The smoke hadn't fully cleared. Ash still floated in the cold morning air like ghostly snowflakes, swirling over the scarred field that had once been a training ground. Blood stained the soil, and broken exo-suits lay like fallen giants beneath the rising sun.
Aera stood amid the wreckage, boots caked in mud and soot, her coat torn, a gash above her brow. Around her, what remained of Echo Nine and Vanguard Six gathered in silence. There were fewer now.
She looked at each of them—faces haunted, eyes dull with shock, some still trembling. Elian stood nearby, arms folded, his usual sarcasm replaced with grim quiet.
She took a breath. It tasted of steel and smoke. And then she stepped forward.
"I know," she said softly, her voice carrying over the crowd. "I know this hurts."
They lifted their eyes to her.
"I know some of you can't feel your hands. Some of you lost friends. Some of you want to run."
She turned, gesturing to the scattered gear and the shattered ground.
"But I need you to hear me. Because this?" She clenched a fist. "This isn't the end. This is the reason we have to keep going."
Her voice rose with conviction.
"We lost them. We lost Dari. We lost Rien. We lost Mira and Sorn and Jace. They fought, and they bled, and they died not as numbers—but as our comrades, our family."
She took another breath, steadier now.
"We will never forget them. Not now, not ever."
The troops stood straighter. Shoulders lifted. The name of each fallen soldier struck their hearts like the toll of a bell.
"And so, we live. Not just for ourselves—but for them. For their memory. For the peace they never got to see."
A murmur ran through the soldiers. One stepped forward and raised a fist. Another followed. And then more. The air grew warmer—not from temperature, but from spirit.
Aera let her eyes sweep over them. Her voice softened again, but it held iron underneath.
"I'm not Kael. I'm not a genius. I can't outthink missiles or calculate odds the way he can. But I can feel. I can carry. And I will lead."
A pause. Then:
"If you'll still follow me."
There was no hesitation.
Elian stepped forward first, offering a sharp nod. "Told you," he muttered. "You're a storm in the skin of a girl."
The rest followed. Hands reached out to clasp shoulders. Some cried, others smiled for the first time in hours.
And above them all stood Aera—bloodied, exhausted, and alive.
Not a queen. Not a warrior.
But a beacon.
For the first time since the ambush, the wind carried something new.
Hope.