Isandra VeyraCalm was a luxury we couldn’t afford, but panic was a poison, one that could dissolve the foundations of an empire built on a century of meticulous control. That was why the crisis room in the Veyra Tower operated in a state of frenetic order, a ballet of efficiency rehearsed for moments precisely like this. Dozens of analysts, the best in Fosack, moved in near-absolute silence, their fingers flying over holographic keyboards that projected cascades of data. On the walls, giant screens were windows into the chaos. They showed maps of Rixus with entire sectors blinking red from massive power failures, real-time social media feeds exploding with thousands of shaky videos of the colored storm, and the pale faces of news anchors struggling to find words for the impossible.At the center of it all, Edrian Veyra watched, motionless. His face was a mask of serenity, but I, who knew his every nuance, could see the tension in the muscles of his jaw. It wasn’t fear. It was the con

KarolFear is an ocean. For most of my life, I had only ever dipped my toes in at the shore, feeling the tingle of everyday worries: a difficult exam, an argument with my parents, the nervousness of talking to someone I liked. But now, hidden behind the cold solidity of a stone column, the ocean had swallowed me whole. I was drowning in the icy darkness of a truth I couldn't comprehend, my lungs burning for lack of air, for lack of logic. The mural, Miguel’s damned mural, was alive. It was pulsing with a soft, bluish light, an otherworldly breath that mocked every law of physics I had ever been taught.My first impulse was to run, to scream, to find an adult, an authority figure, someone who could put the world back to normal. But the image of Maestra Zara’s impassive face flashed in my mind, a wall of ice that extinguished any hope of help. Then I thought of the guards in their black uniforms, their weapons designed not to protect, but to suppress. No. I was alone. The fear was still

KarolFear has a metallic taste, like blood in the mouth. I felt it on my tongue as the stocky, hostile-eyed boy loomed over my table. His shadow covered me completely, blocking out what little light was left in the coffee shop. His question, "Who are you, and how did you find this place?" wasn't a question. It was an accusation. A verdict delivered before the trial. My first instinct was to shrink back, to stammer an apology and run. But the image of the mural pulsing with that impossible blue light, and Maestra Zara's cold, dismissive face, anchored themselves in my mind, forging my panic into a fragile but sharp determination.“My name is Karol,” I said, surprised by the firmness in my own voice. “And I’m here because this is the only thread I could pull. I’m looking for my friend, Miguel. He disappeared last night.”The boy's—Rocco's, I guessed, based on what I’d overheard—eyes narrowed even further.“I don’t know any Miguel. You’re in the wrong place.”“No, I’m not,” I insisted,

MiguelThree weeks had passed. Three weeks of living like a ghost in a world that was hunting me. Our new refuge, provided by an old, paranoid contact of Kai’s, was an old textile factory in the industrial suburbs, a skeleton of brick and steel that offered an anonymity no apartment ever could. Time in that limbo was measured not in days, but in small breakthroughs and mounting tensions. Karol was no longer the frightened guest; she had become Lena’s shadow, absorbing knowledge about encryption and counter-surveillance with a quiet ferocity. Her old life had been erased, and in its place, she was forging a new identity from necessity and loyalty.My life, on the other hand, had turned inward. I spent my hours with Kai, not planning missions, but in a strange and desperate kind of training. Sitting on the dusty floor, surrounded by the silence of the dead machines, we practiced. It wasn't magic. We didn't know what it was. We approached it as if it were an unstable muscle. "Feel the hu