The citadel of Armathen, eastern border of Seravenn.

  Population: 351.

  Active defense station.

  Secondary supply line.

  Emotional link, class 3.

  The dawn mist had not yet lifted when the alarms began to fail.

  Not sound—fail.

  First it was the magical distortion radars. Then the emotional signature sensors. After that, communications were cut off one by one, like candles snuffed by an invisible breath.

  No one could say what happened first. Only that, in less than six minutes, the most stable defensive node on the eastern frontier ceased to exist.

  Floating above the final layers of the atmospheric mantle, suspended on an anti-gravitational platform the same color as the pre-storm sky, three figures watched in silence.

  Behind them, a support team stood by without intervening.

  This was a symbolic deployment, more than a tactical one.

  The offensive would be carried out by them alone.

  Three.

  Schattenspeer.

  Klara Weisshaupt stood at the center, needing no orders nor gestures.

  Her presence alone aligned the mission vectors.

  Her tall, sculpted body seemed an extension of Eiswacht’s steel. Her platinum hair was braided in a perfect spiral, embedded with black metal plates that pulsed lightly to the rhythm of her magical heartbeat. She wore a ceremonial combat suit in black and deep blue, with golden lines that pulsed from her spine to her fingertips like living circuits. A short cape hung behind her, fastened by pauldrons inscribed with High Ewigschrift glyphs.

  Her transformation felt like reversed gravity—everything she touched obeyed her will.

  When she materialized her scythe, the air folded around her.

  The weapon was as tall as she was—nearly two meters—with a curved blade that didn’t shine, but instead consumed the light. Everything about Klara was control and absolute power.

  —Objective: total annulment, she said, without needing to raise her voice.

  Her tone was law.

  To her right, Ilsa Dreiman was already split in two.

  A second version of herself emerged slowly, as if born from her shadow.

  They looked at each other with identical gray eyes, then turned in perfect unison.

  Her transformation was functional: a tight iron-gray suit, without ornament, without compromise. Her modular swords rested magnetically against her forearms, ready to expand or separate as needed. Her dark brown hair was tied in a severe braid, and a geometric symbol lit up on her forehead: the glyph of absolute obedience.

  Ilsa needed no orders.

  She needed no motivation.

  She was execution made flesh.

  —Suppression sequence initiated, she murmured in a robotic whisper.

  To the left, Mareike Kohl was smiling.

  She always smiled before destruction.

  Her transformation was brutal: fracture gauntlets with kinetic cores embedded in the knuckles, surrounded by floating shards of broken metal that orbited her like miniature asteroids. Her suit resembled light armor, deliberately worn and weathered, as if it had endured centuries of war. Energy cables connected her back to a glowing pulse core that beat like an artificial heart.

  Her reddish hair, shaved at the sides, fell to one side like a tongue of flame, and her eyes—metallic blue—gleamed with a nearly feverish intensity.

  —I want them to scream before they break, she said, flexing her fingers.

  The air cracked.

  Klara lowered her hand.

  —We begin.

  THE ATTACK

  The platform descended in silence.

  No alarm was triggered.

  Armathen’s defense station was protected by shields no one imagined could fail before being activated.

  But the gravitational detection fields had collapsed minutes before.

  Emotional magic was blocked.

  Emotions couldn’t reach the sensors.

  It was like attacking the blind.

  Ilsa split into four identical bodies, each taking a separate corridor.

  In less than two minutes, the defense personnel were neutralized.

  Not with brutality, but with surgical precision—so clean, the bodies didn’t even fall immediately.

  They simply… collapsed.

  Mareike descended into the central plaza.

  There were the civilians, organized by the evacuation protocol.

  Three hundred and fifty lives. No more. No less.

  She gave no warning.

  She made no declaration.

  She simply extended her gauntlets and said, with a frozen smile:

  —Feel your world shatter.

  The kinetic fracture activated.

  The shockwave wasn’t explosive—it was vibrational.

  The air cracked. Bones. Minds. Screams.

  The outer buildings collapsed inward, as if an invisible force had imploded them.

  The people didn’t die… they unraveled.

  Matter and memory fragmented.

  Klara walked behind, scythe resting on her shoulder.

  The ground warped beneath her feet.

  Every step altered the weight of the world, and the bullets that came her way dropped like dead insects.

  —Point Zero secured, Ilsa reported via the emotional channel.

  —Eliminate the rest, Klara replied.

  One by one, the resonance chambers, tactical archives, and magical links of the citadel… were annihilated.

  Not by a bomb.

  Not by a siege.

  But by three women transformed into the embodiment of their nation.

  When it was over, nothing remained.

  Not a single recorded emotion.

  Not a single living voice.

  Only ruins.

  And a crater.

  The silence after the massacre was absolute. Only the faint hum of the antigravity core lingered in the static air, like a distant lament.

  Klara walked through what remained of the administrative center, her scythe still resting on her shoulder. The rubble smoked, and shards of shattered emotion floated like invisible ash. Then—a flicker of movement caught her eye.

  A soldier. No older than twenty. Half-buried under a steel beam, his leg mangled, lips trembling. He didn’t scream. He didn’t plead. He was just... alive.

  Klara stopped in front of him.

  The boy looked up, eyes wide with a terror so pure it bordered on reverence.

  —P-please… —he whispered.

  Klara said nothing. She lowered her scythe with practiced ease, the blade descending like a verdict. She gently laid it against his neck, right where his pulse still beat.

  For a moment, it looked like she was weighing something.

  But it wasn’t mercy.

  It was disdain.

  —There should be no survivors —she murmured.

  And with a single motion, she corrected the oversight.

  The body slumped without a sound.

  Behind her, Mareike appeared, wiping her knuckles with a strip of metal cloth as she observed the scene with her usual smile—slightly dimmed, this time.

  —You know that wasn’t necessary, right?

  —I know —Klara replied, calmly cleaning the blade.— But I don’t like leaving remnants.

  —So tidy —Mareike snorted.— Sometimes I think what you have isn’t pride—it’s pathology.

  —If you weren’t so sadistic —Klara shot back,— I might let you file the reports.

  Mareike let out a rough laugh, but stepped closer and gave her a slap on the back—like a soldier greeting her older sister in the trenches.

  Ilsa arrived seconds later, her duplicates now reabsorbed into her primary body. She looked down at the corpse with the same neutral expression as always.

  —Emotional scan: complete. No usable traces remain —she reported.— Point Zero is secure.

  —Not yet —Klara said, looking up at the storm-thick sky.— I want to make sure Aurora wasn’t compromised.

  Mareike tilted her head.

  —You think Seravenn’s sensors caught something?

  —If they did —Klara replied,— they’re already moving. And if they didn’t... they will be soon.

  A brief silence followed. Not of discomfort—but of shared certainty.

  —You know —Mareike said, folding her arms,— if your insufferable perfection didn’t exist… I might resent you less.

  —And if your sadism weren’t so exhausting —Klara replied, with mechanical coolness,— I might let you lead the debriefings.

  Mareike chuckled, rough and dark, but stepped in to give her another clap—this time, less teasing. There was respect in it.

  Ilsa watched in silence, never needing to speak. But the slight easing of her posture said what her face never would: she understood them. And she would follow them anywhere.

  Klara gave a final nod.

  —We’re done. The front will arrive tomorrow. I want them to find it empty.

  The three lifted off toward the hovering platform.

  Behind them, Armathen's crater still smoldered.

  Nothing remained.

  Only ruin.

  And in the center of the silence—the promise of something far worse.

  Central City of Eiswacht. Korrheim Station. 0540 hours.

  The antigravitational train decelerated without a sound, its outer walls automatically adjusting to the surrounding pressure. The platform lit up with a warm glow—not for aesthetics, but to help bodies adapt smoothly to the sudden temperature shift after reentering the atmosphere.

  Klara Weisshaupt disembarked without ceremony, flanked by Ilsa and Mareike. Around them, the entire station responded with a precision that required no orders or glances. The clocks marked the exact scheduled time. The screens displayed information without distractions. The people, dressed in long coats, functional hats, and treated leather gloves, moved efficiently, as if every step had been rehearsed.

  There were no greetings, no applause. Just space. The crowd parted naturally in their presence, without fear, without reverence. As if Schattenspeer's presence was part of the ecosystem—just as ordinary as the snow or the zeppelins floating above.

  For Klara, that was enough.

  The city breathed under a soft veil of mist that concealed nothing. Buildings of black stone and polished glass rose like pillars of judgment, crisscrossed by aerial walkways and suspended trains. On the walls, government posters spoke of innovation, excellence, contribution. A child held her mother's hand as the woman pointed to one: "Every heartbeat for Eiswacht." The child nodded, solemn, as if she already understood.

  Klara observed in silence.

  This is order. This is victory. This is home.

  Ilsa walked beside her with unwavering steps, her uniform still immaculate. Mareike followed a few paces behind, her hair deliberately disheveled—just enough to still belong.

  —Seems the snow hasn’t stopped anything —Mareike remarked with a faint smirk.

  —Nor should it —Klara replied, without turning.

  The streetlights began to shut down in sequence, yielding to the natural morning light. The city turned like a living machine, without the faintest creak.

  From above, security scanners swept every thermal signature. Zeppelins transported goods between towers, and no one looked up in surprise. A street violinist tuned his instrument in a corner—not out of need, but out of habit. No one stopped to listen, but no one made him leave.

  A family passed in front of them. The father straightened slightly. The little girl, no more than eight, looked at Klara with wide, serious eyes.

  —Is she one of them? —she whispered.

  Klara didn’t lower her gaze. She didn’t smile. She simply nodded with perfect composure.

  The girl nodded back. Then walked on, hand in hand with her mother, as if she had just witnessed a sacred statue breathe.

  Silke’s funeral awaited them. But in that moment, Klara knew her country didn’t need her to survive.

  Only to advance.

  Noble Towers District. En route to the Mausoleum of Honor.

  The official vehicle glided along the elevated lane, weaving through administrative towers and research complexes. Klara barely looked out the window. She didn’t need to. She knew every sector, every angle, every shadow her nation cast upon itself.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  But Mareike did watch. She always did.

  —"See that?"— she said, tilting her chin toward a white-canopied terrace on the edge of one tower.

  A woman sat sipping tea beneath it. Her uniform was different. Not military, but not civilian either. She wore the emblem of the Ministry of Defense, with a purple sash reserved only for those who had fought at the Battle of Grenthal.

  —"That’s Elga Vortmann,"— murmured Ilsa, tonelessly. —"She was a Magical Girl for seventeen years. Survived the collapse of the northern flank and executed her three teammates to prevent emotional leakage. She now oversees weapons policy in three sectors."

  Mareike scoffed, but without mockery.

  —"The only person I know who smiles less than you, Klara."

  Klara didn’t respond. She simply dipped her head slightly, as if acknowledging the comment.

  Farther ahead, another balcony revealed a different figure: an older woman, her white hair tied in a perfect bun. She leaned on an aesthetic cane—nonfunctional. Around her, several young aides took notes as she spoke with firm clarity.

  —"And her?"— Mareike asked.

  —"Adelinde Krauss,"— said Ilsa. —"The strategist behind the Black Shield model. She was a Magical Girl more than thirty years ago. Never lost a single troop under her command. Now she trains future ministers of emotional security."

  The vehicle curved gently toward the central plaza of the Mausoleum. From there, the obsidian spires of the funeral hall rose like sacred blades.

  Klara finally spoke:

  —"They built the place we’re about to enter."

  There was no reverence in her voice. Only certainty.

  Mareike stopped watching the skyline. Ilsa closed the dossier resting on her lap.

  And together, they prepared to honor the only woman who had ever surpassed them.

  Silke Engel.

  Hall of Honor, Supreme Court of Eiswacht

  The Hall of Honor in Eiswacht’s Supreme Court was bathed in a white, sterile penumbra, as if the very light had been distilled into clinical purity. Black marble columns rose on either side like unyielding sentinels, carved with inscriptions in High Ewigschrift. The silence wasn’t natural — it was induced. A layer of sonic suppression hovered in the air, amplifying every breath, every restrained heartbeat.

  At the center, atop a glacial stone pedestal, lay the symbolic coffin of Silke Engel. It was empty. Draped in the lavender and gray flag of the Imperium, the ceremonial casket held only velvet and the symbols of her rank: the Medal of Unyielding Efficiency and the seal of First Voice of the Strategic Veil.

  High Chancellor Arden Rauthe, dressed in a high-collared ceremonial uniform with sharp epaulettes, raised her voice without changing her tone or heart rate:

  —Silke Engel. Sentinel of foreign lies. Executing hand of controlled truth. Hammer of the Imperial will. Her sacrifice will not be forgotten. Though her body does not rest here… her name will resonate through our lines. And her fury… shall be returned.

  At the side of the coffin stood Violeta Raumer and Elainne Voss. Motionless. Both in immaculate uniforms, chins raised, their faces expressionless. But their eyes… told another story. Violeta slowly twisted one of her poison rings, as if the ritual motion could prevent an emotional breach. Elainne, with her jaw tight and gaze locked on the empty coffin, didn’t blink. Her clenched jaw drew a line of steel.

  A hymn of female voices emerged from the walls — not from any choir, but from an emotional resonance system that converted vibrational frequencies into song. It was the Last Hymn of Honor, sung only three times in the history of the Imperium.

  When it ended, members of the High Council walked in silence to the coffin. One by one, they laid atop the obsidian lid a single onyx medal: the Insignia of Total Consumption. No living Magical Girl bore it. None ever should.

  Violeta inhaled deeply. It wasn’t pride that trembled in her breath. It was the fury of those not yet cleared to avenge. Elainne closed her eyes for just a moment. Barely a breath. Barely a glimpse of what lay beneath her armor.

  The hall fell back into induced silence.

  The funeral was over.

  But the war… was just beginning.

  Excerpt – Private Farewell Chamber, Supreme Court of Eiswacht

  After the official ceremony, the side doors of the Hall of Honor slid open, revealing a narrow corridor lined with steel plaques and emblems of the High Command. The private farewell chamber carried a different kind of silence—chosen, not imposed.

  There, away from the eyes of the public and official cameras, Klara, Ilsa, and Mareike stood before the empty casket.

  None of them spoke.

  None of them needed to.

  —She wouldn’t have cried for us —Mareike murmured, a bitter smile on her lips—. So I don’t see why we should cry for her.

  —It’s not grief —Klara replied without looking at her—. It’s recognition.

  Ilsa, who rarely spoke without being prompted, stepped forward. From her wrist, she removed a small metal plaque engraved with the Schattenspeer insignia. She laid it carefully on the velvet inside the casket.

  —She never broke formation —she said, simply.

  Then, the side door hissed open. A woman entered with measured steps—silver hair in a tight bun, a modest civilian suit tailored for comfort. Her face still bore the echo of a severe beauty, but her gaze was sharp, like a blade worn thin.

  —What a touching scene —she said, her voice coated in a barely-there smirk—. Silke’s heirs, gathered in silence… as if you truly understood what she meant.

  Klara didn’t turn.

  —Gretta —she said flatly.

  Gretta Lunsheim. Former Magical Girl. Core emotion: jealousy.

  Once a member of the Zektrahl Squad, disbanded after a formal report of "progressive emotional instability." She still retained some of her power, but her presence felt different—like her entire energy revolved around a void only she could perceive.

  —Oh, don’t bother with courtesy. I’m not one of you anymore, right? Now I’m just… a warning —she said, raising an eyebrow. Her smile never reached her eyes.

  —You kept your place on the Technical Senate —Klara said, dry as steel—. That was your choice.

  —Choice? —Gretta gave a quiet laugh—. What a funny word when it feels like the sword is ripped from your hands before you ever got to swing it properly.

  Ilsa stared, unblinking. Mareike shifted slightly, already calculating the angle of a potential strike.

  —I didn’t come to fight —Gretta said, lifting both hands—. I only wanted to see, with my own eyes… the new jewels of the Imperium. The ones who are still intact.

  She stepped toward the casket and ran a long, pale finger along the velvet.

  —Silke and I were never friends —she admitted—. But I always wanted to be what she was. Every promotion, every mission, every victory of hers… it was a wound to me. A wound I couldn’t show. Because emotions give us power, don’t they? But they also doom us.

  Klara turned now, facing her fully.

  —That’s why we stop being Magical Girls. Not because we can’t keep fighting… but because we can no longer stop feeling.

  Gretta met her gaze. For a second, something like respect passed between them. But only for a second.

  —Take care, Schattenspeer —she said with a tilted smile as she turned to leave—. Wouldn’t want perfection to become your greatest flaw.

  The door slid shut behind her. Silence returned.

  —Unhinged —Mareike muttered, rolling her eyes.

  —Not entirely —Ilsa said softly.

  Klara said nothing. She stared at the Schattenspeer emblem on the empty casket for a long moment before murmuring:

  —None of us are safe.

  Tactical Research Wing Intersection, Supreme Court of Eiswacht

  Klara’s footsteps echoed with precision over the polished marble floor of the corridor, which descended in a sober spiral. Along the walls, commemorative plaques displayed generations of completed projects: weapons, magical resonance models, combat exostructures. Eiswacht’s history was not written in words—but in technical achievement.

  A figure waited at the end of the hallway. Tall, with a refined, mature face, she wore a dark gray robe trimmed in violet: one of the advisors from the Central Scientific Circle. At the sight of her, Klara came to a precise halt.

  —Director Weisshaupt —the woman greeted, offering a perfectly measured nod.

  —Advisor Halbrecht —Klara returned the gesture—. Any developments?

  The woman tilted her head slightly, weighing her words.

  —We’ve received the latest simulation of the structural core. Overload probabilities have dropped by 6.4%. If the magical inhibition pulse remains stable, the effective range could double.

  —And the emotional latency? —Klara asked, eyes scanning the advisor’s face as though decoding a cipher.

  —Within acceptable thresholds. However… its synchronization remains unpredictable. Even with high-containment emotional subjects, the symbiotic feedback still shows divergence.

  Klara nodded slowly. Nothing unexpected. But confirmation always mattered.

  —Project Aurora is progressing well —she finally said, voice neutral—. Within one cycle, we’ll have a version ready for external testing.

  Halbrecht didn’t offer praise. She merely acknowledged the statement with a faint dip of her chin.

  —The Central Council will convene in one hour to review the project’s status. They expect an executive summary. No omissions. No theorizing.

  —Understood —Klara replied—. I’ll be there.

  The advisor observed her for a moment longer, as if considering saying more. But she refrained. She stepped back and departed silently through a lateral door.

  Klara remained alone. Her breathing was calm, but her mind had already shifted to the next task. She glanced at a recessed wall monitor. The time: 08:42.

  —Ilse. Mareike —she said, opening the internal channel.

  —Yes? —Ilse’s voice answered, as serene as ever.

  —Tactical break. You have fifty minutes.

  —With or without supervision? —Mareike asked, laced with dry humor.

  —Without. Don’t do anything stupid.

  —Define stupid —Mareike muttered, voice fading.

  Klara severed the line with a swift gesture.

  She had one hour. Not much.

  But it would be enough.

  When her conversation came to an end, Klara didn’t return to central command. Instead, she veered down a narrower corridor—one only used by those with triple-A clearance. Here, the sensors didn’t request identification; they read emotional signatures. And Klara, still shrouded in residual gravitational pulses from her transformation, was unmistakable.

  The structure housing her residence was located in the District of Silences, an area reserved for high-ranking officers, elite scientists, and personnel with Alpha-classification clearance. There were no open streets or public transport—only silent monorails, private capsules, and suspended walkways between geometrically pristine buildings.

  Klara chose to walk.

  The artificial fog, designed as thermal insulation, clung to the edges of the path in a milky haze, while the photothermal streetlamps cast soft light in hexagonal patterns. Everything was engineered for efficiency… and mental clarity.

  The building she lived in had no name or number. Only a code printed on the security access panel: K2-VEKTOR.01. The door registered her emotional pulse before she even raised a hand.

  Klara’s assigned residence in Eiswacht was not ostentatious, but its design was impeccable. High ceilings, walls reinforced with ornamented graphene plates, and a keyhole-shaped window offering a direct view of the northern mountains. It wasn’t a home. It was a fortress with the scent of shelter.

  Klara deactivated the resonance field sealing the vestibule and stepped inside without announcing herself. He was already waiting.

  Erion Valdrecht —a scientist from the High Circle of Kinetic Engineering— was not a striking man. His glasses always had a thin layer of dust, and his lab coat was rarely buttoned properly. But when Klara looked at him, her expression softened slightly. She didn’t smile, but something in her posture eased.

  —You’re early —he said, without raising his voice. His tone was neutral, but not his eyes.

  —I didn’t need more words. The Aurora report was brief —Klara replied, placing her gloves on the worktable.

  He approached. They didn’t embrace. They didn’t touch immediately. They just looked at each other, as if recognizing one another was the first intimate gesture.

  —How are you? —Erion asked, noticing the faint marks her transformation suit left on her skin.

  —Alive. Precise. Stable.

  —That doesn’t answer my question.

  Klara lowered her gaze for a moment. Then, almost clumsily, she leaned her forehead against his. A minimal gesture. A silent contact. Her way of saying “I need you.”

  —They remembered Silke today —she murmured.

  —I heard. The entire city felt quieter.

  —I didn’t like her. But I respected how she died. It was clean.

  Silence.

  Erion placed one hand on her waist, without urgency. He drew her closer with the other and unfastened the clasp at her collar. Klara didn’t resist. She simply allowed herself to be partially unstructured. They kissed. It wasn’t sweet. It was precise. A codified connection, deep, without embellishment.

  —Sometimes I wonder if it was a mistake —Klara said, still close to his chest—. To marry. To love. To have something I can’t control.

  Erion didn’t answer immediately. He walked over to a drawer beneath the tool bench and retrieved a small box. He opened it. Inside was a printed photograph: Klara, wearing a modified white ceremonial uniform as a wedding dress. Only her closest friends and top brass had attended. A secret wedding—not out of shame, but strategy.

  —And if it was? —he finally replied—. It doesn’t make us less efficient. Just more human.

  Klara took the box and closed the lid.

  —I have to appear before the Council in an hour.

  —Then… —Erion leaned in to kiss her again, more slowly this time— we still have forty-three minutes.

  Klara didn’t respond with words. She simply pushed him gently toward the bedroom. Her steps were measured. Controlled. But her hands trembled—just enough to remind him that even perfection… sometimes needs refuge.

  Some time after...

  Klara dressed in silence, fastening the closures of her uniform piece by piece, as if each one returned a portion of control to her body. He remained lying on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, yet tracking her every movement.

  When she was done, Klara stepped over to the side table where she had left her ring. It was a band of dark titanium, nearly indistinguishable from the rest of her attire, save for a silver gravel-like inlay running along the inner circle like a quiet current. She took it between her fingers and slid it onto her left ring finger without hesitation. Then, she extended her hand toward him.

  —My pulse is stabilized. Gravitational traces have dropped to safe levels.

  He smiled—barely.

  —Then I don’t need to remind you that your meeting with the Council is in… —he glanced at his wrist display— eleven minutes.

  —I never forget my schedules —Klara replied, though her voice had the slightest curve. One only he could read as tenderness.

  He sat up on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on her—not as a general, not as a director, but as a woman.

  —Will you allow yourself to be okay? —he asked. No irony. No judgment. Just an honest question.

  Klara stood still. Then gave a single, measured nod.

  —For me. For you. For everything it took to have this.

  He approached her, and without another word, pressed his forehead to hers. It was his blessing. His silent vow.

  When Klara left the apartment, the door closed without a sound. On her finger, the ring shimmered faintly under the artificial lights. No witnesses. No records. But that invisible gesture was enough.

  She was going to face the Council. And every part of her was exactly where it needed to be.

  Strategic Chamber of the High Council of Eiswacht

  The Strategic Chamber had no windows. Not for security, but by design: decisions made there didn’t need sunlight. Only precision. Only silence. Only consequence.

  Twelve seats. Twelve voices. And at the center, a circular table forged from recycled armor plating of past wars. On its surface, a holographic map of the continent pulsed with red and blue nodes, lines of advance, pressure points.

  Klara Weisshaupt entered without announcement. She didn’t need one. Her presence was more than enough. Everyone in the room knew her well.

  Councilor Hildra Lehn, a woman with a weathered face and eyes like sharpened ice, was the first to speak:

  —Director Weisshaupt. Your squad… has sent a clear message. Armathen no longer exists.

  —That was the objective —Klara replied without emotion—. If the Imperium is to prevail, weaknesses must be exposed. Even through blood and ash.

  One of the council members, a young strategist named Vossner, frowned.

  —But Silke was a symbol. And Seravenn recovered… what remained of her.

  An electric silence spread across the room. Klara didn’t blink.

  —A symbol is useless if it’s not feared. Her death will only become a weakness if we allow it.

  —They attempted to extract a memory chant —added another analyst, scanning data flickering on her wrist—. If they succeeded… they’ll move soon.

  —What do you believe they uncovered? —asked an intelligence officer, his voice low, as if afraid of his own question.

  Klara answered.

  —They knew Silke had access to advanced emotional synchronization nodes. But she lacked full access to the Aurora Project. At best, they reconstructed fragments. Echoes. Nothing operational. What is certain… —her gaze rose— is that they will try to strike first.

  Councilor Lehn nodded, her fingers tightly intertwined.

  —Then the results must be ready. Quickly.

  Another, younger councilor leaned in.

  —What is the current status of the Project?

  —Stable —Klara stated—. Resonance phases are reaching their peak. Emotional dissonance trials have exceeded expected thresholds. The second activation will occur in less than 72 hours… and if approved, full deployment in under two weeks.

  —And the human variables? —asked a white-haired general—. The risk of emotional rupture...

  —Already accounted for —Klara replied—. If synchronization surpasses the threshold, there will be loss of emotional identity. But that doesn’t compromise functionality. This isn’t a weapon meant to survive. It’s a clean severance.

  Silence settled once more. Outside, the snow continued to fall with relentless steadiness.

  —Then… —Lehn murmured— let the masks fall. And begin Phase Two.

  Klara simply nodded. She knew she didn’t need to convince them. Only deliver.

  And that, like everything else… she had already calculated.

  “Hours Earlier”

  The room remained shrouded in dimness, interrupted only by the pale morning light filtering through the curtains. The clock read 02:50. Just a few hours before the world would burn again.

  Lyss was still asleep.

  Her face was turned toward the wall, her breathing calm, though the slight furrow of her brow revealed that even in sleep, peace did not fully reach her. The sheets were tangled around her body, as if she had fought a quiet battle during the night.

  On the nightstand, her communicator blinked softly. No alerts. Not yet.

  On the nearby chair, her uniform waited. Folded with meticulous care, the insignias of her squad still glowing faintly in the gloom. Beside it, a withered flower lay —a silent gift from the night before. Perhaps from Caelia. Perhaps from Neyra.

  Lyss shifted slightly. She murmured something in her sleep, a muffled word, an emotion without form.

  She did not yet know what was coming.

  She did not yet know that, upon waking, she would take her first step toward something new...

  She did not yet know that, far from here, in a windowless chamber, twelve figures were debating her fate, her death, her nation. Nor that, above a field of ruins, three names had already been spoken —to break her.

  Schattenspeer.

  She did not know.

  But she would.

  Very soon.