The sky did not heal. It opened like a cauterized wound.
Lucien lay spread-eagled in the center of the crater, his chest heaving with shallow, rattling breaths. The golden motes of memory still clung to his clothes like phosphorescent dust, but their warmth was being rapidly stolen by a cold, metallic shadow that stretched miles across the ruins.
Above, the descent of the ships brought a sound far more terrifying than the Titan’s roar. The relentless, synchronized hum of massive cooling fans and pressurized hydraulics.
"They aren't gods," Seraphina whispered, her voice cracking as she knelt by Lucien’s head, her fingers desperately tracing the lines of his waning pulse. "Look at the rivets... the oil leaks. This is old technology.
Primordial, but grounded in iron. They aren't here
