Rain lashed against the windows of the Silver Creek estate like it was trying to get in—and maybe warn them. Inside the war room, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool, stale coffee, and dread.
Aria sat at the head of the table, her fingers wrapped tight around a cold mug. She hadn't drunk anything in hours. Her eyes kept drifting to the far corner of the room, where Luna sat cross-legged on a worn rug, quietly braiding blades of dried grass she'd picked up from the garden earlier. The child hadn't said much since they'd returned from Australia—not after what she'd done at Uluru.
Kai stood by the fireplace, arms crossed, staring into the flames like they held answers. His golden eyes were shadowed. He hadn't slept. None of them had.
The vision from the Keepers still clung to Aria's mind like smoke. Not just the end of the world—but the way Luna had looked in it. Small. Fragile. Unmade.
