It glitters as it turns, spiraling slow from the crystal it came. A shimmer in the steam, hard‑edged beauty hiding something lethal in its frame. It seeks my Aya — but it will not have her. Shards hunt for life, they taste the genes, they want it dry, they want it warm. So make it wet, bring the mist, let the chamber breathe a storm. Make it rain, make it rain, ’til the weapon loses form. “Aya, down,” I say as she nods her gaze locked on the gleaming sword. I move like water flowing, silent, seamless, reaching for the bedspread’s edge. “Now!” just a word, and the world ignites. She drops, I strike, the cover swings, the shard takes flight. Wrapped in cloth, it thrashes hard, pulling, tearing, fighting me until the wall decides its fate. Make it wet, bring the mist, let the chamber drown its roar. One last crack of crystal breaking and the shard falls to the floor.
