December, 1096

There's nothing between the 4th of October and today.

I've checked the back of the book four times. The pages aren't torn out. I simply didn't write anything for two months, and I can't tell you what I was doing instead. I remember Opal in the garden. I remember the tea party. After that the paper is empty, and so am I.

The 22nd, then. I press my hands against the cool glass of my dorm window and my breath fogs it.

Outside it's snowing, and the world beyond the glass is a quiet, undisturbed white. It isn't the storm that swallowed Tkaronto. There's no wind, and the flakes don't carry the amber glow of active Originium. It's just snow, coming down out of a grey sky in soft clumps.

It's peaceful. Inside the dorm the quiet feels heavy.

I let my hands drop from the glass. It's been weeks since I last felt the warmth of Amiya, or the steady calm of Rosmontis. Even Kal'tsit's cold has been absent from the corridors.

The landship feels hollowed out, as though a current came through and took everyone who mattered, leaving me behind in the wake.

I shuffle to my desk and tap my slate. Even my afternoons in the Archives have gone. Ms. Skyfire hasn't been in the heavy wooden chair across from me in days; instead the slate keeps vibrating with her.

I open the encrypted channel and scroll back through this morning.

[Skyfire]: Lethe. Attached are the chapters on the secondary physiological impacts of sustained Arts channeling. Read them thoroughly. I expect your completed assessment by 1400.

[Lethe]: Yes. Ms. Skyfire.

[Lethe]: I finished reading them, Ms. Skyfire. I attached my answers to the file. Are you going to be able to come to the Archives this afternoon?

[Skyfire]: Your understanding of the tertiary cellular decay in the second paragraph is inadequate. You are confusing the catalytic threshold with raw thermal output. Re-read page 214 and submit a corrected summary.

[Skyfire]: And no, I won't be at the Archives. My squad has been deployed. Continue your independent study in my absence. Don't think that because I'm not there to supervise you, you're permitted to slack off.

[Lethe]: I won't slack off, Ms. Skyfire! I promise.

[Skyfire]: See that you do, Lethe.

[Lethe]: Please be safe out there.

I set the slate down next to my brown Cautus-ish plushie. There's a new one beside it now, a grey one, colored after Rosmontis.

I wonder what Amiya and Rosmontis are doing.

The digital clock on my wall says it's almost time.

I pull my jacket over my shoulders and check that the Rhodes Island Medic band is strapped to my thigh. I have a check-up this afternoon.

Warfarin hardly ever leaves her laboratory. She doesn't deploy, and she still knows every secret moving through the landship's vents. If anyone knows why my friends are missing and why the whole company has mobilized, it's her.

I only have to brave the needles for it.

The corridors are quiet in a way the landship never is. The overlapping chatter of logistics Operators and Medics has been smothered; people are still moving, but they move with a hushed efficiency. Crates go down the hallways without a wasted word, and the Field Ops I pass stand at attention with their faces set.

Breakfast was a solitary affair too. Erika wasn't there to slide a warm bowl of oats onto my tray or scold me for eyeing the pastries. She'd sent a message: she was collecting her new Arts Unit today, the last official step in her promotion to Combat Medic. She promised to show me the gear later.

I'm proud of her. Eating alone only made the quiet heavier.

I reach the doors of the high-security laboratory. The locks disengage with a clank and I step inside.

Bleach, ozone and cold steel bite at my nose. The room is very bright.

Warfarin is already standing near her desk. She turns, her hair shifting over her shoulders, and the smirk arrives before she's finished turning.

"The prized blood bag is early," she drawls, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed and a theatrical sigh. "Finally beaten the needle phobia, or do you just miss me that much, little anomaly?"

I'm in no mood to entertain her.

"Where is everyone, Dr. Warfarin?" I ask.

She pauses. "Everyone?" she repeats, tilting her head.

"Amiya," I say, stepping further into the laboratory. My hands tighten on my staff. "Rosmontis. Even Dr. Kal'tsit. Ms. Skyfire hasn't been to the Archives in days. The whole landship is empty, and the people who are left are whispering."

Her eyes narrow. She turns fully toward me and straightens.

"That's not your concern," she says, waving a hand as she turns back to her monitors. "Your concern is keeping your Oripathy stable and your veins ready for my syringes. The operational movements of this company are above your clearance."

I step closer and stop beside the padded examination chair.

"Please… Dr. Warfarin. I just want to know if they're safe."

Her hand stops over the glass of the terminal.

The silence stretches. Something moves underneath her usual flavor, faint and grudging, like spiced pears.

She lets out a long sigh, drops her hand from the console, and turns to face me.

"They're preparing," she says, her voice dropping into something serious. "We're preparing."

"Preparing for what?"

"A Catastrophe is heading toward an Ursus city called Chernobog," she answers. "An Originium meteor shower. We're gearing up for refugees."

My heart stalls. An Originium meteor shower — lumps of Originium falling out of the sky onto a city. It's an apocalypse.

"Amiya went there?" My voice fractures into a squeak. "Into a meteor shower?"

"Amiya, the Elite Ops, most of our Field Ops. Yes." She crosses her arms tightly. "They're walking directly into the impact zone to pull as many people out of the rubble as they can. The landship is moving to intercept the evacuation routes."

"They could die." The tears come.

"They're Rhodes Island Operators, Lethe." Her voice doesn't move. "This is what we do. We walk into the storms. Your job is to sit in the Convalescent Garden and wait to put the pieces back together when they come home."

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a small lollipop, and presses it into my hands.

"Sit down, Lethe," she says. "Roll up your sleeve. We have work to do, and I need you healthy when the triage bays open."

I peel back the crinkly wrapper. Mixed berry floods my tongue.

Then the sting, the needle going into the crook of my elbow, and my breath hitches.

"Hmph…" The whine comes out muffled around the plastic stick. I squeeze my eyes shut, my shoulders tensing, my tail coiling tight.

"Don't squirm," she says.

She withdraws the syringe with practiced speed and presses a cotton ball down onto the puncture. I hold it in place with one finger, my back flat against the padded chair.

I sit there for twenty minutes, swinging my legs off the edge of the chair while my mind runs. Amiya is out there in the freezing north, walking into falling rock and a shattered city.

The machines spin down to a halt. Warfarin swipes away dense columns of my bloodwork.

"Stable," she announces, her eyes flicking to me. "Your assimilation rate hasn't crept up a single decimal. You're cleared, Lethe. Now get out of my lab and go rest. We'll need you running at full capacity very soon."

"Thank you, Dr. Warfarin." The cotton ball goes into the biohazard bin. I slide off the chair, offer her a small bow, and slip out through the blast doors.

The arteries of the landship are as quiet and tense as before. I walk slowly. Then a sharp synthetic chime cuts through the silence.

My slate vibrates and I stop.

[Caladria]: Come to my dorm, Lethe. I have something to show you.

I make my way down the hallways, stop in front of her door, and knock.

"Come in," she calls from inside.

I step inside. Erika is standing in the center of the room, and she's different.

She's wearing a high-collared, deep plum tactical shirt against the pale down framing her face. Over it is a translucent coat of some weatherproof material that catches the light. Dark combat pants, with breakaway slits running down the outside of the thighs.

Reinforced boots have replaced the ones from before. The black and white Rhodes Island rook is stitched onto the shoulder of the coat, and a high-visibility Medic cross sits on a utility band strapped to her bicep. Modular medical pouches hang off a belt at her waist, packed and ready.

It's the new Arts Unit in her grip that holds my attention.

A long, polished metal staff. At the top sits a geometric construct that looks exactly like a mechanical puzzle cube, and while I watch, the interlocking segments detach, rotate, and click back into place with a quiet hum. It never stops moving.

"Well?" Erika asks, and her voice goes shy on the word. She smooths down the front of the coat. "What do you think, Lethe? They took a long time making this Arts Unit."

"Who are you?" I ask.

I tilt my head to the left and let the mass of the longer horn pull my neck down a fraction, widening my eyes into a blank, innocent smile.

Erika freezes. Her eyes blow wide and the color goes out of her face.

The terror coming off her is too much to keep doing this to. I can't hold the cruel joke for more than a few seconds.

"It looks really good, Erika," I say, dropping the act, and a giggle gets out.

I step forward, wrap my arms around her waist, and squeeze.

The terror goes out of her spine in one shuddering exhale. Her free hand drops to my shoulder, her fingers gripping the fabric of my jacket.

"Don't do that, Lethe," she scolds. She rests her cheek against my forehead. "You're going to give me a heart attack."

"No promises." I smile at her.

"I'm glad you're feeling a lot better now, my little Lethe."

She doesn't pull back. Her arms stay wrapped around my shoulders, her chin resting on the top of my head, right in front of my horns.

"What do you mean?" I murmur, my voice muffled against the unfamiliar weatherproof fabric.

She takes a slow, deep breath, her chest rising against my cheek.

"You were so scared," she says, and her fingers start to stroke my hair in a rhythm. "You were so careful all the time, for almost half a year. Like you were walking on broken glass. But lately… you're a lot happier. You smile more. You aren't always looking over your shoulder."

"Everyone on Rhodes Island helped," I say, looking up at her. "Dr. Warfarin and Dr. Kal'tsit cured the ghost. I'm not scared of my own head anymore."

Erika pauses. Her fingers go still in my hair.

She pulls back, making a small space between us so she can look me in the eyes, her hands sliding down to grip my shoulders. Whatever was fizzing in her about the promotion goes out.

What replaces it floods the back of my tongue: sour and sticky, the rind of an unripe citrus fruit gone over in sap.

"Lethe." Her voice drops out of its normal cadence into the hard one, the combat Medic's. "Listen to me. I'm getting deployed."

My chest goes hollow.

"To Chernobog?" It tears out of me, high and panicked. My hands fly up and grab the sleeves of her new tactical shirt. "Please don't go!"

Erika's eyes blow wide.

"How… how do you know?" she stammers, her grip on my shoulders tightening. "That's highly classified deployment intel, Lethe. How do you know about Chernobog?"

"Dr. Warfarin," I choke out. The tears are already blurring the sharp lines of her new uniform. "I had a check-up today… she told me that's where everyone is. She said a meteor shower is falling from the sky. A Catastrophe…"

I squeeze her sleeves as hard as my hands will go, as though I can anchor her to the safety of her room.

"You can't go," I sob, and my voice fractures into a whine. "Erika, please! You can't walk into falling rocks! Please don't leave me!"

"Lethe. I need to go."

She takes a step toward the door. Her voice is gentle and it does not move.

"No!"

My hands lock onto her sleeves. My tail thrashes blindly behind me and knocks against the metal frame of the desk.

She stops pulling away and takes my trembling shoulders.

"Lethe! Look at me."

I force my head up. "Erika…" The tears spill over my lashes and leave wet tracks down my cheeks.

"I need you to be brave," she murmurs.

"I…" My jaw shakes hard enough to click my teeth together.

"I know it's hard," she continues, her thumbs brushing the fabric of my dark grey jacket. Her voice cracks a fraction. "But you have to be. If you just cry all day when I deploy… I won't be able to focus out there. I'll just be worrying about my little Lethe."

It lands like cold water. I'm making this harder for her.

"Sorry!" I gasp, and let go of her sleeves to scrub the tears off my face.

I shake my head hard enough that my horns cut the air, as though the terror can be shaken out of my spine. Then my chin comes up, my breathing evens out, and I lock my eyes onto hers.

"I… I'll be brave," I push out, putting everything I have into it. I grab her hands and squeeze her fingers. "But promise you'll be back!"

The sour dread goes out of her.

"I will," she whispers fiercely, her eyes shining. "Everyone will."

She leans forward and presses a warm, lingering kiss to my tear-stained cheek.

She pulls back with a brave, trembling smile and steps toward the heavy metal door.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

I stand in the center of the room with my hands clenched at my sides and give her one resolute nod.

"Okay. See you soon… mom."

The word is out of my mouth before I know it's coming. I was a daughter once, a long time ago, to a woman whose face I can no longer assemble. I don't take it back.

Erika freezes. The word hangs there. Her hand, resting on the door's control panel, drops to her side.

Slowly she turns back around. Her eyes are blown wide and shimmering, and the feathers at her temples flutter with it.

"Le… Lethe?" she breathes.

She drops to her knees on the cold floor, bringing herself to my eye level.

My vision blurs again, but I force the corners of my mouth up into a brave, wobbly smile, looking at the woman who pulled me out of the ruins, fed me, and chased away the freezing dark.

"If you don't mind…" My voice scrapes against the raw lump in my throat. "Can I keep calling you that?"

The sour dread goes out of the room, and what comes in after it is the honey I have been tasting on her since the day she carried me out of the ruins — undiluted for the first time, and bright enough to hurt. Her composure breaks. A wet sob tears out of her throat, and she reaches out to cup my cheeks in trembling fingers.

"Of… of course, Lethe!" mom cries, her voice thick. "Of course you can."

She pulls me in for one last crushing embrace and presses her face into my shoulder. Her tears soak into the dark grey fabric of my jacket. I wrap my arms around her neck and squeeze back just as hard.

"Then, go," I whisper into her ear, holding onto the promise I just made. "But come back safe, mom."

She pulls away with a watery smile, wipes her own tears off with the back of her glove, and gives me a single nod.

"I will."

She turns, and the panels slide shut behind her with a clank.

I stand there in the center of the room. My hands drop to my sides and curl into fists. My chest heaves.

My eyes sting again. I want to cry. I want to chase after her, grab the hem of that new coat, and beg Dr. Kal'tsit to leave her behind.

I bite down on my lower lip instead, hard enough to taste blood.

I need to be brave. Mom needs me steady so she can concentrate on surviving the meteors.

I draw a long, shuddering breath and force it deep, then use the oversized sleeves of my jacket to scrub the rest of the tears off my cheeks.

I walk out of mom's dorm. The door seals behind me and the corridor is a ghost town of grim efficiency, the whole landship holding its breath for the Chernobog Catastrophe.

I keep my head down and steer myself toward the Convalescent Garden.

I step across the threshold. Even here under the canopy the deployment has gotten in, and the sanctuary doesn't feel the same.

A few paces down the winding path, by a cabinet of herbs, Miss Sussurro and Miss Lena are deep in a hushed conversation, their voices barely carrying over the rustling vines.

The moment my sneakers squeak against the floor tiles, they both stop.

"Good evening, Lethe," Miss Sussurro says. She looks exhausted.

Miss Lena turns fully toward me, and her welcoming smile falters the instant she gets a proper look at me.

"Lethe. Oh dear," she breathes, taking a step forward with her hands half raised. "Are you okay?"

"I… I am…" I stammer. "Evening, Miss Lena. Miss Sussurro. Sorry to intrude…"

The silence after it is thick. I peek up through my messy bangs and catch the two of them trading a look over my head.

Miss Sussurro adjusts the collar of her coat and her expression returns to its capable baseline.

"I'm needed back at the medical wing," she says. "Good night, Perfumer. And Lethe."

"Good night, Miss Sussurro."

She offers a single nod and walks past me, her shoes clicking purposefully against the floor, and then it's just me and Miss Lena.

"Lethe, sit."

She puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me toward one of the wooden benches nestled between the blooming flowers.

I let her lead me. My legs feel like lead. I sink onto the polished wood and fold my knees up.

She sits down right beside me.

"What's wrong, Lethe?" she asks.

"Everyone…" My voice cracks and the dam goes. I bury my face in my hands. "Amiya, Rosmontis, Ms. Skyfire… mom… I mean Erika… they're all going… to the Catastrophe…"

The slip of the tongue burns my cheeks, but I'm too exhausted to hide it. I just sit there and cry.

She wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me flush against her side. I lean in, press my face into the soft fabric of her clothing, and let the tears come.

"Oh, my sweet Lethe," she murmurs, stroking my long hair. "You don't need to correct yourself. Erika loves you very much. She's your mother now, in every way that truly matters."

A jagged sob tears out of me. I grip her sleeve and push my face deeper into her warmth.

"They're going to walk into falling rocks," I cry into her side. "Dr. Warfarin said it's a meteor shower. Why do they have to go? Why can't they just stay here where it's safe?"

She keeps stroking my hair, and my heart slows under it.

"The world outside this landship is very dark, and it's very cruel. Amiya, Skyfire, Rosmontis, and your mother… they're the brave ones who choose to walk into that dark, so that the people trapped in the ruins might have a chance to see the light again."

She shifts, tilting my head up until I have to meet her eyes. There's no pity in them, only respect.

"It's terrifying to watch the people we love walk into the storm," she says, brushing a fresh tear off my cheek with her thumb. "But we can't ask them to stay. If they stayed, who would have pulled you from the rubble in Kazdel? Who would have carried Opal out of the sandstorm in Rim Billiton?"

It lands with weight. If mom hadn't walked into the Catastrophe in January, I would have starved to death in a wasteland with the black crystals eating out my own skull.

I swallow hard. "But… what if they don't come back?"

"They will," she says, and there's no give in it at all. "Because they have a reason to. They have a home to return to. And that is where our duty lies, Lethe."

"We can't stand on the front lines with them, and we can't shield them from the falling rocks," she tells me. "But we can keep the hearth warm. We can keep this garden blooming. We prepare the teas, we ready the beds, and we wait. So that when they do come back to us, bruised and exhausted from the storm, they know there's a safe, quiet sanctuary waiting to heal them."

She offers me a small, beautiful smile.

"Can you be brave enough to keep the hearth warm with me, Lethe?"

She's right. I'm not helpless. I have a job to do, and it's to be ready to siphon the nightmares when the blast doors finally open.

I look back up at her and give her a slow, deliberate nod.

"Yes," I say, and my voice steadies in the humid air of the greenhouse. "I'll keep it warm."

"Now, sweetie," she murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "You should go to bed to keep your strength up."

I shrink back, shoulders tensing, and shake my head hard enough to set the lopsided horns swaying. Lying alone in that dim dorm room while my head runs falling meteors and shattered cities…

"I'm scared if I sleep…" I twist the fabric of my jacket. "The dark is too dark today…"

She doesn't push.

"Then would you like to learn how to make tea?" she asks. "We'll make soothing ones, without caffeine."

Something in my chest loosens a fraction at the invitation. I look up at her kind face.

"Okay!" I nod eagerly.

I pick my Arts Unit up off the floor, lean it carefully against the edge of the bench, and follow her down the winding path, through the hanging ivy and the large potted ferns, to the small tea counter nestled deep among the vines.

The smell behind the counter arrives all at once, and it steadies me. Dozens of teas, dried flowers and medicinal herbs in glass jars along the wooden shelves: the bright tang of dried yuzu peel, the earthy scent of roasted roots, the powdery sweetness of crushed petals.

"Come stand right here beside me, Lethe," she says, pulling a small wooden stepping stool out from beneath the counter so I can reach the workspace.

I climb onto the stool, plant my feet on the wood, and look down at the array of delicate porcelain teapots, bamboo strainers, and digital scales.

"When the world outside feels too heavy, or when the dark is too loud," she explains, reaching for a row of glass jars, "it helps to focus on something small. Something you can hold in your hands and control."

She unscrews the lid of a wide jar and tilts it toward me.

"This is dried chamomile," she murmurs. "Reach in and take a small pinch. Tell me what it feels like."

I reach in and pinch a small cluster of the dried yellow-and-white flower heads.

"It feels… crumbly," I say, rolling them between my thumb and forefinger. "And light. Like paper."

"Exactly." She smiles. "Put it in the strainer."

I drop the chamomile carefully into the bamboo mesh.

She walks me through the whole process. I measure out a scoop of dried lemon balm, and the citrus cuts through the phantom ash I've been tasting all day. Then she lets me crush a few dried lavender buds in a small mortar and pestle.

"We don't use boiling water for these delicate flowers," she says, setting a temperature-controlled kettle onto the counter. "Boiling water burns them and makes the tea bitter. We want it just hot enough to coax the flavor out gently. Just like healing, Lethe. It takes patience, and a gentle touch."

She pours the steaming water over the crushed herbs and I watch it bloom into a pale golden amber, the steam climbing into the humid air of the greenhouse.

She sets a small porcelain cup in front of me and pours the freshly steeped tea.

I wrap my hands around the cup and let the heat come through the porcelain into my fingers. Eyes closed, face lowered to the surface, I take a slow, deep breath, and the floral smell fills my lungs and washes out the metallic tang of my panic.

"Thank you, Miss Lena," I say, taking a tiny, careful sip.

She leans against the counter beside me and sips from her own cup. The garden is quiet except for the thrum of the engines carrying us toward the Catastrophe. But standing here at the tea station, anchored by the warmth in my hands and by Miss Lena beside me, the dark doesn't feel quite so terrifying anymore.

"Lethe. Lethe. Are you okay?"

The voice is a soft murmur pulling me out of a heavy sleep. A wave of bitter citrus tea arrives with it.

I rub my eyes open, my pale fingers brushing the dry, rough tear tracks still clinging to my face.

The light comes down soft and diffused through the canopy. I fell asleep in the garden. Tucked around my shoulders is a thick woven blanket that smells of florals and of Miss Lena.

I turn my head, my long tail shifting lazily beneath the fabric. Podenco is standing right beside the bench.

Her ears droop limply against her hair, and the dark circles under her eyes match the exhaustion in my own limbs.

"Good… morning… Podenco," I croak.

She offers a fragile smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, and rests a hand on my shoulder.

"You look like a proper mess, Lethe," she murmurs.

I open my mouth to ask about her.

"They'll be back soon," she promises, cutting me off before I can speak, her eyes locking onto mine. "Trust me, Lethe."

I give her a slow, heavy nod.

We spend the rest of the morning with our hands buried in the damp earth. Tending the flowers and preparing the medicinal herbs with Miss Lena is mundane and physical and it keeps my heart from running. The garden smells of crushed mint and wet soil. Lisa bounds in to join us later and works hard at cheering everyone up, tails wagging. Today even she can't get through the grey hanging in the humid air.

Eventually Miss Lena wipes her hands on a small towel, offers us a tired smile, and sends us off to the cafeteria for lunch to keep our strength up.

On the way to the cafeteria block we pass one of the open recreational lounges. A cluster of off-duty Operators is gathered inside, not talking or resting or eating, standing in a stiff semi-circle with their eyes on the wall-mounted television.

What comes off them spills out into the hallway and hits the back of my tongue: cracked peppercorns, battery acid, cold iron.

I stop, and step closer to the open doorway. Lisa and Podenco halt right behind me.

On the screen an Ursus news anchor is delivering a breaking update over choppy, static-laced footage of a burning metropolis.

"…following ongoing developments in Ursus," the anchor's voice echoes, clipped and strained. "The nomadic city of Chernobog has completely fallen to the infected terrorist organization known as Reunion. Remaining Ursine military and police forces have reportedly retreated from the sectors."

The broadcast cuts to a wide aerial shot. The tiered city plates of Chernobog are wreathed in black smoke, and fires are burning across the urban grid unchecked.

"The city's propulsion tracks have been entirely halted," the anchor continues, and the lounge is silent around the words. "A Catastrophe, a meteor shower, is confirmed to be heading directly toward the immobilized city."

The blood drains from my face. The cold air of the corridor stops being breathable.

My hands go numb and my fingers lose their grip on my Arts Unit. The heavy wood hits the steel floor grates with a hollow cling.

Reunion? No one mentioned Reunion to me. No one ever said anything about terrorists. Who are they?

My family aren't just walking into an apocalyptic storm of falling Originium. They're walking into an active, burning warzone, and they're trapped in it.

One of the Medics in the semi-circle turns around. It's Ansel, a Cautus with long, soft pink hair tied neatly back. His tired eyes drop to the staff on the floor, then snap up to my face.

His expression tightens and he lunges for the remote resting on the table.

Click. The screen goes black, the burning skyline of Chernobog cut off mid-frame, and the silence it leaves behind is worse.

"The kids are here," Ansel says quietly to the other Operators, his voice strained, standing so his body blocks the television.

Before the adults can assemble an empty reassurance, Podenco moves.

She ducks down and scoops the Kazdelian artifact up off the floor.

"Sorry to intrude," she murmurs rapidly, tight and breathless.

A firm hand lands in the center of my back and shoves me forward. She ushers Lisa and me away from the open doorway, her steps quick, putting as much distance as she can between us and the black screen.

We walk briskly down the corridor. Podenco presses the wood back into my numb hands, and my fingers curl around the black shaft out of habit, looking for the anchor, but nothing in my chest thaws.

"What do you guys want to eat?" she asks, her voice pitched a fraction too high with forced normalcy.

Lisa steps right beside me. "Hopefully they have pasta today!"

The brightness she usually carries has been stretched thin, crystallized sugar right on the edge of snapping.

"I…" I force myself to look up.

Lisa and Podenco have both slowed, and they're both looking at me, their eyes wide and shining.

I swallow the lump of dread in my throat. For them, I have to be brave. I have to keep the hearth warm.

My chin comes up and I push the corners of my mouth into a fragile smile.

"Sweet red bean rolls."

The cafeteria is agonizingly quiet. The vast room is almost half empty today, whole rows of functional chairs sitting unoccupied, like missing teeth in a broken smile.

I stare down at the sweet red bean roll resting on my tray.

That's why there was no alarm for me. That's why no one pulled me aside to warn me. Dr. Kal'tsit, Dr. Warfarin, Miss Lena… even mom. They all knew this Catastrophe was coming, and they knew Chernobog wasn't just a city in the path of a meteor shower. They knew it was an active, burning war zone. And they hid all of it from us, wrapping us in a bubble of tea and board games while they walked straight into the fire to save who they could.

A sharp chime cuts through the subdued murmur of the hall.

"All onboard medical and logistics personnel, prepare for refugee intake."

The PA system's synthesized voice has no emotion in it. The room does. The remaining off-duty Operators scramble from their tables and abandon their meals in a rush of shifting chairs and pounding boots.

I pick up my roll and force a large bite down. It's supposed to be comforting. The dough is ash, and the sweet paste can't get past the bitterness bleeding off the adults around me.

Beside me, a quiet buzz vibrates against the metal table.

Lisa is looking down at her slate. Her tails drop limp against her chair.

"I'm being told to go to my study room," she says, and her voice sounds impossibly small. She looks up at Podenco and me, her eyes shimmering with helpless frustration. "I won't be able to help. Sorry."

"Okay," I say, keeping my voice steady over the rising din of the cafeteria. "Good luck, Lisa."

Podenco nods firmly beside me. We both raise our hands and wave as Lisa gathers her slate and hurries away, retreating into the fortified inner residential blocks where the administrative protocols say she stays.

Podenco turns to me, her own ears pinned flat.

I don't need her to say it. I reach down and grab my Arts Unit off the floor.

We run.

The corridors of the landship aren't waking up anymore. They're a synchronized emergency.

Operators blur past us in every direction. Logistics crews shout commands, hauling reinforced crates of bandages, IV fluids and Oripathy suppressants toward the triage bays. The noise in the air is overlapping and thick — panic, grief that hasn't happened yet, determination burning underneath both — and moving through it is like trying to breathe underwater.

My hands tighten on the staff, my tail lashing behind me for balance as I follow Podenco through the rushing crowds. I can't be out there in the rubble with mom and Amiya, but I'm an Operator of the Medical Department.

I have my own work.

The Convalescent Garden isn't a quiet greenhouse anymore; it's an overflowing staging area. The damp soil and blooming flowers are being smothered by fresh blood, scorched ozone, and the burning ash clinging to the uniforms of the returning Operators.

Miss Lena intercepts me before I'm fully off the main path, her hands coming down firmly on my shoulders.

"Lethe. Remember," she murmurs, her eyes locked on mine.

"If it's too much, I stop," I recite, my voice trembling a fraction over the din of the garden.

"Good." Her grip tightens for a brief, grounding second. She glances over her shoulder at the sheer volume of battered people being ushered inside. "Just focus on our own Operators, okay? There are too many refugees."

I look at the sea of terrified civilians mingling with our wounded personnel. If I open my channels to the entire room, the concentrated mass of it will take my mind apart.

"Okay."

I start weaving my way through the crowded floor.

A Perro Operator is huddled on one of the benches, and he's a mess. His armor is scored with deep, blackened gouges and his eyes are blown wide. Every time a medical cart rattles past or a logistics worker shouts a command, he jumps, his hands twitching toward a weapon he already surrendered to the quartermasters.

I approach him slowly.

The moment my shadow falls over him he flinches back against the wooden slats of the bench and raises his scarred hands.

"Don't come closer!" he snaps, his voice ragged and torn.

I stop where I am and lower my Arts Unit until the base rests quietly against the floor, so it doesn't look like a weapon.

"It's okay," I say, soft and steady as a chime. "I'm Lethe. I'm an Operator of Rhodes Island."

I raise my hand slowly and point to the bold white RHODES ISLAND lettering printed down the front of my oversized jacket, then lower my finger to the black and white Medic cross strapped to my right thigh.

His chest heaves. His bloodshot eyes dart from my face to the jacket, down to the Medic band, and finally to the monitor, and then around again.

The tension in his shoulders drops a fraction. He lowers his hands and lets out a jagged, shuddering exhale.

"What happened?" I ask gently, taking a single careful step closer.

He freezes. The question snaps shut over his jaw like a lock, and his eyes go distant.

I close both hands on the black shaft of my staff and push outward instead of drawing in, putting something soothing and sweet into the space between us.

It washes over him. His breath catches, and the dam finally breaks.

"The outer sector," he chokes out, staring blankly at the floor tiles. "It was… a slaughterhouse. We were caught right in the middle."

He tells me about the streets. Squads of Ursus military police in heavy black gear, clashing with waves of masked rioters in tattered white coats. Reunion.

"Blood just… coated the street," he whispers, his voice trembling hard enough to click his teeth together. "The streets… It was just red and grey. People being burnt to literal ash by fire Arts right in front of me. Civilians bleeding out in the gutters with crossbow bolts in their heads. Bodies entirely mangled by falling debris and heavy sword strikes…"

My stomach heaves, but I hold perfectly still and keep the sweetness steady.

"My squad…" He swallows hard, and the tears spill over his ash-stained cheeks. "We were in an apartment building. We were trying to escort a group of civilians out before the plate destabilized. But we were ambushed."

His hands curl into tight fists against his knees.

"The Reunion rioters… they didn't even care that there were civilians inside," he sobs. "Their Casters just started hitting the structural support beams with explosive Arts. They brought the whole building down on us."

Whatever is in the air between us curdles.

"I barely escaped," he cries, burying his face in his hands. "The ceiling started to collapse… the roar of the concrete giving way… My squad, they shoved me and a civilian Feline child out the door just as the beams snapped."

He rocks forward on the bench, his shoulders shaking.

"They didn't make it. They didn't make it out…"

The despair coming off him is heavy enough to finish what the building started. I don't hesitate anymore. I step up to the edge of the bench, lay my left hand over his trembling knuckles, and grip the twisted wood with my right.

I close my eyes, and I aggressively inhale the ash.

The influx hits my core like a landslide.

I pull the invisible channel shut and the Perro Operator slumps forward. The tension that had locked his spine melts out of him and he lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He doesn't look up at me; he just sags against the wood, finally able to breathe.

The cost of his relief floods my own throat. My vision strobes and the edges of the greenhouse smear into green and grey.

The rest of the garden arrives on top of it, all at once.

Both my hands go over my mouth. I gag, my chest convulsing, the phantom taste of Chernobog's spilled blood trying to force its way back up my throat.

Then warmth cuts through it.

Miss Lena is at my side in a heartbeat, her hand firm against my back.

She raises her head and beckons across the chaotic greenhouse.

Podenco, sorting a stack of bandages near the cabinets, catches the gesture. She drops the supplies and comes running.

"Take Lethe back to her dorm," Miss Lena orders, her voice dropping into a register that leaves no room for debate.

"Mmm!" I shake my head hard enough that the horns pull at the muscles in my neck. My hands stay clamped over my mouth to keep from gagging again, but I dig my sneakers into the floor tiles. I can't leave. There are so many more Operators bleeding on the benches.

Miss Lena steps squarely in front of me and takes hold of my wrists, gently, pulling my hands a fraction from my face so I have to look at her.

"No, sweetie," she murmurs. "We agreed. Rest."

A ragged, muffled whine gets out of me, and the tears come back, frustration and nausea together.

Podenco doesn't hesitate. Her free arm goes firmly around my waist.

"Come on, Lethe," she says, tight with worry and completely immovable.

Before I can get another muffled protest out, she turns and drags me away from the bench, hauling me stumbling down the winding path, out of the chaotic garden and back into the cold arteries of home.

By the time we reach my dorm I'm too weak to lift my hands. Podenco doesn't wait; she reaches into the pocket of my dark grey jacket, fishes out my ID card, swipes it against the terminal, and the door hisses open.

I don't wait for the lights to come up. I tear myself out of her grip and scramble for the door marked with a shower icon.

I drop hard onto my knees in front of the toilet and empty my stomach. The spasms tear through my torso. I gag and heave, my body trying to physically purge something that was never in my stomach to begin with.

Podenco drops to her knees on the cold tile beside me and pats my back in a slow rhythm, working carefully around the heavy curtain of my grey hair.

When the heaving finally drops into wet, ragged hiccups, I drag myself up to the sink. My hands shake too badly to work the handle properly. The cold water rushes out and I rinse and spit, over and over, scrubbing my tongue until the metallic tang dulls to a bearable ache.

I lean heavily against the porcelain basin, spent.

Podenco gets an arm around my waist and walks me out of the bathroom and back into the dim amber light of the dorm. My legs are liquid lead and every step costs something. At the recessed alcove I let my knees buckle and sink onto the edge of the mattress. My tail drops to the floor and stays there.

She steps away for a moment. Her uniform rustles, then glass clinks against metal.

She comes back and presses a small cup into my hands.

"I have something, Lethe," she murmurs, her voice very soft in the quiet room. She gestures at the desk, where a small empty vial is now sitting. "Here, some water. Drink this, and it'll help you rest."

I don't have the energy to question her. I just want the dull ache in my skull to stop.

I lift the cup to my lips and swallow. Whatever's mixed into the water is bitter enough to make me wince, an insult to someone who lives on sweet pastries and sugary drinks, and I gulp the rest down to wash the taste away.

The effect is terrifyingly fast.

A thick fog rolls over my brain. The edges of the room blur and swim, and a drowsiness that isn't natural drags at my bones.

My body gives out. The cup slips from my fingers and bounces against the floor as I go sideways onto the mattress, cheek into the pillows, eyelids fluttering shut.

Through the dark coming in, I feel Podenco lift my legs onto the bed and pull the thick blankets up around my shoulders.

"Sorry, Lethe," she whispers, and her voice is distant through the chemical fog. "If I don't put you to sleep… you'd just run back later. Rest well."

The dark comes in thick and dreamless and pulls me under.

I open my eyes. The ceiling panels above me are familiar, but the air is wrong. I'm standing inside our home. No. I look around. This isn't our landship. It's older.

The room is a massive, dimly lit command center, the walls stripped down to dark metal and heavy industrial cabling, dominated by a sprawling array of bulky monitors throwing harsh blue light and long shadows across the floorboards.

Standing near the central console is a Sarkaz woman. I've seen her before. Right beside her is a figure in a heavy dark coat, face hidden under a thick hood and an opaque visor. What comes off him isn't a feeling at all. It's an abyss — black water with no bottom I can find, still and patient, like something far below is quietly working things out.

It's a mind that isn't built like a mind. Just what is he?

They're leaning over a tactical display, deep in conversation. I take a hesitant step forward and strain to listen, but the words don't reach me. Their voices come distorted and muffled, the way sound comes through water.

When my eyes finally flutter open again, the grief that filled me is gone.

I blink and my vision adjusts. The ceiling above me isn't the low-hanging steel of my dorm room. The air has been scrubbed aggressively clean.

A medical ward. The overhead lights are off and the room is dark except for the faint glow of a muted diagnostic monitor on the wall.

I turn my head slowly against the pillows.

A silhouette is sitting in a plush chair right next to the bed, slumped forward with her upper body resting heavily on the edge of my mattress, dead to the world. Even in the dark I can make out the pale, downy plumage framing her face.

Mom.

I shift, and the sheets rustle against my legs. The tiny sound is enough. She stirs, her head lifting off the mattress.

"Lethe…?" she murmurs, her voice raspy and thick with sleep.

She rubs her eyes clumsily in the darkness, blinks once, twice, and then her gaze locks onto my face and registers that my eyes are open and looking back at her.

The exhaustion goes out of her posture and she launches herself out of the chair. Before I can push myself up she's on the edge of the bed with her arms around me, pulling me flush against her chest, her face buried in my hair.

"Oh, my Lethe!" she gasps, and her voice breaks into a ragged, wet sob. She squeezes hard enough to push the air out of my lungs and I don't care. My arms go around her neck and my face into the collar of her coat.

Under the sweetness there's something grey and flat. Exhaustion, and sorrow.

"It's been almost three days," she cries, her fingers gripping the back of my medical gown as if I'll disappear the moment she lets go. "You were asleep for three days."

Three days. "I'm here," I say into her shoulder, squeezing her back just as fiercely. "I'm right here, mom. You came back."

"Please don't be mad at Podenco," I murmur into the fabric of her coat. "It isn't her fault."

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. Her face is pale and exhausted, and the expression on it is stern and frightened at once.

"It isn't her fault," she agrees, her voice firm despite the tears shining in her eyes. "You are too reckless, young lady. Dr. Warfarin confirmed your Oripathy was agitated. You were hurting yourself. Podenco did the right thing."

"I… I just…" My fingers grip weakly at the lapels of her coat. I just wanted to help.

"Lethe. Listen to me…" Her voice cracks. She pulls me flush against her chest again. "I can't lose you…"

We hold onto each other for a long time. The only sound in the pitch-black ward is our overlapping, shaky breathing.

The silence lets the dread back in.

"Is… is Amiya, Rosmontis… Ms. Skyfire… Are they alive?" My voice comes out tiny in the quiet room.

Mom's hand freezes in my hair.

"They are… they are…" she stammers.

The warmth goes out of the room all at once, swallowed by cold, standing water.

"Mom? What's wrong?"

She swallows hard and turns her face away from the muted glow of the diagnostic monitor. "Nothing. Lethe."

I push myself back, breaking the embrace. My hands clench into trembling fists. I'm so tired of the bubble they keep putting me in.

"Please!" I cry, and my voice cracks and echoes off the walls. "Everyone lies to me! I want to know the truth! I don't want to be kept in the dark!"

Mom stops. Her shoulders slump and the last of her strength gives out. She turns her head back toward me, her eyes hollow and bloodshot.

"Ace… Scout…" she whispers, the names scraping against her throat.

I freeze. The air goes out of my lungs.

The image comes up whole: the towering defender with the warm, booming chuckle, and the sharp-eyed sniper standing beside him in the cafeteria hallway. Ace reaching down to ruffle my hair, telling me to eat more so I could keep up.

"…And many other Operators…" Her voice breaks and fresh tears spill over. "…they aren't coming back, Lethe…"

"How…" The word barely gets out of me.

My mind rejects it outright. Ace and Scout were the walking titans of our home, the strongest people this whole landship had. Ace's massive frame, the heavy shield, the rugged scarred face that made you believe him. Scout's sharp-eyed stealth, the lethality he wore like a coat. They looked invincible. How do falling rocks and rioters kill them?

Then something else surfaces.

I remember standing in the corridor outside the cafeteria that day. I remember my sneakers squeaking to a dead halt against the floor. Most of all, I remember a crushing sorrow seizing my chest the exact moment I laid eyes on them.

Why? My mind closes on empty air. There's nothing there.

"Reunion was all over the city," mom finally whispers, hollow and trembling against the dark. "It was horrible, Lethe…"

The magnitude of it bleeds through her words: rioters, blinding Arts, rubble without end. If they were strong enough to tear down Elite Ops, then the armored plating of our home is paper.

"Where are we going then, mom?" My voice pitches up. I need to hear that we're running, that we're putting as much distance as possible between us and that graveyard. "Are we safe now?"

Mom stares over my shoulder into the dark.

"We're heading toward Lungmen," she replies, and the name drops heavily into the sterile air.

"Lungmen?"

"Reunion is going for Lungmen… Lethe," she says. "This is a war now."

"I'm scared, mom…" I whisper into the quiet room. I'm scared of the war. I'm scared of the dark. I'm scared of what it's going to cost this home to keep moving forward. And I'm scared that I might have to meet the hooded man from the vision.

Her hand shifts from my back up into my hair.

"I know, my little Lethe. I know," she murmurs, raspy and warm in the way that always anchors me. She lets out a slow exhale and pulls back far enough to look down at my tear-stained face, brushing a damp strand of hair off my cheek. "Lethe. Are you hungry?"

My stomach turns over, hollow, at the mention of food.

"Yes," I murmur, giving a small, hesitant nod.

The corners of her exhausted eyes crinkle into a soft smile. "Lungmen buns?"

I tilt my head. "What is that?"

"They're a Lungmen special," she explains, her voice taking on a coaxing lilt. "Baked fresh, incredibly sweet, with a crunchy golden top. And… they can have red bean paste in them."

Red bean paste works like a localized spell.

I nod furiously, my lopsided horns swaying with the motion.

Her smile widens a little. She disentangles herself from my grip and stands up, her joints popping quietly in the still air. She looks frail in the dim light, but she straightens her spine.

"Okay, sit here, Lethe. I'll be back," she promises, turning toward the heavy blast doors of the ward.

"Okay."

The doors shut and seal me into the quiet room.

I wait. The clock on the monitors says five minutes. The silence stretches. My tail curls tight and my eyes stay fixed on the door.

Ten minutes. The knot in my stomach starts to twist again. The cafeteria isn't that far, and mom walks with a brisk, purposeful stride. Why is it taking so long?

The mechanical locks clank. Warfarin steps into the dim light.

"Here's the little anomaly who almost crystallized her own brain," she drawls, her voice slicing through the quiet as she saunters in.

I freeze, my hands closed on the edge of the blanket.

"Where's… m… Erika?" I stammer.

She stops at the foot of my bed and the amusement drops off her face.

"She passed out in the hallway," she states flatly. "She is resting."

"What?!"

The word comes out as a panicked squeak. I throw the blankets off and scramble for the edge of the mattress, and my bare feet hit the cold floor.

"I suggest you stay in your bed," she says, and it freezes me where I am.

She crosses her arms over her coat.

"She's overworked," she continues, clinical and unforgiving. "And she's nursing a chest injury from her deployment in the outer sectors."

Something drops out of me.

"She's injured?" I choke out, my eyes blowing wide.

How did I not taste it?

"I… I didn't even know." My voice breaks.

My knees give and I sink back onto the edge of the mattress with my hands over my face while the tears spill.

She walked into a Catastrophe to save lives. She came back battered and broken, and instead of taking care of her, I made her take care of me until her body gave out.

I pull my knees up to my chest and curl into a shaking ball under Warfarin's gaze. I'm a failure of a daughter.

"Don't look so despondent," she drawls over the sound of my sobbing. "You're souring your exquisite blood."

I flinch, my hands dropping from my face, and look up through blurred vision. She just watches me from the foot of the mattress.

"You… you're here to drain my blood?" I hiccup, my voice wavering.

She rolls her eyes with a heavy sigh and steps past the bed to the diagnostic console mounted on the wall.

"To check your Oripathy progression," she corrects dryly, her fingers dancing across the screen.

Above us the ceiling track hums to life and the halo scanner begins its slow descent, vibrating at a frequency that rattles the horns on my skull.

I watch the machinery lower into place, but the garden is still burning in the back of my throat. Being on that bathroom floor, my body convulsing to purge what I'd swallowed out of that Operator, wasn't like anything before it.

"Dr. Warfarin," I say. "I've never reacted so violently to a taste before… why this time?"

She doesn't pause her preparations. Her sharp fingernails keep tapping out a rapid rhythm on the terminal while the scanner halts just above my head, its internal rings spinning up with a high-pitched whine.

"You are a Djall," she says, not bothering to look at me. "And no one has taught you how to be a proper one."

She finally turns around, leaning her hip against the console.

"Your kind isn't rare because you can't survive on bad emotions," she says, dropping into the cadence of a lecture. "Grief, fear, exhaustion. Standard fare. What you swallowed three days ago out of that Field Operator was not fear. It was the residue of a warzone."

"Emotions born out of malice and cruelty are toxic to you. When that Operator watched rioters burn civilians to ash and crush his squad, what he absorbed was steeped in the malice of the attackers. You didn't siphon his sadness, Lethe. You ingested the venom of the people trying to kill him."

She pushes herself off the console, steps up to the edge of the mattress, and taps a finger against the side of the halo scanner hovering above my horns.

"Now you've learned it firsthand," she says, her eyes locking onto mine. "If you're going to survive outside of a quarantine box, you need to learn what you can eat and what will rot you from the inside out."

She hits a button on her slate and the scanner powers up, laying a blinding grid of blue light across my face.

"Sit still."

The scanner hums down to a halt.

"Your Oripathy is stable once again," she announces, not looking up from the screen. "But it has indeed progressed. If you start to hallucinate again, tell me."

I hold the edge of the mattress until my knuckles go bone-white. The thought of the static returning pulls my chest into a knot.

"The ghost… the voice…" I say. "She'll return? I'm scared."

She finally lowers the slate and glances down at the twisted branch of the Kazdelian Arts Unit resting against the base of my bed.

"The artifact is functioning as intended," she states. "Your mind should stay quiet."

I let out a long, shaky exhale.

"Okay. Thank you, Dr. Warfarin," I murmur.

She turns her back to me and starts to wipe the raw data, slowly and carefully deleting every weird spike on my brain scan from the main records, the way Dr. Kal'tsit ordered months ago.

I watch her for a moment, my tail uncoiling from its defensive loop.

"Can I go visit mom and Opal?" I ask softly.

Her fingers stop dead on the glass screen.

She turns her head slowly. What comes off her is the blueberry matcha Amiya asked me to try a while back.

"Mom?" she repeats, dry with disbelief.

My cheeks go hot and I duck my head.

"Eri… Erika," I stammer, correcting myself in a tiny, flustered squeak.

She stares at me for a single second. Then a sharp, theatrical scoff escapes her.

"You are cleared to go back to your dorm and do whatever it is you do," she drawls, waving a dismissive hand at me.

Without another word she turns on her heel, leaving me alone in the cold room to gather my staff and find my family.

The cold steel of the floor bites at my bare feet as I hurry back into my dorm.

I waste no time. The crinkly hospital gown comes off and pools on the floor, and my spare uniform is waiting in the small closet. The white turtleneck goes over my head and settles beneath the black monitor, then the dark pleated skirt and the heavily insulated stockings. I strap the tactical leg band around my right thigh with the Rhodes Island Medic symbol facing outward.

Last, the oversized dark grey jacket. The familiar weight of it settles over my shoulders, the split tailcoat back parting easily to let my tail swing free. I take my Arts Unit off the nightstand and my fingers wrap tight around the staff.

The door opens and I step out into the corridors. The landship is deep in its night cycle, the ceiling panels dialed down to a dim, bruised amber.

The quiet is a lie.

The moment I cross the threshold it hits the back of my tongue. The air is thick enough that breathing it is like breathing through bile, and I gag with my hand over my mouth.

Pain first, like crushed glass. Then the sorrow, a drowning ocean of stagnant saltwater and rotting ash. And under all of it, hot and acidic, is the hatred.

I squeeze my eyes shut, force my jaw tight, swallow it, and push my feet forward toward the medical wing intersections. Standing in the center of the light is Miss Sussurro.

Gathered tightly around her are Hibiscus and Ansel, both looking battered by the sheer scale of the emergency.

"We have almost two thousand refugees on board," Miss Sussurro states, her voice clipping through the heavy air. "You two, as reserves, keep focusing strictly on basic triage. We stabilize the bleeding, we suppress the Oripathy spikes, and we keep them breathing. That is all."

I step into the edge of the light.

Hibiscus turns her head. She looks drained, but something in her lifts the moment she sees me standing there in my uniform.

"Hi, Lethe," she says, offering a smile. "Glad you're okay now."

"I'm going to the cafeteria," I say, keeping my voice as steady and resolute as I can. I look between the three of them and give a quick, firm nod as I move to pass by. "I'll visit Opal later."

Miss Sussurro turns her head and returns a single crisp nod. Beside her, Ansel nods too, his ears drooping with fatigue, his posture holding.

I don't linger to distract them. I keep marching down the dim, amber-lit arteries of home, wading through the taste of it toward the cafeteria.

The double doors slide open with a muted hiss. The vast room, usually a chaos of clattering trays and overlapping chatter, is a cavern of bruised shadow.

A few scattered night-shift Operators are slumped across the cold metal tables, given over to the gravity of their exhaustion. Steam rises lazily off abandoned coffee mugs, but the air doesn't smell like roasted beans. It tastes like grey fog.

As I cross the epoxy floor I catch a Kuranta sitting alone near the center aisle. He isn't moving, his head bowed low enough to hide his face in shadow, but his hands are shaking. He's gripping a standard-issue steel coffee cup hard enough that the thick metal is audibly groaning, the walls caving slowly inward.

Helpless rage, and nothing anywhere to spend it on. I give him a wide berth and keep my steps silent against the floor, so I don't break whatever he is holding together.

I make my way to the far wall, where the end-of-day bakery section sits under a solitary light. The glass display is mostly barren. These are the leftovers, the sparse rations meant to sustain the night crews before being thrown out at dawn.

But resting on a metal tray in the far corner are three small, domed pastries.

I step closer and peer through the glass. They have a crunchy golden top, the baked crust fractured into a delicate checkered pattern that makes them look exactly like the rough exterior of a pineapple. Even through the sterile chill of the cafeteria I can catch the aroma of baked sugar, butter, and the red bean paste hidden inside.

Lungmen buns.

These must be exactly what mom mentioned to me in the ward. A small, sugary luxury from Lungmen.

I reach behind the partition and carefully gather all three into a small paper bag. One for mom. One for Opal. And one for me.

I hold the bag against my chest. The faint sugary warmth of it isn't much of a shield against the acidic taste of the landship's grief, but it's something. I turn my back on the slumped Operators and step out into the corridors.

Mom is asleep in her ward by now. I'll let her rest a little bit longer before I wake her up.

I shift my hold on the petrified wood of my Arts Unit and chart a course toward the high-security quarantine sector. Opal first.

The locks of the high-security ward disengage. Inside, the room isn't the void I'm used to finding her in. It vibrates with a sharp, active static, and the taste of it hits the back of my tongue.

Fear.

It's a terrible, acidic flavor, and it brings a strange, bittersweet relief with it. She isn't hollow anymore. The numbness has retreated and left behind a girl who is fully awake, fully present, and genuinely terrified.

Opal is sitting bolt upright on her mattress with the plushie clutched to her chest hard enough to turn her small knuckles bone-white. Her long dark ears are upright and trembling. Her eyes dart to the door and blow wide the second she registers my jacket and the turtleneck.

"Lethe," she whispers.

I don't hesitate. I drop my Arts Unit and go to the edge of her bed.

"Sorry." My fingers rest against the edge of the mattress. "I'm so sorry. We couldn't be with you recently."

I reach into the crinkly paper bag and carefully pull out one of the golden-crusted pastries.

"Here, Opal," I murmur, holding the sweet treat out to her.

She uncurls one hand from the stuffed plushie. Her trembling fingers take the Lungmen bun off my palm. She doesn't take a bite. She brings it down into her lap and studies the checkered golden crust, turning it, inspecting the soft dough thoroughly.

The quiet stretches, broken only by the steady beep of her medical monitors.

Then she looks back up at me.

"What's happening?"

The truth burns the back of my throat. War. Rioters. Falling rocks and slaughtered Operators.

But I look at her thin, trembling frame, and at the jagged black Originium crystals piercing the skin. She already lost her whole world once. She doesn't need to carry Chernobog and our war with Reunion as well.

I push the corners of my mouth up into the gentlest, most reassuring smile I have and lay my hand over hers.

"We…" I stammer slightly, pitching my voice to sound calm. "Just a Catastrophe, Opal. We were busy moving the landship around it."

I give her cold fingers a soft, grounding squeeze.

"It'll be okay soon."

I linger for a moment in the dim corridor, my Arts Unit back in my hand, and let out a long, slow exhale. Opal is finally asleep, the golden crumbs of the pastry resting on her blanket, her hands wrapped securely around her plushie. Her fear has smoothed out into a quiet, exhausted rest.

I reach into my bag and pull out the slate. The glass screen is harsh white against the light of the night cycle.

I open the encrypted messaging channel. My thumbs hover over the digital keyboard.

Where is mom.

I stare at the three words, then tap the backspace key, deleting the letters one by one until the text box is empty again.

Where is Erika's ward?

I hit send.

The three pulsing grey dots appear quickly before the sharp chime of a reply echoes in the quiet hall.

[Warfarin]: 301.

[Lethe]: Thank you, Dr. Warfarin.

I slip the slate back into my bag and turn my steps toward the primary recovery wing, head down, reading the numbers etched beside the doors.

301.

I press my ID against the control panel and enter the ward.

She's still asleep.

Mom is lying on the standard medical mattress in a loose hospital gown. The fabric is pulled down slightly at the shoulder, exposing the thick white bandages wrapped tightly around her chest. Her face is very pale, the delicate downy plumage plastered flat against her skin with dried sweat.

I step inside and quietly drag the plush visitor's chair closer to the edge of the mattress. I climb into the seat, arranging my skirt carefully as my tail coils around the base of the chair.

I watch the slow, steady rise and fall of her bandaged chest. The monitors beep with a calm, reassuring rhythm.

She's resting.

I reach into the crinkly paper bag in my lap and pull out a Lungmen bun. The golden checkered crust has gone slightly cold.

I take a small, quiet bite. The sweetness melts on my tongue. I chew silently, pulling my knees up into the chair, my eyes never leaving her exhausted face.

She sat by my bed while I slept through the nightmare. Now, as the landship carries us away from the burning ruins of Chernobog, it's my turn to keep the vigil.

I reach into my bag and take out the fairytale book. There is most of one page left at the back.

I write the date at the top. Then, because I don't have room for all of it, and because somebody may still read this one day, I write only what I am certain of.

Mom is asleep. Opal ate her bun. It snowed in December and none of it was Originium.

I look at the three lines for a long time. They are not enough. They are what I have.

I close the book and hold it against my chest, and I listen to her breathe.

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