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“We can’t just leave them there.”

“Our mission takes priority,” Varam says. “We cannot risk exposure.”

“Besides,” Mira adds, voice flat, “the merchants will probably be released once the bandits take what they want.”

She’s lying. I don’t know how I know that, but just like with Sacha, I’m certain of it.

Is this another aspect of whatever power flows through me now?An ability to sense deception? Or simply that I’ve spent enough time in this world to recognize when someone is trying to shield me from uglier truths?

I glance back toward the clearing.

One of the bandits has drawn a knife and has it pressed against the throat of the youngest man. The merchant flinches, but the bandit only laughs. A thin line of blood wells up where the blade bites into his skin.

“They’re going to kill him.” I’m struggling to keep my voice steady. “We can’t just?—”

“We can, and we must.” Varam’s voice is firm. “The mission?—”

A branch snaps behind us.

Loud.

Tooloud.

“Well, well,” a voice drawls. “Looks like we got ourselves some more visitors.”

A man steps into view, crossbow raised, aimed squarely at Varam’s chest. Three more emerge from the trees, weapons drawn.

“Move into the clearing,” the first man orders, jerking his weapon in a sharp motion. “Nice and slow. Hands where I can see them.”

Sacha’s eyes meet mine. There’s something in them—a silent command, or a warning—but the meaning slips past me. Then he steps forward, hands raised in what looks like surrender. The rest of our group follows, tension thickening the air.

The bandits herd us into the clearing, forcing us toward themerchants still bound on the ground. Up close, the bandits look even rougher—scarred faces, armor pieced together from scavenged parts, weapons that have seen plenty of use.

“Authority uniform,” their leader muses, circling Sacha like a wolf sizing up a threat. He’s taller than the rest, lean but solid, with a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw. His eyes are sharp, assessing. “Long way from any check point, aren’t you?”

“We’re on official business,” Sacha replies, his voice steady. Commanding. Dismissive. The sneering contempt in it is so sharp it cuts the air. I’ve never heard him use that tone before. “Release us immediately or face the Authority’s wrath.”

The bandit lets out a slow, amused laugh, thick with disbelief. “Official business? Out here? Try again.” He jerks his chin at one of his men. “You. Search them. Take anything valuable, then we’ll decide what to do with them.”

Four bandits move in.

Varam is first. They pat him down roughly, hands moving over him with no pretense of respect. When one of them finds the knife hidden in his belt, he grins and pockets it.

The pressure behind my eyes surges, a roaring heat that floods through my skull, pounding with every heartbeat, every breath, until the edges of the clearing blur into silver and black.

My breath catches. My fingers twitch at my sides, the world tilting,warping—the voices too loud, the sunlight too bright, the bandits’ dragging trails of afterimages through the air as they move.

The silver is no longer at the edges of my vision. It’s filling it.

Mira stiffens as rough hands search her, the touch lingering inplaces longer than necessary. My fingers clench as her jaw tightens, her entire body locked in rigid silence. The energy inside me stirs, pulsing in slow, insistent waves.

“Ellie.” Sacha’s voice is quiet. “Stay calm.”

I force myself to take a breath, then another.

One of the bandits turns to me next. His hands are rough, methodical, sweeping over my arms, my waist, my legs. Searching for weapons, but not stopping there. His fingers dig into my breasts, squeezing, a leering grin flashing across his face, showing teeth black with rot.

My stomach twists. I freeze, blood roaring in my ears.