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The warehouse breathed in shadows, a lattice of steel beams and stacked crates. Ngwazi stood anchored behind a central support, shield raised, patience carved into his posture. Every step, every shift of weight was deliberate; he was the immovable heart of the fight.

Obaaya hovered above the main floor, wings folding and unfolding silently, stormlight flickering around her fists. From the height, she could strike anywhere in the room, a sudden and lethal tempest waiting to fall.

Sepa-Ka crouched atop a pallet stack, khopesh in hand, eyes fixed on the path the Queen would take. One misstep, one reckless move, and the curved blade would flash from shadow to strike.

From the far corner, Cackle Queen’s ragged laughter cut through the air. Hyenas slinked behind her, teeth glinting, muscles coiled to spring. As Ngwazi’s shield caught the first glint of moonlight that slipped through the broken roof. Obaaya inhaled gathering a powerful wind—storm murmuring in the rafters. Sepa-Ka’s hand tightened on the hilt of their khopesh.

Every hero had their ground, every angle covered. The warehouse was no longer abandoned—it was a crucible. Continuity waited. Chaos was coming.