The warehouse roof had become Christna's temporary kingdom, a perch high enough to feel untouchable and low enough to still hear the city's restless heartbeat. She lay on her back now, arms spread wide, silver-streaked hair fanning across cold concrete like spilled moonlight. The night sky above Newhaven was thick with stars, the kind that winked like they knew secrets she hadn't earned yet. The Chaos Force inside her had gone quiet after the flashback, thoughtful, almost shy, as if it had shown her too much and now waited for her reaction.
Then it moved.
Not a whisper this time.
A pull.
Deep in her chest, like someone had hooked a star to her ribs and tugged.
Christna's breath caught.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
The rooftop vanished.
She stood in a vast, endless void—black as ink, but alive, pulsing with faint violet threads that wove through the darkness like veins of lightning trapped in glass. The threads connected everything: distant glowing shapes that might have been cities, forests, oceans, people. They shimmered, fragile, beautiful, and Christna felt every single one like a heartbeat echoing her own.
A voice brushed her mind—not words, exactly.
More like wind carrying the scent of rain and ancient forests.
*See.*
The void rippled.
Images bloomed around her like flowers made of light.
First: a circle of robed figures under a moonless sky, hands raised, violet energy pouring from their palms into the ground. The earth drank it greedily, trees bursting into bloom, rivers reversing their flow. Magicians. Real ones. Laughing. Whole. Connected.
Then the scene shifted.
The same circle, but now broken.
Screams.
Black-clad hunters with strange devices that drank the violet light like vampires.
One by one the Magicians fell, their threads snapping, their bodies crumpling as the Chaos Force recoiled in pain.
Another shift.
Laboratories.
Cold steel tables.
Magicians strapped down, tubes siphoning glowing essence from their veins while scientists in white coats watched with clinical detachment.
The Chaos Force screamed here—silent, furious, wounded.
The final image hit hardest.
A single figure, small and defiant, standing in the center of a ruined city block.
A newborn wrapped in violet light.
The threads around her pulsed brighter than any before, then reached out, tentative, hopeful, wrapping around the infant like a promise.
The vision snapped closed.
Christna gasped, eyes flying open on the rooftop.
Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the chill.
Her hands trembled, violet sparks dancing between her fingers unbidden, then fading as she clenched her fists.
The Chaos Force settled again, warm now, almost apologetic.
She sat up slowly, hugging her knees, staring out at the city lights twinkling far below.
The vision lingered in her mind like smoke: the joy of the old Magicians, the horror of their fall, the desperate gamble that had created her.
She wasn't just a mistake.
She wasn't just a target.
She was a second chance.
A soft laugh escaped her—half wonder, half disbelief.
The sound bounced off the warehouse vents, light and free.
"Okay," she whispered to the night, to the stars, to the Force humming inside her chest.
"I get it."
The Chaos Force purred in response, pleased, like a cat that had finally been understood.
Christna stood, brushing concrete dust from her dress, silver hair catching the moonlight in defiant streaks.
The city waited below—dangerous, beautiful, full of people who had forgotten what real power looked like.
She smiled, small and sharp and utterly unafraid.
"Let them hunt me," she said softly.
"I'm not running to hide anymore."
She was running to remind them.