Page 58 of Run of Ruin

Ever since Brexlyn crashed into my life, I couldn’t stop seeing the fractures in this place. The things I’d stopped questioning. The comforts I never realized others bled and died for. Every step I took here felt heavier now. Like I was carrying something with me that I hadn’t been before.

I sat down and let my gaze drift to the far wall, where a row of portraits displayed some of the most decorated champions in Reclamation Run history. Their faces were etched into the collective memory of Praxis, legends born from blood and broadcast. Among them, Edgar Soonwater of Ember Collective stood out. He was a Challenger when I was still a kid, a name spoken in every household, his victories recounted like bedtime stories. My friends and I would reenact his greatest hits on the playground.

Edgar had done what no one else had. Sixteen trial wins out of twenty, placing in the top five for the rest. An impossible streak. A miracle by Run standards. After his final victory, you couldn’t turn on a screen without seeing Ember. Footage of grateful families receiving resources. Smiling children holding baskets of produce, people receiving medical assistance. Edgar had saved them.

Back then, I believed it. I remember thinking how thrilling it was that he won. How good it must feel for Ember, to finally get their due. But now I see it for what it was. Even with Edgar’s record-breaking performance, even with the blood, sweat, and bone he left on those trial grounds, the footage of Ember was still a pale shadow compared to Praxis. The Collective’s streets were cracked, their power grids unstable, their medical supplies rationed to the ounce. And the next year, theresources all went away again, waiting for another Challenger to fight for them. Meanwhile, Praxis broadcasted from towering spires and silk-lined conference rooms, sipping from glasses no one else could afford.

The Collectives could fight, bleed, and die a thousand times, and they’d still never catch up. The game was rigged long before it ever started.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t fair.

I understand that now.

And if this meeting was the end of my career, if they pulled my feed rights, cut my access, erased my name from every server and clearance list, how was I supposed to protect Brexlyn then? How could I keep her safe from a system designed to devour people like her?

I clenched my fists in my lap, feeling my nails bite into my palms, and fixed my stare on the table’s flawless, polished surface when the door opened.

I’d only seen Archon Evanora Veritas in person a handful of times each year, usually during opening ceremonies or broadcast debriefs for the Reclamation Run. But never like this. Never with just the two of us in a room, no buffer of officials or fellow producers to soften the weight of her attention.

She strode into the conference room like she owned the air itself, her sharp gaze locking onto me the second the doors opened. She wore a soft, silver pantsuit that shimmered under the stained-glass glow of the overhead lights, every movement of the fabric catching and scattering light. Her dark hair was twisted into an intricate bun atop her head, pinned with jeweled clasps and tiny diamonds that glinted like frost.

I stood as she approached the head of the conference table, lowering my head in a bow I hoped masked the pulse hammering in my throat.

“Archon Veritas,” I murmured, voice steady by some miracle. “It’s an honor.”

It was also probably a death sentence. But I couldn’t say that part out loud.

“Zaffir Stark,” she said, her voice as smooth and sharp as glass. She gestured for me to reclaim my seat with a flick of her fingers, a dismissive little motion. I obeyed, sitting slowly.

“You’ve been in your line of work a while now, haven’t you?” she asked, tapping a single polished fingertip against the tabletop, a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt more threatening than casual.

“I have, ma’am,” I answered. “I’ve been behind a camera for as long as I can remember.”

“You like telling stories, do you?”

I swallowed. “I do.”

She hummed, a small, thoughtful sound. “Yes… storytelling is one of the most useful weapons a society can wield. Don’t you think?”

I said nothing, just nodded, though I could feel her gaze peeling back my skin like she was searching for the softest place to cut.

“You love your work, then?” she prompted, eyes narrowing the tiniest fraction.

“I do,” I replied evenly.

“You must,” she said, a faint smile curling at the corners of her mouth, not kind, but knowing. “After all, I can’t imagine anyone offering to take on twice the footage if they didn’t love what they do.”

A chill slid down my spine. My breath hitched for a heartbeat, but I masked it as best I could.

I had to play this carefully. No hesitation. No cracks.

“I didn’t take on Darkbranch’s feed out of love for the work,” I said, adopting the cold, clinical tone Praxis expected. “I did it out of necessity, the need to manage my Challenger’s narrative.”

Her eyebrow lifted, the slightest arch of interest. She wasn’t convinced yet, but she was listening. “Is that so?”

I nodded once. “Canyon hasn’t elected a Challenger with a viable shot at survival in years, let alone one capable of contending for top placements. The past several seasons, my work’s ended early, Challengers washed out in the first few trials, leaving nothing to edit, nothing to broadcast. No story to tell.”

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