POV: Lyra
Orion and Christian appeared in partial combat armor—just the essential chest plates and leg guards, clearly grabbed in haste. They took a microsecond to assess the scene before Christian engaged the Lyrokan attacking the Commanders while Orion charged at the one near Raden and me, knocking him away with devastating force.
Raden positioned himself protectively in front of my injured form, shielding me from possible attacks. With the Rogue Lyrokan knocked back, I gathered what little strength remained and pulled the Xerium blade from my armor using my suit's emergency extraction tool, tossing it aside. My eyes watered from the pain but the dizziness subsided.
Good. Not enough Xerium in my system to be fatal.
Orion and Christian made breaking the Rogue Lyrokans' limbs look effortless. For the next few moments, the chamber filled with the sounds of armor cracking and agonized screams.
Orion had already broken his target's limbs repeatedly, not allowing time for the enhanced Lyrokan healing to work. Simple termination would've been merciful. The idea was clearly torture—making them suffer before granting death. Orion slammed the Rogue against the metal walls repeatedly, each impact denting the reinforced structure.
I linked Juan through gritted teeth: 'Get...Orion. Keep...rogue...alive. Interrogate...Ask who sent...'
Juan deactivated his helmet immediately, kneeling beside Orion to relay my request. Orion's rage-filled eyes locked with my pleading ones. He growled furiously before slamming the Rogue Lyrokan's head against the wall, rendering him unconscious. He broke several more bones for good measure.
Then a high-pitched scream cut off with a distinct crack. The other Rogue Lyrokan fell lifeless from Christian's grip. Orion strode toward me, and Raden stepped aside. The Emperor knelt beside me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears despite his still-blazing anger as he looked at the blood seeping through my damaged armor. Quick footsteps approached—our alliance members arriving.
"Here," Sylvia appeared with emergency medical supplies and a privacy screen. "Let's get that armor off and check the damage."
Everyone turned away while Sylvia and Lovelace helped me out of my damaged combat suit. The process was excruciating—every movement sent fire through my nerves as the Xerium continued burning through my system. When I was finally in just my under-armor bodysuit, I sighed in relief.
"Lyra?" Orion called out, worry radiating through his voice. Juan and Tate stood behind him.
"Fine...need...minute...to...recover." I responded through gritted teeth.
Orion grabbed my hand, and I gripped it tightly as I fought the pain. The neural sparks erupted from our touch, flowing through my body. The psychic bond accelerated my healing—bones knitting faster, the Xerium compound being purged from my bloodstream at an impossible rate. When fully recovered, I exhaled exhaustedly.
Orion helped me stand, being gentle as Sylvia and Lovelace assisted with my replacement gear—a basic emergency suit from their supplies. Sylvia retied my neural filaments into a combat knot.
"Alright, you can turn around," Lovelace announced.
Still weak but standing on my own, I looked at the Commanders, Christian, and Orion. "Thank you for saving me. All of you."
"Any pain?" Orion asked, his hand hovering over where the blade had penetrated, afraid touching would hurt me.
"No. Just weak now. The psychic bond accelerated healing. Thank you."
The worry in his eyes suddenly shifted to rage. "What the void were you thinking leaving without telling me?!"
I stepped back, shocked. "I called you and messaged. And I told Benjamin."
His voice got louder, pathways flaring black. "Why the hell didn't you come bang on my door?! You know where I live! And what was telling the guard going to do?! He wasn't going to defend you!"
"Cuz, cool it," Christian said cautiously, but Orion growled at him, forcing silence before turning back to me.
My eyes started glistening—not with gratitude or sadness but with hurt and anger. My voice came out softer, weaker: "You're blaming me for not telling you? You expected me to find you before coming here? Do you have any idea the damage they could've done to this station if we were two minutes behind?! They'd already lost eleven specialists in the first attack hours ago!"
How dare he? How DARE he make this about him?
Tears blurred my vision but I continued angrily, "I did everything I could to tell you where I was going. Blame yourself for not getting the message on time. If you think I shouldn't have left without making sure you knew first, you're a selfish, inconsiderate, self-entitled void-spawn [extremely insulting term]!
We took positions for less than two minutes before the attack started. Now you want me to apologize for not pleasing you? Do you think I'll feel bad about this?!"
Through our bond, I felt his Lyrokan consciousness whimpering with remorse. He wanted to hold me, apologize, beg forgiveness. But he stood frozen, unable to process that he'd just yelled at me—his match, supposedly the most precious person in his life—when I'd nearly died.
Taking advantage of his silence, I stepped closer, looking him dead in the eye. "I don't care what you do to me. I will NEVER regret what I did."
Eleven specialists dead. Families destroyed. And he wants to make this about his hurt feelings?
The silence in the chamber was deafening. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see what the Emperor would do. His pathways cycled through colors—black rage, purple regret, yellow fear—unable to settle on one emotion.
"Lyra..." Juan started to intervene, but I held up my hand.
"No. He needs to hear this." I kept my eyes on Orion. "I'm a Station Commander first. Your match second. If you can't accept that, if you expect me to prioritize your feelings over innocent lives, then you don't know me at all."
Five rejections taught me to expect disappointment. But this? This hurt worse than all of them combined. Because I'd started to believe he was different.
My skin shifted through a dozen colors—pain, anger, disappointment—broadcasting my emotions to everyone present. The Rainbow Commander, living up to her nickname in the worst way.
"I need to check on the station's wounded," I said flatly, turning away from him. "We have casualties to tend to."
As I walked past him toward the exit, I added quietly, "Thanks for coming to help. Your combat assistance was appreciated, Your Eminence."
The formal title hung in the air like a slap. I'd just drawn a line between us—Emperor and Commander, not mates. Not anymore.
So much for match number six.