The door to Lucian's quarters hissed open after seventy-two hours of absolute silence. He stepped out, and the difference was palpable. The frantic, frayed energy that had surrounded him was gone, replaced by a deep, chilling calm. His movements were economical, precise. He had slept, he had eaten, and he had thought. The grief and rage were still there, but now they were tools, not masters.
He found them in the common area. Reia was meticulously cleaning her blades, but her hands, while steady, still showed the faintest tremor. Silas was moving stiffly, testing his bound ribs with a wince. Vyn was sipping a nutrient brew, her shadows present but thin, like morning mist. Evelyn was at the comms station, her face drawn with fatigue as she ran endless, fruitless searches for any trace of the portal's signature.
They were ready in spirit. Their bodies, however, told a different story.
