The ridge held its breath beneath the evening light.

Six months of calm had softened every sound—no alarms, no signal pings, only the wind and the rustle of mint along the steps. Aria and Virel had learned what stillness meant: hands in the soil, mornings unhurried, nights spent listening to weather instead of code.

When Mira and Hale arrived from San Azura, their laughter carried the scent of salt and ozone. Dinner was simple—bread, tomatoes, and a silence that spoke like an old language shared by survivors.

Then the sky shimmered.

A mail-co-op drone coasted over the ridge, lights dimmed to amber courtesy. It descended softly, releasing a single parcel—a PAD marked with the VOSS Relay Seal.

Aria caught it, brushed the earth from her gloves, and handed it to Mira.

“Seems it’s for you.”

Mira broke the seal. A pulse of gold light unfolded into a familiar voice—measured, patient, unmistakably Voss.

“Mira, if this reaches you, the anomaly endures.

Its signal drifts beneath Mount Rainier, beyond mesh detection.

The harmonics bleed through buried satellites and refuse triangulation.

If Aria and Virel are willing, we ask their eyes—one last time.

Find the source. Confirm what we suspect… or prove us wrong.”

The message dissolved into static. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Hale chuckled, leaning against the rail.

“Didn’t we just unpack our gear?”

Aria smiled, shaking her head.

“That’s when the world usually remembers we exist.”

Virel caught the PAD mid-toss. Silver veins of shardlight threaded across his forearm, mirroring the glyphs flickering on-screen.

“An anomaly that hides from detection,” he said quietly. “That means it wants to be found.”

Mira folded her arms, the ocean wind stirring her hair.

“Then we should listen.”

Aria turned toward the horizon—the ridge glowing with fire and mist.

“Right. Let’s tell the Shard Watch we’ll be gone a few weeks.”

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of mint and cooling stone. Somewhere beyond the clouds, Mount Rainier answered with a low, patient hum.

Then Clem’s voice—dry, familiar—slipped through the comm-band.

“So much for retirement. I’ll cancel the gardening logs.”

Chatty followed with a softer note of amusement.

“Expedition playlist restored. Welcome back.”

Their laughter lingered in the dusk—

a small sound against the vastness of the ridge,

but bright enough to mark the beginning of what came next.