Elowen Markham runs as Sigma-Seven wakes behind her—black metal singing, green lines pulsing underfoot like living circuitry. The guardians don’t sprint or shout. They advance with steady steps and weapons that don’t burn; they erase.

Rook drags Corporal Silex on a scraping sled. Pell limps with shaking hands. Quill clamps both arms around a taped metal case that refuses to stay cold. Inside, the shard warms… and listens.

Then Kyras Vane cuts through the static in Elowen’s ear—calm, sharp, and ready to spend lives like currency. He has directions. He also has one order she will not obey.

A sealed door waits in an oval chamber, its socket shaped for the shard as if the city has been expecting this moment for ages. Use it, and the way opens. Use it, and the machine-city may call every hunter in its halls.

Behind them: green eyes and measured death. Ahead: a slit of darkness that swallows light.

Elowen makes her choice—and the door begins to move.