Page 32 of Storm of Stars (Pride of Praxis #2)

She didn’t look at him. “Give me the radio.”

My heart hammered.

“Captain, do you copy?”

“Copy, Archon,” came the response.

“When the trial ends, wait for my signal. I’ll call the moment the feed is cut. Then… execute the protocol.”

Protocol. I didn’t need to ask what that meant.

She was going to kill them.

I was moving before my mind caught up. Back across the grid. Down the stairs like death itself chased me. At the bottom, I ducked behind a wall, scanned for guards. Clear, for now. I bolted toward the editor pit, rejoining the others as silently as I’d left.

I collapsed into my chair, forcing my hands to stop shaking. Brexlyn was alive. Barely. And I was going to keep her that way.

Moments later, the unmistakable click of high heels echoed behind me.

“Congratulations on another successful year,” Archon said, and the room clapped politely. I did too, though my palms barely touched. My eyes stayed locked on the screen.

“Patch me in,” Archon said, reaching for a microphone. “Congratulations, Challengers,” she said, and I watched as the figures on the feed looked up at the source of the sound.

“You are the lucky survivors of this year’s Reclamation Run.”

They all looked so relieved. God. If only they knew what was about to happen.

Suddenly the doors to the clinic swung open and Praxis guards filed in. I felt my heart in my throat. “You’ve sacrificed and risked your lives for the Collectives. You’ve proven that Praxis rewards those deserving of it,” she continued.

“Now, your time as Challengers has come to an end. So your Collectives thank you. Praxis thanks you. I thank you.” But there was only malice in her tone.

“Your sacrifice for the greater good of Nexum will always be remembered.” She set the microphone down.

“Joree,” she called. “Cut the feed. Begin the montage loop.”

She obeyed. The screen went black. My family disappeared.

She raised the radio again. “Captain. You may proceed.”

No.

I set to work immediately. My fingers danced across the keys, bypassing the surface interface.

I dropped into the raw feed from the clinic, just behind a firewall.

I found the live camera in the clinic, the one they’d just cut.

I rerouted it. Hid it behind the visual mask of the montage loop, burying it so deep inside a web of code and locks that no surface-level technician would know where to look.

The image popped up. Guards were surrounding them.

It’s now or never, Zaffir.

I activated the stream. Sent it out live

And suddenly, millions were watching.

I stood. Walked briskly but evenly toward the back exit. I passed the corridor where, not long ago, she had me beaten bloody. My ribs still ached when I breathed too deep. But I was on my feet now.

This time, I would walk out on my own terms.

I kept my head down, moving quickly toward the exit, heart pounding like war drums in my chest. I had nearly reached the threshold when a figure blocked my path. I jerked to a stop, eyes rising, and found Nova.

Her stance was rigid, her arms crossed tight across her chest like armor. Her calculating eyes scanned my face like she was searching for a code to break.

“Where are you going?” she asked, voice calm but edged in suspicion.

“I’ll tell you later, Nova,” I muttered, attempting to sidestep her.

She shifted cleanly, blocking me again. “You’re acting strange,” she said flatly. “What happened?” Her eyes shifted to the screens behind me. “Did something happen to the Wildguard?” She almost sounded concerned.

“I can’t—” I tried again to slip past her, but she was quicker.

Shouting erupted from the control station behind us.

“The feed from the clinic is still up!” someone barked.

“You were supposed to cut it!” Archon Veritas’s voice sliced through the air like a blade.

My breath froze. The blood drained from my face.

“I did, ma’am, I swear! I don’t know how?—”

“Shut it down! NOW!”

Nova’s eyes flicked to the chaos unfolding behind me, then snapped back to mine. Her brow creased. “Zaffir…” she whispered. “What did you do?”

I didn’t need to lie to her. She already knew.

“Please, Nova,” I whispered. “Let me go.”

Joree’s panicked voice rang out. “I can’t! The feed’s hardcoded, I’m locked out!”

My body was already shifting to bolt, but Nova wouldn’t move. I could see the war she was fighting in her mind.

“You didn’t,” she said, voice tight.

“I had to,” I whispered.

She blinked, her jaw trembling for half a second.

“They’ll kill you for this,” she said.

“I know.”

“Did those guards just kill a Challenger?!” Someone screamed from behind us.

The room plunged into a stunned, electric silence.

“Cut the feed before they see anything else!”

I stopped cold. Every muscle in my body turned to stone. My lungs refused to work. I twisted, desperate to see the feed, to catch a name, a face, anything.

But instead, I saw her. Archon Veritas. Her face was twisted into fury, icy, righteous, seething with betrayal.

“It was him,” she hissed. “Stop him!”

I turned back to Nova. Our eyes locked.

She didn’t say anything.

There was a moment, a small, sacred beat of silence between us. Then she nodded once. Slow. Reluctant. But resolute.

“Get out of here,” she whispered.

Then, without warning, she lunged forward. But her move was choreographed, telegraphed a second too long. Her hand barely grazed my shoulder before I twisted, easily ducked under her arm, and sprinted down the left corridor.

Behind me, I heard her shout, “He headed right!” But there was no heat behind it. Just the sound of someone trying to give me a head start.

She let me go.

And I knew—no matter what happened next—Nova had just chosen a side.

Mine.

Ours.

The Runaways.

And if she could choose us. Maybe we stood a fighting chance.

The hall blurred. My boots slammed against concrete. I didn’t care about silence anymore, I just needed distance. I threw myself through the back door and didn’t stop. No guards yet. Good.

I shoved the thought down, buried it beneath the roar of blood in my ears and the thunder of my feet pounding against the ground.

I couldn’t let myself imagine who the guards had reached.

Who might be crumpled, lifeless, on the sterile tiles of that clinic.

Not Thorne. Not Briar. Not Ezra. Not Brexlyn.

God, please, not Brexlyn. But I didn’t have the luxury of fear, not now.

Grief was an emotion I couldn’t afford to feel until I was safely beyond the golden gate, until I knew Praxis and its lies were behind me.

Only then would I allow myself to collapse.

But until that moment, I ran like my family's lives depended on it. Because they did.

If I could reach the perimeter of the city, if I could make it to the Runaways, maybe they'd have seen what I broadcasted. Maybe the world had, too.

Maybe Praxis had finally overplayed its hand.

And just maybe... When I reached that gate, I wouldn’t be alone.