They came at dawn, three days later.
I was on watch when I saw the first shuttle break through the cloud cover—sleek, black, bristling with weapons that gleamed in the early light. Then another. And another.
Six in total. A full assault team.
"Thrae-sorai!" I shouted, my voice cracking with urgency. "Thrae-sorai thrae-kai!" Sky-wrong-people wrong-why!
The alarm went up immediately. Sanctuari warriors poured from the outpost, bows drawn, blades ready. Khira'esthai was at my side in seconds, Kethvora descending from the sky with a shriek that echoed across the valley.
"Keth-death," she said, her voice cold and certain. Real-death. "Vai-people mera keth-death sai-people." Your-people want real-death my-people.
"Sai keth-nira," I said. I know-true. Then, switching to Sorath because there wasn't time for broken language: "They're here to kill everyone. To take the land. To finish what I started."
She looked at me, and for a moment I saw the weight of it—the knowledge that my people, the ones I'd once served, were about to burn her world to ash.
"Vai nira-sor," she said firmly. You true-self. "Vai mera-keth thrae-sorai. Vai keth-thraea sai-thal." You want-not sky-wrong. You know-home my-land.
You're not them anymore. You're home here.
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
The first shuttle opened fire.
The sound was deafening—plasma cannons tearing through the air, incendiary rounds igniting everything they touched. The carved structures of the outpost, the woven shelters, the sacred symbols spiraling across the ground—all of it erupted in flames.
Sanctuari warriors scattered, returning fire with arrows that seemed laughably inadequate against military-grade armor. But they were fast, impossibly fast, and their aim was perfect. Arrows found gaps in armor plating, weak points in shuttle hulls, exposed flesh beneath helmets.
One shuttle went down, its engine punctured by three simultaneous shots. It crashed into the forest below, exploding in a fireball that sent smoke billowing into the sky.
But it wasn't enough.
The UOE soldiers poured out of the remaining shuttles—twenty, thirty, maybe more. They moved with mechanical precision, advancing in formation, laying down suppressing fire that forced the Sanctuari back step by step.
I grabbed a fallen rifle—UOE issue, familiar weight in my hands—and opened fire on my former comrades. The first shot took down a soldier advancing on Khira'esthai's position. The second shattered the visor of another.
"Traitor!" someone screamed over the comms. "Micah, you fucking traitor!"
I didn't respond. Just kept firing.
Khira'esthai was airborne now, Kethvora diving and weaving through plasma fire with terrifying grace. She loosed arrow after arrow, each one finding its mark, but there were too many. Too many soldiers, too many weapons, too much fire.
The outpost was burning. The forest was burning. Everything was burning.
A Sanctuari warrior fell beside me, chest torn open by plasma fire. Then another. And another.
We were losing.