Chapter 6: The Iron Grip

POV: Neoma

I didn't listen.

The energy building under my skin ignored logic. It burned. Not heat—cold. Absolute, biting frost that chewed through my nerves.

The black lightning wasn't just visual; it was a physical vibration in my marrow, demanding to be let out. Barzil’s grip on my wrist crushed the radius and ulna together, grinding bone, but he couldn't stop the Void.

"Burn," I hissed. My throat felt raw. Scraped.

I unleashed the blast.

It didn't sound like a bomb. It sounded like the world inhaling. A sudden, violent vacuum.

A sphere of absolute, light-devouring darkness erupted from my palm. Aimed point-blank at the Commander’s chest plate. The recoil snapped my shoulder back. The shockwave hit the concrete walls of the alley.

I felt the impact in my teeth before I saw the brick pulverize into dust. The air pressure dropped so fast my inner ears popped—a sharp, wet click.

Any normal man would have been vaporized. Any normal Lycan would have been thrown through the wall.

Barzil Ashfang didn't move an inch.

The air around him warped. Rippled. Heat haze meeting ice. A golden field of heavy distortion shimmered—gravity magic. He had increased his own density. My stomach dropped just looking at it. He was anchoring himself to the earth with the weight of a mountain.

My Void blast hit his chest. Flared wildly. Then crumpled against the sheer, immovable force of his will.

The backlash slammed into me.

I was thrown backward. My boots lost traction in the muck. I skidded until my spine collided with the opposite wall. Air left my lungs in a pained wheeze.

My arm screamed—muscles locking up in a cramp that twisted my fingers into a claw. The black veins pulsed painfully. The discharge left me hollowed out. Empty. Nauseous.

"Fascinating," a cool voice drifted through the dust.

I looked up. Gasping. My chest heaved, ribs aching with every intake of the toxic air.

Wolfy Vance was brushing a speck of debris from his lapel. His blue eyes were alight with clinical interest. He held a small device in his hand, tapping away at a holographic screen.

"Kinetic absorption followed by explosive redistribution," Wolfy murmured. He stared at me like I was a bacteria culture under a microscope. "And she bypassed the atmospheric friction coefficient entirely.

Commander, did you feel the temperature drop? She didn't just push the energy out; she pulled the heat from the air to fuel it."

"She nearly cracked my breastplate," Barzil growled.

The Commander walked through the settling dust. The ground shook with each step. A rhythmic thud that vibrated through the soles of my boots. His golden eyes were blazing. Not with anger.

Respect.

It made my skin crawl. Goosebumps rose on my arms. It was terrifying.

"I gave you a choice," Barzil said. He stopped over me. He blotted out the sliver of toxic sky above. Massive. Suffocating. "You chose pain."

I gathered the saliva in my mouth. It tasted of iron and dust. I spat at his boots. It was a pathetic gesture. The last defiance of a cornered animal.

"I choose breathing."

I tried to scramble up. My hand went for the knife in my boot.

He was faster.

He didn't strike me. He didn't bruise me. He simply moved with a speed that defied physics.

One hand clamped around the back of my neck. Calluses rough against my skin. The heat of his palm seared. He pinned me to the wall. The other hand grabbed my wrist before I could draw the blade. It wasn't cruel—it was absolute, efficient containment. I was a child wrestling a statue.

"Tactician," Barzil commanded.

Wolfy stepped forward. A silver pneumatic injector glinted in his hand.

"This will sting. Slightly."

"Get away from me!" I thrashed. I kicked out.

But the air grew heavy. My limbs felt like lead. Barzil’s gravity field pressed down on my muscles, making them weigh a thousand pounds. I couldn't lift my leg. Couldn't make a fist.

"Hold her steady," Wolfy said. He found the vein in my neck with practiced ease. His fingers were cool. Dry.

Hiss.

The sound was sharp. Pressurized air releasing.

The needle bit.

The cold rush of the sedative hit my bloodstream instantly. It wasn't the slow drift of sleep. It was a heavy, leaden curtain falling over my mind.

Ice flooded my veins. My heart rate plummeted—thud... thud... thud. The fight drained out of my muscles. My legs turned to water.

Barzil caught me before I hit the ground.

He scooped me up effortlessly. Hard plating against my cheek. I was held against his chest. I could smell him—overwhelmingly close. Forge smoke.

Something primal. Pine resin in winter. Musk. It clogged my nose. It was overwhelmingly masculine. Terrifyingly safe.

"Secure the perimeter," Barzil ordered the shadows. "We leave now."

My head lolled against his shoulder. My neck muscles refused to work. The world blurred at the edges. Tunnel vision setting in.

I saw the sleek, predatory shape of a Sky Anchor transport descending from the gloom. Its engines hummed with a sound I felt in my teeth.

We were rising. The lift engaged. Stomach flipped.

Through the glass viewport of the transport, I watched the Dregs fall away. The Warrens. The Scrap Fields. The only hell I had ever known. They shrank into a patchwork of grey and rust.

And then, breaking through the smog layer, I saw it.

The Obsidian Citadel.

It was a mountain of black glass and iron. A perfect, geometric dome rising from the wasteland like a dark tumor. It was beautiful. It was a prison. Bile rose in my throat.

"Sleep, little Void," Wolfy’s voice floated from somewhere to my left. "The real test begins when you wake up."

The darkness rose up to meet me. This time, I couldn't fight it off.