The High Command Chamber was a hollowed-out cathedral of cold basalt and flickering holographic displays. At the center sat a circular table of reinforced steel, where the power of the Rebellion was concentrated into five high-backed chairs.
Talisa sat in the primary seat, her posture relaxed but her eyes like flint. She had traded her tactical vest for a high-collared commander's tunic, her scarred cheek gleaming in the blue light of the tactical maps.
The Pedestal of the RebellionAt her feet, sitting on a plush velvet cushion that looked jarringly out of place against the grit of the war room, was Sofia. The charcoal silk of her tunic shimmered, and the silver collar caught the overhead lights. She sat in perfect, quiet submission, her hands folded in her lap, her sapphire eyes downcast as she leaned her head against Talisa's knee.
The other four Leaders—hardened men and women with missing limbs and souls made of shrapnel—stared at the girl with a mixture of suspicion and predatory greed.
"Explain this, Talisa," growled Varick, a man whose arm had been replaced by a crude hydraulic piston. "We're fighting a war. Why is the 'Three-Million-Perl' prize sitting under your boots instead of being interrogated in the Pit?"
Talisa didn't answer immediately. She reached down, her fingers idly catching the end of Sofia's long, tight braid. She began to unweave the tip and then re-coil it around her finger, a gesture of casual, absolute possession that made the room's air grow heavy.
"She isn't a prisoner, Varick," Talisa said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "She's my assistant. And she's the reason Wane is going to lose. Look at her. Do you feel that? The way the room doesn't feel like a grave anymore?"
The "Influence" was a soft, golden tide. Even these killers felt it—a sudden, unbidden sense that victory was possible. It was intoxicating. Talisa smiled, her hand resting heavily on Sofia's shoulder, her thumb grazing the silver collar.
The View from the RanksWhile the Wolves argued over her fate, the breakfast assembly was underway in the Lower Mess Hall, separated from the Command Tier by a thick wall of reinforced glass.
Jess stood among the rows of recruits, her tray of grey porridge untouched. Her eyes were locked on the high balcony of the Command Tier. Through the glass, she could see the silhouette of the meeting.
She saw Talisa sitting in that throne-like chair. She saw Sofia—her sister, who used to run through the emerald hills—sitting on the floor like a common pet. She saw the way Talisa's hand moved through Sofia's hair, a gesture of intimacy and ownership that felt like a hot blade in Jess's gut.
Fury boiled in her blood, but a cold, sharper emotion sat beneath it: jealousy. Not of the luxury, but of the proximity. Shewas the one who was supposed to be there. She was the one who protected Sofia. Seeing a stranger—a scarred, violent revolutionary—take her place and receive Sofia's quiet obedience made Jess want to scream.
"Easy, recruit," a guard muttered, noticing the way Jess's knuckles were turning white as she gripped the edge of the metal table. "Keep your eyes on your food and your mouth shut."
The Hand of the ServantAs the meeting adjourned, the other leaders filed out, casting lingering glances at the girl on the floor. Talisa stood, but she didn't let Sofia go. Instead, she gestured to a small, ornate table set with a private breakfast of fresh fruit and expensive pastries—luxuries stolen from High Wave supply lines.
Talisa sat in a high-backed chair and gestured to the seat directly opposite her. "Sit, Sofia."
Sofia obeyed, her movements petite and careful.
"Your first duty as my assistant," Talisa said, her voice low and demanding. She pushed a plate of sliced melon and a silver fork toward the girl. "Feed me."
Sofia's breath hitched. She looked up, her blue eyes searching Talisa's face for a joke, but she found only the hard, triumphant stare of a woman who had won. Slowly, with trembling fingers, Sofia picked up the fork. She pierced a piece of fruit and held it out, her hand shaking slightly.
Talisa leaned forward, her eyes locked on Sofia's as she took the fruit from the fork. She reached out and gripped Sofia's wrist, steadying the girl's hand, her thumb pressing against the pulse point.
Through the glass below, Jess watched the intimate display. She saw Sofia—her innocent, beautiful Sofia—performing the tasks of a high-born servant for a woman who treated her like a trophy. Jess forced her breathing to slow, but the fire in her eyes was unmistakable.
I'm coming for you, Sof, Jess vowed, her voice a silent snarl against the glass. And when I do, no one will ever touch your hair or hold your hand again.