The territory was changing again, and this time it wasn't from some outside attack. Atlas stood on the central ridge overlooking the main district, arms crossed, watching glass spires rise out of the rock like someone had punched holes in reality and let the Weave spill through.
The recent strike on the Perfect Core had done its damage out there, but the backlash hit here first.
Echo fragments—bits of their raid mixed with stolen Perfect geometry—were everywhere. Not full memories. Just living scraps that wouldn't sit still.
A section of the old patrol wall had twisted into a hall with living woven walls, covered in glowing graffiti that Flick's people had already claimed as their own.
Down in the refugee camps, tables grew shadow legs and wandered between tents, serving food to whoever sat near them. One table bumped into Atlas's boot and offered him a skewer of roasted root vegetables. He took it. Why not.
