The memory shifted abruptly. A year, maybe two.
Dexmon was standing on a wall of white marble, overlooking a field that stretched to the horizon. Banners snapped in a cold wind. Armor clinked in formation below. The sky was the color of a bruise, and the air tasted like iron and wet earth.
Natalia stood on the rampart.
She was in armor, lightweight combat plate fitted to her frame, her white hair tied back and her green eyes scanning the field below. There was no crown on her head. Natalia wore steel and leather and the quiet, unflinching composure of a woman who had been told her whole life that she was disposable and had decided, without announcement, that she was going to be useful instead.
Ronan stood in front of her.
