Page 48 of Taming Chaos

Someone had the good sense—or stupidity—to fire.

Blam! Another plasma bolt lit up the room, this one hitting him in the face. With the exo-structure of his armor slightly weakened from the repeated plasma-fire, the blast was enough to disrupt the nanite shield across his eyes.

“What in Kaiin’s Hells does it take to kill this freak?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions. Just fucking shoot him, Erak.”

Blam! Again, the plasma fire struck him in the eyes. Everything went dark. As Torin fell back, he unleashed the rest of his throwing knives.

Thwack. Thwack. Screams ripped through the air. He hit his targets with pinpoint accuracy, even when he was blinded and falling. An ordinary mortal wouldn’t have been able to accomplish such a feat, but Torin just knew where his targets were. He’d seen them before the plasma fire had hit, and he was faster than them.

Much faster.

Besides, he had the cold veil.

Pain didn’t matter. Loss of vision didn’t matter. He still had his hearing, his sense of smell, his vibration-sense.

He knew where the bastards were.

“S-shit. He’s one of them,” someone gasped.

“I thought that was just a fucking rumor! There’s no such thing as the First Div—”

“I’m very much real,” Torin snarled through gritted teeth. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. Hungry nanites surged through his eyeballs, triggering an excruciating headache as they repaired the damaged tissue.

He couldn’t see who was alive and who was dead, but he could figure it out based on the sounds of their breathing. Six dead, two alive.

And the ones who’d survived were injured. He could hear the pain in their voices, in their ragged breathing, in their slow, writhing movements.

He drew his gun. “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.” Torin paused, waiting for the nanites to do their thing. They were definitely running on reserve supply now, cannibalizing his body’s muscle stores. He needed protein soon, or the hungry machines in his bloodstream were going to eat the meat right off his bones.

His vision slowly returned, the faint outlines of the room materializing in dull shades of grey. He sought the familiar shapes of his swords. He could retrieve the throwing knives later, but he had to have his swords. He felt naked without them.

The two surviving Kordolians squirmed on the ground, groaning in pain as they reached for their plasma weapons.

“Don’t even think about it,” Torin snapped. His anger flared as he took in the dark outlines of the dead Kordolians—his people. If only he’d had time to warn them, to convince them that it didn’t need to be this way.

But their attack had put Seph in danger, and he’d had to make a very quick choice.

Their lives, or hers.

He’d chosen hers.

And he’d do it again and again, without hesitation.

“Why are you still working for Relahek?” He glared at the males on the floor. “Noble Privilege is finished.”

“Aaargh…” The one closest to him rolled over, clutching his arm. Blood trickled through his fingers. Torin’s knife had pierced his shoulder, immobilizing his gun-arm. “Your people were executing traitors on Kythia,” he spat. “What choice did we have but to leave? Akkadian would have put us to the sword. Relahek offered us a way to escape.”

“What are you talking about, soldier? All House staff were granted amnesty if they cooperated. Most of those who were executed were ultra-loyalists; those who chose to defend the Empire even after the Palace of Arches fell.”

Torin would probably have tried to do it differently, but he saw the cold logic in the General’s harsh treatment of dissidents. Tarak needed to restore order swiftly, exerting his authority in a way that only Kordolians would understand. On a planet like Kythia—cold, seething, fractious, and torn asunder—there was no room for mercy.

That’s why Torin had never been suited—or interested—in assuming any sort of position of command. His good nature often impaired his good judgement.

The Kordolian on the floor stiffened. “That… that is not what we were told.”

Torin’s lip curled. “And who was your informant?”

---