My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy
Chapter 145: Red Runner

Chapter 145: Red Runner

Vexen muttered, "She’s raw, but real," rifle cocking. Nexis laughed, flame Ikona blazing, "Show fire!" tossing a drone, ash swirling. Zykra nodded, silent. Roachaline’s Coercive Pulse pressed, "Prove it at the core’s heart," her knife glinting, trick hidden, believers chanting, "Blood binds!" Vardency’s crimson dust settling, tension a blade, the reactor’s glow roaring.

The core plaza of the Federation command post lay in wreckage, shattered bunkers slumped around cooling reactor conduits. Vardency’s dusk bled red across the ruins.

Roachaline Vaslix sat on a looted crate, a gash along her ribs aching with every breath. Blood crusted her fatigues, the smell of oil and scorched metal thick in the air. She lit a cigarette, the ember’s glow flickering in her pale gray eyes, and exhaled slow.

Across the plaza, the believers’ chants drifted from the skiffs — "Shards rule!" — the red flags whipping in the smoky sky. Her insect Ikona rested against the crate, claws folded, its red shard dim, violet shard thrumming low against the weight in her chest. Ravel Cyn’s absence pressed heavier than the wound.

The crate creaked as she shifted. Pain bit deeper, hollowing out the fading high still lingering in her blood. Beyond the broken walls, the plains stretched blood-soaked and empty, dotted with the shells of outposts burned during the alien attack years ago.

Roachaline muttered under her breath, voice rough. "Ravel’d carve this."

Ash tumbled from her cigarette as her scarred fingers trembled.

Around her, the believers moved in steady rhythm, hauling crates and stripped tech from the rubble. Roachaline’s gaze caught on Lyra — the rogue — crouched near a skiff, cleaning her blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Her wind Ikona stood still at her side, cyan shard pulsing soft against the gloom.

Sylira crouched near a sparking console, wire Ikona weaving through burnt circuits, blue shard flaring against the gloom. Blood crusted her thigh where a gash split the fabric, the sting sharp with each shift. She tossed a broken drone aside with a grunt, sparks hissing as it clattered across the ground.

"This junk’s older than my mentor’s ghost," she quipped, the grin on her lips sharper than it felt. Fear flickered underneath — fear of failing the woman who’d taught her shardwork, now long lost to the alien fires.

Sylira leaned back on her heels, glancing sideways at Lyra, her grin softening.

"Where’d your wind come from, Lyra? Alien spire tech or what?"

The question hung in the oily air, quiet between the crackle of burning debris and the low thrum of distant engines.

Lyra paused, her knife glinting under the fractured light.

The cyan shard at her chest pulsed once, brighter.

She straightened, braid swaying against her ash-dusted fatigues, and wiped the grime from her cheek with the back of her hand. Her eyes stayed wary — but defiant.

"Federation lab," she said. Her voice was steady, but a crack ran through it.

"They fused me with a shard from a crashed spire. Alien. Alive. Like a storm bottled in crystal."

Lyra’s fingers tightened around the knife, knuckles whitening.

"They caged me for it."

Across the clearing, Roachaline’s gaze sharpened. She caught the desperation bleeding under Lyra’s words — the hunger for belonging. It mirrored too much of her own.

Zykra stood a few paces off, the Shadow Veil bleeding out from her frame, the violet shard at her chest dim and heavy.

She worked silently, sorting scavenged shards into battered crates, each movement precise despite the blood seeping through her bandaged arm. Pain pulsed there — constant, ignored.

Guilt, heavier than pain, gnawed deeper.

A sibling lost in the alien fires. A scream she hadn’t silenced.

Zykra hesitated, shards clicking in her gloved hands.

"Spire shards are rare," she said at last, voice low, almost toneless.

"Did it choose you?"

Ash drifted through the air, settling on her bloodied knuckles.

Vexen leaned against a skiff, rifle balanced across her knees. Her hawk Ikona perched above her, amber eyes sharp, green shard glowing steady at her collarbone.

Blood flecked Vexen’s cropped hairline where a graze split the skin, but her focus stayed locked on Lyra — unblinking.

"Could you fill Ravel’s boots?"

Her voice cut through the plaza, clipped, sharp as the edge of a blade.

Above them, the hawk screeched once, wings flaring before settling again.

Vexen’s fingers shifted along the rifle’s worn grip, the movement tight with tension.

Around them, the believers’ chant rose — "Blood binds!" — steady and pulsing, threading through the dusk like a second heartbeat.

Torqa hauled a crate across the plaza, his leg wound throbbing beneath the blood-soaked bandage, the ochre shard at his chest dimming with each step. His stone Ikona lumbered beside him, grinding a slow path through the rubble. He growled at a believer blocking his way, the sound thick with defiance that barely masked the exhaustion dragging at his broad frame. "Move, or I’ll crush you," he snapped, voice low and raw.

He paused at the skiff, tossing the crate down with a heavy thud, and glanced toward Lyra. A scoff broke from him, rough around the edges. "We beat sky-beasts during the attack. Feds are nothing. Your wind better match that fire."

His words carried the Epics’ old hubris — the stubborn pride of survivors who had faced worse than anything the Federation could throw at them. Ash clotted along the torn edges of his uniform as he turned back to the work, the stench of oil and blood soaking into the dusk air.

Nexis lounged nearby, burns weeping down his forearm where his sleeve had been torn away. His orange shard pulsed in uneven beats, the flame Ikona at his back flickering with each breath. He twirled a looted grenade between calloused fingers, the metallic clink sharp against the background hum of the believers’ chants.

"Show us spark, newbie!" he called, voice pitched too high to hide the weariness bleeding through. The grin he wore was wild, but the edges had frayed. The thrill of battle was already fading, slipping into the familiar dull ache left behind.

Nexis’s gaze flickered to Roachaline across the plaza, catching the grief she wore like a second skin. His grin faltered, just for a breath, before he looked away, tossing the grenade lazily into the air once more.

Around them, the believers’ cries surged louder — "Shards rule!" — their voices a raw fire against the crumbling walls as Vardency’s long dusk pulled deeper over the broken skyline.

Roachaline ground her cigarette into the dirt beneath her boot, the ember snuffing out with a sharp hiss. Her ribs flared with pain as she straightened, violet shard thrumming louder in her chest. She twirled her knife once, the blade catching a stray gleam of dying light, then let it settle into a firm grip at her side.

Her gaze pinned Lyra where she stood, the rogue’s wind Ikona swirling faintly in the thickened air.

"What’s your shard’s heart, Lyra?" Roachaline asked, voice sharp enough to draw blood, the pressure of her coercive aura brushing the edges of the group.

The question was a blade — meant to bind or to cut.

Roachaline felt the ache of Ravel’s absence as a quiet, gnawing thing at the edge of her focus, but she buried it deep.

Lyra didn’t flinch. Her eyes locked onto Roachaline’s without wavering, the cyan shard at her chest flaring brighter.