The Hollow Step

The air above the outpost shifted.

Not with wind—but with weight.

A low hum rolled across the sky as a sleek transport vessel breached the dome's simulated stratosphere. Its matte surface shimmered faintly under the filtered sunlight, its descent methodical—like a scalpel cutting through scar tissue.

Fade stood near the collapsed terminal, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

"They're here," he murmured.

Kaela's device blinked once, confirming inbound clearance. "Definitely not civilian."

The vessel landed without ceremony. No weapons drawn. No posturing. Just precision.

The ramp extended, steam hissing out like breath from a machine beast. A line of uniformed figures emerged—polished, calm, unreadable. At their center walked a tall man in gunmetal-grey armor, the insignia on his chest bearing the mark of Last Hope's second tier command.

"Subcommander Rehn," Kaela identified softly. "Aeron's right hand."