Page 88 of Fated in A Time of War

It’s faint. Fragile.

But it’shers.

I close my eyes and follow it.

I’m coming.

I don’t see her first.

I hear her.

Her voice leaks through the vent above like a whisper stitched into the steel—soft, frayed around the edges, but steady.

“I’m still alive. Come find me.”

My knees damn near give out.

I press myself against the wall, forehead resting against cool metal, eyes clenched tight. That voice cuts through every layer of blood and fire I’ve crawled through to get here. It's not a scream. It's not a plea. It's a beacon. Unbreakable.

I murmur her name, low and ragged. “Alice.”

There’s a sharp inhale. I hear it. Feel it. That breath catches like a spark between us.

“Krall?” Her voice cracks. “Is it—oh gods, is it really you?”

I don’t answer with words.

I drive my claws into the vent seam, peel metal back like it’s wet cardboard. Sparks rain down around me, biting into my forearms, but I don't stop. Ican'tstop.

Screws twist, rivets scream, steel groans—and then the panel gives.

She’s there.

Standing behind the cell bars, wrists scraped raw, eyes wide and wet in the dim emergency light. Her hair’s a mess. There’s a cut over her lip. And she’s perfect.

She moves before I do, slamming into the bars, fingers curling through them, face pressing close.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispers, and it wrecks me.

I let the rage carry me the rest of the way.

One hand grips the door. The other wrenches the central bar. It bends, then snaps free. I rip another out, the cage protesting, squealing under my fury. One final pull and the whole door shrieks open.

She doesn’t wait.

Alice hurls herself forward, and I catch her, arms locking around her body like it’s the last thing I’ll ever hold. She’s trembling. I can feel it. But her grip on me is iron.

No words. No speeches. Just breath against neck, arms wound tight, and her body against mine like a question I already know the answer to.

We stand like that for what feels like years.

Then the alarms start.

First a single tone—sharp and cold.

Then the klaxons follow, howling red into the corridor, bathing everything in pulses of emergency light. The floor shakes under our feet. Somewhere below, engines grind to life. Doors slam shut. Security systems arm.

I catch Funzil’s voice screeching through the overheads.