Snow swirled through the shattered domes of the lower aqueduct chambers, carrying motes of phosphorescent spores that drifted like malevolent fireflies. Nora Awen crouched behind a rusted generator bank, her breath steaming in the gloom. Beside her, Elsa Whitlock knelt, pincering frayed wires with trembling fingers.
“Elbow grease and diplomacy won't clear this," Elsa muttered, voice taut. “The spore core is barreling through the city's ventilation. We must sabotage the sanctified fire barrier."
Nora's gloved hand brushed the crystal sigil at her throat—still pulsing from the Blessing Rite. “We have little time," she agreed. “Leon and the guard are at the river gate. Once the spores breach the quarantine, they'll be unstoppable."
A low rumble echoed down the stone corridor. Twin searchli
