The rain hadn’t stopped. It sheeted across the docks, pounding metal roofs and dripping into the bay like a thousand ticking clocks. The warehouse smelled of rust and old salt, the air heavy with the metallic tang of wet steel.
Aria sat at the edge of a crate, her jacket discarded, blood seeping slowly through the bandage on her shoulder. The others hadn’t spoken much since they returned. Grief had its own gravity, pulling them all into silence.
Kellen was the first to break it. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp but unfocused. “Two gone in less than an hour. That’s not coincidence. Damaris knew exactly where to strike.”
“He always knows,” Vincent muttered, his voice low and bitter. He was stripping down his weapon again, metal clicks echoing in the cavernous space. “T
