The Tower of Laws rose like a hollow crown over Topaz City, stone spiraling up, open to the skies, packed with a million bodies and a million opinions. Below, the holoview replayed the same moment again and again:

  A silver line, too fast to be real, stitching the air.

  Claude dropping.

  The Dycordian crowd sat stunned into silence, like someone had snuffed their fire with a damp towel. A few humans cheered anyway, small, sounds that bounced around the Tower’s enormous throat.

  Avia Zareil stood at the very edge where a roof should have been, hair and cloak tugged by a stiff wind, pointed ears flexing with the gusts. Rigid brow carved her expression into something stern and unmovable.

  And inside that sternness—

  —Oh. So the Human wins. Doesn’t matter. I can handle them. Both of them. One after the other, like brushstrokes. Clean and final.

  She looked away from the holoview and out across Topaz’s boulevards; non-linear design, semi-patterned chaos, beauty that wanted to be art and couldn’t quite stop being infrastructure.

  Then the metal caught her eye. There was so much of it everywhere.

  —Metal, the bones of their city. Like a disease. No wonder their spirits feel… soft. No wonder their towers need crutches.

  Avia stepped into empty air and dropped.

  Wind screamed up past her face. The curved roof of Assembly Hall rushed toward her.

  At the last breath of impact, her Soul Style flickered, silver aura, only visible to the few who could see such things, and her Aura Cloak swallowed the collision. She landed like a queen; no crater or cracks, so no apology needed.

  And then she ran across the roof, over the curve, into a long leap that carried her to the next building with the ease of someone born to be chased by history and never caught.

  —Ten minutes. Aura Cloak needs ten minutes. Plenty of time to plan.

  Topaz stretched below her like a painted map, the Tower of Laws looming behind her. The carnival’s music drifted on the wind in thumping waves.

  And Avia moved, building to building, like a blade skimming water.

  —Their architecture is… almost respectable. Non-linear, semi-pattern, beautiful like a painting. And then, that abominable substance. Metal in every seam and joint of this place. These two clash, yet compliment each other, like two sisters.

  She vaulted again and the memory hit her hard enough to steal her breath.

  PAST

  Zareil Castle was not just a three-kilometer stone structure. It was towns folded around it like loyal children around a cruel parent. The courtyard glittered with glass statues of old royals—semi-opaque, dignified, cold.

  Four sisters sat on grass beneath the keep, eating pastries.

  Anya smiled at the statues. “Mom would’ve loved these.”

  Young Avia looked up fast. “Really? Did mom really like puffs?”

  “Sure did,” Anya said. “Her favorite was joval cream.”

  Avia brightened. “That’s mine too!”

  Zetori, older and already sharpening herself into a weapon, smirked. “You two even look alike.”

  Avia’s voice went small. “Would mom have liked me?”

  Zella’s hand found Avia’s shoulder. Warm. Steady. “She would love you, Avia.”

  Then a voice like a slamming door.

  “We’ll never know…”

  King Zareil approached in red and black, regal attire, eyes like daggers. His daughters lifted their heads as if bracing for impact.

  “…since you killed her.”

  Anya stood, fire in her spine. “Father! For the very last time, enough. You will not—”

  “I will do as I please—”

  “Not when it comes to Avia! Act like a true father and—”

  The ground began to shake.

  Glass statues toppled. Stone groaned and the keep shuddered.

  The sisters stumbled; the King did not. He stood too steady, like the world shaking was something he could conquer.

  “Another quake!” he barked. “Girls, away from the castle!”

  Avia did not hear. She was screamed and staggered toward the keep entrance like a moth toward flame. A chunk of the keep’s wall collapsed, slamming down meters from her, dust rose like a ghost.

  Anya rushed, pushing Avia away from the falling stone and tripped as more rock rained down. The King snatched Avia up and ran.

  As they fled, Avia’s eyes caught something in the rubble: an arm. Anya’s arm, jutting from stone and mortar like the world wanted to be sure to haunt her dreams.

  The quake ended as abruptly as it began.

  Three sisters and a father remained, huddled and shaking—except the father’s shaking was rage, not grief. He dropped Avia hard enough that her ribs screamed.

  Royal guards arrived, forming defensive positions as if the enemy was out there they could fight.

  “Take the weak one to the faith healers,” King Zareil ordered. “I will retrieve their sister’s body.”

  Avia sobbed as she was carried away, bruised and broken, her sisters’ hands clinging to her.

  And King Zareil’s eyes said what his mouth always would: This is your fault.

  PRESENT

  Avia landed on another roof in Topaz City, breath steady, steps precise. She felt it before she heard it: A second Soul, moving fast. Then another, following her.

  —Does he think he’s sneaky? I slowed down so the moron could keep up. But why is he following me? Curiosity? Perversion?

  Dycordians do love their metal and their nonsense, but also privacy.

  She reached the last roof on the block and paused, looking down into a clearing where her dragonfly slept.

  Zelda Ann, her lovely beautiful friend. Her snoring vibrated the oval structure like a drumbeat under stone. Avia felt the two behind her stop as well.

  She turned and gave them the look her father used to give her at breakfast, the one that meant you don't matter. They froze and she snorted.

  —Try it. I dare you.

  Then she stepped off the roof again, this time without her Aura Cloak, because she didn’t need it for this.

  She hit the ground light and clean. Zelda Ann woke immediately, enormous eyes shifting, black and yellow pupils dilating as Avia approached, laying a hand on the dragonfly’s snout.

  “Hey, Zelda Ann,” she murmured. “Been getting enough rest?”

  The beast rumbled softly, gaze tilting upward toward the rooftops. Avia didn’t look back right away.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re harmless.”

  Then she finally glanced up. Two men stared down at her: Kane and Claude. Fear or wonder had tangled their faces into something almost honest.

  Avia gave them a last look of contempt, sharp enough to cut, and walked into Zelda Ann’s open mouth.

  Pillars of teeth welcomed her; tongue soft beneath her tough montusk-hide boots. The inside was fog-glass, walls, ceiling, floor, like someone had built a cathedral inside a living throat.

  —I’m sorry this was done to you. Once this is over, I’m pulling all of it out. Every bit of it.

  Her two Syncs waited deeper inside, one doing pushups, the other reading.

  They ignored her. She ignored them back, entering a separate chamber. A small wooden box sat by the far wall. She sat cross-legged beside it, exhaled, and opened it like it contained something poisonous.

  The omniband gleamed. Avia picked it up with two fingers and snapped it to her right wrist. She closed her eyes, head against the fog-glass wall.

  —Put the collar on. Smile for the galaxy. Be their entertainment, their… gallery.

  Her fortitude didn’t bend. It simply tightened.

  PAST

  Teenage Avia sat on the lush violet grass on the southeast side of Zareil Castle. The castle itself was around five hundred yards behind her, and the sawhorse stables were even further to her left. She could barely see the stable hands as specks milling about the six legged sawhorses.

  The bright grass went on for another thirty feet to her right before dropping off, the burgundy roofs of East Zareil visible in the distance. Before her stood her sisters, each in their respective combat stance at ten paces. They both were breathing hard, sweat soaking their hair and clothes, chests rising and falling in the same stubborn rhythm, two storms pretending they were calm.

  Zetori’s gaze flicked to Zella’s feet, then to her hands, then to the angle of her shoulders. Zella did the same. Identical assessment. Identical patience. Identical readiness. They were built equal by blood and sharpened equal by years.

  “I think it’s time we got serious,” Zetori said, voice rough with effort and joy. “Psti-hon-we.”

  The word snapped out like a command to the universe. With dramatic flair, Zetori swept her palms apart as if pulling a curtain open, and a wiry length of gray stone appeared between her hands—no soil torn up, no ground needed, just pure conjured reality.

  The stone lash unfurled to twenty-five feet and cracked with a sound like a whip and a rolling stone arguing over who was louder. Zetori settled into a squared stance, hips coiling, heel digging in; she didn’t swing like someone showing off magic. She swung like someone throwing a straight punch—clean, disciplined, brutal.

  The stone whip shot toward Zella’s ribs. Zella pivoted on the ball of her foot, torso turning just enough to let the lash skim air where flesh had been. Her guard stayed high, chin tucked. She moved like a lesson, like a warning. Like the same old forms their instructors had beaten into them until it lived in their bones.

  Zetori snapped her wrist and redirected. The lash curved, hunted, came again, this time for Zella’s legs.

  Zella dropped low and rolled, shoulder leading, then rose out of it into stance without a wobble. The whip hissed overhead and shed inch-sized fragments as it passed, the bits of stone dropping behind her like crumbs. They should’ve been pebbles, but they were not. Each fragment hit the field with impossible weight, leaving boulder-sized craters that punched up dirt and violet grass. Avia’s eyes widened despite herself.

  Zella didn’t spare the craters a glance. She stepped in, closing the distance the way fighters did when they refused to be herded. Her Soul Style answered her intent: water gathered along her forearm in a crystal-blue sheath, dense and pressurized, shimmering as if light had become liquid. Steam curled off it in thin ribbons where her heat met the air.

  Zella drove a tight, straight punch up the line of the incoming lash. Water met stone with a sound like a drum in a storm.

  The stone whip shattered into a spray of harmless pebbles that rained down without the impossible weight, as if Zella’s strike had stripped the conjuration of its cruelty. Without pausing, Zella slid her rear foot forward, turned her hips, and thrust both palms out. A rolling wall of water surged from her hands, not a wild flood, but a disciplined push shaped like a moving shield. Heat built inside it, turning its surface glossy, then fogging into steam along its edges.

  Zetori’s smile flashed. “Erb-faul-wier.”

  A war club composed of flame snapped into existence in her grip, the handle solid as if carved from invisible wood, the head a bright, roaring mass. Zetori chambered it like a baton, stance set, shoulders squared, and swung in a wide arc with the same mechanics as a hook punch.

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  The flaming club stretched as it moved, swelling to the length of three commoner homes lined in a row, a ridiculous weapon made believable by Zetori’s perfect control. It slammed into Zella’s advancing water-wall and the impact roared. Water vaporized instantly. Steam exploded outward so fast the field vanished behind a curtain of white.

  Heat rolled over Avia’s face. Through the fog, Zetori shifted with crisp steps, light on her feet, weapon up, listening. Zella’s presence moved like a current, quiet and deliberate.

  —This is ’El you’re fighting. You don’t notice that section of steam moving in the wrong direction?

  A Zella-shaped form slid through the mist from the right, too obvious. Zetori’s mouth curled.

  “Raxai.”

  Zetori chopped her empty hand across her body in a knife-hand motion, then cut sideways.

  The cut didn’t just slice air, it was air. A gust snapped outward and ripped the fog sideways in a sheet. The decoy silhouette tumbled back, unraveling into scattered vapor. At the same instant, Zella appeared above Zetori, real this time, dropping with a knee tucked and a heel angled down, steam spiraling around her limbs like armor that breathed.

  Zetori looked up just in time to raise her Aura Cloak. A translucent shimmer flared around her, barely visible, like heat haze, and it caught Zella’s descending strike with a dull flash. The cloak absorbed the impact. Zetori slid back a full yard anyway, boots carving grooves into violet grass, and her grin turned feral.

  Avia blinked, dazzled by the rhythm, by the way their bodies moved like mirror reflections that hated each other. She rose to get closer to the action.

  Zella vanished into steam and reappeared above again, descending fast, wrapped in heat and water like a comet’s tail. Zetori had only time to look up before Zella crashed into her with a shoulder strike that carried both of them down in a violent burst of steam and pressure. The impact detonated into a tight explosion, a ring that expanded across the grass.

  Avia was thrown off her feet and landed hard on her back. The world flashed white. She grunted, breath knocked out, pain blooming along her side like a wound drawn by a cruel artist.

  —Rib. Maybe two. Same pain as always.

  Avia rose slowly to her feet, eyes on the rising smoke cloud. She could hear them both grunting before they exited the grey fog from different points, skidding in the grass. Deep grooves were left in the ground as they halted their momentum.

  Zella changed the temperature around Zetori, heat drained from the air around the conjured invisible axe made of air. The moisture tightened into frost, then thickened into ice, clinging to the weapon, making it visible.

  Zella vaulted and drove a short, brutal punch into the frozen edge. Ice shattered into shards that peppered Zetori’s shoulder and thigh. She staggered, then dropped to one knee, breath sharp. The axe gone.

  Zella stopped an arm’s length away, still in stance, steam curling from her fists like smoke from a forge.

  “Do you yield?” Zella asked.

  Zetori’s eyes flashed. “Gif-tink-hgl!”

  Zetori thrust two fingers forward like a snapping strike, a blinding pop of light, so bright, Avia had to shield her eyes. When she lowered her arm, Zella stood unmoved, Zetori’s hand still outstretched and trembling from the effort. Zetori dropped her arm with a disgusted huff.

  “I hate Aura Cloaks.”

  “You used yours earlier,” Zella said, breathing hard but steady.

  “I hate others’ Aura Cloaks.”

  Avia coughed up blood, just a little, but enough to put her sisters on alert. Both women turned toward her for the briefest moment, alarm flashing across their faces before they forced it back down.

  “Do you—” Zella started.

  “I yield,” Zetori cut in, voice clipped. “I’m out of Talent anyway.”

  Zella relaxed and with a slow, careful exhale, she sent warmth through the air. The ice embedded in Zetori softened and slid free without tearing, melting into harmless steam.

  “What the hell was that last spell?” Zella asked.

  “A lightning dagger,” Zetori said, rolling her shoulder as slimy wonder mollusks were pressed to her wounds, their antenna twitching rapidly. “Can’t hold it longer than a second. I’m fine, go check Lil Big.”

  Zella’s Quickening had her next to Avia in a flash. Avia’s almost sickly thin frame rocked slightly as she stood upright, stern expression refusing to match the blood at her lips. Zella’s hands were gentle on Avia’s right side.

  “Got too close, Lil Big.”

  “Only happens once every forty years,” Avia muttered. “I wanted a good seat.”

  Zetori walked up, injuries knitting under the mollusks’ work, her eyes flicking from Avia’s blood to Zella’s tired face.

  “So,” Zetori said, “have you decided?”

  “Yes.” Avia’s voice didn’t waver. “I will learn Soul Style.”

  “What!” Zetori snapped. “No! Just because she won!?”

  “That’s not it, Tori.”

  Zella studied Avia carefully. “Are you sure about this? To be honest, Tori’s conjurations might suit you better.”

  “Magic weapons are easy to conjure,” Zetori added quickly, as if selling it would make her change her mind. “Moderate Talent cost. Easy to wield.”

  “For someone my size,” Avia said, deadpan.

  Zetori shrugged. “Unarmed and unarmored combat for you is like a faith healer without a crystal ball. Useless.”

  “Zetori!” Zella snapped.

  “Sorry,” Zetori said, not sorry at all. “But I’m not saying anything none of us don’t know.”

  “Then the reason for saying such things is redundant,” Zella replied, irritated and protective in the same breath.

  Avia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Father said I can choose one of you to teach me your Style. Zella is a much better teacher. We all know it.”

  Zetori smiled, sharp and affectionate. “Sensitive much?”

  “She will not go easy on me.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  A shadow fell over them like a verdict.

  “As if you are strong enough.”

  King Zareil strode across the grassy field toward them, royal garb untouched by sweat, eyes already loaded with contempt. He looked at Avia like she was a problem that refused to solve itself.

  “If falling on your ass broke two ribs,” he said, “how do you plan on surviving the training, let alone what lays beyond the Door? Even Zetori was afraid.”

  “Not afraid to admit it either,” Zetori muttered. “Not that being reminded every day isn’t pissing me off though.”

  “Soul Style’s base abilities will make me stronger,” Avia said, chin lifting.

  “Ten times your current strength is still weak.” King Zareil didn’t even blink. Then, cruelty complete, he looked at Zella. “Anyway. Congratulations. You are Pia’s ninety-ninth Superstar.”

  Zella’s smile was small and wrong. “Hurray.”

  —When it’s my turn…everybody will acknowledge my strength. Father included.

  PRESENT

  Roxy’s voice crackled across holoview feeds everywhere.

  “Betting block ends in a minute! Get those ballots in! And now, the Ksushest of Ksushs, our color correspondent Grodin!”

  Grodin stood in a downpour, using a third arm to hold an umbrella like a man trying to remain dignified while nature laughed at him. Behind him, Pian women held hands outside a castle drawbridge, their line snaking around siege walls like a living accusation.

  “Don’t forget,” Grodin said smoothly, “former host as well, Roxy. I'm here where dozens of Pian women have surrounded the home of King Zareil of the Coalition. I received word of this protest and came to investigate. Excuse me, ma'am. Why are you protesting?"

  A Pian woman with one long ear missing and a scar over her rigid brow snarled at him.

  “That so-called Superstar is royal trash! She represents no one!”

  Others shouted over her:

  “She schemed her way into being Superstar!”

  “It should’ve been someone from Biquin!”

  “We will protest here and Castle Biquin until she drops!”

  Grodin leaned in, curious. “What did she do exactly?”

  “That is for Pian ears only!” the scarred woman snapped. “We want her disqualified and replaced!”

  “And who was—”

  “Mr. Grodin, sir?”

  Grodin’s smile tightened like a noose. It was his cast-bot. “Why are you talking while we are live—”

  “We are no longer live. Miss Roxy cut feed five seconds ago.”

  ---

  Music pumped through Topaz City’s streets. Voices shouted in a dozen languages. Above, images spun like slots in a machine until they settled on a place of steely machinery, workers swarming around industrial giants.

  Cheers erupted, Roxy practically sang the announcement.

  “It’s the Factory! Mainstay of planet Quil! Will the lives of the workers matter to our Superstars? Sometimes they don’t! Let’s find out!”

  ---

  Teleportation snapped Avia into a world of overhead lights and grinding machines. The first thing she did was grimace, hard enough that some viewers probably assumed stomach pains.

  —Of course it’s metal. It's everywhere.

  Workers of multiple species scrambled around them, trying to pretend a deathmatch wasn’t happening ten feet from their machines.

  A Coojur manipulated levers with taloned hands. A Tilris fought a thick tube into place. A Human and Dycordian argued over a datapad while replacing components in a roller machine the size of a sawhore stable. Her gaze swept the floor.

  —They’re watching. Kane and Claude. Morihilus. Narshira. All of them. Good. Let them see what “weak” looks like.

  A shrill scream of sparks cut through the factory noise. A complicated goo-machine spat silver sparks behind it, bright enough to silhouette the man posing on top.

  Seven feet tall. Heavily muscled. Black shoulder-length hair. Three arms, the third curling over his head like a scorpion tail.

  Gold aura flickered around him and he threw his voice like he was throwing a planet.

  “The most extravagant man in the galaxy has arrived! Galactic Wrestling Association Universal Champion twenty years running! Star of the hit movie Third Arm of Death! The one and only—”

  “Who put fireworks on my machine!? Garrin, you’re fired!”

  “It wasn’t me!”

  Gorjon cleared his throat, an ear pollution noise.

  He hopped down, the floor boomed beneath him, that Avia felt it through her soles. He stomped closer, stopped six feet away, and regarded her stance with amusement.

  “As I was saying,” he continued, undeterred, “I’m Gorjon. And you look… sickly. I have never seen such a slim Pian. Is this a joke?”

  Avia stayed in her ready posture: hands near center, legs set, weight balanced.

  —Buffoon, but dangerous. 'El said he gave her trouble. Stolen tricks and an ego large enough to require its own geodome. Painting a portrait. Beat him in two hits. Current gauge: empty.

  Gorjon lifted two arms in a grand “what is this” gesture, the third arm curling like it wanted to slap the air.

  “What is wrong with Pia that they keep sending females?” he boomed. “Your power style must be beast to stand before greatness and not tremble. What is it?”

  Avia didn’t answer. Silence is a weapon when your opponent is addicted to applause.

  Gorjon leaned forward, grinning. “Silent type, eh? Fine. I’ll force you to show me.”

  He came in with a haymaker that could have caved a steel wall. Avia ducked under it so clean it felt like art. She Quickened back the way he approached, just out of range.

  Gorjon skidded, turning fast, surprisingly controlled. His eye tracked her, black iris sharp. He chopped with a knife-edge and Avia rolled left.

  —Intent. He’s aiming to hurt, not kill. Only a drip, not a flood.

  He kept attacking. Punches. Grabs. A shove meant to set up a slam. Kicks heavy enough to dent one of the devil machines. Avia dodged everything. And smiled, not because it was funny, but working.

  —Yes. Swing. Miss. Try harder. Get angry. Fill the gauge.

  Gorjon paused, hands on hips, third arm gesturing like a preacher mid-sermon.

  “What’s the deal?” he demanded. “The fans didn’t wait a decade to watch us dance around. Fight back! Or does my awesome physique give you hesitation? I can see past that smile. You’re terrified.”

  Avia finally spoke, voice smooth as fog-glass.

  “And you’re terrible. Keep swinging and missing. I’m enjoying the exercise.”

  Gorjon laughed, loud, obnoxious, and, annoyingly, genuine.

  “Tell me your Soul Style, small fry! The SRC didn’t specify. Only ‘Aura-specific.’”

  Avia stayed silent again. Gorjon’s grin widened as if he’d solved a riddle.

  “I knew you looked familiar,” he said. “You’re smaller, but you resemble one of the only two female Pians I ever fought. You’re related to Zella Zareil.”

  Avia straightened to her full height, still nowhere near his, and her smile vanished.

  “You waste my time,” she said. “If you plan on talking, I’ll find someone else to hit.”

  “Then stop running,” Gorjon snapped.

  “You’re so slow,” Avia replied, and Gorjon closed the gap in a blur that wasn’t fast compared to her, but was fast enough to punish arrogance.

  A dropkick smashed into her guard. Her forearms took it, her bones didn’t forgive it. She flew backward and hit a machine hard enough to knock a worker off his perch.

  The worker looked at her like she was the inconvenience, climbed back up, and resumed repairs while still scowling.

  Avia’s forearms were bent. Pain rushed into her senses.

  —Good. That’s better. More intent. More fuel. Need to use what I've garnered to heal.

  Her Soul Style pulsed, silver aura flashing. Bone snapped back into place. Flesh stitched. Pain retreated, leaving a cold clarity behind. Gorjon watched, impressed and greedy.

  “So you heal quickly,” he said. “That’ll be useful in my arsenal. But first I wear you down. That’s how professionals do it.”

  His skin turned to steel, metal crawling over muscle. Avia’s jaw tightened.

  —Metal on skin, pretending to be strength. Disgusting.

  Then flame enveloped his arms, bright orange, licking and hungry.

  “I got this from Zella,” Gorjon bragged. “Flame creation and control.”

  He rushed with a rapid series of flaming punches, afterimages streaking across the cameras. Avia ducked and slipped and pivoted, near-misses singed her hair. Her enhanced clothing resisted the worst, but heat still kissed skin.

  —Still not killing intent. He’s showing off. He wants cheers, not a corpse.

  During a particularly stupid opening, Avia Quickened right in front of his face and stuck out her tongue. A childish insult, sharp as a dagger when used at the right time.

  Gorjon recoiled like she’d slapped his pride. He threw a straight punch which she vaulted over and onto his third flaming arm on one leg. She balanced with a dancer's’s grace, the other leg stretching high, then flipped away before he could grab her.

  Gorjon’s expression darkened. "Dare make a fool of me,” he growled.

  Wind washed over the factory floor. Gorjon lifted into the air, calm smile returning like a mask. He inhaled deeply, theatrically.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the Papuru Galaxy!” he roared. “Bear witness to my new devastating technique: Tri-fire!"

  Three fireballs formed, one per fist, then linked by licking flames into a triangle. Avia smiled tightly.

  —Now we’re talking.

  He hurled it down. Avia dodged, easily. The triangle hit a machine instead. Metal melted into a smoking slug. Workers scattered, screaming about quotas and survival in equal measure.

  Gorjon rained Tri-fire again and again, precise enough to threaten her without catching her, until Avia started moving near machines on purpose.

  —You want the crowd? Then watch them flee.

  Watch your applause run away from you.

  Tri-fire blasted more machinery, goo turning black and brittle like charred logs. Only the hardiest workers stayed. Avia kept moving, the gauge climbed. Not from getting hit, she didn’t need to.

  FLASHBACK

  Avia was painting a memorial portrait: her mother and Anya as fog-glass sculptures, smiling over a field of daffodils. Her brush moved with deliberate strokes, her other hand held a silver-black piece of coal on a string around her neck. She spoke softly to the statues.

  “Well, mom. Anya. It’s almost time. Another hour and I’ll have had this soul stone for one hundred and eleven days. But I won’t use it until I finish your portrait.”

  “The life of an illustrator agrees with you. A great talent. You should focus on it rather than failing at being Superstar.”

  King Zareil walked past her, trampling daffodils without noticing.

  “They are dead,” he said of the statues. “One from giving birth. One from staving death. Both because of you.”

  Avia’s brush paused. “You remind me enough,” she said.

  He caressed his late wife’s glass cheek. “I was hesitant,” he continued, “because I know you will die. And your mother and sister would have wasted their lives saving you. But then I realized… I couldn’t protect you forever.”

  He turned, face oddly blank.

  “If you live, Zella will sacrifice herself for you. Zetori as well. Losing three women I love is better than losing four and having just you.”

  Avia’s eyes narrowed. “Losing three women you love? Who’s the third?”

  “If you enter the Door,” he said, “you will die.”

  Then he walked away, leaving Avia with the daffodils and the statues and a vow that tasted like iron.

  —You will regret that, father. Every word.

  PRESENT

  Avia stopped moving.

  Gorjon hovered above, smiling down like a god who’d mistaken popularity for divinity.

  “Show me your Soul Style!” he demanded.

  He formed a Tri-fire blast three times larger than before. Workers bolted, finally deciding money was not worth being turned into ash.

  Gorjon’s voice sharpened. “Even if I must crush my beloved fans to do it, you will show me!”

  Avia dropped to one knee, fist touching the metal floor. Her hatred surged like a storm trapped in a room. She forced it into focus, like a painter deciding where the darkest color belongs.

  —Strategic retreat ends when the enemy believes it’s permanent. They assume you’ll keep fleeing. Watch this.

  Her Aura Cloak flickered on, silver aura flaring, and she launched herself upward, into the descending firestorm. The cloak drank heat, the air screamed around her.

  Avia burst out of the flames with a fist already moving with a punch so fast, even a galaxy champion wouldn't see it coming. Her knuckles struck Gorjon’s face mid-promo.

  He hit the geodome wall first. The dome stretched like rubber, then snapped him back through a machine and into the floor with a boom that rattled bolts loose.

  Blue goo sprayed everywhere, splattering his steel skin and hair. Gorjon blinked, dazed, covered in adhesive humiliation.

  “I’m ok!” he shouted automatically, his one free arm flailing. “My Aura Cloak saved me! What is this, glue? This can’t keep me—”

  Avia dropped from above like a meteor. Knee to chin, fist between his eyes. Gorjon’s free arm dropped like it was boneless.

  Avia stood over him, breathing steady, face stern, eyes bright with something that wasn’t cruelty but certainty.

  “My Soul Style,” she said, “is Violence.”

  Roxy’s ten count was a formality.

  “Ten! And the winner, Superstar Avia!”

  Workers didn’t cheer, they merely returned to work or started clearing debris, irritated more about damaged machinery than anything else.

  Avia didn’t care.

  —Gauge: empty. Portrait: complete.