The extraction from the Amazonian basin was a blur of mud, blood, and the smell of ozone that refused to wash off. The "Cradle" had been buried under a million tons of rock, but the silence that followed wasn't peaceful—it was heavy, like the air before a lightning strike. By the time the wheels of the private transport touched down on a secluded airstrip in French Guiana, the atmosphere had shifted again. The jungle was behind them, but the ocean lay ahead, and the water was where the next movement of the Silence would begin.
Seraphina lay on a narrow cot in the back of the transport, her skin so pale it was almost translucent. The silver-violet threads that had burrowed into her neck had receded, leaving behind thin, faint scars that looked like lightning strikes frozen under her skin.
