"It's freedom," Lyra said, her voice cracking despite the effort to hold it steady. "Freedom from their cages."
The words rang out into the settling dusk, brittle and raw. Roachaline caught the vulnerability threading through them — not weakness, but a place where loyalty could be shaped, if pressed the right way.
The believers' chant rose again, heavier now — "Blood binds!" — echoing through the shattered bones of the plaza as the trick edged closer to being sprung.
The armory loomed ahead, the looted crates stacked high against broken walls, sparking drones littering the floor in scattered ruin. Vardency's dusk slipped through the gaps, casting long shadows across the wreckage, the air thick with the tang of scorched metal and hollow victory.
Roachaline led the six inside, her steps slow, weighted with exhaustion that even the shard's hum couldn't drown out. Her knife twirled lazily at her side, the violet shard thrumming against her ribs with every heartbeat.
