The world is moving on. The base is moving on.
I walk out into the corridor, helmet under arm, boots echoing on the metal floor.
And I carry the storm with me.
The desert. The creature. The explosion.
The way his voice sounded inside the Meld—my name—with reverence.
I don’t know if I’ll ever see him awake again.
I don’t know if this is the end of us.
But this?
This isreal.
CHAPTER 16
ARIA
3years later…
London greets me in half-tones—thehum of commuter trains, the distant roar of a shuttle overhead, the drumming of rain on pavement that still holds the memory of coal dust. I press the strap of Garma’s carrier tighter against my chest and step off the platform into the moist dusk-light. The air smells like wet concrete and overcooked street food. Steam curls from a hot dog stand and brushes the hem of my coat. It’s a strange comfort after months of acid windstorms and mechs that groaned like wounded beasts.
Garma squirms. His small face, bronzed faintly—so subtly no one notices—nuzzles into the fabric of my shirt. I breathe in baby powder and warm skin and something else. Not fear. Not quite. Something heavier, threaded through me like filament.
I keep walking.
The quad at Oxford glistens under the drizzle, cobblestones catching the low sunlight like scattered glass. The gargoyles on the archway stare down, chipped and weathered, watching me pass like judgment. My boots echo.
“Careful, Mum,” a young man calls as he side-steps me, his backpack slapping against his coat.
“Thanks,” I reply, polite, practiced. I smile like I mean it.
Garma fusses. His fingers reach up toward my collar.
“What’s wrong, little warrior?” I whisper. “Storm dreams?”
He yawns, drools. I wipe his chin.
Then I hear it. Not loud, not even close—just the whisper of thrusters. A shuttle cutting across the clouds, far above the stone towers. I stiffen. My heart remembers. My body remembers.
A poster on a bulletin board catches my eye: bright neon, a silhouette of a pilot mid-leap from a mech.“Join the Next Age of Piloting”blares in crisp blue. I stare too long. My throat tightens.
“Mama?” Garma says, tilting his head, soft and curious.
“Just looking,” I murmur. “Come on.”
Inside, the warmth of the old building wraps around us like a faded blanket. The hallway smells like paper and radiator heat and lemon-scented floor polish. A receptionist smiles as we pass.
“Carrier here, Mum?” she asks.
“Yeah, thank you.”
“Good luck with term,” she adds with a nod toward Garma.
I nod, noncommittal. “You too.”
