Page 40 of Storm of Stars (Pride of Praxis #2)

CHAPTER

TWENTY

Zaffir

I woke up with my back screaming and every muscle aching like I’d just sprinted through a battlefield barefoot.

Which, in a way, we sort of had, only the battle had taken place in a cocoon of blankets, whispered promises, and desperate hands.

And if I felt like this, I couldn’t even begin to imagine how Brexlyn was holding up.

By the time we’d drifted to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, we’d gotten our ten orgasms from her.

My mind drifted to our girl, and how beautifully, fiercely she had taken all of us. The way her body moved with each of ours, like she'd been made for us, for this. She gave herself to us like she knew it might be the last time, and we met her with everything we had.

I shifted slightly and glanced over.

She was fast asleep, tucked into Ezra’s side, her head resting in the crook of his arm.

My own body was curved around him from the other side, the three of us locked together like puzzle pieces.

Briar was curled around Brexlyn’s back, one hand still resting over her heart like she’d been keeping watch even in sleep.

And down at the foot of the bedrolls, Thorne had somehow wedged himself between her legs, his head pillowed on her stomach, one arm thrown across her hip like he couldn’t bear to let her go.

My chest swelled, painfully, sweetly, with a thudding heartbeat I couldn’t ignore.

I loved them. I loved Brexlyn with every fractured, stubborn piece of my soul.

I loved Ezra, too, maybe differently, maybe quietly, but just as deeply.

And Briar and Thorne… they were the kind of people who showed you what it meant to be loved with their actions.

What I felt when I looked at them wasn’t the same kind of love, but it was real. It was family.

Carefully, I untangled myself from the pile of limbs and warmth, trying not to wake anyone.

I slipped a shirt over my bare chest, someone’s shirt, I didn’t know whose, and padded quietly toward the tent’s flap.

My joints cracked in protest, but I welcomed the soreness.

It was proof that last night had been real.

That we’d carved out something good, something ours, before we ventured forth into the unknown.

We probably shouldn’t have worn ourselves out like that with what was coming. But I didn’t regret a second of it. We needed that night. We needed her.

And more than anything, we needed the reminder that we’re still alive.

Today isn’t promised. None of this is.

So we took it while we could. Held onto it with both hands.

The sun had just barely crested the horizon, washing the camp in a warm, amber glow that made the canvas tents shimmer like soft-lit lanterns.

The stillness was surreal, like the world was holding its breath.

I stood just outside the food tent, stacking a plate with dried meats, fruits, and a hunk of bread, my fingers moving on autopilot.

The air smelled of dew and ash from the fires of last night.

I’d never been outside the gates of Praxis before. The closest I’d ever come was filming the Wildguard as they returned bloodied and victorious from their first trial. Out here, everything felt… freer. Raw. Untamed. And terrifying in a way that made my heart beat faster.

Most of the camp had gone quiet. By now, the first two waves should’ve breached the gates. Should’ve started the chain reaction that would either free the Collectives, or bury us all beneath the rubble of what we tried to change.

A figure stepped up beside me. I turned and found Edgar standing there, his expression unreadable, his arms folded, posture straight as ever despite the early hour.

“Edgar,” I greeted with a small nod.

His eyes scanned me, lingering just a second too long, and I caught the brief flicker of something hard in them—distrust. I didn’t blame him. As far as anyone outside my little circle was concerned, I’d spent every day up until yesterday as the Praxis puppet. Even I would’ve been wary of me.

“How did the first waves fare last night?” I asked, trying not to let nerves slip into my voice.

He grabbed a strip of jerky from the serving tray and chewed on it slowly before answering. “According to plan.”

Vague. Guarded. As expected.

“Has the third wave moved into position yet?” I tried again.

This time, he didn’t even bother responding. He just looked at me, brows slightly furrowed, jaw tight.

I sighed, setting the plate down on the table. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then he gave a single shake of his head.

“You know what my Praxis-assigned cameraman said to me after my last trial?” he asked eventually, voice low and bitter.

I met his gaze and waited.

“When I came back bloodied but breathing...When I’d survived and so many others hadn’t, he walked up to me, completely unfazed by the carnage, and said, ‘Congratulations.’” He spat the word like it tasted foul.

“Congratulations for making it out alive. For putting on a good show. For surviving long enough to give him some credit for being the one behind the lens.”

My chest ached with the weight of his confession. How many times had I said the exact same thing to my Challengers?

“Congratulations for being the perfect puppet.” He shook his head, a humorless laugh breaking in his throat. “It didn’t even register how sick that was until later. At the time, I just nodded. I said ‘thank you.’ Like it was some kind of achievement I should be proud of.”

I watched him quietly.

“Praxis has a way of warping our perception,” I said, my voice low, edged with shame.

“ Growing up, we didn’t see the Run for what it was.

It was entertainment. It had drama, hero journeys, and competition.

The Challengers from the Collectives weren’t victims to us.

They were stars. Celebrities. We idolized them.

We bought into the illusion so hard we didn’t question what it cost them to get there. Or to get back.”

I swallowed, forcing the next words past the tightness in my throat.

“We rooted for them, we memorized their names, we wore their merchandise. And the worst part is the whole time, we told ourselves we were doing something good for them. That we were giving them an opportunity, redemption, fame, a better life. That’s what they drilled into us. That’s what we believed.”

I looked up at Edgar, his face unreadable, but watching me closely.

“I see it differently now. Praxis is a system that tells itself it's merciful, when all it's doing is feeding off the suffering it creates. And I was part of it.” I shook my head slowly, trying to force the sting behind my eyes to calm.

“I'm not proud of how long it took me to wake up. But I’m awake now.”

I took a breath and kept going.

“You know what they teach us in school? That the Collectives were selfish. That they rebelled against unity, against preservation. They said Praxis had every right to cut them off, to strip their access, isolate them. Let them starve or die out. And when they didn’t?

When they created the Reclamation Run instead?

" I gave a bitter laugh. "That was supposed to be a gift. A noble act.”

My stomach churned even repeating it aloud. I spat the words, the lies I’d once parroted without question. “And I believed it. I swallowed every bit of it because why would the people who swore to protect us, lie to us?”

I paused. Let the silence settle between us.

“I hate that it took falling in love to see through it all. That it took her to show me the truth. But I’m grateful, too. Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it. You can’t go back.”

Edgar stood quiet for a long moment. Then he stepped closer and clapped his calloused hand on my shoulder.

“I believed it too, kid,” Edgar said after a long pause. His voice was rough, worn down by time and truth. “I ate it up. The fame, the applause, the way people looked at me like I was something bigger than I was. Like I mattered. It was intoxicating.”

He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, fingers dragging like they were trying to scrub the memories from his scalp.

“I let it define me. Let it convince me I was one of the lucky ones. Chosen. Important. But then, the moment that year was up, the moment I was no longer useful to them…Praxis tossed me aside like I’d never even existed. ” He exhaled, bitter and tired.

“That was when the shine started to fade. When the glitter and gold finally fell from my eyes.”

I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “I think we can do that,” I said, voice quiet but steady.

He looked at me, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Do what?”

“Help them see. Shake the glitter and gold from their eyes too.” I turned my gaze toward the horizon, where the gilded gates of Praxis caught the first light of morning.

They gleamed like a beacon, like a lie made beautiful.

“It’s hard to imagine, I know. Especially after everything.

But I don’t think most of them are evil, Edgar.

I don’t think they’re all complicit because they enjoy it.

I think most of them are just… blinded by gold. Like I was.”

He followed my gaze, eyes landing on the same golden barrier.

“I’d bet,” I continued, “that behind those gates, there are people just like us. People who’ve been fed the same stories, taught the same twisted truths.

People who’ve never had the chance, or the courage, to ask the right questions.

But if we can show them… if we can make them see the cracks in the gold, maybe we won’t have to fight them all.

Maybe they’ll choose to stand with us. Or at the very least, not stand in the way. ”

Edgar studied me for a long moment, the lines of his face carved deep with doubt and history. Then, slowly, a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. It was a tired smile, but not without hope.

“You might be onto something, kid,” he said. “Maybe it’s not about breaking the system with force. Maybe it’s about waking up the people inside it.”

He clapped a hand on my shoulder again, firmer this time.

“And maybe you were born in the wrong place, but you ended up exactly where you needed to be.”

The words hit me harder than I anticipated. I did feel like somehow I’d found my home despite that not being a physical place. But rather a team.

“Yeah, I think I did.”

“The first wave was a clean success,” Edgar said, his voice low and even. “They managed to jam the surveillance systems completely, quiet as ghosts. Praxis didn’t see a thing. And now we’re in their com systems.”

My stomach fluttered, a strange mix of nerves and awe.

“That gave wave two the cover they needed to breach the perimeter and get in close,” he continued, scanning the horizon with sharp eyes. “Explosives were placed exactly where we planned. Right now, they’re waiting for the shift change to blow it all sky high.”

I nodded, my gaze pulled toward the distant, golden gates. They gleamed like always.

Edgar glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist, then up again. “Actually…” he muttered, “if everything’s running on schedule, we should be seeing some smoke any minute now.”

We both fell silent, watching.

“Wave three is on standby. The second we see that smoke, they’ll move,” he added. Then he sighed and shifted the weight of his gear. “I should get back to my unit.”

I turned to face him, more grateful than I could say. “We’ll be right behind you,” I promised.

He held out his hand, rough and weathered. I took it in mine and gripped tight.

“Good luck, kid,” he said, voice softer now.

“You too, old man,” I replied with a grin, forcing lightness into my voice.

He snorted. “Watch it,” he said, giving my shoulder a playful swat before jogging off, his silhouette cutting a steady line across the field.

I stood there for a moment, unmoving, letting the weight of what was coming settle over me.

With renewed focus, I turned back to the food I'd gathered, fruits, dried meat, anything to keep our strength up. We were going to need every ounce of energy we could find.

As I started toward the tent, plate in hand, a sound stopped me. Dull at first, then louder. A deep, distant boom.

I turned back just in time to see it.

Dark plumes of smoke unfurled like ribbons into the sky, thick, heavy, undeniable. Black columns rising in stark contrast against the brightening morning light. The gates of Praxis were burning.

Wave two had done their job.

A thrill of adrenaline surged through me. It was time.

I ran the last stretch to the tent, heart pounding, legs quick. I didn’t hesitate to pull back the flap. My Wildguard was still tangled in sleep and blankets, peaceful in a way we might never be again.

But peace had to wait.

“Wake up,” I said, urgency threading my voice. “It’s starting.”