The gates hadn't changed.
Same curved iron. Same towering stone walls. Same engraved insignia—just… painted over.
Deya stood outside the entrance to her clan's compound, wind tugging at the ends of her jacket. Her boots crunched the gravel path, but she didn't move closer. Not yet.
The rebranding had worked. New banners, new motto, a new narrative. The world saw her clan as redeemed now—supporters of the Breakers, advocates of cooperation. But Deya remembered what was underneath that new coat of paint.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, the muscle memory of a hundred drills and corrections—back when failure meant pain, and silence meant approval. She remembered standing right where she was now, younger and smaller, watching as her elders argued over pride, power, and punishment like it was scripture. Back before the clan backed the Breakers—back when all they backed was themselves.
She took a breath. In. Out. Tried to focus on the now.
A pair of sentries shifted behind the gate, murmuring when they noticed her. She didn't recognize them—young, likely post-reform recruits. Their confusion faded when one whispered her name, eyes widening.
They opened the gate. No words. Just a look.
Deya stepped forward, past the threshold, into a compound that felt like it belonged to someone else. Clean walkways. Controlled flames decorating the courtyard. It all looked polished now. But her mind filled in the ash and shouting that used to be there.
Someone jogged by and froze mid-step. Another turned, whispered again. The murmurs followed her like shadows as she walked—some surprised, some unsure if they should be glad she returned.
No one stopped her. But no one welcomed her either.
And that was fine.
She wasn't here for them.
Not yet.