No one stopped her.
Aya moved before anyone fully understood what she was about to do. The shard of broken wood was already in her hand—jagged, splintered, sharp enough to tear flesh without needing precision.
Grohanva lifted his head just as she swung.
The shard slammed into his face.
Hard.
The crack of breaking bone rang through the bunker as the wood smashed into the bridge of his nose. Blood burst outward instantly, spraying across his mouth, his eyes, the stone wall behind him.
Grohanva growled in pain.
Aya didn’t care.
She hit him again.
And again.
She didn’t stab. She beat him with it—short, brutal strikes that landed across his face and jaw. The wood tore skin, split flesh, crushed cartilage. Blood poured freely from his open wounds, soaking his chest, streaking down his
