Smoke roared through the collapsing wing as Lucia sprinted down the service corridor, Arlen clinging to her side, soot streaking his cheeks.
Behind them, glass pods shattered one by one under the pressure of fire and shrapnel.
She didn't look back.
But her heart screamed.
*Please don't die in there.*
---
Serik's squad—loyalists in desertion—waited at the tunnel mouth, a battered cart hitched to an old war elk. The children blinked at the moonlight like it hurt.
Lucia ushered them in. “How many did you count?"
“Seven," Serik answered. “But the ceiling's coming down. If Ares isn't out in the next five minutes—"
“He will be," she said.
“Lucia—"
“I said *he will be*."
And then he was.
Bursting through the smoke, two more children cradled in his arms, ash in his hair, coat burning
