We stepped through the cracked foyer and into light that was too white, too quiet. Someone had jammed alarms into the walls, all flickering like nervous eyes. The air smelled of disinfectant, ozone, and burned mana. Command Row's heart — once where the best hunters in Arcadia strutted — had turned into a field hospital pretending to be strategy central.
We followed the signs for Command Level. Jax's limp was louder than our boots. Hana's shawl whispered as she walked, threads pulsing faint blue each time someone screamed from another room. I didn't talk. I'd already used up my brave-sounding words for the day.
At the top of the stairwell, two guards stood beside a half-melted checkpoint gate. Their armor was ash-stained, faces hollow. One raised a scanner, its crystal dim. The other's badge hung on by one pin.
"Identify," the first said. His voice cracked halfway through.
"Ethan Cross. Independent." I lifted my wrist. The band pulsed forge-blue. "These two are with me."
