The first light of dawn hit the eastern border like a blade. Rigid engines rolled forward in tight formation, their metal frames humming low. Glass Lancers mounted on the lead vehicles swiveled and fired. Beams of cold light cut across the territory's roots and soil.
Wherever they struck, matter turned to crystal—roots froze mid-twist, dirt became brittle sheets, and three sentries caught in the open shattered into perfect red-tinted fragments when they tried to run.
One outpost fell in under two minutes. The survivors who made it back to the central camp were still shaking.
"They called the echoes abominations," one man rasped, clutching a bandaged arm. "Said they'd collect the pieces or smash them flat. Their commander laughed while the crystals spread."
Kael stood at the edge of the command tent, two echo children pressed close to his legs. They looked like ordinary kids—small, pale, with faint vein patterns under their skin—but their eyes held too much quiet.
