The gun didn’t fire.Not because of a malfunction, and not because of mercy. The sky simply ran out of air.A sudden, soundless pressure slammed into the camp, a clinical vacuum that sucked the heat from the mud and the breath from my lungs. The aurora, once a violent purple, was instantly bleached into a sterile, blinding white. It wasn’t the light of a sun; it was the light of an operating theater the size of a continent.The Watchers were here.Three silhouettes descended through the white-out, gliding on pillars of silent, rippling distortion. They didn't have faces—only smooth, silver-gray glass where features should be. They wore robes of vitrified soul-silk that trailed behind them like jellyfish tentacles.Ryan staggered, his sidearm wavering. His bionic eye whirred frantically, trying to process a frequency that was never meant to be perceived by a wolf’s brain.[THE HARVEST IS DELAYED,] a voice spoke—not into
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