The rusted springs of the military cot groaned as Roachaline Vaslix forced herself upright.
Dawn bled through the cracked shutters of the ruined factory, casting thin, gray lines across the grease-stained concrete floor. The air in the cramped sleeping quarters tasted of ash, stale sweat, and old copper. Outside, Vardency's relentless winds rattled the corrugated iron siding, a constant, abrasive hum that set her teeth on edge.
She dragged a hand through her tangled dark hair, her thumb brushing the jagged scar that cut a stark line across her right temple. At her chest, two shards—one a violent, burning red, the other a deep, bruised violet—thrummed against her sternum. They didn't beat in unison. They fought each other, generating a constant, sickening friction that kept her blood running unnaturally hot.
A sharp clicking echoed from the darkest corner of the room.
