Morning came with banners.

White cloth stitched with Reylanda’s emblem rippled in the wind at the southern edge of the ridge. Three agents approached in formation, boots aligned, crates balanced neatly between them. Each crate was marked in red: HUMANITARIAN RELIEF—the kind of label meant to quiet suspicion before it began.

Children peeked from doorways, wide-eyed and silent. The adults stood at the edges of the square, their stillness sharper than any weapon.

The tallest patrolman smiled as they set the crates down. He raised his hands in a well-practiced gesture of peace.

“Medicine. Food. Supplies. Your council asked, and Reylanda delivered.”

Maris murmured under her breath.

“Council didn’t ask for rifles on their belts.”

She wasn’t wrong. Even through the pale tunics, the bulk of their weapons was visible—concealed just enough to pretend, exposed just enough to remind.

Jonas stepped forward, voice calm but firm.

“We manage our own. Leave the crates and go.”

The patrol leader’s grin didn’t waver.

“You misunderstand. We’ll help distribute. Aid should be given directly, yes?”

Clem’s whisper slid through Aria’s mind, cool and analytical.

“Scanners active. Two nearest agents conducting resonance sweeps. Objective confirmed: Avean identification.”

Aria’s pulse quickened. Shardlight stirred beneath her sleeves, restless, defiant. She glanced at Virel. His hand brushed hers—a brief, grounding touch. He didn’t let go.

Across the square, Hale inched closer to Maris. She hadn’t moved since the patrols arrived, but her posture was iron. When his shoulder brushed hers, something in her expression softened—just for a heartbeat. Solidarity without words.

Jonas leaned toward Liora as the patrol leader theatrically unpacked tins and gauze, arranging them in neat rows.

“Don’t like this,” he muttered.

Liora’s pencil scratched furiously in her sketchbook.

“Neither do I.”

She set the pencil aside, slipping her hand into his.

The patrols worked slowly, deliberately. Every gesture—every stacked ration bar—was theater. Their smiles never reached their eyes, which swept the crowd with quiet calculation.

Then it happened.

Aria stepped forward, hoodie slipping from one shoulder. Shardlight flared faintly beneath her skin—soft arcs of blue and gold running across her arm like living circuitry.

The nearest patrolman froze. His scanner lowered an inch, forgotten.

For a moment, all masks dropped. Behind their smiles, fear gleamed raw. They knew what resonance could do. They’d seen shards destabilize warheads, silence machines, rewrite the rules of control. And now, in front of them, stood living proof that their world’s old order was ending.

The leader’s voice broke mid-sentence before he forced the smile back into place.

“No need for alarm,” he said too quickly, raising his hands again. But his eyes never left the glow beneath Aria’s sleeve. His right foot shifted back—a small, unintentional retreat.

Aria’s voice was steady when she spoke, carrying across the cold morning air.

“We don’t need your charity. Leave the crates. Leave us.”

The pause that followed was thin and electric. The patrols turned, moving with professional precision—too calm to be brave, too careful to be confident.

And as they walked away, everyone in the square understood: Reylanda’s agents weren’t leaving out of kindness.

They were leaving because they were afraid.