C.
The moors' fog clung like a shroud, muffling our steps as Daria led me deeper, her silver hair a faint glow in the gray. My boots sucked at the mud, my leg stiff from a graze, my shoulder crusted with blood from Iron Hollow's escape. The air was thick, wet with earth and rot, and it stirred ghosts—Clara's voice in Thornwick, her fingers tracing runes in dirt. I shoved them down, hard. Ten years in a cell had burned out soft things, left me cold as the stone I'd clawed. Clara was blood on a plaza, a vow in my bones: burn them all, every enforcer, every chip, every lie. Daria's talk of rebels, of hope, was noise I didn't need. I was fire, and fire didn't care."We're close," she said, voice low, glancing back. Her blue eyes caught mine, searching, like she still saw the kid I'd killed in Iron Hollow. "Camp's hidden—caves, old mines. They'll know Clara's name.""Her name's mine," I said, flat, my words ice. I didn't look at her, just scanned the fog, ears sharp for drones or boots. Year three, I'd learned to hear a guard's breath through a door; year nine, I'd stopped flinching at screams. "Rebels don't get to claim it." My hand flexed, heat simmering, magic waiting. I didn't trust her, or her camp. Trust was a trap, and I was done with traps.She frowned but kept moving, her knife a shadow in her grip. The moors whispered—grass bending, wind hissing—and I felt Clara here, her stories of witches hiding in these hills. I didn't want stories. I wanted the Spire's elites gutted, their blood pooling like hers. My plans were cold, carved in year seven: towers first, then slums, then silence. Daria's steps slowed, and I saw it—a cave mouth, jagged in the fog, firelight flickering inside. Voices, low, drifted out, and my jaw tightened. People meant lies, meant weakness."Stay calm," Daria said, pausing. "They're with us.""Us?" I snorted, my voice a blade. "There's no us." I stepped past her, into the cave, my shadow swallowing the light. Inside, a dozen faces turned—ragged, scarred, eyes hard but not hard enough. Men, women, some kids, huddled around a fire, weapons patched together: blades, old rifles, a spark of magic in one woman's hand. They stared, and I stared back, my face stone, my hand ready to burn. Iron Hollow had taught me this—show nothing, feel nothing, break first.A man stood, gray beard, missing an ear. "You're Wolfe," he said, voice rough. "Clara's boy. Mara spoke of you."Mara. Year seven's voice, through the grate. I didn't blink. "Don't know her," I said, cold, my words clipped. "And Clara's not yours to talk about." My magic stirred, a low hum in my chest, and the fire flared, spitting sparks. They tensed, hands twitching to weapons, but Daria stepped in, her voice sharp."He's with me," she said, eyes on the man. "He's what's left of her fight.""Fight?" I laughed, low, bitter, like breaking bone. "Her fight's dead. I'm here for blood." I didn't care about their camp, their cause. I saw the plaza, the lance, Clara's eyes fading. Year ten, I'd planned every kill—enforcers' throats slit, elites crushed, crowds choking on ash. These rebels were ants, scrambling for scraps. I was the fire.The man's eyes narrowed, but before he spoke, a scream tore the air—outside, close. Drones whined, boots thudded, and my lips curled, not a smile, just hunger. "They found us," I said, turning, my voice dead. My magic roared, heat flooding my veins, and I stepped into the fog, Daria shouting behind me."Asher, wait!" Her voice was sharp, but I didn't stop. The moors lit up—six drones, their eyes red, and a squad of enforcers, exosuits gleaming, rifles raised. A van burned on the ridge, its hull split, bodies already down—rebels, maybe, their blood soaking mud. My heart didn't move. Iron Hollow had killed pity, left only purpose."Level S!" an enforcer barked, his visor glinting. "Down, now!" His rifle hummed, pulse-bolts ready, but I was faster. My hands rose, and fire screamed, not a wave but blades—sharp, white-hot, slicing air. The first drone burst, metal shredding like flesh, jagged shards spraying blood as they hit an enforcer's chest. He screamed, high and wet, collapsing, his suit torn, guts spilling black in the fog. I didn't pause, didn't feel—year six, I'd stopped hearing screams. My flames cut again, carving another's arm clean off, bone gleaming before blood gushed, his howl drowned by my fire's roar.The rebels spilled out, fighting sloppy—blades flashing, a girl's magic sparking weak. Daria was there, her knife a blur, slicing a drone's wires, but I didn't watch. I walked forward, boots splashing blood, my hands steady. An enforcer charged, rifle blazing, bolts searing my arm, skin splitting red. Pain was nothing—Iron Hollow's shocks were worse. I grabbed his visor, fire pouring from my palm, melting steel to his face. He thrashed, screams bubbling as his eyes boiled, flesh charring to bone. I dropped him, his body steaming, and turned, my magic surging, hungrier now.Another enforcer raised his gun, but my flame was a spear, punching through his chest, ribs cracking loud as blood sprayed, painting my face. I licked it off my lips, tasting iron, and laughed—cold, empty, like the cell I'd left. This was right, this was Clara's blood answered. The last drone dove, its beam locking me, but I spun, fire lashing like a whip, splitting it mid-air, wires and blood raining as it hit a rebel, his skull caving wet."Stop!" Daria's scream cut through, her hands grabbing my arm, slick with gore. Her eyes were wide, horrified, not at the bodies but at me. "You're slaughtering them—us! This isn't what she wanted!"I yanked free, my voice ice, my face splattered red. "She's dead," I said, each word a stone. "She doesn't want. I do." I towered over her, my shadow black, flames licking my hands. The moors were a slaughterhouse—bodies torn, blood pooling, rebels panting among corpses. My magic hummed, ready for more, but the fog was quiet, no hum of drones, no boots. I'd won, for now.Daria's breath shook, her knife dripping. "You're not her," she whispered, like it hurt. "Clara fought for life. You're just… death."Her words stung, not deep but enough, and Clara's face flashed—not bleeding, but smiling, her hand on mine. I crushed it, my jaw tight. Iron Hollow had killed that Asher—year four, I'd stopped dreaming her warmth; year eight, I'd carved only vengeance. "Death's what they get," I said, cold, final. "Stay out of my way." I turned, wiping blood from my eyes, and walked toward the cave, rebels parting like I was poison.They stared, some scared, some awed, but I didn't care. My leg bled, my arm burned, but my vow was alive, fed by every corpse behind me. Daria followed, silent, her hope a flicker I'd snuff if it slowed me. The moors whispered—Clara's ghost, maybe, or just wind—but I didn't listen. I was fire, blood, a blade for her, and Nova Rhea would burn next.