Deployment mornings have a sound.
Not the city kind—Aeloria’s layered song, markets waking, kids running. Array mornings are sharper. Metal on metal. Skiff cores spooling up. Comms pinging in clipped, efficient pulses. The whole place hums like a blade being sharpened.
I step into the hangar and it hits me full—silver Celadryn light, open bay doors, the Vein under the floor syncing to the transport’s resonance.
And them.
Kaien’s already there, because of course he is, checking the stabilizers on the skiff like the techs can’t do their jobs. Eryndor’s beside him, hands inside an open panel, shadow seals flickering over his fingers. Theron’s ten steps away arguing with a tech about weapons allowances like it’s a sport. Cassian’s off to the side, gloves in hand, looking like a problem.
T
