Seraphina groaned as consciousness clawed its way back through the wreckage of her body. Every breath was a stab to her ribs. Every movement scraped raw nerves against shrapnel still embedded in her palms and arms.

  Smoke clung to the air like a second skin, bitter and suffocating. The flicker of a half-smashed data pad blinked somewhere near her fingers, throwing erratic shadows across the collapsed metal around her.

  She reached for it with blood-slick hands, clutching it like a lifeline.

  The world around her groaned. Steel bent under pressure somewhere above. She wasn’t sure if she was in a hallway, a maintenance shaft, or the shell of what used to be a room. The glow from the data pad was weak, but enough to give her a direction. She started crawling.

  One arm. One breath. Just move.

  The mantra tasted like ash. Crawl, her father’s voice sneered in her memory, You think a daughter of House Valtor crawls? She’d been seven, trembling on the marble floor of the training hall after he’d swept her legs out from under her. Her mother had watched from the archway, silent, a holopad in hand. Again, he’d barked. Stand. Fight. Now, decades later, the lesson rotted in her throat. No drones hummed here. No servants brought bitter tea laced with painkillers. Just the knife Elara had pressed into her palm—"For when you need it," she’d said.

  Seraphina’s ribs spasmed as she dragged herself forward. Each breath tasted like blood and corroded metal. How far the mighty fall.

  Each inch forward sent fire through her ribs. Her body screamed for rest, but her mind refused. Images snapped through her memory—The rebel’s smirk as he spat out one last line. ‘Draven’s gonna burn. This planet, along with him.’ The grenade rolling from his hand, just before the explosion, Alex's broadcast still ringing in her ears as the world had turned black.

  Seraphina groaned. She had to keep going.

  Minutes or hours ticked by as Seraphina finally crawled into a corridor. Resting her head as her Ribs radiated pain through her chest. A scream tore from her mouth as she pushed up. Using the wall to stand on shaky legs.

  The corridor narrowed ahead, and the walls warped inward as if the Spire tried to swallow her. She squeezed sideways, rusted edges biting into her shoulders. Halfway through, her boot caught. A jagged beam snagged her top, yanking her backward. Panic surged—trapped, buried alive, another corpse in the Spire’s gullet—until she stilled, forcing air into her lungs.

  ‘Elara would’ve laughed at this’, she thought wildly, all those years of etiquette lessons and here you are, a rat in a pipe. She exhaled, ribs grinding, and twisted free with a wet tear of fabric. The darkness ahead yawned, indifferent.

  The darkness didnt help her vision as she tried to look down either way of the corridor. Giving up on trying to pick a direction, Seraphina chose randomly and slowly made her way forward.

  The corridors twisted tighter the deeper she went—no longer clean passageways of polished steel, but crude tunnels eaten away by time and desperation. The walls wept with condensation. Wires dangled like vines from torn panels. At first, she tried to stay upright, but her legs wouldn’t hold. So she crawled again, pulling herself through the dark with the resolve of someone who’d already given up on comfort.

  Everything smelled like rust, mould, and rot.

  The deeper she went, the more alive the Spire seemed to become. Voices murmured through vents. Movement echoed in distant chambers. A scream rang out somewhere close, short, sharp, and quickly silenced. She flinched but didn’t stop.

  “Alex?” The name slipped out, thin and frayed. Static hissed in reply. Seraphina pressed her forehead to the cold floor. ‘Most likely a concussion, ’ she told herself. Sleep deprivation. The Spire’s tricks. But the whispers coiled around her anyway—filthy lies in her mother’s cadence, Elara’s laugh spliced with static, Alex’s voice pleading—until she clamped her hands over her ears. Reality frayed at the edges. She bit her tongue until copper flooded her mouth.

  Focus. Move.

  Her clothes were torn and blackened with soot and things that Seraphina didn't want to consider. Her braid had unravelled, strands of dark brown hair sticking to her face with sweat and blood.

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  When she found a moment of flat ground, she collapsed beside a cracked bulkhead. For a moment, her vision blurred entirely.

  You were born in crystal towers, she thought bitterly, and now you crawl through rust and bone.

  Tears welled, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t give them that. Not after everything she had been through. Pushing herself upright again with a barely contained cry. She moved forward again. One foot in front of the other.

  The first time she noticed the footsteps, she thought it was her imagination. The second time, she was sure.

  They weren’t loud. Whoever was out there knew how to move in this place. But Seraphina could hear them—careful steps scraping on metal, just far enough behind to stay out of sight. At one turn, she caught a flicker of movement in the reflection of an oily puddle. A silhouette. Then two more.

  Her pulse quickened.

  “That one’s walking like she’s been hurt.” The voice slithered from a vent above, low and amused. Seraphina froze. No answer came—only the drip of water and the creak of metal. ‘Hallucination’, she told herself. ‘Keep moving.’ But the next footfall echoed too close, too deliberate.

  She ducked into a side corridor, pushing herself harder despite the pain. Her hands slipped against the wall, leaving smears of blood behind. The datapad in her grip flickered again—another spike of static, another crackling noise, and then it dimmed for good.

  She was alone in the dark. And for the first time, she let herself feel the full weight of her fear. Silently sobbing as she pushed forward as fast as she dared.

  She passed what used to be a communal hall, now filled with scavenged blankets and burning trash piles. Eyes followed her from the shadows—most just watched. But a few figures peeled away from the gloom, trailing after her with hungry purpose.

  She ducked through another passage, hoping they wouldn’t follow, praying they would leave her alone. She was wrong.

  A glint of light ahead—a vent cover, half-rusted but intact. Seraphina lurched toward it, fingers clawing at the edges.

  Escape. Air. Hope.

  The metal groaned but held. She threw her weight against it, shoulder screaming, until the world tilted and she realised the truth—it was sealed shut by rust, decades of buildup sealing it permanently. The sob that tore from her throat was raw, like a caged animal. Behind her, boots scuffed closer.

  A voice called out behind her, mocking and casual.

  “Well, look at this. Lost little ghost come down from the silver tower.”

  Another voice, harsher: “Bet she’s got something useful on her.”

  Laughter followed.

  Seraphina’s fingers tightened around the only blade she had left—a small ceramic knife Elara had given her months ago and hidden in the hem of her sleeve. It felt pathetically small now. She wished for the pistol she had earlier.

  “Keep this on you,” Elara had murmured, pressing the blade into her palm. They’d been in the greenhouse back in her parents' estate, sunlight dappling the flowers. Seraphina had rolled her eyes. “You’re worse than my security detail.” But Elara’s smile hadn’t reached her eyes. “Just in case I’m not there.” The memory cut deeper than the knife ever could.

  “Elara… please…” she whispered, though she knew no one could hear. She started running—half-stumbling, half-limping through a maze of rusted corridors. Her breath rasped. Vision swam. Her ribs threatened to collapse with every jolt.

  She felt her heart drop as the sound of boots quickened behind her.

  She turned a final corner and stopped cold.

  The path ahead ended in a wall of collapsed metal and caved-in stone. A dead end. No vents, no ladders, no escape.

  She turned just in time to see them round the corner—four of them, all lean and desperate. Clothes cobbled together from scrap and armour plating, eyes glittering with that mix of survival and cruelty bred in the Spire’s depths.

  The leader stepped forward with a smile too wide to mean anything good. “Didn’t think we’d find such a pretty thing down here.”

  Seraphina didn’t answer. Her back hit the wall, one hand behind her, gripping the knife.

  The pain was back in full now—her head spinning, ribs like broken glass inside her chest. Her heart pounded so hard it drowned out the rest of the world. Still, she raised her chin.

  She wouldn’t beg.

  “You think she’s armed?” one of them asked.

  The leader chuckled. “Does it matter?”

  The space closed in around her.

  I’m not ready. I’m not prepared for this.

  But she moved her foot slightly, shifting her balance as Elara taught her. She didn’t need to be fast. She just needed to land the first strike. Maybe two.

  Maybe I can take one down. Maybe that’s enough.

  She inhaled shakily—one last breath.

  A flicker of silver cut through the dark behind them before anyone could move.

  One of the men jerked, then dropped.

  Seraphina’s breath caught. She hadn’t even seen the blade.