The ship came down at dusk.
Sleek. Scarred. Burned matte black and shaped like a bird mid-dive. No transponder. No IFF tags. But it descended with the grace of someone who'd done this kind of thing a hundred times—each one with someone watching from a sniper scope.
Toren was at the ridge when it touched down.
Unregistered vessel detected: Close approach.ID: UnknownForce anomaly proximity: 38m
The system's alerts fluttered softly in his field of vision. Calm. Neutral.
He wasn't.
The hatch hissed open with a theatrical slow release. Steam curled outward. Then came the figure—tall, wrapped in a deep gray cloak, hood drawn low. Boots clean despite jungle mud. Belt too tidy for any true scavenger.
She didn't wave.
She just walked straight toward the gate, like she'd been invited.
Grum, watching from his perch, raised a brow. "Fancy boots for a junk-runner."
"Could be a trade scout," Linae offered cautiously. "We're off the charts out here."
"She's not a scout," Toren said flatly.
"How do you know?" Mira asked, stepping up beside him.
"I just do."
That wasn't an answer, and Mira knew it.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Toren."
"She's wrong. In the wrong place."
"I need more than a vibe, Vale. You've been quiet lately. Too quiet."
He didn't reply.
Because he couldn't admit what the system had shown him.
Not yet.