POV: Leon Graves
Their eyes met.
Serrana didn't raise her hand. She didn't need to.
The veil rippled.
A pulse rolled across the battlefield—quiet, wide, invisible to the eye but brutal to the mind.
Leon didn't move fast enough.
The world cracked open.
He stood in fire again. Westline. Buildings caving. Air thick with smoke and blood and screaming. The pavement was burning hot against his palms.
His mother's voice echoed behind him—choked, hoarse.
Ahead—his father.
Back to him, blade raised, body already bleeding out.
"Run," the man said.
The next second—light.
And silence.
Leon blinked. Tried to ground himself.
Another shift.
A shelter. Collapsed roof. Civilians underneath, their faces blurred—too many. Limbs sticking out of rubble. A girl, no older than nine, curled in the corner.
Burned.
Eyes wide open.
Still staring at him.
He took a step back, breath caught in his throat. His fingers twitched against the grip of his gun.
He couldn't lift it.
