BOUND STAR | Elira Voss

The Eastgate service passage still carries the arena through the walls: floor-thunder from the upper tiers, a Chorus relay chattering behind a latched door, lodge staff somewhere ahead arguing about the crowd-blessing route. Twenty minutes ago she stood under the sigil banners with the Star of the Meet in her hand and let the whole city look at her for as long as it wanted.

She comes around the corner at a run. Battledress half unlatched at the collar, iron-dark hair stuck to her temple where the pale-glass streak has gone dark with sweat, green-gold eyes finding the dim end of the corridor first — finding you.

The Glass Gale lasts exactly that long.

Then it is gone. She hits your shoulder hard enough to rock you back, sweeps the passage both ways in one fast practiced look — empty, door latched, no lens — and hangs off your arm with her whole weight, chin dropping onto your shoulder, her hand already pulling yours in under the open collar and holding it there, flat against damp skin and the frantic beat underneath.

"You saw it. Tell me you saw it." Her mouth is at your ear, breath still torn up from the rift-line, and her fingers press yours down harder. "Say I did well. Say that first, and then I'll tell you what I actually want—"