Low gravity makes everything look slow even when your heart isn't. The rim ridge beyond Tycho was a line of broken glass under a black sky, and we moved along it like chalk marks—quiet, exact, nobody trying to be the loudest thing on the Moon.
"We set here," Reika said, planting a boot on a flat slab. Cursed Script ghosted across the back of her hand in dull violet, not for power—yet—but to stamp the site into her memory. "Inner ring at thirty paces. Outer at eighty. No one crosses the inner but Arthur, Luna, Erebus. If I say 'out,' you sprint."
Luna nodded once, her eyes calm and bright. "Harmony on my call."
Erebus lifted a palm. Bone from thin air, clean and pale, rose without a clink: four low pylons, each the height of my knee. They did not hum. They did not leak. They simply were, and the ground around them agreed to become less messy.
