The sun had barely crested the treetops when Inigo eased the Apache's cyclic stick forward, coaxing the massive attack helicopter into a slow, deliberate lift. The rotors roared as they bit into the air, dust and leaves scattering from the clearing below like panicked birds.
He was flying.
"Goddamn..." he muttered, half in awe, half disbelief. His gloved hand tightened slightly on the controls.
The Apache AH-64E was sleek, matte black, and brimming with raw power. Twin engines flared behind him, and the cockpit, modified slightly by the System to run solo, responded to his every input like an extension of his will. Onboard HUDs glowed faint green, feeding him real-time data—altitude, radar sweeps, weapon systems, even wind pressure.
He'd spent the night in the forest clearing to avoid questions. Even Lyra didn't know what he'd summoned—only that he needed "space."
Now he had it.
