The first problem was the one they couldn't see.
"Surveillance wards," Akane said, her voice flat. On the holographic map, several nodes around the Duke's estate pulsed with a faint red light. "We ran a dozen drone passes, flew them right over the walls. Nothing. But when we simulated a direct, armed approach on foot… the energy signature spiked across the compound. It's not watching. It's… listening. To what you're thinking."
A heavy silence settled in the room.
"So, what?" Kaito's voice was laced with a sarcasm that didn't quite cover his fear. "We walk in thinking about kittens?"
"Don't be an idiot," Haruto snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. The command center smelled of stale air and recycled sweat. "It's a logic problem. Akari, what's the frequency on those wards? Compare it to the Weavers' psychic attacks."
"A psychic tripwire," Haruto muttered, pacing. "Can't cut it. Can't sneak past it." He stopped, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the map. "So we deafen it. We make so much noise it can't hear us coming."
For the next forty-eight hours, the workshop became his world. It was a chaotic mess of scavenged components, wires spilling everywhere and half-empty nutrient packs. He talked to himself, cursed at faulty circuits, and let out a single, sharp bark of laughter when a power conduit finally seated.
Himari found him late the second night, slumped over the workbench asleep, his head pillowed on a schematic. The device on the pedestal beside him was an ugly, brutal-looking thing of emitters and focusing crystals scavenged from the ship's comms array. She gently draped a blanket over his shoulders. He mumbled something about phase harmonics and didn't stir. She watched him for a long moment, the sheer, stubborn force of his will a physical presence in the room. Her hand started to lift, to brush the hair from his forehead, but she clenched it into a fist and left before he woke.
While Haruto built his weapon, Himari had to build hers.
She sat before the comms unit, the script she'd written crumpled on the floor beside her. All the right words were on it. Hope. Freedom. Victory. They were all lies. She took a breath and it hitched in her throat. All she had to do was be brave for three minutes.
She keyed the broadcast, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
"People of Silverwood." Her voice trembled, and she didn't fight it. Let them hear it. "I know you are afraid. The Duke has shown you his cruelty because he wants you to believe hope is a crime."
She paused, letting the silence hang.
"He is wrong," she continued, the words finding a new, harder edge. "He is a coward, hiding behind walls and stolen magic because he is afraid of you. Of your courage. Of the idea that you might one day stand up straight."
"Tonight, we are going to his house. We are going to walk through his walls and past his magic. We are going to show him, and you, that he is just a man. And his time is over."
"Don't fight. Not yet. Just watch. Hope isn't a crime. It's a promise. Tonight, we keep ours."
She cut the feed and fell forward, burying her face in her shaking hands. Had she just given them a reason to live, or a reason to die? She was no longer sure there was a difference.