The air aboard the Chronos Garrison was a recycled, metallic chill, so devoid of organic scent it felt more like a machine’s interior than a habitat. The station, a repurposed Division Zero listening post, hung in the void like a shard of ice, its angular, gunmetal-grey corridors a stark rejection of the organic curves and living light of Roewi’s Haven. Here, there was no hum of life, only the sub-audible thrum of powerful generators and the precise click of boot heels on polished deck plating.
Ereun Solas stood on the elevated command platform, a figure of severe angles in his stark black uniform. The pristine academy whites were a memory, a costume for a play that had ended. His hands, encased in supple grey gloves, rested on the cool console. Beneath the fabric, the skin was a roadmap
