She blinked, looking at the coat, then at him. It took a long while before she spoke. "Thank you."
Silas nodded once, settling back into position.
The tent fell into silence again—just the hum of equipment, the distant wind, the occasional crackle of the comm.
Then Maera stiffened.
"Movement," she said sharply, eyes locked on the radar.
Silas was at her side in an instant. "Where?"
She pointed. "Northwest. Multiple contacts. Thirty—no, forty signatures. Moving in formation."
Silas studied the screen. The blips were moving with purpose. Coordinated. Deliberate.
"Not ferals," he muttered.
"No." Maera's jaw tightened. "Gammas. Shifted. They're coming fast."
Silas keyed his comm. "All units, enemy contact inbound. Northwest approach. Forty-plus shifted hostiles. Prepare for close-quarters engagement."
Acknowledgments crackled back.
Maera stood, the coat slipping from her shoulders. She caught it, held it for a moment, then set it aside carefully.
