By dawn, whispers of Elira's rescue rippled through Velmara's undercity. She and Dante raced to the docks, where steam‑enforcers boarded slave ships, dragging the weak onto chained platforms. Mothers clutched children, pleading. Their eyes found Elira—hope igniting behind terror.
She stepped into the convoy's path as a torrent of flames curled around her gauntlet, melting shackles and armor alike. Screams echoed off the hulls. Dante melted into shadow, severing ropes and slitting throats before guards even knew what hit them. The pair moved in deadly harmony—each release of power a promise that the oppressed would no longer be silent.
When all the captives were free, Elira knelt by a trembling child. He pointed to a mother, torn from her grip. Rage tightened her jaw. In a single motion, she slammed her gauntlet into the wooden pier; a shockwave of embers carved a crater, sending enforcers flying. The crystal searchlights of a Skybound frigate cut through the morning fog, painting the water with cold beams. They were watching.
Dante touched her shoulder.
"They'll send more."
Her eyes glowed.
"Then we stay and fight."