Reverian's armor finished collapsing in a slow drift of dust, curling away from the crater like ash in no wind. The silence afterward wasn't peace; it was stunned equipment catching up with itself. Cracked gantries ticked. The Yard's ward pylons hummed off-key and then found the note again. Tycho's horizon wore a thin silver edge where the sun clipped the black.
Tiamat lowered her hand and actually groaned—no theater in it, just an old dragon's bones telling the truth.
"That," she said, rubbing at her temple, "was merely a projection through a dying archduke. And I barely held it." Her mouth twisted. "How degenerate I've become."
Luna, already stitching Purelight through bent conduits like thread through canvas, didn't look up. "You held," she said. "That's what matters."
