When the shaking in his hands finally faded, Regal forced himself upright. His legs trembled, but they held.

  He crossed the shack, kneeling by the axe’s broken remains.

  Gently — almost reverently — he wrapped the shattered head and haft in a strip of cloth scavenged from the wreckage. The largest piece of steel caught what little light remained, a faint sheen of blue gleaming beneath the grime.

  Even broken, it held power.

  Even shattered, it remained.

  He tucked the bundle carefully into his pack, cinching it tight against his back.

  Then he turned back to the girl, adjusting the coat around her once more, feeling the slight but steady rise and fall of her breathing.

  Outside, the wind howled. Snow sifted in through the cracks, clinging to broken machinery like the bones of a dead world.

  Far off in the distance, he felt the world crack, like the popping of a spine. Something worse.

  Regal squared his shoulders against the coming night. He looked at the girl, his movements gentle as he knelt beside her.

  "We need to move," he said, voice softening in a way it hadn't for anyone else in years.

  When he reached for her, she stirred, her eyes fluttering open for a moment. "No," she whispered, curling deeper into his coat. "Please... too tired."

  "I know," he said, carefully tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But they're coming. We can't stay."

  She shook her head weakly, fingers clutching at the coat. Regal sighed, a sound without anger.

  "We don't have far to go," he lied, but his tone was kind, almost protective. "Just a little longer. I'll get you somewhere safe."

  Her eyes locked on his for just a momeent – a flicker of trust amid fear.

  "Rest against me," he said. "I'll carry you."

  With careful movements that belied his urgency, he wrapped his coat more securely around her before lifting her once more. She settled against his chest, head tucking beneath his chin like a child seeking shelter from a storm.

  He kicked snow over the fire until it died with a final hiss, plunging the shack into darkness.

  One step. Then another.

  Fury burned within him.

  Regal Eldain disappeared into the frozen waste, his fury aimed at the world that had broken them both – but never at the fragile weight in his arms.