The first thing Astra felt wasn’t the searing heat of the silver nitrate or the crushing weight of the basalt. It was the scent of rain. Not the chemical, acidic downpour of the Grey Zone, but something clean, ancient, and cool. It was the smell of a forest waking up after a century of drought.
Astra’s eyes fluttered open. She wasn’t in the Obsidian Mines. She was lying in the massive bed of the Sterling penthouse, but the room looked different. The floor to ceiling glass walls were open, allowing a soft, natural breeze to ruffle the white silk curtains. Outside, the sky wasn't the murky amber of industrial smog; it was a deep, bruised purple, clear enough to see the stars.
"You’ve been asleep for three days," a low, sandpaper rasp rumbled from the balcony.
Dante was leaning against the
