Chapter 45 - Cira/Cain
The night in the Godhunter base was unnaturally quiet.
Even at its calmest, there had always been something: the hum of distant turbines, the scuff of boots in concrete halls, the muted chatter of insomniacs in the mess. But tonight, Cira could hear every creak of the ceiling, every drip of old condensation from the vents. The silence made her restless.
She sat alone on the lower level catwalk overlooking the training pit—empty now, flooded with shadow. Her gear sat next to her in a folded pile: boots stripped, jacket unzipped, gloves off. Her hair hung loose, damp from a cold rinse. She should have been in bed. Should have been resting. But sleep didn't come easy these days, and the ache in her heart had settled too deep for comfort.
Sienna had gone quiet after the the Last meeting. Bran hadn't spoken a word since they got Last night. Orlan had barked at a medic, then disappeared. And Liora—
Liora was Mad at her.
Cira tried to recall the last words exchanged between them. She should have said something. She should have checked in. Instead, she'd kept her distance, half out of guilt, half out of fear.
Liora wasn't like she was before.
The girl Cira had fought beside during the Mission to Dave Riel, the one who tore a suppressor drone apart with her bare hands, who sang off-key while cleaning her rifle, who quoted old Earth poetry when she couldn't sleep—that girl was gone. What stood in her place was colder. Sharper. Like a blade left out in winter.
Cira shifted on the metal railing, glancing toward the eastern corridor. Most of the dorm lights were off now, their slotted windows dark. A faint red glow pulsed from the emergency strips underfoot, marking the edges of the floor like veins. She traced them with her eyes, watching the lines converge at the far end of the hall near the main airlock.
That's when she saw it.
A shadow moving—slow and deliberate. A figure in a faded brown coat, hood pulled low, a duffel bag slung across one shoulder. They didn't move like someone patrolling. They didn't pause or scan or check comms. They just walked, steady, quiet, purposeful.
Cira's pulse slowed.
Liora.
She would recognize that walk anywhere.
Cira blinked, confused at first.
She thought Liora had gone to bed hours ago. The infirmary lights had been off. No movement. Nothing since Talos had finally dismissed them all like children sent to their rooms.
Liora didn't notice her sitting in the dark. Or if she did, she gave no sign. Her shoulders were hunched beneath the loose brown coat she'd borrowed. A duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, slightly too full to be casual. She walked with purpose—quiet, but not hesitant.
Cira didn't speak. Didn't call out.
She just watched.
Liora reached the end of the hallway and paused at the access panel for the secondary airlock. It wasn't used often—just a maintenance exit, not far from the scrubbers. No cameras in that wing. No guards posted this time of night. No reason for anyone to be there.
Still, Cira said nothing.
Her thoughts tumbled over themselves, slow and numb.
Maybe she was just clearing her head.
Maybe she was going to the storage levels. Maybe she needed space.
Or maybe—
The door opened with a low hiss.
Cold night air curled through the corridor.
Liora stepped out without a glance behind her. The door slid shut again with a soft click.
Cira stared at the sealed hatch.
She told herself it was nothing. That Liora would be back. That everyone processed things differently. That maybe she just needed fresh air, solitude, distance from all this madness.
But in her gut, something twisted.
Something old and bitter.
She'd seen that look before. That quiet tension in someone's shoulders. That resignation in their steps. People who were done waiting. People who had already made up their minds.
She rubbed her hands together absently, chasing off the chill in her fingers.
There were no alarms. No breach warnings. No shouts. Just the hum of old power lines and the low murmur of recycled air.
Cira remained seated for a long time, eyes on the hatch. A weight had settled on her chest, and it didn't move. It stayed there, heavy and familiar.
It felt like loss.
It felt like betrayal she didn't want to name yet.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, forehead against her palms. She didn't cry. There were no tears left. Only the quiet, gnawing sense that something had shifted.
And that she'd been too slow to stop it.
∆∆∆
Cain stood alone in his room, silhouetted by the pale blue glow of the city beyond the glass.
It was midnight in Eden, but the city never slept. Lights pulsed across the skyline like a heartbeat—constant, restless, artificial. He didn't bother turning on the lights. The room was bare, modern, impersonal. A couch. A glass table. A shelf of unread books. And the knife on the windowsill beside him, its hilt resting against the cold steel.
He didn't move until the small vibration against his wrist broke the silence.
Cain looked down.
His tracker's faceplate blinked once—dim, violet light flickering alive.
Signal Acquired.
A second pulse confirmed it.
Tracker #017 – Active. Location: Godhunter Coordinates.
His jaw tightened.
Liora.
It wasn't a mistake. He'd locked the frequency, coded the response himself. No false positives. No decoys. The signal was real.
She had turned it on.
He didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just stood there for a long, still moment with the sound of distant air traffic humming through the glass. His fingers hovered over the interface. Then he tapped once—sending a silent confirmation back.
It began.
Seconds later, another ping echoed through the tracker. This one wasn't a signal—it was a call.
Abel // Encrypted Line
Cain accepted.
Abel's voice came through soft, controlled, like a knife gliding across cloth. «You got it too?»
Cain nodded, though Abel couldn't see him. «Just now.»
«She made the call,» Abel said. «Or someone did using her frequency. You trust it?»
«She wouldn't activate it by mistake,» Cain said. «Not her. Not after everything.»
A pause.
Abel exhaled once. «Then it's time.»
Cain turned back toward the window. The lights of Calderis reflected dimly in his eyes.
«Yes,» he said. «Call the others. Prep the drop teams.»
Another pause. «You want to give her a warning?»
Cain's hand drifted to the knife on the sill. His thumb pressed lightly to the flat of the blade.
«No,» he said quietly. «If she's with them, she's already warned enough.»
Then he ended the call.
And for a long moment, he stood alone, watching the city breathe.