The broken skyline framed the sun’s descent like a jagged crown. Across the cratered ruins of what had been the Ashblood capital, figures moved slowly—wounded, limping, supporting each other.The dead had been gathered as hundreds of dead bodies were present, Elders, Children and Warriors.A long field had been cleared at the southern base of the city, now filled with rows of bodies wrapped in white ashcloth, their names etched into scorched slate placed at each head. Engineers had rebuilt a single platform in the center—a stage made of black stone and white flame.The city gathered, but Ashbloods and humans the remaining survivors.The Twelve stood in the front, silent, most with injuries still healing. Zahara leaned on a cane. Chuka’s right arm was in a sling. Cassiel still bore dried blood on his collar. Leon hadn’t said a word in hours.And at the heart of them all stood Andrew.He held Sol in one arm—his infant son quiet, his face turned toward the wind.Hannah stood beside him,

Two months had passed since Ayra fell and the treaty was signed. The wounds hadn’t all healed. But for the first time in years, the Ashbloods could breathe without looking over their shoulders.And now, at the highest peak of the rebuilt city, the Havenborn stood ready.It pulsed with renewed energy, reoutfitted with salvaged Eden cloaking tech, Ashcore fusion rails, and the signature geometric flame crest Andrew had carved himself—two hands holding fire.The boarding platform hissed open.Andrew stepped into the command bridge wearing a fitted black field jacket with silver trim and no rank insignia. His hair had been trimmed, his beard neater, but his face—older. The crew waited in silence. Elsa at her pilot seat, gloves tugged tight. Zahara behind her at engineering, half a torque wrench tucked in her belt. Isaura at navigation, feeding orbital scans into the side display. Fredrick checked the launch clamps while Chuks stood with his arms crossed, impatient as always. Leon, in a