Fault Line

Chapter 15

“Excellent.” The word lands without weight, but the small nod that follows is enough to close the matter. The king doesn’t look at me again as he turns slightly, already moving on, already thinking three steps ahead of where I’m standing.

“This way.” It’s not him who says it. One of the officers along the wall steps forward, waiting just long enough to make sure I follow before he turns and walks. I don’t hesitate. There’s no point pretending I have a choice now. Still, something about the shift sits wrong, not in what was said, but in how quickly it’s done, how cleanly the decision rolls into the next step without pause. I fall in behind him, the door closing at my back with a soft, controlled click that sounds louder than it should. I hadn’t expected this to move immediately. If this was about optics, about control, about setting something in motion, there should have been time—time to prepare, to position, to shape whatever this is meant to look like. Instead, I’m being walked out of the room before the weight of it’s even settled.

Why would they have her here?

The question sits low, not urgent, but persistent enough that it doesn’t drop away as we turn into the first corridor. It’s wider than it needs to be, built for movement, for traffic, but it empties quickly as we move deeper, the noise of the main building falling away behind us in stages until it’s just footsteps and the faint hum of the lights overhead.

Where are we going?

The officer doesn’t look back. Doesn’t speak. He knows I’ll follow. We turn again. Then again. Each corridor narrower than the last, the walls closing in not physically, but in the way they’re built—older, less considered, more functional than the rest of the base. The air shifts with it. Colder. Not the sharp, clean cold of outside, but something that lingers, that settles into the concrete and doesn’t leave. My pace doesn’t change, my breathing doesn’t shift, but the line of thought locks in place as we move down the next corridor, longer than the others, stretching out ahead in a way that feels deliberate. No windows. No movement. Just a single door at the end, heavy and reinforced, with a guard posted beside it.

A holding room. That answers enough. The guard straightens slightly as we approach, eyes flicking to the officer, then to me, recognition there for a second before it’s gone again. He nods once, sharp, and reaches for the handle without being told.

The door opens. The room inside is smaller than I expect. Concrete walls, metal bench along one side, light overhead, too bright for the space. Cold sits in it, unmoving. She’d been pacing. Back and forth across the short length of the room, steps tight, controlled, like she’s forcing the movement to stay measured instead of letting it break into something else. She stops the second the door opens, turning on it, on us, on me.

looks like she's wearing the same clothes she was picked up in, thin enough that the cold has worked its way into them, into her, the fabric clinging where it shouldn’t, offering nothing. A short skirt and a long-sleeve top that does nothing to keep the edge off the air. Clearly no one had thought to offer her a jacket, or they didn't care. Her hair falls loose, thick and dark, waves dragged straighter at the ends where she’s been pulling at it, the length of it brushing low against her back, almost to her hips.

Her eyes lock onto me immediately. Dark. Focused. Narrowed in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with control. There’s confusion there. A thread of it. And something sharper underneath—anger, held tight enough that it hasn’t spilled yet, but it’s close. Closer than the rest.

She looks cold. She looks like she’s been left here long enough to feel it. There’s no pause where I question who the woman in front of me is, no second look, no hesitation to check if it fits. It lands solid, immediate, the kind of certainty that doesn’t ask for permission before it settles in. It’s her. I feel it before I think it, something low and steady locking into place without warning, without build, as if it had been there already and I’ve just stepped into it. My grip tightens on nothing, a reflex I don’t follow through on, and I hold where I am instead, letting the moment pass without letting it show. She’s cold, comfused, and angry. It registers sharper than anything else, cutting through the rest of it with a clarity that doesn’t make sense. The way her shoulders hold tighter than they should, the way her hands sit just a fraction too still, the fabric offering nothing against the air. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. The thought comes uninvited, immediate, and I shut it down just as fast, but it doesn’t go anywhere. It stays, sitting under everything else, steady and insistent in a way I don’t recognise. I don’t know her, there's no reason for it to land like that. My jaw tightens slightly, not enough to be seen, but enough that I feel it, the shift small and controlled as I force everything back into place where it belongs. Whatever this is, whatever the Crown has decided to call it, it doesn’t get to reach this far without resistance. And yet—It’s already there. I hold her gaze, steady, measured, giving nothing back that she can read, even as something in me has already made the decision for both of us. I don’t like it. Not the certainty. Not the way it settles. And definitely not the part of me that reacts to it like it belongs there.

"Indigo Campbell." Her name comes out low, quieter than intended. Like my mouth wanted to taste the name before it committed to it.

She blinks. Takes half a step away. "Who are you?"