Greyhorn club
Bel-Yor city, Exterior ward
Spring Court, Hidden World
Terra, Tellus solar system
Milky way Galaxy
Neutral Free zone
March 8th 2019
Sam could only watch.
Terror rooted her in place as the two Mystic experts clashed above the city, their battle tearing through steel and stone with merciless force. Buildings crumpled beneath them, glass shattered into glittering rain, and entire sections of the skyline buckled under the weight of their exchange.
The fight had escalated beyond her comprehension.
Even with her Internal Sight active, she couldn't follow them anymore. Their movements blurred into flashes of light and impact—only the aftermath remained visible. Collapsing walls. Shockwaves. Trails of destruction leaping from rooftop to rooftop.
It was no longer a fight.
It was a disaster unfolding.
Screams filled the air.
From the streets below. From within the buildings being torn apart.
People trapped.
Running.
Dying.
And Sam—
Could do nothing.
The black rods surrounding her stood like a prison of judgment, forming a cage that pulsed faintly with green mana. She clenched her fists and struck one in frustration—
The moment her knuckles connected, a violent vibration surged through her arm, repelling her with brutal force. Pain shot up her nerves, forcing her back a step.
"Damn it—!"
She activated her Internal Sight again, forcing herself to focus.
The rods came alive in her vision.
Streams of green mana flowed through them in perfect synchronization, weaving an intricate lattice of energy that sustained the construct. It wasn't just a barrier—it was a system. Precise. Refined. Unbreakable at her level.
Sam gritted her teeth and tried to force her own mana into the structure, attempting to disrupt the flow—
But the moment her energy touched it—
It was rejected.
Not deflected.
Denied.
An overwhelming will surged through the rods, pushing her mana out as if it didn't belong there. It wasn't just technique holding her in place—
It was authority.
Her hands trembled as she withdrew.
She couldn't break it.
She couldn't interfere.
All she could do—
Was watch.
Another explosion tore through the distance, louder than the rest.
Sam's head snapped upward.
A shadow fell from the sky.
Her breath caught.
Leon.
His body crashed onto the rooftop with devastating force, the impact cracking the surface beneath him. He didn't move. Didn't stir.
For a moment—
The world went silent.
Then it hit her.
He lost.
Her heart clenched violently as her gaze shifted—locking onto the figure descending from above.
Titus.
Unshaken.
Untouched.
He walked forward without hesitation, reaching down to grasp Leon by the collar and lifting him effortlessly, his body hanging limp like a discarded doll.
Sam's chest tightened.
"No… wait—"
Her voice broke at first—
Then hardened.
"Wait… please… don't…"
Her fingers curled around the rods of her cage, gripping them despite the violent resistance that surged against her skin. The vibration tore at her hands, cutting into her nerves, but she didn't let go.
"Don't you dare…!"
Her voice rose—not in desperation—
But in fury.
Something raw ignited behind her eyes as she forced her grip tighter, pushing through the pain with sheer will.
Unbeknownst to her—
The resistance weakened.
Just enough.
"Dare what?" Titus asked, his voice calm, steady—almost indifferent.
"Don't you dare lay a hand on him," Sam snarled.
There were no tears.
No hesitation.
Only rage.
Pure. Unfiltered. Absolute.
For a moment, the world seemed to pause.
Then—
"…If you say so."
Titus released Leon.
Just like that.
Sam froze.
Her mind struggled to catch up, disbelief flashing across her face as Leon's body dropped to the ground. The shift was too sudden—too absolute.
Why?
Titus watched her reaction, noting the confusion etched into her expression.
Then, without warning—
He bowed.
Deeply.
"I am a servant of the Vysileaf bloodline."
At his command, the black rods surrounding her dissolved instantly, breaking apart into motes of fading light that scattered into nothingness.
The pressure vanished.
The cage was gone.
Sam stood there, stunned—caught between shock and disbelief.
But only for a second.
"Leon—!"
She rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside him. Her hands hovered for a brief moment before pressing gently against him, checking for any sign—
Breathing.
Faint.
Shallow.
Relief and dread twisted together in her chest.
His body was battered—bruises darkening his skin, blood staining the front of his clothes. His face, usually so composed, was drawn and pale, marked by the violence of the battle.
"Leon… hey… stay with me…" she whispered, her voice softer now—but still trembling, still burning beneath the surface.
"You said… my mother sent you," Sam said, her voice unsteady, caught between hope and disbelief.
"I was dispatched by Lady Sophia Sinclair," Titus replied, his tone as composed as ever. "To retrieve you."
"My… mother…" The words barely left her lips, fragile, uncertain.
She didn't know what to believe.
This man—this overwhelming presence—claimed allegiance to a woman she had never met. A name that had never been spoken to her. A truth that contradicted everything she had been told her entire life.
And yet—
He had obeyed her.
Her gaze dropped to Leon.
His breathing was shallow now, faint and uneven, each rise of his chest weaker than the last. The heat that once radiated from him had all but faded, leaving behind only the remnants of a body pushed far beyond its limits.
A cold weight settled in her chest.
"If I go with you…" Sam began, her voice tightening as she forced the words out, "will you heal him?"
Her fingers trembled slightly where they hovered near Leon's shoulder, as if afraid that even the slightest touch might break him further.
Titus regarded her for a moment.
"Of course," he said simply.
The answer came without hesitation.
Without doubt.
As if the outcome had already been decided.
Satisfied, he reached into his coat and retrieved his Zodiak, its surface flickering to life as he checked the status of the veil blanketing Wolfshire Street. The barrier still held—thin, strained, but intact.
Not for long.
He could already sense it—the distant pressure building at its edges. The Golden Dawn would break through soon enough.
His gaze shifted briefly, sweeping through the surrounding structures with Internal Sight. Within seconds, he confirmed it—
The mission had succeeded.
A faint nod.
Then, without another word, Titus lifted his hand.
Space responded.
The air twisted, bending inward as though drawn by an unseen force. A fracture appeared—thin at first, then widening into a shimmering tear that pulsed with unstable light. The edges of reality peeled back, revealing a gateway beyond the physical world.
[Exodus]
A portal opened before them, its surface rippling like liquid glass.
With another subtle motion, Titus summoned two black rods from the ground. They rose smoothly, reshaping themselves into a rigid frame—a makeshift stretcher that formed beneath Leon's body. The structure lifted him carefully, stabilizing his broken form without jarring movement.
Precise.
Controlled.
Leon hovered there, suspended between worlds.
Titus turned slightly, extending a hand toward the portal.
"This way… my lady."
His voice was calm, reverent—but beneath it lingered something heavier.
Inevitable.
The path forward had been chosen.
All that remained—
Was for Sam to take the first step.
Emily drew in a slow, controlled breath, her teeth clenched as a sharp, burning pain lanced through her left ribs.
It refused to dull.
Blood seeped steadily from the wound, dark against her clothes, stubbornly resisting every attempt she made to mend it. Mana flowed through her pathways in precise, measured currents—focused, refined, deliberate—but the injury rejected it, as if something within it denied her authority to heal.
Her gaze shifted.
Eleven bodies lay scattered around her.
Twisted. Broken. Still.
The aftermath of her work.
For a brief moment, the echo of battle still lingered in her veins—the fading pulse of adrenaline, the sharp clarity that came with it. Then it receded, leaving only tension… and calculation.
Her eyes narrowed as they settled on the three figures who remained standing.
Unmoved.
Unafraid.
The eleven she had already dealt with had been little more than Regular Mystics—armed, yes, but ultimately predictable. Their mana weapons had made them dangerous in numbers, but individually… they had been nothing she couldn't dismantle.
These three were different.
She could feel it.
They weren't merely fighters.
They were Ascendants.
The fallen hoods at their feet revealed their faces clearly now—no more disguises, no more shadows to hide behind. Two were human. The third—a man—bore the distinct features of a Demihuman, his presence sharper, more feral.
Two women.
One man.
And something about them—
Didn't sit right.
"So… this is what a Master looks like," the half-elven man said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Ayen Silbern.
His voice carried a quiet arrogance, laced with restrained amusement.
They had hidden themselves well—blending seamlessly with the Regulars, using them as a smokescreen. The plan had been simple: overwhelm her with numbers, keep her occupied, then strike when her guard dropped.
It should have worked.
It almost had.
Emily's fingers brushed lightly against her ribs, feeling the subtle tremor beneath her touch.
The only reason it had.
That strike—
The only one that had connected.
Ayen's.
Her eyes sharpened.
Slowly, methodically, she assessed them again—not their confidence, not their posture—
Their level.
To her, it was… underwhelming.
The two human women hovered at the lower end of the Acolyte Realm. Their mana was unstable, their presence lacking weight. The Demihuman male stood at the peak of Acolyte—stronger, more refined, but still far beneath her.
Individually—
They were nothing.
Her gaze dropped, briefly, to the wound at her side.
That was the problem.
The weapons.
The injury refused to close, no matter how precisely she circulated her mana. Something foreign clung to it—something that disrupted the natural restoration process, severing the connection between her body and its healing.
Not ordinary enchantments.
Not even Legendary.
Her eyes flicked back to the trio, sharper now.
Quasi-Mythical.
The realization settled heavily.
Weapons forged from materials beyond standard Seriphum refinement—crafted with a degree of complexity and cost that placed them far above what low-tier Ascendants should ever possess.
Like Ascendants, magical artifacts followed a hierarchy—Common, Rare, Epic, forged from Adamant ore. Then Legendary, Mythical, and Supreme, shaped from Seriphum.
But Quasi-Mythical…?
Those existed in a different category entirely.
Rare.
Exorbitant.
Unreachable for people like them.
So how—
Her thoughts darkened, a cold suspicion rising to the surface.
Lance…
A flicker of irritation passed through her expression.
Did that bastard arm them himself?
If he had—
Then this wasn't just an ambush.
It was calculated.
And suddenly—
The pain in her ribs mattered far less than what that implied.
She let out a low groan, forcing herself upright as her gaze swept across the rectangular barrier enclosing them.
It wasn't just a prison.
It was a system.
Magitech devices were embedded at each corner, pulsing with a steady, oppressive rhythm. Lines of energy stretched between them, forming a sealing array that suffocated the flow of mana itself. The air felt heavy, resistant—every attempt to draw upon external energy met with invisible resistance.
Spellcasting was impossible.
Suppressed.
Severed at the source.
Emily's lips pressed into a thin line.
So that's how they leveled the field.
Her power had been cut in half from the moment the barrier activated. Every spell she could have used—every advantage she normally held—had been stripped away, forcing her into a fight on their terms.
Her grip tightened around the hilt of her shortsword, knuckles whitening as pain flared again from her ribs. It burned deeper now, more insistent, refusing to fade.
This was the second time.
The second time she had come this close to death.
A shiver ran down her spine despite herself. Her mind replayed the moment—the angle of the strike, the precision behind it.
If that blade had landed just a fraction closer—
Her heart would have been pierced.
And she would be lying among the corpses at her feet.
"…Tch."
Her breathing steadied.
Fear flickered—
Then died.
"She's wounded," one of the female Ascendants said, her voice sharp with opportunity. "We can finish her."
She didn't wait.
Without even glancing at Ayen for confirmation, she lunged forward, longsword flashing as it cut through the air in a direct, killing arc aimed for Emily's neck.
But Emily—
Was already gone.
The moment the attack began, her presence slipped into shadow—her form dissolving into darkness before reappearing behind the girl in the same breath.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
[Dancing Twilight: Falling Dusk Slash]
Her blade moved.
Once.
Then again.
Then a cascade.
Dark arcs carved through the air, silent and precise as they traced across the girl's body. The cuts were clean—too clean—before the blood followed, spilling in delayed crimson lines across her skin.
The girl staggered.
Her weapon slipped from her grasp.
Then she fell.
Lifeless.
The darkness embedded within Emily's strike seeped deeper than the wounds themselves, invading the cellular structure, unraveling it from within. It wasn't just damage—
It was annihilation.
Healing wasn't possible.
Not anymore.
Emily exhaled slowly.
If spells were denied to her, then she would fight the way she always had.
Her way.
Dancing Twilight wasn't a defensive art. It never had been. Forged in the unforgiving alleyways of Elysium City on Olympia, it was a style born from survival—refined through blood, desperation, and necessity.
It didn't protect.
It didn't endure.
It ended fights.
Quickly.
Decisively.
Fatally.
And this time—
She wasn't holding back.
The moment the first body hit the ground, Emily shifted.
Her eyes lifted, locking onto the remaining two.
Cold.
Focused.
Lethal.
Something in her expression changed—any restraint that had once existed was gone, replaced by a quiet, murderous intent that bled into the air around her.
[Dancing Twilight: Rising Sunrise]
Her blade ignited.
A blinding flare of light erupted from its edge, cutting through the dim, oppressive barrier like the first violent rays of dawn. The strike didn't stop at its arc—the light fractured upon contact with the air itself, scattering across the enclosed space.
Then—
It multiplied.
Each fragment of light sharpened, condensing into razor-thin blades that filled the barrier and ricocheted through the confined space with deadly precision. They moved unpredictably, slicing through everything in their path, turning the very air into a storm of radiant death.
Within the cage—
There was nowhere to run.
Lance watched in silence as the barrier filled with a storm of color.
Red.
Orange.
Gold.
Blades of radiant light cascaded through the confined space, tearing through the Ascendants as though they were little more than paper. Each strike was precise, merciless—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Just execution.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
There was something familiar in the way the light moved.
Prismatic Wind Blade.
A Tier Four spell—fragmentation, diffusion, multi-vector assault. He recognized the principles instantly.
But this—
Wasn't a spell.
It didn't follow the structure. There was no casting sequence, no external mana draw, no invocation to guide its form.
It was… integrated.
"Interesting…" Lance murmured under his breath.
He studied the flow again, deeper this time.
Not Pleiadian.
Not Federation.
Not any known lineage or school he had encountered.
Unrefined.
Unorthodox.
Yet terrifyingly effective.
A self-made art, he concluded.
His lips curved faintly.
She hadn't learned this.
She had built it—stitched together fragments of spell theory and combat instinct into something entirely her own.
A weapon born from necessity.
A very crafty girl.
The intel flickered through his mind—dry, incomplete, and now clearly flawed.
Average in Mana Arts. Exceptional in Magecraft.
He exhaled softly, almost amused.
So I thought sealing her spellcasting would cripple her…
His gaze swept over the carnage unfolding within the barrier.
But she adapted.
Of course she did.
She was a Master.
And he—
Had sent Acolytes.
A quiet chuckle escaped him, low and knowing.
Foolish.
With measured steps, Lance moved forward and crossed into the barrier.
The storm of light continued to rage around him, but his presence felt… heavier. Grounding. As if the space itself bent slightly to accommodate his arrival.
He reached up, removing his sunglasses in one smooth motion.
Then his shirt.
It fell loosely to the ground, revealing a broad, muscular frame—fair skin marked with intricate silver inscriptions etched across his body. They pulsed faintly at first…
Then brightened.
A silvery-green glow ignited beneath his skin.
His eyes shifted, yellow-green irises gleaming with something primal. From his fingertips, claws extended—long, curved, lethal. His ash-gray hair lengthened, spilling wildly around his shoulders as his frame expanded, muscles tightening and growing beneath his skin.
Fangs slid into place.
His body stretched, rising—six feet… seven… until he stood towering at over seven feet, a monstrous presence of controlled savagery.
Power bled from him.
Thick.
Oppressive.
The Odyllic itself trembled.
Emily felt it instantly.
Her senses sharpened, every instinct screaming in warning as the space around her seemed to distort under his presence. This wasn't just another Master—
This was someone standing at the edge of something greater.
On the verge of breaking through.
Still, she didn't flinch.
Her expression remained calm, composed—though her mind moved rapidly, dissecting everything she saw. His posture. His aura. The flow of energy beneath those inscriptions.
A Beastman.
And a dangerous one.
"Finally decided to step in?" Emily said, her tone cool as she shifted into stance, both short swords raised.
The lingering energy from her previous technique condensed along her blades, shifting hue—blue light igniting into flickering flames that wrapped around the edges, burning with controlled intensity.
She didn't wait.
She moved.
A sharp burst of speed carried her forward, her blade arcing downward in a clean, decisive strike aimed to cleave through him.
Lance vanished.
Not blurred—
Gone.
Emily's eyes widened slightly.
Too fast.
Her instincts roared.
Move.
She twisted mid-step, abandoning her attack as her body snapped to the side—
Just in time.
Lance reappeared behind her.
His claw slammed into the ground where she had stood a fraction of a second before.
Impact.
The floor exploded.
A violent shockwave tore through the structure, ripping open a massive crater as stone and steel shattered outward. The force traveled downward, rupturing the levels below.
Then—
Screams.
Panic.
Agony.
From beneath them.
Debris cascaded through the fractured floor, crushing everything in its path as the building groaned under the strain.
Emily landed in a low stance, eyes locked forward, breath steady—
But her mind had already reached one conclusion.
This one… is on a completely different level.
Emily's breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale catching against the fire in her lungs. Blood poured from her left arm, hot and unrelenting, dripping steadily to the fractured floor below. She spared it a glance—just enough to register the damage—before her focus snapped back to Lance.
Pain didn't matter.
Not now.
Her jaw tightened, and she moved.
With a burst of speed, she launched forward, feet barely touching the ground before she pushed off again—ascending, spinning mid-air with lethal precision. Her body aligned perfectly with her intent, every motion honed toward a single outcome.
Kill.
[Dancing Twilight: Breaking Dawn]
The technique began to form—
Light and shadow coiling along her blades, gathering for release—
Then—
A howl split the air.
Deep.
Primal.
Overwhelming.
Lance opened his jaws, and a beam of searing silver light erupted forth—violent, unrestrained. It tore through the space between them in an instant, slamming into Emily before her technique could fully manifest.
Impact.
The world shattered.
The beam punched through her midsection with catastrophic force, ripping through flesh and bone where her ribs were already compromised. Blood burst outward in a crimson spray, scattering into the air as her body convulsed under the assault.
Her blades—
Shattered.
The Adamant steel couldn't withstand it. Fractures raced across their surface before they broke apart completely, fragments scattering uselessly across the ground.
Her technique collapsed with them.
She didn't even have time to scream.
Before her body could fall—
Lance moved.
A massive claw struck her, the force behind it monstrous. It caught her mid-air and hurled her downward, slamming her into the floor with bone-crushing violence. She bounced once—twice—before skidding across the ruined surface, leaving a thick trail of blood in her wake.
Then—
Stillness.
Her body lay twisted, broken, barely responsive. Her vision flickered, the edges of her consciousness fraying as pain surged relentlessly through every nerve.
The world dimmed.
And in that fading space—
He approached.
Lance exhaled, the tension of battle leaving him as he dismissed his partial transformation. The monstrous traits receded—claws retracting, fangs vanishing, his frame shrinking back to its human proportions. Only the faint glow of the inscriptions lingered before fading into his skin.
He bent slightly, picking up his discarded shirt and draping it over his shoulder as though nothing of significance had just occurred.
Casual.
Unbothered.
He walked toward her.
Each step slow. Deliberate.
Final.
With a subtle gesture, one of the Quasi-Mythical longswords lifted from the ground, drawn to his hand as if compelled by an unseen force. He caught it easily, the blade gleaming with a quiet, ominous light.
Emily's body twitched faintly—
Too slow.
Too weak.
Without hesitation, Lance drove the blade downward.
Steel pierced flesh.
The sword plunged through her abdomen, punching into the floor beneath and pinning her in place. A fresh wave of blood spilled from the wound, pooling beneath her as her body jolted from the impact.
Silence followed.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
"Freya was right," Lance said, his voice flat, stripped of emotion.
He looked down at her—not with hatred, not even with satisfaction—
Just indifference.
"Such a waste of potential."
****
Henry awoke to a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes, his thoughts sluggish and disjointed. For a moment, he couldn't tell where he was—or how he had gotten there.
Fragments of memory flickered.
Sam leaving the room.
A sudden impact.
Darkness.
He pushed himself upright, wincing as the world tilted. Then—
The smell hit him.
Sharp.
Metallic.
Blood.
His senses snapped into focus.
Henry's eyes widened as he took in the scene—bodies scattered across the floor, motionless, broken. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the room itself was choking on what had transpired.
Then he saw her.
"...Emily—!"
He moved without thinking, leaping across the room and dropping beside her. His breath caught in his throat.
A longsword had been driven clean through her body, pinning her to the ground.
"No… no, no—"
Panic surged through him as his hands hovered helplessly over her, afraid to touch, afraid of what he might confirm.
But then—
Something else.
His gaze shifted.
And froze.
Another body lay draped over Emily—someone he didn't recognize. The woman's neck was tilted at an unnatural angle, pressed against Emily's mouth.
For a split second, Henry didn't understand.
Then it clicked.
Emily… was drinking her blood.
Time seemed to stop.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
As the last of the life drained from the woman, her body slackened, slipping limply to the side. Emily's head lifted slowly.
Her eyes—
Crimson.
They locked onto his.
Henry felt it immediately—a cold, unnatural presence pressing down on him. The veins around her eyes bulged faintly, pulsing with something dark and alien. The air grew heavier, colder, as if something within her had awakened.
His chest tightened.
His gaze darted to the surrounding corpses.
Pale.
Bloodless.
Every single one.
What… happened here?
Before he could process it—
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open.
Armed guards flooded into the room—dozens of them, clad in red-and-yellow armored suits. Their mana cannons were raised instantly, locking onto Emily without hesitation.
Behind them—
A presence.
She stepped forward with measured authority.
A towering woman—well over seven feet tall—her fiery red hair cascading down her back like a burning banner. Her rich brown skin glowed under the harsh lighting, her long orange military coat flowing behind her as she surveyed the carnage with piercing, calculating eyes.
"Get a medic here. Now."
Her voice cut through the tension like a blade.
Immediate.
Absolute.
One soldier broke off at once, sprinting back toward the elevator. The others held formation, weapons trained, awaiting the slightest sign of threat.
Emily's vision blurred.
Her consciousness flickered.
Through the haze, she saw movement—figures rushing toward her, someone in white kneeling beside her, hands moving quickly, efficiently.
Cold instruments.
Measured voices.
She felt herself being lifted—carefully, deliberately—as the world around her dimmed.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
When her eyes opened again, everything had changed.
The harsh chaos was gone.
Replaced by sterile light.
The steady hum of machinery.
A tube pressed against her face, feeding oxygen into her lungs. Her body felt distant—heavy, unresponsive.
Her gaze drifted.
Henry.
He sat nearby, rigid, silent, his eyes fixed on her as medics moved around her in a flurry of controlled urgency.
Relief flickered faintly within her fading awareness.
Then—
Darkness again.
Henry remained.
Time passed, though he couldn't tell how much.
The rhythmic beeping of medical equipment filled the air, each sound a reminder that she was still alive. Data scrolled across screens he couldn't understand, numbers and readings that meant nothing to him.
They were aboard an airship now—Golden Dawn operatives moving with quiet efficiency.
Everything had been arranged.
Simone Gylock.
The Guardian of Bel'Yor City.
She had taken control of the situation the moment she arrived—coordinating extraction, medical response, containment. Nothing had been left to chance.
Emily had been stabilized.
Barely.
The rest…
Was up to her.
Henry exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before standing. His legs felt unsteady, but he forced himself forward, stepping out into the corridor where Simone stood with a healer, their voices low.
"It's… peculiar," the healer was saying, his tone edged with fascination. "She's Pleiadian, yes—but her regenerative capabilities are abnormal. Far beyond standard parameters."
Henry slowed, listening.
"It's closer to a Daemon's healing factor," the healer continued. "Possibly even exceeding it. The Lifeforce saturation within her Vital field is… extraordinary."
Simone's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Bloodforce affinity?" she asked.
Her mind replayed the scene.
The drained bodies.
The bite marks.
The bloodless corpses.
It didn't align.
Daemons weren't known for blood-based abilities. Their strengths lay in shadow, in darkness, in overwhelming vitality—but this…
This was something else.
Something wrong.
Something unknown.
"Is she going to be okay?" Henry asked, stepping closer.
Simone turned her gaze to him—sharp, assessing. For a moment, she said nothing.
A rookie.
Sent into this.
Why?
"She'll live," she said finally, her tone curt.
Henry exhaled, though the tension in his chest didn't ease.
"I still don't understand what happened," he admitted. "No one's telling me anything."
"You were attacked," Simone said calmly. "By the Fallen Stars."
Henry frowned.
"The Fallen Stars?"
"A terrorist organization," she explained. "They operated within the Divine Federation two decades ago. Disappeared… or so we believed."
Her gaze shifted slightly, distant.
"They've resurfaced."
Henry's stomach tightened.
"Here?"
Simone nodded once.
"On this planet."
Silence fell between them.
Heavy.
Unsettling.
"You should rest," Simone added, her tone softening just a fraction. "We'll be arriving at the tower soon."
Henry didn't argue.
But as he turned away—
His mind lingered on one thing.
Emily.
And the blood on her lips.