The coast of Cornwall didn’t care about the fall of empires. The waves still gnawed at the jagged cliffs with a rhythmic, indifferent hunger, and the scent of wild gorse and salt spray hung heavy in the air. For Anthony Jodah, the return to the cottage was like walking into a photograph of a life that belonged to someone else—a version of himself who still believed that numbers were just numbers and that a name was just a name.The Wraith sat a mile offshore, a dark splinter on the horizon. Anthony, Sloane, and Fenrick had taken the small inflatable tender to a secluded cove, trekking up the narrow, winding path in the pre-dawn mist. Anthony’s shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed it, the makeshift bandage stiff with dried blood."It’s too quiet," Sloane whispered, her hand never leaving the grip of her sidearm. Her eyes scanned the perimeter of the cottage, which looked smaller, more weathered than Anthony remembered. "If I were the Council, this is the first place I’d put a

The Black Swan was a silent, vibrating shell as they flew toward Geneva. The loss of the Gorge and the death of Max Vance had left a grim pallor over the team. Anthony sat in the back, the leather notebook open on his lap. It wasn't just a log of crimes; it was a map of the Council’s current strategy."They’re moving to the Philanthropy Phase," Liora said, reading over Anthony’s shoulder. "According to Vance’s notes, Seat Eleven—Isabella de Medici—is organizing a 'Global Recovery Gala' in Geneva. She’s going to announce a ten-trillion-dollar relief fund for the cities hit by the 'Jodah Jolt.'""She’s buying the world’s forgiveness," Vionna said, her voice dripping with cynicism. "She’ll use the stolen Triad assets to 'rescue' the people, and in return, they’ll give her the authority to restructure the global banking system. It’s a masterstroke. She becomes the savior, and we stay the terrorists.""Isabella de Medici," Anthony mused. "The 'Saint of San Marino.' She’s spent her whole li

"A pruning," Anthony repeated, the word tasting like copper in his mouth. "That’s what you call it when you decide who lives and who dies from thirty thousand miles up? You’re not a shepherd, Arthur. You’re just a coward who can't handle a world he doesn't control."Arthur smiled—a thin, brittle thing. "Control is the only thing that separates us from the jungle we walked out of, Anthony. Your grandfather understood that. He knew that a Jodah’s job wasn't to be liked. It was necessary. You’ve spent your life trying to be 'ethical,' but ethics are a byproduct of stability. Take away the stability, and the ethics vanish. Watch."Arthur pulled a small remote from his pocket and pressed a button.Below them, at the base of the gantry, a series of floodlights snapped on, illuminating a group of people huddled in a holding pen. They weren't soldiers. They were the families of the spaceport technicians—children, spouses, elderly parents."If you turn that key to abort this launch, the second

Winter came to Cornwall, turning the cliffs into a landscape of white and grey. Anthony and Sloane spent their days in the cottage, the fire roaring in the hearth.They didn't talk much about the past. They talked about the garden, the weather, and the books they were reading. Sloane had started painting—rough, powerful landscapes of the sea. Anthony had started writing—not a ledger, but a history. The true history of the Jodah family."Do you think they’ll believe it?" Sloane asked one night, looking at the stack of manuscripts on the table."It doesn't matter if they believe it, Sloane," Anthony said. "It matters that it’s there. If someone wants to find the truth, they’ll have a map.""You're a good man, Anthony Jodah," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder."I'm an auditor, Sloane," he whispered. "I'm just making sure the books stay balanced."That night, Anthony dreamed of the lighthouse. But it wasn't burning. It was a steady, warm light, shining out across a calm sea. And

They escaped the Glass House through a waste-reclamation tunnel that spat them out into the freezing Gobi night, miles from their landing site. Thorne’s helicopters were circling the Glass House like vultures around a dying beast."We need a terminal," Anthony said, his teeth chattering. "I need to see what’s on this drive before Thorne’s 'Trustees' lock me out.""There’s a nomadic outpost twenty miles east," Sloane said, checking her compass. "They have satellite relays for the wool trade. It’s not much, but it’s enough for Mark to bridge the gap."They walked for six hours, the silence of the desert filled only by the sound of their boots on the gravel. Anthony felt the drive in his pocket—it felt heavy, like a lead weight.When they reached the outpost—a cluster of yurts with solar panels—Anthony bartered his watch for twenty minutes of terminal time."Mark, come in," Anthony whispered into the headset."Anthony? Where the hell are you?" Mark’s voice was frantic. "The GTI is under