The dawn that broke over the Atlantic was entirely unscripted. It didn’t carry the violet hue of the spire or the neon red of the Regina; it was a pale, crisp gold that felt clean, casting long shadows across the deck of the salvage vessel. The air no longer tasted of eighty-year-old coffee grounds and ozone. It just tasted of salt, cold wind, and the open sea.
Giulia stood at the railing of the ship's bridge, a heavy wool blanket thrown over her shoulders. The iron hilt of the light-blade sat on the console behind her, dark and inert. Without the Vathek's core to feed its polarity, it was just an empty vessel—a piece of dead architecture from a war that had finally run out of runway.
Beside her, Matteo was staring down at his hands. The silver scar was still there, woven into his skin,
