August, 1097

The sweltering beaches of Siesta already feel like a distant dream.

The landship's reinforced bulkheads have sealed the ocean breeze away. We're moving again. The golden reprieve of the summer festival is over, and the march of Rhodes Island has resumed.

I'm tucked away in the labyrinthine aisles of the Archives.

Sitting across from me at our usual wooden table is Ms. Skyfire. Her departure for Victoria has been delayed by administrative red tape, granting me a few more precious days of her fiery tutelage.

The geopolitical history book lies open in front of me. Its sprawling map of Terra is dotted with borders and crests I'm trying to memorize. My finger traces the thick line of our current trajectory and stops at a broad territory marked with a stylized pegasus.

"Ms. Skyfire?" I ask.

She looks up from her own stack of Siestan reports.

"What is the Kazimierz Alliance?"

Ms. Skyfire scoffs. Her pen slams down on the table.

"The United Knightly Territory of Kazimierz, Lethe, is a tragic, neon-lit circus masquerading as a sovereign nation," she declares.

She reaches across the table and taps the pegasus crest printed on my map.

"Historically, it was a land of true, honorable knights," she lectures. "The Kuranta warriors of old defended their borders with unmatched bravery and a strict code of chivalry against the Empire of Ursus. But they have allowed their entire culture to be completely cannibalized by corporate greed."

I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands.

"They're ruled by the General Chamber of Commerce," she continues, her tone sharpening. "They've stripped the title of 'Knight' of all its nobility and turned it into a commercialized, blood-sport commodity. Their so-called knights are nothing more than glorified gladiators and walking billboards, fighting in massive, blindingly loud arenas simply to sell soft drinks, insurance policies, and overpriced merchandise to a mindless, cheering populace."

The peppery disdain rolling off her makes my nose twitch.

"They traded their lances for corporate sponsorships, and their dignity for broadcast ratings," she finishes, crossing her arms. "It is loud. It is utterly devoid of actual culture. And it is exhausting to witness."

Ms. Skyfire describes enormous arenas. Neon lights. Thousands of screaming people crammed together to watch sports filled with blood. My mind conjures the roar of the Siestan music festival, only a hundred times louder, with none of the beach's fun, just the metallic tang of fighting and people who care about nothing but money.

The thought of navigating a city that loud sets a phantom ache throbbing behind my eyes.

"Good thing I'm staying on the landship…" I shiver at the prospect of stepping into that neon-lit chaos. I hug my R.I. jacket tighter around my shoulders, grateful that Dr. Kal'tsit's shore passes only cover Columbian cities.

I drop my eyes back to the map. A more pressing, practical priority surfaces.

I tilt my head and look up at her, eyes wide and earnest.

"…do they have sweets too?"

The peppery indignation in the air flatlines.

Ms. Skyfire freezes. Her ears twitch, bewildered. She stares at me.

She exhales, long and slow. A hand comes up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"Honestly, Lethe," she mutters, shaking her head. "I could detail the total, systemic collapse of the entire Terran economy, and your first question would be if the apocalypse halted the production of red bean paste."

My tail thumps against the bottom of my chair.

"I have to know!" I protest, my cheeks going hot. "Miss Adele said every country has their own special baked goods!"

Ms. Skyfire lowers her hand.

"Yes, Lethe. They have sweets," she concedes, picking her pen back up. "Though I assure you, it will be heavily mass-produced, overly sugary garbage stamped with the face of whichever commercial knight is currently trending. They have deep-fried dough that's traditionally soft but dense. They're filled with rose jam or plum preserve, provided they aren't entirely ruined by artificial preservatives."

My eyes light up. The terror of the neon arenas vanishes, replaced by a bubbling thrill of sugar.

The rhythmic tapping of a pen against polished wood shatters my sugary daydream.

"Wipe that vacant, sugar-glazed expression off your face, Lethe," she commands, her voice cutting through the quiet of the Archives. She slides a heavily annotated book across the table and points her pen at a cluster of equations. "Kazimierz's culinary exports will not be on your Originium thermodynamics evaluation. Focus on the geological conditions that foster the creation of inert Originium crystals. Now."

I flinch and sit up straight, my shoulders hunching.

"Yes, Ms. Skyfire." I force my mind to pivot away from rose jam and back to the microscopic mechanics of Originium.

I barely manage the first line of the text before the silence of the Archives is ruptured.

A wave of sugar and warmth floods me.

"Lethe! Ms. Skyfire!"

I whip my head around. Bounding down the row of bookshelves is Lisa.

She skids to a halt at our table. Even though she's vibrating with energy, her impeccable manners kick in. She presses her hands to her skirt and offers a quick bow to Ms. Skyfire.

"Excuse me for interrupting your lesson, Ms. Skyfire," Lisa says. She looks up, her eyes sparkling. "But can I please kidnap Lethe for the afternoon?"

Ms. Skyfire pauses.

"Kidnap my student?" She leans back in her chair. "That's a rather bold request, Suzuran. To what end, exactly?"

"For training!" Lisa announces proudly.

My blood runs cold.

My mind flashes back to Training Hall 4.

"Tr… training?" I whine. "Lisa, no! I barely survived Ms. Dobermann! If I have to run again, my legs are going to fall off! Dr. Warfarin will draw all my blood!"

Lisa giggles. She steps closer and rests her hands on the edge of the table.

"Not physical training, Lethe," Lisa promises, all reassurance. "Arts training."

I blink. "Arts?"

"Yes!" Lisa's tails swish. "Since you will go on field missions now, you need to know how to properly use your Arts outside the garden. You need to know how to cast safely in the open, and how to coordinate with other Operators!"

Lisa looks at me, her eyes shining. "I am a Supporter, just like you, Lethe. My Arts are not for destroying things; they are for helping our friends and slowing down the bad guys. Since we both go out into the field now, we should practice together!"

I sit still, the logic of her words sinking in.

She's right. Out in the Columbian barrens, I had been helpless. If I'm going to step out into Terra, I can't keep swinging my Kazdelian artifact around like a club.

I turn to Ms. Skyfire across the table.

"Suzuran's reasoning is entirely sound," Ms. Skyfire declares. She folds her hands on the table and fixes me with an expectant look. "Theoretical knowledge of Originium is useless if you cannot practically apply your focal point under pressure. And since your physical combat rating is an absolute embarrassment to the Medical Department, your Arts are your only viable line of defense."

Ms. Skyfire flicks a hand toward the aisle, elegant and dismissive at once.

"You are dismissed for the afternoon, Lethe," she permits. "Go practice your Arts. But I expect you to have Chapter Ten completely summarized by tomorrow morning."

"I will, Ms. Skyfire! Thank you!"

I don't waste a second. I scramble out of my chair, gathering my notes and shoving them into my bag. I grab my dark, twisted Arts Unit from where it rests against the table.

Lisa beams, her tails puffing up in triumph. She takes my free hand.

"Come on, Lethe!" Lisa cheers, already pulling me down the aisles. "We're going to have so much fun!"

The corridors of the landship stretch out before us, a labyrinth of brushed steel and LED lighting. We're supposed to be heading for the training halls, but Lisa's brisk pace slows.

She turns to me. Her ear twitches.

"Lethe. Let's stop by the garden really quick," Lisa suggests, her voice chiming with that familiar optimism.

"Ok… okay," I stammer. I stop walking.

"Don't be so hesitant! That's your garden too, Lethe!"

She doesn't give me a chance to protest. Lisa takes my hand, her grip firm and warm, and tows me down the remaining corridors toward the blast doors of the Convalescent Garden.

As we step into the sensor's range, the locks disengage. The metal plates hiss and slide apart.

A humid wave of warm air spills out, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and crushed leaves.

The garden is enormous.

It's no longer just a greenhouse. Ms. Closure and her engineering team have knocked down the far bulkhead and pushed the garden into what used to be an adjacent medical storage sector.

They completed it just last night, and I've been avoiding reality all day.

"Oh! Lethe! Lisa!"

Miss Beanstalk waves, her arm high in the humid air.

She stands in front of her newly built domain, triumphant. Behind her is a row of humming incubators, glowing with warm light. Below them sits a sectioned-off pen area, bordered by unobtrusive clear-material fencing to keep her little critters out of Miss Lena's flowerbeds.

Miss Beanstalk crouches and lifts a scuttling metal crab into the air. She inspects its carapace with dead-serious professional pride, checking the joints before looking back up at us with a grin.

I let out a long exhale, and the tension melts out of my spine. The garden isn't a trampled warzone. Miss Lena's sanctuary is safe, and Miss Beanstalk has her nursery.

My grip on my Arts Unit loosens, and I return her wave as Lisa pulls me down the winding path to see the new additions.

We step past Miss Beanstalk's organized crab nursery. The clicking of claws fades into the water pumps and the air purifiers.

The path winds deeper into the new section. The open canopy of the main greenhouse gives way to a row of reinforced glass terrariums and glowing environmental pods.

Standing before the multi-tiered habitats are Miss Lena and Podenco.

"If we raise the ambient humidity by just four percent, the mycelium network should stabilize far faster in the nutrient substrate," Podenco says, her face close to the condensation-beaded glass. Her finger traces the web of white fungal threads growing inside.

Miss Lena adjusts the dial on the pod's external control panel, her movements unhurried and precise. "A prudent adjustment, Podenco. However, we must ensure the ventilation cycle compensates appropriately, or we risk suffocating the adjacent sprouts with excess spore density."

"I'll recalibrate the exhaust filters," Podenco answers, her tail swaying. "We can't have cross-contamination in the…"

She stops mid-sentence, turning her head as our footsteps announce our arrival.

Miss Lena looks up from the control panel. The moment she spots me, her face warms.

"Oh, Lethe," Miss Lena says, her voice a melodic anchor. "There you are. We were wondering where you'd been the entire morning."

A guilty flush warms my cheeks. I'd been hiding in the Archives with Ms. Skyfire and Miss Adele, burying myself in thermodynamic equations and geography to avoid the dread of the new garden. I duck my head, my fingers twisting the hem of my R.I. jacket.

"Sorry…" I mumble. "I was just doing my homework."

"There's no need to apologize for being diligent, sweetie," Miss Lena chuckles, stepping away from the monitors to smooth down the fabric of my sleeve.

Before I can sink into the comfort of her touch, Podenco launches herself away from the glass.

"Lethe! You have to look at this!" Podenco cheers, her ears straight up with excitement. She grabs my free hand and pulls me toward the glowing row of habitats.

She gestures at the humming machinery. "Do you realize what Ms. Closure's engineering team actually built for us? These aren't just standard glass boxes. They're fully isolated, micro-climate environmental pods!"

I blink at the reinforced glass and the readouts glowing in the dim light. "Micro-climate?"

"Yes!" Podenco beams, vibrating on her heels. "We can perfectly mimic the exact soil acidity, atmospheric pressure, and moisture levels of almost anywhere on Terra! We can recreate the dry, baked earth of the Columbian barrens, or the humid, dense air of a Sargonian rainforest, right here on the landship!"

She presses her hands against the glass of the mushroom habitat, her expression one of scientific triumph.

"We can cultivate wild, volatile herbs that usually wither and die the second they're uprooted from their native soil," Podenco continues, breathless. "And because the ventilation is completely isolated, I can finally study the toxic properties of spores and aggressive nightshades in a perfectly controlled environment, without risking any contamination to Miss Lena's flowerbeds!"

"That's… amazing, Podenco." I am in awe of her botanical domain. While noting to myself never to get on the bad side of my poison-expert friend.

"Isn't the new garden the best, Lethe?"

Lisa spins on her heels, her fluffy tails swaying in a wide arc.

The annexed sector sprawls around us. The micro-climate pods hum, housing Podenco's exotic flora, while Miss Beanstalk's metal crabs click away in their designated nursery. It is a masterpiece of life and preservation.

My eyes track the condensation forming on the thick glass of a terrarium.

"It is," I agree.

But as the words leave my mouth, a knot forms in the center of my chest.

Podenco adjusts a nutrient drip for a rare vine, her movements practiced. Miss Lena prunes a fern without a wasted motion.

A pang of guilt twists in my stomach.

"I wish I could help more," I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. "For as much time as I spend in the garden, I'm becoming more of a Medic than a botanist day by day."

The clipping of Miss Lena's shears stops.

Podenco stops adjusting the valve. She turns to face me with a sigh.

"Lethe," Podenco says. "If you actually tried to help me with the botany, you'd probably mistake my lethal nightshades for a sweet herb and accidentally poison the entire medical wing. I'm perfectly happy keeping you away from the fertilizer."

My mouth twists.

Miss Lena steps out from the canopy of ferns. She crosses to me and rests her hands on my shoulders, her touch steadying.

"You are exactly where you are supposed to be, Lethe," Miss Lena leans down a little, making sure her eyes meet mine. "Podenco and I tend to the soil and the roots so that the body might heal. But this garden is a sanctuary, and a sanctuary is nothing without peace."

She offers a serene smile.

"When our Operators return from the dark, carrying nightmares they cannot speak of, it is not my teas or Podenco's herbs that pull them back from the edge. It is you. You take their pain. You give them the quiet they desperately need. You are the heart of the Convalescent Garden, Lethe. Never doubt your place here."

A hot prickle of moisture touches the corners of my eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Lena. Thank you, Podenco," I whisper.

Lisa claps her hands together with a sharp smack.

"See? You're the best palliative care assistant ever!" Lisa cheers, bright with renewed determination.

"And that's exactly why we need to make sure your Arts are perfect outside the garden too!" Lisa declares. "Excuse us, Miss Lena, Podenco, Miss Beanstalk! We have a training room to catch!"

"Have fun, girls," Miss Lena chuckles, stepping back to let us pass. "Don't push yourselves too hard."

"Show her how it's done, Lisa!" Podenco calls out with a cheeky wave.

"I will!" Lisa promises.

Lisa drags me out of the earthy warmth of the garden and straight toward the corridors of the training sector.

I let her tow me along by the hand. Then the air in the corridor shifts.

The flavor that floods me is ancient. Dark blackberry tea, cold obsidian, and the freezing stillness of a mountaintop.

But laid over that regal flavor is a frictionless streak of focus.

Before I can process the contradiction, a rush of wind tears down the hallway.

Whoosh.

A blur of dark fabric and metal shoots past us. My tail snaps rigid, and I stare down the corridor.

It was a man. And he was sitting upright, his legs crossed at the ankles, riding a standard-issue Rhodes Island office chair. He took the sharp curve of the hallway with the practiced precision of a seasoned driver, the wheels clicking against the floorboards before he disappeared from sight.

I stand there, my jaw hanging open, nothing ahead of me but empty corridor.

"Uhm… Lisa?" I ask, pointing down the corridor. "Who is that?"

Lisa covers her mouth, her tails curling as a musical giggle bubbles out of her.

"That's our Elite Ops Caster," Lisa chimes, her eyes full of amusement. "Mr. Logos."

I blink.

"Mr. Logos????"

This is Logos? The Elite Operator who authored the dense Arts Assimilation metrics that even Ms. Skyfire grudgingly respects?

Before my brain can recover from the absurdity of it, quiet footsteps echo down the hallway.

The man himself rounds the corner and walks back toward us. Without the office chair hurtling him along, I get a clear look at him.

He is, without a doubt, one of the most striking people I've ever seen on this landship. He's tall and slender, with pale skin and piercing orange eyes that seem to hold the weight of centuries. His messy ash-grey hair falls over his collar, framing a face of almost ethereal beauty.

He's dressed in a tailored dark uniform accented with sharp lines of electric blue. But it's his coat that holds my attention. It's enormous, trailing behind him like liquid shadow. The fabric splits into long tails hung with star-like ornaments, making the garment look like a pair of folded, predatory wings.

Protruding from the sides of his head, weaving through his hair, are jagged dark structures. They sweep up and out, like a crown of blackened, petrified wood, or perhaps of crystallized feathers.

I stare at the wing-like coat and the protrusions framing his face.

"He is a Liberi?" I whisper to Lisa, leaning in.

Lisa shakes her head.

"No, Lethe," Lisa corrects, offering a warm smile. "He is a pureblood Sarkaz as well. A Banshee."

He stops right in front of us. Up close, the beauty of his features is almost intimidating. His eyes look as though they have witnessed the rise and fall of entire worlds.

His gaze sweeps over Lisa's polite posture, then settles on me, frozen stiff beside her.

"Suzuran. Lethe."

The moment he speaks, the air in the corridor vibrates. His voice carries a melodic timbre that hums against my bones and sets the bases of my horns ringing. It isn't just a voice; it feels like an incantation, woven with the power of the ancient Sarkaz bloodline.

Lisa doesn't even blink at the gravity of his presence. She dips into a poised curtsy, her nine fluffy tails swaying behind her skirt.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Logos."

I scramble to follow her lead. Both hands on my Arts Unit, I fold myself nearly in half, giving him the deepest bow I can manage without toppling over.

"Goo… Good afternoon, Mr. Logos!"

Mr. Logos's expression stays serene. He tilts his head a fraction.

"Are you here for your Arts training, Suzuran?" he asks, his voice echoing off the brushed steel bulkheads.

"Yes," Lisa reaches out, resting her hand on my arm to pull me out of my bow. "Mr. Logos, I want to show Lethe more about using Support Arts in the field. Since she will be deploying on logistics missions now, she needs to know how to properly coordinate with Field Ops."

Mr. Logos shifts his focus back to me.

He simply looks at me. The frictionless streak of focus in his resonance hums.

"I see," Mr. Logos murmurs.

He nods once, slowly. The gesture is gentler than I expect.

"I shall wish you luck," Mr. Logos says, his voice carrying a final note that smooths the nervous tension out of my spine.

Without another word, he walks away. He doesn't return to the abandoned office chair down the hall. He simply continues his regal stride along the corridor, heading toward his own high-level training, leaving the discarded piece of furniture sitting innocently against the wall.

I stand there, staring after him until his dark silhouette disappears around the corner.

My tail, tucked tight against my leg all this while, uncoils and gives a slow wag.

"He is… very majestic." My eyes stay on the empty hallway. "But…"

Lisa giggles.

"Come on, Lethe! We have a training room booked, and we can't waste our time! I have so much to show you!"

The doors of Training Hall 6 slide shut behind us, sealing away the noise of the corridors.

Unlike the sprawling arena where Ms. Dobermann exposed how little endurance I have, this room is small and padded. The floor is lined with shock-absorbent blue mats, and a row of faceless foam dummies stands against the far wall.

Lisa marches to the center of the mat, her nine tails fanning out in an authoritative sweep. She squares her shoulders, every bit the strict instructor, though her sparkling eyes ruin the stern facade.

"Okay, Lethe!" Lisa announces, her voice echoing in the quiet hall. "Since we're both Supporters, our job isn't to hit the bad guys hard. Our job is to control the battlefield!"

She reaches out, her own staff glowing warm.

"When I use my Arts, I create my Foxfire," Lisa explains, her tone taking on a teacherly lilt. "It makes the air feel thick and heavy for the enemies. It slows them down, makes their armor feel weak, and helps our friends hit them easier."

She lowers her staff, her eyes on the petrified branch clutched in my hands.

"You're an empath, Lethe," she continues. "You pull negative emotions away to heal our Operators. But if you can pull feelings, you should theoretically be able to push them, right? If a bad guy is running at you, maybe you can push an emotion into them to make them stop!"

"Pushing…" My brow furrows. "I… I've pushed something sweet into scared patients a few times, when they couldn't talk… but I've never practiced it on purpose."

"Then you definitely should be able to!" Lisa encourages, stepping closer. "This time, you have to be the one directing the flow. Try projecting an emotion outward. Try it on the dummy!"

I turn to face the row of featureless targets. Feet wide, both hands on my staff, I let my eyes fall shut. Deep in my chest I gather a wave of overwhelming calm, then push it outward with all my will.

I open my eyes, panting.

The dummy remains motionless. It doesn't look calmer. It just looks like a piece of foam.

"I don't think it's working, Lisa," I whine, my shoulders slumping. "It doesn't have a mind. It doesn't have a flavor. I'm just waving a stick at a mannequin."

Lisa pouts, tapping her chin. "You're right. You need a real target. Someone with actual emotions."

As if the universe has decided to answer her, the pneumatic locks of the training hall disengage.

The doors slide open.

Vigna steps onto the padded mats with her lance over one shoulder, a half-empty bottle of sports drink dangling from her other hand.

She takes two steps into the room before she freezes. She looks at me, then at Lisa, and finally at the dummies.

"Wait," Vigna says, blinking. She pulls her communicator from her pocket and frowns at it. "Isn't this Hall 6? I booked this for Vanguard spear drills."

"Vigna!"

Lisa's face lights up like a small sun. She teleports across the training mat, or as near as makes no difference, closing the distance before Vigna can take a step back.

Vigna's eyes go wide. "Uh, hey, Suzuran. Look, I think logistics double-booked the room, I can just go…"

"Vigna, you have the absolute most perfect timing in the entire world!" Lisa interrupts, her hands clasping together in a gesture of weaponized innocence. Her tails sway in a synchronized rhythm. "Lethe is trying to learn how to defend herself in the field! We desperately need a real, strong Operator to help us test her Arts. Could you please help us?"

Vigna stares at Lisa's pleading eyes. Her peppery adrenaline stalls. She opens her mouth to refuse, her grip tightening on her lance, but she's helpless against the light that is Lisa.

Vigna groans, defeated, and lets her head drop back until she's staring at the ceiling.

"Argh! Fine!" Vigna huffs, twisting the cap back onto her sports drink and tossing it toward the benches. "But only for ten minutes! I have a rhythm I need to keep up for my drills!"

"Thank you, Vigna!" Lisa cheers, grabbing her by the hand and dragging her toward the center of the room.

Lisa positions Vigna on one side of the blue mat, then jogs back to stand safely behind me.

"Okay, Lethe!" Lisa instructs in a tactical whisper. "Vigna is going to pretend to attack you. Your job is to push an emotion into her that makes her lose the will to fight! Make her drop her weapon!"

I swallow hard and look across the mat.

Vigna spins her lance with effortless grace. She drops into a low combat stance, the tip of the weapon pointed at my chest.

"All right, rookie," Vigna calls out, a competitive grin stretching across her face. "Show me what you've got! Here I come!"

Vigna lunges forward.

She covers the distance in a blink. My heart leaps into my throat. Every instinct I have screams at me to turn and run.

But I plant my feet and close my eyes. Instead of reaching out to pull at her emotions, I picture the heaviest sensation I know: the liquid-lead exhaustion that follows a full day in Trimounts, the brain-melting boredom of Victorian geopolitical history. The weight gathers into one smothering blanket of lethargy, and I shove it down the invisible empathic channel and straight into her as she charges.

Thud. Squeak.

The rush of footsteps falters.

I peek one eye open.

Vigna has skidded to a halt two paces from me. The competitive grin is gone. Her fiery eyes are half-lidded, glazed over with apathy.

The fizzing cherry cola flavor goes flat.

"You know what…" Vigna slurs, her voice dropping into a monotone.

Her shoulders slump. Her lance slips from her grip and clatters against the mat.

"Fighting is dumb," Vigna mumbles, swaying on her feet. "Everything is dumb. I think… I'm just going to lie down right here."

Without another word, she collapses. She folds like a wet towel and face-plants onto the training mat with a defeated groan. She lies there, motionless, her arms sprawled at her sides.

I stare at her, stunned. I've just switched off an Elite-in-training.

"It worked!" Lisa cheers, bouncing up and down behind me. "You completely pacified her! That was amazing, Lethe!"

I lower my staff, my heart still hammering against my ribs. "I… I think I made her too tired. Is she asleep?"

I take a cautious step forward and poke Vigna's shoulder. She doesn't react. She only sighs into the foam.

"Okay, phase two!" Lisa announces, ignoring the fact that we have short-circuited an Operator. "If you can make her stop fighting, you should be able to give her energy! Try to buff her, Lethe! Give her the will to fight back!"

I look down at Vigna.

"Buff her?" To give her energy I need to push something bright. Something volatile. I think of the effervescent thrill of tearing into a sugary pastry.

I gather all that buzzing, carbonated excitement and slam it into the channel.

The reaction is instantaneous and explosive.

Vigna's eyes snap open. She sucks in a huge gasp of air, her body going rigid.

She shoots up from the floor like something fired out of a cannon. The flat cherry cola in the air detonates, erupting into a geyser of caffeine and rock music.

"YEAH!" Vigna screams at the top of her lungs.

She snatches her lance from the floor, but she doesn't drop into a combat stance. Instead, she flips the weapon sideways, gripping the shaft like the neck of a bass guitar. She drops to her knees, throws her head back, and begins shredding a blistering, silent air-guitar solo on her lethal weapon, her red hair whipping through the air.

"ROCK AND ROLL NEVER DIES!" Vigna bellows, sliding across the mat on her knees.

I shriek, stumbling backward and hiding behind Lisa.

"I think I gave her too much sugar!" I yell over Vigna's imaginary concert.

Lisa claps her hands in delight, unbothered by the chaos we have unleashed.

"It's perfect, Lethe!" Lisa giggles, watching Vigna execute a flawless spin move. "You're a natural Supporter!"

Eventually the injected surge burns itself out. Vigna's wild air-guitar solo slows, her movements turning sluggish until she drops her lance and collapses onto her back, gasping for air.

I peek out from behind Lisa.

Vigna stares at the ceiling, her chest heaving. What she gives off now is a confused puddle of flat soda.

"What…" Vigna wheezes, rubbing her forehead. "What just happened… Why do I feel like I just played a three-hour set at the Obsidian Festival?"

I scramble forward, my horns dipping into a frantic, apologetic bow.

"I'm so sorry, Vigna!" I stammer, the guilt sitting sour at the back of my own tongue. "I was just trying to give you energy!"

Vigna props herself up on her elbows and looks at me, bewildered. Then she looks at her lance lying on the mat, and finally at Lisa's proud smile.

A breathless laugh escapes her lips.

"Okay… okay, kid," Vigna chuckles, shaking her head as she drags herself back to her feet. "I'll admit. Whatever that was… it's effective. But if you ever make me air-guitar with my lance in front of the Elite Ops, I'm going to make you run laps with Ms. Dobermann until your legs fall off."

I gulp. "Understood, Vigna!"

Vigna grabs her sports drink, offering us a tired wave as she heads toward the blast doors. "I'm going to take a nap. Hall 6 is all yours, girls."

The doors hiss shut, leaving Lisa and me alone in the training hall.

I turn my staff over in my hands. The crushing weight of the battlefield feels a little more manageable now. I can actually protect the people around me.

"Thank you, Lisa."

"Now, how do the drones work again?" Lisa walks over to the control console of the training room.

"Drones?!"

"You need to learn how to position yourself out there in the field! Ah, there!" Lisa presses the console, and three practice drones start up with a whirr and lift from their charging racks. Then they turn to face me.

"Eh?! Lisa, you promised no physical stuff!" I yelp, staring at my best friend in betrayal.

Lisa just gives me her brightest smile.

I'm screwed.