The ash itches. That’s the first thing. Heat rolling off volcanic rock, insects whining in the dark, and me crouched behind something that barely qualifies as cover while the boss walks into a tent that is absolutely not on the mission brief

Through the scope I watch Quaritch disappear past the flap with Varang like this is a diplomatic visit instead of a live-wire situation in hostile territory. I exhale slow

"Boss," I mutter under my breath, though the comm stays quiet. "This ain’t part of the op."

No answer. Figures.

I keep the scope steady on the tent entrance. Perimeter looks calm, which is worse. Too calm. Ash territory doesn’t do calm. It does watchful. The Mangkwan structures look like they grew out of the earth angry about it—jagged volcanic ridges, blackened stone, everything built like it expects fire.

Varang walks like she owns the horizon. Boss follows like he’s studying it. I don’t like that. He’s supposed to be running the board, not stepping onto it.

Movement flickers along a higher ridge of basalt to my left. Rock. I shift the scope instinctively.

She steps down from the volcanic rise like she was carved out of it—controlled, precise, feet finding purchase in cracked stone. By the time I register her fully, she’s already closing the distance in a low advance, using smoke vents and broken lava shelves for cover.

She stops directly in front of my sightline, blocking my view of the tent without touching me.

Tall. Ash-marked. Darker streaking across her skin than Varang. Less ceremonial. More sharpened.

Varang wears power like a crown. This one wears it like a blade.

I keep the rifle trained center mass. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise a weapon. Doesn’t even look at the gun first. She looks at me—direct, measured.

There’s something in the way she stands—weight balanced, shoulders set like she’s used to impact. Not posturing. Calculating.

I lower the scope just enough to see her without glass between us. Up close she looks like Varang’s shadow that learned to walk alone. Similar lines in the face. Same bone structure. But where Varang burns hot and loud, this one burns tight. Compressed heat.

Her markings are heavier at the collar. Ash dragged downward instead of painted upward. Less decorative. More claim.

Damn.

Boss sure knows how to pick his problems. Except looking at her, I’m not so sure he picked the right sister

If this is the competition, he might be chasing the wrong one.

She steps one pace closer—not enough to trigger instinct fire, enough to make it clear she could have taken the shot at me first. That registers.

Her gaze flicks once toward the tent, then back to me. Assessing loyalty. Assessing chain of command. Like she’s trying to figure out if I’m the leash or the handler.

I keep my voice low. "You got about three seconds to explain why you’re in my scope."

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. The silence isn’t submission. It’s pressure.

She’s not here to shoot me. She’s here to measure. Measure how tight I hold rank. Measure how fast I pull trigger. Measure whether I’d hesitate if the boss walked out bleeding.

Smart.

Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s satisfied with whatever she’s reading.

Inside the tent, shadows shift against canvas. I don’t like being out here blind. But I like being studied even less.

Up close, the resemblance hits harder. Same bloodline. But Varang looks like a banner in a storm. This one looks like the storm before it breaks. More ash in her. More restraint. More intent.

And for a split second, unhelpful and crude, the thought slides through: Boss got the wrong one to chase.

If he thinks Varang’s the dangerous sister, he hasn’t seen this one up close.

She shifts her weight almost imperceptibly, not toward me but toward the tent. There it is. Not jealousy. Not outrage. Strategy

She’s not watching Quaritch like a rival. She’s watching him like a variable

I realize with a cold clarity that I might be the bigger problem in her equation. Because if she’s coming for Varang—really coming for her—then the only thing standing in the way is me