The air in the plaza didn't just feel heavy; it felt wrong. It was thick with the copper tang of fresh slaughter and the suffocating, dusty scent of pulverized granite.
The telepathic field, once a harmonious hum of the Apostle network, was now a jagged, screaming cacophony of tactical desperation.
Valentina's presence in the mental ether had shifted. There was no more debate, no more philosophical tug of war with Rex's encroaching darkness.
She had abandoned the luxury of argument for the cold, unyielding necessity of survival. Her transmission register had sharpened into a razor-edged frequency of tactical coordination.
Through her spatial awareness, she was mapping the golem network not as mere constructs but as a spreading, geological cancer. She was screaming out vectors, directing the remaining Apostle assets to intercept the shifting masses of stone before those golems could complete their next massacre.
