January, 1098

The clock mounted on the break room wall clicks.

2nd of January, 1098.

I am supposed to be 14 now.

It's been exactly two years, or so the records say, since mom saved me. Two years of surviving the dark of Terra.

I'm sitting in one of the oversized chairs tucked into the far corner, legs pulled up to my chest. The air in the lounge is intoxicating, an overlapping symphony of joy that drowns out the recycled oxygen of the landship.

I rest my digital slate against my knees, the screen glowing in the dim light.

Scrolling past the blank spaces in my mind, I open my encrypted personal logs. These are the short, distilled paragraphs I keep on my slate; the notebook in my bag has the version I wouldn't want read aloud. But it's the distilled one I come back to, because when the void takes another bridge these are the pillars I can find in the dark.

Mom. Erika. Caladria. She pulled you out. She gave you a future.

Lisa. Suzuran. The blinding light.

Podenco. The teasing anchor.

Amiya. The CEO who holds your hand in the dark.

Miss Lena. Perfumer. The guardian of the sanctuary.

Rosmontis. The quiet anchor.

And so on…

I look up from the glowing glass.

I scan the bustling room. Almost every name carved into my digital fortress is standing right in front of me. Mom is laughing near the kitchenette with Miss Lena. Rosmontis is nibbling a slice of fruit, anchored by Amiya's warmth.

They are all here.

Gratitude blooms in the center of my chest. The last two months had been eventful, but free of the blood-soaked tragedies that usually haunt our deployments.

The rumors in the corridors had been loud. Miss Adele filled me in on the chaos in Victoria. The assault by the eight Grand Dukes to reclaim their own capital of Londinium from the Military Commission of Kazdel had ended in failure. The whispers among the logistics Operators said half of the Dukes' armies were wiped out and the rest devastated. Yet for all of it, the Steam Knights I'd read about in Lisa's history books were still nowhere to be seen.

And then there was Kjerag.

We'd lingered in the snow-capped basin for weeks. I don't know what Doctor and Amiya did behind the closed doors of that isolated nation, but something had shifted. The ice had thawed. By the time the landship raised its deployment ramps to leave, the locals were far more receptive to our presence.

They even sent an envoy to stay with us. I only caught a glimpse of him in the logistics bay—a towering Forte man bearing the crest of Karlan Trade, built like a walking mountain. He looked imposing, but he tasted warm, like roasted root vegetables and dependable steel. He became our cook.

My daydream about faraway wars and snowy mountains pops.

"Lethe!"

The voice cuts through the chatter. I blink up just in time to see a blur of auburn silk racing toward my corner.

Lisa stops in front of my chair, hands planted on her hips. She's wearing a festive dress, and her nine tails are puffed up in a display of uncompromising authority.

"Lethe, this is your birthday!" Lisa reaches forward and covers my slate with her hands. "No playing on your slate in the corner!"

My hand jerks back from the screen.

"I wasn't playing!" I protest, pressing the power button to darken the screen. "I was just—I was just reading my notes!"

"No notes either!" Lisa insists. The mock-stern facade cracks, and the air goes to sugar and sunshine.

She doesn't give me a second to argue. Lisa grabs my free hand, her grip warm and firm, and with a surprisingly strong tug she hauls me out of the chair.

"Come on!" Lisa cheers, dragging me away from the corner and toward the lit center of the room. "Amiya is waiting for us at the main table!"

I stumble, scrambling to keep my balance, surrendering to her gravity.

As we approach the central table, the heat of Ms. Blaze's presence and Amiya's spun-sugar warmth wash over me.

The golden crust of the apple pie sits square in the center of the table, giving off cinnamon, caramelized sugar, and warm pastry.

When Amiya pulled me aside on New Year's Eve to ask what I wanted for my birthday, I refused anything elaborate. The logistics lines were always strained, and she carried enough without having to orchestrate a celebration. A simple apple pie was all I wanted—a sweet, grounded anchor to a memory with no Catastrophes in it, no rotting ash of the battlefield.

"Amiya." I look up from the dessert to meet her eyes, and smile. "Thank you for the pie."

Amiya is relaxed.

"Don't mention—" Amiya begins, her voice carrying a musical bounce.

Then she stops.

A vibration buzzes against the fabric of her jacket. At the same moment, a hum sounds from the opposite side of the table. Ms. Blaze—who had popped into the break room strictly to claim a slice of pie as an excuse to drink from her flask—pauses mid-gulp.

Amiya pulls her communicator from her pocket. Ms. Blaze does the same.

The warm bubble shatters between one breath and the next. The air curdles. Sweetness gives way to a spike of sterilized bleach and the biting tang of rusted copper.

My tail, which had been swaying, goes rigid.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

Amiya lowers her communicator. The smiling friend who ordered my birthday dessert is gone, swallowed by the mantle of Rhodes Island's leader. The shadows under her eyes deepen in the span of a heartbeat.

"Sorry. Lethe… we need to go," Amiya says, her voice tight, and under it a sorrow that tastes like cold ash.

She shares a look with Ms. Blaze, whose competitive grin has flatlined into focus. Across the room, Rosmontis stands up, her face unreadable as ever.

Without another word, Amiya turns. The three of them hurry out of the break room, their footsteps echoing.

The doors hiss and slide shut behind them, sealing with a clank.

I sit there, staring at the closed doors. The silence of the room rings in my ears. The dread pooling in my chest is a reminder that the world outside this landship is always waiting to take my family away.

A rustle of clothing breaks the quiet.

Mom steps up beside me. She doesn't speak; her hand just settles on my shoulder, an anchor.

"Lethe." Mom's voice drops into a steadying command that leaves no room for panic. "Just focus on the food for now."

I stare at the pie.

A few minutes ago the room was full of cinnamon and caramelized sugar. Now the smell just makes me sick.

"Lethe?"

Lisa's voice wavers. She steps closer and rests her hands against my arm, and her light pushes back at the cold in the room.

"We… we can still cut the pie, Lethe!" Lisa chirps, putting every scrap of optimism she has into it. "Amiya got it especially for you. We can eat a piece now and save her a slice for when she gets back! She'd want you to eat it!"

Beside her, Podenco doesn't join in the forced cheer.

She looks past us to Miss Lena, whose hands are clasped over her dress.

"It will be fine, Miss Lena." Podenco gives her a firm nod. "Doctor and Amiya will guide us through this. As always."

Miss Lena closes her eyes and breathes out.

"They will," Miss Lena says, soft, trying to soothe all of us. "They will."

The pie sits there. Eating a sweet pastry while Amiya and the Elite Ops rush into the dark to face whatever just triggered their communicators feels wrong. It feels like a betrayal.

"Lisa… Podenco…" I breathe out.

I push my chair back, the legs scraping against the floorboards.

"You can take the food back to the garden," I tell them, eyes dropping to the floor tiles. "Or share it. I'm… I'm not hungry anymore."

Turning away from the table, I start to drag my legs back to the quiet of my dorm.

Before I take a step, a hand catches my wrist.

"Lethe?" mom asks.

Her voice drops into that aching melody of unconditional protectiveness. Her honey wraps around me, trying to hold me in the room.

I stop, but I don't look back at her. I stare at the door Amiya went through.

"I want to just take a look outside…"

The tears well up and blur my vision. My mind races back through the fractured timeline of my existence.

"Last birthday… Chernobog fell and Lungmen was on fire," I choke out, a ragged breath rattling my chest.

I look down at my hands, trembling so hard I can barely hold them still.

"This one… a new crisis." The words take the breath out of me. "I must be a curse."

The grip on my wrist tightens. It doesn't hurt, but it's a deliberate pressure that halts the spiral.

Mom pulls me around until I'm looking into her eyes.

"Lethe, look at me." All the gentleness is gone out of her voice. She reaches up and cups my tear-stained cheeks. "Do not ever say that."

I sniffle, staring up at her, my mouth unsteady.

"You are not a curse." Her light purple eyes blaze with teary conviction. "You are the reason many of the people on this landship are still standing. You survived the dark to be our light. Catastrophes and wars happen because the world is broken, Lethe. Not because you were born."

A pair of arms catches me around the waist from the side.

Lisa buries her face into my shoulder, her nine tails closing around my legs like an auburn shield.

"You are our best friend, Lethe!" Lisa cries, her voice fierce and wavering. "You take away the nightmares! You're a blessing, not a curse!"

Podenco steps up beside her.

"If you're a curse, then you're the best curse to ever happen to Rhodes Island." Podenco crosses her arms with a watery sniff. "Don't you dare think otherwise. We wouldn't trade you for the world."

Fabric rustles behind me, drawing my attention away from all that affection.

Miss Lena steps toward the table and begins wrapping the golden crust of the apple pie back into its box.

"I will take this back to the garden." Miss Lena gives me a smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. "I will keep it safe and warm. When the storm passes and our Operators return, we will sit down and celebrate your birthday properly. A sanctuary always waits, Lethe."

I give them all a weak nod.

Mom doesn't let go of my hand.

"Come on." Mom wipes a last tear from my cheek with her thumb. "Let's get you back to your dorm."

She guides me out of the break room and into the corridors. Her thumb brushes against my knuckles, a steadying metronome as we walk toward the residential blocks.

The hallways have already taken on a hurried efficiency. As we turn a corner, the glare of a wall-mounted monitor catches my eye.

We pass one of the open recreational lounges. A cluster of off-duty Operators stands in front of the screen. The air bleeding out into the hallway tastes of cracked peppercorns, battery acid, and cold iron.

I slow, my steps dragging to a halt as my eyes lock onto the scrolling broadcast.

The Liberi news anchor's face is grim, speaking over static-laced footage of a burning cityscape—brick architecture wreathed in black smoke.

"…following breaking developments out of County Hillock," the anchor's voice echoes into the corridor, strained and professional. "Reports confirm a large-scale uprising in the Victorian territory. Taran independence forces, identifying themselves as 'Dublinn', alongside local resistance groups, have launched a coordinated assault against the local Victorian military garrisons."

The screen flashes to civilians fleeing through cobblestone streets while Originium Arts detonate against military barricades. Then a Feline man walks down the street, drops a bag near a group of Victorian patrols, and fire engulfs the whole block.

"…The scale of the conflict is escalating rapidly," the broadcast continues, the anchor trying to remain calm. "The situation on the ground remains entirely unknown. Casualty reports are currently unverified, but municipal authorities have lost control of several key sectors."

I stand frozen in the hallway, the blood draining from my face.

County Hillock. Victoria.

I look up at the screen, watching the fires of the Taran uprising consume the Hillock streets.

Another crisis. Another war.

Before my lungs can lock, a hand covers my eyes, cutting off my connection to the burning screen.

"Don't look at the news, Lethe," mom says softly.

She turns me around and presses my face into her uniform.

"Focus," mom says into my hair. "Just focus on me."

I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face deeper into her embrace.

"Okay…" I breathe out. "Okay… mom."

Mom keeps her body between me and the screen, guiding me down the corridor. We walk away from the lounge, leaving the broadcast behind us.

The walk back to the residential block is quiet, but the landship around us is already humming with that familiar frequency. The rush of boots and the clatter of logistics crates echo in the distance. Rhodes Island is waking up to the fires of Victoria.

When the doors to my dorm hiss open, we step inside. The room is bathed in its usual light, a contrast to the shadows of the hallway.

Mom stops just inside the threshold and turns to me, her eyes full of reluctance.

"I need to report to the medical wing." Her voice is tight. "With the uprising in County Hillock, the triage centers will be prepping for an influx of refugees and wounded. I have to go to work."

She searches my face for any sign of a panic attack, no doubt.

I look up at her. I can't let her worry about me when there are people out there bleeding in the ruins.

"It's okay," I murmur, giving her the most reassuring smile I can manage. I reach up and squeeze her hand. "You can go to work, mom. I'm safe here."

Mom lets out a slow exhale. The anxious spike in her aura melts a fraction. She leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead.

"I will check back later, my little Lethe," she promises. "Stay in your room."

"I will."

Mom gives my hand one last squeeze before stepping back into the corridor. The pneumatic locks clank, and the door slides shut, sealing the noise of the landship away.

The dorm goes quiet.

I stand in the center of the room for a long moment. My tail, wrapped tight around my leg, uncoils and drops toward the floorboards.

Without mom to anchor me, the gravity of the world outside settles in. Another war. Another city burning.

I shuffle to my recessed bed and crawl onto the mattress, pulling my knees up to my chest.

Resting at the foot of the bed is my oversized shark plushie, the one I hoarded internal credits to buy from Ms. Closure's store. I grab it and pull its squishy bulk against my chest, burying my face in the fabric, letting its weight ground my shoulders.

Right next to my pillows sit two smaller figures. The soft brown plushie with the bright blue button eyes, and the floppy-eared grey one. Amiya and Rosmontis.

I pull the two bunnies closer until they rest beside my head, and look at them, clutching my shark tight.

I don't know when the exhaustion pulled me under. The dark simply swallowed the world.

A rhythmic pressure against my shoulder coaxes me back to the surface.

Before I open my eyes, my empathic Arts brush against the air. Instead of the freezing dread, honey washes over my senses—warm, safe, tinged with the faint grey dust of a long shift in the medical wards.

"Lethe. Lethe."

The murmur vibrates in the quiet of the dorm.

I burrow deeper into the fabric of my shark plushie and let out a muffled groan.

"Mom…" I mumble, my voice raspy and thick with sleep.

I pry my eyes open and rub at my face with the oversized sleeve of my jacket. The room has dimmed to the early amber of the evening.

Mom is sitting on the edge of my bed.

She looks very tired. Shadows coat the underside of her eyes.

She brushes a stray lock of hair away from my face.

"Wake up, sleepyhead." Her voice carries an exhausted warmth, and a small smile comes with it. "You need to eat something. It's almost dinner time."

Dinner time.

The two words act like a spark. The fog of sleep burns away, and the break room, the interrupted birthday pie, and the news broadcast all come rushing back.

I shoot up from the mattress, clutching the plushie to my chest, looking around the room.

"Amiya? Rosmontis?" I gasp, panic tightening my throat. I look back at mom. "Are they…? Did they leave?!"

Mom's hand slides from my hair to cup the side of my face, her thumb tracing my cheekbone to anchor me. The honey in the air doesn't sour; it stays steady.

"They are not deploying," mom replies, leaving no room for the terror to take root.

"They… they are not?" My Arts search her emotions for fractures.

Mom shakes her head. The exhausted lines around her eyes soften with relief.

"I'm not sure what exactly is going on up in Command." Her tone drops. "But there are no deployment orders into the Victorian territories. We're simply holding a pattern outside the borders so refugees can reach us or our outposts safely."

They are not walking into the fire. Amiya isn't stepping into the collapsing streets of County Hillock, and Rosmontis isn't being thrown onto another battlefield. They are staying on the landship, behind the armored walls.

The anvil that had been crushing my lungs all day shatters.

My shoulders slump, the terror melting out of my spine. The shark plushie slips from my grip onto the blankets. I throw my arms around mom's neck, bury my face in the collar of her shirt, and let out a wet, breathless laugh.

"They are safe," I breathe into the fabric, squeezing her tightly.

"They are safe," mom echoes, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me against her chest. "The landship is secure, Lethe."

We hold each other for a long moment in the amber light of the dorm. The abyss of Terra had reached for us again, and today it missed.

Eventually, mom's stomach gives a faint, undignified rumble against my ribs.

I pull back a fraction, a teary smile breaking across my face. My tail uncoils and thumps against the mattress.

"You're hungry, mom," I tease.

Mom chuckles, a faint flush warming her cheeks. "It has been a very long day in the triage prep bays, Lethe. And I believe a certain fourteen-year-old birthday girl was promised that we would finish celebrating once the storm passed."

She stands up from the mattress, offering her hand to me.

"Come on." Her eyes sparkle with that protective light. "Let's go to the garden. I think Miss Lena is keeping a golden apple pie warm for us."

The walk from the residential block to the Convalescent Garden is quiet. Mom keeps my hand in hers, her thumb brushing my knuckles. The dread that suffocated the landship hours ago has receded, leaving the mechanical heartbeat of our home.

As we approach the primary intersection, rapid footsteps echo down the corridor.

Before I can process the noise, a golden blur tears past us. The wind of her passing rustles my jacket and makes me stumble back into mom's side.

"Vulcan told me the cafeteria is running out of honey biscuits!" the blur yells, her voice echoing off the bulkheads as she sprints toward the dining hall.

She leaves a wake of warm, sun-baked bread dripping with wild honey, shot through with popping fizzy candy. A chaotic, untamed explosion of excitement.

I blink, my tail swinging, and turn to mom.

"Uhmm… mom?" I ask, pointing down the empty hallway. "Who is that?"

Mom lets out a breathless giggle, her shoulders shaking as she watches her disappear around the bend.

"That's our dear Ceobe." Mom tugs my hand to resume our walk. "She has a bit of a one-track mind when it comes to the kitchens. Good thing your birthday pie is kept safely in the garden, Lethe. Let's go."

I nod fervently. The thought of Ceobe intercepting my birthday dessert quickens my pace.

The doors of the Convalescent Garden slide apart with a hiss. Humid air spills out, carrying damp soil and blooming flora.

Deep in the foliage, a small wooden table has already been set.

"Lethe!"

The chiming voice rings through the canopy.

Lisa doesn't walk over; she launches herself down the winding path, a blur of auburn silk and light. I barely have a second to brace before she crashes into me, arms locking around my neck.

Her hug and all nine of her tails nearly floor me. I stumble back, sneakers squeaking against the tiles, but I catch my balance and wrap my free arm around her waist, burying my face in her shoulder.

"You're here!" Lisa cheers, pulling back to look at me, eyes sparkling.

Podenco stands at the edge of the table, positioning the tableware.

"Lisa has been asking when she can eat the pie for the last hour," Podenco teases, her tail swaying. "She's just glad you're finally here so we can cut it."

Lisa whips her head around, a rosy flush warming her cheeks. Her tails puff up into a defensive shield.

"I was not!" Lisa protests, puffing out her cheeks. "I was just waiting for Lethe!"

Podenco simply laughs, unrepentant.

From behind the tea counter, boxes rustle. Miss Lena steps out from the shadows of the hanging ferns, her welcoming smile reaching all the way to her eyes.

In her hands she carries a cardboard box.

Miss Lena sets the box down in the center of the wooden table and opens the flaps, revealing the golden crust of the apple pie Amiya ordered for me. Cinnamon and caramelized sugar fill the seating area.

Resting in the center of the rustic crust are two small white candles. Two candles. Two years since mom pulled me from the dark and gave me a reason to live. Even though I no longer hold that memory. Their daily presence is all I need to reaffirm my existence.

I step up to the edge of the table, my heart swelling until it aches against my ribs, ready to celebrate my tomorrow.

Miss Lena steps forward with a long wooden match struck between her fingers and touches the flame to the two wicks. The twin flames catch, casting a warm glow over the table.

Miss Lena shakes the match out, a wisp of grey smoke curling into the canopy.

"Any wishes, Lethe?" Miss Lena asks.

I close my eyes. I could wish for world peace or a miracle to cure Oripathy, but those are just lies. Standing here with people who anchor me to this cruel but beautiful world, I just want this light to last forever.

I take a deep breath, squeeze my eyes shut, and project my voice with certainty.

"I wish that everyone gets to eat sweets every day!"

Beside me, Lisa lets out a ringing giggle.

"That is the best wish ever, Lethe!" Lisa cheers, vibrating on her heels.

"Dr. Warfarin is going to have a meltdown if she has to manage the blood sugar levels of the entire landship, but I support this completely," Podenco adds.

Mom rests her hand on the top of my head, a steadying weight.

"That's our Lethe. Alright. Blow them out, sweetie."

I lean forward, fill my lungs with the cinnamon-laced air, and blow. The twin flames go out, leaving two trails of smoke that dissolve into the greenhouse humidity.

"Yay!" Lisa claps her hands together.

Miss Lena reaches beneath the counter and produces a stainless steel cake knife, offering me the handle with a nod.

I take the handle and look down at the dessert.

Okay. Cut the pie into six pieces…

One for me. One for mom. One for Lisa. One for Podenco. One for Miss Lena. And one for Opal later.

I raise the knife, the blade hovering millimeters above the caramelized apples.

Then my hand stops.

My brow furrows. I lower the knife a fraction, the thrill in my chest stuttering. I look at the six imaginary slices, then around the secluded seating area.

"Should I save some for Amiya and Rosmontis?" I ask. "Where are they?"

The garden goes dead silent.

Miss Lena averts her eyes, her gaze dropping to the floor tiles.

Mom steps forward, inserting herself into my line of sight.

"They are… busy with administration duties, Lethe," mom replies.

Her voice is smooth. The cadence is measured.

But my Arts catch the shift the second the words leave her lips. Her presence is pierced—a cloying wave of artificial sweetener trying to mask spoiled milk and sour, unripened citrus.

It is the taste of a lie.

The knife slips from my numb fingers and hits the ceramic plate with a clack that rings through the garden.

I take a slow step backward.

I look at mom's face, at the shadows under her eyes she's trying to hide behind a mask of calm.

"Wait…"

"Why…? Why are you lying to me?"

She reaches out and wraps her fingers around my shaking hands.

"I cannot lie to you, can I?" Her voice is fragile, stripped of its authority. A defeated smile touches her lips. "My little empath."

The garden shifts. The cloying taste of the lie washes away, and what replaces it offers no comfort—bitter ash, wilted petals, and the freezing tang of cold iron. The taste of mourning.

"They were in the memorial hall earlier, Lethe," mom breathes out, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

The memorial hall.

The words hit me like a collapsing building. My mind flashes back to the wall of polished obsidian, the lights, and the fresh silver cuts in the dark steel.

Someone died.

"Who?" I choke out, gripping her hands until my knuckles ache.

Miss Lena closes her eyes and bows her head. Beside me, Lisa's tails drop dead against the floor tiles.

"One of our Elite Ops," mom answers, the words scraping against the quiet of the garden. "Outcast. She was killed in the Dublinn uprising."

Outcast.

I had never met her in person. She was a Sankta—one of the halo-crowned marksmen from Laterano—and the older Operators in the cafeteria spoke of her with reverent awe. She was a veteran who had walked through the fires of Chernobog and made it out alive. One of the best gunmen Rhodes Island had ever contracted.

She was an Elite Operator.

They are the walking titans of our home. The strongest of us, the ones who run into Catastrophes and burning cities to drag people out of the rubble. I used to think nothing could touch them. I learned better when Ace and Scout fell, and now I have to learn it all over again.

"How…" The word barely makes it out. "How…?"

If a Sankta Elite couldn't survive the brick-lined streets of Victoria, the armored plating of our landship feels as thin as paper.

Mom takes a slow, unsteady breath. Her thumbs brush over my white knuckles, rhythmically, trying to anchor me to the physical world.

"Our intel said she died protecting civilians against the Dublinn advance," mom says, her voice dropping.

I look past mom, at the crust of the apple pie sitting in the center of the table. Just minutes ago it was the symbol of a peaceful, mundane birthday. A sweet, cinnamon-laced luxury.

Now the two blackened candle wicks look like the ruins of a battlefield.

She died protecting people who couldn't protect themselves. She traded her tomorrow so civilians could have theirs, like every name carved into the obsidian wall before her.

A ragged sob tears out of me.

Mom doesn't say a word. She drops to her knees on the cold floor tiles and wraps her arms around me, burying her face in my hair, and we weep together for the titan who isn't coming home.

The quiet breaks.

The garden doors slide apart with a hiss that echoes against the canopy.

I pull my face out of mom's translucent coat and wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve, blinking toward the threshold.

Amiya steps into the humid, earthy sanctuary.

She isn't wearing the pristine, unyielding mask right now. She looks tired. Her signature jacket hangs heavy on her shoulders.

But it is her face that makes my chest ache. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, the shadows beneath them carved deeper than ever. The tear tracks are fresh, still glistening on her cheeks in the greenhouse light. She has been crying. Crying hard.

"Lethe… There you are."

Her spun sugar is scorched. It hits the back of my tongue as burnt caramel, saltwater, and the grey dust of a fresh gravestone.

Mom loosens her grip, her hands resting on my shoulders as I push myself up off the garden floor.

I look past Amiya, searching the empty space behind her.

"Amiya…" My voice cracks. "Where's Rosmontis?"

Amiya stops at the edge of the wooden table and looks down at the pie, hands clutching the edges of her jacket.

"She…" Amiya's voice catches. "Doctor deployed her to secure our logistics routes."

She lifts her head, red-rimmed eyes meeting mine.

"We need to be safe while we're holding near the Victorian borders," Amiya says, pulling a fraction of her authority back into her voice to keep it from breaking.

"We're not going to war, right?" I plead.

My eyes beg her. I cannot do it again. I cannot stand in the corridors and taste the metallic sludge of another slaughter. I cannot watch the VTOLs come back with empty seats.

Amiya doesn't hesitate. She closes the distance.

"We're not, Lethe," Amiya promises.

She holds my eyes for a long, heavy second, anchoring me to the safety of the landship. Then she turns back to the table.

She looks at the two dead candles. She looks at the dessert she ordered to give me one moment of peace.

Amiya forces the corners of her mouth up. Her face is still wet.

"Come. Let's enjoy the pie."

I don't know where she finds the strength for it.

"Okay." I nod.

I step forward and pick the cake knife back up off the plate. Mom stands beside me, her eyes shining with relief. Lisa and Podenco step closer, their tails giving slow, comforting swishes. Miss Lena offers a nod.

The apple pie yields under the edge of my fork.

I take a small, careful bite. The burst of baked apples, sharp cinnamon, and caramelized sugar melts on my tongue. A grounded sweetness that pushes back against the war raging outside.

Beside me, Lisa is munching her own slice. The damp, frightened shadows that clung to her hours ago are being chased off by the sugar.

She pauses, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth. Her eyes dart from her plate and travel up the dark fabric of my oversized jacket before stopping at my head. She tilts her head, ears twitching with curiosity.

"Lethe?" Lisa asks. "Have you ever gotten a haircut?"

I stop chewing.

"Uhmmm… haircut?" I repeat. The word feels strange.

"Yeah, a haircut." Lisa mimes scissors with her free hand. "Like, someone takes scissors and styles your hair. When you first arrived from the ruins, your hair was, like, a bit past your waist. But now…"

Lisa leans over, gesturing toward the floor.

I follow her gaze over the edge of my chair.

My woodsmoke-grey hair has spilled past the hem of my jacket. It flows over the edge of the seat, the longest strands pooling against my insulated stockings, almost all the way down to my thighs. It has become a heavy curtain. For two years I had been so busy surviving Oripathy, studying in the Archives, and siphoning the nightmares of our Operators that the creeping weight of my own hair escaped my notice.

A smack echoes across the table.

Mom hits her forehead with the palm of her hand. She drags the hand down her face, a hot prickly flush of embarrassment warming her cheeks. Her honey goes flustered, cut with tart lemon.

"Oh, right," mom groans behind her fingers. "I dry her hair after her showers. I'm the one brushing it every morning, and I never realized how long it got."

Mom lowers her hand and looks across the table with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Lethe. I neglected your grooming."

"It's okay, mom!" I gather up a handful of the heavy strands. "It keeps me warm! But… it does get caught in the zippers of my jacket a lot."

Amiya, quietly working through her own slice, giggles.

"We can fix that." Amiya sets her fork down. "Susie arrived on the landship recently. She's a great barber. You should check with her."

I tilt my head, my longer left horn pulling my neck down a fraction.

"Susie?" The name doesn't belong to any of the Medics or Field Ops I pass in the corridors.

"Yes, Susie Glitter. Her Operator codename is Goldenglow. She's a Feline. She joined us from Caladon after she saved the Infected community there from a noble's plot."

Caladon.

The hushed aisles of the Archives, the day Ms. Skyfire packed her bags and marched into the heart of the Victorian Empire. Podenco told me she was stationed in Caladon, using her Arts to protect an Infected district from the cruelty of the aristocracy.

"Caladon… Is she… did she work with Ms. Skyfire?"

"She did," Amiya confirms, the pride in her voice unmistakable. "Susie is brave. The situation in the city became volatile, but she stood her ground to protect her friends and the Infected citizens. She's adjusting to life here on Rhodes Island now, and she has set up a small salon space in one of the auxiliary residential blocks."

Another person who walked through the fire. Another Infected who refused to let Terra put their light out, finding their way to the armored belly of our home.

And she can give me a haircut.

I look down at the mass of my hair, then back up at mom.

"Can I go see her, mom?" I ask. "Can I get a haircut from Miss Susie?"

Mom smiles.

"Of course, Lethe. We will set up an appointment for you tomorrow. Let's get you cleaned up properly."

"Okay, mom!" I chirp, ready to get a haircut.

The rest of the night passes without event.

Mom tucks me into bed after I change into my sleepwear. Ready for another day.

The daylight simulation in my dorm hasn't finished turning from its bruised amber night cycle to the white of morning, but I'm already wide awake.

I'm sitting upright on the edge of my bed, my tail flicking back and forth against the mattress in a rapid rhythm.

Today is the 3rd of January. Today is my first haircut.

The pneumatic locks of my dorm disengage with a clank, and the door slides apart.

I don't hesitate. I launch myself off the mattress and barrel toward the doorway.

"Mom! Mom! Mom!"

Mom barely has a second to brace before I crash into her. She catches me with a breathless laugh, arms around my shoulders to absorb the momentum.

"Oof! Look who's up bright and early," mom chuckles, feathers fluffing as she looks down at my beaming face.

"Let's go to Miss Susie's!" I urge, vibrating on the spot. I grip the fabric of her translucent coat, my eyes wide and pleading.

Mom's smile deepens, but she shakes her head. Her hands come up to smooth the tangled strands framing my face.

"Now, now, Lethe. Breakfast first. Goldenglow needs her own breakfast and preparations too, you know. We can't barge into her salon before she's had her coffee."

I stop. The excitement stalls as the logic catches up. Miss Susie is an Operator too. She needs to wake up and eat like everyone else.

"Oh, right," I mumble, slumping, a sheepish pout on my lips, though my tail keeps up its happy thump against her leg.

Mom squeezes my shoulder, and after I pull on my dark pleated skirt, my insulated stockings, and my oversized grey jacket, we step out into the corridors.

The walk to the cafeteria is quiet. The double doors of the dining hall hiss apart on a sprawling room far emptier than normal. Rows of blue plastic chairs sit vacant, missing the usual overlapping clatter of Operators rushing to fuel up for their shifts.

The war is still in our lives. The fires of County Hillock, the shadow of the Dublinn uprising. Everyone left on board tastes of dull, stagnant rainwater and heavy iron—a quiet, lingering anxiety that has settled deep into their bones.

I keep my head down, letting my hair fall forward as a shield, and follow mom closely toward the serving stations. I push the rainwater and iron out of my head and focus on the warm, savory aromas rising from the hot plates.

I point eagerly through the glass, assembling my all-time favorites.

We find a secluded table near the back. I sit down and tear into the food, letting the simple, grounded comforts chase the atmosphere of the room away. The rolled omelette is warm, the delicate savory yellow layers melting on my tongue. I follow it with an ambitious bite of the sweet red bean roll, the soft pillowy dough giving way to the earthy sugar of the paste hidden inside.

I chew happily, washing the sweetness down with a long gulp of warm milk. The heat blooms in my chest, a domestic warmth that anchors me to the present.

I tear through the rest of the meal in record time and wipe a stray crumb of sweet bread from the corner of my mouth.

"I'm ready!" I slide off my plastic chair and grab my Arts Unit from where it rests against the table.

Mom finishes her coffee, gathers our empty trays, and stands.

"Alright, Lethe. Let's go."

We step back out into the arteries of Rhodes Island, away from the primary medical blocks and deep into the auxiliary residential sectors, on our way to Miss Susie's.

The transition from the wide corridors of the primary sectors to the auxiliary residential blocks is subtle, but the air here feels quieter, less burdened by the rush of logistics.

We walk down the corridor until we stop in front of a specific door. Hanging neatly beside the control panel is a small, handcrafted wooden sign. It reads "Susie's Salon" in careful, curving letters.

I stretch up on my toes and press the buzzer.

The heavy metal hisses apart.

Standing in the threshold is a Feline girl. Soft, fluffy pink hair frames her face, and a pair of rounded ears fold slightly downward in a gentle curve. She's wearing a practical beige styling apron layered over an oversized sweater, with a pair of metallic scissors peeking out of one of the front pockets.

I take a breath, my Arts brushing against the air around her.

She tastes cozy—toasted sugar, warm milk, and fresh sun-dried linen. But right at the edges, buzzing beneath the sweetness, there's a sharp crackling fizz, like static electricity dancing across the tongue. Warm, and charged.

"Oh, hi!" Miss Susie's eyes widen and crinkle into a smile. "You must be Lethe and Caladria?"

"Yes, Miss Susie." I give a polite nod.

"Come in, come in! Have a seat." Susie ushers us inside, stepping back to reveal a small room turned into a shop. "I was just finishing my coffee. Give me ten minutes to set up the chair and my tools."

I shuffle inside. The room smells of sweet floral shampoo and sterilized metal. Against the wall is a plush pastel-colored sofa, and I climb onto it and pull my posture upright, legs dangling over the edge and swinging back and forth. My tail coils neatly beside me on the cushions.

Mom steps in behind me with a sheepish smile.

"Sorry, Goldenglow." Mom rests a hand on the back of the sofa. "Lethe was way too excited. She was up and waiting for me before the daylight simulation even finished its cycle."

Susie laughs, a bright sound laced with that fizz. "It's all good! I'm used to early mornings."

Mom checks the digital clock on her wrist terminal.

"Well," mom sighs, her hand dropping to give my shoulder a firm squeeze. "My shift at the medical bay starts in fifteen minutes. I should head back. Behave yourself, Lethe."

I look up at her.

"Okay! Good luck, mom."

Susie pauses near her styling station, a ceramic mug in her hand. She turns around, her folded pink ears perking up in mild surprise.

"Mom?" Susie echoes, her gaze moving between me—the Sarkaz—and mom, the pale Liberi. "I didn't know! You're family?"

I stop swinging my legs.

"Mom saved me from a ruin in Kazdel. She adopted me. At least… that's what they tell me…"

"Oh…" Susie's smile falters.

Mom steps closer to the sofa.

"Her Oripathy destroys her memories…" mom says, giving Susie a sad, understanding smile.

The air in the salon grows heavy. Pity wells up in Miss Susie—that bitter, tragic sorrow I try so hard to avoid. I don't want her to feel sad for me before she has even cut my hair.

"That's okay, I'm fine," I chime in, forcing a smile to push the gloom back.

I reach into my bag and find the aluminum chassis of my digital slate. I pull it out, tap the screen, and hold the glowing device up.

"I write all the people who are important to me in my note," I tell her. "So I don't lose them."

I look at her, my smile widening. "I'll add one for Miss Susie too."

The pity clouding the room dissolves.

"Then I have to give you the best haircut there is to earn that placement!" Miss Susie cheers, eyes sparkling.

Mom chuckles and steps back toward the threshold.

"I'll leave you two to it." Her hand rests on the door's control panel. She looks at me with a warm, expectant smile. "Send me a picture once it's done, Lethe."

"Okay!" I promise, with a nod.

"Laters, Caladria," Miss Susie calls, waving with her free hand.

Mom returns the wave before stepping out into the corridor.

I stay seated on the plush sofa, watching in quiet fascination as Miss Susie bustles around her styling station. She moves with practiced efficiency, laying out gleaming shears, fine-toothed combs, and soft towels on the counter.

As she lines up a row of styling clips, she glances at me in the mirror.

"You know, Skyfire mentioned you."

My tail, swaying lazily against the cushions, snaps rigid.

"Ms. Skyfire did?"

A phantom taste of sharp roasted spices and a crackling hearth fire ghosts across my tongue. Skyfire is hundreds of kilometers away in Caladon, and the authority of her academic expectations still holds an iron grip on my nervous system.

Miss Susie turns around, leaning her hip against the counter. A bright giggle escapes her, her hair shifting as she smiles.

"Well," Miss Susie teases. "She complains about a certain Sarkaz child who cares more about sweets than her Originium thermodynamics homework."

I puff my cheeks out.

"Her homework is hard!" I whine, gripping the edge of the sofa cushions and leaning forward. "The math is so long! Miss Adele's homework is a lot more interesting. We just look at maps and talk about volcanoes and nations!"

Then a thought strikes me.

"Please don't tell Ms. Skyfire I said that!" I wave my hands in the air. "If she finds out I like geography more than thermodynamics, she's going to appear on the landship straight from Victoria just to give me a pop quiz!"

Miss Susie laughs outright, the sound carrying across the small salon, her static charge popping like candy.

She steps forward, picking up a cape from her station, and gives me a conspiratorial wink.

"Your secrets are safe with me, Lethe," Miss Susie promises.

"Come." She pats the leather upholstery of the styling chair. "Let's get started."

I slide off the plush sofa and slip my arms out of the sleeves of my R.I. jacket, folding the fabric neatly and setting it on the cushions, leaving me in just my crisp white turtleneck and pleated skirt. Without the jacket's weight, my tail sways a little more freely behind me.

I step up to the styling chair, gripping the armrests, and climb into the seat. It's slightly too big for me, my feet dangling just above the footrest, but the padded leather is comfortable. Miss Susie steps behind me, shaking out a pale pink cape. She drapes it over my shoulders, securing it snugly around the base of my neck, right above the black Arts monitor collar.

She stands behind me, ears twitching thoughtfully, and gathers the curtain of my hair as she looks at our reflection in the large, brightly lit mirror.

"How do you want your hair, Lethe?" she asks.

I stare at my reflection, at my misty blue eyes and the tangled ends of my hair pooling against the back of the chair.

"I don't know what's supposed to look good." I look up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "I didn't even know what a haircut and a salon were until yesterday."

"Hmm…" Miss Susie tilts her head, taking in my face, the length of my hair, the lopsided set of my horns. "Well. Your hair needs to be shorter, that's for sure. It must be so heavy carrying all this around every day!"

She lets my hair fall and reaches into her apron pocket for a digital terminal.

"I think an asymmetrical cut fits you on the front." She swipes across the screen, then leans over my shoulder, holding the terminal up so I can see it in the mirror. "Since your left horn is a bit longer than your right, an asymmetrical fringe will balance the silhouette. It'll frame your face without getting caught, and we can take a lot of weight off the back so it doesn't drag on the floor anymore. What do you think, Lethe?"

I look at the reference picture. The girl on the screen looks neat, the uneven cut making her sharp and delicate at once.

I nod at her in the mirror.

"Okay."

Miss Susie takes a breath and steps into her zone.

The snip-snip of her shears fills the room.

The curtain of my grey hair begins to fall. Thick woodsmoke-grey strands drop onto the pink cape and pool on the floorboards. The relief is immediate. For two years I had been carrying around a dragging blanket that pulled at the muscles in my neck, and as she chops away the dead weight, my head goes light.

Miss Susie leans in close, her eyes narrowing as she begins the delicate, intricate work of styling the asymmetrical fringe to frame my horns.

Then a jolt of electricity arcs off her fingertips, through the shears, into my scalp.

"Ouchie!" I yelp.

My shoulders jump and my hands fly up from under the cape, pressing flat against the sides of my head.

Miss Susie yanks her hands and the scissors safely away from my hair. Her focused sugar burns with a spike of panicked guilt.

"Oh no! Sorry!" Miss Susie gasps, ears folding flat. "Lethe, my Arts… when I get too focused or stressed, it reacts by itself. Sorry! I'm still learning how to control it."

I blink and lower my hands. The sting of the static shock is already fading, leaving behind a faint tingling warmth against my scalp. Her wide apologetic eyes find mine in the mirror. I know all too well what it's like to have a body and an Oripathy infection that refuse to listen to you.

"It's okay, Miss Susie." I smile at her in the reflection. "I'm fine. It didn't hurt much!"

Miss Susie's ears come up, and the guilt melts off her. She gives me a wobbly smile and raises her shears again.

As I sit quietly in the chair, watching the faint sparks of static electricity dance across the tips of her hair, my mind drifts away from the salon.

It drifts back to the hushed, climate-controlled aisles of the Archives, the towering bookshelves, the banked-coal warmth of Miss Adele across the table.

"Miss Adele," I had asked one afternoon, tracing the topographical lines of a map. "What Arts do you use?"

Miss Adele had looked up, her soft eyes holding a quiet power.

"My Arts are based on fire, Lethe," she had said, in that airy melody of hers. "Kind of like a volcano."

Given that she dedicates her life to fault lines and volcanology, it made sense.

"Woah," I had breathed. "Actually, Miss Adele… why do people use different Arts?"

Miss Adele had set her magnifying glass down on the table, her expression shifting into academic focus.

"Basic healing for surface wounds, or simple Arts projectiles, are universal skills almost anyone can learn if they study the theory and the calculations enough," Miss Adele had said. "But Arts manifest very differently in people afflicted with Oripathy. The Originium alters the pathways. Sometimes what comes out is mundane. And sometimes… it is dangerous, and volatile."

The snip of the shears pulls me back.

I look at Miss Susie in the brightly lit mirror. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, her eyes tracking every single strand of hair she cuts. She is trying so hard to keep her hands steady, fighting the static crackling beneath her skin just so she can give me a good haircut.

Her Arts must be very hard to control.

I keep still in the leather chair so I don't startle her or break her focus, and let her work.

The sharp clicking finally slows to a halt. Miss Susie gives one last brush through my shortened locks, dusting the stray clipped strands from the shoulders of the cape.

With a flourish, she steps back and gestures toward the mirror.

"Ta-da. All done," Miss Susie announces. "What do you think, Lethe?"

I stare at my reflection.

The heavy, dragging curtain of woodsmoke-grey is gone. My hair is cut square now, resting just above my waist. But it's the front that transforms my face. The fringe is deliberately asymmetrical, sweeping softly to the right, offsetting the lopsided weight of the longer horn sprouting from the left side of my crown.

I reach up and touch the trimmed ends.

"I look different," I whisper into the quiet salon, a smile breaking across my face. "I like it."

The room sweetens.

"You look cute, Lethe," Miss Susie beams, pulling the terminal back out of her apron. "Want me to take a picture and send it to Caladria?"

The thought of mom seeing my new look while she's working her shift in the medical bay makes my tail thump against the styling chair.

"Okay," I chirp, sitting up straight and giving the terminal my best smile. "Thank you so much, Miss Susie."

Miss Susie holds up the device. A soft digital click echoes in the room. Her fingers dance across the glass screen for a second.

"You're welcome." She lowers the terminal. "There. Sent."

Before I can hop down from the seat, the locks of the salon door disengage.

The air in the small room shifts. Miss Susie's cozy electric sugar is met by a comforting wave of sun-warmed linen and polished oak.

Ms. Raidian is at the threshold. She steps into the salon, her sharp eyes locking onto me.

"Oh my, oh my. Look at that! Lethe, looking good!"

She doesn't just walk over; she teleports. With the effortless speed of a seasoned Elite Ops, she reappears right in front of my styling chair.

Before I can offer a proper, respectful bow, I'm trapped. Two of her arms pin the armrests of the leather chair, locking the seat in place so I have to face her directly. At the same time her other two reach up, her hands framing my face for a thorough, up-close inspection. She squishes my cheeks together, delighted.

"Ms… Ms… Raidian," I stammer, the words coming out distorted and high-pitched.

Behind me, Miss Susie laughs, unfazed.

"Good morning, Raidian. Perfect timing," Miss Susie says, wiping her shears down with a towel. "Lethe here is just done."

"Well," Ms. Raidian hums approvingly.

She finally lets me go, dropping her arms and stepping back to admire the handiwork. I let out a breathless puff of air, my hands flying up to my head. My brand-new asymmetrical fringe is already getting messy from the greeting, and I smooth the grey strands back into place around my horns to preserve Miss Susie's hard work.

Ms. Raidian gives me a warm grin.

"You have a garden to enjoy, don't you, Lethe?" she asks, her authority and her fondness balanced in it.

Miss Lena, Lisa, and Podenco are probably already waiting for me to start my shift.

"I do."

I slide off the seat, padded sneakers finding the floor, and reach over to the sofa for my jacket and my Kazdelian Arts Unit.

I turn back to the styling station and give Miss Susie a deep bow.

"I'll head to work then," I announce, my voice ringing with a renewed clarity. "Thank you, Miss Susie."

I turn and give Ms. Raidian the same. "Take care on your missions, Ms. Raidian."

"Bye, Lethe," Miss Susie calls, waving.

I step out into the quiet corridor and notice the difference at once. My head feels light, the dragging curtain of my hair no longer catching on my collar.

A frantic, rhythmic buzzing starts vibrating against my hip, hard enough that my dark crossbody bag bounces against my skirt.

I fish out my slate. The screen is lit with a barrage of notifications, all of them from mom.

I sigh and tap the glass to open our encrypted channel.

[Lethe]: Mom, focus on work.

The three grey dots start pulsing at once. She is not focusing on her triage prep.

[Caladria]: Come to cafeteria for lunch! I have to see it in person.

I chuckle, type back a confirmation, and slip the slate into my bag.

The walk to the Convalescent Garden feels breezy. As the doors slide apart, humid, earthy air washes over me.

I step onto the polished floor. It's quieter than usual today. I search the air, but Lisa's light is missing. She must be tied up with Supporter drills or tutoring this morning.

Deep in the garden, by the control panels of the micro-climate pods, stand Miss Lena and Podenco, focused on their botanical duties.

"Make sure the water cycles are on the exact time I outlined in the documents," Miss Lena instructs.

"Yes, Miss Lena." Podenco taps a sequence into her slate.

I step down the path and stop a few paces from the terrariums.

Podenco lowers her slate and turns. Her ears swivel forward. She takes in the asymmetrical fringe, and the shortened length of my hair resting near my waist.

For a long second her face stays deadpan.

"Hi." Her voice is flat, devoid of recognition. "You are?"

My jaw drops. My hands fly up.

"What?!" I yelp, my tail snapping behind me. "It's me, Lethe!"

Podenco narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her teal jacket, leaning in with an exaggerated, scrutinizing glare.

"That doesn't look right."

But she can't lie to me.

My Arts catch her out. Citrus, gone fizzy, carbonated with barely restrained amusement—she is dying of laughter on the inside.

I drop my hands to my hips and puff my cheeks into my fiercest pout.

"Podenco!" I whine, stamping my foot against the floorboards. "You taste like a shaken soda bottle right now! Stop teasing me!"

The deadpan mask crumbles. Podenco bursts into a ringing chuckle that echoes across the greenhouse canopy.

"I couldn't resist!" Podenco giggles, uncrossing her arms to gesture at my new look. "You look so different, Lethe! The shorter hair really suits you. You look like a proper professional assistant now!"

Miss Lena turns from the environmental controls with a chuckle.

"It frames your face beautifully, sweetie. Susie did a wonderful job. You look lovely."

"Thank you, Miss Lena." My face goes hot, and I reach up and brush the trimmed ends of my fringe. "It feels lighter, too."

The teasing mood of the greenhouse settles as Miss Lena clears her throat. The sound is small, but it carries the authority that turns every head in the room.

"I'm going to be away for a few days, maybe longer, Lethe."

My tail, which had just started swaying again, freezes. The bubbly joy in my chest stalls.

"Miss Lena? Where are you going?"

Miss Lena smiles.

"Since we aren't involving ourselves with the war," Miss Lena says, her voice a calm hum, "I think it's a good time to attach myself to the Field Ops teams and study the plant life of Victoria."

She gestures at the botanical encyclopedias on Podenco's workstation.

"The Victorian Empire sits on one of the most fertile plains in Terra," she continues, her eyes shining. "The plants there are diverse, and valuable to our medical research. If we can secure samples from Victorian soil, it could improve the efficacy of our healing poultices and Oripathy suppressants."

Victoria.

My mind flashes back to the static-laced footage of County Hillock burning—civilians fleeing through cobblestone streets, bursts of Originium Arts from the Dublinn uprising, the shadow of the Kazdelian occupation of Londinium.

"But…" I stammer, taking a step forward, my eyes pleading as I look up at her. "Wouldn't it be dangerous?"

Miss Lena steps across and rests her warm, steady hands on my shoulders.

"Don't worry, Lethe." She leans down a fraction to look into my eyes. Her smile has no fear in it. "I'm a trained Field Medic. And I'll have Field Ops escorts."

In the humid quiet of the garden, pouring tea and pruning ferns, it's easy to forget. Miss Lena isn't just a botanist. She wears the Rhodes Island emblem for a reason. She's a veteran who has walked the broken lands of Terra to heal the wounded. She knows how to navigate the dark.

Miss Lena gives my shoulders a grounding squeeze.

"Take care of the garden for me with Podenco and Beanstalk, okay?" she asks.

I look at her, and think of the sanctuary she has built for us, the haven where our broken Operators come to rest their heavy heads. She's leaving to find more ways to heal them, and she's trusting me to keep the hearth warm while she's out in the cold.

I push the images of burning Hillock streets out of my mind and nod, slow and solemn.

"Okay." My voice holds. "We'll keep it safe, Miss Lena. We promise."

"I know you will, all of you."

Miss Lena looks toward a small counter, where the embossed cover of a Victorian romance novel sits half hidden under a stack of botanical charts. She lets out a sigh that is not at all managerial.

"I hope I can finish reading my novel before I leave tomorrow."

Beside me, Podenco's tail perks up, fanning the air.

"We can summarize the story for you when you're back." Podenco gives her most innocent smile.

"No you will not, young lady," Miss Lena cuts in, though a fizzy spike of rosewater gives her away. She steps in front of the counter, shielding her literature from view. "I'm hiding the books."

I get my hands up too late to catch the giggle.

Before Miss Lena can secure her novel, the garden doors open.

Miss Beanstalk strides down the winding path, sun-baked hay and roasted seeds trailing behind her, along with the metallic clicking of a tiny crab.

"What you three laughing at?" Miss Beanstalk asks, tilting her head between my flushed, giggling face and Miss Lena's defensive posture.

Miss Lena smooths the front of her apron, the sanctuary-guardian persona snapping back into place. The rosewater vanishes.

"Nothing serious, Beanstalk," Miss Lena says, calm again. "Just giving them pointers on managing the garden while I'm in the field. How are your incubators?"

It is a polite question.

It is also a fatal mistake.

Miss Beanstalk freezes. The air in the greenhouse erupts. Her eyes light up, shining with the intensity of a breeder who has been waiting all day for this exact prompt.

She opens her mouth, drawing in a breath, ready to launch into an hours-long lecture.

"I just remembered I need to double check the nutrition solutions!" Podenco blurts, her words overlapping Miss Beanstalk's sharp inhale.

Without waiting for a response, Podenco executes a tactical retreat—two rapid steps backward and she is gone behind a wall of broad-leafed ferns, vanished into the foliage.

I stand there, my hands dropping from my mouth.

I turn my head to the swaying ferns where Podenco had been standing. The betrayal hits me. I am alone in the crossfire, my tail dropping against the floorboards as I brace for the crustacean lecture.

"And if you monitor the ambient temperature, their molting phase is seamless!" Miss Beanstalk vibrates, her hands gesturing to take in the whole of her crustacean empire.

I nod blankly, my eyes glazed over. My horns feel heavy, and my tail gives a slow twitch against the floor.

I am finally let go.

Hunger reminds me that the morning cycle has ticked over into the lunch hour. I drag my feet out of the Convalescent Garden with the heavy steps of the exhausted. Surviving Miss Beanstalk's agricultural seminars takes nearly as much endurance as running laps for Ms. Dobermann.

Navigating the corridors toward the cafeteria, I find a familiar figure stepping into my path.

It's Miss Sussurro. Her white coat rustles, and she still tastes of unsweetened dark chocolate and black coffee.

"Good afternoon, Lethe," Miss Sussurro says, with her usual uncompromising professional severity.

I stop, gripping the dark shaft of my Arts Unit, and force my spine straight.

"Good afternoon, Miss Sussurro. How's Opal?"

The bitter, exhausted edge of her softens a fraction. The stern lines of her face ease into a quiet, clinical satisfaction.

"She's sleeping." She looks down at me. "Dr. Warfarin's suppressants are working better than expected. Given current recovery results, she'll be cleared for light activities again in a day or two."

The words hit me like a rush of filtered oxygen. The dread that always hangs around Opal's name backs off a little, because the medicine is actually helping. She is stabilizing. We bought her more time.

"That's good," I breathe out, a relieved smile breaking across my face and banishing the fatigue. "Thank you, Miss Sussurro."

Miss Sussurro gives a curt nod. Her sharp eyes sweep over my slouching posture, my drooping tail, and the drained expression I haven't quite managed to hide.

"Go get some food, Lethe," she says, a strict undertone of care in it. "You look exhausted."

"I will," I promise, and with a sigh and a respectful bow I shuffle past her toward the dining hall.

If only she knew what I went through.

The horrors of the battlefield and the sting of Dr. Warfarin's needles have nothing on an inescapable, hour-long lecture about the optimal dietary minerals for mechanical crabs.

I keep trudging toward the cafeteria.

Before I can set foot in the dining hall, two arms wrap around my shoulders from behind and pull me into a warm, inescapable embrace.

"Oh my. My little Lethe! Look at you."

Mom's voice rings out down the hallway.

The clatter of the corridor slows. A few passing logistics Operators and off-duty Field Ops pause their conversations and turn to look at us. I catch the amused smiles stretching across their faces.

My cheeks erupt in a prickly flush. I duck my head, trying to shrink into the collar of my oversized jacket.

"Mom…" I mumble, my voice dropping into an embarrassed whine. "It's embarrassing."

Mom doesn't let go. She steps around to face me and reaches out to pinch my burning cheek.

"Because you are our cutest little Lethe here," mom coos, her eyes crinkling with fondness.

Then her expression shifts. She tilts her head, taking in the shadows under my eyes and the slump of my shoulders.

"Though, you look a bit tired," mom observes. "Are you not eating your vegetables again? Don't make me confiscate your ID card again."

My hand flies to the pocket where my hard-earned internal credits are stored.

"Or perhaps, you need Hibiscus's smoothies."

Mom leans in a fraction closer to deliver the ultimatum.

The mere mention of her "nutritionally complete" concoctions sets my teeth on edge. My mind flashes to the swamp-green sludge that smells of raw kale and concentrated bitter roots. In my eyes, that shaker bottle is biological warfare.

My survival instincts override my exhaustion. I shoot up to attention, my hands flying up in surrender.

"I will eat my steamed broccoli!" I yelp.

Mom's stern facade shatters into a victorious giggle. She ruffles my newly styled fringe, satisfied that her medical terrorism has secured my dietary compliance.

Mom and I walk into the cafeteria. Lunch today smells different.

Usually the dining hall is a clash of aromas, the creamy bite of Leithanian stews warring with the savory steam of Higashinese broths. Today the air is dense and comforting. It smells of heavy butter, roasted vegetables, and simmering gravies, and my stomach gives a loud, demanding rumble.

We walk over to the serving stations, our shoes clicking in unison against the epoxy floor.

Behind the heated glass partitions, the culinary team has laid out a spread of traditional Victorian cuisine. On the iron hot plates sit golden-crusted pies, their flaky tops scored to let out plumes of steam, overflowing with slow-roasted meats and a dark, peppery gravy that bubbles at the edges. Next to them is a mountain of thick-cut, salt-dusted tubers, paired with fillets of coastal fish in a crispy, deep-golden batter. It looks heavy and filling—the kind of food I picture soldiers wolfing down before they march off through the rainy streets of Londinium.

But my eyes bypass the savory meats and the fried fish and lock onto the bakery section at the end of the line.

On a cooling rack sit rows of tall, buttery bakes, crumbly and golden outside, split at the waists to show soft, fluffy interiors. One row is speckled with chunks of melting dark chocolate, the other dotted with tart dried berries. Beside the trays is a ceramic bowl filled to the brim with thick, whipped clotted cream.

I look up at mom, widening my eyes to project the maximum pleading innocence I can physically muster.

"Mom?" I point directly at the bakery display. "Can I have the chocolate and fruit bakes? Please?"

Mom pauses, her tray hovering over the rails. She looks at the pastries, and then down at me.

She lets out a breathy sigh, the feathers near her temples fluffing up in surrender.

"Only if you eat a full bowl of fresh greens with it, Lethe," mom compromises. "No skipping the vegetables."

"I promise!"

I slide my tray down the line, accept the leafy salad bowl mom mandates for my nutritional baseline, and shove my plate toward the baker to secure my prized, buttery bakes.

I carry the bakes and the salad bowl to the table, balancing the heavy tray as we navigate the crowd.

We find an empty spot near one of the observation windows. I slide into my plastic chair, my eyes fixed on the chocolate-studded pastry resting next to my greens. I carve off a generous piece with my fork, drag it through the clotted cream, and take a bite.

The texture is dense but crumbly, the savory butter melting against the bitter snap of the dark chocolate and the heavy cream. It is refined, indulgent, and unapologetic in its richness.

I chew slowly, a contented hum in my throat, looking at the golden crust and the delicate crumb.

So this is what Ms. Skyfire approves of.

Mom says Ms. Skyfire always turned her nose up at the mass-produced Columbian sugar-treats. Tasting this balanced Victorian pastry, her haughty pride makes sense. If this is the kind of thing she was raised on, no wonder she refuses to settle for anything less.

I finish the buttery bite and wipe a smudge of clotted cream from my mouth. Across the table, mom rests her chin in her hand, watching me demolish the pastry.

"So, my little sugar-filled Djall," mom begins. "What's your favorite so far? You've tasted about half of the world's signature desserts now."

I pause, looking down at my plate. My mind sifts through the culinary journey of my short life. The cloud-like pancakes of Trimounts, the sweet milk-fudges of Kjerag, the delicate red bean rolls on the landship, and now these crumbly Victorian bakes.

"I mean, all of them are great." My tail gives a thoughtful swish against the legs of my chair. I look up at her, tilting my head. "It's still hard to beat Higashinese or Yanese ones, though. They just make me feel warmer and relaxed. I don't know why."

It's a snug, safe feeling that comes from somewhere in my head I can't reach anymore, and for once there are no Catastrophes or Oripathy stuck to it.

Mom's smile softens into something tender. She reaches across the table and brushes a stray crumb from the sleeve of my jacket.

"Well." Her voice drops into a hum. "Your first real meal on Rhodes Island was a Higashi-styled cup of steamed egg."

I don't remember it at all. But as long as mom says so, I believe her.

"So that's why Amiya teases me as a Higashinese Djall," I chime.

Mom rolls her eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

"Amiya enables your sweet tooth way too much."

"How do you know, mom?" I ask, my voice pitching up in surprise. I am usually so careful about my secret dessert excursions with Amiya.

Mom just smirks. She leans forward a fraction, tapping the tip of my nose.

"Trade secrets, Lethe."

The cheek of the reply makes me slump back in my chair with a defeated groan. She always knows. She knew about my secret stash of vending machine snacks, and she knows exactly how many sweets Amiya sneaks me.

Mom chuckles, and the playful tension melts away. She lowers her hands, her expression shifting into a more practical focus.

"Well." Her tone returns to its steady baseline. "Lethe, in seriousness. What's your plan this afternoon?"

I look down at my plate and pick up my fork to finish the last, chocolate-studded bite of my lunch. The reality of the landship's shifting schedules presses back in.

"I think I'll head to the Archives," I say, keeping my voice resolute. "Miss Lena is leaving tomorrow. I need to tell Miss Adele I probably won't have much time to study until she's back."

With Miss Lena gone on her field mission to Victoria, the garden will rely on me, Podenco, and Miss Beanstalk to keep the sanctuary running. I won't have the luxury of burying myself in geological maps and thermodynamic equations for the next few days.

Mom nods slowly, her eyes shining with quiet pride.

"That's very responsible of you, Lethe." Her honey settles over me. "Miss Lena will appreciate you stepping up to watch the garden. Finish your greens, and then you can go let Eyjafjalla know."

I swallow the last forkful of the mandated greens. They taste bland after the Victorian pastry, but the approving smile from mom makes the crisp leaves bearable.

"All done, mom!" I announce, proudly holding up my cleared plate.

I slide out of the plastic chair and pick up my tray to head toward the return station. "I'll see you tonight."

"Okay. Good luck, little researcher," mom calls after me.

The walk to the Archives is a quiet transition. The clatter of the cafeteria fades, replaced by the climate-controlled stillness of the towering bookshelves. The air smells of old paper, binding glue, and sterile dust.

I navigate the labyrinthine aisles. Deep in the stacks, I spot her.

Miss Adele is walking slowly along one of the floor-to-ceiling geographical racks, tracing the spines of the books with her hands, her brow furrowed in concentration. She flickers with a faint edge of static. She is searching for something specific, and it is eluding her.

"Miss Adele," I call out, pitching my voice gentle so as not to startle her in the quiet aisle. "Can I help?"

She doesn't stop. Her hands keep scanning the shelves, her curling horns dipping as she leans closer to the fading text on the binders.

My chest gives a hollow twist.

She didn't hear me.

The creeping theft of her Oripathy has taken another fraction of the world away from her.

I step down the aisle, closing the distance until I am standing a few paces behind her.

"Miss Adele," I say again, louder and clearer.

She jumps, her shoulders tensing before she whips her head around.

"Oh! Lethe," Miss Adele breathes out, her hand resting against her chest. Her soft voice carries an apology. "I didn't hear you coming. Are you okay?"

I offer her the most reassuring smile I can muster, projecting a wave of calm comfort to push back her lingering frustration.

"I'm fine, Miss Adele." I step up to her side. "Can I help you find something?"

Her face softens, and the dormant hearth fire and roasted chestnuts of her bloom warm in the aisle again.

"Ah, yes, Lethe." She turns her attention back to the towering shelves. "I'm looking for a specific topographical map. On the Targangils Prime Vein."

"Prime… prime vein?" I echo, the words foreign on my tongue.

Miss Adele reaches out, her hand resting on my shoulder. Her eyes shine with that academic passion that always manages to push back the dark of Terra.

"Yes, Lethe. It's one of the three Originium Prime Veins in the world." Her voice is hushed, reverent. "They are the mineral veins of Originium in our world. They are where Originium comes from. The epicenter."

The epicenter of the black crystals. The source of the disease that is slowly consuming her hearing and incinerating my memories to keep me breathing. Yet looking at her, there is no fear and no malice—only an unyielding desire to understand the planet.

Miss Adele gives me an encouraging smile.

"Help me find the map," she says, her tone lifting with a scholarly thrill, "and we can have a look at it together, shall we?"

I look up at the towering shelves of geographical records, and the familiar resolve ignites in my chest.

"Yes, Miss Adele." I step forward to scan the spines. "Let's find it."

I run my fingers along the bottom row of the geographical archives, squinting at the faded, blocky lettering on the dust-coated spines. My eyes scan past dozens of regional surveys until they land on a heavy, reinforced binder bearing the faded crest of a mining consortium.

"Ah here, Miss Adele!" I call, pitching my voice clear through the hushed aisle. "I found it."

I grip the thick spine with both hands and pull it free from the shelf. It is heavier than it looks, nearly tipping me over, but I get it back to our table and let it drop with a satisfying thud.

Miss Adele looks up, her eyes bright with scholarly delight.

"Brilliant." She reaches out to unclasp the heavy leather bindings. "Let's have a look, Lethe."

She opens the binder, carefully unfolding a topographical map that covers nearly the entire length of our table. It is dense with elevation lines, national borders, and dark shaded zones that span the continent.

I lean forward, elbows on the table, staring at the sprawling ink.

"So what is this?" I ask, my eyes tracing one of the dark zones.

Miss Adele picks up her magnifying glass, hovering it over the paper.

"There are three Prime Veins in our world, Lethe," Miss Adele begins. She traces the glass over the northern and western expanses of the map. "The first is Kolossal. It sprawls across the territories of Ursus, Columbia, Bolívar, and Sargon. The second is the Jingyu Vein, in the east, entirely within the borders of Great Yan."

She moves the magnifying glass down toward the southern-central part of the continent and taps her finger against a densely shaded region.

"And this is Targangils."

I look closely at the region she is pointing to.

"The Targangils Prime Vein is the second largest prime vein on Terra." Her attention stays on the geological lines.

She traces the dark ink with a delicate finger. "It stretches from the lake regions in eastern Victoria, passes through the fertile flatlands of Laterano, and then… it covers the entire outback of Rim Billiton."

Rim Billiton.

I think of Opal. Mom had told me a Catastrophe—a sandstorm—leveled her home and took her parents.

"As the richest deposit on Terra, the Targangils Vein accounts for sixty percent of the entire Terran Originium deposit," Miss Adele says, and the number hangs in the aisle. "Within Rim Billiton alone, it occupies thirty percent of the global deposit."

Thirty percent of the world's Originium, all concentrated beneath a single country.

"Because of the density of Targangils, it alters the region's entire climate," Miss Adele continues, her voice dropping. "The constant Catastrophes that plague Rim Billiton are not random. They are caused by the accumulating, hyper-dense mineral dusts from the vein itself."

She shifts the magnifying glass to the jagged topographical anomalies drawn across the Rim Billiton outback.

I stare blankly at the map.

Opal's family hadn't just been unlucky. The nomadic mining platforms of Rim Billiton weren't driving through random storms. They were building their homes and their whole lives on top of the biggest, deadliest heap of Originium in the world. They were living on a monster's back, breathing the dust off its scales every day, just so places like Victoria and Columbia could keep their lights on.

Miss Adele's dormant hearth fire dims, steeped in a heavy sorrow. She knows exactly how brutal this geological truth is.

My finger traces the border of Rim Billiton on the parchment.

"They live right on top of it," I whisper. "No wonder the sandstorms there are so angry… the earth is made of Originium."

Miss Adele lowers her magnifying glass and reaches across the table, covering my fingers with her warm hand, anchoring me against the map.

"It's a harsh reality, Lethe." Her thumb brushes against my knuckles. "But this is exactly why we study it. If we can map the veins fully, understand the atmospheric pressure, and predict how the mineral dusts accumulate… we can warn the nomadic cities faster. We can give people like Opal's family the time they need to move out of the path."

I look up from the map and meet her kind, resolute eyes.

Her enduring warmth loosens something in my chest. I cannot destroy the prime veins. I cannot rip the Originium out of the earth. But I can learn how to read its wrath.

"Okay, Miss Adele." I nod, determined. "Teach me how to read the topographical lines. I want to understand them all."

The hours melt away in the climate-controlled quiet of the Archives.

The topographical maps and dense geological ledgers begin to blur together before my tired eyes. I rest my chin on my hands, my eyelids fluttering as I try to force my brain to absorb the intricate fault lines of the continent.

Miss Adele reaches across the wooden table, her warm hand covering the open page of the book. She closes the cover with a definitive thud.

"I think that's more than enough for a day, Lethe."

Relief goes through me and I fold forward over the table. My tail, wrapped tight around the leg of my chair in concentration, finally uncoils and drops.

"Thank you, Miss Adele."

Miss Adele smiles as she stacks her notes.

"Though," Miss Adele pauses, her fingers resting on the brass rim of her magnifying glass. "A pop quiz."

A pop quiz?

I sit up straight, gripping the edge of the table as my heart gives a flutter.

Miss Adele tilts her head, her eyes locking onto mine with a playful spark.

"Where is Rhodes Island, the landship, constructed?" she asks.

I blink, the panic stalling as my mind races through the geographical and industrial facts she had just taught me.

I think about the metallic arteries of our home—Ms. Closure's chaotic engineering workshops, the micro-climate pods in the Convalescent Garden, the engines humming beneath our feet. Mentally, I flip through the superpowers of Terra I had memorized.

"Uhm…" I stammer, leaning forward as I piece the logic together. "It must be Columbia or Victoria, right? This is like, super advanced?"

The air in the aisle ripples. She covers her mouth with her hand, but a bright giggle escapes.

"No, Lethe," Miss Adele smiles.

She reaches out, tapping her index finger against the closed cover of the textbook.

"Rhodes Island was built in Rim Billiton. If you look at our towering laser mining module in the front—the big yellow tube—it has Rim Billiton printed on it."

Rim Billiton. The nation that is constantly ravaged by Catastrophes. I stare at her, my mind struggling to reconcile the sleek sanctuary of our landship with the rusted mining platforms I had read about.

"Wait," I gasp, my eyes blowing wide. "That's not a smoke stack?!"

Miss Adele's giggle softens into a fond chuckle that fills the quiet library aisle.

"Nope," she says, with an apologetic but undeniably cheeky little smile. "I'm afraid you failed, Lethe."

I let out a loud, tragic groan, my defeat echoing against the towering bookshelves.

"Awww," I whine, puffing my cheeks out.

I let my upper body collapse, my forehead coming to rest against the spine of the closed ledger. Defeated by the very landship I live on, I lie there in the quiet of the Archives, ready to accept my failing grade.

"Want to join me for dinner, my failing student?"

Miss Adele's soft voice floats over the table, a playful lilt that softens the blow of my geographical failure.

I peel my forehead off the ledger with a pathetic, muffled sigh.

"Okay, Miss Adele," I mumble, slowly pushing myself back up.

I gather my digital slate and my scattered notes and slip them into my bag. Together, we step out of the Archives.

The corridors are busy with the evening shift change, logistics Operators moving with a hurried efficiency.

As we walk shoulder-to-shoulder, I adjust my grip on my staff.

"Oh right, Miss Adele," I begin, looking up at her as we navigate the hallway. "I'll be busier for a few days from tomorrow. Miss Lena—Perfumer—she's going to the Victorian plains to conduct botanical surveys."

Miss Adele's steps slow a fraction.

"That's alright." Her voice is solemn. "The garden is important. I suspect refugees from County Hillock are going to reach us soon."

The name of the burning Victorian county sends a familiar, icy shiver down my spine. The Convalescent Garden is going to be flooded with fresh nightmares and broken bodies, and without Miss Lena there to pour the tea and anchor the sanctuary, the burden will fall on me, Podenco, and Miss Beanstalk.

I push it down. I cannot let the terror consume me before the doors even open.

"Thank you, Miss Adele," I say, grateful for her understanding.

Needing a distraction from the coming flood, I look up at her and force some brightness into my voice.

"What do you plan to eat tonight?"

Miss Adele tilts her head, considering.

"Hmm…" Miss Adele hums, tapping a finger against her chin. "I wonder if they have lava cakes tonight."

My padded sneakers screech to a halt against the steel floor.

I stare at her.

A lava cake. A dense chocolate pastry engineered to erupt with a scalding core of liquid sugar and fudge. The pinnacle of dessert indulgence.

I look at her—a woman who spends her days mapping fault lines and measuring the wrath of volcanoes.

"Wait…" I gasp, my voice pitching up into a squeak. "Miss Adele, you are…?"

Miss Adele stops walking. She turns to look at me, her eyes widening before a rosy flush dusts her cheeks and she goes to sugar and toasted marshmallows.

She gives me a small, sheepish smile.

She nods.

She shares my exact weakness for heavy desserts.

My tail, hanging limp against my legs a second ago, snaps to life and swishes back and forth in a blur of victory.

I squeeze the handle of my Arts Unit, a grin breaking across my face.

I have a new partner in crime.

Without waiting for Miss Adele to consent, I march toward the cafeteria.

The double doors of the cafeteria slide apart.

I walk shoulder-to-shoulder with Miss Adele, who scans the room for empty seats.

"Hi Lethe! Hi Miss Eyja!"

The chime cuts through the noise of the dining hall. I don't need to search the rows of blue plastic chairs. Lisa.

Lisa is sitting at a table near the center aisle, her nine tails fanning out as she waves at us.

"Hi Lisa!" I call back as we navigate the maze of tables to join her.

Miss Adele steps up beside me and settles into a chair.

"Hi there, Suzuran. How are you?"

Lisa lets out an exaggerated sigh, slumping against the plastic backrest of her chair.

"The Arts theory class was so long today!" Lisa whines, puffing her cheeks out. But her sugar-and-sunshine doesn't dim; it just goes restless. She turns to me, her eyes sparkling. "Lethe, we should do our homework together! If I have to calculate one more Arts energy threshold by myself, my ears are going to fall off!"

I open my mouth to agree, ready to unite our brain cells against a mountain of thermodynamics and geology homework.

But before I can speak, Miss Adele covers her mouth with her hand, and a giggle escapes.

"That's a good idea," Miss Adele says. "Lethe here just failed a pop quiz."

I bring my hands up to cover my face.

"Miss Adele! No fair!" I whine.

Lisa's laugh rings out across the table, entirely at my expense.

Miss Adele just smiles, unrepentant, her eyes tracking toward the glowing dessert display cases at the far end of the serving line.

"I will check if they have lava cake today." The thrill in her voice makes my mouth water. She looks back at us. "Want to share one together, Lethe, Suzuran?"

The thought of a dense chocolate pastry erupting with boiling fudge overrides my academic humiliation.

"Yes!" Lisa and I answer in unison.

"Lisa," I say, leaning forward over the cafeteria table. "Will you be in the garden for the next few days?"

The coming schedule still sits heavy in my chest.

"I will try to be there as much as possible," Lisa replies. "Podenco has told me that Miss Lena is heading out."

"We will make sure the garden is better than ever." I try to project Miss Lena's authority.

Then I think about the micro-climate pods, the watering schedules, the volume of dirt involved. And Miss Beanstalk's metal crab empire. My shoulders slump a fraction.

"Hopefully," I add, much less confident.

Before I can fret any further over our botanical responsibilities, a rich, heavy aroma hits me.

Miss Adele steps up to our table. In her hands is a big plate, and square in the center of it sits the pinnacle of dessert engineering.

It is a dark, domed chocolate cake. It looks dense, its exterior baked to a slightly cracked matte finish. Fragrant plumes of steam curl up from the crust, carrying deep cocoa, melted butter, and caramelized sugar straight into my lungs.

Miss Adele sets the plate down in the center of the table and lays three small forks beside it.

"My treat, young ladies."

"Thank you, Miss Adele!" Lisa and I chime together.

We don't hesitate. All three of us reach for our forks.

I press the edge of my silver fork into the side of the pastry. The dark exterior yields. The moment the crust breaks, the structural integrity of the cake goes with it, and a scalding river of molten chocolate erupts from the core and pools onto the ceramic plate in a glossy wave.

I scoop up a piece, drench it in the fudge, and take a bite.

The flavor is staggering.

A contrast of textures and temperatures: the refined bitterness of the baked outer crumb melting against the scalding sweetness of the molten core. Dense, luxurious, unapologetic. The heat of the chocolate blooms in the center of my chest.

Beside me, Lisa lets out a delighted hum.

I look across the table. Miss Adele takes a slow bite, her eyes fluttering shut, a smile stretching across her face. The melancholy that clings to the edges of her is gone.

For one moment there is only the bliss of sharing a molten chocolate cake.

I am scraping the last puddle of fudge onto my fork when the taste shifts.

The sugar is pierced by a tart spike of unripe lemon and toasted honey.

"Lethe."

I freeze, mouth still half-open around the fork. My tail, swishing in euphoria a second ago, drops dead against the chair.

I turn my head.

Mom is standing right behind me, hands planted on her hips, attention locked on the decimated remains of the chocolate lava cake in the center of our table.

"I thought," mom begins, her voice going calm, "we were maintaining a balanced nutritional baseline before dinner."

I pull the fork out of my mouth and gesture at the empty plate, my mind scrambling for a defense against her medical tyranny.

"I… I am just recovering my brain cells, mom!" I blurt out. "I failed a really hard pop quiz in the Archives today! And Lisa and I have to do Arts theory homework tonight! My brain needs the sugar to process the energy thresholds, or I won't be able to study!"

Beside me, Lisa nods. "It is true, Miss Erika!" Lisa chimes in, her eyes wide and earnest. "Arts calculations require a massive amount of glucose to perform safely!"

Mom raises an eyebrow, unimpressed by our unscientific medical justifications.

Before she can decree another month of vegetable purgatory, Miss Adele covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

"Please don't be too harsh on her, Caladria." Her smile is serene and unapologetic. "It was entirely my idea. The girls have been studying hard today, and I decided a small reward was in order to lift their spirits."

Mom stares at her for a long second. The tart lemon in the air dissolves back into tired honey. She lets out a long sigh, her hands dropping from her hips.

"You are spoiling her, Eyjafjalla." The corners of her lips twitch, and she tucks my fringe back into place. "Fine. But you are eating a double portion of roasted root vegetables tonight, Lethe. No arguments."

"Yes, mom!" I chirp, sagging against my chair in an exhale of relief. The sugar high is officially safe.

That night, sleep finds me sooner than I planned.

Warm, sleepy sugar fills the room.

I blink my eyes open. Not my own bed. I am tangled in a soft pile of silk, and scattered across the floorboards and the desk are our digital slates and a mess of handwritten notes on Originium energy output. We had failed to defeat our Arts theory homework, surrendering to the exhaustion of the day sometime around midnight.

I untangle myself from the fluffy tails, the blankets rustling.

Lisa shifts beside me, her ears twitching as she rubs the sleep from her eyes.

"Morning, Lisa." It comes out raspy in the dim light of her dorm.

Lisa yawns, her tails curling against the mattress. "Morning, Lethe."

I push myself up, stretching my arms above my head until my shoulders pop. "I will go get ready. See you soon."

I slip out of her room and walk the residential corridors back to my own dorm. The moment the pneumatic locks disengage, a spike of tart lemon hits.

Mom is standing near my desk in full uniform, arms crossed over her chest. The relief of seeing me walk through the door washes the tartness away.

"Sorry, mom," I apologize, ducking my head in a practiced, sheepish bow. "I didn't mean to make you worry. I was doing homework with Lisa and we just fell asleep."

Mom sighs, her shoulders dropping.

"I assumed as much when your slate location pinged in her room," mom says, exasperated and fond. "Just send me a message next time, Lethe. Now, go wash your face. You have a strict bowl of oats waiting for you in the cafeteria before your shift."

I devour my mandated breakfast under her watchful eye, wash it down with a glass of milk, and gather my Arts Unit.

When I step through the doors of the Convalescent Garden, the atmosphere is different. The domestic stillness has been replaced by an air of departure.

Miss Lena is standing near the center, and the white blouse and apron are gone. She is dressed for the rugged terrain of the Victorian plains—a weather-resistant travel coat, heavy boots, a reinforced field pack slung over her shoulder.

Gathered around her are the girls. Lisa is clutching her hands together. Podenco is doing her best to keep a professional facade, though she vibrates with nerves underneath it. Even Miss Beanstalk has paused her entrepreneurial hustle.

I step into the circle in front of Miss Lena, who built this sanctuary for us. Without her, the greenhouse already feels colder.

"Stay safe out there, Miss Lena," I tell her, gripping my staff.

Miss Lena looks around at the four of us. Her smile pushes back the chill. She reaches out to adjust the collar of Podenco's jacket, then gives us all a nod.

"Take care of the garden, girls." Her voice is a calming melody. "I will see you all soon."

With a final wave she turns on her heel. We stand together in silence, watching her take the path out through the blast doors, marching into the dark of Terra to find new ways to heal our broken Operators.

The quiet of the greenhouse lasts barely ten minutes. Terra refuses to give us a break.

A synthetic chime echoes through the garden's PA system, shattering the peace.

"Attention all medical and logistics personnel. Rhodes Island is now receiving the first wave of refugees from County Hillock. Report to your designated stations immediately."

The synthesized voice hangs in the air.

Before Lisa, Podenco, or Miss Beanstalk can react, the doors of the garden part.

The temperature of the greenhouse drops. The scent of blooming flowers is crushed under an ancient glacier.

Dr. Kal'tsit steps in.

Her white coat snaps around her legs, green eyes locking onto me.

"Lethe. You are required in triage with Sussurro, Hibiscus, and Ansel. Civilian casualties have exceeded our projections. Too many of our combat Medics are deployed to secure the perimeter."

I nod, forcing my spine straight under her scrutiny.

"Okay," I reply, my voice wavering before I push it steady.

Then a thought spikes in my chest. If combat Medics are being deployed to the perimeter…

"Is…" I stammer. "Is… mo… Caladria getting deployed too?"

I catch the slip, my cheeks burning, but Dr. Kal'tsit doesn't blink. Her expression stays carved from stone.

"She will be sent on a short-range mission to a Victorian town soon," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "We need to negotiate refugee resettlement for the displaced citizens. She will be part of the vanguard securing those diplomatic and logistical channels."

A Victorian town. Mom is going into the heart of the conflict zone. Not treating the wounded behind reinforced steel—walking back out into the unpredictable dark of a nation tearing itself apart.

I cannot beg Dr. Kal'tsit to keep her here, not when thousands of innocent people have just lost their homes to the fire. Mom made her choice to be a Combat Medic for exactly this reason.

I fill my lungs with the last of the garden's clean air.

"Understood, Dr. Kal'tsit." I bow.

I turn back to my friends. Lisa is clutching her hands against her chest, her eyes wide with worry, while Podenco gives me a firm nod.

"I have to go," I tell them, with every scrap of practiced bravery I have. "Keep the garden safe for me."

Without waiting for their replies, I grip my staff and march toward the blast doors, following Dr. Kal'tsit's shadow out of the sanctuary.

The doors of the primary triage center slide apart, and the moment the seal breaks, the volume of the room hits me like a wall.

The air is thick, reeking of antiseptic, fresh copper blood, and the ozone-heavy static of active Originium. Under it, terror and grief and a metallic, sour panic that coats the back of my tongue.

Dr. Kal'tsit does not linger to comfort the bleeding. Her directives delivered, she excuses herself and disappears back into the arteries of the landship to manage the County Hillock influx.

I am left standing near the threshold with Miss Sussurro, Hibiscus, and Ansel.

Miss Sussurro doesn't wait either.

"Listen to me." Her voice cuts cleanly through the moans of the refugees. "We treat the most severely injured first. If a patient requires surgery to survive, you stabilize them for the operating theaters. Do not waste critical resources on superficial wounds or lost causes. We keep them breathing. That is all."

I nod.

It sounds so cold, but I think I understand it. We can't save everyone, so we patch the bleeding and buy them whatever time we can.

I step into the bay. It is overflowing. Every cot is occupied, and overflow mats have been rolled out across the brushed steel floor. The refugees are covered in soot and blood, their clothes tattered and their faces drawn tight with what the Dublinn uprising did to them.

My eyes lock onto a Feline man slumped against the frame of a cot near the far wall. His clothes are scorched and torn, and where his entire left leg should be there is only a bandaged, blood-soaked stump. The Medics have already stabilized the amputation, but his eyes are wide, glassy, and vacant.

On my tongue he is freezing dread, rusted iron, and burning flesh.

I take a careful step toward him, lowering my Arts Unit until the base rests against the floor so I look harmless. I remember the promise I made myself out in the barrens: I will not leave them nameless in my mind.

I stop a few paces from his cot and force a smile.

"Hi," I say, pitching my voice gentle as a chime. "I am Lethe. What is your name?"

He flinches, a ragged gasp tearing out of him. He lifts his head, bloodshot eyes dragging over my oversized Rhodes Island jacket, past my face, locking onto the lopsided horns and the spade-tipped tail swaying behind me.

The dread curdles into something acidic—rancid vinegar and rotting meat.

"Don't come any closer, devil!" he yells, his voice cracking into a shriek that carries across the crowded triage bay.

He scrambles backward, pressing flat against the wall, his hands flying up as if I am about to eat his soul.

I stop dead in my tracks.

The word hangs in the air.

The clatter of the triage bay stutters. Dozens of hollow eyes turn from their own suffering to stare at our corner of the room, and the despair in the air goes hard with superstition.

I stand paralyzed, my fingers locked around the shaft of my Arts Unit. The hatred coming off him hits the back of my throat like a physical strike. I cannot breathe.

Before he can scream again, a blur of white and purple moves.

Hibiscus squeezes herself between me and the man.

The moment she plants herself there, floral nectar and the clearing bite of medicinal eucalyptus wash over me, buffering the worst of his panic.

"Well, now! Shouting at the top of your lungs certainly isn't going to help that elevated heart rate of yours, is it?" Hibiscus chirps, aggressively cheerful.

She leans over the cot, planting her hands on her hips.

"I am Hibiscus, and I can see your bandages are already beginning to bleed through!" She ignores the slur and points a stern finger at his amputated leg. "If you keep thrashing around and screaming like that, you are going to tear your stitches wide open! Now, you are going to lie back down and let the medicine work, or I am going to have to personally prescribe you a double-portion of my special nutritional recovery smoothie to rebuild your red blood cells!"

The force of her short-circuits the man's hysteria. He blinks, stunned into silence by a Medic threatening him with dietary warfare, and sags back, his breathing ragged but quieted.

Without missing a beat, Hibiscus reaches behind her back and wraps her hand around my wrist.

She drags me away from the cot, pulling my stumbling frame through the aisles of wounded refugees until we reach a supply cart stacked high with sterile gauze, disinfectants, and surgical tape.

She lets go of my wrist and starts sorting a stack of bandages.

"Lethe," Hibiscus says softly.

I don't reply. I stare at the brushed steel floor. My tail has knotted itself around my ankle until it aches. I am wearing the Rhodes Island jacket. I am wearing the black and white Medic cross strapped to my thigh. It doesn't matter.

"Lethe," Hibiscus repeats, the cheerful facade dropped.

I lift my head. The tears spill over my lashes and carve tracks down my cheeks.

"I just…" I say, my voice fracturing. "I just… want to help."

Hibiscus stops sorting the gauze and turns to face me. Her purple eyes are soft, shining with understanding.

She reaches out and rests her hands on my shoulders.

"I know you do, Lethe." Her touch is a steadying anchor. "But you have to understand what they just survived. They just watched their homes burn to the ground. They were slaughtered in the streets. And to the people of Terra, our horns and our tails… they mean war. They mean fire and death."

She brushes a tear from my cheek with her thumb.

"He isn't seeing Lethe, the sweet girl who works in the garden. He is looking at his own nightmares, and he is lashing out because he is terrified."

"But… we are Medics…"

"We are," Hibiscus agrees, with a small, brave smile. "And that is exactly why we cannot let their fear stop us. We do not heal people so that they will like us, Lethe. We heal them because they are broken, and because it is our job."

Her eucalyptus pushes back the cold dread in my chest.

"You cannot fix the world's prejudice inside a triage bay," Hibiscus tells me, her eyes locked on mine. "But you can fix their wounds. Now, take a deep breath. We have a lot of gauze to prep, and Miss Sussurro is going to need these sterile pads in three minutes."

I take a shuddering breath, wipe my cheeks with the back of my sleeve, and turn my eyes away from the groaning triage bay. I focus on the stainless-steel supply cart, forcing my fingers to sort and stack the sterile gauze pads just as Hibiscus instructed.

The air around the cart shifts.

The taste is clean and organized: cooling peppermint layered over the warm starch of freshly laundered linens, anchored by a methodical undertone of sterile saline.

Ansel stops beside our cart.

His long pink hair is tied neatly back, though a few strands have escaped in the chaos of the influx. His face is pale and exhausted from the grueling shifts, but his eyes are sharp and attentive.

"You okay, Lethe?" Ansel asks. His voice is a steadying hum over the clatter of the bay.

I keep my hands on the stacks of sterile gauze and force myself to look up at his long ears and his kind, tired eyes.

"Yes… I am."

Ansel studies my face.

"Whenever you need a break, just tell us," Ansel says softly.

"I will." I nod. "Thank you."

Ansel gives me a reassuring smile, then shares a silent look with Hibiscus and a single crisp nod. He reaches across the cart for a handful of the prepared medical supplies and strides back into the aisles to continue his work.

I force my attention onto the sterile gauze and surgical tape, letting the mechanical motion of my hands anchor my spiraling mind.

But the triage bay refuses to settle.

Hostility ignites a few aisles over, cutting through the lingering smog of fear like boiling acid—scorching ash, rusted iron, and the rotting sludge of generational hatred.

"Curse those Victorians!"

A refugee's voice cracks with raw fury. He is a Feline as well, his clothes caked in soot and his arm wrapped in a hasty, blood-stained splint.

"The garrison just starts to detain and kill anyone who sounds and looks like a Taran," he snarls, his voice shaking with helpless rage that carries across the cots. "What did my family even do!"

From the opposite side of the aisle, another wounded civilian shifts against their mattress.

"You Tarans started this war!" the second refugee spits back. "You are all terrorists!"

"You conquered our land, take our resources and culture!" the Taran man yells, lurching forward against his splint. His eyes are wild, consumed by the fires of the uprising. "We started this war?"

My hands freeze over the supply cart.

It is happening all over again. The same malice that burned Chernobog to the ground, the same hatred that had the Winterwisps and Elafians of Wolumonde slaughtering each other in the streets. They are bleeding, their homes are ash, and they are still trying to tear each other's throats out right here in the medical ward.

Before the shouting match can turn physical, a small figure steps into the center of the aisle.

Miss Sussurro simply walks into the crossfire.

"Enough."

She doesn't raise her voice by a single decibel. She doesn't have to. The word drops into the air like a falling anvil.

Both refugees snap their mouths shut, stunned into silence by the gravity of the woman standing between them.

Miss Sussurro sweeps her gaze over the two bleeding men.

"Rhodes Island is a neutral facility." Her voice is flat. "We heal the wounded. If you want to settle your grudges, do that outside our landship. Here you are a patient and nothing else."

She holds their stares for a long second, daring either of them to speak another word of war inside her sanctuary.

Neither of them does. The Taran man slumps back onto his cot and turns his face away toward the steel wall. The Victorian civilian lowers his head, glaring at his lap. The hostility doesn't vanish, but it is choked down, contained by the authority of a senior Medic.

Miss Sussurro gives a single nod and turns on her heel, back to assessing a critical patient's vitals, picking up exactly where she left off.

I stand behind the supply cart, my fingers loosening their grip on a roll of surgical tape.

I look at Miss Sussurro, my chest aching. Hibiscus was right. We cannot fix the broken world. We can't make the empires stop hating the Infected, or make the Tarans and the Victorians get along. It's like the world never runs out of ways to be cruel.

But we can refuse to let them bleed to death in the dark.

The clatter of the triage bay rages on around me, moans and shouted medical directives. I keep my head down and focus on preparation, fingers moving, stacking the sterile gauze pads and lining up the rolls of surgical tape against the cold steel of the supply cart.

If they cannot see my face, maybe they won't remember I am a monster.

A moment later, the metallic tang of the ward is pierced by nectar and eucalyptus.

Hibiscus swings back to the cart. She drops a handful of blood-stained splints into a biohazard bin with a clatter, sighs, and reaches across the surface for a fresh stack of bandages.

I pause, my hands hovering over a roll of tape. The question has been burning a hole in my chest ever since the amputee screamed at me.

"Hibiscus." I keep my voice small so it doesn't carry beyond our corner. "I am curious… why don't they…"

I can't finish the sentence.

Hibiscus stops sorting the gauze and turns her head.

"Fear me as much?" she asks, dropping the cheer to meet my hushed tone.

"Yes…"

Hibiscus lets out a slow exhale. The floral sweetness dims a fraction, going dry as old lavender.

She raises her hand toward her own face. Her fingers tap the space near her hairline, brushing the two tiny horns sprouting from her forehead, then trace the curve of her pointed ears.

"I only have two tiny horns and no tail," Hibiscus says, barely audible over the chaos. "I am not a pureblood like you, Lethe. To them, I no longer look that special."

I stare at her soft, approachable features, with none of the lopsided crown of bone or the spade-tipped pendulum that marks my own existence. To the shattered refugees of County Hillock, her diluted bloodline makes her just another Medic. She is safe.

I look down at my hands, and my long horns pull at my neck.

Hibiscus's hand comes down over mine.

"We don't get to choose how the world sees us, Lethe," Hibiscus says, fierce enough to pull me back to the present. "But we get to choose what we do with our hands. Now, come on. Miss Sussurro is going to need three more rolls of tape for the next sector."

I keep working, letting the rhythm of sorting sterile supplies hold my mind against the noise of the triage bay. I stack the gauze and surgical tape until my shoulders ache and my fingers go numb under the harsh clinical lights.

The noise of our aisle is cut by a sharp, methodical presence.

Miss Sussurro steps up to the supply cart. Her white coat is smeared with crimson and soot, and the shadows under her eyes give away the toll, but her posture is as unyielding as ever.

"Good work, Lethe. Go check on Opal and go to lunch. You can stay in the garden this afternoon."

My hand stops over a roll of bandages.

"Miss Sussurro? I can come back…"

Miss Sussurro shakes her head. She holds my gaze, her expression softening a fraction into something like clinical satisfaction.

"We will be fine," she replies, leaving no room for argument.

"Okay." My shoulders slump. "Thank you."

I step away from the supply cart. The moment the doors of the triage center slide shut behind me, the roar of suffering is severed by the thick reinforced metal, and the corridor is almost quiet.

I lean back against the bulkhead, let out a long, ragged exhale, and reach for my slate.

The screen lights the dim hallway. I tap open the messaging app, my thumbs moving over the glass.

[Lethe]: Mom, are you still on the landship?

I stare at the screen, holding my breath. The three pulsing grey dots appear, and relief washes over me as her reply chimes through the speaker.

[Caladria]: Yes. I am with Opal.

[Lethe]: I am on my way.

I slip the slate back into my bag, push myself off the steel bulkhead, and hurry down the corridor toward the high-security wards.

I step inside Opal's ward.

Mom is standing near the head of the bed, a digital medical slate tucked under her arm as she reviews the monitors. And sitting up on the mattress, propped against a stack of white pillows, is Opal.

She has her floppy-eared brown Amiya plushie resting in her lap and a small ceramic bowl of freshly sliced apple wedges in her hands, munching happily, a rhythmic crunch filling the quiet ward. I smile, the sight pulling up a fond memory: Miss Almond threatening the entire logistics team not to empty the cafeteria of those exact same apple wedges during one of our expeditions in the barrens.

Opal pauses her chewing as I approach the edge of the bed.

"Hi, Lethe." Her voice is still as fragile as thin glass, but the freezing void that used to swallow her words is gone.

I give her the brightest smile I can muster.

"Hi, Opal," I reply. "How are you recently? It has been a few days since we last met."

Opal looks down at the half-eaten apple wedge in her fingers. The sterile ward shifts around us. The sweet taste of the fruit is pierced through by cold copper and the bite of iodine.

Her long dark ears droop.

"The vampire doctor…" Opal whispers. "…is scary."

The truth of it hangs there.

I turn my head to look across the mattress at mom.

Mom lowers her slate and looks back at me. For a second the room is silent, and then the same understanding passes between us. We both know what it is like when Warfarin leans over a hospital bed with her charts in hand, fangs flashing in the clinical light.

A weak, amused smile breaks across both our faces at once. Mom's honey goes dry at the edges, the particular exasperation of dealing with Dr. Warfarin's theatrical bedside manner.

I turn back to Opal and rest my fingers on the edge of her blankets.

"I know, Opal," I tell her, dropping my voice into a conspiratorial hush. "I have a weekly check-up with Dr. Warfarin too. She has big needles, and she looks at us like we're science projects."

I give the blanket a squeeze so she knows she isn't alone in it.

"She may be scary," I continue, steadying my voice into a promise. "But she's one of our best doctors. She's the one who makes the medicine that keeps the black crystals asleep. As long as she's here, you're safe."

Opal gives a slow, deliberate nod and brings another apple wedge to her lips. The crisp crunch of the fruit is the only sound in the ward. I watch her chew, and my Arts find a thin note of calm, like plain water with a little fruit stirred through it.

I look up at mom.

"Mom," I ask, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the ward. "Can Opal join me in the garden later?"

"Sure. She's free to leave. The fresh air will be good for her."

I turn back to the bed.

"That's good," I tell her with a nod. "I'll see you after lunch. Okay, Opal?"

Opal stops chewing and gives a small, brave nod.

"Okay," she whispers.

Mom pats my shoulder and we step back toward the blast doors. The pneumatic locks clank, the panels hiss shut, sealing Opal inside her quiet bubble. We step out into the metallic corridors of the medical wing.

The moment the doors close, the warmth in my chest stalls. The landship's militarized efficiency presses back down. I look up at mom, twisting the fabric of my jacket.

"Mom." The word catches. "You're deploying soon, right?"

Mom stops walking.

"Yeah," mom sighs, her eyes dropping to meet mine. "After lunch."

She rests a hand on my shoulder.

"We're going to a town in County Kevin." Her voice drops. "It's right next to Hillock. We're going to see if we can resettle the refugees."

I close the space between us and hang on to her waist, burying my face in the crisp fabric of her uniform, squeezing as if that could shield her from the fires of Victoria.

"Stay safe, mom." My voice goes into her coat, unsteady and certain at the same time.

Mom doesn't let go. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, returning the squeeze, her chin resting on the top of my head.

"I will, my little Lethe. I will."

She holds me another long second before pulling back, and wipes a stray tear from the corner of my eye with her thumb.

"Now," mom says, brisk and deliberately light, "let's grab lunch before I need to get ready. With extra vegetables for you."

My heart, which had just been swelling with teary affection, stalls.

My tail, which had been curled around her leg, drops dead with a pathetic thud.

"Aww," I whine, puffing my cheeks out at her. "But mom."

Mom doesn't even blink.

"No but," mom counters, cutting the protest off before it forms. "We both know that when I leave, with Lena not here either, you're going to survive on sugar. Dr. Warfarin's blood draws are going to come back as liquid sugar."

I wince.

The visual is too accurate. Without Miss Lena in the garden to monitor my snacks, and with mom deployed to County Kevin, the temptation to raid Ms. Closure's vending machines for sour gummies and sugary drinks is high. And the image of Dr. Warfarin holding up a glass vial to measure the syrup in my veins makes me shudder.

I grip my Arts Unit with both hands and pull it against my chest. I widen my eyes, because it works, and I have stopped being proud about that.

"I won't." I put all the certainty I have into it. "I promise."

Mom raises an eyebrow, unimpressed by my sugar-addicted vows, but a chuckle betrays the stern facade.

"We'll see about that," she teases. "Come on. The cafeteria is waiting, and those steamed greens aren't going to eat themselves."

I scrape the last bland bite of my mandated steamed vegetables off the tray, push the plate away, and stand up, the landship's schedule pressing back in.

I throw my arms around mom for one last squeeze before she heads to deployment.

"Stay safe out there," I say into the fabric of her uniform.

Mom hugs me back. "See you soon, Lethe." Her thumb brushes my cheek before she turns and marches into the dark.

I watch her go, take a steadying breath, and turn back toward the high-security wards to get Opal.

Opal is sitting on the edge of her mattress, her padded slippers already on her feet.

"Opal. Ready?" I ask.

"Ready." Her voice is still soft, but it is steady now. She reaches out, fingers closing on mine.

I hold her hand as we navigate the corridors of the landship, leaving the bleach and ozone behind.

As we step onto the polished floor of the garden, Podenco looks up from a bed of sprouts near her workstation.

"Hi, Lethe. Hi Opal." Her tail gives a cheerful sway.

A blur of auburn tears down the walkway.

"Lethe! Opal! Hi!" Lisa chimes, skidding to a halt right in front of us.

Further back in the annexed section, near the micro-climate pods and her nursery pen, Miss Beanstalk pops her head up. A small metal crab clicks its claws in her hands.

"Oh! Opal, Lethe. Afternoon," Miss Beanstalk waves.

Lisa steps back from the greeting, patting the sides of the round brown bag at her hip. Her tails droop a fraction.

"Well. I don't have any board games today."

"That's alright," I tell her, looking over at the blooming flowerbeds, then down at Opal beside me. "We can help with the gardening. Right, Opal?"

Opal looks around at the vines and the moisture-loving flowers along the winding paths. She adjusts her grip on her plushie, ears twitching.

"We can try…" Opal replies.

The clink of vials announces Podenco. She comes over, wiping a speck of damp soil from her trowel, gives Opal an encouraging smile, then throws an exaggerated smirk at me.

"I'm sure Opal can do a lot better than Lethe," Podenco declares, her tone dripping with playful arrogance.

The audacity of it hits me. Podenco never lets me forget that my first attempt at gardening ended with my tail betraying me and slicing straight through a row of her freshly sprouted medicinal herbs.

"Hey!" I yelp, dropping my hands to my hips and puffing my cheeks out, fixing her with my most defensive glare. "I… I'm good at pulling weeds and categorizing!"

Podenco rolls her eyes, unfazed.

"Sure you are," Podenco drawls. She turns away from me and offers an open palm to Opal. "Come, Opal. Let big sis Podenco show you how it's done."

Opal looks down at the outstretched hand. Berries and plums come off her, thin and sweet. Then she takes it, holding her brown plushie against her chest with her free arm as Podenco guides her down the winding path toward the medicinal herb beds.

I am left standing abandoned, and let out a long, tragic groan, my shoulders slumping.

Lisa steps up beside me and pats my arm, trying to soothe my wounded Sarkaz pride.

"There, there, Lethe," Lisa says, with a smile she means all the way down. "You're our best palliative care Medic."

I let my head drop, horns pointing at the floor.

"More like I'm the only one…" I mumble at my white sneakers. It isn't a contested title when I'm the only Djall on the landship siphoning trauma to keep my body from starving.

"You can always help me clean the shells!"

The voice calls out from deep within the greenhouse.

I whip my head around. Miss Beanstalk is leaning over the clear fencing of her nursery pen, holding a small brush. A cluster of her metal crabs scurries around her shoes, claws clicking.

My blood runs cold. One of those same menaces once clamped its pincers onto the sensitive, spade-shaped tip of my tail, and the uncoordinated flailing that followed nearly sent me face-first into the dirt.

My tail snaps rigid, shooting up before it wraps into a tight coil around my thigh, tucking the tip as far from Miss Beanstalk as it will go.

"I categorically refuse!" I yelp, taking a step backward. "They're going for my tail again!"

Miss Beanstalk gasps, scandalized. She drops her brush and scoops one of the metal crabs up into her arms.

"They won't!" Miss Beanstalk protests, holding the crab up to defend its honor. "Look at them! They're the best, most behaving little ones."

I narrow my eyes at the flailing legs. Given my past experience with her chaotic pets, I remain unconvinced.

I let out a long, exaggerated sigh, refusing to engage with the crustaceans a second longer.

"Well." I turn on my heel and march toward the far wall. "I'll focus on making sure our inventory aligns with the records. Someone has to protect the medical supply chain."

"Okay! I'll help you, Miss Beanstalk!" Lisa chimes.

Lisa bounds away, skipping toward Miss Beanstalk to learn the specific art of polishing metal crab shells.

I grab a digital clipboard from the counter, tapping the glass screen to pull up the latest logistical manifest. Standing in front of the tall glass-fronted cabinets, I narrow my eyes and start counting the neatly stacked boxes of dried herbs and vials.

A few paces away, Podenco has guided Opal to a tiered planter box of lush greenery.

"Look closely at the edges of this one, Opal." Her voice softens into the patient tone of a botanist. She parts the leaves to reveal a cluster of small, bell-shaped blue flowers. "See how the petals curl inward? It makes a cup to catch the morning dew."

Opal leans in, her eyes wide.

"Does the dew… taste good?" Opal asks.

"Wait, Opal, don't eat it!" I yelp. "It might be a trick! Remember the Dust-weaver! It'll make your throat feel like you just swallowed a mouthful of raw sand!"

Podenco freezes, then turns her head and fixes me with a flat stare.

"Lethe," Podenco sighs, resting her free hand on her hip. "This is an Azure Sugar-bell. Miss Lena uses the nectar from these to sweeten the tea you drink every single afternoon. You'd know that if you didn't run away to Archives every time I offer a botany lesson."

I blink. A hot, prickly flush crawls over my cheeks.

"I…" I stammer, my hand dropping to my side. "I'm just being cautious! You're the one who told me not to snack in the wild!"

"We're inside a climate-controlled greenhouse, Lethe," Podenco counters. "The only danger here is you mislabeling the Oripathy suppressants as nutrient paste again."

"That was one time! And now you made me lose my count! I was up to forty-two boxes of herbs, and now I have to start all over!"

A tiny sound breaks the standoff.

I look down. Opal is staring at my swishing tail. The edges of her lips tremble upward, and a thin little giggle bubbles out from behind her plushie.

Podenco's smirk softens into a warm smile as she looks at her.

I let out a defeated groan. I don't care that I have to recount the entire shelf. If it makes Opal laugh, Podenco can tease my Kazdelian intellect all she wants.

The rest of the week has become a blur of anxious routine.

I eat. In the Convalescent Garden I sit among the ferns and dread for mom. I sleep. The landship has tasted of stagnant rainwater and cold iron all week, a collective holding pattern as we wait on the fringes of the burning Victorian borders.

But today is the 8th of January. Today is my scheduled check-up.

I drag my feet through the hallways and push through the blast doors of the high-security medical laboratory. Bleach, sterilized steel, and cold ozone claw at my nose.

Dr. Warfarin is standing by her centrifuges, her white hair catching the clinical light. The moment the pneumatic locks click shut behind me, she turns, her focus locking onto my slouching frame, and the familiar smirk stretches across her lips.

The lab spikes with the taste of expensive old wine.

"Oh! Look who it is!" Dr. Warfarin drawls at the stainless-steel walls. "My favorite blood bag. Finally miss little old me?"

I shuffle toward the padded examination chair. I don't have the energy to argue.

"Dr. Warfarin…" I climb onto the chair.

She rolls her eyes, letting out a theatrical sigh as she saunters over to my corner.

"Don't look so down. In case you didn't know, we're finally leaving this dreadful piece of land."

"We are?" I look up at her.

"Yes." She swipes away a chart floating above her console. "The Victorians lost hold of Hillock. That means the refugees stop being our problem soon. In short, we're leaving."

The words hit me. They lost the city. The uprising, the fires, the barricades—all of it over. If the refugees are no longer our problem, if the perimeter is closed, then the vanguard teams are pulling back.

"So mom is coming back," I breathe out.

Relief floods in over the anxiety. She is coming back to the landship. She is safe.

"Well, less worry about your 'mom'," Dr. Warfarin purrs, her voice dipping low.

Before I can process how close she suddenly is, her hand darts out.

She shoves a small lollipop directly into my mouth.

The artificial burst of mixed berry floods my tongue and shocks my senses. Before my brain can register the sugar, she grabs my arm and expertly rolls up the sleeve of my jacket and turtleneck.

She jabs me.

"Mmph!"

I yelp around the plastic stick of the candy. The sting of the needle in the crook of my elbow sends panic straight up my spine. My tail snaps rigid, lashing against the base of the padded chair, and I squirm backward to get away from the pinch.

Her grip on my arm is iron. She doesn't let me retreat at all, holding me in place as the vacuum tube engages and draws.

"After more than two years of blood draws, you're still squirming," Dr. Warfarin sighs, shaking her head in mock disappointment as the vial fills. "You're making the Djall bloodline look bad, little anomaly."

She turns around and starts her centrifuges like normal.

I sit there waiting, sucking on my lollipop.

The hum of the centrifuges spins down, leaving the laboratory in a clinical quiet.

I keep the mixed berry lollipop in my mouth and press the cotton ball down on my arm, waiting for the verdict.

"Your Oripathy is still stable." Dr. Warfarin turns away from the screens to look at me. She crosses her arms and tilts her head. "Though how about your memory? Any visions recently?"

I take the plastic stick out of my mouth.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "Nothing recently. Last time was back around Chernobog. In the old landship with Doctor… and a Sarkaz woman."

The moment the words Sarkaz woman leave my lips, the laboratory shatters.

The familiar hum of her fractures, and what comes through in its place hits me like a physical blow—shattered glass drowning in a pool of soured, centuries-old vintage, steeped in the freezing ash of a grief that is still bleeding.

It is pain.

"Dr. Warfarin?" I say into the sudden gravity of the room.

Dr. Warfarin stands still. Her eyes are wide, staring at the floor. For a fraction of a second she looks shattered.

Then she lets out a long, slow exhale, and the shards of her grief are locked away behind a wall of clinical detachment.

"A passing thought. Disregard it." Her voice is back to its usual dry. She waves it out of the air and steps toward her terminal. "Tell me, little anomaly. How far back does your memory trace now? Where is the edge of your void?"

I stare at her back for a second, the phantom sting of her sorrow still on my tongue. I don't press her. Miss Lena's lesson echoes in my head: we need to let people keep their bandages on until they are ready to move on.

I look down at my lap and pull my knees up, reaching into the dark of my own head for the shoreline where the ash of my burnt memories meets the solid ground of the present.

"Around October 1096…"

I trace the first solid anchor I can find.

"We were in the Convalescent Garden." A bittersweet smile touches my lips. "Lisa brought a brightly colored cardboard box. It was a board game. Pioneers of Columbia. It was the first time we ever played it together."

"Podenco bankrupted me," I whine. "Hard. She bought the entire financial district before I could build a single house."

"Losing to a Perro botanist," Dr. Warfarin scoffs, crossing her arms over her coat. "You're really spending all your Kazdelian intellect on seeking carbohydrates."

"But you got taped to the ceiling by a Feline too…" I mumble, small and cheeky, calling up her legendary and undignified punishment at the hands of Dr. Kal'tsit.

The high-security laboratory explodes into a spike of aristocratic indignation, soaked in the tart, sour taste of over-fermented grapes.

Dr. Warfarin whips around to her medical tray and snatches up a pristine syringe.

"What did you say?" Dr. Warfarin purrs, her voice dropping into a dangerously smooth octave as she turns back toward me, holding the gleaming needle up to the fluorescent lights. "A new vial? Just for the Blood Bank?"

My heart stops.

The reckless bravery evaporates in a heartbeat, replaced by survival instinct.

I don't even think.

I scramble off the edge of the examination chair, my padded sneakers squeaking on the floor, and snatch up my Arts Unit like a lifeline.

"I'll head back to the garden! Thank you, Dr. Warfarin!" I yelp.

I don't wait for her to take a single step forward. I spin on my heel, my hair whipping over my shoulders, and run as fast as I can out of the lair of Dr. Warfarin.

I sprint blindly through the corridors, my thick-soled sneakers squeaking. My tail lashes behind me, throwing off my balance as I put as much distance as I can between myself and those pristine syringes.

I am so focused on making my escape that I don't check my corners.

Thud.

I collide with something solid and immovable. The impact halts my momentum and sends me stumbling a half-step backward, and I let out a surprised squeak, my hands flying up to my nose.

My Arts brush against the obstacle. The adrenaline still rushing in my throat meets the dense taste of cool, smooth stone and the crackling static electricity that comes before a thunderstorm. But tucked safely beneath all that pressure is a faint, unmistakable undertone of sweet pineapple soft serve.

I look up, rubbing my nose.

Standing still in the middle of the hallway, unfazed by my clumsy collision, is Rosmontis.

"Lethe? What's wrong?" Rosmontis asks.

Her voice is flat, a steady hum over the noise of the landship. She looks at me, her feline ears giving a curious twitch as she takes in my breathless, panicked state.

The lingering terror of Dr. Warfarin vanishes, replaced by relief.

"You're back safely!" I gasp out.

I don't hesitate. I step forward and throw my arms around her. Hugging Rosmontis is always its own experience; despite her tiny frame, she feels as dense and immovable as a reinforced steel bulkhead. She is a walking fortress of telekinetic gravity, and she is safe.

I pull back with a breathless smile, smoothing down the front of my jacket.

"I was just getting to the garden," I say, gesturing down the corridor. "What about you?"

Rosmontis blinks, her expression distantly calm.

"Dr. Kal'tsit and Dr. Warfarin's check up for post operation."

Her cool stone doesn't waver, but I wince in sympathy. If Dr. Warfarin is a menace during a routine blood draw, then a mandatory post-deployment check-up overseen by both her and Dr. Kal'tsit sounds like an exhausting ordeal.

"Okay! Good luck, Rosmontis," I tell her with an encouraging nod, to help her brave the clinical depths of the medical wing. "If you're free for lunch or dinner, let me know."

Rosmontis looks at me for a quiet second. Her ears give a slow twitch, and she offers a small nod.

I raise my free hand and wave her goodbye, watching her turn and pad silently down the corridor toward the laboratory I had just fled, before I finally turn my own steps toward the humid, earthy safety of the Convalescent Garden.

The hallways are quiet after I part ways with Rosmontis, the low thrum of the engines steady beneath the floorboards.

As I turn the corner toward the primary intersection leading to the Convalescent Garden, I slow. Two Operators are standing near one of the recessed bulkheads, deep in a hushed conversation. I recognize the armor and the insignias.

They are knights of Kazimierz, from a knightclub called Pinus Sylvestris—at least, that is what Miss Whislash, one of the training instructors, told me during an Arts session once.

I hang back, keeping my footsteps light, caught by what is coming off the two of them.

The first knight is a Zalak, small but radiating a restless, coiled energy, her vibrant reddish-orange hair tied back and her bushy tail flicking in sharp arcs behind her. She starts as a bright, bubbling splash of sparkling cider, and then the sweetness is overrun by battery acid and the metallic bite of rusted copper.

Standing beside her is a tall Liberi with pale hair and sharp, observant eyes that scan the corridor out of habit, a specialized long-range weapon slung over her shoulder. She is the opposite of the static beside her: crisp mountain resin and smooth, chilled glass.

"Did you hear, Justyna?" the Zalak asks, her voice dropping into a tight whisper that still carries down the quiet hallway. "One of the Infected Knights making rounds has been assassinated."

"They say you can gain citizenship by fighting in the Majors," she continues, her tone venomous about her own homeland. "The moment you start to threaten their corporate-sponsored Knights, the Armorless Union just quietly disappears you."

The name of the corporate assassins sends a freezing shiver down my spine. The Armorless Union. My mind flashes back to the Convalescent Garden, to Ms. Fres sobbing, to how she had barely survived the blood-soaked slaughter of the Infected in the dark underbelly of Kawalerielki, known as Area 0. All those bright lights and cheering crowds at the Kazimierz Major, and the whole time people are being buried where nobody can see.

Justyna shifts her weight, her expression unreadable.

"It never changes, Sona," Justyna replies. Her voice is calm and glass-cold, and under it an enduring exhaustion. "They tried it on us too, don't forget."

Sona's hands clench into fists at her sides, her bushy tail lashing.

"Of course not!" Sona snaps back, her eyes blazing. "That's why we fight for Rhodes Island now! But I wish I could take one back from them."

I stand still, pressing my back against the cold steel of the wall so I don't interrupt them.

I take a slow, silent breath and swallow the phantom copper and battery acid of Area 0. I lower my head and wait for the two knights to finish their conversation before I slip past them, carrying what they survived with me all the way to the safety of the garden.

I finally reach the familiar confines of the garden.

I step over the threshold, scanning the leafy canopy.

Deep within the foliage, near the glowing pods, the sanctuary is alive.

Miss Lena is back. She stands by the botanical workstation, unpacking a series of sealed, reinforced specimen containers from her field pack. Beside her, Podenco is vibrating, her tail swishing in a joyous blur.

"Look at the serration on these leaves, Podenco," Miss Lena says, in the gentle hum I have missed all week. "They thrive in the ash-rich soil of the Victorian plains. If we can isolate the alkaloid compounds, they could improve our burn salves."

"They're incredible, Miss Lena!" Podenco cheers, her eyes sparkling with academic delight.

I take another step down the path, but before I can call out to them, my eyes drift to the curved, golden-brown wooden bench in the dappled shade of a large fern.

Sitting there, leaning against the wooden slats with a steaming porcelain teacup cradled in her hands, is mom.

She has shed her translucent tactical coat and sits in her plum undershirt. Her downy feathers look a little disheveled.

"Mom! Miss Lena!"

The words tear out of my throat, and I break into a run.

"Lethe," mom breathes out.

She sets her teacup down on the table and opens her arms to catch me.

"Hi, Lethe," Miss Lena calls out from the workstation, her eyes crinkling as she watches me blur past the flowerbeds.

I crash into mom and bury my face in her shoulder.

"You're safe!" I gasp into the fabric of her shirt, squeezing her tightly. "Both of you are safe!"

Mom lets out a breathy chuckle, her arms folding across my back. "We're safe, my little Lethe. We're home."

I pull back from the embrace, wanting to say how much I missed her. But she tastes wrong. My hands drop to her shoulders. I scan her face, the dark smudges under her eyes, and then my gaze drops.

The dark fabric of her specialized combat pants has been cut away at the mid-thigh. Wrapped tightly around her left leg, white against the muted colors of her uniform, is a thick layer of medical bandages. A bloom of crimson seeps through the center of the sterile gauze.

"Mom… you're injured…"

The joyful energy of the greenhouse stalls. Podenco lowers her specimen container, her ears drooping, while Miss Lena watches us with a quiet, solemn grace.

Mom lets out a slow, heavy sigh. She reaches out, catching my hands and folding them into her own.

"I'm okay, Lethe." Her voice drops into something steadying. She looks directly into my tear-filled eyes. "It looks much worse than it is, I promise."

"What happened?"

"We were caught in the crossfire. Dublinn forces and the Victorian military were clashing in the sector we were evacuating. It was chaotic. I was just trying to pull a civilian behind the barricades, and I got grazed by a stray crossbow bolt."

A crossbow bolt.

A shiver traces down my spine, rattling the horns on my skull. It wasn't a scrape from falling debris. It was a weapon of war. A few centimeters higher, or a fraction of a second slower, and the bolt wouldn't have just grazed her leg.

"Mom…" I choke out, hot tears spilling over my lashes. I drop to my knees on the floor tiles and rest my forehead against her uninjured knee.

Mom works one of her hands free of mine. She reaches down, her fingers sinking into my hair.

"I'm here, Lethe," she says fiercely into the quiet garden. "The bolt missed anything vital. Sussurro has already cleaned and stitched the wound. I just need to rest it for a few weeks."

I sniffle, rubbing my cheek against the rough fabric of her pants.

"Then you're not allowed to move," I say, gripping her hand tightly. "I'll bring you your meals from the cafeteria. And I'll make sure Miss Lena's teas are always warm. You're staying right here in the garden until you're completely healed."

A laugh echoes from the botanical workstation.

Miss Lena steps out from behind the counter with a fresh, steaming porcelain cup, and sets the restorative herbal tea on the small table beside mom.

"You have a very strict, very capable palliative care nurse looking after you now, Erika," Miss Lena smiles. "I suggest you follow her orders."

Mom looks down at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. The sting of the injury is still in her, but the sanctuary has closed over it.

"I wouldn't dare disobey her." Mom leans down to press a lingering kiss to my forehead. "I'm not going anywhere, Lethe."

I keep my grip on her hand, refusing to let her pull away, and settle onto the floor tiles beside her, curling my legs beneath me so I can keep a watchful eye on the white bandages wrapped around her thigh.

"That's right, mom. You're not going anywhere."

I lean my head against her uninjured knee, the adrenaline of her return finally ebbing, leaving behind a contemplative quiet.

"Well, since everyone is back," I continue, my voice dropping. "I saw Rosmontis earlier too. And during my check-up… Dr. Warfarin said we're leaving soon. That Hillock has fallen to Dublinn. Is that true?"

"Yes, Lethe," mom replies, the words scraping against the tranquil air of the greenhouse. "That's why we all pulled back. Refugees will be resettled soon."

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Well. We don't know yet," mom admits. She reaches over to the small table and picks up the cup Miss Lena had poured for her. The warmth of the herbal tea grounds us a little. She takes a slow sip, her expression firming into that quiet resolve that defines every Medic on this landship. "But I'd assume we continue to hunt down Catastrophes."

That is our existence. We are a sanctuary that chases the worst storms on the planet so that no one has to bleed to death in the dark alone.

A rustle of clothing breaks the gravity of the moment.

Miss Lena steps fully out from behind her botanical workstation, done unpacking the reinforced specimen containers she had carried back from the frontlines. Her lavender swells on purpose, pushing back the bitter ash of the warzone.

"I did wish I could stay in Victoria longer," Miss Lena sighs, smiling at the sealed containers. "There's so many beautiful plants."

The thrill of a new project overrides my melancholy. I scramble up from the floor, my hands flying up.

"Miss Lena! We should cultivate them now!" I blurt. Podenco is already grabbing a stack of glass terrariums. "We have the soil acidity regulators calibrated for the Victorian plains!" she pipes up. "We can set up the germination trays right this second!"

Miss Lena laughs, a graceful sound she doesn't trouble to hide. "Alright, alright, you two." She reaches out and pops the seal on the first container. "Let us see what we managed to bring back from the ash."

The war-torn shadows evaporate from my mind.

"Okay, Miss Lena!" Podenco and I declare in unison.