The sterile, white light of the private medical suite made Laken’s pallor look like death. She was connected to a dozen beeping monitors, an IV drip feeding her fluids she couldn’t keep down. Her breathing was shallow, her skin clammy. Eliza held one of her hands, her face a mask of ancient grief, while Reed clutched the other, his knuckles white.

“It is the anchor’s spark,” Eliza murmured, her voice thick. “It was not just power. It was the core of her connection ...