CHAPTER 203: RESOLUTION

Alka’s POV

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The gem rested in the hollow of her palm like a closed eye, still veined with the sticky residue of a recent past. Alka rubbed it gently with a cloth soaked in red herb solvent—precise, methodical, almost tender gestures. She hadn’t slept in two days. Not really. Just shards of consciousness between silences. The kind of wakefulness where you listen for a whisper that never comes, an expected echo, a consequence... or a curse.

The base was finally completed, a monolith of steel and stone built upon the silence of ruins, and around her, military routine was settling in. The sound of boots, murmured reports, shouted orders forced into discretion in the corridors.

She remained there, sitting in her spartan room, within the still-warm walls of freshly poured concrete. The hero’s gem shimmered faintly under the neon light. Alka wasn’t meditating. She was clinging to the image of a future she believed she could control.

And then the words fell.

At first, she caught them only as a distant rumor, drifting through the air vent. Two patrolling soldiers, careless. Their voices echoed like stones tossed into the black water of her apparent calm.

"The boy escaped, did you hear? That filthy spy from Martissant."

"Yeah... They sent the Net after him."

A cold shiver cut off her breath. She stopped rubbing. The cloth slipped from her fingers, gently, slowly. She remained perfectly still, except for her eyes, which searched for a fixed point on the bare wall.

She had planned for this possibility. Or rather, she had considered it. But not this soon. Not like this.

She had comforted herself with the idea that he wouldn’t hold out. That the interrogation would be enough. That his pride would eventually collapse into nothingness, into pain, into the slow erasure of everything he believed himself to be.

He should never have gotten out. Not in that state. Not after that.

And yet.

Dylan was alive.

And that bastard even had the strength to escape.

She didn’t move. Not even a blink. She slowly resumed cleaning the gem, as if nothing had happened. But the pressure of her fingers betrayed the storm rising beneath the surface: a turmoil of fierce guilt, shameful admiration, acidic fear, and muted frustration.

He should’ve been broken. Not... that.

He was still fighting.

Something knocked on her door. Three sharp raps. The kind that left no room for refusal.

"Enter."

A man stepped in. Simple uniform, long coat, a triangular insignia stitched on his shoulder. High command. She stood, tense.

"Rika."

"Commander."

"You heard?"

She raised a practiced eyebrow. Keep your cool.

"About the escape, yes."

He looked at her for a long time, weighing the inflection in her voice. Alka stayed frozen.

"The Death Net has been deployed. We received a report. The first squads failed to intercept him."

A heartbeat skipped. She forced herself to inhale slowly through her nose.

"Impressive," she said, her tone flat.

"Your reports on his capabilities... were incomplete. You didn’t know about his stigma?"

She fixed an imaginary point on the wall, pretending to think.

"He didn’t have one to my knowledge. I suppose... he must’ve engraved a false stigma using the gem."

"A hero’s mark." He growled. "Unthinkable. That should never have happened."

She didn’t reply. He was waiting for something—an emotion, a crack—but she gave him nothing.

He added:

"It would’ve been better to kill him."

The commander shrugged, half-weary, half-accusing, then turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor. The door clicked shut.

Silence returned, heavier than before. Alka sat down slowly. Her breath had quickened, but she reined it in. She always kept control.

Until the gem slipped from her fingers. It rolled gently across the floor and stopped against the wall.

She stared at it for a long time, then leaned down to pick it up. But her fingers were trembling.

At last alone, she allowed herself to crack.

"Idiot..." she murmured into the void.

The word echoed strangely, catching in the corners of the room. She didn’t know if she was speaking to him—or to herself.

He should never have survived.

He should never have seen what he saw.

And if he manages to reach Gael...

She ran a hand over her face, as if to wipe away an invisible mask. A dull fear was rising, more insidious than anger. The kind of fear you can’t drown in orders or missions. A personal fear. One that made her human.

She saw his face again. Dylan’s face. His gaze. Even broken, he had kept that damned spark in his eyes. He judged her. He loved her. He hated her. He knew.

She should’ve killed him herself. But she hadn’t been able to. She told herself that handing him over to the system would be enough. That she didn’t need blood on her hands to commit betrayal.

She had been wrong.

"You won’t make it out alive," she murmured this time aloud. Like a prayer. Or a sentence.

But her voice trembled—just barely. Just enough for the gem in her hand to tremble too.

She remained there for a long time, curled up on herself, the gem between her fingers like a burning relic.

She should have felt relief. It was over. She had played her part. The stratagem had worked. She had handed over Dylan, secured the gem, delivered a brilliant tactical victory — Pilaf had rewarded her with status, resources, access. But all of it, everything that now surrounded her, had the rancid taste of a victory that wasn’t one.

Because Dylan wasn’t dead.

And as long as he lived, a crack remained open. Not just in the plan... but within her.

She got up slowly, the stiffness in her limbs betraying the hours spent frozen in false stillness. Her fingers still clutched the gem, as if letting it go would dissolve the illusion of control she had tried to maintain — flimsy and worn thin.

Alka closed her eyes and steadied her breath. The gem pulsed in her palm, a muted heartbeat that resonated with a promise of power—and a curse of memory. She pressed her thumb against its surface.

A faint "schlup" sounded as the gem began to yield. A pale warmth trickled down her fingertips, spreading up her arm in tendrils of light. With each passing second, the gem grew paler, its veins of shadow draining into her flesh.

She felt it slide beneath her skin, not as a foreign object, but as an extension of her own blood. The warmth blossomed in her chest, chasing away the fatigue and the fear, sewing together the frayed edges of her nerves. Images flickered behind her eyelids—Dylan’s face, gaunt but unbroken; the crack of the undercroft; the silent promise in his eyes.