POV: Sera
The weapon fires.
The blast is visible even from inside the Citadel—a beam of pure energy that cuts through the sky like a scar. It doesn't hit the Citadel directly, but the shockwave rocks the entire fortress, sending me to my knees.
Kael'thor is already moving, shadows consuming him as he transforms into something more dangerous, more primal. "The lower defenses are holding," Vexen's voice comes through some kind of communication device, "but barely. The weapon is charging again."
"Move the civilians to the deep chambers," Kael'thor commands. Then he turns to me, and his four eyes are absolutely lethal. "Draeven will take you to the training arena. You fight, or everyone here dies."
He leaves before I can respond.
Draeven appears at my chamber door seconds later, already armored, already radiating the energy of a warrior preparing for war. "Come," he says, extending one of his lower arms. "Time to stop training and start fighting."
The arena is chaos.
Mutants pour through the corridors, armed with weapons that crackle with energy. But they're not attacking the Citadel—they're defending it. The lower walls have been breached, and creatures pour through the gaps. Not mutants. Humans.
My father's soldiers.
They're wearing advanced armor—sleek, black, covered in technology that glows with bioluminescent light. It's human technology merged with something else. Something stolen from the mutants, maybe, or engineered in secret. Each soldier moves with precision and purpose, and they're good at what they do.
They're also trying to kill everything they see.
"Sera!" Draeven's voice cuts through the chaos. He grabs my arm and pulls me toward a secondary chamber. "Stay close. Do not, under any circumstances, use your power on these soldiers."
"Why not?" I demand as we move.
"Because your power will fulfill their desires," Draeven explains harshly. "And what they desire most is death. They've been trained to want it. To embrace it. Using your power on them will only make them more efficient killers."
We reach the arena, and Draeven shoves me toward the center. "Here. You train. Real combat. Real stakes."
"There are soldiers right outside," I protest.
"Exactly," Draeven says, and his four arms flex. "Lesson one: you're small and human. You can't win with strength. But you have something better."
A soldier appears in the arena entrance.
He's tall, muscular, wearing that sleek armor. His eyes are cold—completely devoid of mercy. He raises a weapon that crackles with energy, and I recognize it: the weapon that can kill me. The one designed specifically for my power signature.
"Move," Draeven commands.
The soldier fires.
I throw myself sideways, and the blast scorches the stone where I was standing. The heat is intense, and the smell of burning rock fills the air. The soldier adjusts his aim and fires again.
Draeven intercepts the third blast with one of his massive arms, absorbing the energy like it's nothing. "Your turn," he growls. "Go."
I don't have time to think about this. I don't have time to be afraid. The soldier is advancing, recharging his weapon, and I'm going to die in the next five seconds if I don't do something.
So I activate my power.
I see the soldier—really see him. And what I perceive underneath all that training and conditioning is:
Doubt. A crack in his certainty. He doesn't want to kill me. Somewhere beneath the programming, he knows I'm human. He knows I'm worth saving.
I don't manifest that desire. Instead, I use my power differently. I don't fulfill his hidden want—I show it to him.
The soldier freezes mid-step. For just a moment, his mental conditioning breaks. The weapon wavers in his hands. And in that moment of weakness, Draeven moves.
His massive frame covers the distance between them in a heartbeat. A single strike from one of his upper arms, and the soldier crumples. Not dead—Draeven doesn't kill him—but unconscious and disarmed.
"Better," Draeven says, and there's something almost like pride in his voice. "Again."
Three more soldiers enter the arena over the next hour.
Each time, I learn something new. I learn that my power doesn't have to fulfill desires—it can expose them. I learn that showing someone what they truly want can break their conditioning. I learn that by understanding their deepest selves, I can defeat them without ever throwing a punch.
The fourth soldier doesn't hesitate. He charges straight at me, weapon aimed directly at my heart.
Draeven moves to intercept, but I stop him with a raised hand. "Let me."
I meet the soldier's eyes, and I reach into him with my power. I see what drives him: loyalty to my father. Belief that he's doing the right thing. Fear of disappointing authority.
And I show him the truth.
I manifest it—show him visions of my father's cruelty, his lies, his willingness to kill his own daughter. I show him what he's really fighting for: not justice, but greed. Not protection, but control.
The soldier screams.
His weapon falls from his hands. He collapses to his knees, and the psychological weight of understanding what he's been fighting for breaks something fundamental inside him.
"Enough," Draeven says, and there's something almost gentle in his massive hand as he helps me to my feet. "You'll never be as strong as us, Sera. Your body will never match our physical power. But this—" he gestures to the fallen soldier, "—this is more dangerous than any strength."
He helps me stand, steadying me as my legs shake.
"You can make them surrender without fighting," Draeven continues. "You can break their certainty. You can make them question everything they believe. Use your power this way, and you'll be the most dangerous warrior in this war."
I'm breathing hard, adrenaline still flooding my veins. "I can do this."
"Yes," Draeven says. "You can."
But the arena doors suddenly burst open again.
It's not another soldier. It's Vexen, and his shadow is writhing with urgency. His three silver eyes are wide with something like fear.
"Sera," he says, and his smooth voice cracks slightly. "Your father just transmitted a message. He's giving you a choice."
"What choice?" I ask, though I already know I won't like it.
"Come to the weapon site and surrender yourself," Vexen says rapidly. "Or he fires directly at the chamber where you're supposed to be. He doesn't know you moved. If you don't go to him, he kills innocent mutants trying to protect an empty room."
My blood turns to ice.
"He's using hostages," I whisper.
"Yes," Vexen confirms. "And if you don't appear at the weapon site within the next ten minutes, he executes them all. Including—" he pauses, and his expression darkens with something like rage, "—including your sister."
"Lyanna?" I ask, shocked.
"She tried to stop him," Vexen explains. "Tried to convince him to stand down. He's holding her as leverage."
Behind us, Kael'thor's voice booms through the arena: "You will not go."
The King appears in the arena entrance, his entire body covered in bioluminescent markings, his four eyes blazing with absolute fury. "I will not lose you to your father's manipulation."
"But innocent people will die," I tell him. "My sister will die."
"I know," Kael'thor says, and the pain in those words is absolute. "And I am sorry. But if you go to him, the bond cannot complete. If the bond doesn't complete, the ancient magic cannot finish awakening. And if that doesn't happen, this entire world burns in centuries of war."
He steps closer, and his massive hand comes to my face.
"You are queen," he says quietly. "Queens do not sacrifice the world for one sister."
"But—" I start.
"Sera." Vexen's voice cuts through. "There's something else. Something we just discovered."
He shows me a communication display, and what I see makes my entire body go rigid.
The weapon isn't the only thing your father brought," Vexen says. "Look at the readings from beneath the Waste."
On the screen, I see it: a massive energy signature rising from the deep. Not the ancient palace—something else. Something that's been dormant far longer. Something that's incompatible with mutant biology.
"What is that?" I demand.
"That," Vexen says slowly, "is a pre-war weapon. Human technology from before the meteor strike. Your father didn't just bring soldiers and one small weapon. He brought an ancient doomsday device that your settlement has been maintaining secretly for two hundred years."
The ground shakes.
The arena trembles, and through the windows, I see the Crimson Waste glowing brighter—not gold anymore, but red. Deep, angry red.
"If that device activates," Zhal'kara's voice comes through Vexen's communication device, "it will destroy not just the Citadel. It will destroy the entire region. Mutants and humans alike. Your father is planning a genocide—of both species—just to kill you and prevent the bond from completing."
The walls shake again.
And in that moment, I understand the horrible truth:
My father doesn't just want to control me. He wants to burn the entire world rather than let me become the queen. He'd rather see everyone dead than let me fulfill my destiny.
I look at Kael'thor.
"How much time do we have before that device activates?"
"Eight minutes," Vexen says.
Eight minutes to stop my father. Eight minutes to save my sister. Eight minutes to prevent apocalypse.
Eight minutes to become the queen everyone needs me to be.