I squeeze my coil tighter, choking the fissure’s hum again until it wavers.
The light dims a fraction.
Progress.
But my team is getting shredded behind me, and I can hear it.
Kaien’s breathing is still controlled, but he’s taking heavier impacts now—stone grinding under stress. Theron’s stormfield flares and stutters in short bursts like he’s fighting through pain. Vexa’s shots are coming faster, less measured. Brusk grunts, shield rig whining.
And somewhere in the chaos, Eryndor is moving—silent, lethal, doing what he does best: keeping us from being flanked.
Ten laughs, low. “Your Commander bleeds,” he says conversationally. “Your Storm breaks. Your shadow hides. And you… crouch.”
Rage flashes so hot it almost breaks my coil.
Cassian’s voice is sharp. “Nyra—don’t—”
I swallow it
