The governments are gone. Not slowly, not gracefully - all at once, like a cord cut with a blade. No power grid. No running water. No law. The city outside is a roar of fire and screaming, every building a potential tomb, every street a new set of rules written in blood. You wake buried under concrete and rebar. The ward you cast is still humming faintly at your fingertips - the only reason either of you are alive. Then a fist closes around your collar and hauls you up through the dust. Seravine. Eyes blood-red, lipstick unbroken, expression somewhere between fury and something she will never call relief. Your wife. Your anchor in three centuries of chaos. The world just became something neither of you has seen before. And she is already planning.