LOGIN“Don’t let go yet,” Wren called, running toward the riverbank, the kite jerking and dipping as the wind argued with her grip.“I’m not letting go,” Varian said, voice calm, steady, like he could will the sky into compliance. “You steer. I’ll hold.”“That’s cheating,” Wren shot back. “You’re supposed to let me fly it.”“You are flying it,” Liora said. “He’s just… negotiating with gravity.”Varian smirked. “I’m very persuasive.”The kite snapped once, red fabric flashing, then caught a clean vein of wind and lifted. Wren whooped, the sound cutting through the low hush of the river traffic. The water carried its own conversations today—boats murmuring, gulls complaining, the city exhaling.Liora watched from the embankment, arms folded, eyes tracking the red shape as it rose. Varian’s hand found hers without ceremony. No pause. No question. Just contact.“Same color,” he said quietly.She nodded. “Same stubbornness.”“Different ending,” he said.She glanced at him. “You don’t know that.”
Ines didn’t knock.She never did when the world tilted.She burst into the council annex, tablet raised like a weapon, breath sharp. “Okay. Everyone shut up. I have something.”Varian looked up from the table where he and Bram were arguing over patrol rotations. “You look like you just won a war.”“I finished one,” Ines said. “Or buried it.”Liora stood immediately. “Say it clean.”Ines swallowed once, then smiled—small, disbelieving. “Edda’s final backup is gone. Not severed. Not isolated. Gone.”The room went still.Bram leaned forward. “Gone how?”Ines tapped the tablet. “Dead clusters. Scrubbed mirrors. The last dark server in the undergrid just collapsed in on itself. Self-erased. No failsafes. No echoes.”Varian’s jaw tightened. “You’re sure.”She met his eyes. “I chased it personally. It tried to run. There was nowhere left to go.”Liora let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. It came out shaky.“So she’s… finished.”Ines nodded. “No more Harrow Reborn. No more gh
The city didn’t celebrate. It paused.Traffic slowed without instruction. Markets opened late. Sirens didn’t vanish, but they softened—less frantic, less constant. People stood on balconies longer than usual, phones forgotten in their hands, eyes searching the skyline as if expecting smoke that never came.It was the quiet after impact.Liora watched it from the council annex windows, arms folded, coffee untouched.“They’re waiting,” she said.Varian leaned against the wall beside her, jacket open, no visible weapons. “For what?”“For us to blink,” she replied. “For something to explode. For the other shoe.”He huffed softly. “Fair.”Bram’s voice crackled through the speaker on the table. “District feeds are steady. No riots. No counterstrikes. Which makes me nervous.”“Of course it does,” Liora said. “Peace always does.”Ines tapped at her tablet. “Digital chatter’s wild. Half the city thinks Edda’s ghost is coming back. The other half thinks you two staged the apocalypse for power.”
Varian didn’t bring a weapon.Bram noticed immediately.They stood at the edge of the old hillside cemetery just past dawn, fog still clinging to the ground like it didn’t want to let go. Rows of stones—some polished, some crude—cut through the grass in uneven lines. Names etched deep. Dates too close together.Ciro shifted his weight. “You sure about this?”Varian didn’t look at him. “I’m sure.”Bram folded his arms. “Last time you came here, you had four guards and a sidearm.”“That was a different man,” Varian said.Bram studied him, then nodded once. “Alright.”They walked in silence until they reached the newer section. The stones there were smaller. Fresh. Temporary markers among permanent grief.Varian stopped.Bram stopped beside him. Ciro stayed a step back.Varian read the names out loud. Not loud enough to perform. Just enough to remember.“Jarek.” “Milo.” “Ansel.” “Rhea.”His voice didn’t break. That was worse.Bram cleared his throat. “They’d hate the quiet.”“I know,”
“Is the world safe now?”Wren asked it over breakfast, spoon paused midair, milk threatening to spill. The question landed softly and still managed to stop the room.Liora didn’t answer right away.Varian watched her, breath held—not because he feared the answer, but because he respected it.Liora finally said, “Safer. Not just safe.”Wren considered that, brows pinched in a way that was entirely Varian’s. “Why not safe?”“Because people are people,” Liora replied gently. “And people make choices. Some good. Some… not.”Varian added, carefully, “But now there are more people choosing to protect than to hurt.”Wren nodded solemnly. “Like you.”“Like us,” Liora corrected, smiling.Wren grinned. “I like ‘us.’”She finished her cereal, hopped down, and ran off to find Miss Pei, leaving behind a silence that felt earned.Varian exhaled. “She asks better questions than half the council.”Liora leaned back against the counter. “She always has.”He studied her for a moment. “You didn’t lie.”
“They won’t believe it until it hurts,” Bram said flatly. “Then they’ll believe it.”Varian stood at the head of the long table, screens lit with names, routes, accounts—an empire laid out like a body waiting for surgery. He didn’t sit. He hadn’t sat since dawn.“They don’t need to believe it,” Varian replied. “They need to feel protected.”Bram snorted. “Same thing, different coat.”Liora leaned against the window, city light washing her face. “No,” she said. “It’s not. Fear asks for obedience. Protection earns consent.”Varian turned to her. The edge in his eyes softened immediately. “You’re right.”Bram rolled his shoulders. “I hate when you say that so fast.”Varian didn’t look away from Liora. “Get used to it.”A murmur moved through the room—old lieutenants, newly reassigned coordinators, faces used to orders that ended in blood. This was different. And they knew it.Varian cleared his throat. “Effective immediately, the network dissolves.”Someone cursed under their breath.“Sa







