"…Change of plans…" Ten whispered, his voice a low hiss, barely audible over the wind's moan as it skated across the dead soil, lifting ash and fairy dust like the sighs of a fallen warrior.
Seven's head snapped toward him, red eyes blazing, feral with rage and adrenaline. "What? Don't tell me Five—"
"No," Ten cut her off, his voice dropping lower, urgent and trembling with something dangerously close to fear. His gauntleted fingers curled into fists, the steel trembling at the joints. "Analyze him. He's infected."
Seven's rage flickered, sputtered, and momentarily collapsed beneath the weight of that single word. Infected. Her expression twisted—not with anger, but with something far worse: doubt. She turned her gaze back toward Atlas, her eyes narrowing as if hoping sheer will could pierce the storm of contradictions before her.
