Maze's hurried footsteps echoed off the shattered arena floor, each step loud in the haunting quiet left in the wake of Zafron's departure.
She reached Steele's side, her expression a mix of pity and anger. He was still on his knees, one hand pressed to the cracked ground for support, blood dripping from his nose and lips. His face was contorted with pain, but his eyes burned with a familiar, furious intensity.
"Steele," she murmured, trying to keep her voice calm. "Come on, get up."
He met her gaze with a look that silenced whatever words she'd been about to say, then turned his head to spit blood. "Where is he?" His voice was low, dangerous.
Maze hesitated. She knew this tone—she'd seen Steele on missions before, seen him push past injury and exhaustion to complete the task. But this was different. This wasn't just determination; it was a thirst for vengeance. And in this moment, it made her uneasy.
