The rain was heavier now — thick drops hammering down in silver threads, turning the plaza into a sheet of dark glass. The crowd had swelled, pressing against the barricades. Some shouted her name. Some shouted her old name, Nova. Most didn’t shout at all — they filmed, they stared, they waited.
Waiting for her to fall.
Waiting for her to rise.
Aria’s boots splashed through shallow water as she moved, Dominic at her shoulder. The air smelled like wet stone and ozone, like something breaking open. Behind them, the High Table’s chamber was in lockdown — heavy steel shutters sealing its ornate windows, the sound like a coffin lid closing.
“They’ll be hunting you before you’re a block away,” Dominic said. His tone was steady, but his eyes kept scanning the crowd like he was counting weapon
