—In the stronghold of Chronisca…
The corridor smelled of iron and crushed herbs. The Third lay limp on a floating slab, unconscious, his blood still smoking from the residual energy of the wound. His stomach had been pierced clean through—an injury that should've been impossible.
The Second stood still, patching up his shoulder with mechanical precision, his hands wrapping the wound in threadless white gauze. He barely winced.
The Seventh paced behind them, agitated.
"What the hell did you fight?" he snapped, staring at the wreckage that was once the Third. "You're telling me that he got impaled?! He's faster than sound!"
The Second didn't answer immediately. He just stared straight ahead, one eye twitching.
Then he whispered flatly, "Where's Number One?"
The Seventh grunted, recognizing that tone—final, cold, impossible to argue with. He reached for his wand and carved open a rift in the air with a flick.
"Follow me."
