Chapter 8: Crossed Frequencies

Serena adjusted the weight of her coat, subtle movement

beneath the sway of the promenade crowd. Beneath the tailored layers, the

reassuring pressure of her sword sheath rode high against her back, balanced by

the side-holster of the Velkara M-IX pressed firm against her ribs.

She had hunted for centuries. Tamed mercenary warbands on Omega. Broken pirates

on Thalera's moons. Sparred in blood-oath duels among her own sisters of the

Velkara.

But none of that explained what had haunted her across the last two cycles.

A resonance.

Not sound, not scent — deeper than biotic sense, sharper than instinct. A pull,

unbidden and unclaimed, that resonated beneath her field with every breath.

She had ignored it. Dismissed it as fatigue, as lingering memory of the burn on

Irithel.

But it had grown.

She could feel it now in the seams of the city. In the flicker of public flows

across Zakera's halls. In the subtle tension beneath the footfall of strangers.

The threads had shifted. No cause. No face. Just an untraceable gravity at the

edge of her awareness.

A huntress did not ignore such things.

When the flicker first surged — a thin line of resonance like a low hum through

her biotics — she had turned immediately. Mapped proximity. Direction. Zone.

Not coincidence.

Now she moved through the concourse beneath those same overhead rails. No

disguise — only restraint. Blending as any off-duty combatant might: an old

field jacket, neutral pants, nothing flagged or armored beyond natural poise.

Eyes sharp. Steps loose.

She had not told her family. Nor her old circles. Certainly not the Guild.

Too many questions. Too many currents. No, this was her alone.

The trail was difficult — wrong, even. It bent beneath logic.

At first she had scanned records — thermal grids, badge patterns, patrol paths.

No sign. Then private cams. Gate latches. Minor market node pings.

Always the same: movement without anchor.

No credits changing hands. No traceable comms. No repeat patterns of purchase

or lodging. No known operator matched the signature.

And yet... she had felt the pulse. Near the Tayseri platform. Near the

contractor lanes. Near the fringe of the lower promenade, where no patrol

walked without reason.

Someone moved there — someone who should not move unseen.

Now the pulse rose again.

A thread in the air — faint, cool, but present. Like old blood scent carried by

the wind.

She slowed her pace. Narrowed her stride. Biotics hummed low beneath her skin,

tuned for perception, not aggression.

Close, she thought. Hours of search. Days of waiting. But now… close.

The crowd shifted — civilians thinning past a transit junction. An old

corridor. Narrow. Poorly lit. No mainline traffic. Wrong for casual movement.

Her senses prickled.

She drew closer, loose and unhurried.

And there — beyond the half-sunk railing, a lone figure moved with deliberate

pace.

Not a batarian thug. Not a turian fixer. Not a Salarian scout.

Human.

Tall. Muscled but balanced. Not armored, but carrying an intent in his frame —

the poise of one aware he was being followed, though not by whom.

She could see the tension in the way his head angled, in the subtle shift of

shoulder-blades beneath worn cloth.

The resonance pulsed again.

Her breath slowed.

No trace in records. No identity matching. No cell affiliation.

And yet... here he was.

The source.

Her instincts surged — not to confront, but to observe. This was not prey. Not

target.

Unknown.

And that was more dangerous than any mark.

She let three more civilians pass between them — shielding her pace, lowering

her profile.

The man — this Sebastian, though she did not yet know the name — turned into a

service sector stairwell.

Wrong path for any common errand.

She smiled faintly beneath her breath. The hunt drew close.

Her fingers brushed the hilt of her blade — not in threat. In readiness. Some

part of her, unbidden, told her this was no idle pass.

This was step one.

The turian patrol had no idea they were being followed.

That in itself told Serena everything she needed to know about their competence. It was not their fault — they were C-Sec, not commandos. They were hunting a lead on a local arms siphon ring, by the looks of it. Someone in Zakera had been diverting old surplus disruptor rounds to unsanctioned buyers.

That had nothing to do with her target. Or at least, not directly. But the squad's patrol path was brushing uncomfortably close to one of the tracker nodes she had tagged four days ago — a non-standard communication relay piggybacking an old maintenance link, currently used by an operator with resonance matching her quarry.

She watched from the maintenance gantry overhead, perfectly still. No cloak active — her field discipline made that unnecessary. Breath low, pulse smooth, movements measured in the fractional delays Velkara taught for shadow pursuit.

The squad cleared the sector. She waited thirty more heartbeats. Then dropped silently down the rear shaft.

A flick of her omni-tool and her personal sweep mapped the corridor again — clear.

The resonance was stronger now.

Not sight. Not sound. Not smell.

A knowing.

That same faint harmonic that had tilted her strike in the training ring — impossible to name, but impossible to forget. She tracked it as a huntress would: by feel.

Twice it had faded, nearly vanishing when she closed distance too fast. But when she let her instincts stretch — slow the pursuit, sync her pattern to the natural flow of the ward — the resonance returned. Stronger.

He was unknowingly drawing her in.

Not a conscious lure — there was no bait in the frequencies. But the actions, the nudges in the weave of the city, left invisible wake. And with every intervention, her senses found more to follow.

She dropped into a lower transit corridor — more pedestrian, less controlled. Here the flow was denser — workers on shift rotation, light freighter crews passing through the public-side access tubes.

And there — a glimmer.

She saw him.

Plain-clothed. Civilian. No armor, no insignia. Just a man, lean-built, dark-haired, moving with deliberate efficiency — as if choosing every step for purpose rather than habit.

But to her trained eye, more was visible.

Too smooth. Too well-balanced for an ordinary civilian. His center of gravity shifted in subtle corrections — practiced, but not military-drilled. Adaptive.

And beneath that — the faintest hum of biotic tuning, unrefined. New.

She narrowed her eyes.

Not a field operator.

Not an STG agent.

And not an asari-trained proxy.

So what was he?

She followed, weaving between pedestrian flows, letting the crowd mask her shadow. The huntress pace — neither stalking nor rushing, but *being present* just enough to remain unseen.

He passed through two side corridors. Adjusted course slightly — why? Ah. Because he had caught the same signal she had — that soft hum in the air, the tense overtone of a local gang presence.

Four men ahead — low-tier enforcers, all human. Two with visible blades, one with a slug sidearm of ugly vintage. The last? Scanning for opportunity. Looking for prey.

And her quarry? Still moving straight. No hesitation.

That caught her interest.

Either foolhardy — or calculating.

She shifted, taking a higher position — an old security maintenance walk — and waited.

The enforcers made their move two strides later.

Fast, crude — a classic intimidation play. Box the target, draw him off-route, shake him for creds or worse.

The man flowed through them with sharp angles — not clean, not masterful, but effective. His footwork cut a narrow lane, and when the first blade came up —

— there.

The first biotic pulse. Unstable, but strong — kinetic field with edge harmonics. The blade-carrier staggered. Another strike, not fully shaped, cracked one thug's guard stance and broke his knee line.

She observed closely.

The man's movements were not purely instinctive — guided by something deeper. Micro-adjustments as if an unseen partner whispered into his reflexes.

Yet he lacked control.

Each pulse carried waste energy. His channels were not yet aligned — the flow leaking at the edges.

The fight did not last long. One thug dropped outright. Two fled with limps. The fourth was pinned — barely conscious.

The man stepped back, breath steady but taut — not from fatigue, but from emotional overspill. His biotic tuning flared unevenly in the aftermath — like a chime still ringing after a struck blow.

Serena remained above, eyes narrowed.

*Why?*

Why would an untrained human — newly biotic, if she read the signs — move with such latent competence? Why was his resonance growing stronger?

Why had her own frequency *answered* it?

The questions sharpened, not dulled.

She would not approach — not yet. The hunt was not finished.

But now she had *seen* him.

And her instincts whispered:

*This thread... will pull others.*

The strike had come fast. Faster than any of them expected.

The humans were hired muscle, not real enforcers — bark, not bite. But their client had paid for a rough message to be sent, and that meant bringing guns to a knife fight. The gang had watched their target for days: a lone spacer tech, freelance, unarmed, moving through low-tier sectors with no backup. Easy money.

They were wrong.

The first shot cracked past Sebastian's shoulder — a clean miss. The second wasn't. It caught his shielding at a glancing angle, and the kinetic backlash slammed him hard against the bulkhead. His breath seized, ribs flaring with sharp pain. The shield coil in his jacket bled off charge fast, but it wasn't built for sustained firefights.

"Four shooters," SAS-C snapped in his mind. "Two front. Two high left. No friendly cover."

He rolled, pushing off the floor with forced calm, fingers flicking over the omni-tool — too slow. He could feel it. His biotics hadn't engaged. The pulse he tried to throw fizzled before the barrier even shaped.

"Disruption field?"

"Unknown. No tactical suppression detected. You are not stabilized."

Movement at his right — one of the shooters rushing.

Sebastian's instincts screamed, but his limbs weren't keeping pace. The days of tuning his body, honing his reflexes — they had made him fast. Not fast enough. The nano-mesh in his muscles gave power, but precision lagged.

A sharp strike from the butt of a rifle drove into his side. He staggered, barely catching the edge of a crate. Another shot sparked overhead.

He needed space. Room to reset.

He forced his body sideways, vaulting over debris — sloppily. One boot caught, dragging him short.

Another burst of gunfire raked the wall behind him. Too close.

"Executor," SAS-C warned. "You are outpaced. Predictive models indicate imminent breach."

He knew.

This wasn't a test he'd chosen — it was a fight he wasn't ready for.

Another impact. His left shoulder burned — partial hit. He rolled with it, gasping through grit teeth.

Then — a flicker.

Not visual. Not sound.

A resonance.

Faint, sharp-edged — like the hum of a blade through air.

And then — motion.

From above. From nowhere.

A blur of blue and black.

The first gunman didn't even turn in time. A biotic strike folded him sideways, crashing him into a pillar hard enough to crack the frame. The second dropped a half-beat later, his weapon sliced apart mid-raise.

Sebastian caught the edge of a crouch behind cover — breath fast, pain lancing through his ribs.

She moved through them like liquid force.

Blade in one hand — the gleam of an Asari sword. Biotic flickers tracing her every step.

The third gunman fired wildly — two rounds snapped through empty air.

Too slow.

A twist, a slash — the weapon gone, the man crumpled.

The last shooter broke — running.

A single biotic push sent him tumbling, unconscious before he hit the floor.

Silence crashed in.

Sebastian stayed low, pulse hammering.

She turned, step by measured step, until her gaze locked on him.

For the first time, their eyes met without a screen between them.

Sharp. Calculated. Searching.

"...You're sloppy," she said — voice cool, steady. "But not stupid."

Sebastian didn't move. Every instinct still screamed caution.

She tilted her head — faint curiosity behind the discipline.

"Get up," she said. "We need to talk."

---

The night cycle thinned across the outer rings, and in a dim, nondescript lounge three levels beneath Zakera's transport lanes, Sebastian sat alone. The room buzzed with soft conversation and cheap music filtered through imperfect speakers. He had chosen this place precisely for its anonymity. No C-Sec patrols here. No political watchers. Just workers between shifts, drowning the fatigue of days that were too long and pay that was too low.

His upgraded omni-tool lay dormant on his wrist, profile masked to civilian default. He sipped a thin local brew without tasting it, his attention turned inward. The weave was shifting. The ripples from the last correction were not yet spent, but the system—both physical and karmic—was already adapting.

SAS-C's voice came low in his thoughts. "Trace signal consistent. Observation vector unchanged."

He inhaled slowly. "Still following."

"Affirmative."

She was good.

He'd sensed her within minutes of entering the concourse earlier that cycle—faint, deliberate movements that did not match the ordinary flow of passersby. Even without visual confirmation, the resonance within him hummed softly, warning that eyes lingered too long where none should.

At first, he thought it a secondary Broker probe—a subtle tail intended to force an error.

Then she drew closer—once, in the terminal. Again, near the commerce loop—and something changed. Her resonance had no malicious edge. No disruption, no hunger for gain. If anything… it resonated.

Not an enemy.

But not neutral, either.

Now, here in this worn lounge, she lingered again—somewhere behind the crowds, watching. No direct approach. No forced meeting.

"She's probing," he thought. "Hunting… but not with intent to strike."

A huntress.

The term clicked into place.

He'd reviewed archived footage of old Asari combat disciplines—enough to recognize the faint signatures of Velkara precision. Now the pattern was clear. Her movements were not random. They were an inquiry—methodical, layered. Not surveillance. Not intimidation.

Curiosity.

He tapped a slow rhythm against the rim of the cup, eyes unfocused. The resonance between them remained, a soft harmonic just beyond conscious hearing. It wasn't something he could suppress. It simply was. The more he tried to mute it, the clearer it became.

He stood, draining the last of the drink, and made his way toward the rear exit.

The corridor beyond was narrow, ill-lit. A perfect place to vanish.

Except—he would not be alone.

Footsteps. Deliberate. Soft. Not concealed, but not careless.

He let them draw closer before turning a slow half-step, casual but alert.

She emerged from shadow—not in armor now, but a dark civilian jacket and lean travel gear that did nothing to mask the coiled readiness in her posture. Her eyes met his—measured, calm.

Asari. Velkara-trained. No question.

Their gazes held for a breath.

"You've been careful," she said first, her voice low, rich with experience. "Most wouldn't have noticed. But… you're not most."

He said nothing.

She tilted her head slightly, studying. "You're moving beneath the currents. Shifting weight where no one sees. I felt it."

Still, he did not answer—watching instead for tone, for posture. No aggression. No deception.

Finally, he spoke.

"And you followed."

A faint smile ghosted her lips. "Curiosity. Instinct. Call it what you will."

Another beat passed.

Then, with deliberate calm, she added, "You're rough with your biotics."

His brow ticked, just slightly.

"You burn the flow rather than channel it. Too much force. No grace."

Now he understood. This was not confrontation.

It was a test.

"Advice?" he asked dryly.

"Perhaps," she replied. "If you want it."

Their eyes held a moment longer.

In that span—uncertain tension. Mutual caution. A shared recognition that neither had chosen this moment—but neither could ignore it.

Two resonances, unaligned but echoing.

The weave… turning.

Slowly, he inclined his head.

"Then speak."

Her smile widened, not in triumph, but in acknowledgment.

The conversation had begun.

Sebastian's hands flexed unconsciously at his sides as he approached the maintenance hub. The corridor ahead looked unremarkable — old transit architecture, plating scored from years of half-hearted repairs. But the contractor dispatch node here was new. A quick install, too quick — flagged in SAS-C's last passive crawl.

He was already wary.

> "Executor," SAS-C whispered. "Anomaly present. Contract listing appeared 3.8 hours ago. Origin tag inconsistent with usual issuers. Possible trap probability at 37.2%."

That should have been enough to turn him away.

But the listing had been clean. And very, very public.

Someone wanted to flush an unknown actor. Or test one.

He let out a breath.

"Scope it," he ordered. "I want layered analysis on my side."

"Active. Baseline field will remain 80% sub-passive. Risk of detection minimal."

Good.

He adjusted the simple jacket he wore — not armored, but lined with kinetic damping mesh, just in case. The upgraded omni-tool sat silent on his wrist, inert to casual scans.

He keyed the access node.

The contract dispatch flickered, then loaded with a simple header:

"Hazard Clearance: Environmental Maintenance Override — Low Tier."

That alone wasn't unusual. What *was* unusual was the payout — triple standard for a job like this. No handler name. No corporate seal.

Someone was baiting.

Sebastian accepted the job.

> "Executor. I will run a proximity weave to map crowd density. If they plan close-quarters, we will know."

He walked deeper, toward the assigned subzone. A lower equipment bay beneath Zakera's transit loop — isolated, no through-traffic at this hour.

*Boiler,* he thought. No subtlety.

Which meant they weren't worried about subtlety.

And as he turned the corner into the access chamber — three figures waited. Human. Light armor. Cheap. Grins too sharp.

"You're the new wrench?" one sneered. "Heard you been poking in systems that aren't yours."

Sebastian said nothing.

He calculated.

Three hostiles. One with a heat sink already slotted. The other two moving to flank. No badges. No formal op. Hired muscle — maybe Broker-aligned, maybe not.

The one on the left shifted weight — too fast, unbalanced — and moved to draw.

Sebastian struck first.

He moved low, inside the line — slammed a foot into the leader's knee as the man's weapon cleared leather. A *crack* of cartilage, a curse, a dropped sidearm.

But the second was faster — baton rising — and the first blow caught Sebastian hard in the ribs.

Pain lanced sharp. He rolled with it, hand coming up — omni-blade flaring to life — a low arc that sheared across armor plating.

Too shallow.

The third came in, gun ready — and that was the problem.

Sebastian had no ranged draw. No shield up. And his biotics — still too raw. Still unstable.

He pivoted hard, reaching for the dropped sidearm — but too late.

> "Sebastian — proximity shift," SAS-C blurted.

A shadow blurred past.

Then — light.

Blue flared — fast, controlled — a ripple of biotic force that smashed the gunman sideways into the bulkhead. Another flash — elegant, sharp — the baton wielder disarmed mid-motion, staggered, eyes wide.

She landed between them, graceful, cold.

Serena.

No hesitation. No words.

The first downed man reached — she struck, a lightning blow with the flat of her blade, leaving him gasping.

The fight was over before Sebastian could rise fully.

He stood slowly, ribs aching. The air thrummed faintly with spent energy.

Serena turned her head, one sharp look fixing him.

"You're sloppy," she said. "Sloppy and out of balance."

He said nothing.

He couldn't.

Not yet.

Her eyes narrowed. "Your biotics — unstable. And no proper close form. If I hadn't been here…"

"I had it," he lied.

A faint tilt of her head. Not mocking. Measuring.

"No," she said simply. "You didn't."

She sheathed the sword.

"You're drawing attention. And badly." Her tone shifted, the edge softening slightly. "You need help."

The pause that followed was heavier than the air.

Then, deliberately, Serena turned away.

"I teach," she said over her shoulder. "Private contract. Biotics. Close form. No names. If you're not an idiot — find me."

She walked off — not hurried — leaving the wrecked thugs groaning behind.

Sebastian stood frozen for a long moment.

> "Executor," SAS-C whispered. "New factor has engaged your path. Resonance overlay strengthening."

He let out a shaky breath.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I noticed."

He turned slowly, ribs still burning.

The game had shifted.

And so had she.

He moved with calm precision now — not as bait, but as a piece already in play.

The node was still primed. The Blackscale scouts remained hungry. But tonight, he was not the only hunter.

Across the open level, the faintest trace of biotic resonance whispered — a subtle pressure against his own field. The same echo he had felt hours ago — focused now.

Watching.

He adjusted his movement pattern: less linear, more fluid. Not evasion — invitation.

Behind him, in shadowed arches above, another shape moved. Soft. Silent.

He felt it more than saw it.

SAS-C confirmed in muted tones. "She follows. Primary resonance locked. Distance: twenty-three meters. Flanking arc suggests close observation, no imminent strike."

"She knows," Sebastian breathed.

"She suspects. Curiosity exceeds threat posture."

He continued without turning. Let the moment unfold.

At the plaza's center, the bait vector tripped. A low ping from SAS-C signaled the packet had landed — false leak sent toward the merc data pool. Nothing overt. Just a whisper: Alliance salvage transit, vulnerable routing, light escort.

Two minutes. The first shadows would test the lure.

And so he waited, hands loose, stance casual — an unarmed human in a public space. Temptation.

Behind and above, the asari's shadow narrowed. Not drawing closer — constricting her motion field. Ready to intervene. Watching him, or watching for what would move toward him.

Then the ripple.

SAS-C's alert was soft. "Three signals. Low-tier scouts. No tactical overlay — opportunistic."

He let them come.

Two emerged first — low-grade armor, fast but sloppy. The third stayed in cover, a spotter or a late pincer.

They moved quick. Overconfidence.

The first darted — left flank.

Sebastian pivoted — weight low, controlled. Biotic flicker along his palm, forced into a directed push. Not elegant. Rough.

It caught — barely.

Momentum broke. The attacker stumbled, but not far enough.

Too slow.

The second was already in, blade flashing.

SAS-C surged: "Impulse assist now."

A sharp jolt through his spine — nanites overclocking response.

He twisted — arm up, parrying with the edge of his forearm.

Not enough.

The blade kissed his side — shallow, but cutting.

Pain flared — controlled, damped by nanites — but it was pain.

The attacker pressed. Aggressive. Trained.

Sebastian shifted again — biotic pull this time, raw and jagged. The enemy's balance broke — a stumble — opening.

He struck — elbow, then heel.

The second attacker folded.

But his breath was rough now.

Inexperience. Lack of flow. The nanites compensated, but could not substitute mastery.

The third scout moved — a sharper one. Holding back. Watching for weakness.

And from above — a shift.

A blur of motion — faster than the eye.

She dropped.

The asari huntress landed with silent force — sword drawn, pistol leveled.

The third attacker froze — instincts overriding greed.

Too late.

Her strike was surgical — one step, one blow — the enemy crumpled without sound.

Then stillness.

The plaza remained quiet — no alarms, no witnesses.

Sebastian stood, breath even but shallow. Blood at his side, dark against the fabric.

She regarded him — blade low, gaze unreadable.

Long seconds passed.

Then, in a voice low and precise, she spoke:

"You are not what you seem."

He met her gaze, pulse steady now.

"Neither are you."

The huntress tilted her head, the faintest flicker of amusement — or challenge — in her expression.

Without another word, she turned and vanished into shadow once more.

SAS-C whispered. "Contact escalated. Thread opened."

Sebastian touched his side — bloodied but upright.

He exhaled.

"So it begins."

Sebastian left the maintenance level moving slower than he should have.

His head remained upright, scanning — posture intact — but inside, a fraction of tension hummed off-key. The boiler incident had left its mark. Muscles still echoed the sharp burn of biotic backlash. His spine carried the weight of fatigue nanites could not smooth.

He had miscalculated. He knew it.

"Recovery within parameters," SAS-C reported softly in his mind. "However, caution advised: your emotional equilibrium is trending unstable. Sub-threshold adrenaline spikes detected."

"I feel it," he replied, voice low.

The afterimage of the fight still lingered — that near-collapse. His left hand flexed unconsciously, remembering the surge of uncontrolled biotic force that had nearly sent him into the deck plating.

He would have been crushed — or killed — if not for sheer instinct and kinetic field auto-recovery.

He replayed the frame in his mind, trying to map where control had slipped. The calculation of force. The emotional surge that had outstripped training. His mind raced through possibilities, hunting for what he had missed.

He did not notice her at first.

The promenade level was busy. Day cycle near peak — flow of civilians, merchants, dockworkers. Sound and motion layered together in an ever-shifting tide.

Only when the corridor shifted — a subtle ripple in the background hum — did his eyes lift.

Serena.

She moved through the crowd with the natural cadence of a seasoned operative — not urgent, not direct. She flowed with the people around her while simultaneously avoiding any true contact. A shadow within the flow.

She was already near when he caught sight of her.

For an instant, instincts sharpened. Muscles coiled. A deeper caution flickered.

> "Why is she here? Why now? Has she tracked me this far?"

> "Is this her intent — confrontation or observation?"

She made no aggressive move. Her body language remained fluid, posture at ease. And yet — every line of her form spoke of control. The Huntress was present beneath the civilian mask.

She altered course — subtle, almost casual — until their paths would intersect.

Sebastian adjusted instinctively, angling away — testing her response.

She mirrored — not pursuit, but measured alignment.

Then, without breaking stride, her voice — low and clear — reached him.

"You fight with too much shoulder."

Sebastian blinked once, caught off guard. The words landed without preamble.

He slowed — barely perceptible — enough to allow her to close the last distance.

Serena glanced toward him — expression unreadable — before continuing with a faint tilt of her head.

"Leads to instability when forcing lateral biotic compression. You nearly broke your left vector."

Her tone was neutral — neither hostile nor warm. Informative. As though commenting on a weather shift.

Sebastian's mind raced.

> "She saw. She watched the incident."

> "Why approach this way? Why reveal observation?"

Outwardly, he kept his tone level.

"You were observing?"

"Passing by," she said — neither confirming nor denying. "You left a clear wake."

That was deliberate phrasing. A subtle warning — or an invitation.

He glanced at her fully now, studying details: posture, breathing rhythm, eye focus. Every element spoke of disciplined control — but also an undercurrent of curiosity.

Not an enemy. Not a handler. Not an agent of the Broker — or she would not have engaged so openly.

Still… a player.

> "Why now? Why her?"

For a beat, neither spoke.

Then Serena added, still with that same measured calm:

"You need grounding. Your lattice fights itself. If you continue, next time the boiler wins."

Her gaze held his, not challenging — simply stating.

Sebastian exhaled slowly.

"And why tell me?"

A faint smile ghosted her lips — too brief to read fully.

"Curiosity," she said. "And… perhaps I dislike seeing potential wasted."

Then, with fluid ease, she stepped past — not waiting for answer or invitation.

Her pace remained steady — not retreating. Leaving space for him to follow… or not.

Sebastian stood for a breath longer, pulse steady but mind alive.

So the first line had been cast.

Not from him.

Not by fate.

By her.

And whatever came next — the weave had shifted again.