The gunfire had stopped.
The bodies were still.
No one raised their voice in triumph.
The battlefield—if it could still be called that—had become a graveyard of bullets, blood, and broken souls. The Hollowed Saints were gone, their corrupted cores shattered, but their influence lingered, clinging to the town like a cold mist that refused to lift.
Soldiers moved through the aftermath in silence.
Private Alina Vos worked with grim efficiency, bandaging burns on Sergeant Bennett Shaw, stitching cuts along Specialist Nadia Faye's arms. Needle through flesh. Cloth pulled tight.
No one met anyone else's eyes. There were no cheers. No relief. Only the quiet, numbing work of survival.
Victory had come.
But it hadn't come clean.
Innocent people—possessed, manipulated, turned into weapons—had been put down like monsters. That truth settled into every breath, heavy as dust in the lungs.
General Pierce stood at the center of the ruined town square. Blood painted his boots. Dark splashes stained his uniform. His eyes swept over the bodies without blinking.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Major Gideon Connors approached, stopping a step away. "What do we do with the bodies, General?"
Pierce didn't look at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the carnage.
"Leave them," he said at last, voice low, weighted. "We're moving out."
No one questioned the order. No one objected.
Pierce turned and walked toward Bastion. "We need to save Angelo," he added. "Before it's too late."
The cleanup was swift.
Gear packed.
Wounds sealed.
Bodies left behind.
Bastion rumbled back to life, its engine a dull heartbeat in the silence. With no time to mourn, they rolled out—west, toward Angelo.
Further north, beneath colder skies and emptier roads, another unit moved with quieter urgency.
Delta Ash.
A three-person recon team trained for recovery and long-range scouting. Their mission wasn't to find Angelo.
It was to bring home what was left of Hale and Ryan.
Scout-Leader Rhea Morgan sat in the passenger seat of their light combat vehicle—Jackal—rifle resting across her lap. Her eyes stayed sharp, despite the exhaustion that lived behind them. She hadn't slept well in years. Her instincts hadn't dulled because of it.
In the back seat, Arlo Vance hunched over a compact console, fingers dancing across its surface as he tuned and retuned the faint signal they'd salvaged from Nomad's last transmission.
A flicker.
A blip.
A breadcrumb.
At the wheel, Dima Kovac guided Jackal along the cracked northern road, hands steady, posture loose but alert. Tracker. Survivalist. Quiet as the land he moved through.
The north was unnervingly still.
No monsters.
No civilians.
No movement.
Just wind. And memory.
They were heading toward the place where everything had changed.
Where the Duskborns had attacked.
Where Hale and Ryan were lost.
Where Angelo had been taken.
The tires hummed beneath them.
Rhea broke the silence. "Any luck pinpointing Nomad's last location?"
Arlo glanced up from the console. "Yeah. Further north. At our current speed—little over three days."
Rhea nodded, eyes forward. "At least the road's quiet."
"Haven't seen a damn thing," Dima added. "No humans. No animals. No creatures."
"Hope it stays that way," Arlo muttered.
"Relax," Dima said. "Nothing bad's gonna happen."
Arlo's head snapped up. "Dude. Don't jinx it."
Dima laughed, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. "You actually believe in that crap?"
"Yeah," Arlo said flatly. "One of my uncles said that right before eating a whole Carolina Reaper. An hour later, he was in the hospital."
Rhea and Dima exchanged a look—then shook their heads.
"Your uncle's a dumbass," Rhea said.
"And how is that a jinx?" Dima asked.
Arlo leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Bad shit always happens when someone says that line."
A brief chill ran down Dima's spine.
He reached back and shoved Arlo lightly against his seat. "Shut up and let me drive."
Arlo smirked, settling back as his fingers returned to the console.
Outside, the road stretched on—empty, patient, waiting.
Everyone was quiet again, until Arlo's console pulsed. The screen flickered with static, glitching once—then again.
"Shit," Arlo muttered, already popping open the casing, hands moving fast.
Rhea turned toward him. "What happened?"
Arlo didn't lift his head. "Hold on, it's bugging out—"
A spark leapt from the console. He yelped as a shock ran up his arm. "Fuck!" His fingers trembled for a second—but he kept going, adjusting a node, twisting dials, coaxing the device to stabilize. The screen flickered, then cleared. Stable.
He snapped the panel back into place.
Then—a new signal appeared. Strong. Sharp. Not from Nomad. Not like anything they'd seen before.
Arlo leaned closer, squinting at the readouts. "I've got something…"
Rhea shifted, eyes narrowing. "From Nomad?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. This is different. Strong. Too strong."
Her posture stiffened. A cold breath ran through her lungs. She scanned the surrounding forest, the ridgeline, the empty sky above the windshield. "Your hardware's probably fried," she said flatly. "There's nothing out there."
The signal spiked again.
Arlo's voice dropped to a whisper, tense. "It's in the sky."
Rhea rolled down the window, leaning out carefully, rifle raised. Her eyes swept the horizon, trained and sharp. And then she saw it.
A shimmer. Just for a second. Like the sky itself had twitched. Then it came into view—vast, silent, utterly wrong.
A Hollowed Saint drifted above them, wings veiled in shadow, dark mist trailing through the clouds. No sound. No roar. Only presence. Absolute. Inevitable.
Rhea pulled back, voice calm but sharp. "Enemy airborne. Directly overhead. Prepare for engagement."
Dima cursed under his breath. "Shit! Arlo was right." He slammed the accelerator, pushing the Jackal forward, trying to create distance.
The Saint followed without effort, gliding with unnatural grace, moving as if the wind itself obeyed its will. A predator, methodical, calculating, toying with its prey.
Then it raised its weapon—a lance forged from twisted light and blackened bone, crackling with corrupted energy.
It threw.
The lance struck the road just ahead with a thunderous detonation, ripping asphalt into shards and sending up a plume of dust, smoke, and flame.
Dima slammed the brakes—but the Jackal hit the crater, jolting violently. Sparks erupted across the dash. The reinforced frame groaned, metal twisting under stress. A deep gash ran along the passenger side. Smoke and heat poured from the breach.
"We're hit!" Arlo shouted, leaning over the console, trying to stabilize the readings. "Right flank's
damaged—something's on fire—"
The Saint was already descending, slow, deliberate, controlled. Its lance returned to its hand without a sound, retrieved effortlessly.
The doors burst open simultaneously. Rhea, Arlo, Dima—all three moved as one. Armor locked in place, rifles raised, bodies low, steps precise. Every motion fluid, rehearsed. Not a second wasted. No panic. No hesitation.
They were professionals. They had trained for worse. And now, everything they had learned was about to be tested.