April, 1097

There is nothing here for February or March.

I kept meaning to write. Every evening I told myself there was no point, because nothing had happened, and put the notebook back in the bag. Two months of nothing happening is still two months. I shouldn't have listened to the part of me that said it wasn't worth writing down.

So: the 16th of April. Doctor is on classified operations somewhere in the Columbian Union, and true to her word, Dr. Kal'tsit authorized my shore leave.

The ramps of the middle decks lower with a clank and lock onto the paved docking station.

I step forward, the insulated soles of my sneakers hitting the ground. The wind that brushes past my cheeks isn't howling, and it doesn't carry the acidic bite of Originium dust or the rot of a ruined city. It's clean, smelling of cold concrete, filtered exhaust, and the electric hum of infrastructure.

At the top of the ramp I look out, and my feet stop.

The scene is jarring. None of the bruised rot I've come to associate with the world outside our landship. Monoliths of glass and steel pierce the overcast sky and lay clean shadows over the paved streets. To my left, a building rises in a white cascading facade like folded paper, shoulder-to-shoulder with dark corporate towers. The pedestrian walkways have no cracks in them, bordered by rounded white stone seating and lampposts that branch out like skeletal metal trees.

It looks exactly like the digital travel brochure Amiya downloaded onto my slate for our trip. Seeing it on a glowing screen was one thing; standing in its shadow is another.

"Terra to Lethe."

A small hand waves in front of my face, breaking the trance.

I blink and pull my eyes from the glass spires. Lisa is buzzing with excitement, radiating sweet joy.

"Sorry…" My eyes climb the skyscrapers again, and a cold shiver traces down my spine. The sky here is too quiet. The buildings are too tall. "But is this actually Terra? A Catastrophe isn't going to come… is it?"

My mind goes straight to the tales the Operators brought back from Tkaronto.

A gloved hand settles on my shoulder, and the panic stops climbing.

"Just focus on enjoying the city, little Lethe," mom says. Her voice steadies me over the hum of Columbian traffic.

I lean back into her touch. The honey pushes back the spike of cold dread. But beneath it runs a thinner undertone: sterile metal and old rainwater.

Podenco steps up beside us, her eyes wide at the sprawl of the city.

"So this is where you were from, Miss Erika," Podenco says, her ears swiveling up the height of the buildings.

Mom looks out over the white stones and the glass.

"Yes. This is Trimounts, girls."

The hush of our arrival is punctured by the click of heavy boots on pavement.

A stern Perro approaches the base of the ramps. His uniform is pressed and tailored and speaks of strict authority, nothing like the battle-worn tactical gear our Operators wear. His ears stand straight up, alert and unbothered by the landship looming behind us.

I shrink back. My mind braces for the bitter taste of prejudice—the acidic hostility Dr. Kal'tsit warned me about when a pureblood Sarkaz steps off the landship.

But as my Arts brushes against him, the air doesn't sour.

The flavor bleeding off him isn't the rusted iron of malice or the cold copper of fear. It tastes like lukewarm black coffee, pressed starch, and stacks of dry paper.

He stops a short distance away, his posture rigid. He raises a gloved finger and points to the white starburst emblem pinned to his breast pocket, the symbol of the Columbian Union.

"Columbian Customs," he announces, his voice a flat, practiced drone that carries over the city. "I am here to document the Rhodes Island personnel designated for municipal entry today. State your callsigns and official operational capacities for the registry."

Mom steps forward, putting herself halfway between the officer and us.

"Caladria," mom states, her voice level and official. "Combat Medic."

The customs officer gives a brisk nod and taps the glowing screen of his digital slate. He shifts to look to the right.

Podenco straightens her spine, puffing her chest out to look as tall and official as her frame will allow.

"Podenco," she declares. "Logistics Support."

Lisa is next. Her tails settle into a polite sway. She folds her hands in front of her, borrowing the manners of a proper Rhodes Island operative.

"Suzuran," Lisa says, her voice sweet but composed. "Field Ops Support."

The officer's eyes finally drop to me.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

Then I lift my chin and meet his stern look.

"Lethe," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Palliative Care Assistant."

His fingers move across the glass of his slate. An electronic blip. He lowers the device, his expression unchanged.

"Understood," he says, stepping aside and gesturing at the city behind him. "Rhodes Island personnel are cleared for two-day stays in the city."

He gives us an obligatory nod.

"Welcome to the Union."

The treads of the deployment ramp end, giving way to a narrow gap, and then the pavement of the Columbian nomadic plate.

I hesitate at the edge.

The wind across the gap doesn't carry the sterile bite of medical bleach or the engines of Rhodes Island. It smells of cold altitude, distant exhaust, and the electric scent of a city. None of it is air I know.

I am standing on the threshold of the world. Everything I know, every memory the Originium in my skull hasn't burned to ash, is behind me in the steel belly of the landship.

I lift my left foot. The sole of my sneaker hovers over the divide.

Then down, my toe pressing against the white stone of Trimounts. I push, testing the weight.

It's solid. It doesn't shake.

But something cold shoots up my spine. There are no reinforced walls between me and the glass spires, nothing at all, nothing between me and the sky. I pull my foot back and shrink into my jacket.

Ahead of me, the clicking of footsteps stops.

Mom, Lisa, and Podenco notice I'm not walking beside them anymore. They turn around.

Lisa walks back a few steps. Her eyes shine, sure of me.

"You can do it, Lethe!" Lisa chimes. She gestures at the paved street beneath her loafers. "See! We're all standing on the nomadic plate, it's safe!"

I look at her, my throat tight.

"I…"

Below me, the gap between the ramp and the city is a narrow strip of shadow.

Podenco marches back up the ramp. She stops in front of me, planting her feet on the steel treads. She gives me a theatrical bow and holds out her hand, palm up.

"Now, now, Miss Sarkaz Royalty. Do you need a knight to escort you, perhaps?"

I freeze.

The audacity of the tease lands like a shove. The cold terror is gone, and what replaces it is so much worse. Even my face is hot.

My tail lashes once and I fix the smug girl with my fiercest glare.

"I do not need an escort!"

I ignore her outstretched hand. I tighten my grip on my bag, force my chin up, and take one enormous stride forward.

My sneakers clear the gap and hit the Columbian concrete with a squeak.

The impact travels up my legs. I stand still for a second, my chest heaving, the buildings going up and up above me.

I am off the landship. For the first time in my memories, I am standing in the world.

Podenco doesn't even flinch. She chuckles, victorious, and turns to fall into step beside us.

We walk down the pavement.

"So… where do we get the sweets?" I ask, looking up at mom, my tail giving her a poke.

Mom thinks about it, her fingers tapping her chin as she scans the street signs.

"Well, Lethe. Since we have two days. Do you want to try something unique first? I'm overdue on some Columbian coffee as well."

"Can I finally try coffee?" I ask, tugging at her sleeve.

"Absolutely not," mom replies, crushing my caffeinated dreams without missing a beat. Her medical authority holds up fine off the landship.

I sigh. I know better than to push it.

"So what is, like, unique?" I ask instead, pivoting back to the promise of sugar.

Mom doesn't answer. She mumbles under her breath about street names and grid layouts and directions, steering us through the labyrinth of Trimounts from old memory. Lisa and Podenco follow behind us, their eyes darting everywhere, taking in the gleaming storefronts and the sharply dressed Columbian citizens walking past.

A few people look at me a moment too long, and their emotions taste like the stagnant air of a rotting basement, with a sting of warm vinegar in it.

I tuck my head down, stepping closer to mom.

Dr. Kal'tsit is right. They won't shoot me or hit me, but they still don't like me.

Mom notices my unease and tucks me against her side.

After a few turns away from the rush of the main thoroughfares, we arrive at a tucked-in cafe.

It sits between two towers of glass and steel, a little haven with lit windows and the roasted smell of coffee beans spilling out into the cold air. The bell above the door chimes as we step inside.

We find a booth near the back. Mom orders her bitter coffee and then she orders the "unique" sweet for the three of us.

When the waiter returns and sets the ceramic plate in front of me, my brain stops.

I stare at the dish. It isn't a flat pastry and it isn't a bread roll. It's an impossibly thick stack of pancakes, and they look forged out of magic.

They jiggle and wobble at the slightest movement of the plate, so airy they seem to argue with gravity. The tops are baked an even golden-brown, the tall sides a pale yellow. Powdered sugar has been dusted over them like fresh snow. Resting at the summit is a small square of butter, already melting, sliding down the fluffy sides to join a pool of amber syrup at the base.

"Whoa," Lisa breathes out, leaning over the table.

"It looks like a cloud," Podenco murmurs.

I pick up my fork, and my fingers are trembling. I press the side of the metal into the top of the stack. There's no resistance. It slides through the thick dough like it's cutting flavored air.

I lift the piece, coated in melting butter and syrup, and take a bite.

My eyes fall shut. It dissolves on my tongue. There's nothing to chew; it just melts into warm vanilla, sweet egg custard, caramelized sugar. The savory butter holds all that sweetness down.

The sour tastes of the streets are gone, and what replaces them is joy, rushing up out of my own chest.

It's exactly the kind of meticulous creation Miss Adele talked about in the Archives.

I open my eyes. Across the table, mom takes a slow sip of her coffee, watching my reaction with fondness.

"It's a cloud," I whisper. "I'm eating a sweet cloud."

The last bite of the vanilla-soaked cloud dissolves on my tongue. I close my eyes and keep the warmth of the caramelized sugar and butter a moment longer, a blanket laid over everything else.

As the joy of the pastry fades, the noise of the cafe floods back. Clinking porcelain, the hiss of the espresso machines, and under it the overlapping chatter of the patrons in the booth behind us.

"Did you hear?" a man says, dropping his voice. "Director Kristen Wright disappeared."

"Yeah," another voice replies, under the clatter of a fork on a plate. "I heard Rhine Lab is now aligning itself with the Department of Defense. Things are shifting fast over there."

The words mean nothing to me. But the air at our table shatters.

That warm smell of roasted coffee and baked dough is pierced by a spike that lands like a swallow of the wrong thing: cold stagnant water, and the acidic bite of rusted steel.

I flinch, my eyes snapping open, and look across the table.

Mom is frozen. Her ceramic mug hangs halfway to her lips, her knuckles white around the handle. Her eyes are wide and fixed on the wood of the table, on something behind it, in the conversation behind us. The downy plumage framing her face is pinned flat to her skin.

I reach out, my hand hovering over the table, wanting to grab her fingers and pull her back to the present.

But before I can even open my mouth, a bright wave of crystallized sugar washes over the table and pushes the cold back on purpose.

"Miss Erika!"

Lisa leans forward, her eyes bright with manufactured innocence.

"Do you know where the good places are to get souvenirs and clothes?"

Mom blinks, the question snapping her out of it. She lowers her mug, the ceramic clinking against the table. She takes a short breath, her eyes darting between me, Podenco, and my beaming friend.

"Uhm," mom stammers. "Well…"

"There's a mall near the Rhine Lab HQ," mom finally answers. Her voice begins to steady. "We can go there and have a look."

Mom offers us a small smile that steadies into something real.

"They have everything you can imagine," mom promises, the corners of her tired eyes relaxing. "Anything you girls want to see, they will have it."

"Really?!" I gasp, leaning over the table, the sweet taste of the pancake coming back in full force as my tail wags under the booth. "Do they have more clothes? Like different jackets?"

Podenco smirks, resting her chin in her hands. "Don't tell me you're already tired of your oversized coat, Lethe. You practically sleep in that thing."

"I'm not tired of it! I just want to see what Columbian people wear!"

Mom laughs, a small breath of it, and the last of the overheard conversation clears off her face.

"Then let's finish our drinks, girls," mom says, her tone light. "We have a whole city to explore."

We gather our empty plates and step away from the booth, the warmth of the sweet cloud still settled in my chest.

At the exit I turn back and give a deep bow to the cafe owner behind the espresso machines. The man stops wiping the counter. His eyes flick up to the lopsided horns on my head and the Rhodes Island jacket sliding off my shoulder. He doesn't smile. His face stays flat, but he gives a curt nod.

"Thanks for stopping by," he mutters, returning to his work.

I guess I'm naive to expect him to act like Rhodes Island Operators.

We step back out onto the paved streets of Trimounts. Lisa and Podenco walk ahead of us, their heads swiveling, pointing out huge advertisements for Popcorn-a-tron Max Pro Popcorn machines and Chug sodas.

Then our destination comes into view.

I stop on the sidewalk, my jaw coming open. It's a commercial dome—a titan of vaulted glass and polished white steel that swallows a whole city block. I tilt my head back to take in the scale of it.

Before today, I thought Ms. Closure's general store on the landship was the most densely packed place in the world. Standing in the shadow of this Columbian mall, her chaotic workshop feels like a cramped lemonade stall.

"Come on, Lethe!" Lisa cheers, her tails swishing as she grabs my free hand and drags me toward the entrance.

The automated glass doors hiss apart as we approach. We step through the threshold, and the change is immediate.

A rush of climate-controlled air washes over us. Everything arrives at once. The air of the mall is expensive perfume and roasted nuts and the echoing chatter of thousands of shoppers, layered over itself. The space tastes of carbonated excitement, grey boredom, and the minty sting of wanting things. It is more than I can hold.

Then a figure breaks from the rushing crowd and heads toward our small group at a brisk walk.

Mom freezes. Her shoulders go tight, a defensive posture snapping into place this close to the heart of Rhine Lab.

My Arts reaches out before the stranger closes the distance. The flavor hits the back of my tongue and I blink in surprise. It's crisp and cold and clean: the freezing air of a starry night sky, laid over the faint shaved ice of academic focus.

It's a Liberi woman. Elegant, in a tailored waistcoat and an intricate dress, a white digital slate clutched against her chest. Her hair flows in a starry blue.

The moment she steps into the light of the atrium, mom's spine unlocks.

"Erika!" she calls out, her eyes widening in delight. "Long time no see!"

"Elena?" mom breathes out. A surprised smile takes over her face and erases the tired lines around her eyes.

The two close the gap and hug, brief and warm. I stay behind mom, peeking out from the fabric of her coat.

"I can't believe it's you," Elena says, pulling back to look at mom with bright eyes. "I heard the rumors you had left Trimounts entirely. You look… different. You look good."

"I joined Rhodes Island," mom explains, her voice carrying a quiet pride as she gestures to the black and white emblem of our home. "It has been a long journey, Elena. But it was the right choice."

An understanding smile touches Elena's lips. "I am glad to hear that, Erika. Truly. Things at the Lab have been…" Her starry, frost-bright flavor flickers for a fraction of a second, pierced by that same cold, rusted-steel note mom had emitted in the cafe. "Things have been incredibly chaotic since Director Wright's disappearance. It's a nightmare of paperwork and shifting directives."

Mom's face softens into shared sympathy. "I heard. Please be careful in there, Elena."

"I will," Elena promises. Then her crisp attention drops, finally landing on the three of us huddled behind mom's legs. "And who are these little ones?"

Mom turns, reaching back to rest her hands on my shoulders, pulling me into the light of the mall's atrium.

"This is Lisa, and Podenco," mom introduces, gesturing to my two friends, who both offer her practiced bows.

Then mom's grip on my shoulders tightens a fraction.

"And this," mom says, her voice thick with unapologetic pride, "is my daughter. Lethe."

Elena's eyes blow wide. Her gaze moves over my horns, the tail, then back up to mom's beaming face. A musical giggle escapes her.

"A daughter? My, you've been busy since you left the Lab, Erika," Elena teases. She leans down a little, and the air around her tastes like unclouded starlight. "It is an absolute pleasure to meet you, Lethe. You have a very brave mother."

I blush. I grip my staff with both hands and offer her a deep bow.

"It's nice to meet you too, Miss Elena," I chime.

Elena straightens and taps the screen of her digital slate. "I wish I could stay and catch up properly over a coffee, Erika, but if I'm late returning to the astro-observation deck, my department head will have my feathers. The transition has everyone on edge."

"I understand. Don't let me keep you," mom says, taking a step back. "It was so incredibly good to see you, Elena. Stay safe."

"You too, Erika. And it was lovely meeting you, girls! Enjoy Trimounts!"

With a final wave, Elena turns on her heel. We watch her weave back into the chaotic crowd of the Columbian mall, her crisp flavor fading into the overlapping static of the shoppers until she's gone from sight.

Mom stands there a moment, nostalgic fondness softening her features. Then she turns back to us, clapping her hands together with a brisk snap.

"All right, girls," mom declares, shaking off the ghosts of her Rhine Lab past. She points toward the endless tiers of glowing storefronts and towering escalators stretching above us. "We have an entire day and a whole mall to conquer. Where do you want to start?"

"Clothing!" Lisa declares.

The volume of the Columbian clothing stores is dizzying. The racks stretch on like forests of color, with none of the utilitarian greys, clinical whites, and tactical blues that dominate the wardrobes of Rhodes Island.

I am thrust into the center of a whirlwind fashion raid.

Lisa and Podenco are a blur of motion. They dart between the aisles, pulling hangers down with sharp clattering sounds and piling a mountain of garments into my arms. Mom stands near the fitting rooms, holding a couple of shopping bags, watching the two of them commandeer my wardrobe with an amused smile.

"Try this one, Lethe!" Lisa chirps, thrusting a neon yellow jacket into my hands.

"Too bright," Podenco vetoes, snatching it back and replacing it with a heavily strapped punk-style vest. "This is Columbia! She needs to look cool. Let's try streetwear."

I'm ushered into the fitting room. For the next hour I'm subjected to an endless parade of fashion, struggling with restrictive collars, the lack of tail cutouts, and layering systems too complicated to puzzle out.

Finally, after a dozen vetoed outfits, they hand me a combination that actually works.

I step out from behind the heavy curtain, pulling at the hem of the fabric.

They had picked out an oversized light grey hoodie. The fabric is thick and fleecy, swallowing my frame. The collar is wide enough that I managed to slip it over my lopsided horns without catching. Printed in the center of the chest is a small graphic of a sleeping black kitten.

Below it I'm wearing a simple pair of distressed denim shorts layered over thick black tights. They had picked the ones designed with reinforced tail holes.

I stand in front of the large mirror under its glare of lights, staring at my reflection. My eyes blink back at me.

This is me?

"Well?" Podenco asks, crossing her arms with a triumphant grin. "How does it feel?"

I reach up, burying my hands in the front pocket of the hoodie. The fleece is soft against my fingers.

"This is normal?…" My voice is barely audible over the piped-in pop music of the store. I twist my torso, watching the oversized fabric swish. "It feels weird… Comfy… but weird."

"It looks perfect on you, Lethe," mom says, stepping up behind me. She rests her hands on my shoulders, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. The honey of her swells, sweet with adoration. "We're definitely taking it."

After draining mom's Columbian dollars on the new outfit, the wardrobe raid leaves us all famished. We migrate toward the sprawling food court of the mall.

The air here is thick with the savory scent of fried grease, grilled meat, and caramelized sugar. We find a booth, and mom returns from the counters balancing a tray loaded with authentic Columbian food.

Resting on the plastic tray are towering hamburgers wrapped in wax paper, with a mountain of salted golden fries beside them. And for dessert, tall plastic cups filled to the brim with swirled vanilla and strawberry soft serve ice cream.

The hamburger is a ridiculous structural marvel of toasted buns, thick meat patties, melting cheese, crisp lettuce, and a deluge of tangy reddish-orange sauce.

I reach out and grip the burger with both hands. The buns squish down as I try to compress the sandwich into a size that might actually fit into my mouth.

I take an ambitious bite.

Splat.

A jet of reddish-orange sauce erupts out of the back of the bun. It shoots across the table like a localized, condiment-based Catastrophe, landing squarely on the front of Podenco's green jacket.

The table freezes.

I stop chewing. My eyes go round, my horns vibrating with the spike of horror.

Podenco looks down slowly at her jacket. A greasy smear of burger sauce drips down the fabric. She blinks.

Her presence sharpens into the tang of a shaken soda bottle popping its cap.

"Lethe…" Podenco breathes out, her voice dangerously calm. She raises her head, fixing me with a narrowed glare. "Did you just use a hamburger as an Arts projectile?"

"I'm sorry!" I drop the ruined burger back onto the tray, my hands flying up in an apologetic wave. "I squeezed it too hard! It was an accident!"

Lisa slaps both hands over her mouth, her frame quaking as a giggle tears out of her throat.

Mom lets out a long sigh. She reaches across the table for a thick stack of paper napkins and scrubs the worst of the collateral damage off Podenco's outfit.

"It's okay, Podenco. We can get that washed when we get back to the landship," mom chuckles, tossing the used napkins onto the tray. She looks at me, shaking her head. "Eat carefully, Lethe. You are a Djall, not a Phidia."

I blush, ducking my head into the wide collar of my new kitten hoodie. The rest of the meal I spend taking tiny careful bites, chasing the savory heaven with spoonfuls of freezing soft serve.

With our stomachs full and the sauce incident behind us, we spend the afternoon wandering the upper tiers of the commercial dome.

Eventually the rows of clothing and food give way to an immaculate exhibition space in the center of the mall. The lighting here shifts from warm retail ambiance to clinical white. Polished pedestals hold rotating miniature displays and pristine white machinery.

Emblazoned on the huge banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling is an infinity sign framed with a plus and minus sign.

Rhine Lab L.L.C.

Solve Intelligence. Think Different.

Mom's footsteps slow.

We stop near a large display of medical beds and humming centrifuges.

"Mom?" I tug at the sleeve of her translucent coat. "We don't have to look here if you don't want to."

Mom blinks, pulling her stare away from the corporate banners. She looks down at me, and the rusted bitterness in her flavor softens into acceptance. She rests her hand on my head.

"It's okay, Lethe."

She steps closer to the machinery on the pedestal, her eyes tracing the familiar engineering of the devices.

"Rhine Lab has done terrible things," mom says, quiet enough that only the three of us hear it. "The ambitions of the Directors… the secrets buried in their classified sectors… it is a darkness I could no longer be a part of."

She reaches out, her fingers grazing the polished casing of one of the advanced diagnostic monitors.

"But look at this interface, Lethe. The localized Originium filtration system. The real-time cellular stabilization protocols that enabled Rhodes Island to develop the suppressants."

Mom turns back to me.

"Many of the medical equipment we use every single day on Rhodes Island… the very machines that keep Opal's crystals dormant, the centrifuges Dr. Warfarin uses to stabilize your own blood… they're sourced directly from Rhine Lab technologies," mom explains. "They break children, like Rosmontis. I can never ever forgive them for that. But there are people like Elena, like Olivia. They are trying desperately to change the world for the better, refusing to let it drown in ignorance. From them miracles are built. I left Rhine Lab, but I use their miracles to save lives in the ruins."

My gaze settles on the machinery.

Rosmontis… Mom has told me before, it's Rhine Lab who destroyed her mind and gave her the telekinetic powers by deliberately infecting her with Oripathy…

They are the ones who broke my friend…

But they are also the ones driving the change.

I think back on Rosmontis's quiet lunches with Amiya and me. She's healing, she's creating a life on Rhodes Island. Just like me…

I swallow hard.

"It's a beautiful machine, mom," I whisper, looking back up at her.

She offers me a soft smile.

"It is," she agrees, stepping away from the display. "Now, let's gather our things. It's getting late, and Dr. Kal'tsit will have my feathers and more if I keep you off the landship past curfew."

By the time we make the long walk back through the outer sectors of Trimounts, the overcast sky has deepened into a bruised twilight purple.

The journey back to the docking station feels twice as long as the walk into the city. My arms are weighed down by the crisp paper shopping bags holding my Operator clothes and a few small souvenirs Lisa had insisted on buying.

As we cross the threshold and step back into the familiar arteries of the landship, the adrenaline of the civilian day finally crashes.

Exhaustion drops into my bones like liquid lead.

I barely remember the walk to the residential block.

When the doors to my dorm open, I stumble inside. I don't even bother to turn on the lights.

The shopping bags drop onto the floor with a dull rustle. I don't take off the oversized kitten hoodie. I drag my feet to the recessed mattress and let my body collapse forward.

My cheek hits the soft pillows. My tail hangs off the side of the bed.

Mom steps quietly into the room behind me. Her hands are careful as she pulls my sneakers off my aching feet. She draws the thick blankets up and tucks them around me, and I'm wrapped in the fleece of my new hoodie and the warmth of the bed.

"Goodnight, my little Lethe," mom whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of my head.

"Night… mom…" I slur, my eyes already fluttering shut.

The metal door closes and the room falls quiet. Safe in the belly of the landship, wrapped in the mundane comfort of a normal day, I drift into a dreamless sleep.

I wake with a bone-deep ache in every muscle of my body. My legs feel packed with wet sand, a stubborn protest at the previous day spent navigating the pristine streets and commercial domes of Trimounts.

I reach out from under the tangle of blankets, my fingers searching the cold metal of the nightstand until they brush my slate. I drag it closer, squinting against the glare of the screen.

11:00.

The daylight simulation of the dorm has been running for hours. I let out a pathetic groan, my horns pressing into the pillow.

I tap open the messaging application. My fingers are slow and clumsy as I draft an apologetic message in the group chat with Lisa and Podenco, and then a direct text to mom. I tell them that my legs are spent and ask them to enjoy their second day in the Columbian city without me. Mom replies almost at once, her text full of warm reassurances and a strict reminder to make sure I eat a proper lunch from the cafeteria.

I set the slate down, letting my hand drop back onto the mattress. I don't want to sleep the day away. I have a specific mission in mind.

I think about Trimounts. The crisp air. The sweet melting clouds of pancakes, the bustling immaculate streets. I want Opal to see it. Even if it's just from the edge of the deployment ramp, she needs to know that the world outside the steel belly of this landship isn't entirely made of bruised skies, howling sandstorms, and black crystals. She needs to see that there's still beauty left in Terra, and that the world is far more than the Catastrophe that destroyed her home.

I drag myself out of the warm covers, fold the oversized kitten hoodie I'd slept in and set it aside, then begin the grounding routine of dressing in my Operator uniform.

Finally, I pick up my Arts Unit.

The walk through the landship's metallic arteries is a shuffling affair. The usual bustling chaos of the corridors is thinned out today, with so many Operators taking advantage of the shore passes and participating in the latest machinations of Doctor.

By the time the doors of the high-security ward open, my calves are burning.

Miss Sussurro is standing right beside the bed, checking the glowing readouts on the diagnostic monitors.

Sitting up on the mattress, her hands resting over the floppy ears of her brown plushie, is Opal.

Miss Sussurro finishes noting a metric on her digital clipboard and turns her head.

"Good morning, Lethe."

Opal looks up from her plushie.

"Morning, Lethe," Opal adds. Her voice is still as fragile as thin glass, but the void that used to swallow her words is absent.

I lean my weight against the black shaft of my staff, offering them both a warm smile to push back the sterility of the room.

"Good morning, Miss Sussurro. Opal."

"What did you have for breakfast today, Opal?" I ask, taking a careful step toward the bed. I keep my movements slow and predictable.

Opal blinks, her eyes dropping from my face to the blankets covering her lap. "Eggs…" she murmurs. "Scrambled eggs."

"That sounds great, Opal," I reply, pouring as much encouragement into my voice as I possibly can. I shift my weight to ease the ache in my legs. "Do you want to have a look at the city today?"

Opal freezes.

The air in the sterile ward ripples. A spike of fear fills the room, sharp and cold as copper. Opal's grip tightens around her brown plushie, pulling it flush against her chest—a shield against the world outside.

I look up and meet Miss Sussurro's eyes. I don't speak, but my wide eyes beg her for permission.

Miss Sussurro reads my silent plea.

"Opal can go and look at the city," Miss Sussurro states, her tone carrying the uncompromising weight of her medical authority. "But she is strictly not cleared to go ashore. She stays on the landship."

Miss Sussurro turns her head. She doesn't say another word, only points to the diagnostic monitor mounted on the wall above the bed.

I follow her finger. The clinical data scrolling across the glass screen hits me like a physical blow.

Cell-Originium Assimilation: 43%

Blood Originium-Crystal Density: 0.42 u/L

The numbers are grim. And they have increased. Despite all the technologies, all the medical care. We're just slowing the clock.

A lump of grief swells in my throat, tasting of ash. But I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Opal will not taste my despair. I push the tragedy down, bury it deep in my chest, and anchor my mind to the present moment.

I turn back to Opal and stretch my face into the bravest smile I can manage. My empathy pushes outward, a wave of sweet reassurance to chase away the cracked ice of her panic.

"The city is beautiful, if you want to see it, Opal. It's full of towering glass buildings and bright white stone. We can just stand at the very edge of the ramp. You won't even have to step off the landship, and I will hold your hand the entire time."

Opal looks at me, her dark eyes searching my face. She looks down at her plushie, then up at Miss Sussurro, and finally back at me.

Very slowly, her chin dips down. A nod.

I reach out, my fingers closing around her small hand, and guide her down off the bed.

She slips her feet into her padded slippers, her other arm still wrapped around the plushie. As we cross the threshold of the quarantine ward and step out into the corridor, the shift in her movements is easy to see. She doesn't shuffle with that bone-deep frailty anymore. Her strides are steady and normal now, built up and practiced through her careful forays to the Convalescent Garden and the various other landship facilities with me and mom.

We walk side-by-side in comfortable silence. I keep my pace slow.

As we approach the deployment ramp, the recycled air of the medical wing begins to thin out. A rush of unfiltered altitude spills into the corridor, carrying the electric scent of a sprawling metropolis.

We stop right at the threshold.

Opal lets out a tiny sound of awe.

I look out over the ramp alongside her. Even if this is the city that disillusioned mom. Even if this is the city that stole Rosmontis's future. It's still a city no Catastrophe has ever touched. People just keep building it higher and higher, like the bad things in the world can't climb up this far. I think that's what a future looks like.

"This is Trimounts of the Columbian Union."

"Home of the Rhine Lab," I explain, watching how wide and captivated her eyes are. "The place that manufactures the medical equipment that's keeping everyone healthy. That keeps the crystals from hurting you."

Opal stares out at the impossible skyline.

Her grip on the plushie loosens just a fraction.

"It… it's so big," Opal whispers.

I give her small hand a grounding squeeze, letting my own quiet hope bleed into the space between us.

"It is, Opal."

We just sit on the ramp, watching logistics Operators and Columbian officials and Rhine Lab personnel come and go. Opal rests her head on my shoulder as I lean into her.

Almost an hour has passed.

My stomach rumbles. Right, I went straight to Opal's ward. I haven't even had breakfast.

"Lethe is hungry?" Opal asks, looking up at me.

My face heats up. "Let's head to the cafeteria, Opal." I get up and hold out my hand.

Opal hesitates.

"My food is designed by Erika and Sussurro…"

"It'll be fine Opal, I am a Rhodes Island Medic. I will make sure you get your steamed broccoli."

Opal winces at the mention of broccoli.

"Okay. Lethe." Opal reaches out to take my hand.

The walk toward the cafeteria is slow. I match my pace to Opal's, and our joined hands are a steady anchor.

As we turn the last corner toward the dining hall, we pass one of the newer Operators who joined us in the aftermath of Chernobog.

She is an Ursus girl, with round bear ears poking out of short blonde hair. She wears a modified school uniform layered over heavy winter gear, and a thick red armband. Slung over her shoulder is a vault door that looks too heavy to lift, the one she uses as a shield. An industrial frying pan is strapped to her waist.

Her face is bright, her cheeks flushed with bubbly energy. The moment she spots us, her eyes light up. She stops in the middle of the corridor and waves, bouncing on her heels.

"Lethe! Opal!" she calls out, her voice ringing down the corridor. "What you guys having today! Gummy is going to cook a huge pot of traditional Ursus sour beetroot soup and honey biscuits, want to try?"

Her posture is all bounce and eagerness.

But what I taste is anything but cheerful. It's a pitch-black abyss masquerading as sunlight.

The influx hits like a blow. Beneath the desperate layer of forced optimism is a reservoir of horror. It tastes of hollow, gnawing starvation—a cramp that eats away at the stomach and the mind. It tastes like the freezing bite of a winter night that never ends.

And under the cold and the hunger is something worse. A flavor so foul that my own throat closes up. It's the metallic tang of rusted copper mixed with spoiled meat, drenched in the cloying venom of guilt and blood-soaked survival.

My grip on Opal's hand tightens, and my stomach heaves. I force my jaw shut and lock my empathic channels so I don't siphon even a single drop of the sludge radiating off her.

I don't dare ask what happened. I don't think I ever will. What she carries is so thick, so steeped in tragedy, that if I ever opened my staff to take it from her, the venom would rot me from the inside out.

I swallow the phantom ash coating my throat and force the corners of my lips upward to match her facade.

"That sounds really good, Gummy," I say, keeping my voice as bright as I can manage. I give Opal's hand a squeeze. "But Miss Sussurro and my mom put Opal on a very strict diet right now to help her heal. We have to stick to the steamed vegetables today."

Gummy stops. A shadow crosses her face before she rebounds with a beaming nod.

"That's okay! Medics' orders are the most important!" Gummy chirps, giving us another wave. "When Opal is all better, Gummy will make the biggest batch of honey biscuits just for you two! See you later!"

"See you, Gummy," I reply.

She skips away toward the kitchens, her hair bouncing with every step, and disappears through the cafeteria doors, taking the rotting taste of her survival with her.

My breath runs out in a shaky rush and my shoulders sink. Opal is watching me, quiet.

"Come on, Opal." I guide her forward. "Let's go get those vegetables."

Lunch is silent.

The echoing noise of the cafeteria washes over our metal table, but I don't hear any of it. My eyes are fixed on the plate and I'm not seeing the food.

Opal eats her vegetables slowly, working the fork with practiced care. She sits inside her own quiet bubble of healing.

Every time I try to swallow, the phantom flavor of Gummy's aura claws at the roof of my mouth. The residue is thick enough to turn plain cafeteria food to dry ash and bile. I force myself to chew, fueling my body just to keep Dr. Warfarin's checkups at bay, and every mouthful costs me.

When the meal is over, I walk Opal back through the landship.

Opal steps inside her ward, the padded soles of her slippers brushing over the threshold.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Opal." I force a reassuring smile onto my face to cover the nausea churning in my stomach.

Opal's long ears give a tiny twitch.

"See you, Lethe."

The doors seal shut, leaving me alone in the corridor.

I stand there for a long moment. I want to move, to head back to my dorm and rest my aching legs, but my mind refuses to let go.

It keeps catching on the taste of Gummy.

It's the first time I've really tasted her… every other time she's been cooking in the busy cafeteria, drowned out by the overlapping feelings of hundreds of Operators in one room and the distance from the kitchen to the serving stations.

What I tasted on Gummy was an abyss so deep and so dark that I can't understand how she walks down a hallway and cheers. How can she cook? How can she bounce on her heels and laugh with a void like that festering inside her chest?

I turn away from the residential block, my tired legs carrying me toward the Convalescent Garden.

The moment the doors part, the fragrance of blooming flora and damp soil is a relief, pushing back at the phantom stench of rusted copper still clinging to my senses.

I walk down the path.

Near the back of the garden, Miss Lena sits in a reclined chair, the picture of serenity, her posture relaxed as she reads a beautifully designed book in her lap.

My footsteps break her concentration. She looks up from the pages.

The welcoming smile beginning to form on her lips falters.

"Lethe?" Miss Lena asks, and the melody in her voice stops. She sets her book on the bench beside her, the lavender spiking to alarm. "Lethe, what's wrong?"

I stop in front of her. My hands shake hard enough that the base of my Arts Unit clatters against the floor tiles. My chest heaves on a jagged breath.

My eyes sting and blur, and what this landship hides threatens to crush me.

"Miss Lena…" I whisper, the words scraping against my throat. "Can we help Gummy? What happened to her…"

Miss Lena does not answer right away.

"Lethe, sit," Miss Lena instructs. Her voice is soft, but it carries weight.

"Miss Lena…?"

"Sit," she repeats, her tone leaving no room for argument, and wrapped in velvet anyway. "I will make some tea."

I swallow hard.

"Okay…"

I shuffle over to a chair and sink into it. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my tail around my calves in a defensive coil.

The minutes stretch and stretch. Alone in the quiet seating area, the rustle of the broad-leafed ferns and the landship's idling engines are the only things to ground me. I press the heels of my hands over my eyes and try to hold onto the humid smell of the greenhouse, but my mind keeps snapping back to Gummy in the corridor.

Finally the rustle of elegant clothing breaks the spiral.

Miss Lena steps out of the foliage with a small tray. On it is a single steaming porcelain cup. She sets the tray on the table beside my chair and takes the seat next to me.

"Here, Lethe." Miss Lena's lavender presses against my senses like a weighted blanket, pushing back the cold dread.

I uncoil one arm and reach out to take the cup. "Thank you."

I bring the porcelain to my lips and take a hesitant sip. It isn't her usual floral blend. It's steeped with something sharp and grounding, peppermint and ginger. The hot liquid burns a clean path down to my stomach and thaws the knot of panic a fraction.

Miss Lena watches me drink. She doesn't rush me. She waits until my shoulders finally come down.

"What do you remember about Chernobog?" Miss Lena asks. Her voice is quiet, and it cuts through the humid greenhouse air with precision.

I lower the teacup and rest it against my knees. In the dark amber liquid, the reflection of my horns ripples and settles.

The memories hit me. The long wait in the dark of my dorm room. The broken Operators stumbling onto the freezing flight deck. And the towering wall in the memorial hall, freshly scarred with names of the fallen.

"Reunion…"

I look up and meet Miss Lena's steady eyes.

"They hijacked the city and tried to crash it into Lungmen…" I continue, clutching the warm porcelain tighter. "Ace and Scout… died for Doctor and Amiya there."

Miss Lena looks down at her own hands in her lap. The lavender dims, covered over by a heavy blanket of sorrow.

"That's not the entire story, Lethe," Miss Lena says, her voice barely rising above the rustle of the greenhouse leaves.

"It's not?" I whisper.

Miss Lena shakes her head once, slowly. She reaches out and rests her hand over mine.

"Chernobog…" She pauses, taking a measured breath before she forces the truth into the quiet air. "The Ursus government sabotaged the city's engines. They ensured it was stuck in the path of the Catastrophe. They allowed it to fall to Reunion."

I stare at her, my mind refusing the information. Sabotaged? They left an entire nomadic city there on purpose, to be crushed by a meteor shower and slaughtered by rioters?

But Miss Lena isn't finished.

"Gummy and her friends were trapped in Peterheim Middle School by a Reunion leader called Mephisto," Miss Lena continues, a tremor running under her words. The weight of it makes her close her eyes.

"There was no food, no water, and no one coming to save them until we… until Rhodes Island killed the Reunion leaders."

I sit very still.

Hollow, gnawing starvation.

The teacup rattles against its saucer.

"They had to survive…" Miss Lena whispers, the implication hanging in the humid air like an executioner's blade.

My stomach heaves. I slap my free hand over my mouth and shut my eyes as a freezing terror locks up my spine.

"Miss Lena…" I choke out, my voice muffled behind my trembling hand. A hot tear escapes, carving a track down my cheek. "If it hurts that much… I can siphon the nightmares. I can just… take the rotting taste away so she doesn't have to carry it anymore! I can take it! I'll go find her!"

Miss Lena reaches out with both hands and pries my trembling fingers away from my mouth. She takes the rattling teacup from my grip, sets it safely on the table, and pulls my hands into her lap.

She looks at my tear-stained face, her own eyes shimmering with grief.

"Sometimes, Lethe," Miss Lena murmurs, her thumb brushing across my cheeks. "We need to let people keep their bandages on until they're ready to move on."

My chest heaves, the gasps shallow and ragged.

"If you tear a bandage off a wound before it has started to heal from the inside," she explains, "you will just rip the flesh open all over again. You will make them bleed to death."

Gummy's loud voice, her endless enthusiasm, her obsessive need to cook huge pots of food for everyone around her. It isn't just pretending. It's the bandage she made so she doesn't fall apart. If I used my Arts to siphon away the guilt and the awful memories right now, I wouldn't be fixing her. I'd be yanking out the one thing holding her up. I would hollow her out.

I look down at our joined hands.

"I understand."

I pull my hands out of Miss Lena's grasp and wrap my arms around my own torso.

"I won't touch her bandage, Miss Lena," I promise the quiet garden, my eyes on the flowerbeds. "I will just… let her cook for us. And I will tell her it tastes good."

Miss Lena leans forward, wrapping her arms around my trembling shoulders. She pulls me flush against her side, burying her chin in my long grey hair.

"That's exactly right, my sweet, brave Lethe," Miss Lena whispers. "You just be her friend. That's the best healing you can offer her right now."

I stay curled in Miss Lena's warm arms for a long while.

Miss Lena slowly lets go of me. She picks up her book.

"Want to read it together, Lethe?"

I lean in over the beautifully designed book in her lap.

The cover is vibrant: a glossy illustration of a tall, dashing Aslan man in a heavily decorated Victorian military uniform. He has a hand under the chin of a girl who is wide-eyed and blushing, and stylized roses swirl around the two of them.

The title is stamped across the top in embossed gold letters.

The Duke of Victoria's Secret Contract Bride.

I blink. My eyes travel from the glossy cover up to Miss Lena, serene beside me.

"Miss Lena?!"

Miss Lena doesn't flinch. She marks her page with a pressed fern bookmark and turns to me, her expression a mask of flawless tranquility.

"What's wrong, Lethe?" Miss Lena asks, her voice keeping its usual soothing melody.

"I was… I was expecting…" I stammer, pointing at the heart-eyed girl on the cover. "I thought you were reading about plant biology! Or… or the agricultural history of Minos! Not… this!"

"Everyone has hobbies, Lethe," Miss Lena replies, adjusting the book in her lap.

The calm of Miss Lena is still there, but a fizzy spike of sweet rosewater cuts through it. It's the same flavor Lisa gets when she's caught sneaking an extra dessert from the cafeteria.

"It is actually a very profound piece of literature," Miss Lena continues, her tone taking on an academic cadence. She clears her throat and smooths the glossy page. "The narrative provides a fascinating, deeply critical insight into the rigid sociopolitical structures of the Victorian aristocracy. By analyzing the interpersonal dynamics of the Duke and his contracted bride, one can extrapolate the underlying tensions of the era's class divide and the psychological toll of political marriages."

She offers me a poised smile. "It is practically a sociological study, Lethe."

The lie arrives with it. It tastes like ripe peach and fluffy marshmallow.

Beneath the academic justification, the truth leaking off her is clear. She is hopelessly invested in the romantic drama, and she wants to know if the Duke is going to confess his feelings in the next chapter.

I glance at her, then back down at the cover.

I clamp my mouth shut, biting the inside of my cheek to hold back the giggle bubbling up in my throat. Miss Lena taught me about keeping bandages on until people are ready to take them off. I would never dare tear away her carefully built bandage of dignity.

"I understand, Miss Lena," I say. "Sociological studies are very important."

I scoot a little closer to her, tucking my legs up and resting my head against her shoulder.

"Can we study it together?" I ask as innocently as I can.

Miss Lena's ears give a delighted twitch.

"Of course, Lethe. Let us start from chapter one."

"Please don't reject him!" I squeeze Miss Lena's arm, my eyes wide on the page.

We have been reading for what feels like hours, both of us absorbed.

"Reject whom?"

I almost jump out of my seat. The voice breaks the quiet rustle of the garden, and my tail snaps straight up, pointing at the ceiling like a misty blue antenna.

I whip around. Standing behind our chairs with an amused smile playing on her lips is mom, holding a brown paper bag that gives off a savory warmth.

"I brought back some bagels from an old cafe I used to go to in Trimounts with Elena," mom says, the nostalgia bleeding into the air.

"Bagels?" I tilt my head.

Mom reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a wrapped bundle, peeling back the wax paper to show me. It's a dense ring of bread with a blistered golden-brown crust, sliced right down the middle. Wedged between the two halves is a colorful stack of ingredients: thin ribbons of orange-pink smoked fish laid over crisp deep green spinach leaves. Holding it all together is a generous spread of smooth white cream cheese.

All those savory layers look delicious.

"It's a Columbian classic," mom explains, offering the wrapped bagel toward me.

Then her eyes drift past the food and drop to the open book in Miss Lena's lap. She reads the gold lettering.

Mom blinks, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. "Lena, is that…"

Miss Lena clears her throat.

The sound is delicate, and it carries uncompromising authority.

"The aromatic profile of those bagels is lovely, Erika," Miss Lena pivots. Her serene smile never falters. "It must be nearly time for dinner. Speaking of which, how were Lisa and Podenco?"

Mom stares at Miss Lena for a fraction of a second. Then a knowing amusement dances in her eyes.

"They're completely knocked out," mom laughs. She hands me the bagel and takes a seat on the bench opposite us. "A full day exploring the Rhine Lab science park and all the interactive exhibits was a bit too much for them. They fell asleep before our transport vehicle even docked back at the landship."

I take a big bite of the bagel.

The crunch of the blistered crust gives way to the thick layer of cream cheese. The smoky tang of the fish goes with the fresh snap of the spinach leaves. It's heavenly. A low hum vibrates in my throat as I chew, and my tail wags slow and content.

Across the table, mom watches me savor the bite. Her feathers give a tiny twitch.

"Well, Lethe," mom says, her voice smooth. "Just to let you know, you way over-indexed on junk food for now. Steamed broccoli and baked potatoes for next month."

My jaw freezes mid-chew.

The betrayal in that sentence lands. I get the heavenly mouthful of bagel down with a difficult gulp, my eyes going wide with panic. My tail stops its happy swishing and drops dead toward the floorboards.

"What?!" I yelp. I point a crumb-covered finger at her. "No fair! You brought them all for me! It's your fault, mom!"

Mom doesn't even flinch at my accusation.

She raises her own half of the bagel to her lips and takes a bite. She chews slowly. Meticulously. Her eyes lock onto mine, and a bright burst of sparkling grape juice comes off her.

"I am a Rhodes Island Medic, Lethe," mom replies, swallowing her bite with a serene expression. "It is my sworn duty to ensure my patients maintain a balanced, nutritional baseline. And as your mother, it is my duty to enforce it."

"Miss Lena!" I clutch her sleeve, turning pleading eyes on the best manager on the landship. "Tell her she can't do this! A month of steamed broccoli is cruel! I am a Djall, not a herbivore!"

Miss Lena, who has been watching the exchange with her book in her lap, lifts a hand to cover her mouth. Her shoulders shake, and she doesn't manage to hide her delight at my despair.

"I am afraid I cannot interfere with a primary care Medic's orders, Lethe," Miss Lena replies, her calm rippling with fond amusement. "Broccoli is very good for your physical development."

A loud tragic groan rolls out of me as I slump back into my chair. My mouth pulls into a pout. I glare at the remaining half of the beautiful Columbian bagel in my hand, aware all at once that this is my last taste of savory freedom before the impending steamed vegetable apocalypse. Then I take another huge bite, determined to savor every single second of it.