Winds of Change

Sanctus Nexus had not changed.

Six months had done nothing to scrub the stench of ozone and desperation from its streets. If anything, the city had festered—its forcefields flickering under the weight of perpetual Blightstorms, its guilds warring over scraps of power like starving jackals.

Kael strode through the market district, his squad's blackened armor and featureless masks drawing wary glances from the crowds.

The Earth Faction's insignia—a clenched fist crushing a chain—gleamed on their pauldrons, a warning to anyone foolish enough to interfere.

"Contact in three minutes," Kael said, his voice filtered through the mask's modulator. "Stay sharp."

His squad fanned out, blending into the chaos. Only one lingered—Lerai, his mask tilted slightly askew, revealing a sliver of his boyish grin.

"Relax, Captain. We've done this dance before."

Kael didn't reply.