The border crossing was nothing dramatic. Just a cracked stretch of old highway where the Rigid's clean lines met the wild overgrowth. Atlas crouched behind a half-buried concrete barrier, rifle steady.
Clara knelt beside him, her scarred arm glowing faintly under the camouflage netting they'd rigged from echo-weave and Rigid scrap. Kael checked the rear. Flick and another echo named Ryn shifted at their flanks, their forms flickering like bad reflections.
The redeemed saboteur, a thin man named Voss who still carried the brand of his old masters on his neck, brought up the tail.
"Debt's acting up again," Voss muttered. "Feels like it wants us through but might change its mind halfway."
They moved.
The territory swallowed them quickly. What used to be Rigid farmland had become Dead Glass Fields—miles of shattered crystal shards jutting from black soil. Every surface reflected something. Not just light. Memories. Regrets.
