The battlefield didn't feel like a warzone anymore.
It felt like a hospital with no beds.
Smoke curled from shattered hulls. Debris floated like ash. And in the center of it all, Alexander lay unconscious, breathing shallow, his skin still humming with the aftershocks of his roar. Luna knelt beside him, hands pressed to his chest, trying to stabilize what she couldn't replace.
Then—light.
Not from engines. Not from weapons.
From her.
Scarlett stepped off the Ark's ramp without hesitation, barefoot on scorched metal, her hair loose, eyes fixed on the drifting Devourers. She wore no armor, just a simple gray tunic—the one Luna had given her for her fiftieth birthday, embroidered with tiny silver moons.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
As soon as her feet touched the outer hull, warmth bloomed around her—not heat, but presence. Like sunlight through old glass. Like a hand smoothing your blanket at 3 a.m.
Luna looked up. "Mom… don't."
