The first thing Asher registered was the sound. Not a sharp, jarring noise—just the steady, muffled thud of his own heartbeat, pulsing like distant war drums beneath his ribcage. A dull ache tugged at his temples. He opened his eyes to a flickering light—pale, artificial, and unfamiliar.
He was in the medbay of the Haven. The low hum of the fluorescent tubes overhead echoed against the metal walls. His arm was bandaged, ribs tight with gauze, and a dull, numb weight pressed on his chest that had nothing to do with his injuries.
Zara.
He sat up too fast. Pain shot through his side. A medic-bot stirred nearby, whirring toward him with a scanner, but Asher swatted it away. The bot gave a mechanical whine and rolled back to its corner.
"Mira," he rasped, throat dry. "Rafe?"
A shadow moved near the door. Mira stepped into the medbay, her usually sharp eyes rimmed red. She looked exhausted—pale, bruised, one shoulder wrapped in a sling. But alive.
"You're awake," she said softly.
"Where's Zara?"
Mira didn't answer immediately. She crossed the room and sat on the stool beside his cot. "Rafe's in recovery. Shrapnel in his leg. He'll walk again, but it's bad."
"And Zara?"
She met his eyes. "She stayed behind so we could get out."
Silence swallowed the space between them.
Asher's breath caught in his throat. The medbay became a vacuum—airless, sterile, frozen in time.
"She was alive when we pulled back," Mira added quickly. "She drew them away from the corridor. We... we had no choice, Asher."
He clenched his fists. The bandages strained across his knuckles. A flicker of heat surged through him, but not the kind his judgment ability brought—this was something older. Raw. Human.
"I told her to stick with me," he whispered. "She promised."
Mira looked down. "She did."
That night, Asher limped through the hallways of Haven, the underground safehouse carved from the skeleton of an old subway terminal. It was quiet. Too quiet.
He passed the mural of old Shatterborn symbols—fractured glass shapes, shimmering with static energy—and paused before the central image. A circle of hands raised toward a fractured sky.
The world had long since turned on their kind. Now, their only sanctuary was the darkness beneath the surface.
Rafe was in the infirmary down the hall. Mira hadn't left his side since they got back. Asher should be resting too, but he couldn't. Not until he had answers.
He reached the War Room. The double doors parted, revealing the low-lit space where Zara used to brief them before missions.
Her chair was empty.
Asher sat in it.
And for the first time since his Judgment manifested, he didn't feel the weight of justice. He felt guilt. Dread. Anger.
But beneath it all, there was one thing growing stronger.
Resolve.
They would find her. Or avenge her.
He reached into his coat and pulled out the ring Zara always wore—a simple steel band Mira had found in the wreckage.
He clenched it in his palm, and his eyes burned with a cold fire.
The Shatterborn weren't done. Not yet.
The Undercity was restless.
Word of the failed mission had spread—twisted and reshaped through whispers in the winding alleys and power-scorched vents of Haven. Rumors always moved faster than truth here. Some said Zara had been captured. Others said she'd turned traitor. That she had brokered a deal with the Surface Syndicates. That she'd abandoned the team.
Asher wanted to silence every voice that dared suggest it.
But he didn't.
He just listened—coldly, silently—and marked the faces of those who spoke too loud.
Mira stood beside him as they walked through the Dust Markets, the sector where factions bartered information, gear, and rare stolen tech. The air buzzed with heat and neon flicker, screens crackling over vendor stalls, drones zipping overhead like oversized fireflies.
"She was always going to be the one they feared," Mira said, arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd. "Zara... she challenged the order. They couldn't stand that."
"You think this was planned?" Asher asked, voice low.
Mira hesitated. "I think someone wanted this mission to fail. And they wanted her out of the picture."
Asher stopped walking.
He turned to face her. "Are you saying one of us—?" "No," she said quickly, but her tone was uneasy. "Not one of us. Someone higher. Maybe even among the Council."
The Council of Spires. The so-called guardians of Shatterborn survival. They claimed neutrality, offering guidance to the scattered districts of the Undercity. But Asher had long known neutrality was a pretty lie people told when they had just enough power to pretend.
He clenched his jaw. "Then we burn the truth out of them."
Mira didn't smile, but her hand tightened on the hilt of her blade.
Back at the Haven war room, Rafe sat with his leg propped up, the crude brace gleaming faintly under the lights. His face was drawn, sharper with pain and exhaustion, but his eyes still carried their usual spark.
"You planning revenge already?" he asked, nodding toward the holographic display of Zara's last known coordinates.
Asher didn't respond.
"You should rest," Rafe continued. "You look like death kissed you and changed its mind."
"She stayed behind for us," Asher said, voice quiet but steady. "I won't let that be the end of her story."
"Then we go after her," Rafe replied without missing a beat. "We're not the type to sit and wait for ghosts."
Mira joined them at the table, dropping a handful of data chips onto the surface. "These are surveillance feeds from the corridor outside the lab. I had Wren dig them out of the ShadeNet archives."
"Wren?" Asher raised a brow.
"New contact. Tech-caster. Bit twitchy, but solid. She owes me from the Stygian Run last cycle."
Asher inserted one of the chips. The screen blinked to life with grainy footage—black and white, then thermal. Explosions. Movement. Zara's figure, unmistakable, standing at the junction with her back to the exit, dual blades drawn, holding off wave after wave.
And then... static.
The feed cut out.
Asher stared at the frozen frame.
"Play it again," he ordered.
By nightfall, Asher stood alone on the upper level of the Haven spire, overlooking the Deadlight Ravine. The artificial chasm cut through the Undercity like a scar, lined with ancient pipework and scaffolding, glowing faintly with old radiation.
He opened his palm.
Zara's ring still rested there.
A familiar sensation curled at the edge of his awareness—something burning, like judgment waiting to be cast. But this time, the ability didn't surface.
No guilt. No fire.
Only a cold promise.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Rafe appeared, leaning against the railing with his usual calm. "Word is the Fireborn are getting restless. Some of them are threatening to breach the Council Vaults unless answers are given."
"Let them," Asher muttered.
"They're asking for you."
Asher finally turned. "Why?"
"Because they want to follow someone who's not afraid to break the rules. And after what happened... you're becoming a symbol."
Asher's eyes narrowed. "I'm not interested in leading a rebellion."
Rafe gave a half-smile. "Doesn't matter what you're interested in. You're already in it."
Asher looked down at the ring one last time, then slipped it onto his finger—Zara's ring, now his. A tether. A reminder.
"Then it's time we gave them something to believe in," he said.