Novels by Reign Babs

​Winnie’s POV​Inside my mind, there was no Iron City. There was no sky. There was only a forest of golden threads that stretched into an infinite horizon, and a wolf of black smoke that was tearing them apart with systematic cruelty.​The shadow was not just a virus. It was a memory of hunger that predated the stars. Every time it bit into a thread of my resonance, I felt a piece of my life vanish. It was a quiet, terrifying deletion. I forgot the smell of the rain in the North. I forgot the sound of the wind through the Obsidian Grove. I forgot the feeling of the sun on my skin during the first harvest. I even forgot the sound of Silas’s voice when he was trying to hide the fact that he was proud of me.​“You are nothing,” the shadow hissed. Its voice was a thousand whispers of every person I had failed to save. “You are just fuel for a machine that is finally running out of time. Give up the light, Weaver. Let the void take the weight of the world from your shoulders. It is so much

​Silas’s POV​The world had become a smear of oily black and violent gold, a canvas of mathematical impossibilities and biological horror that defied every law I had ever carved into the metal of the Iron City. I watched, paralyzed by a sensation I had spent my entire life engineering away, as the Shadow Thread sank into my sister’s chest. It did not merely enter her. It claimed her. The golden radiance that was Winnie, the specific harmonic frequency that had stabilized the tectonic plates and the atmospheric pressure of the entire planet, began to curdle at the edges. It turned a bruised, necrotic purple, like rotting fruit under a dying sun.​“Winnie!” I screamed.​The sound was lost amid the tectonic roar as the atmosphere tore open. Above us, the first of the Harvester ships broke the cloud layer. They were massive, geometric nightmares of gray steel, trailing plumes of black smoke that tasted of copper and ash. Without the diamond shield to hold them back, they were falling like

​Thorne’s POV​The sky had blinked. In the North, we do not trust things that blink. A blinking eye belongs to a predator waiting for the moment to strike. When the diamond shield had vanished for those three seconds, the Obsidian Grove had gone silent. The leaves had stopped singing, the wolves had stopped running, and for a heartbeat, I had felt the cold, dead breath of the void on the back of my neck. It was an absolute ending. It was a taste of what the world would be if Winnie and Cassian ever let go.​I knew it was the Architect’s fault. I did not need logic to tell me that Silas was tinkering with the world Winnie had died to save. He was a man who could not leave a masterpiece alone. He had to pull at the threads until the whole thing unraveled to see how it was put together. He was a child with a clock, and he was going to break the time for everyone.​I did not take the transport ships. I did not wait for the councils or the reports. I ran. I ran through the Wastes, my paws

​Silas’s POV​The basement of the Restoration Hub smelled of ozone and ancient, oily desperation. It was a scent I had become intimately familiar with over the last thirty-six hours, a period in which I had not slept, nor had I allowed my mind to wander from the singular goal of containment. I had spent every waking second in a fever of construction, my one functional hand moving with a twitchy, frantic precision that even my father would have found obsessive. My silver arm, still dead and strapped to my torso, felt like a lead weight. It was a silent testament to the limits of my own genius. It was a heavy, cold reminder of the physical cost of failure. I did not need two hands to build a cage for a ghost. I needed a mirror.​The Resonance Mirror was not a piece of glass in the traditional sense. It was a localized, high-density field of inverted solar gold, suspended between four pillars of resonant copper I had salvaged from the Iron City’s old telegraph lines. In theory, the mirro

​Winnie’s POV​To be the light is to know every shadow, but to be the Web is to feel the weight of every spider that crawls across your surface. I was drifting over the Eastern wastes, my consciousness stretched thin across the horizon where the sun first touches the world. The East had always been a place of beginnings, a region of high plateaus and ancient, sun-bleached stone where the First Weavers were said to have found the first threads of the First Breath. In my physical life, I had never traveled this far, but now, I could feel the very texture of the air, the way it tasted of salt and ancient potential.​Cassian was with me, a silver current that flowed through my golden sea. We had spent what felt like an eternity stabilizing the North and the South, ensuring that the new resonance was feeding the roots of the world. But the East was different. It felt dormant, a part of the tapestry that had been left unfinished.​“Winnie, look toward the Rising Peaks,” Cassian’s thought ri

​Silas’s POV​The air in the West had lost its acidic bite, yet it retained a peculiar, metallic thickness that sat heavy in the back of my throat. I stood upon the observation deck of the newly christened Restoration Hub, a structure I had bolted directly onto the side of a dormant Iron City spire. My silver arm remained a dead weight at my side, a silent testament to the limits of my own genius, while my right hand adjusted the dials on a portable resonance scanner. Below me, the Scrapyard of Saints lay bathed in a soft, indigo light that filtered down from the diamond shield Winnie and Cassian had become. It was a beautiful sight, objectively speaking, but beauty was a variable I had never quite known how to integrate into my equations. The Iron Sentinels stood like statues at the mouth of the Great Forge, their blue fires flickering with a steady, rhythmic pulse, indicating a state of deep standby.​I was attempting to calibrate the primary resonance well, a task that required a p