Cold.
Freya curled into herself on the metallic floor, her breath fogging in the frigid air.
The prison was a tomb of steel and shadow, its walls slick with condensation that dripped like tears in the dim violet glow of the Eclipticon's underbelly.
Her cell was barely wide enough for her to stretch out, and the walls glowed with a faint blue hue—sickly and sterile, like everything else in this place. Time didn't pass here. The lights never changed. No clocks. No windows. No sun.
Just silence. And cold.
How many days has it been?
They'd stripped her of everything. Her clothes, her dignity, even her name. Now, she was "Specimen 43." Another failed experiment, another unwanted prisoner. Not good enough to be soldier, not weak enough to discard.
She clenched her teeth, pressing her forehead against the floor. The chill burned her skin. Her wrists were bruised where they had strapped her down. Her neck still ached from the injections.
And beneath her ribcage, just under the skin—something ached. Deep, slow pulses. A pain that didn't belong to any wound.
I'm not going to break.
But her body trembled anyway.
From across the wall, a voice barked orders in clipped Spectral. Footsteps passed. Metallic boots. They never stopped at her cell.
Good. Let them forget me. I'll survive. I'll survive even if I rot in here.
Something flickered inside her—rage, shame, desperation. A tight knot that refused to release. Her nails dug into the floor. No tears came. Not anymore.
Why am I still alive? Why did they save me just to leave me here?
Her vision blurred. The knot of pain pressed outward, squeezing her chest. She choked down the panic and curled tighter.
Then—
A whisper.
Soft. Male. Deep as echoing steel.
Endure.
She flinched upright, breath caught in her throat.
What—?
She stared around the cell, heart thudding. Nothing. No one. Only the faint thrum of distant generators and her own panicked heartbeat.
I'm hallucinating. Sleep deprivation. It's in my head.
Then again—
You will not die here, Freya.
Her blood turned to ice.
No one here knows my name.
She stood slowly, bracing against the wall, eyes wide. "Who's there?" she whispered aloud. Her voice was raw. Weak. No answer came from the corridor.
But inside her skull—the voice remained.
You are more than this cage.
She staggered back, hitting the opposite wall. Her hands trembled. "What are you? Where are you?"
No reply. Just that heavy, brooding presence. Watching. Listening.
You are soft, the voice murmured again, fainter. But not broken.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
I'm going mad.
"Get out of my head."
Nothing.
Silence returned. But something shifted in her chest—some pulse beneath the skin, warm and alien.
She pressed her palm just under her ribs, where the phantom pain always throbbed.
Was something… inside her?
Suddenly, memories crashed in—
The battlefield. The explosion. Being dragged from the mud, half-conscious, voices shouting in Spectral dialect. A light. Blue and blinding. Cold hands on her face. Something sharp piercing her skin.
Then—
Darkness.
She gasped, stumbling forward.
Did they implant something in me? Did they put a Spectral inside me?
The voice hadn't sounded like the doctors. It didn't mock or scold. It had weight. Command. And something else beneath it—grief? Anger?
Or was it trying to protect me?
Freya leaned her forehead against the wall and whispered into the stillness, "Who are you?"
A pause.
Then a whisper, not in words—but a sensation.
Ancient steel. Fire-touched memory. A throne on a world she had never seen. And a name spoken in breathless silence—
Vaelan.
Her heart seized.
The name echoed like thunder in her mind, fading fast. The presence withdrew.
Silence again. But the air felt different now. Thicker. Charged.
She dropped to her knees, panting. Hands trembling.
I'm not crazy.
Someone's in here with me.