The ride back was quiet.
Even Marek didn't make a joke. That was how you knew
it sat heavy in their bones.
Flare sat near the rear of the transport, one arm
braced on his knee, the other wiping dried flecks of ash from his cheek. The
violet-tinged blood had long since cooled and turned brittle. Now it cracked,
breaking off in flakes like old paint, only to reveal the skin beneath
untouched. Unscathed.
But something in him didn't feel untouched.
Across from him, Caim was slouched forward with his
elbows on his thighs, red hair matted to his brow. He hadn't spoken a word
since the debrief. Just kept staring down at his hands. Big, calloused hands
with faint tremors in the fingers — whether from adrenaline or something
deeper, Flare couldn't tell.
Claire had her head leaned against the window. One
headphone in. Eyes open, but unfocused. She'd gone from blood-hungry menace to
breezy aloofness again — but something about her smile wasn't quite right. It
didn't reach.
Marcos sat in the command chair with a tablet in his
lap, silently reviewing the data from the corrupted core they'd pulled from the
Minotaur. It pulsed on the nearby console in a containment jar, humming
faintly. Greenish. Like the glow that had marked the beginning of everything.
That damn color again.
Maria moved between them all like a ghost. Checking
vitals, ignoring protests. Muttering, "You look like shit" to Caim with a
softness she reserved only for her patchwork patients. Her fingers were quick
and firm, checking his pulse, shining a light in his eyes.
"You're fine. Don't milk it," she said. Then,
quieter, "You fought well."
That made him flinch. Not the compliment — the fact
that he hadn't believed it for himself.
Flare leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"You froze up," he said flatly.
Caim looked up, defensive. "I thought—"
"I know what you thought." Flare's voice wasn't
harsh, just… hard. "You saw an opening. You thought it was a gift. A free kill.
But nothing about that thing was free."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Marcos turned slightly in his seat, keeping one eye
on the containment jar. "That thing set a trap. A thinking trap. Not a cornered
beast swiping in desperation. That was planned. Calculated."
"It shouldn't be possible," Maria said from the
corner.
"It's not," Marcos replied.
"Then explain it."
Nobody had an answer.
The humming of the transport engine filled the
space, the steady drone like a heartbeat beneath their silence.
Claire finally pulled her headphone out and tossed
it into her lap.
"So… uh. Did we just fight a Greek-ass nightmare, or
am I going crazy?" Her voice was bright, a little too high-pitched.
"You're not going crazy," Flare muttered.
"I mean, it was a Minotaur. Not a bull. Not a bear. That was no misread. That thing
had a labyrinth in its eyes."
Maria leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms.
"Marcos," she said gently. "That thing… you've seen something like it before."
He was quiet for a long time.
Then: "Yes."
Everyone waited.
Marcos stared ahead. "It wasn't the same. But…
similar. Sylvia. When she turned, she became something out of a Scottish
nightmare. Not just monstrous. Mythic."
Claire's teasing stopped cold. She looked down at
her hands.
"You said she—"
"I know what I said."
Caim blinked. "I thought no one had seen her. That
she vanished after the collapse."
"She did. Because we couldn't stop her."
Marcos finally turned in full, and the look in his
eyes shut everyone up.
"I saw what she became. Hooves. Rotting horse flesh.
Skin peeling in sheets. A ribcage that moved like it was breathing on its own.
Nuckelavee. My wife became a goddamn demon from legend."
"But why?" Claire whispered.
Flare looked at the core again, the way it pulsed…
like a warning.
"I think something's changing," he said. "The Ashen
are evolving. Or maybe this was always possible — and now it's just…
manifesting more often."
Marcos rubbed the back of his neck, staring down at
the core. "The team at command will want this analyzed. I'm sending it ahead
once we hit the drop station. But there's one thing I want you all to think
about."
They turned toward him.
"That Minotaur didn't just fight like a predator. It
baited a strike. It knew Caim would
go for the chest."
Caim swallowed. "I thought I had him. It… looked
open."
"And it was," Flare said. "Too open. That's the
problem."
"Monsters don't fake being vulnerable," Maria added.
"Not like that."
"Unless they're something more than monsters," Flare
finished.
The whole transport seemed to chill.
Marek, finally speaking up from the driver's
console, muttered, "Guys, I hate to be that guy, but are we saying the Ashen are growing a brain?"
"Maybe not all of them," Marcos said. "But some…
yeah. Some might be learning."
No one spoke for the rest of the ride.
BACK AT BASE
The QT slid into the hangar, heavy doors hissing
shut behind it.
Marcos handed off the core container to a
hazmat-suited courier without a word. No formal report yet — not until he had
time to debrief with Flare privately.
Flare watched the jar get sealed into a thick steel
canister and whisked down the corridor.
Still that green glow.
Still that hum.
Behind him, footsteps padded lightly down the
stairs.
Anira ran to meet him, long hair bouncing, small
fists pumping in mock attack as she skidded to a stop and jabbed his hip.
"Tag! You're open!" she said proudly. "Dead slayer!"
Flare let out a breath and smiled. It wasn't a wide
one — but it was real.
"Good jab," he said, tousling her hair. "But if
you're gonna take me down, aim higher. Lethal spots, remember?"
"I was going easy on you, old man."
He smirked. "Old? I'm thirty-four. That's prime
slayer age."
She crossed her arms. "Sure. Keep telling yourself
that."
Behind her, Jessael leaned against the stairway
wall, watching them with a faint shake of her head. Her arms were folded. Her
glasses caught the low lighting, a silver glint in her right iris catching
Flare's attention like always.
"You two done pretending attempted murder is
bonding?" she asked dryly.
Anira nodded solemnly. "For now."
Jessael walked up, touched Flare's face gently —
brushing off a flake of ash he'd missed.
"Rough one?"
"Yeah," he said. "Worse than most."
Her hand lingered for a second longer than it needed
to. "You didn't bring anything back with you, did you?"
"Just memories."
Anira perked up. "Was it a cool one?"
Jessael gave her a look.
Flare hesitated. Then knelt in front of his
daughter.
"It was strong," he said. "Too strong for the man it
used to be. We had to finish it. That's what we do. We make sure they can
rest."
Anira nodded. Not smiling. Just… understanding.
"Was it scared?" she asked.
"I think it was angry," Flare answered truthfully.
"But anger usually starts as fear."
Anira looked away, eyes searching the hallway like
she could see the things he carried.
"I'll be stronger," she said.
Flare felt his heart clench. "You already are."
Jessael gave him a small smile, the tired kind only
someone who's carried too much could wear.
"I'll make tea."
And with that, she turned toward the kitchen.
Flare stood there for a moment longer, staring down
at his daughter's small frame.
So small.
And yet… one day, she might have to carry the world.
Command Summons
The call came through barely twenty
minutes after Flare set his shield down in the armory and returned to the
warmth of his family.
He'd barely sat with Jessael, her hand
resting quietly against his, and shared a wordless moment of peace — Anira
still buzzing from hearing about the Minotaur — when the hallway lights pulsed
red. A soft but firm alert tone followed, unmistakable in its purpose: HQ
recall. Immediate.
Jessael groaned. "You've got to be
kidding."
Anira's brow furrowed. "Already?"
Flare exhaled through his nose, a
muscle in his jaw twitching. "They don't usually call this fast unless there's
something bigger behind it."
He stood slowly. Jessael caught his
hand before he moved too far. "Keep your eyes open, not just your sword. You
know how they are when they're nervous."
Flare squeezed back. "Always."
Ten minutes later – Headquarters
The atmosphere at Central HQ was a far
cry from the lived-in calm of the Slayer compound. Clinical walls, silent
halls, and the ever-present thrum of security systems overhead.
Flare and Marcos walked side-by-side
across the atrium, the buzz of light panels above casting a sterile glow across
polished floors.
Marcos wore a tight frown, something
rare enough to be unsettling.
"She hasn't called us in this fast in…
hell, maybe since that outbreak in Sector Nine."
"Exactly," Flare muttered. "And she
already knows. She always knows something before we report it."
Marcos cracked his neck, his smile
returning just a little. "Still. Bet I know what she's really calling us in
for."
Flare raised a brow. "Let me guess.
You think it's not about the Minotaur?"
"Nope. I think it is. But I think she
wants to make sure it's us that confirms it." He smirked. "And maybe to tell me
how stupidly handsome I still am."
Flare groaned.
They approached a wide steel door
marked Tactical Oversight Division – Level 3 Access Only.
A scanner blinked. Marcos placed his
palm to the pad. "Captain Marcos, access code: 3-Zulu-Charlie-4."
The door hissed open, revealing a
windowless chamber with two levels of holo-displays and data-streams, and at
its center: Commander Shayla Voss.
She stood with arms crossed, back lit
by a display casting tactical overlays across her cheekbones. Her dark uniform
was sharp, tailored, a subtle insignia marking her rank just under the collar.
She didn't look up as they entered.
"Sit."
They took the seats across from her
station, which automatically pivoted to bring up three frozen holographic
stills. A creature, massive, horned, twisted and pale with matted fur and
emaciated limbs. The Minotaur Ashen.
"You saw it," she said, tone flat.
Marcos leaned back. "Not just saw it.
Danced with it."
Flare gave him a sidelong look. "Don't
start."
Shayla finally looked up, gaze slicing
between them like a scalpel. "I've had six intercepted emergency calls, two
civilian drone feeds, and a private security alert from that farm. Every source
said the same thing: it wasn't normal. And when I say normal—" she paused, eyes
narrowing at the creature's photo, "—I mean it wasn't the garden-variety
fear-beast we've learned to expect."
"It wasn't," Flare confirmed. "It
acted differently."
Marcos nodded. "It baited a strike.
Played possum, essentially. Lured my son into a killing blow… that would've
gotten him killed. Set a feint."
Shayla's eyes sharpened. "They don't
do that."
"Exactly," Marcos said, voice now
clipped and controlled. "That's why we're sitting here. It moved like a
predator. But it thought like a soldier."
Silence filled the room for a long
moment.
Then Shayla tapped the edge of the
console. "We've heard rumors. Mythological manifestations. This isn't isolated,
though it's the first confirmed encounter. There's another case — unverified —
out of the steppes near the old Mongolian border. Something resembling a
wyvern."
Flare folded his arms. "So,
something's changed."
Shayla's lips thinned. "Something's
evolving."
She turned off the projection and
leaned forward on the desk. "Listen to me very carefully. If the Ashen are…
adapting — not just in form, but in function — then every doctrine we've built
over the last thirty years needs reassessment. I'll be assembling a new
investigative task force. Quiet. I want your squad close to it."
"Of course," Flare said.
Shayla hesitated for a beat longer
than necessary, then shifted subjects — but her tone softened just a fraction.
"There's a new assignment heading your
way as well. A transfer. He's from the American training division. High marks.
Quiet, disciplined. Kazura, Kai."
Marcos lifted a brow. "That so? Fresh
meat?"
"He's not completely green. Tested
well above standard. They're placing him with you because he's shown a unique
psychological resistance profile."
"Translation?" Flare asked.
Shayla's eyes met his, unflinching.
"He doesn't flinch in the face of death. And he has no known ties. Which makes
him perfect… or problematic."
Flare glanced at Marcos. "We'll vet
him properly."
"You'd better." Shayla's voice cooled
again, regaining that hard edge. "If this evolution spreads, I'll need squads I
can trust. Not just with their aim — with their instincts."
Marcos rose, brushing imaginary dust
from his pants. "Well then. Let's go meet our new shadow."
Shayla stood as well, her gaze
lingering on Marcos half a second longer than was proper — soft, warm, and
quickly buried beneath steel. "Dismissed."
As they left the HQ chamber, Flare
didn't say anything right away.
Marcos, of course, broke the silence.
"You feel that?"
"What?"
"She's worried. The myth-beast rattled
her."
Flare nodded. "Yeah."
Marcos smirked faintly. "And she
totally still has a thing for me."
Flare snorted. "You're delusional."
"No. I'm observant."
They stepped into the elevator,
heading down into the parking level.
"Shadow-boy's arrival is gonna
complicate things," Flare said. "I can feel it."
Marcos cracked his knuckles. "Then
let's make sure he knows who he's stepping in with."