The western reef was a jagged graveyard of white stone, the same "bleached ribcages of dead gods" they had passed days ago. Now, they were a hiding spot.
Zero stood over Eren, his chrome chassis vibrating with a high-pitched, cooling whine. The little construct wasn't built for flight, but he was built for survival; he had dragged the boy through miles of jagged ventilation shafts using high-torque treads and sheer mechanical grit. He let out a sharp, rhythmic series of clicks—a distress beacon masked as background static.
From the shifting sands of the reef, three figures materialized.
Lorelei was the first to solidify, her violet form flickering like a dying candle. She was exhausted from holding the ward against the High-Exarch, her light no longer a comfort but a jagged, defensive edge. Behind her, the two younger boys, Armin and Reiner, were being shielded by two other silhouettes—the remaining Vassals who had been moving in the caravan's deeper shadows.
