A month inside the Sanctuary felt like a year.
There was no day or night in Mosaic City anymore. There was only the Shimmer.
Above the skyscrapers, where the sky used to be, a dome of swirling opalescent energy churned endlessly. It cast a perpetual twilight over the city, a soft, dreamlike glow that made shadows long and edges indistinct. The sun was gone. The moons were gone. The stars were memories.
Arden stood in the training ring of the MDF barracks. She wasn't wearing a containment suit or a crystal gauntlet. She wore a tank top and cargo pants, sweat glistening on her skin.
Her right arm was metal. Just metal.
It was a standard-issue prosthetic from Voss's factories—chrome-plated, hydraulic, functional. It hummed when she moved it, a mechanical whir that sounded clumsy compared to the silent song of her old crystal limb.
"You're telegraphing," Rax grunted.
