The broadcast ended.
Silence rushed in, thick and crushing. Himari's fingers hovered over the console. The metal was cold. Her breathing was too loud—ragged, hitching.
Did I just do that?
A taste like old metal and regret coated her tongue. She stared at the blank console screen. It stared back, a dark, polished mirror reflecting her own pale, drawn face. For a long, stretched moment, she expected sirens. An explosion. The ceiling to cave in. Something.
Nothing happened.
Just the low, monotonous hum of the fortress's power systems and the distant, rhythmic drip of water somewhere down a forgotten corridor.
Her hands fell into her lap with a soft, defeated thud. They were shaking. Not a fine tremor, a violent shudder that traveled up her arms. She clenched them into fists, nails digging into her palms until the pain was a sharp, grounding reality. It didn't work.
Coward.
The thought was a venomous whisper. She'd spoken of courage, of hope. A pretty speech. Sitting here, in the terrifying aftermath, all she felt was hollow. She'd thrown a pebble at a tyrant, and now she was just waiting for the mountain to fall on them. On Haruto. On all of them. What in all the hells had she just done?
The door to the comms room hissed open. She didn't look up. The smell of ozone and hot metal, a scent that was uniquely his, preceded him. Haruto.
He stopped a few feet away. His presence was a quiet weight in the air. He didn't speak for a long time. Just the soft sound of his own breathing, a rhythm far steadier than hers. The quiet between them stretched, became awkward. Finally, he moved, his boots scuffing on the stone floor. He placed a mug on the console next to her hand. Chipped ceramic. Filled with a steaming, dark liquid that smelled vaguely of roasted nuts and chemicals. The base's nutrient-broth-coffee-substitute. Disgusting.
"Drink," he said. His voice was rough. Tired.
She didn't move. She stared at the mug. Steam rose in a slow spiral.
"I think I just signed our death warrants," she said. The words came out flat. A statement of fact.
"Maybe," he said. He didn't deny it. "Or you just started a war."
"Is there a difference?"
He was quiet again. She risked a glance at him. He looked terrible. Grease smudged his face from the workshop, his eyes were bloodshot. He leaned against the console as if standing was too much effort. He focused on the far wall, avoiding her gaze, and rubbed at the back of his neck.
"There is," he said, his voice so low she almost didn't hear it. "A death warrant is an ending. A war… is a chance."
He pushed himself off the console, his movements stiff.
"My part is almost ready. Get some rest."
He walked out without another word, the door hissing shut behind him. He left her with the cooling mug and the echo of his words. A chance. The last move in a game she'd already lost. She picked up the mug. The warmth was a small, solid thing in her shaking hands. She took a sip. It tasted as bad as it smelled, a bitter warmth that did nothing to chase away the cold.
The reports started an hour later. Not a flood. Just whispers on the comms, relayed from Sakura moving across the city's rooftops. Her voice was always clipped, professional, reporting facts, yet the context bled through.
Akane stood before the main tactical display, frowning. The map was a cold, blue grid, but the report painted a different picture. "Singing? What?"
Kaito, who had been cleaning his carbine for the third time, looked up. "The harvest song? That's not a war chant. It's a children's song. My mother used to—" He cut himself off, his face flushing.
Another report came in from a different operative, Kenji.
Himari listened, a painful, hopeful knot in her chest. Not a revolution. Not yet. Something smaller. Quieter. Stubborn defiance. People singing a children's song to armored guards. People lighting a single candle against a tyrant's enforced darkness. Hope is not a crime. It is a promise. She'd said that. Had she actually believed it?
The main screen flickered, showing a direct feed from Akari.
Himari looked at Akane. Akane looked back, her face an unreadable mask of stone. This was it. The point of no return. Haruto's machine would either blind the Duke's greatest weapon, his network of Weavers, or it would be a catastrophic failure pinpointing their exact location for a retaliatory strike.
She took a breath. It still hitched. But this time, it felt different. Not just fear. Something hard. Resolve.
"Tell him to proceed," she said, her own voice surprising her with its steadiness.
The workshop was a chaotic nest of tools, wires, and discarded components. In the center, the device sat on its pedestal, humming with a low, hungry energy. Ugly. Scavenged alloys and glowing Celestine crystals lashed together. A psychic bomb. A magic-killer.
Haruto stood before the activation panel, fingers hovering over the main sequence trigger. His heart rate was elevated. Palms sweating. He could feel the thrum of the machine through the soles of his boots, a resonant vibration that settled in his bones. Akari's simulations pointed to a 92.7% probability of success. It was the 7.3% that made his stomach churn. The percentage that covered unforeseen variables, magical interference, or the simple possibility that his math was just wrong.
He keyed his comm. "Final check. Akari?"
"Sakura?"
"Himari?"
He took a deep breath. Held it. Closed his eyes, visualizing the energy patterns, the frequency modulations, the cascading overload he had designed. A violent symphony of physics and bloody-minded will. He hit the switch.
For a second, nothing.
The hum didn't change. The lights didn't flicker. A cold, sick dread washed over him. Failure. All for—
Then it hit. Not a sound. Not a flash. A feeling. A pressure. A spike of static inside his own head, a feeling like biting down on aluminum foil that made his teeth ache. The air in the room grew thick, heavy, charged. The machine's hum rose in pitch, a high, keening whine that scraped at the inside of his skull. The crystals at its heart pulsed with a blinding, strobe-like light, throwing stark, dancing shadows across the walls.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
The whine died. The light faded. The pressure vanished.
The only sound was the frantic, high-pitched beeping of the main console as it was flooded with data.
"Akari, report," he said, his voice a hoarse, breathless croak.
Haruto leaned against the workbench, dizzy. He laughed. A short, sharp, breathless sound. Half relief, half terror. He had no idea. He'd just thrown a pebble. And it looked like the mountain had actually flinched.
The mood in the command center was electric. The successful deployment had changed everything. Fear still thrummed beneath the surface, but now it was overshadowed by wild adrenaline. They had a chance. A real one.
They gathered in the small armory, the air thick with the smell of gun oil and nervous sweat. The next phase. Infiltration.
"Kaito, Riku, with me," Haruto said, his voice all business now. Back in his element. The soldier. He moved with a crisp, efficient purpose, checking his gear, loading a fresh power cell into his carbine. "Primary insertion team. Objective: the main communications tower inside the estate. We disable it, cut the Duke off from his outside forces. Sakura, you're overwatch and secondary exfil."
"Akane, you and your squad are Team Two," he continued, not looking up from his rifle. "Your job: diversion at the western gate. Loud. Messy. Draw as many guards as you can. But don't get bogged down. Hit and run. Himari, you have the command center. Our eyes and ears."
He finally looked up, his gaze sweeping over their faces. Kaito was pale, but his jaw was set. Riku was impassive, a statue of granite and silence. Akane simply nodded, her expression sharp.
"This is not a battle for the city," Haruto said, his voice low, intense. "This is a decapitation strike. Get in, hit our target, and get out. Clear?"
A chorus of affirmatives.
He slung the Starlight carbine over his shoulder. The weight was familiar. Comforting.
He turned to leave, then paused. He looked at Himari. Just for a second. Their eyes met across the crowded, tense room. He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. An acknowledgment. A promise.
Then he turned and led the team out into the corridor, their footsteps a sharp, metallic rhythm in the quiet.
Himari watched them go, her hand resting on the comms panel. Her fingers were steady now. The fear was gone. She brought up the tactical display, her eyes scanning the layout of the Duke's estate.
That's when it happened.
Every screen in the command center flickered. Then they all switched to the same image: the Duke's official crest. A black serpent coiled around a silver sword.
A voice filled the room. Not a broadcast. It came through every speaker, every comm unit, a sound that seemed to emanate from the very stone of the fortress. It was calm. Cultured. Deeply, horribly amused.
"A lovely speech, Princess Himari," the Duke of Silverwood said, his voice a smooth caress. "And a clever little trick with my wards. Most impressive. You have my full attention. Now… let the real games begin."
The screens went black. The voice was gone.
But the chilling echo of his laughter remained, an echo in the wires. He knew. He knew they were coming. And he was waiting.