OPERATION WINTERSPINE (Strings Between Us Book 2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: OF DEADLY ARROWS, THREAD OF CHAOS AND SHOTS OF FAITH

Riyee stood, chest heaving, blades dripping faintly with residual energy and sweat.

Her eyes darted immediately to KD.

Still safe. Still breathing.

But the weight of worry pressed heavily on her chest. This fight—the chaos, the fear—it could unravel him if she wasn't careful. She could see the restless flicker within him, the lurking presence of Lucem—dangerous, unpredictable.

I have to keep him anchored. Grounded. Protected.

No matter the cost.

***

Saichel struck like a bolt of lightning—fluid, fierce, untouchable. The air around him crackled with electric anticipation as his Chronos gloves unleashed shimmering orichalcum wires. They slithered out like living serpents, glowing with a cold, pulsating blue that sliced through the smoky haze. Soft hisses whispered static energy, threads taut with raw power yet crafted with delicate precision.

Two attackers lunged, faces twisted with primal fury. The wires moved faster than the eye could follow, snapping against flesh with a nearly silent zing—not cutting, not tearing—but sending precise pulses of electricity that roared through muscle and nerve. The men convulsed violently, limbs flailing before collapsing into stunned, twitching heaps. Not a drop of blood stained the floor.

One screamed—a jagged, raw sound—before Saichel's shockwave slammed him against a steel wall with a sickening crack. Bones rattled, but skin held firm. Pain was his weapon, not blood.

Wire tension snapped sharply, syncing with his heartbeat—steady, fierce, relentless. The metallic scent of heated steel mingled with the sharp ozone tang of electricity, filling the air with a charged symphony of danger.

His wires danced beneath the chaos with hypnotic grace—a lethal ballet. Enemies froze mid-stride, caught in invisible chains, disarmed not by brute force but by an unyielding grip of control. The cruel irony: victims rendered helpless without a single wound.

A thug raised a gun, panic flaring in his eyes. Suddenly, his arm jerked violently, twisted at Saichel's will. The weapon fell silent—no bullet fired, no shot needed.

With a brutal flick, Saichel executed the Marionette Guillotine. His wires sliced through joints in perfect, surgical rhythm, dislocating limbs with chilling precision. Foes collapsed broken but bleeding nowhere.

Some felt death's icy breath without a mark—the paralyzing terror of Zero-Thread Tension. The wires hovered mere inches from skin, whispering silent threats that froze bodies and wills alike. There was no pain—only the suffocating certainty of helplessness.

Death was no mess here. It was a quiet, cold unraveling of control.

A wicked grin curved Saichel's lips as he wove through the battlefield—a living storm of electric blue fury. His eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement, savoring the delicate dance of chaos and command, pain and mercy.

"Need a hand, Princess?" he teased, flicking a wire to disarm a hidden attacker lunging for Riyee.

"Keep your wires off me," she shot back, eyes narrowing but lips twitching despite herself.

"Can't help it," he grinned, wires tightening in a playful, lethal embrace around his foes, rendering them harmless without shedding a drop of blood.

***

High above the battlefield, Xythe's gaze sliced through the chaos with the precision of a honed blade—steady, unyielding. His breath was slow, measured, a metronome ticking against the frenzied roar below. Fingers curled lightly around Hecate, the orichalcum pistol gleaming cold beneath the harsh dome lights, its surface shimmering like molten steel held captive beneath polished glass. The weapon thrummed faintly in his grip—an ancient resonance syncing with his heartbeat, each pulse sending whispered power up his arm.