Vane handed her the star-metal spear.
When her fingers closed around the leather-wrapped shaft, the air in the triage ward seemed to sharpen. She did not test the weight. She did not spin it. She just held it and suddenly the spear was not an object anymore. It was an extension of her reach.
"Outside," Senna ordered. Her voice was no longer a rasp. It was the clear resonant tone of command that had once directed battalions.
They moved to the roof of the triage center. The fog was thick, a churning grey sea that obscured the drop below. Vane stood ten paces from her. His heart hammered against ribs that felt too fragile. His Usurper interface was practically screaming, painting Senna in pulsating crimson warning overlays. She was a walking catastrophe event.
She was magnificent.
She wore the too-small hospital gown like battle armor. She rolled her neck, cracked her knuckles, and took a deep breath of the damp air, savoring it without a wheeze.
