April, 1098

"Okay. See you, Lisa, see you, Podenco!" I call out, raising my hand in a wave.

"See you tomorrow, Lethe! Good luck with Miss Eyja!" Lisa waves back, her tails wagging.

Beside her, Podenco flashes me a grin. "See you, Lethe. Once you know what Originium is again, you should learn botany with me!"

"Okay!" I promise, returning her smile with a nod.

I watch them weave through the sea of blue plastic chairs, heading back toward the humid sanctuary of the Convalescent Garden. A contented sigh escapes me.

The Siracusan dish we shared for lunch was a masterpiece. The crust was blistered and thin, snapping with an airy crunch that gave way to a tangy spread of crushed sun-ripened tomatoes, blanketed in a pulling layer of melted cheese, dotted with basil leaves and cured meats that left a peppery warmth on the tongue.

I reach down to the edge of the table and close my fingers around the grip of my new Arts Unit.

Ms. Closure had flatly informed me that the old Kazdelian artifact was irreparably fried. In its place, the Chief Engineer had forged a new one.

The new focal unit is a long black shaft, balanced in my hands. At its crest, suspended in the air by magnetic fields, is a misty blue liquid. It swirls lazily, catching the fluorescent lights of the dining hall, framed by two intersecting matte black halos that hum with a faint mechanical energy and hold the liquid in place.

Ms. Closure had explained that the blue liquid is a dense, localized data-storage medium, saturated with "useless information" she scraped from the most mundane corners of PRTS: decades of maintenance drone pathing logs, outdated cafeteria inventories, redundant atmospheric readings. Harmless, sterile fuel for the Originium in my temporal lobe to burn. An artificial shield around the anchors I had rebuilt in my mind.

I sling my crossbody bag over my shoulder, adjust my oversized grey jacket, and turn away from the dining hall.

It is the 14th of April. The landship thrums with its usual rhythm, carrying us across the scarred face of Terra. As I navigate the arteries toward the middle deck that holds the Archives, a quiet settles over my shoulders.

The doors of the Archives part with a hiss. Dry parchment, binding glue, and recycled air wrap around me.

The moment I step into the aisle, roasted chestnuts and the crackling safety of a dormant hearth fire flood my senses.

Miss Adele is back.

I quicken my pace and turn the final corner to a wooden table.

Miss Adele is sitting there. The moment she registers my approach, she lowers the glass. Her eyes meet mine, and a serene smile breaks across her face.

"Welcome back, Miss Adele!" I pull out the chair across from her and drop into it, setting my new Arts Unit against the edge of the table.

"Hello, Lethe," Miss Adele replies. "It is wonderful to see you. I am sorry my few weeks turned into two months. I hope you haven't been too lonely in the Archives without me?"

"I missed you," I admit, smiling. I dig out my slate and a neat stack of handwritten notes. "But I did exactly what you asked. I read the chapters on the Leithanian Empire. The War of the Four Nations, and the Witch King."

Miss Adele's smile deepens with scholarly pride.

"I am very proud of you, Lethe." She folds her hands over the open pages of her own book. "The history of Leithanien is complex, and the legacy of the Witch King is steeped in some of the most terrifying Originium Arts this world has seen. Are you ready to review it together?"

I look at the dense textbooks stacked on the table, and then up at Miss Adele, who has dedicated herself to teaching me how to understand the world.

"I am ready, Miss Adele." I pull my chair a fraction closer.

Miss Adele leans closer to the map of Terra spread out between us.

"So. Where do you want to start, Lethe?" she asks.

I trace my finger over the faded borders drawn across the center of the continent, trying to piece together the puzzle of empires and bloodlines.

"Let me just make sure I understand correctly." I look up to meet her eyes. "The Gaulish Empire was considered the capital of Terra back then…"

"Yes, Lethe." Miss Adele nods, her curling horns dipping with the motion.

I look back down at my notes. The names alone are enough to frighten me.

"And Leithanians were unhappy with the brutal reign of Herkunftshorn the Witch King, the most powerful Caster ever," I continue, a shiver tracing down my spine at the thought of anyone wielding that much Arts. "So Gaul eventually invaded."

Miss Adele pauses. She reaches out, fingertips brushing the crest of the fallen Gaulish Empire on the map.

"Yes and no," she corrects. "They invaded using liberation as a pretext. But in reality, Victoria had just lost Columbia back in 1019 due to Gaul instigating the war, and Victoria also suffered a series of naval defeats against Iberia."

She moves her finger across the map, drawing invisible lines of tension between the superpowers.

"Ursus was preparing for the Tenth Ursus-Kazimierz War," Miss Adele says, her voice dropping. "The Gaulish Empire believed if they conquered Leithanien, they would become the strongest. The only one."

The words settle into the hushed aisles. I stare at the map, Terra's history pressing down on my chest. It wasn't about saving the people of Leithanien from a tyrant at all.

The empires looked at the map and decided it was okay if millions of people died, as long as they got to be the strongest. How could anyone think like that?

"They just wanted to own everything," I say. "They didn't care who got hurt."

I stare at the blocky text on my slate, my chest tightening.

"So they were winning with Sarkaz as fodders…" My voice drops. I look down at my own hands, at the ancient blood in my veins. They threw people like me into the meat grinder.

I trace my finger further down the page. "And many Leithanian cities burned… until the Witch King unleashed Catastrophes…" I look up to meet Miss Adele's gaze. "How…?"

Miss Adele closes her eyes. The roasted chestnuts dim, smothered under scorched earth and volcanic ash.

"He used our Spires and Originium shards to create resonances that effectively made Catastrophes," Miss Adele says, her voice trembling. She opens her eyes, and the academic terror in them makes me shiver. "It is an Originium Art that Victoria and Columbia are, unfortunately, trying to replicate…"

"Oh…" The syllable comes out hollow.

Miss Adele reaches across the table and covers my fingers with her warm hand. The heat of it pushes back the scorched earth and ash.

"So, Lethe." Miss Adele guides my attention back to the map. "Basically. After this. With the advanced Grande Armée stalled in Leithanien… Victoria and Ursus joined the war."

I breathe in the recycled air of the Archives and look back down at my notes, cross-referencing the dates.

"In 1031…" I read aloud, tracing the timeline. "Two years after the start of the war."

"Yes." Miss Adele nods, solemn. "Together, they destroyed the Gallic army and the Gallic capital of Lingones."

I scroll to the next paragraph, and the numbers make the blood drain from my face. It is a scale of suffering my brain refuses to compute.

"The text says…" My voice cracks. "Thirty million… thirty million Gallians became stateless…"

I look up at her, vision blurring with tears.

"…many died in the barrenlands and poor conditions in internment camps…" I finish, the words scraping against my throat. Thirty million people, stripped of their homes and thrown out into the dark of Terra to freeze or starve.

I pull my knees up to my chest, shrinking into my jacket.

"This war broke the world, Lethe." Her voice is light, but the words carry centuries. "That's why I want you to understand it."

I blink, lifting my chin from my knees. The climate-controlled hush of the Archives feels too small for the history sitting between us.

"What do you mean, Miss Adele?" I ask, looking from the map to her face.

Miss Adele traces her fingertip over the intersecting lines of the continent's borders.

"Gaul's technologies, Originium technologies, were raided by the winning parties." Her tone goes clinical. "Due to the extensive use of such weapons, there was a skyrocketing spike of refugees and soldiers suffering from Oripathy… Oripathy became a crisis overnight."

Oripathy became a crisis overnight.

The terminal diagnosis ticking away inside my own skull. Not a natural tragedy at all. The empires turned the sickness that is slowly killing everyone I love into a weapon, and they spread it all over Terra just to win a war.

"Ursine land-based warships are entirely based on Gallic ones," Miss Adele adds.

I stare at the map, trying to work out who was helping who, because none of it makes sense to me.

"They also say Leithanien resents Ursus and Victoria because of the war…" I point a hesitant finger at the borders separating the three nations, then look up at her, confused. "But they helped?"

Miss Adele sours. The hearth fire goes out, replaced by rust and wilted petals.

"They helped because Gaul was forced into a stalemate," Miss Adele replies. The lightness is gone from her voice, leaving only the truth.

She rests her hands flat on the table, eyes locking onto mine.

"Victoria conquered most of the fertile plains of Gaul and absorbed most of its people," she says, outlining the mathematics of the victory. "Ursus raided the technologies. Leithanien…"

Miss Adele pauses, her focus dropping to the territory of her homeland.

"…where almost the entire war was fought," she whispers, the devastation of her country echoing in the quiet aisle. "Well… we were left with what we had…"

The injustice of it turns my stomach. Leithanien endured the worst of it—the madness of the Witch King, the manufactured Catastrophes, their lands turned into blood-soaked battlefields. And when the smoke cleared, the other empires carved up the spoils and left them the ashes.

I lean forward across the wooden table and wrap both of my hands around Miss Adele's.

I close my eyes, dig into the center of my chest, and push everything warm I have into the space between us—honey and spun sugar, all of it, trying to shove the cold ash away from her.

"This war is why Kazdel created the Military Commission that eventually delved into the Kazdelian Civil War," Miss Adele sighs, her finger tracing the scarred borders of my supposed homeland.

"Ursus lost a war with Higashi later on…" Miss Adele continues, moving her hand across the eastern territories. Her voice darkens. "…and it is why they are trying to start new wars… to justify their military's existence."

So Ursus isn't only mean. It's like a starving animal that has to keep picking fights just to stay alive.

"This is why Victoria grew arrogant…" Miss Adele adds quietly.

The pieces fit together. It's all one long chain, I think. Greedy people with Originium weapons, over and over, until the world broke and millions of people were left in the dark.

I look up at her, my hands still resting over hers. "What about Leithanien?" I ask.

Miss Adele looks down at the map. The blanket of historical grief begins to lift. The rust recedes, swept away by her warmth coming back.

"We… my home…" A proud smile touches the corners of her lips. "Under the rule of the Twin Empresses now, we focus on our Arts study and academics. We built grand universities that are unmatched in Terra."

She pulls her hands from mine, reaches for the thick textbook on Originium thermodynamics, and drags it to the center of the table.

"That is why we should start with Originium Arts theories."

I look at the book.

If I want to help Amiya and Doctor fix this broken world, I can't just hide from its mechanics. I have to master them.

I sit up straight and nod.

"Okay. Miss Adele." I pull the textbook across the table toward me. "Let's."

I stare at the densely packed pages of the textbook. For almost two hours, the Archives has held nothing but the turning of pages and Miss Adele's patient explanations.

But my limit has been reached.

"Miss Adele," I groan, collapsing forward. My forehead hits the wooden table with a dull thud, my lopsided horns clattering against the grain. "I think my brain is turning into Miss Charlotte's carrot mush."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop all the dates and countries of Terra from spinning behind my eyelids. The numbers out of the War of the Four Nations. The elegance of Leithanian Casters weaving their Originium Arts into literal, destructive music. Leithanien and Columbia trying out their new weapons in Bolívar, where the wars never seem to end.

"It is all just mushing together into one giant headache," I whine into the desk. My tail drops dead, devoid of energy.

Miss Adele covers her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking as a giggle escapes her. She reaches across the table and closes the heavy textbook with a merciful thud.

"Well," Miss Adele says, a lilt coming into her voice that softens the academic air. "We should go get a lava cake, shall we?"

The words go through me like current.

I peel my cheek off the desk and shoot bolt upright in my chair. The exhaustion of Terran history evaporates in a single heartbeat.

"What's a lava cake?"

My tail, which had been hanging limp seconds ago, snaps to attention and sways. It is a brand new concept to me.

Yet the promise of the word "cake" is enough to override the void in my mind.

Miss Adele stands up.

"You will love it," Miss Adele promises. She rests her hand on the back of her chair and gestures toward the main corridors. "Don't worry about cleaning up the books right now. I will be back to sort the texts later."

"Okay!" I chirp, the proxy wars forgotten.

I reach down and take my new Arts Unit by the long black shaft.

With my staff in hand, I fall into step beside Miss Adele, leaving the complicated history of Leithanien behind in the hushed aisles of the Archives, ready to discover whatever a lava cake is.

The double doors of the cafeteria slide apart with a hiss, releasing the overlapping clatter of the dining hall. I navigate the maze of chairs and take my seat, resting the black shaft of my new Arts Unit against the edge of the table.

A few moments later, Miss Adele returns from the serving station, balancing a small ceramic plate. Resting squarely in the center is a dark, dense chocolate pastry. Baked cocoa and warm sugar flood my senses, erasing the history of the Leithanian Empire from my tired mind.

I grip my fork with both hands, mouth watering as I lean forward to claim my sugary prize.

"Well. This looks familiar."

I freeze, the fork millimeters from the chocolate crust.

The voice carries a practiced exasperation. I turn my head. Mom is standing right behind my chair, arms crossed, staring at the dessert sitting between me and Miss Adele.

Before mom can decree a dietary intervention, Miss Adele smiles.

"Want to join us, Caladria?" Miss Adele offers.

Mom pauses. Her eyes dart from the pastry to my face. The stern lines around them soften a fraction. She lets out a long sigh, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

"Sure," mom replies.

She sits down in the empty chair beside me. Miss Adele hands her an extra fork.

Mom cuts a measured piece of the cake and brings it to her lips. She chews slowly, her face a mask of medical stoicism. Not a single muscle betrays any sign of enjoyment.

But my Arts catch the truth. The moment the chocolate melts on her tongue, the tired honey of her breaks open into something bright. She is loving it.

Across the table, Miss Adele is radiating.

Mom lowers her fork with another breathy sigh and reaches over, tucking a loose strand back behind the base of my horn.

"I was secretly hoping," mom says, dry and affectionate, "that Lethe's amnesia would make her, well, less of a sugar-fueled little Djall."

She looks at my plate, and then directly into my eyes. "But I suppose she runs just as much on glucose as before."

I puff my cheeks out, a prickly flush warming my face. "My brain needs the energy, mom!" I protest, stabbing a piece of the cake with my fork. "Miss Adele gave me so many hard books to read! If I don't eat the sugar, I won't be able to learn about the origin of Catastrophes!"

"Lethe is just as diligent as before, Caladria," Miss Adele chimes in. "Teaching her is always a pleasure."

"See, mom?" I gesture grandly with my fork. "I deserve the cake."

Mom doesn't say a single word. She doesn't even blink. Her hand darts out with practiced speed.

Thwack.

She flicks her index finger against the top of my longer left horn.

"Ouchie!" I yelp. The flick sends a hum ringing straight through my skull. I drop my fork and bring both hands up to cover the base of my horn, fixing her with my fiercest, most betrayed pout.

Mom's expression stays a mask of medical authority.

"Double spinach for dinner tonight." Her tone leaves no room for negotiation.

My shoulders slump. The bravado evaporates, replaced by the inevitable reality of my vegetable-filled doom.

"Okay… mom," I grumble.

Miss Adele giggles at my misery, entirely unrepentant, and taps the edge of my plate.

"Well. All the more reason to enjoy the lava cake, Lethe."

I look at the molten chocolate oozing from the center of the warm pastry. She makes a valid point. I grab my silver fork and attack the dessert, determined to savor every sugary bite before the impending spinach Catastrophe.

I scrape the last puddle of molten fudge onto my fork and savor it.

Leaning back against my chair, I glance at my new Arts Unit resting against the table leg.

"So, mom," I ask, pulling the silver fork from my mouth. "Where are we going next?"

Mom shifts in her seat and reaches over to wipe a stray smudge of chocolate from the corner of my mouth.

"I heard Command is changing our course to head toward Sargon," mom replies. "Gavial has been complaining about being homesick lately. I wouldn't be surprised if she finally badgered Doctor enough to alter our trajectory."

Sargon.

I flip mentally through the geographical maps Miss Adele and I had been poring over in the Archives.

"Sargon… That is the land with the really dense rainforests and the desert, right?"

"Yes! That's correct, Lethe." Miss Adele smiles.

Then the unfamiliar name mom mentioned catches up with me.

"Who is Gavial?" I ask, looking between the two of them.

Mom and Miss Adele share a look across the table. Mom lets out a soft chuckle.

"Gavial is one of the head combat Medics here on Rhodes Island." Mom pauses, her feathers fluffing up. "Her medical style is… unique."

"Unique?" I repeat, tilting my head. "Unique how? Does she use special medicines like Miss Lena?"

Miss Adele's shoulders shake with a quiet giggle.

"Shall we say," Miss Adele chimes in, "an Archosauria is just as good at breaking bones as she is at healing them. If not… significantly better at breaking them."

My tail, which had been swaying happily a second ago, snaps rigid. I stare at my mother, then at Miss Adele, horrified.

I glance back at my Arts Unit. If this Gavial ever comes near me with her "unique" treatments, I might just have to push the maximum amount of lethargy into her mind before she can snap me in half like a twig.

Both Miss Adele and mom laugh.

Miss Adele packs up our empty dishes and heads toward the return station.

"See you, Lethe. Caladria," Miss Adele waves.

"Bye, Miss Adele!" I call out, waving as her hearth-fire warmth drifts away down the cafeteria aisle.

The moment she is out of sight, the indulgent atmosphere of dessert time vanishes. Mom turns back to me, the smile remaining on her lips, but her eyes shifting into a look of uncompromising medical tyranny.

True to her word, she marches right back to the serving station and returns with my actual dinner. I stare down in despair at the plate. It is a green mountain of steamed spinach. There isn't even a drop of sesame oil or soy sauce to hide the unapologetic healthiness of it.

I let out a long, pathetic sigh, but I dutifully pick up my fork. I chew, forcing the greens down, mourning the memory of the Leithanian lava cake with every bite.

By the time my plate is finally cleared, I am exhausted.

Mom gathers our trays with a satisfied nod, and we begin the slow walk back to our dorms. The corridors have settled into their usual evening rhythm, filled with the quiet clatter of logistics teams. I adjust my grip on my new Arts Unit, feeling the faint vibration of it through my palm.

As we near the primary intersection leading toward the medical wing, the air in the hallway shifts.

Two flavors, clashing. One is the familiar, aggressive wave of roaring fire, machine grease, and high-octane adrenaline. The other is a razor-sharp wall of unsweetened dark chocolate and black coffee.

I peek around the corner. Standing in the middle of the corridor is Ms. Blaze.

She is bent almost entirely in half, hands clapped together high above her head in an exaggerated, apologetic bow.

And standing directly in front of her, barely reaching her waist, is Miss Sussurro.

Her hands are planted firmly on her hips. Her coat is crisp, and her face is carved into an expression of stony exhaustion.

"How many times do I have to remind you, Blaze," Miss Sussurro says, her voice flat, slicing through the hallway with unrelenting authority. "Jumping out of a VTOL before it lands is not a valid deployment option."

"Sorry, Sussurro," Ms. Blaze whines, peeking out from beneath her raised arms with an unrepentant grin. "Waiting for the landing sequence is just… too much waiting before combat! The momentum was right there!"

Miss Sussurro closes her eyes, a long, suffering sigh escaping her.

Beside me, mom makes a sound she is clearly trying to pass off as a cough.

"You are going to go with me, and I am going to conduct a full-body scan," Miss Sussurro orders.

The roaring fire in Ms. Blaze shrinks to a sheepish, subdued ember.

Ms. Blaze reaches up and scratches the back of her neck with a long, defeated sigh. "Okay. Lead the way, Sussurro."

Miss Sussurro gives a single, crisp nod. She turns on her heel and marches down the corridor toward the advanced imaging wards, Ms. Blaze trailing obediently behind her like a reprimanded cadet.

Beside me, mom lets out a soft chuckle.

"And Blaze wonders why her medical takes longer than other Field Ops." Mom shakes her head as she watches the two disappear around the corner.

"Mom…" I begin, looking up at her. "Jumping out of the thingy, called VTOL, is not good, right?"

Mom sighs. "Yes, Lethe. Very much so. VTOLs are aircraft; they fly high up in the air." She points a finger upward toward the ceiling of the corridor. "Think about if someone jumped from the very top deck of the landship all the way to the ground. That's not good, right?"

I imagine standing on the freezing, wind-scoured flight deck and just dropping into the empty air. A cold shiver traces down my spine.

"How…" I stammer, my grip tightening on my staff. "How does Ms. Blaze survive? Is she superhuman?"

"No, Lethe. She uses her Arts to overheat the air directly below her to create a thermal updraft and cushion the fall. Even still, she is going to give the entire department a collective heart attack if she keeps doing this."

I stare down the empty hallway where Ms. Blaze was just marched away. Using boiling air to catch yourself from a fatal drop sounds like a terrible idea. I look back up at mom, grateful for the solid, unmoving steel floor beneath my padded sneakers.

"I think I will just use the deployment ramps," I say solemnly.

Mom laughs, and the sound washes away the lingering tension in the corridor. "A very wise choice, my little Lethe. Come on, let's go get you back to your dorm."

We resume our walk down the metallic arteries, leaving the bustling intersections behind. The overlapping clatter of the evening shift fades into the dim hum of the residential blocks.

When we finally reach my dorm, the locks disengage with a familiar clank. Mom slides the door open and ushers me into the amber-lit safety of my room.

She walks over to the small wardrobe, sifting through the neatly folded garments until she pulls out a soft pile of fleece. It is the oversized hoodie with the sleeping black kitten graphic printed squarely on the chest.

"Here." Mom turns around. "Your favorite sleepwear."

"Thanks, mom!" I chirp.

I set my new Arts Unit against the nightstand, checking that the liquid suspended within the halos is stable. Then I shed the heavy mantle of the Medical Department—jacket, turtleneck, skirt—trading my official Operator uniform for the drowning comfort of the oversized fleece.

I pull the fabric down, a wistful longing bubbling up in my chest.

"I wish I get to visit Trimounts again, though. I want to revisit all the places the old me has been to."

Mom's expression softens. She steps closer and adjusts the collar of my hoodie.

"Maybe when we stop by Sargon, we can apply for a shore leave to Columbia," mom suggests. "We will see how it goes."

"Okay." I smile up at her, hopeful.

I glance over at the digital clock glowing faintly on my slate. The numbers read 21:00.

I shuffle over to the edge of my bed and climb in, pulling the blankets up over my lap. "Good night, mom."

Mom leans down and presses a warm, lingering kiss to my forehead.

"Good night, Lethe." She pulls back, pausing in the doorway to fix me with a stern look. "Don't play on your slate. You need to rest."

"I won't, mom. I promise."

She gives me one last look, her eyes scanning my perfectly tucked-in posture.

With a soft, affectionate smile, she steps backward. The locks engage.

I wait exactly three seconds.

My hands dart out from beneath the blankets and grab the cold aluminum chassis of my slate off the nightstand.

I tap the glass and open the encrypted group channel.

[Lethe]: What you guys doing?

[Suzuran]: Just getting ready to sleep!

[Podenco]: Watching a nature documentary on Leithanian fungi. Oh right, we have a big day tomorrow, Lethe. Don't forget.

I stare at the text, my brow furrowing.

A big day?

[Lethe]: What's happening tomorrow?

Before I can even hit send on a follow-up question, the locks of my dorm disengage with a sharp, echoing clank.

My heart stalls in my chest. Panic shoots straight up my spine, and my hands spasm hard enough that I nearly launch the slate into the ceiling panels.

The door opens.

"Lethe," mom's voice floats into the room.

I don't even wait to hear the rest of the sentence. "Sorry, mom! I will sleep now!" I yelp.

I dive backward, yanking the blankets all the way up over my face, and scramble under the covers until only the tips of my horns are poking out into the cool, recycled air of the dorm.

I hold my breath in the darkness of my blanket fortress, prepared for the tyranny of a confiscated slate.

Instead, a chuckle drifts across the room, and toasted honey with it. "Goodnight, Lethe," mom sighs gently.

The door hisses shut again, sealing with a definitive click.

I wait a full ten seconds this time, my chest heaving with shallow gasps, before I finally dare to peek out. I lower the edge of the blanket, my eyes darting toward the sealed door.

Safe.

The mattress takes my weight again. I drag the slate back up to my face, my fingers still unsteady as I look at the screen.

[Podenco]: We are counting the shipment for Penguin Logistics to deliver to our Lungmen branch, remember?

[Podenco]: Lethe?

[Suzuran]: Did she get busted by Miss Erika?

I type back a confirmation that I am, in fact, still alive and in possession of my slate.

I let out a soft groan and let my head drop back against the pillows, then tap the power button, plunging the room back into the quiet dark, and finally pull the blankets up properly.

I rub my eyes. The back of my head throbs, a dull ache pulsing at the base of my horns. The darkness around me does not yield, no matter how many times I blink.

Before my eyes can make sense of the pitch black, my Arts brush the air. Two distinct flavors bleed through the confined space.

The first is a bright, chaotic burst of energy—sparkling apple cider, ozone, and the metallic tang of spent gunpowder, shot through with a restless popping cinnamon sugar that makes my tongue tingle.

The second is its opposite: crisp, cool, composed. Bitter dark chocolate, chilled air, and the coiled readiness of someone who fights for a living.

I shift my weight, my hands searching the dark. My fingers brush against a pile of synthetic foam lining layered beneath me. I try to sit up.

Thump.

My horns hit a hard wooden surface directly above my head. I gasp, my hands flying up to press flat against the low ceiling. I push, but the wood doesn't budge. Balling my hands into fists, I bang them against the heavy timber.

I am in a box?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to trace the fractured edges of my recent memory. I was in the logistics bay. Podenco and I were counting the shipment intended for Penguin Logistics to deliver to our Lungmen branch. It was busy, the loading docks packed with towering crates and rushing Operators.

How did I end up here?

The pieces fall into place, accompanied by a sharp throb in my skull. I remember holding my digital clipboard. Then Podenco shouted something over the din of the bay—a miscalculated navigational command to one of the automated logistics units. A boxy Castle bot swerved off its designated path and rammed directly into my side. The impact, a flash of pain, and then… nothing. Just the dreamless void.

A freezing spike of panic shoots straight down my spine. My hands fly to my chest, patting down the fabric of my jacket, then sweep across the foam lining beneath me.

It isn't there. My Arts Unit is not with me.

Outside the wooden confines of my prison, a jolt rocks the floorboards beneath me, with the low, mechanical roar of a heavy engine behind it.

"Texas," the bright apple-cider voice calls out, barely muffled by the thick wood of the crate. "Am I dreaming, or was there a voice coming from the crates?"

A brief silence follows, the engine droning under it.

"There was," Texas's voice replies, flat and unfazed. "Pull up, Exia."

The deceleration throws me forward.

My hands fly out, scrambling against the wooden box.

Pop.

The heavy wooden top swings wide open. Daylight floods the pitch-black hold, striking my sensitive eyes.

I wince, bringing my arms up to shield my face. My vision swims, white spots dancing across my retinas as I blink against the harsh glare. Two silhouettes block the sunlight at the edge of the open cargo ramp. As my eyes finally adjust, I take in the strangers standing before me.

To the left stands a Lupo woman, and everything about her is effortless nonchalance. Her long, sleek dark-grey hair flows around her shoulders, framing a strikingly beautiful, perfectly deadpan face. She wears a practical but stylish black and white jacket with a heavy utility belt strapped across her waist. In one hand she loosely holds a sword with a glowing orange blade. Pinned casually between her lips is a thin chocolate stick.

To her right is a Sankta girl. A glowing, geometric halo hovers above her choppy, burgundy-red hair. She is dressed in a matching uniform of white and black, but the way she wears it—alongside the heavy gun resting comfortably against her hip—screams chaotic energy. She flashes a carefree smile.

The Lupo just sighs, the chocolate stick bobbing as she speaks.

"Exia, did you check the crates before you signed the manifest?"

"Nope," the Sankta replies, popping the 'p'.

The Lupo pauses. She reaches into one of her tactical pouches and pulls out a crumpled paper manifest. Her sharp amber eyes scan the document with practiced efficiency.

"No Sarkaz on the sheet." Her voice is flat.

The Sankta girl's eyes light up. "Oh! A secret VIP delivery to the Lungmen branch? Fun!"

The Lupo lowers the manifest, fixing her energetic partner with a dry, exhausted stare. "You do know the L.G.D.'s policy about Sarkaz, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah." The Sankta waves her free hand dismissively, her bright smile never wavering. "Detain with extreme prejudice, interrogation and execution, all that."

My blood freezes in my veins.

Execution.

I shrink backward, pressing my spine as flat against the back of the crate as I can, my tail coiling rigid around my waist.

"Uhm…" I clutch the fabric of my jacket, looking between the two. "I am here, you know… Who… who are you? Where am I?"

The Sankta girl ignores my panic. She bounds forward, leaning into the cargo hold with a blindingly sunny grin.

"Exusiai!" she introduces herself proudly. "Ask me anything about apple pies!"

I blink, the terror momentarily short-circuiting.

Apple pies?

Beside her, the Lupo pockets the manifest.

"Texas," she answers flatly. "And we are near Siracusa."

Siracusa.

The land the Famiglias rule.

"How… how did I end up here?"

I pull my knees to my chest.

Miss Texas takes the thin chocolate stick out of her mouth.

"Beats me," she replies, flat.

There is no malice in her, not a trace. She believes I am another box of freight. "We picked up the shipment from R.I. near Leithanien. We're just on our way to Lungmen."

"You need to send me back to the landship!" I scramble forward. "Mom is going to be so worried! Amiya is going to freak out! If Dr. Kal'tsit finds out I'm missing, she'll have Mon3tr tear this van apart!"

Miss Texas sighs—a tired breath of chilled air. She leans in, resting a hand on the top of the van, and her eyes lock onto mine.

"Look, kid. The way I see it, you're a special shipment we need to get to Lungmen safely. Emperor's orders are absolute, and a signed manifest is a signed manifest. We don't drop our cargo."

Miss Exusiai pops her head over Miss Texas's shoulder, into my personal space. Her geometric halo glows against the dusty Siracusan sunlight coming into the hold, her hair shifting in the breeze.

"What's your name, little Sarkaz?" Miss Exusiai chirps.

"Le… Lethe," I stammer, thrown off-balance.

"Lethe! Okay!" Miss Exusiai claps her hands together, the sound echoing in the box. She spins on her heel, her gun swaying against her hip as she gestures toward the front cab of the transport. "Just take a seat at the front and off we go! I call shotgun, but you can sit in the middle!"

I stare at her retreating back. She is vibrating with cheer. The absurdity of it finally overrides the terror in my chest.

"Wait!" I yelp.

I scramble out of the wooden box.

"This is kidnapping! You are kidnapping a Rhodes Island Operator!"

"Kid, get in."

Miss Texas ignores the protest and points at the middle seat of the cab. "Siracusan Mafias roam the area. We don't want to stay parked out here any longer than we have to."

I don't need to be asked twice. My padded sneakers slip against the metal step as I scramble up into the cab and pull myself onto the seat, tail tucked close so it doesn't get pinched in the hinges.

The doors slam shut and I am flanked—Miss Texas behind the steering wheel on my left, Miss Exusiai dropping into the passenger seat on my right, boxing me in.

Miss Texas shifts the gears. The transport van lurches forward, the engine growling as we accelerate down the dusty, sun-baked Siracusan road.

Miss Exusiai leans forward, her fingers dancing across the dashboard dials, and tunes the radio until the cabin fills with a high-tempo pop song that matches her bouncing exactly. She turns to me, halo glowing.

"Lethe! Amiya orders apple pie from me, you know!" Miss Exusiai says over the music. "Ask away! I know everything about the perfect cinnamon to sugar ratio!"

I open my mouth, eager to ask her about the legendary bakery in Lungmen, but the words die in my throat.

The air in the cabin shifts.

It hits me like congealing machine oil and the tang of tarnished silver coins, stale cigar smoke laid over a cruelty that counts lives as poker chips on a betting table. It is the stench of greed.

My hands fly up to grip the edge of the dashboard.

"Miss Texas! Miss Exusiai!" I gasp out. "There are bad people nearby."

Miss Texas doesn't speak. The moment the warning leaves my lips, her chilled air sharpens into a razor-thin edge of focus.

She floors it.

The engine redlines. The acceleration throws me backward, knocks the breath out of my lungs, pins me flat against the worn upholstery of the middle seat, my hands grabbing at the edges of my seatbelt.

Through the dusty windshield, the desolate Siracusan road is no longer empty.

Standing dead center on the cracked asphalt is a Lupo in a dark tailored suit, a fedora pulled low over his eyes. Raised to his shoulder is a customized repeating crossbow built to look like a firearm. The air flooding into the cabin reeks of spoiled wine and ambush.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

The threat doesn't make Miss Exusiai flinch.

She detonates. Popping candy, adrenaline, a thrill with no floor under it. She doesn't wait for the mafioso to pull the trigger.

With a laugh, Miss Exusiai rolls her window down and throws half her upper body out of the speeding van, the wind whipping her hair, her halo blazing gold.

The crack-crack-crack of her Laterano weapon shatters the quiet of the barrens. Flashes of golden Arts light the dusty cabin, and the noise sets my pointed ears ringing. I slap my hands over them and shrink as low into the seat as I can.

Miss Texas jerks the steering wheel. The tires screech against the asphalt as she swerves around the incoming bolts, keeping her partner a clear line of sight.

"If you fall out, Exia, I'm not circling back for you."

"I won't!" Miss Exusiai chirps back.

Her voice bubbles with delight. She leans further out the window, unloading a storm of golden projectiles into the dust cloud ahead, and leaves me trapped in the middle seat.

I keep my eyes shut against the flashes of her Arts and the blur of the Siracusan wasteland going past.

My hands press flat against my thighs, fingernails digging into the fabric of my skirt.

Breathe, Lethe, I tell myself over the noise. Just breathe. They are professionals. You are safe.

They are professionals, right?

Then Miss Texas does something drastic.

The van lurches, the chassis groaning as the steering wheel is cranked hard. Before I can brace, gravity betrays me—the centrifugal force rips me off the center of the seat and throws me left.

I crash into Miss Texas and stay there, fingers grabbing the black and white fabric of her jacket to keep from sliding further. My weight doesn't buckle her posture at all. She stays as immovable as a steel bulkhead, hands keeping their grip on the steering wheel.

"Woah!" Miss Exusiai yelps.

The swerve nearly dislodges her from her perch. She pulls herself back into the cabin for a fraction of a second, halo and six floating geometric wings tilting as she catches her balance against the door frame. The thrill coming off her doesn't dim; she just laughs, invigorated by the chaos.

"We're going off road," Miss Texas says, in the same flat monotone.

The tires leave the paved asphalt.

It gets very, very bumpy. The suspension screams as we plow across the cracked earth at full speed, and every dip and rock and crater sends a shockwave up my spine. My teeth clack together. My horns ruin what balance I have. I cling to Miss Texas's jacket as we plunge into the dusty, shaking wasteland.

The vibrations of the off-road detour begin to smooth out. The roar of the engine drops from a redlined scream back into a steady hum.

Beside me, Miss Exusiai's crack-crack-crack finally stops. Whatever mobsters were out there are lost in the dust cloud we leave in our wake.

I uncurl my stiff fingers.

Carefully, I peel my face away from Miss Texas's shoulder. I have been glued to her side for the last ten minutes, hands locked in the fabric of her jacket. She doesn't blink. Her expression stays deadpan, her eyes fixed on the dusty horizon as she steers the van back onto a stretch of paved asphalt. Her chilled air hasn't shifted a degree.

I slump back into the middle of the seat, my chest heaving. My tail drops against the floorboards.

"We are alive."

Miss Exusiai pulls the rest of herself back into the cabin and swipes a smudge of dust off her cheek.

"Of course we are!" Miss Exusiai drops back into the passenger seat, kicking her boots up. "This is just a standard delivery speed bump!"

I suppose that to her, fighting off an armed Siracusan syndicate isn't a brush with death. It is a traffic inconvenience.

My eyes drop from her beaming smile to the weapon resting across her lap.

The barrel is still smoking, the metal giving off a residual heat that smells of scorched ozone. I stare at it, and my mind goes back to the metallic cavern of the Engineering Workshop on Rhodes Island.

I remember the day Ms. Closure handed me my new Arts Unit. When I asked her about the different weapons our Field Ops carried, she scoffed with manufacturing pride.

She rumbled on about focal units, from Raythean to Rhine Lab to Rhodes Island's own models, and how ours are definitely the best.

Then I asked why our Snipers only use crossbows.

"Only the Sankta of Laterano make true firearms," Ms. Closure had said, pointing at a blueprint. "They aren't just mechanical triggers and gunpowder, kiddo. They're intricate Originium Arts focal units. Every time a Sankta pulls the trigger, it's a concentrated Arts strike fused with kinetic ammunition." She had rolled her eyes at the mention of other nations. "Columbia manages firearms that fire basic kinetic ammo, sure. But compared to Lateran engineering? Pale mechanical imitations, and they cost a fortune apiece. No Arts conduits. The Iberians produce some too, off the back of their relationship with Laterano."

Looking at the focal unit resting on Miss Exusiai's lap, the lesson makes sense. It wasn't bullets going out the window. It was a storm of raw Originium energy channeled through her will.

My hands drop to my empty lap. My fingers curl inward, searching for the smooth grip of my own black staff. I wish I had my Arts Unit with me. But my hands stay empty, and I am relying on two lethal, nonchalant couriers to navigate the dark for me.

The vibration of the transport van dulls the edge of my panic.

I sit in the middle seat, knees pressed together, trying to take up as little room as possible.

Miss Texas takes one hand off the steering wheel and taps the screen of the dashboard GPS.

"We won't be anywhere near Lungmen today," Miss Texas says, glancing at the scrolling topographical map. "We should rest in Siracusa. We're near Trieste."

"They… They don't mind Sarkaz?"

Miss Texas keeps her eyes on the dusty road ahead. The chocolate stick bobs between her lips.

"In Siracusa? Famiglias hire Sarkaz quite often," she replies. "But most hotels won't accept you. Too much of a liability to them."

Miss Texas pauses.

"However, there's a local Rhodes Island branch in Trieste. We can ask them and figure out why you were in a crate."

A Rhodes Island branch. A safehouse.

"Really?!" I sit bolt upright. My tail uncoils from my waist and wags. "I can go home?"

I can find a terminal. I can send a message to mom. I can tell Amiya where I am so they don't have to panic in the dark.

Miss Texas sighs.

"Though, kid, there's an active Catastrophe nearby." Her voice drops. "The networks are a mess. No long range communications. I doubt they actually know anything."

The thrill in my chest goes out like a candle under water. I won't be able to call mom. Still cut off from the landship, I slump back into the middle seat, my hands dropping into my lap.

I lower my head, bangs falling forward to hide the sting of tears. I am so far away from the garden.

Miss Exusiai leans across the center console, a smile stretching across her face.

"Don't look so upset!" Miss Exusiai chirps, with weaponized optimism, and reaches out to poke my cheek. "I will make sure to find the best apple pie they can offer in Trieste!"

I blink up at her. She is so unconditionally joyful that it is impossible to stay swallowed by the dark while sitting next to her.

I sniffle and rub my damp eyes. The promise of a sweet pastry holds.

"Okay… I'll hold you to that, Miss Exusiai."

The dusty horizon finally breaks.

Through the windshield, a mechanical silhouette materializes out of the Siracusan haze. It is a mobile city. Trieste. Fortified structures of steel and concrete sit atop colossal treads that grind against the earth, leaving permanent scars in the barrens. It is a fortress bathed in the harsh afternoon light, and it is intimidating.

Before I can take it in, the van jerks.

Miss Texas hits the brakes, the tires crunching against the gravel shoulder as she pulls the transport to a halt. The idling engine rumbles beneath us.

"We're tossing you back in the box, kid."

"What?" My eyes go wide as I look between the two couriers.

Miss Texas shifts the vehicle into park, her eyes flicking toward the border checkpoints looming in the distance.

"Less explaining to the customs," she replies simply.

Right. I am not on the landship anymore.

To the armed guards of a Siracusan Famiglia, I am just a Sarkaz. I am a threat. I am contraband.

"Okay…" I mumble.

I unbuckle my seatbelt, my shoulders slumping under my oversized jacket, and climb over the backseat rest with my tail tucked between my legs, into the dim cargo hold of the van.

I find the shipping crate I originally woke up in. It smells of dry paper, stale packing foam, and machine grease. I step inside, pull my knees up, wrap my arms around my legs, and angle my head so my horns don't scrape against the sides.

Miss Texas steps into the back. She reaches out, pulling the wooden lid over my head to seal me in the dark.

But as the lid closes, her fingers pause. She doesn't shut it. She leaves a triangular corner peaked open, a thin sliver of light and fresh air filtering into my prison, enough that I can just barely peek out into the cargo hold. She gives the top of the box a quiet double-tap before the back doors of the van slam shut, plunging me into the vibrating shadows.

The engine revs, and the transport begins to move again.

I sit in the dark for a dozen or so minutes. Every bump in the road rattles my teeth, and the cramped space makes my chest ache.

Then the van comes to a smooth, definitive stop. The engine cuts out.

We are at the checkpoint.

I hold my breath. My empathic Arts brush against the air bleeding through the chassis. The chilled dark chocolate of Miss Texas and the popping cinnamon sugar of Miss Exusiai are crowded out by something new and heavy.

It tastes of stale tobacco, greasy paper, and a dull, aggressive boredom.

The customs officer.

Muffled voices filter through the metal walls of the van. The officer's gruff, demanding tone, then the unbothered cadence of Miss Texas answering his questions. A second later Miss Exusiai's laugh rings out, cheerful enough to paper over whatever tension is left in the air.

Clank.

The rear doors of the transport groan open. A slice of daylight spills into the cargo hold.

I go still. Both hands press over my mouth and I bite down on my lower lip, certain that the sound of my own breathing, or one nervous twitch of my tail, will rattle the box and give me away.

Boots step up onto the bumper. The suspension of the van dips under the officer's weight. Through the peaked corner of my crate I watch a white flashlight beam sweep across the stacked cargo, over the reinforced crates, the spares, and finally across the surface of my box.

I squeeze my eyes shut, begging the dark to hide me. The beam passes over the box one last time.

"All good."

The gruff, muffled voice from outside is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

Clank.

The metal doors of the transport van slam shut, sealing me back into the vibrating dark. I let out a long, ragged exhale, my muscles collapsing against the wood. The engine roars to life, and the vehicle lurches forward.

We drive for what feels like an eternity, the tires humming over the paved roads of the mobile city. Then the van slows, the brakes grinding through the chassis, and the engine finally cuts out.

The rear doors groan open, letting a wash of cool, damp air into the hold. The lid above me is pulled back, revealing Miss Texas.

"Okay. Come out, kid," Miss Texas says softly.

I uncurl my legs, joints aching from the cramped space, and climb out of the crate, sneakers hitting the floor of the van before I step down onto the pavement.

I look around, pulling my jacket tight around my shoulders. We are in a narrow, overcast backstreet. The sky is a bruised grey, weeping a misty rain that clings to the air. The cobblestones beneath my feet are slick, glistening with dark puddles. Weathered buildings loom on either side, faded plaster and aged brick pressing inward into a melancholic corridor. A row of green municipal bins huddles against a temporary construction fence, and an ornate streetlamp juts out from the masonry above, unlit in the dreary afternoon.

It smells of wet asphalt, old rain, and damp earth. It is quiet, removed from the roar of the city's main arteries.

"Stay near us," Miss Texas orders, her eyes scanning the fire escapes and the shadowed alleyways with practiced efficiency.

I nod, my tail tucking against my leg. We walk slowly, hugging the damp walls of the buildings. Miss Exusiai walks on my other side, warm against the dreary chill. We avoid the wider intersections, bypassing the crowded streets where the noise of the Famiglias' city echoes.

Finally we stop in front of a small, unassuming door. My heart leaps against my ribs. Etched faintly onto the frosted glass of the entrance is a symbol I know better than my own reflection.

The Rhodes Island rook.

We step inside, and the transition is immediate. The office is utilitarian, smelling of dry dust, old coffee, and quiet preservation. The ceiling is low, lit by a single long fluorescent tube. Brown curtains are drawn shut over the back window, holding the room in a muted dimness. To the left stands a dark filing cabinet; on the right, a heavy metal safe serves as a makeshift stand for an antique music player. In the center sits a sturdy wooden desk covered in scattered papers, folders, and a bright red ledger, all under the warm glow of a black desk lamp. Past the desk, a doorway opens onto a cramped logistics floor of stacked crates and humming terminals.

A Lupo man looks up from behind the desk. Dried leaves, worn leather. Dependable, and startled.

His eyes dart from Miss Texas, to the glowing halo of Miss Exusiai, and finally settle on my horns and the Medic emblem strapped to my thigh.

"Rhodes Island?" the man asks, his brow furrowing as he stands up. "Wait, you ladies are Penguin. Did she get lost?"

Miss Texas steps forward, her posture relaxed. "We're not sure," she replies. "Have you heard anything? We're supposed to escort her to Lungmen, I believe."

He lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"No. No communications recently," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling, at the weather raging somewhere beyond the city's borders. "She can stay here until the Catastrophe passes. Then we can contact them."

My hands close on the edges of my jacket. I am safe. I am standing inside a Rhodes Island outpost.

"Stay here, Lethe! We will get you some food," Miss Exusiai says, flashing me an unapologetic grin and tapping a finger against her chin. "Charged as part of our delivery fee for Amiya to pay, of course!"

My hands fly to my bag to protect my ID card. The image of Ms. Closure presenting me with an itemized bill flashes through my mind.

"Uhm… okay…" I stammer, my voice pitching up into a squeak. "But please don't make it too much… or Ms. Closure is going to charge my plushie fund to cover the deficit!"

"No promises!" Miss Exusiai laughs, throwing a peace sign over her shoulder. She spins on her heel and bounds out the door, Miss Texas trailing behind her in silence.

The outpost door clicks shut.

The man and I are left alone.

I look up at him.

He looks back, and sighs.

"Well," he says, his voice echoing slightly in the room. "What's your name?"

"Lethe," I answer softly as I offer him a small, respectful bow. "Yours, mister?"

"Vito," he replies, lowering his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Vito…" I look past him through the doorway, at the crates and the Rhodes Island insignias painted on the equipment. My eyes drop back to my sneakers, a flush warming my cheeks. "I am pretty sure I am not supposed to be shipped to Lungmen."

A dry, quiet chuckle rumbles in Mr. Vito's chest.

"Sì…" he agrees, leaning his hip against the edge of his desk. "I don't think we ship our Medics in crates… probabilmente…"

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a standard-issue Rhodes Island communicator. His thumb swipes across the screen, his eyes scanning the scrambled telemetry and localized weather readouts.

"The Catastrophe should pass tomorrow morning." He lowers the device and nods toward a small enclosed office at the back of the outpost, off the main logistics floor. "You can sleep in the office. It is safe."

I look toward the small room, then back at Mr. Vito. I am far away from mom, Amiya, and the humid warmth of the Convalescent Garden, but standing here in a room marked by the familiar rook, the vastness of Terra feels a little smaller.

I give him a relieved smile. "Okay. Thank you, Mr. Vito."

I sit cross-legged on the small cot in the back office, tapping at the glass screen of my digital slate. Ms. Closure's puzzle games are a nightmare, but the frustrating mechanics are the perfect distraction to keep my mind from spiraling in the quiet room.

I keep playing until the door of the outpost finally clanks and swings open.

Miss Texas steps over the threshold first, her expression deadpan as she carries two heavily stuffed paper bags in her arms. Miss Exusiai dances in right behind her.

"Classic Siracusan cuisine coming up!" Miss Exusiai announces, her voice ringing with joy.

Miss Texas walks over to the cleared center table and begins unpacking the bags with quiet efficiency. The aromas hit me, overriding the dry, recycled air of the outpost.

It is a feast. She pulls out deep, foil-wrapped trays of thick, hand-cut noodles drenched in a slow-simmered meat sauce. A large carton of golden fried rice balls that smell of melted mozzarella and savory herbs. A long, crusty loaf of bread dripping with melted butter and toasted garlic, beside a platter of thinly sliced cured meats, sharp cheeses, and marinated olives.

And then, with a theatrical flourish, Miss Exusiai pulls out a pristine white bakery box.

She opens the flaps on a rustic apple pie. The golden, flaky crust gives off baked cinnamon, caramelized apples, and warm pastry. She had kept her promise from the transport van.

I stare at the spread covering the table. My eyes blow wide as my mind calculates the cost of ordering this much premium food in a foreign city.

Ms. Closure is definitely going to make me Doctor's permanent free assistant for this. I will be organizing his endless logistics manifests and pulling him away from boiling instant ramen in kettles for the rest of my natural life to pay off this debt.

But then my stomach growls loud enough to echo in the quiet room. The savory smells are torture. I am really, really hungry.

Before I can agonize over my impending financial ruin any further, Miss Exusiai turns toward Mr. Vito.

"Come join us too!" Miss Exusiai waves both hands, her smile stretching from ear to ear. "There is way too much food for just the three of us!"

I slide off the cot and shuffle over to the table, surrendering to my hunger. The Siracusan spread overrides any lingering fear of Ms. Closure's financial wrath.

The slow-simmered meat and the melted mozzarella are a savory comfort that grounds me. I take a bite of the apple pie, and the spiced cinnamon and caramelized apples melt on my tongue. The food is simply too good. I eat until my stomach is full, my tail giving a slow, lazy swish of contentment.

Soon the foil trays and the bakery box are cleared. The satisfied silence of a good meal settles over the outpost.

Miss Texas leans back in her chair and glances over at Mr. Vito.

"You can go home, Vito. We'll guard our packages tonight."

Miss Exusiai nods vigorously. "Yep! We have our VIP cargo secured!" She shoots a beaming wink at me, making sure I know I am still officially part of their delivery manifest.

Mr. Vito gives a slow, appreciative nod. He gathers his things, offering the two couriers a brief salute before stepping out into the night.

With the outpost locked down, the adrenaline crash finally hits. The long, chaotic day drags at my bones. I turn away from the cleared table and shuffle back into the small office.

I climb up onto the cot and pull the thin Rhodes Island blanket up to my chin. Knees tucked close, the hum of the outpost's servers lulling my frayed nerves, I watch the two Penguin Logistics couriers settle into the dim light through the open door.

"Good night, Miss Texas. Good night, Miss Exusiai," I call out, my voice tired.

"Night, kid," Miss Texas replies.

"Sweet dreams, Lethe!" Miss Exusiai adds.

Surrounded by the bitter dark chocolate and bright cinnamon sugar of my unlikely guardians, I close my eyes and let the exhaustion pull me under.

I blink my eyes open, the fog of sleep cut by a voice slicing cleanly through the quiet of the morning.

"Well. This is unexpected." A woman's voice rings out.

The air in the small office is different. The dark chocolate and bright cinnamon sugar of the couriers out in the main room are smothered. It is a physical sensation, a drop in pressure right behind my shoulders. Cold, shadowed steel, and the feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff in the dark.

I scramble into a sitting position on the cot, clutching the blanket to my chest, and look out through the open doorway. Miss Texas and Miss Exusiai are still out there on the main logistics floor, entirely unbothered. Mr. Vito is already back, standing calmly by the consoles. Nobody is on alert at all.

But standing right inside my room is a tall Sarkaz woman, her face half-hidden beneath the dark hood of her cloak. She must have glided over the floorboards; I never heard her. She is intimidating.

"Eh?! Who are you?" I yelp, shrinking back against the wall of the cot.

"Ascalon," she rasps. Her voice is low, like dry leaves scraping against stone. "Kal'tsit sent me to find you."

The name cuts through my rising panic. My tail uncoils just a fraction as the terror wrestles with a sudden relief.

"Dr. Kal'tsit did?" I ask.

"Yes," Ascalon replies, flat.

"Well Lethe. Guess no Lungmen fun for you this time!"

Miss Exusiai leans through the doorway and shoots me an unrepentant grin. "Next time I will just kid—escort you directly to Lungmen!"

I scramble to my feet, brushing the wrinkles out of my skirt and jacket, plant my hands on my hips, puff my cheeks out, and fix her with my fiercest pout.

"I think I will pass on being cargo next time!" I declare.

My Kazdelian glare doesn't deter her in the slightest. She erupts into sparkling apple cider, closes the distance in a single step, and pokes a finger into my puffed-out cheek.

"Aww. Isn't she so cute, Texas?" Miss Exusiai coos, her eyes crinkling as the air deflates from my mouth with a tiny squeak.

From the main floor, Miss Texas lets out a slow sigh.

"Leave her alone, Exia," Miss Texas says, adjusting the straps of her utility belt. "We still need to deliver the actual supplies to Lungmen's R.I. branch."

Miss Exusiai pulls her hand back, her bright wings giving an energetic flutter. The teasing grin softens into a warm one.

"Guess this is it." She adjusts her firearm against her hip. "See you, Lethe."

Miss Texas steps up just behind her in the doorway. She doesn't offer a wide smile, but there is a sturdy reliability in her eyes. She gives me a single, lazy nod.

"See you, kid."

I look at the two Penguin Logistics couriers. They dragged me through a high-speed chase across the Siracusan barrens and threw me around the cabin of their transport van like a ragdoll. But they kept me safe.

"Bye, Miss Texas. Miss Exusiai," I call out softly. "Thank you for keeping me safe."

I watch them turn on their heels. The door shuts behind them, leaving me alone in the quiet room with the silent phantom of Ms. Ascalon, finally ready to go home.

"We are leaving," Ms. Ascalon states.

"Okay," I nod meekly.

I turn away from her and look toward the console. Mr. Vito is standing there, his posture relaxed despite the heavy atmosphere Ms. Ascalon brought in with her.

"Thank you, again. Mr. Vito."

"No worries, Lethe. Arrivederci," Mr. Vito replies. He gives me a small, reassuring nod.

I wave goodbye to him, stepping away from the humming terminals of the outpost and following Ascalon's silent, gliding silhouette out into the streets. The door of the branch office shuts behind us.

The morning air is crisp and biting.

"How do we go home, Ms. Ascalon?" I ask, looking up at her.

Ms. Ascalon doesn't turn her head. Her focus stays locked onto the horizon, her cloak shifting soundlessly in the wind.

"Walk."

"What?!" I gasp.

My tail freezes mid-swish, dropping limply. The blood drains from my face.

I stare at Ascalon's back in horror, convinced I am going to become a permanent, exhausted fixture in the Siracusan dirt before we even make it halfway to the landship.

She doesn't reply. She simply heads into the shadowed back alleys of Trieste.

I follow her through the forgotten, rotting veins of the nomadic city.

We navigate the winding, narrow path for a few minutes until the alley opens up slightly, leading toward a reinforced metal gate that looks like a municipal maintenance elevator.

But we aren't alone.

Standing right in the middle of the pathway, leaning casually against the brick wall, is a Lupo man.

The moment my Arts brush the air around him, my stomach twists. He tastes wrong—sour grease, stale tobacco, and the rusted-iron tang of greed. A predator waiting on easy prey in the dark.

I shrink behind Ms. Ascalon, using her cloak as a shield.

"Ms. Ascalon," I say, my voice a thread of sound in the quiet alley.

She doesn't break her stride. She doesn't shift her hands toward whatever lethal weaponry she keeps hidden beneath her coat.

"I know," Ms. Ascalon replies, a low rasp that barely disturbs the dusty air.

Hearing our approach, the man pushes himself off the wall and turns, a wicked combat knife already flipping into his hand. An arrogant smirk stretches across his unwashed face as he steps fully into the center of the path, blocking our way to the elevator.

"Who is the lucky…"

The taunt dies in his throat.

His eyes dart from my trembling frame to the towering, hooded figure standing right in front of me. The sour arrogance is wiped out by terror—cracked ice and freezing bile.

The man's face goes bloodless.

The knife slips from his fingers and clatters against the cracked pavement. He doesn't even try to pick it up. He stumbles backward with a breathless wheeze, his eyes blown wide, staring up at Ms. Ascalon like a man at the edge of a cliff in the dark.

Without a single word, he spins on his heel and sprints down the opposite end of the alley, his boots slipping against the dirt, putting as much distance between himself and her as he possibly can.

Ms. Ascalon doesn't break her stride as we reach the reinforced metal gate of the maintenance elevator. She doesn't search her cloak for a keycard or a tool. With a motion so fluid my eyes can barely track it, she simply strikes the mechanism.

A sharp, metallic crack echoes through the alleyway as the lock shatters, the pieces clattering against the pavement. She presses the call button. The rusted, industrial gears of Trieste's underbelly groan in protest, and a moment later the grating slides open.

Ms. Ascalon steps inside and makes a single silent gesture with her hand. I don't hesitate. I scurry into the cramped space right behind her, keeping my tail tucked against my legs so it doesn't get caught in the rusted mesh.

The descent takes forever.

As the elevator grinds downward through the mechanical bowels of the nomadic city, the air grows thick and warm, reeking of heavy grease and churning exhaust. I pull at the collar of my jacket, a bead of sweat prickling at my hairline. Just as the heat becomes unbearable, an unfiltered draft slices up through the grated floor.

The temperature plummets.

With a shuddering clank, the elevator comes to a halt. The doors rattle open on the bruised, dusty expanse of the barrens. The freezing wind bites at my cheeks.

I step out onto the cracked earth and stare at the desolate, rolling hills and the empty horizon. My heart gives a nervous flutter. I look up at Ms. Ascalon.

"Are we really going to walk all the way back home?" I ask. "Actually… where is it even?"

Ms. Ascalon doesn't turn her head. "We walk to my transport," she rasps. "I parked it over the hill."

I let out an audible sigh of relief. Thank Terra. I don't think I would survive a cross-country trek on foot.

But my relief is premature. The "hill" she mentioned turns out to be a jagged incline of loose rock and dry dirt. After about twenty minutes of hiking, my lungs are burning and my legs feel like they have been replaced with wet noodles. My physical output truly is a disaster. By the time we crest the ridge and I spot the sleek, dark plating of her hidden transport rover, I am dragging my padded sneakers through the dirt.

I collapse into the passenger seat, pull the heavy door shut, and strap myself in.

The engine turns over with a quiet, stealthy hum. Ms. Ascalon takes the wheel, and we begin to move. And then… nothing.

She doesn't talk. She doesn't turn on the radio. She doesn't even tap her fingers against the steering wheel. The cabin is consumed by her.

I sit perfectly still in the passenger seat, hands clutched in my lap, and watch the barren landscape roll by for what feels like hours. I am just on the verge of being bored out of my mind by the silence when the dusty horizon finally breaks.

Through the windshield, kicking up billowing clouds of red dirt, a colossal silhouette materializes.

I press my hands against the glass. It is a sprawling, industrial fortress of dark grey metal moving across the wasteland. Dominating the very front of it is a towering, bright yellow cylindrical stack, bearing the black, stenciled letters of RIM BILLITON PLC.

The staggering scale of the landship grinding its colossal treads into the earth is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I let out a breathless laugh, my tail uncoiling to give a happy thump. We are home.

The hydraulic ramp groans as it lowers from the belly of the landship and locks into the dry earth with a resonating clank. Ms. Ascalon doesn't slow down. She steers the transport rover up the grated incline and into the cavernous, brightly lit deployment bay.

Even through the reinforced glass of the rover's cabin, my empathic Arts are flooded. The silence of the barrens is washed away by an overlapping symphony of relief.

It hits the back of my tongue in a chaotic rush. There is the blinding light of Lisa, the zesty yuzu tea of Podenco, the warm lavender of Miss Lena, and the comforting, dormant hearth fire of Miss Adele. Weaving through it all is the soft, spun-sugar sincerity of Amiya.

And tucked deep in the shadows near the blast doors, standing as immovable as a statue, is the ancient, freezing glacier of Dr. Kal'tsit. She watches the transport roll to a halt with that uncompromising authority of hers, and her silence is confirmation that I am officially back under Rhodes Island's protection.

I reach for the handle of the transport, but I don't get the chance to pull the latch.

The armored door is yanked open from the outside.

Mom doesn't wait for me to unbuckle or step down. She reaches right into the cabin, her hands grabbing me firmly by the shoulders, and hauls me out of the seat into a crushing embrace. She squeezes me so hard that my sneakers lift off the floorboards, leaving my legs dangling in the cold air of the deployment bay.

"Lethe!" mom cries out, her voice fracturing into a ragged, wet sob that echoes across the deck. She buries her face into the collar of my jacket, her frame trembling against mine. "You are safe. You are safe. I was so worried."

I don't struggle against the lift. I wrap my arms securely around her neck.

"I am here, mom," I murmur, my own voice thick with unshed tears as I hug her back with everything I have. "It was just a road trip with Miss Texas and Miss Exusiai. They kept me safe."

Beneath us, Lisa tackles my dangling legs, her nine tails wrapping around my calves in a warm, auburn shield. Podenco steps up right behind her, letting out an exaggerated sigh of relief, while Miss Lena and Miss Adele share a soft, relieved smile.

Amiya steps closer, her eyes shining with moisture.

I rest my chin on mom's shoulder. The terrifying vastness of Terra is sealed outside the bulkheads once more. I am exactly where I belong.