The summit was held in neutral territory — a conference facility in the Monarchs’ compound, three hours by transport from Johannesburg. Glen didn’t want to go. Caleb convinced him.
"You killed a Herald," Caleb said. "Something above General class. The Monarchs can’t ignore that. They’ve been watching you since the Tower. Now they have to deal with you. If you don’t go, they’ll interpret it as hostility. If you go, you can get what you need."
"What I need is more Hunters."
"Then go get them."
The transport ride was silent. Caleb sat across from Glen, reviewing data on his tablet. Glen watched the landscape through the window — the veldt, scarred by the Second Wave, cratered by Lost energy, the grass growing back in patches around the blast sites. The world was healing. Slowly. The way worlds always healed.
The summit room was large, sterile, the kind of space designed to make everyone feel equally uncomfortable. A circular table. Twelve seats. The Monarchs sent five representatives — the lead was Director Halsey, the same woman who’d come to Eden to assess Glen after the Tower. She sat across the table with the controlled precision of someone who’d been negotiating for longer than Glen had been alive.
Glen sat across from her. Caleb was beside him, tablet open, data ready. Seraphina had wanted to come — this was political, and politics was her domain — but Glen had refused. He didn’t want the Monarchs negotiating with the Association. He wanted them negotiating with him. One person. No institutional buffer.
The other four representatives sat at evenly spaced intervals around the table — two men, two women, each with the stillness of people who’d learned to listen before they spoke. Glen recognized none of them, which meant they’d been selected precisely because they had no history with him. Clean slates. No personal investment. Whatever they decided here would be decided on policy, not feeling.
He studied them the way they were studying him. The man to Halsey’s left kept his hands flat on the table, fingers spread — a conductor, maybe, or a conduit specialist, someone who understood energy systems well enough to be afraid of what Glen represented. The woman beside him had a data terminal built into her cuff, threat assessments scrolling in a font Glen could read upside down from across the table. His own file. Redacted in places, overstated in others, wrong about the things that mattered.
They were scared. Not of him personally — they’d never seen him fight — but of the category he occupied. An unregistered Hunter. An unclassified power. A man who’d killed something the System hadn’t bothered to rank because nothing in its framework could hold the number. The Monarchs had spent thirty years building a structure that categorized and controlled every enhanced human on the continent. Glen existed outside it. That wasn’t a threat they could quantify, and unquantifiable threats were the kind that kept directors awake.
They wanted him inside the framework. Registered, ranked, assigned to a Guild, answerable to a chain of command. The resources were secondary. The real negotiation was about containment — not of Glen’s power, but of the precedent he set. If one Hunter could operate outside the System and win, others would try.
Director Halsey opened. "The Monarchs acknowledge your actions in the Second Wave. The defense of the northern front, the destruction of the Lost Commander, and the elimination of the Herald are noted. The Monarchs recognize your contribution to the continent’s defense."
Diplomatic. Careful. Glen waited for the "but."
"However," Halsey continued, "the Monarchs have concerns about your operational independence. You are not affiliated with any Guild. You do not hold an Association rank. You are not registered with the System. Your classification is ’Beyond,’ which is not a recognized rank. The Monarchs cannot integrate an unregistered, unclassified asset into the continental defense framework."
"I’m not asking to be integrated," Glen said. "I’m asking for resources."
"What kind of resources?"
"Hunters. A-Rank and above. Engineers. Conduit specialists. Enough people to reinforce the Tower anchor points the Lost are targeting. I need twelve teams deployed to twelve anchor points within forty-eight hours."
Halsey’s expression didn’t change. "That’s a significant allocation."
"You’re asking the Monarchs to allocate significant resources to defend your city."
"I’m asking the Monarchs to allocate significant resources to defend the continent’s ley-line network. Johannesburg’s shield is the strongest node. If it falls, the network loses its anchor. Every city connected to the network loses power. The Monarchs’ own territories are on the network."
Halsey studied him. The study was different from the first time — less assessment, more calculation. She was weighing costs. Glen could see the math behind her eyes: resources allocated vs. resources lost if the network fell.
The man to Halsey’s left — the one with the spread fingers — spoke for the first time. "The Herald. Your file says you engaged it alone. Our analysts put Herald-class entities at a threat multiplier of forty over a General-class field commander. No S-Rank team on record has survived solo engagement with anything above General." He paused. "How?"
"Void Touch ends them," Glen said. "The regeneration cycle can’t restart once the core’s dissolved. That’s the tactical advantage."
"We know what Void Touch does. We don’t know how you deliver it to a Herald-class core without dying in the process. The engagement window on a Herald is measured in seconds."
"It was measured in seconds," Glen said. "I was faster."
The man’s jaw tightened. He wanted specifics — the technique, the timing, the mana throughput. Glen could see him calculating what those numbers would mean in a lab, in a training program, in a weapon. Glen gave him nothing that couldn’t be reverse-engineered into a counter.
The woman with the data terminal took over. "The shield over Johannesburg. Our engineers have been modeling it for eight months. The energy signature doesn’t match any conduit architecture in our records. The draw on the ley-line network is consistent with a Class-7 sustained barrier, but no Class-7 conduit has ever maintained a barrier of that scale without a dedicated array of at least forty operators." She looked up from her cuff. "You’re running it alone."
"I’m running it alone."
"How?"
"It works," Glen said. "That’s the operational detail you need."
The woman wasn’t satisfied. Glen could see it in the way her thumb stayed on her cuff — she wanted numbers, throughput readings, a schematic she could take back to her engineers and dissect. The shield had been an open question for the Monarchs since the day it went up. Eight months of modeling and they still couldn’t explain it. That gap in their understanding was, for them, the most dangerous thing in the room.
"During the Second Wave," she said, "the shield sustained direct impact from a court-class energy barrage for eleven minutes. Our models predict collapse at four. The barrier didn’t buckle. It didn’t thin. The throughput actually increased under load." She met his eyes. "No conduit in our records adapts to stress by drawing more. That’s not a technique. That’s a different category of ability."
"It’s mine," Glen said. "That’s all I can tell you."
"You understand our position. An unexplained defensive capability of that magnitude, operated by a single individual with no oversight — if it failed, we’d have no warning. No diagnostics. No fallback. Three million people behind a barrier we can’t model."
"If it failed, you’d have the same warning you’d have from any shield. The dome drops. The difference is mine hasn’t dropped."
The man at the far end of the table — the second man, who’d been silent through most of the session — spoke up. His voice was quieter than Morrison’s, and that made it harder to dismiss. "The question isn’t whether it’s failed. The question is whether it can fail in a way we can’t predict. Your shield doesn’t behave like any system we understand. Our contingency planning requires that we can model the systems we depend on. We can’t model yours."
"Then don’t depend on it," Glen said. "Depend on the twelve teams. The shield is my problem. The anchor points are the network’s problem. I’m asking you to solve the network’s problem."
"You’re asking us to trust that your shield holds while our people are deployed around it."
"I’m asking you to look at eight months of data and notice it hasn’t fallen."
Halsey’s gaze flicked between Glen and her colleagues — a small, precise motion, the kind that carried authority without volume. She’d let them ask. Now she was measuring how much Glen would give before the questions became demands.
The man to Halsey’s left leaned forward. "Operational independence is one matter. Accountability is another. The Monarchs cannot deploy continental resources in support of an operator who refuses classification. If your shield fails, if your anchor points collapse, if your methods prove unstable — there is no mechanism to recall you. No oversight. No authority above yours." His voice was measured, but the current underneath it was clear. "We are being asked to fund an asset we cannot control."
"You’re being asked to fund a defense," Glen said. "Control wasn’t part of the offer."
"Then the offer is incomplete." The man straightened. "The Monarchs’ position is that any operator receiving continental resources operates under Monarchs’ oversight. Registration, classification, and deployment authority transferred to the continental command structure. Non-negotiable."
The room went still. Caleb’s hand moved slightly on his tablet — not reaching for data, just settling. Glen didn’t look at the man. He looked at Halsey.
"You can put that on the table," Glen said. "You can’t put it in the agreement. I’m not registering. I’m not classifying. I’m not transferring authority to anyone. If that’s non-negotiable, this summit ends now and you can explain to your directors why twelve anchor points are undefended because they wanted paperwork."
The man started to respond. Halsey cut him off — not loudly, but with the kind of finality that ended conversations.
"Morrison." One word. The man’s mouth closed. Halsey turned back to Glen, and the calculation behind her eyes had shifted. The push had been a test — Morrison’s, maybe hers — to see where Glen’s line was. Now she knew. The line was absolute. Past it, there was no deal.
"We’ll set aside the classification question for the duration of the crisis," Halsey said. Her tone made it clear the question wasn’t answered. It was deferred. "What do you offer in return?"
"My continued participation in the defense. I’m the only one who can permanently kill Lost entities. Every Hunter you deploy can suppress, contain, delay. Only Void Touch ends them. If I’m not part of the defense, you’re fighting an enemy that regenerates."
"You’re asking us to pay for something you’d do anyway."
"I’d do it anyway. But I’d do it my way. In my city. Behind my shield. If you want me operating across the continent — at your anchor points, in your territories, alongside your Hunters — then we have an agreement. Resources for cooperation. Independence maintained."
Halsey was quiet. The other representatives exchanged glances. The negotiation was not what they’d expected. They’d expected a request for alliance, for integration, for Glen to join the Monarchs’ structure. Instead, Glen was offering a transaction. Clean. Simple. No loyalty required.
"We’ll need operational details," Halsey said. "Deployment plans. Anchor point assessments. A communication framework."
"Caleb will provide everything. He’s already mapped the ley-line network and identified the priority targets."
Caleb pulled up the data on his tablet. Twelve anchor points. Twelve teams. The deployment schedules, the resource requirements, the threat assessments. The Monarchs’ representatives looked at the data and saw something they hadn’t expected: a complete, professional, ready-to-execute plan. A proposal for partnership.
Halsey looked at Glen. "You planned this before you came."
"I planned it before the Second Wave."
"You knew you’d need us."
"I knew the continent couldn’t be defended by one person."
The summit ended with a fragile agreement. The Monarchs would provide twelve teams — Hunters, engineers, conduit specialists — deployed to the priority anchor points within seventy-two hours. Glen would remain independent. No Guild affiliation, no Association oversight, no Monarchs’ command structure. He would cooperate with the deployed teams but answer to none of them. The agreement was built on mutual self-interest, not trust. Neither side trusted the other. Both sides needed the other.
The agreement’s fragility wasn’t in its terms — the terms were clean, transactional, balanced. The fragility was in what it didn’t say. It didn’t say what happened when the court was dealt with. It didn’t say what the Monarchs would do with an unclassified operator once his usefulness narrowed. It didn’t say whether "set aside" meant "forgotten" or "postponed."
Glen had heard the word Morrison hadn’t used: leverage. The Monarchs would provide resources now, build dependency, and collect later. Twelve teams meant twelve points of contact, twelve supply chains, twelve reasons for Glen to keep cooperating after the crisis. The help was real. It was also a hook.
Walking out, Caleb said: "That went better than I expected."
"They need me more than I need them."
"That’s not true. You need their people. You just can’t say it."
"I said it. I said I needed twelve teams. I just said it in a way that sounded like I was doing them a favor."
Caleb almost smiled. "That’s politics."
"That’s negotiation. Politics is when you lie about it."
The transport ride back was quieter than the ride out. Caleb was on his tablet, already drafting deployment schedules, assigning teams to anchor points, doing the work that would turn the summit’s fragile agreement into operational reality. Glen watched the landscape through the window and thought about the Monarchs.
"They’ll test the agreement," Caleb said, not looking up from his tablet. "First thirty days. Small requests. A liaison officer. Access to our shield telemetry. Someone embedded with each team who reports back to them."
"Let them ask. We say no to the liaison, yes to a coordinator who reports to us. Telemetry stays ours."
"They’ll push on the coordinator. Want dual reporting."
"Then the coordinator reports to us, and we share a summary with them. Weekly. Sanitized."
Caleb typed something. "That works for now. The bigger problem is after."
"After."
"When the court’s dealt with. The crisis ends. The Monarchs reassess." He finally looked up. "Right now you’re useful enough that they’ll defer the classification question. When the threat drops, the calculation flips. You stop being the defense and start being the variable."
"I know."
"They’ll come for registration first. Frame it as standardization — everyone on the continent gets classified, no exceptions. When you refuse, they escalate. Sanctions on resources. Pressure on the cities that depend on your shield. Political isolation." Caleb paused. "Seraphina would handle this better than I would."
"Seraphina would tell me to join the Association and fight from inside."
"Would she be wrong?"
Glen watched the veldt scroll past. A crater passed below — circular, blackened, the grass around it growing back in a perfect ring. The Lost had done that. Something had died there. The land didn’t remember what.
"She wouldn’t be wrong," Glen said. "She’d be early. The Association isn’t ready to hold me, and the Monarchs aren’t ready to let me go. Right now the crisis is doing the work for us. When it stops, we find out what the agreement’s actually made of."
Caleb nodded slowly. "Seventy-two hours. Twelve teams. And then?"
"And then we hold."
He turned back to the window. The transport banked, and the shield came into full view — the dome covering the city like a held breath, indigo light steady against the pale afternoon sky. From this distance it looked permanent. It wasn’t. Nothing was.
"There’s a third problem," Caleb said. "The kind they don’t put in the agreement."
"Go ahead."
"The teams they deploy. Their Hunters. A-Rank, some S-Rank candidates. They’ll work alongside us for weeks. Long enough to observe. Long enough to report." Caleb’s voice stayed even, the way it did when the calculation behind it was already finished. "The Monarchs will learn more about how we operate in seventy-two hours of field deployment than they have in eight months of remote modeling. Our coordination, our response times, the way the shield adapts under load — they’ll see all of it."
"They’ll see what I let them see."
"You can’t control everything that happens in the field. A Hunter watches you engage a Lost entity, they learn something. Twelve teams means dozens of witnesses. Every engagement becomes a data point."
Glen considered this. Caleb was right — cooperation had a cost, and the cost was exposure. Every time Glen fought beside the Monarchs’ Hunters, he taught them something about Void Touch, about the shield, about the limits of what he could do. The information would flow back to analysts like the woman with the data terminal, and the picture they’d been unable to build for eight months would start filling in.
"Then we manage the exposure," Glen said. "I handle the kills. Their Hunters handle containment and suppression. I don’t engage alongside them — I engage where they’ve already cleared the perimeter."
"That limits your effectiveness."
"It limits their data. Effectiveness is a problem for the next engagement. Visibility is a problem for the next decade."
They weren’t allies. They were customers. The transaction was clean — resources for cooperation, independence maintained — but transactions ended. When the crisis passed, when the court was dealt with, the Monarchs would reassess. They’d look at Glen — unregistered, unclassified, operating outside every structure they controlled — and they’d decide he was a threat. The same power that made him useful made him dangerous, and the Monarchs knew it.
The shield was on the horizon. The indigo dome, pulsing, steady, three million people inside it. Glen’s city. Glen’s shield. Glen’s war.
The Monarchs could help. They couldn’t be trusted. Both things were true. Both things would matter later.
For now, twelve teams. Seventy-two hours. The ley-line network reinforced, the anchor points defended, the shield maintained. For now, that was enough.