The sun had not yet breached the horizon when the convoy began to move.
Six vehicles in total—armored transports retrofitted from salvaged Dezune carriers, repainted in matte grey, stripped of insignia. Their engines growled like distant thunder as they crawled through the Bastion's great gates, past sentries who saluted with clenched fists and tired eyes.
Aera stood atop the lead vehicle, wind tearing through her white hair, her cloak flaring like a flag behind her. She didn't look back.
Behind her, Echo Nine and Vanguard Six rode in silence. Thirty-seven soldiers, all that remained of their original numbers. Yet in their eyes was something unbroken—a spark rekindled by fire, honed by pain.
"Destination?" Elian asked, seated beside her in the open hatch.
She answered without hesitation. "The Lucent Alliance."
The words hung heavy in the dawn.
The Lucent Alliance—an elusive coalition of nations buried deep in the western regions, past the fractured canyons and old Dead Zone frontlines. They had resisted the Dezune Empire since the earliest years of the war, not with Kael's cold precision or Aera's raw idealism, but with an unyielding will of their own.
They were one of the few coalitions left with enough strength to matter.
"The trip alone will take months," Elian murmured. "And that's if the warfront doesn't shift again."
"It will," Aera replied. "And it's going to take years before we can convince them. But peace doesn't come fast. It comes with every conversation, every step forward."
Elian gave her a sidelong glance. "You really believe that?"
"I have to."
They rode in silence for a time, the rough terrain making conversation difficult. Dust plumed in the air behind them, catching the first gold rays of morning. Distant shapes moved on the horizon—broken towers from cities long erased, and further still, the whisper of black birds circling ruins.
Inside the transports, the soldiers chatted in low voices. Some told stories. Others checked weapons. One of the younger troops, a wiry boy named Ren, clutched a folded picture in his palm—a reminder of someone left behind.
These weren't elite supersoldiers.
They were survivors.
They weren't Kael's ideal warriors.
But they were hers.
Later that evening, when the convoy paused to rest in the remnants of an old railway tunnel, Aera unrolled a tattered map across a crate. With a small light and flickering holo-markers, she began to plan.
"We'll avoid the Black Spires," she said to the officers. "Too many patrols. Instead, we take the Crimson Fold route through the lowlands. Slower, but fewer eyes."
"Won't that bring us close to the Remnant Zones?" Elian asked.
She nodded. "Yes. But I'd rather deal with raiders than an imperial airstrike. For now."
"Assuming Kael doesn't interfere," someone muttered.
Aera looked up. "Kael gave us his blessing. He's not our enemy. Just… walking a different road."
The room was quiet.
Then someone asked, "And what happens when those roads meet again?"
Aera didn't answer right away.
She folded the map, clipped it shut, and looked to the night sky beyond the tunnel's end. The stars were faint—but they were still there.
"When that time comes," she said softly, "we'll have to see whose version of peace the world believes in."