Wu Haoyu's POV:
The slums' dust choked my lungs, but it was Huang Zhao's twisted crest and Meilin's blade, glinting in the dawn, that burned worse than any wound. Their shadows loomed, star-daggers flashing—Yue's stars, Yanyan's, corrupted—and Vey's jets roared above, claw-crests blazing, her voice crackling: "Heiress, you're ours." My pipe was slick with blood, arm, thigh, and chest screaming, blood seeping from the tower fight, but I stood in front of Yanyan, pipe raised, ready to break Zhao, Meilin, Vey, anyone who dared touch her. Her star-dagger gleamed, knife flashing, blood crusted on her cheek, shoulder and thigh oozing, eyes fierce—my fire, my heart, trusting me despite Wu's shadow, my cousin's blood tying me as a key. I'd bleed dry proving I was hers, not his.
