The rain hissed over broken stone, washing the blood from Ian's shoulders in thin, trembling rivers. He didn't look at the newcomer—not at first.
Neither did Eli.
They both stood frozen, weapons still caught in the hands of the man who had stepped into their war like it was a tavern brawl.
Mark.
The name hadn't been spoken yet, but Ian knew. Every part of him recognized the shape of that face. The crooked smile. The flick of disdain behind eyes that hadn't dulled since Earth.
Not a wrinkle.
Not a mark of wear. Just that same effortless superiority he'd worn when they were twenty-two and sipping whiskey on rooftops, talking about promotions, travel, and women.
Except now Mark wore it like a crown.
The God's Chosen.
Ian didn't say a word.
Neither did Mark.
He simply let go of their blades and took a half-step back, rolling his wrists like he'd been holding something far beneath his strength.
