The docks of New Echelon were a kingdom of rust.
Cranes rose like dying giants over black water, their arms creaking as cargo containers swung from cables that hadn’t been serviced in years. The air smelled of salt and oil, and underneath that, blood. Somewhere below the noise of gulls and machinery, a rhythm pulsed—boots, chains, the steady beat of industry that never slept.
Aria and her pack moved through the fog like ghosts.
Dominic walked at her right shoulder, silent and alert. Aries followed a few paces back, every step measured. Kellen’s eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, the glow of his handheld dimmed to a heartbeat’s pulse. Vincent was whistling—softly, nervously, the sound of someone who whistled to keep their teeth from grinding.
Ahead, beyond the fog, the Iron Syndicate’s
