Reclaiming Her Blade: Scarlet Vow

The skyline of New Lux shimmered like an illusion — too pristine to be real, too silent to be natural. Silver towers rose in defiance of gravity, laced with floating transit rails and airborne drones, casting flickers of light across the glassed-over city below. From the outer viewing deck of Valkor Dominion’s Obsidian Tower, Elena Drakov stood alone, her fingers resting lightly on the cool black railing. She always came here at night, when the city was quiet, the buzz of delays and death muted by synthetic peace. Beneath her feet, hundreds of stories down, the artificial soil of Sky Sector pulsed with regulated life. Above, the stars were drowned in smog light. The city had traded its soul for silence. “Elena.” The voice behind her was smooth, familiar. Possessive in a way that didn't ask for permission. She didn’t turn immediately. “You’re late, Damian.” I was handling the Ferrix deal. You would’ve been proud. "Twenty cyborg assassins for the price of ten, and not a single credit traceable back to us.” His footsteps stopped just behind her. “You didn’t wait for me.” “I don’t wait for anyone,” she said softly. He chuckled. “That’s what I love about you.” She finally turned, her platinum-blonde hair catching the city’s glow. Her face was pale but sharp, sculpted not from vanity but from discipline. She wore a sleeveless black combat suit with neural sync bands still clamped tight at her collarbone — fresh from the field, yet spotless. “You look like hell,” Damian said with a smirk, reaching to brush a faint red line on her arm — a cut, or maybe a burn. Elena stepped back. “You didn’t send backup. The intel on the Tekh base was flawed. I nearly lost two operatives." “It wasn’t flawed,” Damian replied coolly. “It was incomplete. We had a window. You chose to act.” “I chose to salvage your mess.” A silence settled between them — the kind that came not from anger, but from two sharp minds grinding against each other like blades in a sheath. Damian Rourke was taller than her by a head, with a lean, cruel elegance. His steel-grey eyes never blinked longer than necessary. He had the face of someone carved for power — handsome, but not warm. Dangerous, but not reckless. In another world, he might have been a politician or a king. Here, he ruled something far more terrifying. He ruled the Valkor Dominion. And for now, so did she. “You want control,” Elena said, voice low. “You want my silence, my loyalty, and my mind. But you’re not used to someone who doesn’t fold when you press.” “I want a partnership, Elena. You mistake my precision for manipulation.” “No,” she said, stepping closer now, lifting her chin until they were nose to nose. “I mistake your charm for poison.” He laughed, but his eyes didn’t soften. “Still, you drink it.” She didn’t answer. Because he was right. Whatever they were — husband and wife, co-founders, lovers, enemies — it had been built on blood and brilliance. She had believed in him once. Maybe still did, somewhere under the armour. Valkor had begun as a vision, not a weapon. She remembered those nights on the outskirts of Sector Thirteen, patching wounded mercs in hideouts and dreaming up how to build a better world. “A sanctuary for the strong,” Damian had called it. But power changed dreams. And it changed people faster than ambition ever could. “Elena,” he said again, gentler this time. “There’s a summit next week. The council wants us both present.” “The corporate lords?” she said. “They don’t like women at the table unless they’re bending.” “That’s why you’ll be there. And you’ll speak before I do.” Her eyes narrowed. He rarely ceded the spotlight. “Why?” “Because they’re beginning to see you as a threat,” he replied. “And I’d rather keep you beside me than behind me.” A chill moved down her spine. Not from fear. From instinct. Damian was a man who never admitted weakness. Which meant when he gave ground, it was either calculated… or a lie. She moved past him, back toward the interior hall. The corridor stretched like a blade, all black glass and humming light. Surveillance bots blinked in their hatches. Everything in the Obsidian Tower was polished — curated. Even the shadows felt staged. “I’ll prepare for the summit,” she said over her shoulder. “But after that, I’m going to Sector Thirteen. I want eyes on the brokers feeding false tech to our scouts.” “That’s beneath your rank,” he said. “I wasn’t asking for permission.” Another pause. “Elena.” She stopped, not turning. “I’d die for you,” he said. “But don’t ever make me choose between you and Valkor.” She tilted her head, lips curling in something too soft to be a smile. “Don’t worry, Damian. I’d never ask.” Later that night, Elena sat in her quarters, stripped of armour and name. She stared at the flickering holo-map of Valkor’s territories, watching red light spread like a virus across the globe. Damian’s voice echoed in her mind — I’d die for you. But what would he kill for? She touched her scar, the one on her ribs. A wound she’d earned in the field, not from a bullet, but from a man who had stood beside her and failed to pull her back in time. She hadn’t blamed him then. She wasn’t sure if she still could now. Her comm buzzed. A ping from the lower levels. One of her agents had returned from the Hollow. She rose, tying back her hair with steady hands. She didn’t flinch when she passed the mirror. The woman looking back wasn’t Elena Drakov, co-founder of Valkor. She was something else. Still becoming. Still sharpening. The war hadn’t begun yet. But soon… it would.