Rain fell sideways in the ruins of Sector Seven.
Not real rain—residual Weave leakage from the shattered rift above, condensing into silver droplets that hissed when they hit scorched metal. The battlefield stretched across what used to be a university campus. Now it was a graveyard of drones, broken sigils, and smoldering synth-flesh.
Luna stood in the center.
No armor. No weapon. Just her boots, soaked through, and the rosemary sprig tucked behind her ear—dry now, but still faintly glowing.
Around her, the three factions circled like wolves.
Synthetics to the east, led by Hale, rifles humming with containment rounds.
Weave Elders to the west, robes torn, hands weaving emergency wards.
Hybrids to the north—only twelve left standing, Kai bleeding from his forearm, Miko holding up a flickering shield.
And between them all: bodies.
Not just combatants. Civilians. Medics. A kid in a torn school uniform, curled under a collapsed archway, eyes wide and unblinking.
