Ashcroft doesn’t strike the compound.
He strikes routine.
The attack comes mid-afternoon.
Sun high.
Pack relaxed.
Children in the courtyard.
Normal.
That’s what makes it perfect.
I’m in the training chamber with Morgan, practicing micro-channel compression.
Not flare.
Not anchor.
Precision.
The baby hums faintly — steady, warm.
Then—
The current inside me snaps tight.
Not resonance.
Not architectural pulse.
Severance attempt.
“Asher,” I whisper.
Morgan’s head snaps up.
“You felt it?”
“Yes.”
It’s not amplification.
It’s absence.
His field just dimmed.
I run.
Not controlled.
Not measured.
I run.
The courtyard is chaos when I burst through the doors.
Children screaming.
Wolves shifting.
Smoke curling through the air.
Asher isn’t where he was.
The fort is over
