At least that was what he thought.
The attack came from the north.
Not from the overlay. The overlay was gone, the shimmer faded, the northern district returning to itself with the quiet conviction of something resuming after an interruption. The attack came from the ordinary street, from the ordinary morning, from three directions simultaneously in the coordinated way that Cael had learned to recognize as the signature of people who had planned this and had been waiting for exactly this moment.
The moment when the overlay collapsed and the team came out and was tired and had just done something significant and was in the particular vulnerable state of people who had finished something hard and had not yet finished being finished with it.
He heard the Hollow Hound spike before he heard
