War had come to Zenjari.

No more time. No more running. The reckoning was here, and it was tearing through the clouds above like a promise. (©TRS042024CAI)

The Obsidian Crown loomed overhead, that godless monstrosity blotting out the sun like the sky itself was in mourning. Shadows stretched long across the golden plains. Every breath tasted like static—metallic and sharp—charged by the snap and hiss of the vibranium barrier holding the line.

But it wouldn’t hold forever.

The first dropship tore through the atmosphere like a wound splitting open. Then another. Then a dozen more. Grotesque, insectile things—like they’d been built to offend nature—crashing down against the shield in waves, their impacts sending tremors deep into the earth.

N’Zarathi (savage alien monsters) screamed on the other side, clawing and snarling, desperate to spill blood.

Griffin stood still through it all.

Not calm. Never calm. But composed—shoulders square, rifle in hand, weight shifting slightly as the wind tugged at the ends of his dark jacket. He watched one of the dropships slam into the barrier and disintegrate in a fireball, the flames curling up against the force field before flickering out into smoke.

The glow hit his face just right. For a second, it painted his features in gold and shadow.

A slow grin curved across his mouth.

“God, I love this place,” he murmured, almost to himself—like he was watching art unfold.

Grant didn’t answer. Didn’t even look away from the horizon. His jaw was set, his grip on the shield white-knuckled and steady. Beside him, M'Kaari stood like stone, expression unreadable, gaze locked on the encroaching storm.

Then—Zenjari roared.

The war horns split the silence. A cry from the soul of a nation. Not fear. Not desperation.

A warning.

They would not go quietly. Not today.

And if the universe wanted to end here—on this soil, under this sky—then fine.

Let it bleed for it.