The stealth transport cuts through the freezing night air over the English Channel, but inside the cabin, the atmosphere is suffocatingly still.
I sit on the edge of the medical cot in the rear compartment, my heavily bandaged hands trembling slightly as I wipe a smear of charcoal and dried blood from my eight-year-old daughter’s cheek. Elara is sitting perfectly still, her small hands resting in her lap. Her dark hair, usually braided with neat silver wire, is messy and tangled. Her silver eyes are wide, unblinking, and entirely focused on a point in space that I cannot see.
Margot stands beside us, her face pale in the harsh, red glow of the emergency strips. She is holding a specialized ophthalmic scanner, her hands moving with practiced, clinical efficiency, but her eyes betray a pro
