Soldiers swarmed the field soon after, weaving between the wreckage as they inspected the twisted, lifeless carcasses. Teams worked quickly, extracting gleaming shards from the remains—pale fragments pulsing faintly with residual Aether, the valuable spoils of the Rift.
A few paces away, Amara and Eli stood side by side, speaking in hushed tones while overseeing the cleanup. Irene guided Dane and Tess over, the latter still cradled in Rook's arms, despite her insisting—half-heartedly—that she could stand on her own.
Ezra lingered nearby, unsure of where he fit into the aftermath.
"Want me to heal you?" he offered, glancing at Eli's arm, where blood streaked down from a shallow cut.
Eli barely spared it a glance before waving him off with his usual dismissive shrug.
"Minor. Save your Aether."
Ezra nodded, though a part of him felt useless just standing there.
Amara crossed her arms, her gaze flicking to the Rift's now-sealed scar in the sky.
"So what rank was that thing?" she asked, nodding toward the decapitated corpse lying in a heap.
Eli cleaned his blade with slow, methodical movements before responding.
"Whispering Wraith. Herald type. Strain… Bone mutation."
He sheathed his sword, his tone as calm as if he were reading off a routine mission report.
"Class… Fiend. Order… Wraith."
Amara exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Wraith-class this deep into a Category III? That's… comforting."
"Yeah," Dane chimed in, wiping dust from his face. "Next time, let's hope for something less creative trying to kill us."
Irene smirked, elbowing him.
"As if you'd survive the boredom."
Ezra watched the exchange quietly, but something about the word Herald stuck in his mind.
"Wait… Herald?" he asked, his voice uncertain. "What does that mean?"
Eli's gaze flicked to him, cool and unreadable, his expression as composed as ever.
"The Herald is the Rift's guardian," he explained. "The final event before a zone closes. Every Rift has one. You don't leave until it's dead."
Ezra swallowed hard, his eyes drifting back to the creature's severed head lying motionless among the rubble.
"So… there's always something like that waiting?"
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
Eli nodded.
"Sometimes worse. Heralds guard the Rift's core. You want to survive? You kill the Herald."
Amara let out a dry chuckle, crossing her arms as she leaned against the side of the tank.
"And lucky us… that was just a Wraith-class Herald. Imagine if it had been a Hive or, gods forbid, a Colossus."
Irene scoffed, flicking debris off her sleeve.
"Or worse—an Aberrant-Class, Order Wraith. We wouldn't be standing here having this conversation. They'd have to call in the Family Heads for that."
She shot Eli a crooked grin.
"Cap, think you could handle one of those?"
Eli wiped the last of the black ichor from his blade, his tone as dry as ever.
"Maybe."
The others exchanged glances—half amused, half horrified.
Amara rolled her eyes, running a hand through her hair.
"I think you're all forgetting who your captain is." She jerked a thumb toward Eli, who was already turning away like none of this involved him.
"That's Resonant Hendrix you're talking about."
She glanced around at the rest of them before adding,
"First person to hit that rank without even awakening a resonance. A whole class above the rest of you idiots."
Dane let out a low whistle.
"Yeah, yeah… but still wouldn't hurt to have a Family Head on standby. Just in case."
Irene smirked.
"Or two."