The battlefield had changed shape overnight. What used to be a city was now a skeleton of fractured towers and dust-thick air. The fog smelled of oil, gunpowder, and burnt flesh. Cain stood amidst it all — coat shredded, eyes bloodshot, breath heavy. The ground beneath his boots vibrated faintly with the hum of unseen machines buried under rubble, still trying to run some long-forgotten function.
To his right, Susan crouched behind a concrete pillar, rifle steady. "Movement, eight o'clock. Two. Maybe three."
"Let them come," Cain said, voice low. "We're not running anymore."
Roselle adjusted her gauntlet, the thin streaks of dried blood across her cheek glistening under the intermittent sparks of lightning above. "You sound like you've said that too many times."
He didn't answer. His gaze stayed forward, locked on the horizon where the enemy banners were just beginning to appear through the haze — faint symbols of wings crossed by chains.
The Council's Purifiers.
