Chapter Eight –
Corvane never slept, but tonight it felt dead.
No music, no engines, no laughter from the bars. Just the hum of power lines and the hiss of rain dripping from broken signs.
Rhea walked through it like a ghost, Luciana's blood dried on her hands. Her leather jacket was torn; her gun hung heavy at her hip. Every step echoed through streets that once bowed to the Vale name.
She stopped under a flickering streetlight. The rain caught her face, stinging her wounds like tiny knives.
That was when the memory hit — Luciana's last breath against her chest, the faint smile, the whisper that refused to fade.
"You were the only thing I didn't want to lose."
Rhea swallowed hard. Her throat burned. "Then why'd you leave me to clean it up?" she muttered to the dark.
By dawn, she reached the safehouse in South Corvane — a half-collapsed warehouse with rusted metal walls and a cot made from shipping pallets.
Inside, an old radio played static. She shut it off and dropped her bag.
The mirror on the far wall was cracked; she barely recognized the woman staring back.
Hollow eyes. Split lip. Bruises.
"Luciana Vale's shadow," she said quietly to her reflection. "That's all you are now."
She sat on the floor, gun beside her, trying to stay awake. Every time her eyes closed, she saw the tower burning again — the flash of the sniper's bullet, the way Luciana's body went limp.
She didn't cry. Not yet.
That would come later.
It was Mira who found her three days later.
Rhea had just finished patching a wound on her shoulder when the door creaked open.
"Thought you were dead," Mira said, leaning against the frame, soaked from the rain. Her dark curls clung to her face, and the pistol in her hand was shaking — though not from fear.
Rhea didn't look up. "You should've stayed gone."
Mira stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "They're saying Luciana's dead."
Rhea's jaw tightened. "They're not wrong."
Mira hesitated, studying her. "And you?"
Rhea finally met her gaze. "I'm what's left."
Silence.
Then Mira holstered her gun and sat on the edge of the cot. "I warned you. The Vale empire eats its own."
"She was trying to fix it," Rhea said quietly. "Until someone put a bullet in her."
Mira frowned. "You think it was the Seraphs?"
"No," Rhea said. "It was an inside job."
Mira stiffened. "Someone from the Vale?"
"Someone who wanted her gone," Rhea replied. "And now I'm going to find out who."
Over the next week, Rhea moved through Corvane's underbelly like a ghost made of iron.
She met with old contacts — the brokers, the fixers, the soldiers who had survived the Vale collapse.
Some helped. Most didn't.
But one name kept coming up, whispered in backrooms and alleyways:
Alera Voss.
A lieutenant in the old Vale network. Ambitious. Cold. The kind who smiled while she aimed.
"She sold Luciana out to the Seraphs," Mira said when they pieced it together. "And now she's rebuilding under their name."
Rhea stared at the map on the table — red circles marking old Vale routes, new Seraph hubs.
Alera's name was written dead center.
Her throat tightened. "Then that's where it ends."
Two nights later, Rhea found herself outside the Iron Crown nightclub — one of Alera's new strongholds.
Lights pulsed behind blacked-out windows, bass vibrating through the pavement. Armed guards at every door.
Mira handed her a comm and sighed. "If you go in there, you won't walk out."
Rhea smiled faintly. "Didn't plan to."
She walked into the club.
The smell hit first — alcohol, smoke, sweat, and danger. The crowd parted when they saw her face; old loyalties and new fears clashing in their eyes.
Alera sat on the balcony above, dressed in silk, surrounded by men who once served Luciana.
When she spotted Rhea, her smile froze.
Rhea climbed the stairs slowly, hand on her gun. "You remember me," she said.
"How could I forget?" Alera's tone was cool. "Luciana's favorite pet."
Rhea's fist clenched. "You sold her out."
"She sold us out," Alera said. "She was losing control, and she dragged all of us down with her."
"She was trying to make peace."
"She was trying to die clean." Alera stood, her own gun drawn now. "And she nearly took you with her."
For a long second, the music drowned everything — just two women facing each other on the edge of history, surrounded by ghosts.
Then Rhea said, quietly, "She didn't deserve this."
"Neither did we," Alera replied.
The first shot shattered the room's silence.
Rhea didn't remember pulling the trigger — only the sound, the flash, the way Alera stumbled backward through the glass railing.
The crowd screamed. The lights cut out.
When it was over, Rhea stood alone in the dark, breathing hard, blood dripping from her knuckles.
The weight of the gun was unbearable now.
Outside, rain poured like judgment. Mira's car waited by the curb, engine running.
Rhea got in, silent. Mira didn't ask what happened — she didn't need to.
As they drove through the ruins of Corvane, Rhea finally spoke.
"She was right."
"About what?" Mira asked softly.
"Luciana. Power doesn't keep you safe. It just teaches you how to die slower."
Mira glanced at her. "And what are you going to do now?"
Rhea looked out the window at the burning skyline.
"Finish what she started."