The desert at 2:00 AM was no longer a furnace; it was a vacuum. The heat had retreated into the sand, leaving behind an expansive, brittle chill that tasted of salt and ancient stone. Inside the Obsidian bus, the silence was heavy, broken only by the synchronized breathing of the boys in their bunks and the distant, mechanical hum of the perimeter generators.
Rayna lay in her bunk, staring at the underside of the mattress above her. Her skin felt tight, a phantom sensation of the oxblood leather bodice still cinching her ribs. Every time she closed her eyes, she didn't see the stage lights or the crowd; she saw the "Unclaimed" intake form from St. Jude’s. She felt the ghost of Caspian’s hands lacing her into her armor, a memory that made her heart hammer against her ribs with a rhythmic,
