The kitchen was a landscape of ruined metal and shattered stone, the air stagnant with the smell of blood and ozone. Zeven stood over the prone, broken form of his brother, his chest heaving with the weight of a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life. The spectral wolf of his heritage had receded, leaving him to deal with the cold, hard reality of the destruction he had caused to protect the helpless. The slave cooks huddled in the far corners, their eyes wide and trembling as they watched the man who had torn the palace asunder in their name.
Zeven wiped a streak of sweat and grit from his forehead, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. He looked down at Rey, whose synthetic systems were struggling to maintain even the most basic of functions. The internal servos in
