While Devrim and the Guardian discussed strategy around a table littered with maps and steaming mugs of tea, Ghost glided silently away through one of the gaps in the roof.

Once outside, he kept low, following the creek bed toward the outlying buildings. He looked at the broken waterwheel that lay toppled across the stones and tried to remember the Farm as he had last seen it.

Survivors had flocked here during the Red War, banding together to collect supplies and resources. They built water purification equipment and planted crops. They built new homes for themselves. Even under the shadow of Ghaul's ambitions, there had been laughter here, and defiant joy.

Now the Farm was still and quiet, frozen in the aftermath of the Shadow Legion's attack. The soldiers, technicians, and medics posted here tonight were all grim-faced and focused. No one was fishing off the dock. No one was laughing by a fire.

The soccer field had been bombarded past recognition. Most of the surviving buildings could barely accommodate field equipment. The Farm wasn't much of a farm.

But then, it wasn't that long ago that there hadn't been anything here at all.

Whether they faced Ghaul or the Shadow Legion, the task remained the same. Gather survivors. Help them reach safety.

So long as there were people to rebuild it, there would be a Farm. There would be joy here again.

Ghost took one final look at the stars. Then he turned and floated back toward the outpost and his Guardian.

Time to get to work.