The "invitation" didn't arrive on paper. It was delivered via a short-range, unencrypted broadcast on a frequency the Ironblood were known to monitor. The message was as blunt as a hammer, just like Julian.
"Magnus. The game has changed. The Arbiters were playing you. The threat is larger than the Core. Meet at the following coordinates at noon tomorrow to hear the truth. Come armed, but come to listen. Or don't. Your survival is your own concern. —Julian."
The coordinates led to a defensible, open area just outside the warehouse district Julian now controlled.
The message found Magnus in what remained of his command post—a basement garage reeking of blood, antiseptic, and frustration. A crude bandage was wrapped around his head, stained with dried blood from the gash he'd taken during the anomaly battle. His armor was scuffed and dented, one pauldron hanging by a few straps. The bruise on his face had deepened to a ugly purple.
