The sky above Blackthorn territory does not just darken; it shatters.
The first drop-pod hits the northern tree line with the force of a tactical nuclear weapon. The concussive blast shakes the foundations of the Academy, shattering the reinforced glass of the war room windows and sending a shower of glittering shards raining down onto the tactical consoles. The alarms begin to scream, a deafening, rhythmic wail that is instantly drowned out by the roar of the second, third, and hundredth impacts.
I stand in the center of the subterranean command bunker, my hands gripping the edge of the central holotable. My left arm is still heavily taped, my ribs aching with every ragged breath, but the physical pain is entirely eclipsed by the profound, terrifying silence in my head.
For three years
