Three weeks later. Romania again.
The spring thaw had turned the Carpathian grid into a freezing, ankle-deep mud pit. The snowmelt was viciously cold, the air smelled like wet pine and wet dog, and the Blackwood tactical detail we brought for muscle looked completely miserable.
Anca was waiting at the old boundary markers. No ceremonial robes. Just a heavy wool coat, tactical boots caked in mud, and a shotgun slung over her shoulder.
"You showed," she grunted.
"You called."
We hiked in. I could feel the Origin Chamber before I saw it. The low, heavy baseline of the biological network humming in my molars. It was louder here. Raw.
"You mentioned a ceremony on the encrypted line," I said, stepping over a rotting log. "Skip the preamble. What's the ask?"
Anca didn't stop walking. "Twen
