January, 1097

The clock on the cafeteria wall ticks over with indifferent precision. It is the 1st of January, 1097. My vigil ended just yesterday night.

But there's no celebration. No overlapping chatter, no clinking of glasses, no carbonated flavors of joy in the air. The vast dining hall is a cavern of exhausted whispers and heavy shadows.

My head turns, my eyes drawn back to the reinforced observation window. We're docked near Lungmen. I had heard passing logistics Operators speak of this place: a jewel of a mobile city, an untouchable metropolis of vibrant neon and endless prosperity.

But the neon bleeding through the glass today is suffocating. It's warped and twisted, choked by black plumes of smoke. In the distance, the skeletal remains of skyscrapers are being hollowed out, their steel and glass decimated by the blinding flashes of Originium Arts. The city is being eaten alive by fire.

"Good morning, my little Lethe."

The voice pulls me back from the glass.

I turn from the skyline and look up. "Good morning, mom."

She looks so much better. The bandages that had wrapped her chest are gone, and the bruised circles under her eyes have begun to soften. She sets her metal tray down on the table opposite me: a plate of scrambled eggs and a piece of soft bread. Next to it sits a steaming mug of black coffee—a bitter lifeline she has forbidden me from ever touching.

She sits down, her shoulders dropping.

I take a slow sip of my milk tea, letting the sweetness coat my tongue. My tail curls around the leg of my chair.

"I haven't seen Amiya, Rosmontis, and Dr. Kal'tsit for a long time now, mom."

Mom's hand pauses mid-reach for her coffee mug. The honey in the air ripples, pierced by a sour spike of anxiety. She looks away, down at the dark liquid in her cup.

"They're…" she begins, her voice tight, the cadence managed into something reassuring. "They're busy, Lethe."

I lower my mug. The ceramic clicks against the table.

My fingers reach across the table to the sleeve of her coat.

"Mom, be honest with me," I plead. My voice stays steady, anchored to the reality burning right outside our window. "What is happening?"

She freezes. Her eyes go to my hand on her arm, then up to mine.

Mom lets out a long exhale. Her shoulders slump. She turns her head, her eyes locking onto the smoking skyline of Lungmen.

"Reunion is sieging Lungmen," she whispers. She looks back at me, her expression a mix of sorrow and grim necessity. "We're helping them because we need the supplies. And we need a safe place to shelter the refugees."

The burning skeletal remains of the Lungmen skyscrapers reflect in my eyes. The ruins of Rim Billiton, the Tkaronto thunderstorm, the fall of Chernobog… and now this.

"Mom…" My voice fractures into a breathless squeak. I can barely push the words past the phantom ash coating my tongue. "Is… is… the world ending? Why… why are they fighting?"

Mom doesn't answer right away. Instead she shifts in her seat. Her hand, resting beneath my fingers, turns over and grabs mine. She squeezes hard.

"Lethe. Look at me," she commands.

I hesitate. The magnitude of the war outside holds me like gravity.

"Look at me," she repeats, and the words land with weight.

I flinch and tear my eyes from the reinforced glass. I turn my head and look at her.

"It is not ending," mom states. "As long as we… as long as Rhodes Island exists. Amiya. Dr. Kal'tsit. The Elite Ops, the medical staff… we are not allowing the world to end."

"But… Ace… Scout… so many others…" The names catch in my throat like jagged shards of glass. "They couldn't save the city…"

"The Perro… he told me. Reunion crashed an entire building on his squad and… innocent people."

Mom's expression doesn't harden with the righteous anger I expect. Instead an aching sorrow settles into the exhausted lines of her face.

"Lethe," she murmurs, the words barely carrying across the table. "Don't hate Reunion."

The words do not compute.

"What?!"

The word tears out of my throat, my hands slamming flat against the cold metal. "They're killing us! Amiya, Rosmontis have to go to war because of them!"

My voice cracks high and carries across the cavernous cafeteria. The muted hum of the room flatlines. Dozens of hollow eyes turn from their meals to our table. The air spikes, hitting the back of my tongue with startled static.

Every one of those stares lands somewhere on my skin. I shrink back into my chair, tucking my tail around my legs.

"Sorry!" I squeak, ducking my head. "Sorry…"

Mom leans forward, her hands covering mine across the table.

"Lethe. They're Infected," mom explains, her tone carrying the bleeding weight of Terra's history. "The Empire of Ursus… they kill the Infected on sight. Or they toss them into mining camps to mine the very mineral that is killing them, forcing them to labor in the freezing cold until they die."

I freeze.

"They had enough," mom continues. "Their method… is wrong. We can't excuse them for burning cities. But… it's because they didn't find a home."

She squeezes my fingers, her gaze steady. "Think about the Operators here, Lethe. From the people you know… only Skyfire, Dr. Warfarin, and Podenco are uninfected."

Only three.

Miss Lena. Lisa. Miss Sussurro. Amiya. Rosmontis. All of them. They all carry the death sentence of glowing Originium ticking away inside their blood.

I pull my hands out from under hers and turn them over, staring down at my palms. Beneath this translucent porcelain skin the Originium is there, localized deep within my temporal lobe, burning away at whatever is left of my mind just to keep me breathing.

"So…" The word arrives fragile, fracturing into the quiet space between us. "Reunion is just people like me."

My hands stay turned up in front of me. I… don't remember what happened back then when mom saved me… the memory… it's gone.

I shake my head, forcing the dread down.

Then I look up at mom. She saved me; that's all that matters. The only difference between me and the rioters burning the city outside our window is the woman sitting across from me.

"They didn't have someone pull them out of the rubble."

"I'm going to the Archives, mom!" I declare, my voice ringing with a sudden fierceness.

Mom blinks at the pivot. Her coffee mug stops halfway to her lips.

"Lethe?" she asks.

"I need to understand," I press on. "Not just Originium. Not just Oripathy. I need to understand the world."

My eyes go to the reinforced observation window, to the smoke-choked skyline of Lungmen.

"I need to know what the Empire of Ursus is," I tell the window. "I need to know how these mobile cities work, and why the Infected are thrown into the dark. If Reunion is just people like me who were left in the rubble… then I need to know why the world is so broken."

The aching sorrow in mom's eyes melts. The exhausted lines of her face soften into a fond smile. The air sweetens, warm honey pushing back the cafeteria's cold dread.

"Finish your breakfast first," mom says, her tone back to its baseline.

The momentum of my declaration hits a mundane wall. I blink, my tail going slack as the fierce determination fractures into a sheepish pout. My milk tea has gone lukewarm.

"O…okay, mom," I mumble, wrapping my hands around the ceramic mug.

Mom chuckles.

"And don't forget to tell Miss Lena you're not going to the garden, if you're going to be a little bookworm the entire day," she reminds me, tapping her index finger against the table.

I give her a firm nod.

The milk tea goes down in one compliant gulp, my other hand already reaching into my dark bag for my slate. The world outside is burning, and the people I care about are walking through the fire, but I am not going to just sit in the dark and wait anymore. I am going to learn everything I can.

I excuse myself to the Archives.

Without Ms. Skyfire's towering presence and fiery lectures to anchor me, the library is isolating.

I wander through the silent aisles, pulling heavy books and digital slates from the shelves. My arms ache under the mounting weight of A Comprehensive History of the Empire of Ursus, Demographics of the North, and a thick primer on the dynasties of Great Yan.

Around the corner of a dense row of physical records, I hunt for a secluded wooden table.

Standing right between the towering shelves is a Caprinae with brown hair.

She is small, her curling horns framing a face absorbed in the text in front of her. A brass-rimmed magnifying glass hovers in her hand above the pages of a sprawling geological map.

My Arts brush against the air of the aisle. The flavor that washes over me is a dormant hearth fire and the earthy sweetness of roasted chestnuts. A warmth that has been burning a long time.

She doesn't notice me at all, swallowed by her focus.

I step past her. At an empty table nearby I ease a chair out, careful not to let the legs scrape the floorboards. I set my towering pile of books down and open the first cover.

Thirty minutes pass.

The silence of the Archives is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic turning of pages.

The blocky text detailing the sociological structures of the north won't resolve into sense. My brow is furrowed until it aches. My brain twists into knots trying to keep all of Terra's countries and wars straight. How can "Ursus" be the name of a specific race of people with round ears and uncommon physical strength, but also the name of a ruthless Empire that enslaves and slaughters its own citizens?

It is too much: the cruelty, the convoluted history.

With a pathetic groan I let my upper body collapse. My forehead hits the polished wood with a thud that carries.

The noise shatters the quiet of the aisle.

She flinches. Her shoulders jump, the heavy magnifying glass nearly slipping from her grasp as she whips her head around. She scans the aisle, her wide eyes landing on my slumped form draped over the Ursus history book.

"Oh. Hi," she breathes out, her voice an airy melody, surprised. "I didn't hear you coming in. Are you okay?"

I shoot up from the table so fast my horns nearly take the book with them.

"I am," I stammer. "Sorry. The books are just… really hard."

The girl pauses. She lowers the magnifying glass, her gaze dropping to the floor for a heavy moment. The roasted chestnuts in the air dim, tinged with a lingering note of resignation.

"Sorry." She offers a fragile smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "My hearing isn't that good these days."

The words settle into the quiet of the library. Ms. Skyfire has told me before: it's the creeping theft of Oripathy, taking the world away from her piece by piece.

My heart gives a painful twist in my chest.

I force the melancholy down and sit up straight.

"Sorry!" I say. I project, pushing the volume up so it carries the few paces between us, and stop short of a yell. "I am Lethe. I am a Medical Operator."

The note of resignation evaporates, replaced by her comfort.

"Hi, Lethe," she replies, her voice keeping that airy melody. "I'm Adele. Nice to meet you."

Adele steps closer, her eyes dropping to the teetering fortress of political and historical texts I had hoarded. She reads the spines, then my defeated expression.

"Do you need any help, Lethe?" Miss Adele asks.

"I… I'd love to," I admit, my shoulders slumping. I wave a hand at the open pages. "I don't get it."

Adele sets her magnifying glass down and pulls out the heavy wooden chair beside me. She sits, and the hearth fire of her comes with her, right at my side.

She is a different teacher than Ms. Skyfire. Miss Adele is patient. She considers the blocky text and starts untangling the geopolitical nightmare of Terra into words my overwhelmed mind can hold.

"Ursus is a race of people," Miss Adele explains, her voice soft but articulate, carrying to both of us. "They're known for being incredibly strong and enduring. But the Empire of Ursus is the nation they built in the frozen north. And it is a nation built almost entirely on war."

I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands, captivated as she turns the pages of the heavy text.

Miss Adele guides me through the blood-soaked history of the Empire's expansions. Their military machine marches across the freezing tundras, swallowing smaller territories and crushing anyone who resists under the treads of their war machines. She speaks of their endless appetite for resources, and the armored patrols that police their mobile cities.

Then her voice drops a fraction, taking on a mournful weight. She traces a finger over a jagged illustration on the page.

"And these are the mining camps," Adele murmurs.

I stare at the bleak drawing of fenced-in labor camps set against a snow-blasted wasteland.

"When people in the Empire of Ursus become Infected with Oripathy," Miss Adele explains, the hearth fire banking into sorrow, "they are stripped of their rights. The military forces them into these camps. They are sent into the freezing dark to mine raw Originium. They are worked until they freeze, starve, or the infection completely consumes them."

The air in my lungs goes cold.

If I had woken up in the frozen north instead… that would be me. Thrown into a freezing mine to dig up the very rocks that were killing me, until I was nothing but a corpse in the snow.

"It's so cruel." My fingers grip the edge of the wooden table until my knuckles turn white. "Why does the world let them do that?"

Miss Adele looks down at me, her eyes reflecting a knowing sadness. She rests her warm hand over mine.

"Because people fear what they don't understand, Lethe," Adele says. The melody of her voice shifts, anchored now to a bedrock of conviction.

She looks down at the bleak illustration of the camp.

"That's why I'm here," she continues, turning her gaze back to me. "It's why you're here, too."

I blink, caught in the fierce intensity burning off her.

"We study Catastrophes. We work to understand Oripathy," Adele explains, her hand leaving mine to gesture toward the geological map spread across the table. "I specialize in fault lines and volcanology. I work to understand the wrath of the planet."

She rests her fingertips against the intricate topographical lines charting Terra's scarred surface.

"Once we truly understand how Catastrophes and Oripathy work… once we strip away the mystery, the unpredictability, and the terror…" Adele's voice lowers around the promise she is making to the world. "Then the fear will die. And without that fear to weaponize, the Empire of Ursus won't be able to exist."

My eyes stay on Miss Adele. The flavor shifts: the warmth parts, and under it is a hot, concentrated core of volcanic resolve. The ambition of it is staggering.

I look at her in awe.

"You're so strong, Miss Adele."

Miss Adele blinks. The volcanic resolve melts back into her soft demeanor. A rosy flush dusts her cheeks as she tucks a strand of hair behind one of her horns.

"Thank you, Lethe." She picks her magnifying glass back up. "Now, shall we look at how the nomadic city plates of Great Yan are structured?"

I pull my chair a little closer to the table.

"Yes, please."

Miss Adele closes the heavy ledger detailing the bureaucratic infrastructure of Great Yan. She blinks, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the aisle as she glances toward the digital clock mounted at the end of the corridor.

"Oh my," Miss Adele says. "It's already past noon. We should go eat, Lethe."

I sit frozen in my chair, my small hands clamped on the table's rim until my knuckles ache. The closed cover of the ledger holds my eyes.

Yan…

Yan doesn't care who lives or dies.

My brain is tripped up by the horrors Miss Adele has just explained. It isn't the blood-soaked brutality of the Empire of Ursus or the burning rage of Reunion. It's something colder. Like someone sat down and did the math. Great Yan is a land of vibrant prosperity, a nation of poetry, ancient martial arts, and unparalleled agricultural wealth.

But under all the pretty parts, people are just numbers in a ledger.

"Lethe…" Miss Adele's voice drifts across the table.

"Why…?" I whisper.

I look up at her, my eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.

"The country is vast. It's prosperous," I plead, my voice cracking as I point a shaking finger at the closed textbook. "But the people in power… they have decided that in the face of Catastrophes and Feranmuts, they will just leave their own citizens to die. They have quotas to meet, and they don't care if a whole district starves to death…"

They watch a Catastrophe coming, or a Feranmut waking up, and then they calmly draw a line on a map. They count how many thousands of people they can give up so their books still balance.

Miss Adele doesn't flinch.

"Lethe, listen to me," Miss Adele says. Her gaze does not move. "They're doing what they believe is right to live another day against Catastrophes and the horrors of the divine."

She squeezes my hands, her thumb brushing my knuckles.

"What did I tell you earlier?" she asks, her voice a quiet guide in the dark.

I swallow. I look at her kind face.

"People fear what they don't understand," I recite.

"Yes," Miss Adele agrees. "They use nature's wrath to justify their own cruelty. They use the unpredictable terror of Catastrophes and ancient gods to build a system where sacrificing the innocent becomes a mathematical necessity."

She leans forward a fraction, the heat of her wrapping around me like a shield.

"What do we do to change that, Lethe?" she asks.

I stare at her. The freezing dread in my chest begins to thaw, replaced by a fierce spark. My eyes drop to the heavy textbooks of Yan and Ursus, then rise back to the kind researcher who is spending her failing body and her life on breaking the world's ignorance.

My hands grip hers back, my horns tilting.

"We understand nature's wrath," I declare.

Miss Adele's face lights up. She pats my hands before pulling away to gather her magnifying glass.

"Exactly," she says. "And to do that, we need to make sure we're properly fed. Come on, Lethe. Let's go see what the cafeteria has for us today."

The journey from the climate-controlled hush of the Archives back into the arteries of Rhodes Island is always jarring. I walk close beside Miss Adele.

Before we even reach the main doors of the dining hall, a familiar wave of sugar and yuzu washes over me. But today they carry a thick undertone of boiling acid.

Lisa bounds down the corridor. Podenco walks just a step behind her.

"Hi, Lethe! Hi, Miss Adele!" Lisa chimes.

"Hi, girls," Miss Adele replies.

"Hi, Lisa. Hi, Podenco."

Podenco stops. A carbonated fizz ripples through her, tickling the roof of my mouth, pushing the acid back. She tilts her head and fixes me with a theatrical squint.

"So that's where you run to," Podenco teases, her lips curling into a cheeky grin. "Our garden not good enough for you anymore, Lethe?"

Lisa catches on at once. Her ears drop, her tails slump toward the floor, and she presses both hands to her chest in a show of grievous betrayal.

"Aww. Lethe is abandoning us now?" Lisa gasps. "Unfriended."

My eyes blow wide. My tail tucks around my legs, and my hands fly up, waving, nearly dropping my staff.

"Wait! No! Of course not!" I stammer, my voice cracking. I take a step forward, eyes darting between Lisa and Podenco. "I just… I just needed to read some books! I would never abandon the garden! I promise!"

The moment real distress bleeds into my voice, Lisa's theatrical heartbreak shatters. She steps forward and catches my flailing hands, her eyes crinkling into a reassuring smile.

"It's okay, Lethe! We know you won't abandon us just like that!" Lisa insists, dropping the tease to spare my racing heart.

Beside me, Miss Adele chuckles at my expense. Heat crawls up my neck, and I puff my cheeks out.

Podenco laughs. She uncrosses her arms and gestures with her thumb toward the doors of the cafeteria.

"Much better. Pouts fit you a lot more than gloom. Let's go get lunch before logistics take all the good stuff," Podenco says, her ears twitching with anticipation.

"Let's," I agree.

My tail uncoils from around my legs and gives a happy swish. Surrounded by the citrus of Podenco, the sugar of Lisa, and the steady hearth fire of Miss Adele, the horrors of Terra feel a little further away. I fall into step beside my friends, and we push through the doors into the savory warmth of the dining hall.

The day flows by without break. The cold doesn't come from the air. The climate controls in my dorm are steady, humming with their usual indifferent efficiency. The chill seeps out from the depth of my core instead, freezing my blood, shivering my frame beneath the blankets.

I turn my head on the pillow.

January 2nd.

It is my birthday. Or so it says on my file.

I reach out from the warmth of the covers, picking up my slate from the nightstand. The screen illuminates.

The messaging channel opens, and I read it again without taking any of it in. A hot tear escapes and drops onto the glass screen. It lands on the text, smearing the pixels of her name into a watery smudge.

[Mom (Caladria)]: Lethe, my sweetie.

[Lethe]: Mom? Are you…

[Mom (Caladria)]: I am getting deployed to Lungmen.

I remember the blind panic that had seized me last night, the sprint through the corridors. I didn't even put on my sneakers; my bare feet slapped against the freezing metal all the way to her dorm.

I remember bursting through her door, my lungs burning, unable to process the sight of her securing the modular pouches to her belt.

I had thrown myself at her, begging. I screamed that she was still injured. The white bandages she had just shed, the exhaustion that had nearly broken her after Chernobog: I threw all of it at her.

I had looked up at her, unspooling. I told her I would run straight to the upper decks, that I would force my way into Dr. Kal'tsit's office and throw myself onto my knees to beg her to rescind the order. Anything would have been worth trading to keep her safe in her bed.

But the flavor bleeding off mom hadn't been the sour dread of fear. It had been heavy and resolute, steeped in heartbreaking honey.

She had peeled my fingers from her uniform. She knelt, and pressed a long kiss to my forehead.

"I can't sit in recovery while people are actively dying outside, my little Lethe," she had whispered.

I let the slate slip from my numb fingers. It thumps against the mattress, the screen going black.

I pull my knees to my chest. My tail wraps around my waist—a useless shield against the dark. I've cried for so many hours that my head throbs in time with my pulse, and my eyes are swollen and burning. There should be no moisture left in me to shed, yet the tears keep carving hot tracks down my cheeks.

My arms tighten their grip on the only things anchoring me to the mattress.

I press my face into the soft fabric of my two plushies. I clutch Amiya and Rosmontis to my chest as if holding them hard enough might throw a barrier around the real girls standing in the fires of Lungmen.

Both heels of my hands dig into my burning eyes, rubbing until the darkness behind my eyelids bursts into faint stars. The skin of my cheeks is raw and tight from the salt.

I can't just curl into a ball in the dark.

We can keep the hearth warm, Miss Lena's voice echoes in the quiet of my mind, a steady melody against the dread.

We understand nature's wrath, Miss Adele's fierce resolve follows, anchoring my trembling spine.

I lower my hands and reach across the mattress for the slate. The screen is still smeared with the wet track of my tears. I wipe it clean against the fabric of my sleepwear, the cool blue light on my fingers. I open the messaging app and pull up the separate threads for the people who are walking through the fires of war and suffering.

Mom. Amiya. Rosmontis. Ms. Skyfire.

One by one, I tap the glass, sending the exact same lifeline into the dark.

[Lethe]: Please be safe out there. We will keep the landship safe.

The messages are unsent.

Originium density is disrupting long range communications. Ms. Skyfire's lecture rings out in my mind. The root of all our technologies is also the greatest disruptor.

I set the slate down and push myself off the mattress.

The ritual of getting dressed is a grounding necessity.

Last, I pull the jacket over my shoulders. I reach out and take my Arts Unit.

I am an Operator of the Medical Department. I have a job to do.

The walk through the landship is a solitary march. But as the doors of the Convalescent Garden hiss open, the sterility of the hallways washes away.

A humid wave of warm air spills over me. It carries the earthy scent of damp soil, crushed leaves, and the faint fragrance of blooming flora. The garden is peaceful today.

"Good morning, Lethe!"

The chiming voice cuts through the rustling canopy. Lisa bounds down the path. Crystallized sugar and blinding light burst behind my teeth, a relief to my frayed nerves.

"Good morning," I reply.

Behind her, stepping out with a watering can in hand, is Podenco.

"Good…" Podenco starts, her ears swiveling toward me. Then, she stops dead in her tracks. "…Good morning, Lethe."

Deep within the foliage, Miss Lena turns from her prep counter.

Miss Lena's eyes sweep over my battered appearance. But unlike Podenco, her expression doesn't fracture. The welcoming smile on her face holds firm.

"Good morning, sweetie," Miss Lena says, her voice an anchor in the humid air. She offers me a reassuring nod.

I grip my Arts Unit, and step fully into the garden.

"I'm ready to work," I declare, my voice steadying as I look at the three of them.

"Not yet!" Lisa chirps.

The musical cadence of her voice derails my grim determination. She reaches behind her back and produces a neatly wrapped rectangle in bright, cheerful paper.

As she holds it out, it clinks.

"Podenco and I, we pooled our savings together," Lisa announces, her eyes shining with pride. "This is for your birthday, Lethe."

Podenco steps up right beside her.

"It's a notebook and some coloring pens," Podenco explains. "Hope you like it."

My eyes fix on the bright package.

I reach out. I take the small present, the paper crinkling under my grip.

I don't open it. I pull it flush against my chest, wrapping both arms around the rectangular box.

The stinging heat flares up behind my eyes all over again. A lump swells in my throat. I bite down hard on my lower lip, trying to lock the tears away. I had spent the morning crying in the dark of my dorm; I don't want to cry in front of them. I don't want to ruin their happy flavors with the bitter salt of my tears.

"I love it." My voice fractures into a watery squeak. I squeeze the box tighter against my turtleneck. "I love it so much. Thank you."

Lisa's tails wag hard, and Podenco's ears prick up. But the tide of their affection doesn't stop there.

"Miss Lena has something for you too, Lethe," Lisa says, her voice a musical chime, refusing to let me drown in my own melancholy.

I blink the blur out of my vision and look past them.

Miss Lena steps out from behind her usual counter. She reaches into the pockets of her apron and pulls out a pair of hand-woven leg warmers.

The yarn is a striking shade of light blue. It's the exact misty hue of my eyes, and a seamless match to the spade-tipped tail arced behind my back.

"It's getting cold, Lethe." Miss Lena steps forward to set the woven fabric on top of the wrapped notebook in my arms. "Here."

I look down at the soft yarn.

Then I look up at the three of them. The tears spill over, tracing hot paths down my cheeks, but this time, they do not taste like ash or despair.

"Thank you," I sob, my lips trembling into a smile. "Thank you, everyone. I will keep them forever."

The birthday gifts are fragile anchors. But they're overshadowed by the gravity of the war raging outside our hull.

The days collapse into a grinding loop.

I siphon the trauma.

The tastes never get better. I force my jaw shut, swallowing the sludge to tear the nightmare out of their minds. I sever the connection and stumble into the nearest washroom, where I heave over the porcelain basin, trying to purge the phantom horrors out of my stomach.

Every time, I tell myself I'll keep it down. I never do.

I rinse my mouth with freezing water until the tang dulls, wipe my face, and walk back out to find the next shattered Operator.

I eat in the cafeteria.

The food is tasteless. Sweet pastries and savory broths turn to wet sand on my tongue, chewed and swallowed out of a mechanical necessity to keep my body from collapsing.

I study in the Archives.

I bury my face in stacks of medical texts and Originium research. I read until the blocky text blurs, forcing the knowledge into my brain, desperate to understand the black crystals and the brutal mechanics of the world that took my family away to the front lines.

I shower.

I scrub my skin under the warm water until it's flushed and raw, trying to wash away the cloying scents of ozone, blood, and medical bleach.

I sleep.

A dreamless exhaustion pulls me under the moment my cheek hits the pillow, only for the clinical white daylight cycle to snap on and start it all over again.

I survive the loop. Over and over again.

Until the 6th of January.

I'm sitting on the edge of my mattress, staring blankly at the floor as I lace up my sneakers for the afternoon shift.

A sharp chime shatters the silence of the dorm.

My slate vibrates against the nightstand. I flinch. I reach out with an exhausted hand and tap the glass screen. A high-priority encrypted direct message banner drops down.

[Kal'tsit]: You are allowed on the flight deck.

I forget how to breathe.

I read the seven words again.

The flight deck. The highest, most heavily restricted, most heavily armored tier of the entire landship. The launchpad for the helicopters and VTOL aircraft. No one goes up there unless they're authorized for deployment, or…

They are coming back.

The slate slips from my numb fingers, clattering against the floor.

I don't even bother to pick it up. I scramble off the mattress, grab my jacket, shove my arms through the sleeves, and snatch my Arts Unit from where it rests against the wall.

I burst out of my dorm room and break into a dead sprint.

I tear down the corridors, abandoning any pretense of walking. My tail lashes behind me for balance. I weave through the startled logistics Operators, bypass the primary elevators, and throw myself at the emergency stairwells. My lungs burn with the sterile air, and my legs ache with every step up the steep stairs, but I don't stop.

Mom. Amiya. Rosmontis. Ms. Skyfire.

The flight deck is a sprawling expanse of wind-scoured steel.

The air up here bites, a freezing gale that whips across the open tarmac and tears through the thin fabric of my clothing. I shiver, teeth chattering, and hug my jacket tighter around my body. But my lower legs are warm. Miss Lena's hand-woven leg warmers cling to my calves, a woolen shield of domestic warmth holding back the chill of the upper atmosphere.

I stand behind the heavy yellow safety lines, my hands gripping the barricade until my knuckles ache. I look up.

VTOLs descend from the skies.

The clouds above are a suffocating grey, heavy with the toxic dust of the warzone. The aircraft break through the smog like scarred metal birds, their hulls battered, scorched by Originium Arts, stained with the soot of a burning city. They're carrying my loved ones back from the war.

The bone-rattling roar of the engines drops away as the heavy landing gear strikes the tarmac.

Hydraulics hiss. The heavy ramps lower to the deck with a resounding clank.

Operators spill out into the freezing air. They stagger down the ramps, holding each other up. Their armor is cracked, their coats are torn, and they look exhausted. Battered, bruised, but alive.

My eyes rake the disembarking crowds, searching the sea of ash-stained uniforms.

Then, I see them.

Stepping off the ramp of the second VTOL are two familiar figures. One wears the translucent, high-collared coat of a specialized Medic, her feathers ruffled by the wind. Beside her, moving with a weary aristocratic grace, is a woman in a deep crimson and black coat, her fiery hair cutting through the grey of the flight deck like a beacon.

Mom and Ms. Skyfire.

I don't wait for the deck officers to give the all-clear. I duck right under the yellow safety line and rush over.

"Lethe?" mom's voice calls out, startled, as she catches sight of me blurring toward her.

I don't slow down. I slam into her at full speed.

The impact nearly knocks the breath out of both of us, but mom's instincts need no time at all. She drops her medical bags and catches me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders as I bury my face in the center of her chest.

"Lethe."

The voice above us is refined, cutting through the roaring wind with practiced authority.

I turn my head just enough to peek out of mom's coat. Ms. Skyfire stands a few paces away. Her immaculate uniform is singed at the edges, and a streak of soot marks her cheek, but she holds her chin high. She nods once, approving.

"Hope you have your homework ready," Ms. Skyfire declares, the crackling warmth of her fire bleeding off her, "and not missing your readings."

I squeeze mom even tighter, refusing to peel back from the embrace.

"Of course not!" I muffle into the fabric of mom's shirt. "I even have Miss Adele teaching me new things."

The air on the flight deck shifts.

Crackling warmth flares into a spike of chili and hot spice.

Ms. Skyfire's feline ears snap straight up and swivel toward me. Her eyes narrow.

"Miss Adele?" Ms. Skyfire repeats. She crosses her arms over her chest. "You mean the Caprinae volcanologist? Lethe, I leave you unsupervised for a mere handful of weeks, and you immediately seek out another tutor to supplement my curriculum?"

Mom laughs above me, breathless, her shoulders shaking.

"I didn't replace you!" I protest, peeking out again, eyes wide. "She just helped me understand the geopolitical textbooks because the Ursus and Yan histories were too hard! But I still saved the thermodynamic Originium chapters entirely for you, Ms. Skyfire!"

Ms. Skyfire scoffs, though the peppery sting in the air mellows back into a prideful warmth. She reaches up and brushes a strand of ash-stained hair from her face.

"Well, I suppose basic geology and history are acceptable secondary pursuits," she mutters, lifting her chin with a sniff. "But make no mistake, Lethe. Once I've properly bathed and rested, we're immediately reviewing those thermodynamic chapters. I will not have my primary student falling behind simply because I was occupied saving a city."

"I will be ready!" I promise, my voice muffled but certain.

I close my eyes, burying my face back into my mother's arms. The honey closes over me.

"Lethe."

The voice rings out, soft but clear over the howling wind.

I turn around, still anchored against mom's side.

It's Rosmontis. Her oversized jacket billows in the gale, but her face is as calm and distant as ever. She is safe, and she looks exactly like she always does.

But right behind her, coming down the ramp of the VTOL, is a new flavor.

It hits like a blow: machine grease, roaring exhaust, unapologetic fire. Bright, scorching, and without a trace of hesitation anywhere in it.

A tall Feline strides onto the tarmac. She is carrying an oversized chainsaw over her shoulder, the jagged teeth of the weapon gleaming dull in the bruised light. Her long dark hair whips in the wind.

"Kid! You're way too scrawny!" she shouts, her voice booming over the roar of the idling engines. She marches straight at us, a fearless grin plastered across her face. "Better hold on tight to Caladria there, or a wind might just blow you off the board!"

I blink at her. My eyes go to the machinery she's carrying, then snap to the emblem stitched onto her jacket.

An Elite Ops patch.

"I'm Blaze, by the way," she announces. Before I can process the introduction or offer a proper bow to a veteran of her rank, a gloved hand reaches out. She ruffles my grey hair, undoing the strands I had tucked around the bases of my horns. "Good job keeping the landship safe while we were away."

I look up into her fiery eyes. There's camaraderie there, fierce and burning.

"Thank you, Ms. Blaze," I reply. Leaning my weight against mom's side, I look back at the Elite Operator with every bit of sincerity I have. "I kept the hearth warm, like Miss Lena asked."

Mom, Ms. Skyfire, and Ms. Blaze exchange a quick look over my head.

Then Ms. Blaze throws her head back and laughs, a booming sound that shakes the freezing air around us. The joy pouring off her pushes back the bitter chill of the flight deck.

Beside her, Ms. Skyfire coughs into her hand, delicate and manufactured, holding onto her composure. She turns her head away from the wind, but the begrudging smile gets out anyway.

Mom just laughs, her arm tightening around my shoulders.

"Ms. Blaze? What is so funny?" I ask, blinking up at the towering Elite Operator.

Before Ms. Blaze can explain, a familiar voice cuts through the wind.

"Lethe."

I turn around. Amiya is approaching.

My heart twists. She looks so small on the vast, wind-scoured tarmac. Her face is drawn, shadowed by the blood-soaked horrors she just walked out of. The flavor bleeding off her is ash and ruined concrete and rusted iron.

But the moment her eyes lock onto me, a familiar spark fills her gaze. The bitter ash parts, and a thin note of sugar pushes through the dark. She gives me a weak, worn-out smile.

"Amiya," I breathe, wanting to run to her, but my feet root themselves to the deck.

Because right behind her, stepping down the ramp, is the hooded man.

I recognize the dark coat and the opaque visor. The same figure I had seen in the hallucination pulled from the petrified wood.

I shrink back against mom's side, bracing my senses for the crushing abyss I had felt in the vision.

But what washes off him stops me.

It's different. Still a vast, echoing void, but not alien anymore. The taste in my mouth is complicated: over-steeped black tea and cold iron, sharp on the tongue. And that sharp intellect is clouded over by something muted and tasteless, melting snow and thick grey fog.

He is conflicted.

Before I can process the shift in his presence, the synchronized march of boots pulls my attention away.

A squad of armored Rhodes Island Operators marches down the ramp, weapons drawn, postures tense. In the center of their formation, they're escorting a prisoner.

It's a Draco woman. Her hands are bound in heavy, specialized handcuffs. Her clothes are scorched and tattered, her expression hidden beneath a veil of ash and exhaustion, but the volatile heat rolling off her is unmistakable. The escort squad hurries her past our group with militarized precision.

Right behind them, her crisp coat snapping in the gale, walks Dr. Kal'tsit.

The hooded man doesn't stop to greet us. He follows in the Medical Director's wake without a word, his dark coat blending into the grey smog as he walks behind the captive woman.

Dr. Kal'tsit pauses for only a fraction of a second as she passes our reunited cluster. Her piercing attention sweeps over the Elite Ops, mom, and my small frame pressed against her side.

"This is the flight deck, not a recreational lounge," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "We do not host welcome parties for ourselves while the triage bays are overflowing and high-value combatants require immediate secure processing."

Her gaze snaps to Amiya, Rosmontis and the chainsaw-wielding Ms. Blaze.

"Amiya. Rosmontis. Blaze," Dr. Kal'tsit commands, her tone flat and unforgiving. "You still have a job to do. Report to the command center for debriefing." She shifts her eyes to mom. "Caladria, remove Lethe from the high security zones and report to the medical wing. We have wounded waiting."

Without waiting for an acknowledgment, she turns on her heel and strides away, following the prisoner and the hooded man into the armored depths of home.

I watch Dr. Kal'tsit walk away.

But before she disappears, a flavor slips past her composure. Unripe apple and sour grapefruit. Acidic, and coiled tight.

Is Dr. Kal'tsit… mourning?

I keep looking at the empty doors.

"Well, kid, duty calls," Ms. Blaze sighs, breaking the heavy silence.

She hefts the chainsaw back onto her shoulder with a clatter. Her roaring fire dims, banking down into a simmering ember of somber duty. She flashes me one last brave grin and gives my head a firm pat before turning to follow the Director's path.

Amiya lingers for just a second longer.

She doesn't look up at me. Her gaze drops to the floor, her ears drooping against her shoulders. The concrete and ash and iron bleed out of her again, swallowing the faint spark of sugar that had been there moments ago.

"We'll see you later, Lethe," Amiya says, her voice unsteady. She draws a ragged breath. "Please join us… for memorial…"

Beside her, Rosmontis doesn't speak. She gives a slow nod. Her eyes are distant. She turns and follows our CEO into the dark corridors of our home.

Memorial.

The word drops onto the flight deck like a lead weight.

Mom freezes beside me. Her hand, which had been resting on my shoulder, clamps down. Off to one side, Ms. Skyfire stills. The hearth that had been radiating from the Senior Caster moments ago is smothered.

I don't say a word. I just step closer to mom, pressing my side against hers, and reach up to lace my fingers through hers. I squeeze her hand as hard as I can, trying to pour every bit of my own warmth into her freezing grip.

The air rattles in mom's lungs, but she forces her spine to straighten. She squeezes my fingers back.

"Lethe," mom whispers, her voice thick with unshed tears. She looks at me. "Let's go to the garden…"

As we reach the main junction separating the flight deck elevators from the residential blocks, Ms. Skyfire comes to a halt.

"I must excuse myself. I need to head to the decontamination showers and wash the stench of that ruined city from my coat."

She looks at me, her expression firming into strict expectation. "Remember what I said, Lethe. I expect you to be entirely caught up on your readings when I'm ready."

"I will be, Ms. Skyfire," I promise, giving her a small bow.

She inclines her head to mom, turns on her heel, and disappears down the hallway.

Mom keeps her hand wrapped around mine as we walk the rest of the way. When the doors of the Convalescent Garden finally open, the scent of soil and flora comes as a necessary relief to my frozen lungs.

But the sanctuary feels different today.

Miss Lena is standing near the center. No welcoming smile. Her face is unreadable, carved into a mask of bracing apprehension. Even Podenco and Lisa, over by the flowerbeds, are still.

Mom stops.

"Lena," mom says, her voice cracking. "Amiya… Amiya has called for memorials to be held this evening."

The word hangs in the humid air.

Miss Lena closes her eyes.

"How many?" Miss Lena asks, her voice barely there.

"Ace. Scout," mom replies, the names scraping on the way out. "And many others."

Podenco's hands come up over her mouth. Lisa's ears drop flat against her head. The silence that follows is heavy with the phantom weight of the empty beds they left behind.

Mom forces herself to hold together just a little bit longer.

"I… I need to head to the decontamination showers," mom breathes out. She pulls her fingers from my grip and looks down at me with a fragile smile. "Stay here with them, Lethe. I'll come find you when I'm clean."

"Laters, mom," I say, giving her a small wave.

She nods before turning around.

I stand there a moment, watching the closed doors, letting the melancholy silence of the garden settle over my shoulders.

Then I turn around.

I blink.

Lisa is staring at me, her face lit up. The brightness pouring off her overrides the sorrow of a moment ago. Beside her, Podenco wears an expression that sits halfway between a smirk and a smile, ears perked straight up, tail giving a slow swish behind her.

"Did…" Lisa starts, her voice a vibrating squeak. She takes a step forward, pointing a finger at me. "Did you just call Miss Erika… mom?"

I freeze.

The heat climbs through my face and keeps going, all the way to the tips of my ears. My hands fly up, and my tail coils tight around my leg.

"I… I…"

"Well, well," Podenco teases, stepping up to stand right beside Lisa. Her hands go to her hips, her smirk widening into a victorious grin. "Look who finally admitted it out loud. We've been waiting for months for you to slip up, Lethe!"

"I didn't slip up!" I whine, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to summon any pureblood Sarkaz dignity at all.

"Oh, you definitely did!" Lisa chimes, her tails puffing up and swishing. She hops closer, her eyes crinkling with delight. "It's so cute! 'Laters, mom!' You sounded just like a real daughter!"

"Stop it!" I groan, burying my burning face in my hands.

"Miss Lena, did you hear her?" Podenco calls out, the carbonated fizz of her amusement bubbling through the air. "Our little Lethe is officially adopted!"

I peek through the gaps in my fingers. Even Miss Lena, with the memorial news still sitting on her, has a hand over her mouth and a chuckle escaping around it.

The carbonated fizz of Lisa and Podenco's laughter doesn't last.

The doors hiss. The air in the greenhouse shifts, the sugary warmth flattened under a wave of devastation.

A Forte Operator steps across the threshold.

She looks drained. Her reinforced armor is scored with blackened gouges, and the Rhodes Island emblem on her shoulder is buried under dried blood and soot. Her face is ashen. Her eyes are wide and vacant, staring straight through the lush canopy at something still playing out behind them.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't even seem to register that we're in the room.

The teasing dies on Podenco's lips. Lisa's tails drop.

Miss Lena reacts with the silent efficiency of a veteran Rhodes Island Medic. She doesn't ask what happened. She turns and hurries back to the prep counter to brew a potent herbal tea.

Lisa steps forward, careful with every movement. She takes her by the elbow and guides the battered Operator toward one of the wooden benches without a word.

Podenco turns away without a sound. She grabs a small diagnostic meter, carries it to the far corner of the greenhouse, and buries herself in the pH values of the soil to give the shattered woman room to breathe.

I step forward.

I stop right beside her.

I don't ask for her story yet. I just push out as much sweet, grounding resonance as my passive empathy can muster, wrapping it around her shivering frame like a warm blanket.

Miss Lena comes over without a word and sets a steaming porcelain teacup on the small table beside the bench. The scent of it rises, rich and calming, and pushes back against the stench of war clinging to her armor.

She stares at the teacup for a long while.

Slowly, her scarred hands reach out. Her fingers close around the cup. She brings it to her lips and takes a shaky sip.

The warmth of the tea and the quiet safety of the garden finally crack the shell of her shock.

"It's… hell," she whispers.

I lean in, resting both hands on the handle of my Arts Unit. I close my eyes, preparing to open the channel. "Tell me," I murmur.

"Lungmen," she chokes out, her grip tightening on the teacup. "They told us it was a safe city. A jewel. But when Reunion breached the lower slums and eventually Upper Districts… the city didn't just turn on the rioters."

The air sours, thickening with rot and the metal tang of spilled blood.

"The Guard Department, our allies…" she continues, her breath hitching as tears finally well in her vacant eyes. "They marched into the slums. They were supposed to be securing the area, but they just… they purged it. Anyone with a lesion. Anyone who even looked like they might be Infected. Men, women, children who had absolutely nothing to do with Reunion. The L.G.D. slaughtered the slum-dwellers in the streets, and we couldn't stop them. The city was just burning, and the authorities were executing their own people. We couldn't even help. We need Lungmen supplies…"

The Operator stops, her eyes vacant, on the edge of being dragged back to the burning slums.

"And then… as our mission continued…" She shudders, the teacup rattling against its saucer. The burning slums plunge into bone-chilling cold. "Reunion was routed from the city. We pushed forward. We chased their leader. Talulah."

"She was a monster of pure fire," the woman whispers, her bovine ears pinning flat against her head. "We chased her out of the burning city, tracking her into the freezing tundra. We thought we had them cornered. We thought we were just fighting angry, disorganized rioters in tattered white coats."

A hysterical sob tears its way out of her throat.

"It was a trap," she cries, bowing her head as the tears carve tracks through the soot. "The people we engaged in the snow… they didn't fight like rioters. They didn't break. They locked into perfect military formations. They had tactical casters, and armor-piercing bolts. They had jetpack troopers…"

She looks up, her eyes locking onto mine, and there is nothing in them but despair.

"Beneath the white coats… it was the Ursus Second Army. The empire disguised their own elite military squads as Reunion terrorists. They ambushed us in the snow. They butchered us. We… we, my squad…"

The taste hits me: a toxic cocktail of burning slums, imperial malice, blood-soaked snow. Cold tap water and dried-out pastries. Poison, all of it. My stomach heaves in revolt.

I clench my jaw until my teeth ache. I force it all down, swallowing the venom of the world so the shattered woman in front of me doesn't have to carry it anymore.

Slowly, her shivering stops. The paralyzing terror melts out of her, leaving her exhausted, but finally able to rest. She slumps back against the bench, her eyes fluttering shut as Miss Lena's tea takes hold.

I sever the connection. I stand there in the quiet greenhouse, my hands trembling around my staff.

I press a hand to my mouth. I walk out of the garden to my dorm room.

I sleep the rest of the day until it's time to head toward the memorial.

The air in the memorial hall is heavy past bearing. A bottomless ocean of stagnant saltwater, cold metal, and crushed petals.

I stand near the front, my hand enveloped in mom's trembling, gloved grip.

To my left stands Ms. Skyfire, impeccably straight. Beside her, Ms. Blaze is still in a way that frightens me. Her fists are clenched so hard at her sides that the leather of her gloves groans under the strain. Ms. Raidian stands off to one side, her sun-warmed oak presence a sturdy pillar for the younger Operators weeping into their hands.

Rosmontis is here, too. She stares blankly ahead.

There are hundreds of other people I don't know.

Dr. Kal'tsit and Dr. Warfarin aren't here. They're down in the triage bays right now, fighting to keep the list of names from growing.

And the list is long.

I look up. Dominating the entire back of the cavernous hall is a wall of dark steel and polished obsidian. Carved into its surface are names. Too many.

But what makes my chest ache is the state of the wall. Forty-three of the names on that slab are shining silver. The cuts in the steel are so fresh they gleam under the muted amber lights.

They were carved today.

At the very front of the assembly, standing on a raised dais beneath the towering wall, is Amiya.

And standing right beside her, as silent and immovable as a shadow, is the hooded man.

Amiya steps up to the front of the dais.

She looks so small against the backdrop of the memorial wall. Her jacket is pristine, but her face is pale and drawn. She looks out over the sea of battered, grieving Operators, and the sugar of her presence stretches so thin I'm afraid it will snap.

But it doesn't. She draws a shuddering breath. Her ears rise and lock into a posture of unyielding resolve. When she speaks, her voice is soft, but it carries into every dark corner of the hall.

"We stand here today…" Amiya begins, her voice trembling before she forces it steady. "We stand here today to honor those who did not return to us."

The silence in the hall deepens. Mom's grip on my hand tightens until my knuckles ache, but I don't pull away. I squeeze back with everything I have.

"The last few weeks have tested the very foundation of Rhodes Island," Amiya continues, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. "We deployed into the heart of Chernobog. We walked into a Catastrophe, into the fires of Reunion, and into the shadow of the Empire of Ursus. And when the ashes settled… we were forced to immediately stand between a burning city and Lungmen."

She pauses. Her hands, resting by her sides, curl into tight fists.

"They wanted to crash the core city of Chernobog directly into Lungmen," Amiya's voice echoes, ringing with terrible clarity. "It would have triggered a war, between Ursus and Yan, that would have consumed the entire continent. Tens of millions of innocent lives, Infected and uninfected alike, would have been wiped out."

It is unfathomable. My dear friend stands up there on the dais. She had stood in the center of an apocalypse and held back a continental war.

"We stopped the city," Amiya declares, her voice breaking. "We stopped the war. But the cost…"

She turns her head, looking up at the slab of dark steel.

"The cost was everything," she whispers.

Amiya turns back to us, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"We went to Chernobog with a mission. We went to rescue Doctor, our Doctor." She gestures toward the hooded man at her side. "He is the strategic mind we need to guide Rhodes Island into the future. He is our hope. But to secure that hope, and to stop the city from falling…"

She swallows hard, and the tears spill over her lashes.

"Ace."

The name hits the quiet room like a strike. A muffled sob tears its way out of Ms. Blaze's throat beside us.

"Scout," Amiya continues, her voice lifting to carry the name.

She keeps naming the names. It never seems to end.

The carved names run across the wall. They had thrown themselves into the teeth of the Ursus military and Reunion's fire, knowing they would never see their home again, just so Amiya and the hooded man could escape.

"And those who could have been one of us. Misha, Faust, Yelena, Patriot…"

They are members of Reunion… But there is only sorrow in Amiya's voice.

"They traded their tomorrow so that we could have ours," Amiya says, the tears carving tracks down her cheeks. "They believed in Doctor. They believed in me. And they believed in all of you. They gave their lives so that Rhodes Island could survive to heal our broken world."

She bows her head.

"We will carry their memories. We will carry their fire. We will not let their sacrifices be in vain. We will become the dawn they fought to see."

Amiya falls silent. She steps back, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Doctor.

The hall descends into an unbroken quiet.

I look at him.

He is the reason Ace is dead. He is the reason Scout is dead. But the tragic conviction burning in Amiya's tear-stained eyes makes something cold settle in my stomach.

Maybe this is Terra's real face. I hate it.

Mom drops to her knees beside me. She pulls me into her side, burying her face into the fabric of my jacket. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs.

I don't cry. My arms go around her instead, anchoring my mother to the floor. I rest my chin on her shoulder, my eyes locked onto the wall of names, etching the cost of our survival into whatever is left of my mind.

Mom slowly pulls her face away from my shoulder. Her breathing is still uneven, but the shaking of her frame has begun to subside.

Around us, the memorial hall thins. The sea of grieving Operators filters out through the doors, their footsteps hollow on the steel. They carry their mourning back to their dorms and leave the hall empty.

Only a few remain in the shadows of the obsidian wall. Ms. Skyfire stands quiet, her presence banked into a flickering ember. Ms. Blaze and Ms. Raidian linger near the aisles, sentinels watching over the lingering ghosts. Rosmontis stands without moving.

And then, there is Amiya.

She steps down from the dais, leaving Doctor's side for a moment to walk toward us.

Amiya stops right beside mom and me. For a long second, she doesn't say a word. She just looks at me. I look back at her, my hands still gripping the fabric of mom's coat.

We both feel the emotions of everyone.

But as Amiya looks into my eyes, the devastated lines of her face begin to ease.

"We didn't get to celebrate your birthday, Lethe," Amiya says, her voice a quiet chime in the vast hall.

Mom freezes.

The sorrow radiating from her is pierced by an acidic spike of horror. Her eyes blow wide.

"Lethe," mom gasps, her voice fracturing into panic. She twists toward me, her hands flying up to grasp my shoulders. "I'm so sorry! I… I completely forgot, I…"

I don't let her spiral.

I reach out, my left hand lifting in the dim amber light, and press my index finger against her lips, shushing the apologies before they can tear her apart.

"Just make it up to me." I offer her a steady smile.

Mom stares at me, her eyes shining with fresh tears. The acidic panic melts, dissolving into a rushing wave of honey. She closes her eyes and leans forward, pressing her forehead against my shoulder. Her grip on me loosens.

Amiya watches us, her own smile widening into something tender.

"Let's go to the break room," Amiya suggests, her voice lifting into an encouraging cadence. She turns her head to look at the hooded man.

She looks at me. "If you don't mind, Lethe. Can Doctor join us?"

I turn my head. Doctor's heavy coat absorbs the muted light of the memorial hall. He is a stranger, an abyss.

But Amiya trusts him.

I look past Doctor, my eyes sweeping over the mourning Elites lingering in the aisles, and finally onto Rosmontis, still as the stone behind her.

I reach down and wrap my hand around mom's fingers, anchoring her as she stands back up. My eyes find Amiya's.

"Doctor. Rosmontis. Ms. Blaze. Ms. Raidian. Ms. Skyfire. Everyone who can come."

As I speak the words, a hollow ache pulses behind my eyes. My birthday is only a date on my file. I don't remember the day it stands for, the day mom pulled me out of the rubble. Even with the ancient Kazdelian artifact gripped in my hand, shielding me from the burn, the void keeps expanding. My memories are still slipping away, bleeding out into the dark.

Acidic dread bubbles up at the root of my tongue. I swallow it down hard.

I think of Miss Adele in the hushed aisles of the Archives, the resignation in her airy voice, Oripathy stealing her hearing and her sight by degrees. Yet her volcanic resolve never wavered. She's losing so much, and she still spends her days helping people understand Catastrophes so they won't be so afraid.

I grip my Arts Unit tighter. Sitting in the dark to mourn what the Originium takes from me is not enough. I cannot let mom, Amiya, and the others shoulder this war on their own. I promised Miss Lena I would keep the hearth warm, and I intend to keep that promise.

Light breaks across Amiya's tear-stained face, and the spun sugar of her presence swells, pushing back the lingering grief of the room.

"Let's meet at the break room of this deck in twenty minutes," Amiya says, her ears perking up with renewed energy.

I meet her eyes and nod once.

"Let's."

The walk away from the memorial hall is a slow march.

Our footsteps echo against the steel corridors.

My eyes stay on the floor as we walk. My mind races, sifting through the blur of the last few weeks: the ashes of Chernobog, the fires of Lungmen, the hurried conversations we had before she deployed.

A cold realization clicks into place—a discrepancy I had been too frightened to process until this exact moment.

My eyes lift to her exhausted face.

"Mom."

She blinks, pulling herself out of her own heavy thoughts, and looks down at me. Grief mutes the honey, but she still tries to offer a little warmth.

"Lethe?" she murmurs.

I stop walking.

"Be honest with me."

She pauses, her brow furrowing in confusion. The feathers give an uncertain twitch. "What do you mean, Lethe?"

I put the words in order first.

"When you told me before Tkaronto," I begin, keeping my voice as steady as I can, "you told me you left Columbia and Rhine Lab because you wanted to heal people, not because you had the rocks in your blood."

Mom stops dead in her tracks.

The halt is abrupt, her boots going still. But the empathic shift is instant.

The faint warmth radiating from her shatters. It's replaced by cracked ice and the acidic tang of sour unripe fruit.

I turn to face her.

"But in the cafeteria, before your deployment to Lungmen," I press on, the words tumbling out of my throat, raw and desperate. "You laid out who is uninfected. You named Ms. Skyfire. You named Dr. Warfarin. You named Podenco."

I grip my staff with both hands until my knuckles go bone-white, and look into her wide eyes.

"You didn't say yourself."

The silence in the corridor is deafening. The blood drains out of her face, confirming the truth before she even opens her mouth.

"What do you mean, sweetie," mom says, forcing a small laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. She tries to brush it off, her hand lifting to adjust the collar of her translucent coat. "It's just a slip."

But the air betrays her.

The lie hits the back of my tongue. It's cloying, like sweeteners stirred into spoiled milk.

"You can't lie to me, mom…" I whisper. "I can… I can taste emotions, remember? I taste lies… Please… When did it happen?"

The manufactured composure on her face shatters. Her shoulders slump, the professional posture of an Operator giving way to the terrified reality of mom.

"It was… confirmed a few days before our promotion contract…" she breathes out, her voice hollow and beaten. She looks away, down at the polished floor. "They suspected it could be in Kazdel…"

"You weren't protected?" I ask, my eyes blowing wide.

My mind races. I know Rhodes Island's protocols. I've seen the Medics in the triage bays, the heavy tactical gear, the respirators, the environmental seals designed to keep Originium dust out of their lungs.

She looks at me. Long and hard.

Her eyes search my face for a flicker of recognition, a shared understanding of what we had survived together in those ruins. She is waiting for me to connect the dots.

"You don't remember, do you? Lethe…" she whispers, her voice thick with realization.

I freeze.

I can't even remember the sacrifice she made.

I look up at her, my vision blurring with hot tears.

"I… Sorry…" My voice cracks, the guilt splitting it. "I don't."

"It's okay. Little Lethe."

Mom steps forward, closing the space between us, and wraps her arms around me. She pulls me into a crushing embrace, tucking my head beneath her chin.

"You don't have to remember," she murmurs into my hair, her voice thick with forgiveness.

"Tell me, please," I beg, my voice muffled against her chest but shaking with need. "Did I do something?"

"Lethe."

It is a warning. A heartbroken plea.

"I am sure, mom," I push back. "I have to know."

Mom closes her eyes. A shuddering breath wracks her frame, rattling the modular medical pouches at her waist. When she opens her eyes again, the aching sorrow in them is unshielded.

"When you fell into my arms," she whispers, the words scraping against the quiet of the hallway. "Your horns caught my mask and damaged the respirator."

The words don't just hang in the air; they detonate.

The oxygen is sucked out of my lungs. My vision tunnels, the walls of the landship blurring into a grey smear.

My horns.

I traded my mother's life for my own. It's my fault she has the black crystals in her blood now. The sickness that's killing everyone. Because of me.

"No…" I choke out, the sound a ragged wheeze.

I peel away from her.

I break the embrace, stumbling backward. I stare at her, at the Rhodes Island Medic cross strapped to her arm, and then down at my own hands.

I am a parasite.

"Oh dear. What happened?"

The voice is smooth and deep. It echoes down the corridor and pulls me for a moment out of the drowning dark. Right behind it, Ms. Blaze's fiery presence fills the corridor.

I keep backing away, my shoes sliding against the floor until my shoulders slam into the wall. I press myself flat against the cold steel, trying to fuse with it.

"Just toss me out to the wasteland," I choke out, wrapping my arms around my own ribs. "I don't deserve any of this."

"Lethe!" The Medic cries out. She steps forward, her hands reaching across the space between us.

"Mom…" The word tears my throat to shreds. I shake my head. "No, I don't deserve that title… Don't. Don't come closer… Cal… Caladria. I am just a parasite…"

She stops dead, her outstretched hands trembling in the air.

"Look at me."

The command slices through the chaotic static.

I look up slowly, through my tear-soaked vision.

Caladria is shivering. Ms. Blaze stands right next to her, the Elite Operator's face filling with unsettled worry. She rests her hand on Caladria's shoulder.

Amiya, Rosmontis, and Doctor have stopped just behind them. Amiya has a hand pressed hard against her own chest, her ears drooping. She looks like it hurts her.

Ms. Raidian steps forward, putting herself into my line of sight and blocking out the devastated audience in the corridor.

She reaches out and places her steady hands on me.

"You are going to look at me, Lethe, and you are going to listen," Ms. Raidian instructs, her voice dropping into a low hum that vibrates through my collarbones.

I try to gasp, but the air catches in my throat in a wet hiccup.

"You are not a parasite," Ms. Raidian states, her eyes locking onto mine with unyielding authority. "You are a child who was trapped in a Catastrophe. What happened with your horns in those ruins was a tragedy of circumstance. It was an accident. It was not a choice you made."

She leans in, the polished oak of her presence pressing back the cold of my panic.

"Caladria made a choice," Ms. Raidian continues, her voice ringing clear. "She saw a girl dying in the rubble, and she chose to reach into the dark to pull you out. She knew exactly what the Kazdel outskirts were. She knew the risks. That's what Rhodes Island Medics do."

Ms. Raidian gives my shoulders a squeeze, forcing me to stop shrinking against the bulkhead.

"We do not blame the drowning child for the water in our lungs, Lethe," she says, her tone softening into something aching that refuses to let me look away. "And Caladria does not blame you for her Oripathy. If you push her away now to punish yourself, you are insulting the very sacrifice she willingly made to give you a future. Do you understand me?"

Ms. Raidian steps closer, and the physical reality of her presence anchors me to the ground. Two of her hands come down heavy on my shoulders, rooting my frame in place. Her other two hands reach up to cup my face.

She tilts my head up, forcing me to meet her gaze.

"Do you understand me?" Ms. Raidian asks, the rumble of it low in my collarbones.

"I…" My voice fractures into a thin croak. Hot tears blur my vision and spill over her steady fingers. "But it is me…"

"No. Lethe." Ms. Raidian's grip on my face tightens a fraction, a grounding pressure. The warm oak of her presses down on the freezing panic in my chest. "What did I just tell you?"

The dam shatters.

"I'm hurting…" I sob, the words tearing out of my raw throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to hold back the tidal wave of grief. "Mom… mom…"

The pressure on my cheeks and shoulders recedes. Ms. Raidian lets me go.

Mom all but collides with me. She drops to her knees and throws her arms around me, pulling me flush against her chest.

"Please don't do this again, I never blame you. It was not your fault."

We stay like that for a long time. The only sound in the sterile hallway is our breathing, ragged and overlapping.

Then the heavy atmosphere of the corridor is punctured.

"The family time is cute and all," a loud voice echoes, shattering the quiet.

I sniffle, peeking out over mom's shoulder. Ms. Blaze stands in the middle of the corridor, one hand on her hip.

"But you guys need to learn how to live," Ms. Blaze declares, a fearless grin stretching across her face, "not just mope."

Mom lets out a wet laugh. She pulls back, her thumbs wiping the tears from my cheeks, and then loosens her grip.

I wipe my own eyes with the back of my oversized sleeve. I open my mouth, ready to thank the Elites.

But before I can even process her movement, Ms. Blaze steps forward.

Huge hands grab me by the waist. The world tilts ninety degrees. In one motion I'm hoisted into the air, tucked horizontally under the arm of Ms. Blaze like a sack of logistics flour.

"Eh?!" The word leaves me in a pitch-high squeak.

My legs dangle in the cold air. My tail sways back and forth against her side. I try to flail, to find any sort of leverage, but fighting the strength of Ms. Blaze is futile.

"To the break room!" Ms. Blaze declares.

Without waiting for a response, she begins marching down the metallic corridor, carrying me away from the shadows and straight toward the light.

Every heavy thud of Ms. Blaze's boots bounces through my ribs. I'm tucked so tight under her arm that my useless wiggling doesn't even throw her off balance.

Amiya falls into step beside her.

I tilt my head, trying to see her from my undignified position. The exhaustion-carved shadows under Amiya's eyes are still there. But the smile she gives me is bright enough to push back the sterile chill of the losses.

"Lethe," Amiya says, her voice a chime over the heavy thud of Ms. Blaze's boots. "I ordered a cake. Priority delivery."

I blink at her.

The weight of it settles into my chest, but it doesn't hurt. It's warm instead. I think about the obsidian wall of names we had just stood beneath, the cost of our survival, the fresh tears that had soaked our collars. The people around me all taste like grief, and they're still making room for my birthday anyway.

Everyone is trying their best to look toward the future.

"Thank you. Thank you, everyone."

"Lethe is friend."

The voice is quiet, flat, and steady.

Rosmontis pads alongside us.

"We take care of friends," Rosmontis states.

Behind us, a breathy giggle echoes down the hall.

It is a bell-like sound.

Mom steps up behind Ms. Blaze. At least, that's where the voice is coming from.

"Blaze," mom says, her voice laced with a mischievous fizz that I rarely get to taste. "You have to teach me how to carry her like this. She is too unruly sometimes."

"What?! No!" I yelp, betrayal coloring my voice.

I renew my struggling, kicking my sneakers in the air and twisting my shoulders in a futile attempt to escape the Elite Operator's iron grip.

Ms. Blaze barks out another hearty laugh, and it rattles my teeth. "You got it, Caladria! It's all in the core and the shoulder grip! I'll run you through the drills after we get some sugar in this kid!"

I groan, pathetic and muffled, and let my limbs go limp in defeat as I'm carried away to my birthday party.

The doors of the break room slide apart with a hiss. Ms. Blaze marches through the threshold, unbothered by the fact that she's carrying me under her arm like a tactical battering ram.

"I've personally seen fit to call your new tutor, Le…"

Ms. Skyfire turns from her conversation with Miss Adele, tossing her hair over her shoulder. But the moment her eyes land on us, the aristocratic cadence of her voice flatlines.

She freezes. Her feline ears twitch once, twice. Her jaw drops. The roasted spices sputter, short-circuiting into dumbfounded disbelief.

Miss Adele peers around Ms. Skyfire's frozen frame. Her eyes widen, and her hands come up over her mouth. An airy giggle escapes her, her curling horns shaking with amusement.

Across the room, the reaction from the Convalescent Garden crew is instant.

"Lethe!" Lisa gasps. Her chiming voice rings across the room. She bounds forward a few steps, her eyes sparkling with wonder. "Are you flying?! Ms. Blaze, can I have a turn next?!"

"You look like a piece of logistics freight!" Podenco doesn't even try to hide her amusement, her ears flicking back as she bursts into a bright laugh. "Is that your new rapid deployment method, Lethe?"

Miss Lena only chuckles, unfazed.

But it's the quietest reaction in the room that anchors my attention.

Opal is sitting, her hands still clutching her plushie against her chest. She stares at my dangling legs, my swishing tail, my burning face.

Her ears give a hesitant twitch. And then the edges of her lips tremble upward.

A fractured sound escapes her throat. A fragile little giggle.

She tastes like a dried strawberry with chocolate. It is the best taste in this world.

"All right, all right, delivery complete!" Ms. Blaze booms, her laughter shaking the air.

She swings me down and sets me on my feet. My sneakers squeak against the floor. I stumble, my hands flying up to smooth down my skirt and straighten my oversized jacket, trying to salvage whatever scrap of professionalism I can.

Mom steps into the break room behind us, Amiya and Rosmontis at her heels. One look at my flustered, blushing face and another breathy giggle escapes her.

"I think the transportation method was a success," mom teases.

I pout and cross my arms over my chest, turning a glare on every one of my family and friends in the room.

"I am never," I declare, voice wavering between mortification and a desperate attempt at authority, "letting any of you carry me ever again."

The break room erupts into a chorus of overlapping laughter.

I settle into a chair, nursing a plastic cup of cold apple juice I just acquired from the main table. The crisp liquid washes over my tongue, a grounding comfort that settles the last of the adrenaline from Ms. Blaze's transportation method.

Across the room, Doctor stands in the background. He doesn't join the chatter or the laughter. He leans against the painted wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his opaque visor angled toward us, taking in the room. I still don't quite understand him, but watching Amiya smile freely in his presence makes the abyss feel a little less frightening.

I take another sip of my juice, my eyes drifting to the Elite Operator across from me.

Ms. Blaze is drinking something questionable, a thick amber liquid sloshing inside a dented metal flask. She unscrews the cap and takes an unapologetic gulp, and the fumes drift across the table: fermented grain, bruised fruit, and something that could strip the paint off a Castle bot. I wrinkle my nose and pull my cup of apple juice closer to my chest.

Then a knock echoes through the room, quick and efficient.

Tap. Tap.

The rhythm is sharp and devoid of hesitation. Amiya sets her small plate of fruits down on the table.

"I'll get it," Amiya chimes, her voice carrying a melodic bounce as she glides across the room to the sliding door.

The panel parts.

A stern Lupo stands at the door. She wears a tailored uniform without the standard Rhodes Island insignia, her posture casual but carrying the coiled readiness of a seasoned Field Ops. A thin chocolate stick rests in the corner of her mouth, bobbing as she breathes. In her hands she balances a digital clipboard and a sealed cardboard box.

It's the flavor bleeding off her that catches me, though.

The moment the door opens, her presence drifts into the break room and finds me, cool and precise. Bitter dark cocoa layered over the clean snap of chilled rain on wet asphalt. Her flavor is contained, almost aggressively so.

She shifts her weight, removing the chocolate stick from her mouth with two fingers.

"Delivery for the CEO," she states. Her voice is flat and smooth, unbothered by the room full of Elite Ops and department heads.

"Oh, thank you, Texas!" Amiya's ears lift.

Amiya signs the digital clipboard with a swipe of her finger and takes the cardboard box into her arms. Texas gives a crisp nod of acknowledgment, puts the chocolate stick back between her teeth, and turns on her heel, disappearing into the quiet corridors of the landship as efficiently as she arrived.

"Cake's here!" Amiya announces, her voice drawing everyone's attention back to the center of the room.

She sets the cardboard box onto the wooden table with a soft thud. With practiced movements, she pulls back the flaps and lifts the pastry out of its packaging.

It's a fruit cake, the top crowned with glazed berries, sliced peaches, and kiwi that gleam under the break room lights. In the center of the glossy fruits stands a single white candle.

Ms. Blaze reaches into her pocket for a lighter, flicking it open to bring a teardrop of fire to the wick. The golden light reflects in Amiya's eyes as she looks across the table at me. Her shoulders sink just a fraction, a thread of burnt sugar cutting through her usual sweetness.

"Sorry, Lethe." Amiya's smile turns a little sheepish. "With everything happening with the logistics lines, I couldn't get a custom-made one for you."

I shake my head. My horns cut through the air, and my grey hair whips around my shoulders.

"No! This is the best birthday I could have ever asked for."

The apologetic droop of Amiya's ears vanishes, replaced by a relieved smile that makes the air in the room taste like sunshine.

Right beside me, mom steps closer. She reaches toward the tray and picks up the stainless steel cake knife.

She turns the blade away, offering me the smooth handle, a tender smile crinkling the corners of her exhausted eyes.

"Birthday girl gets the first slice." She taps my shoulder. "Don't hurt yourself with it, though."

I reach out, my fingers closing around the handle of the knife. I look up into her beautiful eyes, my chest so full of love and gratitude it feels like it might burst.

"Okay. Mom!" I beam, my tail giving a happy swish behind my skirt.

I turn back to the glowing candle. I close my eyes, take a deep breath of the fruit-scented air, and blow out the tiny flame, ready to claim my very first slice of the future.

In the blink of an eye, it's the 12th of January, 1097.

The ashes of the war have finally begun to settle. The corridors no longer reek of panic, though the air still carries the faint phantom of our collective grief.

I adjust the straps of my bag, making sure my slate is secure, as I reach the primary intersection.

"See you tonight, Lisa, Podenco!" I call out.

"See you, Lethe!" Lisa's bright voice echoes back.

Beside her, Podenco offers a cheerful wave. Their steps carry them back toward the humid sanctuary of the Convalescent Garden, while I turn my path downward.

The doors of the Archives open, greeting me with the familiar scent of dry parchment, recycled air, and quiet preservation. I make my way deep into the stacks.

I find them at our usual secluded wooden table.

Miss Adele is seated with her glasses. Across from her sits Ms. Skyfire.

I step up to the table, pulling a neat stack of written notes from my bag.

"Ms. Skyfire," I announce, setting the papers on the table between us. "Here is my homework from last week. I made sure to double-check the chapters."

I expect the scoff. I expect her ears to snap to attention as she reaches for the papers, launching into a hyper-critical dissection of my understanding of Originium thermodynamics.

But she doesn't move.

Ms. Skyfire just stares at the stack of papers. The crackling spices and scholarly heat stall, flickering, damping down into an uncharacteristic simmer. She is quiet, her eyes distant and her lips pressed into a line, as if she's searching the library of her mind for words she can't quite find.

The silence stretches, heavy and unlike the vibrant energy of our afternoon study sessions.

Ms. Skyfire reaches out slowly, her fingers resting on top of my handwritten notes. But she doesn't pull the papers toward her. She doesn't uncap her red pen to circle my miscalculations.

"I am leaving Rhodes Island, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire finally says. Her voice is stripped of its usual flair. It's quiet and measured, and it carries weight. "I am heading back to Victoria."

Victorian Empire. The superpower of the world, or so the fairytales say.

"But…" I stammer, my eyes shimmering. "The books… they say your capital, Londinium, is currently occupied. The Military Commission of Kazdel is there."

A bitter tang flashes across the table. But it doesn't explode. She suppresses it instead, banking the flames into a controlled simmer.

"It is," Ms. Skyfire confirms, her eyes darkening with uncompromising resolve. "My home is occupied. But my return is not simply about reclaiming a city from a military force, Lethe."

She pulls her hand back from my notes, folding her arms.

"When I first came to this landship," she continues, her gaze shifting to the towering bookshelves surrounding us, "I came seeking vengeance. Reunion had taken people from me. I wanted to use my Arts to burn them to ash for what they did. I thought my anger was absolute."

She looks back at me, the crackling heat of her presence softening.

"But spending my time here… fighting alongside the people of Rhodes Island, and watching children like you study the brutal truths of this world simply to understand it better…" Ms. Skyfire exhales. "It made me realize how little I actually knew. My anger was justified, but my perspective was terribly narrow."

"The Infected do not just need Medics to heal them on the battlefield, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire says. "They need advocates in the courts. They need voices in the halls of power where the nobility currently turns a blind eye to their suffering. I can't simply throw fire at rioters and pretend I'm fixing Terra. I have more to learn, and far more to do, back home."

I stare at my tutor. The awe swells in my chest and drowns out the sting of her departure. She isn't leaving because she's tired. She is marching into the heart of an empire to fight for the Infected.

"I understand." I force a brave smile onto my face. "You have to go save them, Ms. Skyfire."

Her expression goes fond.

Then Ms. Skyfire clears her throat. She turns her head toward Miss Adele, who has been sitting quietly beside me.

"However," Ms. Skyfire announces, lifting her chin with a characteristic sniff, "I refuse to let my primary student's foundational knowledge deteriorate into absolute mediocrity simply because I am geographically indisposed."

She gestures toward Miss Adele.

"I trust Ms. Naumann will continue your education to highly acceptable standards," Ms. Skyfire declares. "We've already reviewed your curriculum. She knows exactly where you're struggling with your assimilation rates."

Miss Adele looks up, the sweet aroma blooming in the aisle. She offers a smile, her curling horns dipping in a polite nod.

"I will make sure she finishes all her assigned readings, Ms. Mountbelan," Miss Adele promises, her soft voice carrying a sturdy conviction. "You have my word."

Ms. Skyfire gives a satisfied nod. She stands, the fabric of her coat billowing with aristocratic flair one last time. Her eyes find mine, shining with protective pride.

"Study hard, Lethe," she commands. "I expect you to be brilliant when we meet again."

"I will, Ms. Skyfire. Thank you for everything! I… I will miss you."

She holds my eyes a moment longer, then nods one last time.

I watch her turn.

Her coat flares as she walks down the labyrinthine aisles of the Archives. She doesn't look back. Her posture is perfect, marching off to a different kind of fight, one where she'll use laws and courts and not just fireballs.

The heat of her presence trails after her, the crackling hearth fading into the recycled air of the library.

The silence of the Archives settles back over our secluded table. The empty space where my fiery tutor had stood holds my eyes, a bittersweet fondness welling in my throat. I'm going to miss her sharp reprimands and her overwhelming lectures.

A rustle of clothing brings me back.

Miss Adele shifts in her chair.

"She's a remarkable person," Miss Adele says. "It takes a staggering amount of bravery to look at your own anger, realize it's incomplete, and choose the harder path to truly fix the world."

"She is going to change Victoria, Miss Adele. I just know it."

"I believe she will," Miss Adele says.

She turns back to the table, her hands adjusting the teetering stack of beginner medical texts and thermodynamic diagrams Ms. Skyfire had left behind. She picks up her magnifying glass, the polished metal glinting in the dim light.

"Now then, Lethe," Miss Adele says, her gentle tone shifting into academic determination. She taps a finger against my handwritten notes. "I believe we have some homework to correct. And as your newly appointed primary tutor, I cannot in good conscience let Ms. Skyfire return to find your foundational knowledge lacking."

The blocky text and the mathematical charts that had frustrated me yesterday wait on the table. The science of Originium is still a sprawling mountain I've barely begun to climb.

But I reach out and pick up my pen.

"I won't let her down," I declare. "Show me where I got the tertiary cellular decay wrong, Miss Adele. I'm ready to learn."

"Here you are."

The familiar voice rings out.

Mom steps into view.

"How is my little bookworm doing?" she asks, a fond smile on her face as she approaches our study table. She turns her gaze to the researcher sitting beside me. "Afternoon, Eyjafjalla."

Eyjafjalla. So that's Miss Adele's Operator code name.

"Hi, mom," I sigh, my shoulders slumping over the thermodynamic diagrams spread across the table. I rest my chin on my hands, my tail giving a defeated flick behind my chair. "I'm trying. It's getting harder. The math just keeps getting longer."

Miss Adele offers a light giggle.

"Hello, Caladria," Miss Adele replies. She gives my shoulder an encouraging pat. "Lethe is doing great. She's incredibly diligent. I have no doubt she's going to be a brilliant medical researcher one day."

Mom pauses. She reaches up, awkwardly scratching the back of her head.

I tilt my head up at her, a mischievous spark igniting in my chest.

"Well," I pipe up. "Mom said she used to be a Rhine Lab researcher. I guess it must have rubbed off on me."

The effect is instant. A rosy flush crashes over mom's cheeks.

"Lethe!" mom gasps, her blush deepening.

She drops her hand from the back of her neck and takes a deliberate step toward me. Her eyes narrow with faux-stern menace.

I know exactly what that look means.

I shrink back into my chair. My hands fly up, palms clamping over the sensitive bases of my lopsided horns. I duck my head, tucking my chin into the collar of my jacket.

"No horn flicks!" I yelp, my voice pitching into a defensive squeak.

Mom stops dead in her tracks.

She freezes mid-step, hovering just short of the table. Her hands drop to her sides, and she lets out a defeated sigh, her shoulders loosening. The faux-menace evaporates from her face, replaced by an innocent smile.

I peek at her through the gaps in my fingers. She isn't moving.

Thinking I've negotiated a ceasefire, I breathe out in relief. I lower my hands, dropping my guard and uncoiling my tense shoulders.

Thwack.

The strike lands with the precision of a seasoned Medic.

Her index finger snaps forward faster than I can blink, flicking against the exact center of my left horn.

"Ouchie!" I yelp, dropping my head as both of my hands fly right back up to clutch my crown.

The sting is immediate and jarring.

I look up, fixing mom with my most betrayed pout, my eyes blown wide with exaggerated injustice.

Mom just puts her hands over her mouth and laughs. Beside me, Miss Adele's shoulders shake with quiet giggles she doesn't manage to hide.

"That's for being cheeky, my little researcher," mom teases, her eyes crinkling with joy.

"What brings you here today, Caladria?" Miss Adele asks, bringing mom back to focus.

Mom exhales. "Lethe is being called to Command," she explains, resting a hand on the back of my chair. "But when she's buried in the Archives, she never actually checks her slate."

I flinch, my hands flying to the bag against my hip. I scramble the slate out and tap the dark glass. A barrage of missed notifications lights up the screen. My cheeks go hot with embarrassment.

"Sorry, mom," I mumble.

"She is incredibly dedicated to her learning," Miss Adele chuckles.

Then the word Command catches up to my brain. The heat drains out of my cheeks, replaced by an icy knot in my stomach.

"Command?" I squeak, my voice pitching up as my hands grip the edges of my open textbook. "Am I… am I in trouble?"

Mom's hand slides from the back of the chair to settle on my shoulder. She gives it a firm squeeze.

"Not every meeting is trouble, Lethe," mom says, her voice steadying me. "Lena and I have been speaking with the administration. We've been asking if you could join Podenco and the others on missions. It will be good for you to actually see the world."

Miss Adele's eyes light up. "Oh, that would be wonderful for you, Lethe!" she chimes in, her voice lifting.

My fingers curl into fists against the table. My tail, slack a second ago, winds itself tight around my ankles. I shrink back into the chair, as small as I can make myself.

"But…"

The terror of Terra presses down on my chest. I think of the bleeding Operators in the Convalescent Garden, of the burning skyline of Lungmen, of the Ursus mining camps Miss Adele taught me about, of the trauma I swallow every single day to keep myself from starving.

"All my memories are of the landship," I plead, looking between the two of them, my voice fracturing. "Outside is scary… they hate the Infected… they hate us…"

The air in the aisle thickens with aching sorrow. Mom's grip on my shoulder tightens, but before she can speak, Miss Adele leans forward.

She reaches across the table and covers my trembling fists with her hands. Her roasted chestnuts and dormant hearth fire flares up, wrapping me in a sturdy warmth.

"The world can be cruel, Lethe. And it's true that there is war," Miss Adele says, her eyes holding mine. "But the world is far more than just its cruelty."

She traces her thumb over my pale knuckles.

"Think about the cafeteria, Lethe." Miss Adele's voice takes on a melodic cadence. "Think about the warm, steamed breads yielding to rich, creamy centers from Great Yan, or the soft rolls crowned with a crackling, golden-sugar crust from Lungmen."

I blink, my panicked breathing stalling as the memory of those sugary luxuries flashes through my mind.

"People who are consumed only by hatred and survival do not bake pastries," Miss Adele explains. "They do not spend hours perfecting the fold of a dumpling, or balancing the cinnamon in a pie. Only people who are looking toward a future, people who want to share joy and create comfort for their loved ones, create food for enjoyment."

She squeezes my hands.

"There's so much beauty and kindness out there, Lethe," she promises. "And you deserve to see the world that creates it, not just the people who break it."

"Okay. Miss Adele."

"Are there… are there more sweet things out there?"

Miss Adele's smile widens, impossibly kind. "Of course, Lethe. Terra is vast, and there's so much to see and experience."

She leans forward, her eyes sparkling as she lists them off. "In the musikhauses of my home country, Leithanien, they bake incredibly rich, dark chocolate cakes layered with sweet cherry preserves and thick cream. In the Famiglia-ruled Siracusa, you can find delicate, crispy pastry shells completely filled with sweetened ricotta cheese and crushed pistachios. In the vibrant markets of Bolívar, even with their country torn between a three-way civil war, they make warm, fried dough dusted heavily in cinnamon and sugar, meant to be dipped in thick, melted caramel. In the city-states of Minos, they bake paper-thin layers of flaky pastry, drenched in golden honey and crushed walnuts. And in the Empire of Ursus. The Ursus people make small, yeast-dough buns stuffed with sweet fruit fillings, baked or fried until golden brown."

I stare at her. My mouth waters. The descriptions alone sound like joy. There's an entire world outside the landship that doesn't just taste of ash, cold copper, and fear.

Beside me, mom sighs, long and exaggerated. She crosses her arms over her translucent coat.

"You're making me regret letting you eat red bean rolls day by day, Lethe," mom says, shaking her head.

She reaches out, her hand settling on my shoulder to ground me back in the present. "But," she adds, her tone shifting into a professional reminder, "best not to make Dr. Kal'tsit wait longer."

The name sends a reflexive shiver down my spine, the lingering chill of the Medical Director's glacier.

"Okay."

I turn back to the table and pack up. My medical textbooks stack into a neat pile; the digital slate and the notebook Lisa and Podenco gave me go into my crossbody bag. I press the flap shut until the catch holds.

I step back from the wooden chair. Miss Adele has spent her afternoon untangling the knots of Terra for me. I press my hands to the front of my dark jacket and give her a small bow.

"Thank you for today, Miss Adele," I say.

"See you tomorrow, Lethe."

Mom steps up beside me.

"See you, Eyjafjalla," mom says. "Thank you for taking care of Lethe."

Her hand rests firm on my back, guiding me out of the climate-controlled hush of the Archives and back into the metallic arteries of the landship.

The terror of the past few weeks has finally burned itself out. The corridors are bustling again, but the energy is different. It's a tired, collective exhale. As we walk, I catch snippets of hushed conversation from passing logistics Ops and Field Ops, their voices carrying a cautious hope as they talk about upcoming downtimes and the prospect of shore passes.

The crisp click of shoes draws my attention. Miss Sussurro is coming toward us at a brisk walk.

"Afternoon." She breaks her stride to turn her sharp gaze to mom. "Caladria, the suppressants you requested are ready. I put them in your locker."

"Thank you, Sussurro," mom replies.

Miss Sussurro continues down the hall, her robust flavor trailing behind her.

I stop walking.

"Mom," I ask, barely above a murmur. "Are you getting suppressants for yourself?"

Mom doesn't miss a beat. She steps closer, keeping her tone light and even. "For Opal, and myself."

I look down at my white sneakers, unable to meet her eyes.

"How bad is your Oripathy, mom…?"

"It's just some light shadowing on my organs," she explains.

"So just early stage then…"

Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes.

"Sor…" I choke out, the apology already breaking apart in my mouth.

"No, Lethe."

Mom stops walking. The light pressure on my shoulder turns into an anchor.

"We talked about this," mom states. Her voice loses its softness and lands as a command that echoes down the corridor. She steps squarely in front of me so I can't keep shrinking away, and ducks her head until she's looking into my tear-filled eyes.

I clamp my mouth shut, swallowing the rest of the apology. Mom turns and walks on, her stride steady again.

I wipe my damp eyes with the back of my oversized sleeve and hurry to keep pace. She leads me into the wide metal box of the primary elevator.

The mechanical hum engages, and my stomach dips as we begin our ascent.

The metal doors slide apart with a hiss.

The pristine quiet of the upper deck is shattered. Fire explodes across my tongue.

Standing right outside the elevator is the towering Elite Ops herself.

"Hey kiddo! Hey Caladria!" Ms. Blaze's voice booms, echoing off the walls.

"Hi, Ms. Blaze," I reply with a polite nod.

Mom steps out beside me with a professional smile. "Hello, Blaze."

As we exit the cabin, Ms. Blaze strides past us to take our place.

The doors begin to slide shut, but right before they seal her inside, Ms. Blaze flashes me that fearless grin.

"Well, good luck with your meeting with the boss!" she calls out over the hum. She raises a hand, giving me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. "If the stiff Lynx decides you need to lift weights, hit me up anytime, Lethe!"

The doors snap shut with a heavy clank, cutting off the fire and sending her down to the lower levels.

I stand on the polished floor, blinking, bewildered.

I look up at mom, tilting my head. "How does she know?"

Mom just chuckles. She ruffles my grey hair, unbothered by the towering Elite's interruption.

"Well," mom replies, her eyes crinkling, "Elites have their own trade secrets."

Mom stops short.

"Lethe. Before we go. Just need to make sure. If you don't want to. We cancel the request. Sorry Lena and I did this behind your back."

Mom crouches down and meets my eyes.

"No," I shake my head. "I should thank you and Miss Lena. If it's up to me, I'd probably never leave the landship."

"I am ready."

Mom reaches for the door controls.

"Let's go then, Lethe."

The blast doors slide apart on the cavernous, dim meeting room. It's the same room where, months ago, mom and I had stood at the massive table and signed the contracts that secured our futures on this landship.

The room is as imposing as I remember, the dark metal bathed in the blue light of the PRTS tactical map mounted at the far end.

Sitting at the head of the long table is Dr. Kal'tsit, her hands folded on the dark surface. But the chair beside her is empty. Amiya isn't here today to soften the ancient stillness coming off the Medical Director.

We step up to the edge of the table. My tail curling.

Dr. Kal'tsit's piercing gaze drags over my frame, and then shifts to mom.

"Caladria. Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit begins, her voice carrying flat authority across the vast room. "We are here to discuss the administrative proposal submitted by yourself and Perfumer, requesting to lift Operator Lethe's current containment parameters and authorize her for external deployment."

"I have reviewed the proposal against Lethe's current medical telemetry," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "Her Oripathy remains an unstable variable. She ingested the acute emotions of a Field Operator returning from Lungmen. Her neurological stress spiked. The hostile emotional residue produced physical purging and prolonged incapacitation."

Dr. Kal'tsit's eyes lock onto me, unreadable.

"She lacks the biological filtration to process the emotional resonances of an active warzone," Dr. Kal'tsit continues, her tone level. "Her emotional instability and fear responses make her a liability in uncontrolled environments."

I shrink back. Mom does not.

"With all due respect, Dr. Kal'tsit," mom argues, her voice ringing across the room, "Lethe ingested the unfiltered trauma of a brutal war. Any empath exposed to that level of concentrated malice would have suffered a severe physiological backlash. Yes, she was overwhelmed, but she recovered. She has consistently demonstrated an incredible capacity to handle the emotional burdens of the Operators here, and she is actively learning the thermodynamic and biological mechanics of her Arts to better control them."

Mom rests a hand on my shoulder, grounding me.

"She can't learn how to navigate the world if we keep her permanently locked in a greenhouse," mom insists, holding the Medical Director's glacial stare without flinching.

Dr. Kal'tsit watches mom for a long second, her expression unmoving.

Then Dr. Kal'tsit opens the physical dossier on the table with practiced efficiency.

"I am not dismissing her utility, Caladria," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "Her operational achievements are thoroughly documented. Her palliative care within the Convalescent Garden has effectively reduced the psychological degradation of our Operators. She successfully stabilized the fractured cognition of the Cautus survivor, Opal."

Dr. Kal'tsit leans forward, the blue light catching in her eyes.

"She has proven her value to the Medical Department time and time again," Dr. Kal'tsit concedes, her voice dropping into a low hum. "The data is undeniable."

The cavernous room stays silent for a fraction of a second after Dr. Kal'tsit's acknowledgment of my medical data.

Then her focus snaps to me.

The weight of her stare makes me grip my Arts Unit tighter.

"However," Dr. Kal'tsit states, her voice slicing through the quiet with cold precision. "I require clarification from the subject matter herself. Tell me, Lethe. Is this proposal genuinely born of your own volition, or are you merely echoing the protective ambitions of Caladria and Perfumer? What exactly is your objective beyond the bulkheads of this landship?"

I swallow hard. The cold coming off the Medical Director threatens to lock my tongue.

"Miss Adele told me… outside… is beautiful… Every country. Leithanien, Columbia… have good sweets… I want to see the world, not just learn about it in the Archives or from the stories our Operators bring back."

Mom tenses beside me, her posture going rigid.

Dr. Kal'tsit leans back in her chair.

"Your excursions into the Archives have been thoroughly documented," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "Skyfire's offboarding reports were meticulously detailed. She outlined not only your progress in Originium thermodynamics but also your sudden, desperate inquiries into the geopolitical realities of this land."

"Your reasoning, while juvenile in its phrasing, highlights an operational deficit," Dr. Kal'tsit continues, her hands folding back together. "As a Djall, your empathic Arts require a cognitive framework to filter the complex traumas of our Field Ops. Textbook knowledge and secondhand exposure do not build one."

"To maximize your value to the Medical Department, you must comprehend the environments that generate these traumas. Practical exposure to the sociopolitical and cultural realities of Terra, including its regional culinary exports, will expand your empathic filtration capacity and strengthen the shield of your Arts Unit."

She reaches out and draws the physical dossier back toward her.

"However," Dr. Kal'tsit adds.

The single word slices through the relief in the room.

"You are not simply a Rhodes Island Operator, Lethe. You are a pureblood Sarkaz. A Djall."

The air in the room goes heavy and close.

"Few nations will be receptive to a pureblood Sarkaz walking freely through their streets," she continues. "While you wear our emblem, the protection Rhodes Island can offer only stretches so far. If you are targeted, or if your empathic Arts misfire in a populated sector, it will not just be a medical emergency. It will be an international incident."

"If you cross the borders of Laterano or Iberia, the Notarial Hall of Laterano or the Inquisition of Iberia will not ask for your identification or your medical clearances. They will shoot you on sight," Dr. Kal'tsit warns, the lethal truth dropping into the silent command room like a lead weight. "In most other nations, you will not find open gunfire, but you will face systematic violence, engineered discrimination, and relentless, institutionalized racism. You will be hunted simply for the blood in your veins."

The words land like blows. The bright world Miss Adele painted for me in the Archives shatters.

What's left is the ugly, bloody Terra from my history books. My heart stalls in my chest. The world outside the reinforced bulkheads of this landship doesn't just hate the Infected; it hates me. It hates the horns on my head and the tail behind my back.

I stare at nothing. My hands tremble. The freezing dread of the Catastrophes rushes back and swallows the small spark of bravery I had mustered a moment ago.

"Maybe…" I whimper. My shoulders slump. "Maybe I should just stay on the landship…"

Mom shifts beside me. My tail coils around her legs.

"Dr. Kal'tsit, my country… Columbia, they accept everyone. On the surface, at least."

"Columbian Union." Dr. Kal'tsit repeats.

"Columbia is historically known for its expansive immigration policies," Dr. Kal'tsit pivots, her tone shifting. "It was built on the influx of diverse populations and pioneers. Discrimination exists within its borders, but a Sarkaz child under the strict supervision of a licensed corporate employee will not draw lethal scrutiny."

I blink, my tail uncoiling as I lift my head.

Dr. Kal'tsit's eyes remain fixed on me. "Furthermore," she adds, her tone still, "as a central hub of international commerce, Columbian nomadic cities boast an extensive, unrestricted access to global culinary exports. Including the international cuisines and confections you seem to heavily prioritize in your sociopolitical studies."

"You will be authorized for shore passes the next time we dock near Columbian nomadic cities," Dr. Kal'tsit declares, bringing her hands down flat against the dossiers on the table. "Additionally, you are cleared to accompany logistics teams on low-risk retrieval operations in the barrens, provided Caladria or another senior operative is present."

The Medical Director closes the file, the crisp snap of the folder echoing across the cavernous room with finality.

"The proposal is approved."

My eyes go wide. The crushing weight of the command room evaporates, replaced by an effervescent thrill. Dr. Kal'tsit actually approved the proposal.

"Thank you, Dr. Kal'tsit!" I exclaim. The words burst from my throat, ringing with a joy that bounces off the dark metal walls.

Dr. Kal'tsit does not share my elation. Her expression has not changed. She aligns the edges of my dossier with her fingers.

"You are dismissed, Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit states.

I offer a respectful nod.

But mom doesn't move.

I stop, my tail pausing its happy sway, and look back over my shoulder. Mom is still standing at attention beside the long, dark table.

I tilt my head, letting my left horn pull it over.

"Go on ahead, Lethe," mom explains, her voice softening into a professional hush. "I need to stay behind for a few minutes. I have some other operational matters to discuss with Dr. Kal'tsit."

I look between the two of them. The flavor in the room is stable, no sharp spikes of danger, no sour dread. It's just the routine, heavy business of Rhodes Island.

"Okay," I reply. I take a hesitant step toward the heavy blast doors and raise my hand in a small wave. "Will see you at dinner. Mo… Erika…"

The moment the fractured syllable leaves my lips, my heart stalls.

I freeze, my hand hovering mid-wave, braced for the temperature of the room to plummet, for Dr. Kal'tsit's glacial glare to pin me to the floorboards for such unprofessional sentimentality.

But the threat never comes.

I peek through my bangs at the head of the table. Dr. Kal'tsit hasn't even blinked. She doesn't look up, her posture doesn't change, her attention already moving to the next physical report on her desk.

"See you, Lethe," mom says, failing to hide the smile tugging at her lips.

"See you," I squeak, turning on my heel.

I step out into the corridor. The pneumatic locks clank shut, sealing the freezing command room away.

I stand in the hallway a moment, letting the meeting settle. Columbia. Shore passes. The world outside the bulkheads.

My steps turn downward, back toward the earthy warmth of the Convalescent Garden. Miss Lena, Lisa, and Podenco need to hear the good news.

I don't wait for the garden doors to finish parting. The moment the panels crack open, I squeeze through the gap.

"Lethe! Good afternoon!"

Lisa's chiming voice rings out.

"Hi everyone!" I call back, breathless, the thrill bubbling up out of me. I skip down the path. "I have good news!"

Deep in the foliage, Miss Lena steps out from her desk, radiating a knowing fondness.

"Did your shore leave get approved, Lethe?"

"Yes!" I beam. "Thank you, Miss Lena. Dr. Kal'tsit says I can go to a city next time we're docked at Columbia. Or even join Podenco on low-risk logistics missions outside the landship!"

The garden erupts with overlapping joy.

Lisa bounds over to me, her tails puffing into a blur of auburn silk. "That's amazing, Lethe! We can go look at the markets together! Oh, there are so many things you have to see!"

"I'm so proud of you, Lethe," Miss Lena adds. "You've earned this. It will be incredibly good for you to finally step out into the sun."

"Low-risk missions, huh?" Podenco chimes in, stepping out from behind her flowerbeds with a grin. "Looks like you're officially going to be my logistics assistant, Lethe!"

"I promise I will be helpful, Podenco!"

But as I say it, Podenco stops.

Her ears twitch. The playful fizz sharpens into an attentive hum. She tilts her head and fixes me with a scrutinizing stare.

"Wait a second," Podenco says, her brow furrowing. She points a finger at me. "If you're actually going to join me on missions in the barrens, you really need to learn how to properly identify herbs and wild flowers."

I blink, caught off guard. "Identify them?"

"Yes!" Podenco insists, stepping closer, crossing her arms with an exaggerated sigh. "You have a massive sweet tooth, Lethe. We absolutely cannot have you accidentally eating a poisonous plant out in the wild just because you think the petals smell like sugar or taste sweet!"

The indignity of the accusation lands all at once.

I puff my cheeks out, plant my feet, and cross my arms over my chest.

"Hey!" I yelp. "I'm not just going to wander around and eat grass! I am a Djall!"

Lisa's hands clap over her mouth, her tails whipping around a breathless giggle. Even Miss Lena laughs, low and melodic, at my display of Sarkaz pride.

Podenco just rolls her eyes, unfazed.

"Djall or not, a toxic nightshade will still put you in Dr. Warfarin's medical bay," Podenco counters, smirking. She turns and gestures toward a long table covered in dried roots, pressed petals, and thick botanical books. "Come on, fierce predator. Sit down. Lesson starts right now."

I groan, and my defiant posture collapses with it.

But despite all the grumbling, a real smile tugs at my lips. I uncross my arms and follow Podenco to the table, pull out a chair, and sit down beside her, elbows on the surface, while she opens the encyclopedia, ready to teach me how to survive the beautiful, dangerous world waiting just outside our home.

"Look closely at the serrated edges of this leaf," Podenco instructs, tapping a dried, pressed specimen. "This one is a common healing herb. You can steep it to help with fevers. But this one right next to it?"

She points to an almost identical leaf; the only difference is the purplish veins running through its center.

"If you mistake that for the herb and steep it, your throat will completely close up in ten minutes," Podenco warns, overplaying the stern look. "So, no snacking on the logistics routes unless I explicitly clear it. Understood?"

I lean over the table, staring at the two leaves, trying to burn the difference into my brain. "Understood."

A rustle of clothing beside me. Lisa pulls up a chair and climbs into the seat, her legs swinging back and forth, chin propped in her hands, captivated by Podenco's impromptu botanical lecture.

The lesson breaks when a warm aroma washes over the table.

Miss Lena approaches with a tray: a steaming teapot and a plate piled high with her signature cookies. The scent of steeped tea and warm grain sets my stomach rumbling.

"Time for a break, girls," Miss Lena says, setting the tray down. She pours the golden-amber tea into four cups and slides one toward each of us.

I wrap my hands around the porcelain, letting the heat seep into my fingers, then pick up a cookie and take a small bite. The crunch and the tart sweetness hold me in the moment.

Chewing slowly, I look around the table at the three of them. Months in this garden, drinking tea and playing board games, and there's still so much I don't know about the people who anchor my world.

"Actually, everyone," I ask, lowering my cookie to the small plate. "I never asked… where is everyone from?"

Lisa doesn't hesitate. Her ears perk straight up and her tails bounce in unison.

"I am from Higashi!" Lisa announces, her voice bright with pride.

Miss Lena takes a measured sip from her teacup and lowers it back to the saucer, her expression softening into something nostalgic.

"Minos," Miss Lena says.

I turn to Podenco, sitting across the table from me.

Podenco opens her mouth to answer and freezes. Her hand, resting on the encyclopedia, locks in place.

The air shifts. A taste floods it: scorched earth, bruised fruit, burnt flesh.

It's gone as fast as it came; Podenco swallows it down hard. She forces her posture to loosen, stretches her lips into a practiced smile, shakes her head.

"Bolívar," Podenco says, her voice carrying a forced lightness.

The lie in her smile is bitter on my tongue.

I don't pry.

Instead, I pick up one of the warm cookies from the plate and hold it out across the table toward her.

"Here."

Podenco blinks at the cookie, then up into my eyes. The tension in her shoulders melts. She takes the cookie from my hand, and her real smile breaks through to chase the shadows off.

Lisa shifts beside me, reaches into her own bag, and pulls out a cardboard box, bright and still pristine.

"Do you two want to play this tonight?" Lisa asks, eyes sparkling with that familiar optimism. She taps the glossy cover. "It's called Crowns of Victoria. My tutors told me about it! You have to build Steam Knights and manage your factory outputs to take over the capital. Ms. Closure has this on sale in her store. I got it during the lunch break!"

Podenco and I both pause.

My eyes travel over the cover, all Victorian castles and smoke-spewing factories, my mind already calculating how much reading the rulebook is going to require.

Podenco recovers first. Her presence sharpens into something competitive, her lips curling into a smirk.

"Of course," Podenco declares, her tone dripping with playful arrogance. "I am absolutely not going to miss my chance to extend my win streak against Lethe."

My tail thumps against the floor. My humiliating defeat in the last board game session is still fresh.

"I'm going to break your streak!" I yelp, arms crossing over my chest. I turn to my best friend for this moment, wide-eyed and pleading. "Lisa, we need to join forces against this tyranny!"

Lisa muffles it behind her hand, her tails swaying with the musical giggle that slips through. Her sweetness washes over me like a tidal wave.

"You just have to use your Kazdelian intellect to win, Lethe," Lisa chimes.

My tail stops mid-thump.

My arms drop from my chest. I blink. The phrase hangs in the humid greenhouse air, dripping with a dry aristocratic drawl.

"Do I… do I actually say that?" I squeak, the words shrinking to a horrified whisper.

Podenco and Lisa don't even hesitate. They both nod at me, slow and synchronized and solemn.

"Whenever you gain the upper hand in games," Podenco ponders.

I groan and press my palms flat against the sides of my head, ducking, my face hot, the carbonated giggles of my friends filling the garden.

"I…" I mumble into the space between us, defeated. "I'm spending way too much time near Dr. Warfarin."

"Hopefully Dr. Kal'tsit doesn't duct-tape you to the ceiling of the bridge as well," Podenco teases.

My mind flashes to the rumor that Dr. Kal'tsit duct-taped Dr. Warfarin to the ceiling of our landship's bridge because she got reported by one too many Operators.

"I won't… hopefully…"

"Now, now, girls, before you three go be industrialists. Time to get back to work," Miss Lena says, bringing us back to focus.

That night I write it all down in the notebook Lisa and Podenco bought me. Warfarin duct-taped to the ceiling of the bridge. Podenco's face when she said it. I have no idea which parts of this I'll need later, so I keep everything.