The morning was no morning at all—just a pale gray falling through the shattered roof. Dust hung like fog, light flickering over remnants of metal and burned cables.
Lina lay on her side, her head on Alaric's arm. His breathing was calm but heavy, as if he had fought against more than just humans. Rhea sat at the edge of the hall, back against the wall, weapon on her knees, eyes half open.
No one spoke. Only the dripping from somewhere in the ceiling marked the passage of time.
Lina moved her fingers. Her skin tingled. The golden lines she had seen yesterday were gone—but deep inside her, a remnant still flickered, like embers beneath ashes.
She remembered the explosion, the light, the voice that had called to her. Let go, child.
And the face of the woman with her eyes.
"You're awake," Rhea murmured.
Lina slowly sat up. "How long...?"
"Two hours. Maybe three."
"Has he... made contact again?"
