It was that final word, the appellation, that halted Rune. He had barely made it back to this rooftop, the engine that powered his set of wings sputtering ominously for the past few minutes. Belatedly he’d checked the fuel gauge, saw how close to empty he was. Yet even with that knowledge he had longed to continue his search. Since landing he had demanded, in tones of escalating desperation, that his wings be refueled, that he needed to get back into the sky—now, damn it, now. He made a spectacle of himself, practically foaming at the mouth. He’d already been sweeping the city for hours, crisscrossing it, buzzing the roofs of the opulent Lux houses. Straining his powerful senses, even going so far as to don the strip of blindfolding fabric for minutes at a time. Flying sightlessly so as to enhance his other faculties, just like on missions in the Unsafe. Seeking that single, familiar set of human impulses. Urna. Urna… He’d called out the Weapon’s name, more and more frequently as the night wore on.
