The clock on the wall of Villa 3 read 11:42 PM.
The room was dark. The only light came from the blue holographic glow of the datapad sitting on the mahogany desk. It displayed a detailed topographical map of Sector 9, the Fungal Caverns.
Vane sat in the chair, staring at the map. He had been staring at it for two hours, but he had not absorbed a single detail.
He was exhausted.
His eyes felt like they were filled with sand. The muscles in his back were knotted tight enough to snap a violin string. He had not slept more than four hours a night for the past week. It was not insomnia. It was instinct.
Every time he closed his eyes, the [Usurper] screamed.
Predator. Proximity. Danger.
Sometimes it was just Ashe sitting on his roof, watching the stars. Sometimes she was in the tree line, carving a piece of wood. Sometimes she just threw a pebble at his window to see if he would wake up.
She was eroding him. She was peeling back the layers of civilization he had carefully constructed since arriving at Zenith, trying to find the raw nerve underneath.
Vane rubbed his face with his hands.
’She is a problem,’ he thought. ’But she is also the solution.’
He looked at the squad roster on the screen.
Vane (Rank 3): Strategist / Control. Valerica (Rank 15): Heavy Artillery / Gravity. Isole (Rank ??): Support / Summoning. Open Slot: Tank / Vanguard.
They needed a tank. The Fungal Caverns were tight, claustrophobic tunnels where range was limited. Valerica’s gravity would bring the ceiling down if she wasn’t careful. Isole’s summons would clog the hallways. They needed someone who could stand in the front, take a hit from a Rank 4 Alpha, and laugh about it.
They needed Ashe.
But a tank that attacked its own leader was not a tank. It was a liability.
Vane looked at the balcony door. He could feel her out there. Somewhere in the dark. Waiting.
’She thinks I am soft,’ Vane thought. ’She thinks because I don’t project an Aura, because I don’t scream when I fight, that I don’t have the hunger.’
He stood up. He walked to his closet.
He bypassed the pristine white Academy uniform. He bypassed the formal robes Valerica had tried to make him wear. He reached into the back, into a dusty box he hadn’t opened since the entrance exam.
He pulled out a pair of black cargo pants made of reinforced canvas. A tight, long-sleeved black shirt that wouldn’t catch on loose nails. Heavy, silent boots with soft soles.
He dressed in the dark.
He reached under his bed and pulled out a small, heavy bag. It clinked with the sound of glass and metal. He opened it and checked the contents.
A jar of industrial grease stolen from the maintenance shed. A spool of monofilament wire scavenged from a broken automaton. Three pouches of magnesium powder. A bag of fine-ground flour.
Senna had told him once, back when he was trying to learn the spear and getting beaten black and blue by street thugs: If you fight a dragon in a fair fight, you are an idiot. If you fight a dragon in the dark, in a room full of traps you set yourself... you are a chef.
Vane grabbed his spear. He checked the vibration of the [Silver Fang]. The hum was steady, the silver mana circulating through his arms in a perfect spiral.
He picked up his datapad one last time. He opened the Academy messaging network. He found the contact for Ashe Razar.
He typed a single message.
Old Gymnasium. Midnight. No Teachers. No Rules. Come alone.
He hit send.
He walked out onto the balcony. The night air was cold and biting. The moon was hidden behind heavy clouds, turning the campus into a landscape of grey shadows.
He looked toward the Red Tower in the distance. He could almost feel the spike in her Aura as she read the message. The excitement. The bloodlust.
He wasn’t going to the gym to spar. He wasn’t going there to earn points.
He was going there to break her. Or get broken.
Vane vaulted over the railing. He didn’t use magic to slow his fall. He grabbed the trellis, slid down silently, and landed in the soft grass.
He moved through the gardens, avoiding the main paths. He slipped past the patrol drones, his [Usurper] vision highlighting their scanning cones in red. He moved like smoke.
Ten minutes later, he stood before the Old Gymnasium.
It was a relic of the pre-reform era, a massive brick building on the edge of the campus that had been condemned due to structural instability. The windows were boarded up. The roof leaked. The floor was a maze of rotted wood and rusting equipment.
It was perfect.
Vane pried open the side door and slipped inside. The air smelled of dust and mold.
He closed his eyes. He activated [Usurper].
The room mapped itself in his mind. He saw the weak floorboards. He saw the rusting bolts holding the massive scoreboard to the ceiling. He saw the piles of old gymnastics mats and the tangled ropes hanging from the rafters.
’Twenty minutes until midnight,’ Vane thought.
He opened his bag.
He greased the floor in the blind spots near the pillars. He strung the monofilament wire at ankle height across the main approach vectors. He poured the flour into a small pouch on his belt.
He walked to the center of the room. He stood directly under the flickering, dying mana-lamp that cast long, eerie shadows across the floor.
He waited.
At 11:59 PM, the heavy double doors at the front of the gym creaked open.
Ashe Razar walked in.
She wasn’t wearing her Red Tower vest. She was wearing loose martial arts trousers and a bandeau top that showed the bandages wrapped around her ribs. She was barefoot.
She carried a wooden practice sword that was as thick as a tree branch. It was made of ironwood, denser than steel.
She kicked the door shut behind her. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
She looked at Vane standing in the shadows. She took a deep breath, inhaling the dust and the danger.
"Finally," Ashe rasped. Her red eyes glowed in the dark. "I was starting to think you were going to stand me up, Rat."
"I don’t break appointments," Vane said softly.
"Good," Ashe said. She lowered her stance. The air pressure in the room plummeted. The floorboards beneath her feet groaned as she increased her internal density. "No teachers. No rules. Just us."
"Just us," Vane agreed.
He didn’t raise his spear. He just tapped the butt of the weapon against the floor.
Thum.
The sound was quiet. But in the silence of the abandoned gym, it sounded like the tolling of a bell.
The stalking was over. The hunt had begun.