The sparks from the archive door showered the room like dying stars. The high-pitched whine of a plasma cutter signaled that the High Command's boarding party—Elias's former brothers-in-arms—were seconds away from breaching the room.
"The data drive," Lyra hissed, leaning her weight against the holographic console. "Elias, if that drive stays here, this whole sector remains a graveyard. Grab it!"
Elias jammed his multi-tool into the archival port. The progress bar crawled with agonizing slowness. 60%... 70%...
"I need to hold them off," Elias said, his voice dropping into the low, clipped tone of a commander. He looked at Lyra. She was pale, her breath coming in shallow hitches, but she held her stolen pulse-rifle with a steady hand. "Can you cover the vent? If they're smart, they'll send a scout through the maintenance shafts to flank us."
"I've spent half my life in crawlspaces, Thorne," she said, a ghost of her usual bravado returning. "Just get the damn drive."
The door buckled. A heavy metallic clunk echoed as the primary lock snapped. Elias ripped the glowing data cylinder from the port just as the doors were kicked inward.
Flash-bangs detonated in a blinding white strobe.
Elias dived behind a heavy titanium desk, firing blind. The blue bolts of his sidearm illuminated the room in jagged bursts. Two soldiers in matte-black tactical gear stormed in, their movements synchronized and lethal. These weren't standard infantry; they were 'Wraiths,' the Chancellor's personal wet-work squad.
"Target sighted!" one shouted. "Lethal force authorized!"
"Elias, down!" Lyra screamed.
She opened fire from the shadows of the cooling vents. Her shots were precise, catching the lead Wraith in the shoulder joint of his armor. The soldier spun, and Elias seized the opening, lunging forward to tackle the second man.
They crashed into a rack of ancient glass canisters. Shards exploded around them like diamonds. Elias and the Wraith grappled on the floor, a desperate scramble of limbs and steel. The soldier was stronger, his power-assisted suit whining as he pressed a vibro-blade toward Elias's throat.
The blade was inches from his skin—he could feel the hum of the molecule-thin edge—when a sudden, concussive blast took the Wraith's head off.
Elias rolled away, gasping, covered in cooling fluid and soot. Lyra stood over him, her rifle smoking, her chest heaving. The second Wraith lay slumped against the door, neutralized.
"That's two," she panted, extending a hand to pull him up.
He took it, but as he rose, the ship groaned. A massive tremor threw them both against the far wall. The Iron Sovereign had begun its final approach, its tractor beam now dragging the derelict Aethel-Dawn into its maw. The gravity in the room shifted, turning the floor into a steep incline.
They slid down the deck, crashing into a small, secluded alcove used for private research. The heavy sliding door of the alcove slammed shut behind them, jammed by the shifting weight of the ship's superstructure.
It was a space no larger than a closet.
The air here was thicker, warmer, and smelled of ancient paper and Lyra's sweat. They were pressed chest-to-chest, the darkness absolute save for the flickering red light of Elias's data drive. He could feel the rapid-fire thud of her heart against his ribs. Her breath, hot and ragged, puffed against his neck.
"Elias," she whispered. The defiance was gone, replaced by the raw vulnerability of two people who knew they were running out of time.
"I have the drive," he murmured, his hands finding her waist in the dark to steady them as the ship bucked again. "We just have to reach the Sparrow."
"We aren't going to make it, are we?" Her voice broke. "The oxygen... the Wraiths... they'll just keep coming."
Elias looked down at her. In the faint red glow, her silver eyes were wide, reflecting the terror and the strange, forbidden heat that had been simmering between them since the moment he'd captured her. The hatred had been a wall, but the truth had turned it into a bridge.
"I spent three years wishing I could feel your heartbeat stop," Elias whispered, his voice thick with a realization that terrified him. "Now, it's the only thing keeping me sane."
Lyra's hand moved up his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his charred uniform. She pulled him closer, her body molding against his. "Then don't let it stop."
She kissed him.
It wasn't the soft, cinematic kiss of a storybook. It was a collision—desperate, bruising, and hungry. It tasted of salt, iron, and the end of the world. Elias groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding up to cradle her head, his fingers tangling in her matted hair. All the rage, the grief, and the loneliness of the last three years poured into the contact.
For a few seconds, the Iron Sovereign, the dying sun, and the betrayal didn't exist. There was only the friction of her skin against his and the frantic pulse of two ghosts clinging to life in the dark.
The ship lurched again, more violently this time. A localized explosion rocked the alcove, and the overhead vent gave way, showering them in freezing dust.
"Captain!" a voice echoed through the ship's internal speakers—not a soldier's voice, but a frantic, garbled transmission from the Sparrow's remote link. "Docking bay integrity at five percent. Vessel departure required immediately."
Elias pulled back, his forehead resting against Lyra's. Their lips were swollen, their breathing synchronized.
"If we die," Lyra whispered, her eyes searching his, "I'm glad it was with the man who burned my world."
"I'm not letting you die, Lyra," Elias said, his voice hardening with a new kind of resolve. He kicked at the jammed door. "We're going to give them hell first."
The door gave way, but as they stepped out, the corridor was no longer empty. A squad of six Wraiths stood at the end of the hall, their red visors glowing like the eyes of demons.
And behind them, the hull of the ship began to tear open, revealing the cold, indifferent vacuum of space.
To be continued.....