The columns of Reaper-Cruisers suddenly ceased their firing. The devastating crimson lasers vanished from the sky in a single, silent millisecond, leaving the upper atmosphere in a heavy, breathless darkness that was far more terrifying than the previous bombardment. The abrupt absence of sound hit the Western Ridge like a physical blow; the frantic crackle of ozone and the high-frequency screech of the unmaking engines died instantly, replaced by an oppressive, suffocating void.
The columns of ships did not retreat. They parted.
With a slow, reverent cadence that suggested the arrival of a structural absolute, the thousands of white limestone vessels slid backward toward the northern and southern horizons. Their massive gold clockwork gears turned in a synchronized, rhythmic rotation, no longer pulsing with aggressive crimson energy, but humming a low, mechanical prayer of submission.
