The cold metal walls of the Vanguard outpost vibrated with the heavy, low hum of Morcant's looped broadcast.
Outside the narrow, barred windows, the night was no longer dark. It was cut to pieces by the sweeping red beams of mechanical search drones and the heavy, rhythmic thud of black plate patrol boots marching across the perimeter asphalt.
"We need to fall back into the western ridge," Darius muttered, his hand pressed hard against his torn collarbone as he leaned his bulk against a metal gun rack. "Look at us. We're bleeding, half our gear is at the bottom of the pit, and Varic can barely stand. Walking into the capital right now is just mass suicide, kid. We need to hide, lick our wounds, and wait for the heat to die down."
"The heat isn't going to die down, Darius," Elara said, her voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous flatness that made the old commander stop talking.
She didn't look like a girl running for her life anymore.
