Chapter 48 - Cira/Cain
Cira's breath was shallow behind the rebreather, heartbeat thudding in her ears like war drums. Sirens howled in the distance, flickering emergency lights painting the corridor in slashes of red and white. Smoke bled from the far end of the hall, thick with scorched metal and something worse—a hint of ozone and char, like burnt circuitry and bone.
Cira crouched behind a shattered terminal, patching into the emergency comms.
«Status check. Bran? Evran? Talk to me.»
A sharp cough answered, then Bran's voice, hoarse but breathing: «West wing collapsed. Evran's pinned under rubble—we're trying to get him out. Structural supports are failing. You need to fall back, Cira.»
«Not yet.»
«You don't get to play hero right now—»
«I'm not. He's here.»
Silence crackled across the line.
Then Sienna: «Cain?»
«Yeah.» She wiped blood from her brow. «I saw him breach the command core. He's in Front of me. Alone. Sent His soldiers away.»
«Why?»
Talos's voice now, cold and controlled: «Because he's after you. He's known you'd be here since the moment she activated the tracker.»
Cira didn't answer. She already knew that part. She had known since she saw Liora's shadow vanish through the hangar gate two nights ago, wordless.
The lights above flickered again, then steadied in amber. Someone was controlling them. Herding her.
She rose, exhaled.
«Pull back. All of you. Get Evran out, seal the hangar. If I'm not back in twenty—»
«Don't finish that sentence,» Orlan growled. «We're not leaving you—»
«That's an order, Orlan.»
Static.
Then, reluctantly: «…Understood.»
Cira flicked off her comms and stalked forward, silent but burning.
The walls were cracked but still humming with residual energy. Bodies lay in the shadows, some unconscious, some not so lucky.
Cain stood at the far end of the corridor, backlit by flame and datalight. His coat fluttered faintly from the heat as he turned, hands at his sides, relaxed. Behind him, a sealed blast door hissed shut—cutting off the rest of his strike team. He was alone now.
He raised his head, slow and deliberate.
Smiled.
Like this was exactly how he wanted it.
«Cira,» he said, as if tasting the name.
She didn't flinch. «You sent your people ahead.»
Cain nodded once. «They have their tasks. You're mine.»
They stared each other down through smoke and silence. Footsteps echoed in the distance—gunfire, shouting, the last whimpers of resistance. But here, in this corridor of dying lights and swaying heat, it was just them.
Cain's synthetic eye whirred faintly, scanning her. «You look tired.»
«You look like you've been rotting from the inside out.»
That earned a twitch of amusement. "Still good with words. Not so good with strategy. Talos never told you what this place really was, did he?"
She didn't bite.
Cain shrugged, rolling his right shoulder—the synthetic arm flexing beneath his coat with a soft hiss of pneumatics. «Doesn't matter. I didn't come to preach.»
He stepped forward, slow and calm, hand reaching for the weapon at his back. Not a gun. A blade—long, jagged, scorched along the edge. One he didn't draw yet. He wanted her to see it. To remember it.
"You tried to kill me once," he said pointing at the scar on His throat. «I remember the look on your face.»
«So do I.»
«Good.» The smile sharpened into something colder. «Then you'll remember how I will kill you.»
∆∆∆
Cain weighed his energy blade in his hand, spinning it once with an idle flick of his wrist. The jagged weapon hissed softly, lines of dull orange light pulsing along its edge like veins beneath charred skin. His coat flared slightly as he moved, and for a moment, he stood still—head tilted, expression half-absent, like a man watching the wind before a storm.
Cira tensed, one foot braced, the other loose and ready to shift. Her Arcblade was still sheathed at her back, but her fingers hovered near the hilt. She could feel her heart hammering, but her breath stayed slow. Focused.
Cain's eyes never left hers. He smiled like someone greeting an old wound.
This was personal.
The red emergency lights carved deep shadows across her face, and in them, Cain saw every reason he'd come here. Every moment of weakness she'd made him feel. Every scar she'd left behind.
She thought she could end him once. She'd failed.
This time, he would not.
He stepped forward again, letting his blade trail behind him, its tip drawing sparks across the metal floor. The reek of scorched wire and blood clung to the air like a shroud. Every breath through his filters tasted of rust and memory.
«You should've died Saving Riel» he said softly, almost nostalgic. The heat warped the air around him. «You should've died screaming.»
Cira didn't respond, only shifted her weight. Watching. Calculating.
Cira didn't respond, only shifted her weight. Watching. Calculating.
Good. Let her try.
Cain feinted left, fast. A flash of movement—enough to test her reaction time. Her blade snapped free with a sizzle of energy and caught his with a sharp ring, sending sparks dancing between them. The first true contact—blade to blade, pressure against pressure.
Her form was tighter now. Controlled. He'd taught her that once, indirectly, in pain and warzones and loss.
He shoved hard, forcing her back a step. She slid, boots screeching against the metal floor, but didn't falter. Came right back in.
They clashed again, and this time Cain let her drive the tempo. Let her get in close, close enough to feel the heat of his blade whisper past her ribs. Let her think she had the edge.
Then he twisted.
His synthetic arm surged with a pulse of overclocked torque—he caught her shoulder with a hard hook, slamming her into a control panel. Glass shattered beneath her weight, and sparks belched out as circuitry fried.
But she rolled with it, dropped low, and slashed upward.
Cain arched back just in time—the Arcblade grazed the front of his coat, carving fabric and burning the edge of his vest. He laughed, a sharp sound that didn't belong here.
Cira moved fast—faster than he remembered—and her Arcblade transformed mid-swing, slicing through the smoke with a scream of plasma. Cain pivoted, dragging his blade up in a brutal arc to catch hers. The force of the impact vibrated up his arm, jarring his bones. Sparks burst like fireflies where metal met energy.
She twisted, trying to slip past his guard. He let her. He stepped back just enough to avoid the follow-up strike, the tip of her blade carving a shallow gouge in the concrete beside him. The heat scorched his coat.
Good.
The air was thick with heat and static. Pipes hissed overhead, some ruptured, bleeding vapor and coolant down the walls in shimmering streaks. Cain shifted his footing, crunching glass beneath his boots. The corridor around them pulsed red with emergency lights, like the heartbeat of a dying beast.
She darted forward again, feinting left, then coming low from the right. He caught her wrist with his cybernetic hand mid-swing—metal slamming into flesh—and shoved her sideways into a wall panel. The old console sparked and exploded behind her, showering both of them in broken glass and arcs of pale-blue light.
She grunted, rolled with it, using the momentum to swing her knee up. It slammed into his ribs with a satisfying crunch. He hissed—felt something give—but didn't stumble. He caught her leg on the backswing and drove her backward with a two-handed push, their blades locked together between them.
«You hated me for taking your brother's arm,» he said, voice low, teeth bared. «But deep down? You envied my abilities.»
Cira shoved him back with a roar. Her blade whirled in a furious arc, catching his cheek and sending a burst of heat and blood across the corridor. Cain staggered, just a step, hand going to the wound. The flesh sizzled beneath his fingertips.
He didn't Freak. This time he laughed.
«That's more like it.»
She came again—closer, angrier—and they clashed beneath the ruined support beams, blades sparking against ceiling conduits and steel plating. Cain ducked under a swing, twisted, then slammed his elbow into her spine. She stumbled, but not far. She turned on him like a storm and tackled him through a set of flickering glass panels.
They hit the ground hard in an auxiliary control room, strewn with debris and fire. Monitors blinked warnings. A support beam creaked dangerously above.
Cain rolled to his feet, chest heaving. He wiped blood from his mouth. «You're not that girl in the desert anymore.»
Cira didn't speak. She just lifted her blade again.
He lunged first this time.
The sound was raw—metal screaming on metal, their shadows dancing across cracked walls and flame-glow. Cain ducked a horizontal slice and brought his blade up across her thigh. It bit, not deep, but enough to stagger her.
He didn't press.
He circled her, blood dripping from his jaw, his steps slow and deliberate. «I could kill you right now,» he murmured. «But that would be boring. Come entertain me more.»
Her response was silence. Pure rage.
Then she rose.
Cain grinned, blade whirring to life once more.
She answered with a backhand that split his lip wide open.
They moved again—out of the room and into a collapsed stairwell shaft. Cain grabbed a low railing and swung himself upward, boots scraping against the concrete, catching a ledge. He turned—and Cira was already there, leaping up after him. She tackled him into the side of the stairwell, pinning him to rusted pipes
She pressed in, trying to trap him, and for a second, he let her think she had..
Cain twisted, slamming the hilt of his blade into her ribs—once, twice—before spinning out and driving his knee into her back. She dropped to a crouch and swept his legs from under him.
But she moved with the blow—adapted.
Smart, he noted with a flicker of respect. Still not enough.
She dropped to a crouch, swept his legs.
He fell, but turned the fall into momentum, shoulder-rolling across the floor as his blade scraped a trail of sparks along the steel grating.
Cira charged. Her steps were a thunderbeat in the confined shaft, echoing like war drums. Her Arcblade came down in a brutal arc—
He caught it on the edge of his own, the clash ringing out like a gunshot.
Pain sang through his arms, but he held. Their faces were inches apart now—hers slick with sweat and fury, his calm, eyes gleaming.
«You never learned to pace yourself,» he muttered, pushing her back.
She snarled, breaking the lock and lunging again, this time low. Cain vaulted sideways off a bent railing, rebounding off the wall like a dancer turned weapon. He landed behind her, his blade grazing the back of her thigh. Not deep—but enough to slow.
Cira hissed, stumbling forward, then spinning, throwing a vicious elbow that he ducked beneath.
Cain surged in, his movements like oil and fire—fluid, but burning. He kicked at the weakened flooring beneath her feet and it gave way just slightly, making her footing shift.
That was all he needed.
He slammed her into the stairwell's support beam, pinning her arm with his own. The heat between them was palpable—sweat, adrenaline, fury.
She headbutted him.
White-hot pain exploded in his skull, but he grinned through the blood now trickling from his forehead.
Still got teeth.
They broke apart again, both panting, circling now at the next level of the stairwell. Emergency lights blinked behind broken panels. Pipes hissed above, one leaking hot steam into the air, fogging the space in ghostly white.
Cain moved through it like he was born in it.
She came in too fast. Emotional. Sloppy.
He sidestepped, letting her blade cut through the fog where his throat had just been. His own weapon arced down and caught her shoulder—not the dominant one, but close. She screamed, twisting, retaliating with a surge of raw will.
It clipped his side, tearing through cloth and synthetic mesh, drawing a line of red.
Better, he thought. Rage makes her interesting.
But Cain was built for this.
He was stronger. Faster. Augmented in ways even she didn't fully understand.
Cira lunged—again.
He caught her mid-strike, spun with her weight, and threw her through the nearest doorframe.
She crashed into a dark operations room—broken screens flickering dimly, walls lined with sparking data conduits and cracked terminals. The floor was littered with shattered glass and blood-soaked reports.
Cain followed.
Smoke trailed behind his boots. The sound of his blade dragging across the wall filled the room with a low, scraping shriek.
Cira was on one knee, coughing, clutching her shoulder.
He approached slowly, savoring the moment.
"You were always Talos's favorite," he said, voice low. "But he trained you for war. I was built for it."
She looked up, eyes wild and burning.
And still—unbroken.
Cain's grin faded slightly.
Good. He didn't want her broken.
Not yet.
He wanted her aware when he carved the truth into her.
And he wanted her to see who Liora had chosen in the end.
Cain raised his blade again.
«Get up,» he whispered, voice cutting through the hiss of vents and the low moan of the burning base above. «We're not finished.»
And when she did—bloody, shaking, blade in hand—Cain felt something rare stir in his chest.
Excitement.
Finally.
∆∆∆
Cira forced herself upright, legs trembling beneath her, vision rimmed in black.
Her shoulder screamed. Her ribs ached. Every breath tasted of smoke and copper. The wound on her thigh pulsed like a second heartbeat. Her rebreather was cracked—each inhale sharp and dry, like she was breathing in sand and fire.
But she stood.
She had to.
Cain was already circling her again, blade loose in his hand, movements easy. Effortless. Like this was a game and she was just another round to be won.
Stay up. Just stay up.
Her comms flared to life in her ear again, slicing through the ringing.
«Cira?!»
Sienna.
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
«Cira, talk to me, please—what's your status?»
A flicker of pain shot through her jaw as she clenched her teeth too hard. She could still taste blood. Cain stepped closer, and she tightened her grip on her Arcblade, the hilt slick in her hand.
Another voice—Orlan, this time, shouting: «We've almost got Evran clear—where are you?!»
Cain's blade twitched—an opening. Cira struck forward, her blade arcing in a clean upward slash. He knocked it aside with the flat of his sword like it was nothing. The force of it jarred her elbow.
She stumbled back, panting.
The room spun.
Cira's vision pulsed in and out, heat pounding behind her eyes like a second heartbeat. Her shoulder screamed with every twitch of her fingers. Blood slicked her side, leaking down into her glove. The synthetic mesh under her combat suit was burning hot from where Cain's blade had kissed too close.
She could barely hear the world over her own ragged breaths.
But the comms didn't stop.
«Cira! What's happening?!» Sienna's voice, sharp, strained.
«Cira, respond—» Orlan. Angry. Scared.
She clenched her teeth and forced herself upright, staggering into a half-guard, blade low. Sparks flickered from a nearby console, casting jittery shadows across Cain's face as he stalked closer. He didn't speak now. He didn't have to.
His blade dragged across the floor again. That sound—grating, grinding, cruel—was louder than the chaos echoing through her earpiece.
«Hangar's sealed!» Talos now. Calm, but grim. «We've locked down the eastern wing. If Cain's still inside, he's boxed—»
«I know!» she snapped, voice cracking. Blood coated her tongue. «He's still right in front of me!»
A pause.
Then, softer, Talos: «Cira. Fall back. That's an order.»
She wanted to. She wanted to so badly.
But Cain was between her and the exit—and she knew if she turned her back now, she'd never get up again.
"Talos," she whispered, "I'm not making it out of this without help."
Cain lunged.
She parried by reflex, sparks flaring as their blades clashed again and again—steel on steel, pain on pain. Her grip was slipping. Her arm was slower. The strength he had left in his swings wasn't just mechanical—it was personal.
Cain was enjoying this.
He drove her back against a sparking wall panel, the exposed conduit behind her erupting in a shower of light. Her blade caught his again—but her foot slipped on glass. She dropped to one knee.
He didn't hesitate.
His hand grabbed her hair—her hair—and yanked her up into a headbutt so hard the inside of her skull cracked with white fire. Her head spun.
She ducked, weaved—fighting with desperation now, not precision. Her body ached, her arm dragged, her breath tore at her lungs like razors. And still, the voice chatter didn't stop.
«Structural failure—east wing collapsing—»
«Get her out! We have to breach the stairwell—»
Cain's blade flashed.
Cira moved left—too slow.
Agony exploded in her skull.
Something white—no, nothingness—ripped across her vision. Her eye. Her right eye.
She screamed, collapsing to one knee, clutching the side of her face as warmth poured down her cheek. Blood, thick and hot, ran between her fingers. She couldn't see—half the world gone, replaced with darkness and blinding pain.
«Finally,» Cain muttered, standing over her.
She swung blindly—he stepped back, let her fall forward. Her hands hit blood-slick tile. She tried to push up—her arms shook like wet branches in the wind.
«CIRA?!» Orlan, yelling now. «Hold on—we're close—»
Cain's boot came down hard on her shin.
The first crunch wasn't even the worst part—it was the second.
Cira screamed, throat tearing, as pain detonated through her leg. She tried to crawl, to twist away, but he followed, step by deliberate step. His foot crushed her already shattered bone again—then again.
«Stop—!» she gasped, breath catching.
He didn't.
He ground his heel into the meat of her thigh, pressing her leg down against the floor like he meant to drive it through the metal. Something tore—ligament or tendon, she couldn't tell anymore. Her body convulsed in agony, nerves shorting out.
«You always wanted to stand against me,» Cain muttered, as if to himself, almost thoughtful. «Let's see if you can still stand at all.»
He stomped again, and her knee snapped sideways, an unnatural angle that drew another scream from her already bloodied lips.
The comms buzzed with desperate shouting—Orlan, Sienna, Bran—but she couldn't hear the words anymore. Just static. Just the roar of her own pain.
Cain finally stepped back, breathing hard, watching her twitch and writhe.
Her leg lay mangled beneath her—crushed, twisted, ruined. Not broken. Destroyed.
«Now you're exactly where you belong,» he said.
That was when the ceiling came down.