The first morning of the new era didn't begin with a trumpet blast or a royal decree. It began with the rhythmic, agonizing squeal of a heavy iron gate that desperately needed a gallon of oil. I stood in the center of the quad, my breath hitching in the frost-nipped air, watching the sunrise hit the peak of the Relay Tower. The indigo aurora was gone, replaced by a subtle shimmer that felt like a quiet conversation between the mountain and the sky. The mountain wasn't screaming anymore. It was breathing, but it was a shallow, guarded breath.
I looked down at the interface-slate in my hands, my thumb scrolling through the intake logs. The Active Offensive had won us our sovereignty, but it had handed me a backlog that would take a decade to clear. The treaty had opened the gates, and the first "Intake" from the South was scheduled to arrive at noon. My leather-wrapped hands felt stiff. Don't look at the scars, I told myself. Look at the data.
