Page 60 of Storm of Stars
Not just Survivors.
Symbols.
When Brexlyn collapsed, something inside me ruptured. My breath hitched, a searing pain stabbed through my chest, and I clutched the edge of the console to stay upright. Not her. Please. God, not her. I’d watched the pallor creep into her skin, the wayher hands trembled from blood loss. She was stronger than all of us, had been from the start, but how much could a body take before it gave out?
Movement flickered at the edge of my vision. Across the hall, the studio door cracked open. Archon Veritas slipped inside. The mask she wore for the cameras, composed, regal, untouchable, was cracked at the edges. Her fingers twitched at her side, and there was a tightness in her jaw I hadn’t seen before. She was nervous.
I snapped my gaze down to the editing terminal, pretending to fiddle with the feeds. I couldn’t let her see me watching. Not yet. When the door clicked shut behind her, I turned my attention back to the main screen. Thorne was cradling Brexlyn, blood staining his shirt. Briar and Lark were screaming about blood bags, trying to find the right supply. I had to trust them now.
It was my turn to do my part.
I slipped out of the pit, avoiding the floorboards that creaked. Every step was calculated. I kept my head low, my breathing shallow. The studio Archon had entered was mostly used for high-production post-Run segments, clean lighting, acoustically sound, pristine for propaganda. She was recording the “victory” message. The one they aired every year. I needed to know what she planned to say... and what she planned to hide.
Circling the perimeter of the corridor, I kept to the shadows. The building had once been a broadcast center before Praxis repurposed it into a weapon of misinformation. I remembered taking a tour once, there was a back stairwell that led to the grid above the studio. If I could reach it, I could monitor everything from above. No one ever looked up.
The door to the stairwell stuck. My heart pounded as I forced it open with slow, steady pressure, wincing as it gave a low groan. Once inside, I closed it behind me and bolted up the stairstwo at a time, ignoring the ache in my chest and the burn in my legs. There was no time for pain.
At the top, I stepped onto the grid, a suspended metal walkway of crisscrossed bars and cables that overlooked the studio floor. It swayed beneath me. My palms were slick as I grabbed the nearest rail and pulled myself into a crouch. Down below, Archon Veritas was already in position. She sat in the studio’s throne-like chair, haloed by key lighting. A gold serpent on a marble pedestal.
“Alright, Archon,” the cameraman said. “End of Reclamation. Take one.”
She didn’t blink. “Good evening, Nexum. And thank you for joining me on this day, the final trial of the Reclamation Run.” Her voice was smooth, oiled with power. “Below me, you will see the final standings for each Challenger, and the resources they’ve secured for your Collectives during their trials.”
A chill crawled down my spine.
“I know many of you have grown attached to these Challengers, rooted for them. Some of you even loved them.” She nearly spat the word. Her distaste for my Wildguard was clear and evident in her wicked tone. “And while we traditionally celebrate their victories with interviews and tours…” Her lips curled into something cold and amused. “…I’m afraid this year, we will be taking a different approach.”
No.
She continued. “Your Challengers have elected to forgo the fame and festivities, choosing instead to return home to their Collectives quietly, where they can live out their lives with the resources they’ve earned.”
She was lying. I knew the ritual. The post-Run circuit was always mandatory. Smiling faces. Public interviews. Glory for the winners. If they weren’t going to parade the survivors, it was because there were no plans to have any survivors.
I felt my breath catch. I couldn’t move.
“By the will of Praxis, you are always welcome.”
“And cut,” the cameraman said. “That’s perfect, Archon.”
“Good,” she replied.
The camera man slid from the room while her assistant slinked forward like a rat. “Guards are stationed, ma’am,” he said.
She didn’t look at him. “Give me the radio.”
My heart hammered.
“Captain, do you copy?”
“Copy, Archon,” came the response.
“When the trial ends, wait for my signal. I’ll call the moment the feed is cut. Then… execute the protocol.”
Protocol. I didn’t need to ask what that meant.
She was going to kill them.
I was moving before my mind caught up. Back across the grid. Down the stairs like death itself chased me. At the bottom, I ducked behind a wall, scanned for guards. Clear, for now. I bolted toward the editor pit, rejoining the others as silently as I’d left.
