The sound of Titan Forge’s boots leaving the cracked soil was louder than it should have been. It echoed across the ruined graveyard like a gunshot, the force of his departure kicking up dust and pebbles that stung Dominic’s face. His father—Rayner—launched into the air with an impossibly powerful leap, his silhouette rising like a meteor through the low-hanging fog until he vanished into the bruised sky.

  And then there was silence.

  Not peace. Not calm. Just silence.

  Dominic stood frozen in the wreckage of his mother’s funeral. His breath caught in his throat, his body motionless, his mind unable to comprehend what he had just witnessed. Around him, the Guardians lay scattered like broken statues, their bodies twisted, crumpled, some unmoving. His father had done this. The strongest hero in the world had turned on his team—his family—and unleashed a fury that no one had been able to stop.

  Dominic's fingers were numb. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The only part of him that still functioned was his mind, and even that was breaking under the weight of everything it was trying to process.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the spot where his father had disappeared. Time had fractured—collapsed in on itself. He was vaguely aware of the scent of scorched grass, the copper tang of blood, the ozone crackle left behind by too many unleashed powers. But none of it fully landed. Not until he heard it.

  A groan.

  Low, ragged, human.

  It came from somewhere to his left, near a toppled gravestone. The sound dragged him back to himself like a fishhook to the gut.

  Dominic turned sharply, his feet finally obeying the silent scream of his instincts. His boots crunched over broken stone and burnt flowers as he moved, scanning the battlefield. It was a battlefield. That’s what it had become. The final resting place of heroes had been turned into a war zone—by one of their own.

  The groan came again, and this time he found the source.

  Hyperion.

  Omar Al-Mansoori, the shining beacon of invulnerability, lay on his side, his radiant white-and-gold suit dulled and torn. Blood streaked his temple, and his once-glowing aura had dimmed to a faint shimmer. One wing of light twitched feebly, fractured like a splintered bone.

  Dominic dropped to his knees beside him. “You’re alive.”

  Hyperion blinked, sluggishly turning his head. “Dominic…?” His voice was rough, barely audible. “What… what happened?”

  Dominic swallowed hard. “You fought him.”

  Hyperion tried to push himself up, but his arm gave out. “Rayner…”

  “I know,” Dominic said. He gently placed a hand on Hyperion’s shoulder. “Don’t move. You’re hurt.”

  There was a flicker of a smile, brief and pained. “That’s putting it lightly.”

  Dominic stood shakily, scanning the field. His heartbeat had returned, pounding in his ears as adrenaline surged through him. Now that he had started moving, he couldn’t stop. There were others. He needed to check on the rest.

  He started with Aurora.

  Amara Nascimento lay slumped against a shattered memorial stone, her usually brilliant suit flickering faintly. Her constructs had collapsed, her protective barriers shattered. One of her arms hung at an unnatural angle, and blood matted her curls.

  But she was alive.

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  Her chest rose and fell, shallow but steady. He knelt beside her and did his best to bind the bleeding with the scarf he’d stuffed into his coat pocket earlier that morning—one his mother had made him wear in case the weather turned. That seemed like a different life now.

  Next was Iron Phantom. He found her lying half-phased in the marble remains of a statue, her form flickering between solid and spectral. Her eyes were closed, but her pulse was strong when he checked her neck. A few feet away, he spotted Echo—Zara—curled on her side, clutching her ears as if the world were still screaming. She was alive too.

  Tempest’s Fury groaned as Dominic approached him. Luca’s storm-themed suit was scorched, one shoulder clearly dislocated. He gave Dominic a weak thumbs-up as the boy passed, grimacing through the pain.

  Aegis was harder to find. Ethan lay half-buried beneath an overturned marble bench, his armor scorched but intact. When Dominic called his name, Ethan stirred, then winced. “I’m here,” he rasped. “Help me out.”

  Dominic heaved with everything he had. It wasn’t much—he was twelve, and the slab was heavy—but Ethan gave him just enough help to tip the stone off.

  “Thanks,” Ethan muttered, clutching his ribs. “Don’t suppose we won?”

  Dominic didn’t answer. He just moved on.

  Celestial… she wasn’t breathing when he found her.

  Aisha Patel’s body was crumpled beneath a collapsed mausoleum arch, her silver-and-black suit torn open at the chest. Her eyes stared upward, lifeless. Dominic knelt beside her, reaching out with a trembling hand to close them.

  “One,” he whispered to himself. “One dead.”

  Stormshaper came next. Yara was face-down in the dirt, her cloak shredded, her fingers curled into fists. Dominic flipped her over, heart racing—and sighed when he felt her breath. She was unconscious, but alive.

  Stellar wasn’t far. He was lying near the ruined path, his starry suit dimmed, burns across one side of his face. When Dominic touched his arm, he flinched—but his eyes opened.

  “Dom…inic?” he groaned. “Rayner…?”

  “Gone,” Dominic said simply. “Don’t move. Help is coming.”

  Two dead.

  Ironclad—Nathan Brooks—was sprawled near the grave of some long-dead politician, his metallic form glinting under the rising sun. Dominic approached carefully. Nathan’s skin looked intact, unbroken… but his chest wasn’t moving.

  Dominic dropped beside him, pressed two fingers to the man’s throat, then his wrist.

  Nothing.

  “Two,” Dominic murmured. “Two gone.”

  And then he turned toward the last body.

  Sentinel.

  Elena Dimitrov was still glowing faintly, her telekinetic aura flickering like a dying flame. She had been Rayner’s last target, the final defense between him and the others. Her shield had shattered, and now she lay motionless, her face pale beneath the blood-slicked hair.

  Dominic hovered over her, not daring to speak. He reached down, barely breathing.

  A pulse.

  Faint, but there.

  He sagged, the tension in his chest loosening by a fraction. “Alive,” he breathed.

  He stood again, swaying on his feet. His hands were covered in blood—most of it not his own. His coat was torn, his face streaked with soot and dirt. But the job wasn’t done.

  He turned toward the center of the battlefield—toward his mother’s grave.

  The obelisk still stood, scorched and cracked. The grave around it had collapsed inward, the earth split open by the force of Rayner’s assault. But what drew Dominic’s attention was the body at its base.

  Warden.

  Liam O’Connor.

  He hadn’t moved.

  Dominic approached slowly, each step heavier than the last. His eyes locked on Liam’s face, slack and still, his armor cracked, the force field generator on his chest shattered in half.

  Dominic knelt. “Please…” he whispered.

  No breath. No pulse.

  Dominic sat back, numb.

  Three dead.

  Warden. Celestial. Ironclad.

  And his father—his hero—had done it.

  The fog began to lift as morning sunlight finally broke through the clouds. The light fell across the battlefield in golden shafts, illuminating the wreckage with a cruel kind of beauty.

  Dominic sat among the fallen, surrounded by unconscious heroes and shattered ideals, and let the truth settle into him like a stone dropped in a still pond.

  Rayner Scotia had become something else. Something worse. And Dominic had no idea what to do next.

  But he knew one thing. He wouldn’t let this be the end, not for the Guardians, not for the people his father had hurt, and not for himself.

  He stood slowly, his legs aching, his eyes scanning the ruined field. He walked to the nearest body—Aegis, still breathing—and began pulling away the debris.

  If no one else could pick up the pieces…

  He would.