Night had fallen by the time they reached the edge of the ruined settlement. The sky above was streaked with violet and ash, a dying canvas painted by a war-torn world. Fires flickered in the distance—controlled, maybe, but far too organized to be friendly.
Aria crouched behind a broken slab of ferrocrete, peering through a pair of cracked binoculars. "They're not smugglers," she whispered. "Not this many. Not this armed."
Kael knelt beside her, eyes narrowed. "Militia?"
"Or worse," she murmured. Her hand slid down to the knife at her belt.
Rhea stood back, arms crossed, cloak pulled tightly around her. "You don't think they're just survivors?"
Kael gave a dry chuckle. "Survivors don't fly drones and carry laser rifles."
Aria bit her lip. She felt the pull of the data chip hidden in her boot like a pulse against her skin. Whatever secrets it carried, they were more valuable than she'd imagined.
Suddenly, a sound broke through the silence. Not a gunshot. Not footsteps.
A child's laughter.
Kael stood immediately, alarmed. "What the hell—?"
Before anyone could react, a figure stepped out of the shadows. A young boy—barefoot, soot-streaked, smiling with the kind of innocence the world had long since burned away.
"Are you here for the light?" he asked.
Aria blinked. "The light?"
"They say it heals," he said. "They say it came from a girl who never melted."
Her blood froze. That phrase—never melted—was code, one used in the cryo labs. One that referenced subjects who resisted the decay.
Kael's voice dropped to a whisper. "They're not just survivors. They're followers."
Rhea grabbed Aria's arm. "This is a cult."
And Aria couldn't breathe.