The tunnel trembled with it long before I even saw them—the sound of authority, boots pounding in rhythm like a death march played on hollow bones.
Dozens upon dozens, a tide of footsteps crashing down the dark corridor, filling the air with the metallic percussion of buckles and steel. The haze of smoke parted in fitful gusts, revealing the first glints of torchlight on polished helmets. Then more—ranks upon ranks of figures pouring through the breach like floodwater unleashed.
I cursed under my breath, the word tasting like smoke and bile. Brutus moved without needing orders, his hands checking the chamber of his shotgun, the barrel swinging up with mechanical precision.
The dim glow of the fire painted his broad silhouette in molten bronze, eyes narrow, shoulders squared.
And then they emerged. Not a patrol. Not even a strike squad.
No, an army.
There must have been a hundred of them, maybe more—some clad in segmented armor that clanked like chained thunder, others wearing the dark cloaks of the Warden’s field enforcers.
A large variety of weapons gleamed ominously in their hands, polished to a ceremonial sheen that caught the firelight in cold flashes. The smell of oil and metal filled the tunnel, cutting through the stink of smoke and scorched dust.
At their head strode a figure I’d recognize even in the depths of a nightmare, his presence commanding the space like a storm front.
"Gods above," I breathed, the words slipping out unbidden like a prayer twisting sour on my lips, laced with dread and disbelief.
It was Yolmear.
The Sectional Warden himself, towering and immaculate amid the chaos, the very embodiment of bureaucratic cruelty molded into a crisp uniform.
His long coat swayed with each step, dark as spilt ink, and his silver insignia caught the firelight like a cruel joke. His expression was carved marble—cold, unreadable—but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Fury twisted through my chest, sharp and sudden. My pulse thundered in my ears. Why was he here? Why now, when we were barely crawling out from under the wreckage?
And then, like a brutal punch to the gut, it hit me with crushing clarity. This wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t just blind luck or opportunistic timing. It was a setup, meticulously orchestrated.
My mind replayed the taller escort’s words from earlier, that little slice of conversation I’d dismissed amid the chaos: "Are you sure the intel we received is accurate?"
Of course. Of course it was.
My lips moved before my brain fully caught up, the realization spilling out. "A traitor," I whispered, the word hanging heavy in the smoke-laden air.
Freya turned her head sharply before her eyes narrowed on me. "What?"
"They knew," I said louder now, the anger coiling tighter into my voice like a blade being slowly drawn from its sheath, venomous and unyielding. "They knew we’d be here. Every step we took—every plan, every route—it was fed to them."
Brutus’s jaw tightened visibly, muscles bunching like knotted ropes under his skin. Dregan muttered a curse under his breath, low and vicious as a growl from the depths of hell, his cigar forgotten between his fingers. Atticus just went still, his mind undoubtedly racing through calculations and contingencies.
Yolmear came to a precise stop about twenty paces away, his boots grinding on the gravel-strewn floor. His miniature army fanned out behind him in perfect, disciplined formation, forming an impenetrable wall of steel and intent.
He clasped his hands behind his back with aristocratic poise, surveying the carnage—the wrecked train sprawled in twisted agony, the shattered barrier reduced to rubble, the smoke curling like ghostly fingers clawing at the air.
"Loona," he said finally, his tone smooth, even cordial, as if we were old acquaintances bumping into each other at a refined soirée rather than amid the smoking ruins of my shattered dignity and explosive handiwork. "Imagine my surprise."
I stepped forward just enough to make it abundantly clear I wasn’t cowering or hiding behind anyone, my chin lifted in defiance.
My voice came out light, sweet, and laced with pure venom. "Surprise, really? You always struck me as the kind of man who schedules his ambushes. What a pity..."
One of his brows rose in a slow, arched motion, that faint smile not quite reaching the cold depths of his eyes. "You flatter me. I simply follow where the evidence leads."
"Oh, don’t play coy," I said, gesturing lazily toward the ruined train. "You brought a full parade to greet us. What’s the occasion? Early festival? Or just another taxpayer-funded overreaction to spice up your quarterly reports?"
A few of the guards behind him shifted uneasily on their feet, their armor clinking softly, uncertain whether to chuckle at the barb or raise their weapons in response.
Yolmear didn’t move a muscle, his composure a fortress. "You’re as glib as ever, even in defeat. I’ll admit, part of me had hoped the explosion would temper that tongue of yours."
"It did," I said with a sharp, fanged grin. "Tempered me into something sharper."
For a moment, silence stretched taut between us, the air humming with an electric tension that crackled like the dying embers around us. Then Yolmear exhaled through his nose, a measured sound like a teacher indulging a troublesome student.
"This," he said, gesturing broadly to the devastation with a sweep of his gloved hand, "is precisely why I’m here in force. You’ve made yourself a problem. One I can no longer afford to ignore."
"Funny," I said, "I thought we were on good terms. You, the condescending overlord; me, the charming liability. It was practically symbiotic."
"I have no personal grievance with you," he replied coolly, his voice as unflappable as his stance. "This is my job, my duty. And perhaps, if you’d taken more care with your... associates, you might’ve avoided this unfortunate culmination."
Something dark and insidious flickered in his tone, a quiet, underlying satisfaction that made my stomach knot with unease. I tilted my head further, eyes narrowing. "Meaning what, exactly?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
He smiled then, slow and deliberate, the expression unfolding like a predator savoring its prey. "Meaning that your downfall didn’t come from outside forces. It came from within. You should have checked your crew before embarking on this little crusade. It seems loyalty is in shorter supply than wit these days."
A murmur rippled through our crew—confused whispers escalating into angry mutters, defensive retorts bubbling up like steam from cracks. I felt the shift in the air before anyone spoke, a palpable wave of suspicion thickening the atmosphere.
And then, cutting through it all like a gunshot in the silence, came a voice, sharp, accusing, and practically trembling with rage. "It was him!"
My heart plummeted into an icy void, sinking like stone.
It was Mia.
She stumbled forward from the edge of the group, eyes wide and wild with a mix of fear and fury, her face streaked with drying blood and thick soot that smudged like war paint. Her trembling hand shot out abruptly, finger pointing directly at Victor.
"It was him!" she screamed again, voice cracking like fragile glass under pressure. "He’s the one who told them! He met with one of Yolmear’s scouts before we left the courtyard! I saw it with my own eyes!"
The accusation hung in the air like lingering smoke after a fired shot, heavy and inescapable, poisoning the space between us.
Victor froze, every muscle in his face tightening into a mask of controlled shock before he forced a smile that didn’t reach the calculating depths of his eyes.
"Ah," he said, his tone deceptively calm and laced with feigned amusement, "and here I thought you only noticed me when I borrowed your flask without asking."
"Don’t twist this into a joke, you fucker!" Mia spat, her body shaking with barely contained rage. "You’ve been acting strange ever since joining this crew! Whispering to yourself like a madman, sneaking off into the shadows at odd hours—"
"I whisper because this group drives me to the brink of madness with its endless blathering," Victor interrupted smoothly, his voice dripping with intellectual scorn and precision. "As for sneaking off, forgive me for seeking a modicum of privacy in a party that collectively treats the concept of personal space as optional fiction."
"Enough!" Dregan barked, his voice a gravelly roar as he stepped between them with heavy boots crunching on debris, but it was too late. The spark had caught and ignited.
Voices erupted in a storm of accusations between the men, overlapping in a chaotic cacophony—Freya shouting demands for proof with her hand hovering near her weapon, Atticus hissing urgently for calm and reason amid the rising tide, Brutus growling low in his throat like a warning rumble but holding back from intervention.
Victor’s words grew sharper, more cutting, his tone rising as he dismantled every claim with the precision of a man cornered by logic, desperation, and his own silver tongue.
And then I heard it—
A whistle, high and lilting, jaunty as a carefree street tune played on a battered flute, cutting through the noise like a blade slicing effortlessly through silk.
The arguments faltered one by one, voices trailing off into stunned silence as heads turned toward the unexpected sound piercing the tension.
A figure emerged from the swirling haze, strolling forward with casual ease as if this entire standoff were nothing more than a leisurely afternoon promenade through a park. Hands tucked nonchalantly in his coat pockets, head tilted in idle amusement that bordered on madness, he strode forward with the weight of inevitability.
And there he was, materializing like a devil from the smoke.
The Boss.
His smile was a weapon of its own—wide, too wide, manic with unbridled delight that twisted his features into something both charming and terrifying at once.
His glassy eye glittered with that unholy mixture of charisma and chaos, sparkling in the firelight like shattered glass.
When he stopped, it was squarely between Yolmear’s imposing army and our ragged, fractured band.
"Well," he drawled, voice honeyed with thick mockery, "isn’t this cozy? Like watching children squabble over sweets. It’s almost pathetic, really."
The tunnel seemed to shrink around him, the vast space contracting under the weight of his presence, tension coiling like a living beast ready to strike.
His shadow stretched long and sharp across the broken ground, elongated by the flickering torches, and for the first time since waking amid the rubble, I felt something cold and uncertain curl around my spine like icy fingers.
Because if the Boss was smiling like that—grinning with the gleeful edge of a madman unveiling his masterpiece—it meant the real game was only just beginning.