July, 1098 — Ascarat

Wind whips across the deck of the open deployment bay, but my chest is insulated by a buzzing layer of anticipation.

Today is finally the day. The 1st of July.

After days of poring over topographical maps in the Archives with Miss Adele and Mint, and submitting a mountain of requisition forms — so much for Miss Lena's no-paperwork promise — we're officially deploying. I stand near the edge of the hydraulic ramp, adjusting the straps of my crossbody bag.

I look around at my team. Everyone has that same low thrill of a real expedition.

Lisa stands a few paces away, running a final check on her equipment. Her staff rests comfortably in her grip, the top forged into a star-like geometric halo. Beside her, Podenco adjusts the yellow ribbon tied at the collar of her teal-green jacket, her mechanical staff capped with its circular focal point resting against her shoulder.

Miss Susie inspects her own Arts Unit — a long staff topped with a glowing glass dome and scissor-like drones that crackle now and then with a restrained spark of pink static. Miss Adele adjusts the strap of her bag, her dark twisted staff held loosely in her hand. And Mint is checking the bindings of her geology book, her hair fluttering in the morning breeze.

We're ready.

But before we can take a step toward the ramp, mom steps into my line of sight.

"Let me see your pack, Lethe."

She reaches out and unzips the side compartment of my bag, her fingers sifting through the contents. "Filtered water bottle is secure. Thermal blanket is packed tight," she lists off, nodding as she zips the compartment back up. She looks at me, her eyes scanning my face.

Then a click of boots against the floor breaks the warmth.

Ms. Dobermann marches toward our group. She hits the back of my tongue before she arrives — cracked black pepper, pressed canvas, unsweetened espresso. I straighten my spine, gripping my black staff a little tighter.

She stops a few paces away, her eyes sweeping over our roster.

"Listen closely," Ms. Dobermann commands, her voice cracking like a whip across the deck. "Logistics is unable to provide a tracked transport vehicle for this route. The terrain in County Ascarat is unsuitable for our heavy rovers — and with our forces tied up around Londinium, we cannot risk drawing military patrols with a mechanized footprint."

She crosses her arms behind her back, her posture rigid. "This will be a walking route. You are scheduled for a three-week expedition. You will chart the geological anomalies, catalog the required flora, and meet the landship at the newly designated extraction coordinates on the 24th." Her gaze narrows a fraction, locking onto Miss Adele and Miss Susie. "If your supplies run low, you are authorized to engage local Victorian cities to resupply. Maintain a low profile. Do not invite conflict."

"Understood, Dobermann," Miss Adele replies.

Ms. Dobermann gives a crisp nod. She turns on her heel and marches back toward the administrative elevators, leaving us to our departure.

A few paces away, lavender and steeped chamomile drift across the deck. Miss Lena is standing with Lisa and Podenco. She reaches out to adjust the collar of Podenco's jacket, then rests her hands on Lisa's shoulders. "Be mindful of the soil acidity, Podenco," Miss Lena says softly, offering them both a flawless smile. "And Lisa, make sure you all stay close together when it gets dark. Look after one another."

"We will, Miss Lena!" Lisa promises.

I turn back to mom. The tactical edges of the deployment bay melt away as she steps forward, closing the last gap between us. She drops to one knee right there on the steel floor, bringing herself to my eye level, and wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a crushing hug. I bury my face in her shoulder and breathe in honey.

"You listen to Eyjafjalla and Goldenglow, you hear me?" mom declares fiercely into my hair. "And you make sure you eat properly. No skipping meals just to look at rocks."

"I promise, mom," I squeeze her back just as tightly.

She pulls back, keeping her hands on my shoulders.

"Ready, Lethe?" mom asks.

I take a deep breath and look past the edge of the ramp, out toward the open horizon of Terra.

I give her a firm nod.

"Ready!"

I give mom and Miss Lena one last wave before the elevator doors slide shut. The steel panels seal with a clank, severing the noise of the deployment deck from our small group.

The descent to ground level is a long, steady ride. The hum of the elevator vibrates through the floor.

The elevator comes to a halt. The doors hiss apart, opening onto the lower ramp. We walk down the metal treads until my padded sneakers hit actual dirt.

The filtered oxygen of the landship is swallowed by the air of the plains. It smells of crushed grass, cold wind, and dry earth. The landscape stretching out before us is vast and rolling, painted in muted greens and browns beneath a clear sky. But my eyes are drawn to the silhouettes dotting the horizon — shards of black Originium jutting from the earth, pulsing with a sickly light.

"Well, let's get walking, girls," Miss Adele says. Her voice keeps its usual airy melody, but it's anchored by academic determination.

Beside her, Miss Susie raises her arms above her head in a contented stretch. The pink static crackling off her pops like popping candy against the back of my tongue, over toasted sugar and warm milk. "I don't get too many opportunities to leave the landship," Miss Susie sighs, lowering her arms with a relaxed smile. "It's nice to have some real countryside air."

A few paces ahead, Lisa looks around the empty plains, her eyes wide. "This is really quiet," she says, her voice carrying. "I like it."

I keep my eyes on the horizon and reach into my bag, my fingers brushing the aluminum chassis of my slate. I don't remember the details myself, but the curated notes in my My Life folder dictate my history. Apparently I went to the barrens of Columbia and the freezing mountains of Kjerag. In those distilled paragraphs I'd written down notes about tracked rovers, armored transports, and VTOLs.

I look down at my sneakers, then up at the endless expanse. "Miss Adele?" I ask, my brow furrowing as I grip my staff. "In my notes… apparently I went to Columbia and Kjerag before. But we had vehicles for those. Why couldn't we get one this time?"

Miss Adele pauses, adjusting the strap of her satchel. She turns to look at me, her expression softening into patient focus.

"It's complicated, Lethe," Miss Adele says, her voice dropping into a quiet, serious cadence. "Columbia doesn't care what companies like us do, as long as the payments and paperwork are correct. And the Kjerag wilds are almost unnavigable without specialized vehicles."

She turns her head, her eyes sweeping over the grassy hills and the dark shards of Originium. "But here… like Dobermann said during the briefing. Victoria is unstable right now." Miss Adele looks back at me. "If we drive a militarized Rhodes Island vehicle or fly a VTOL through a Grand Duke's territory, they might just see it as a declaration of war."

"But!" Mint chimes in, bouncing on her heels. "Counties like this are super safe! The Victorian army secures the train tracks, the transport routes, and the paths for the nomadic cities. There are no mercenary bands or scavengers out here!"

"But we should still avoid them," Miss Susie adds, her voice dropping its cheerful lilt. She folds her arms over her apron, and a crackle of pink static jumps across her knuckles. She looks out over the plains, her eyes narrowing. "You never know how they treat the Infected."

If a Victorian patrol catches sight of my horns, or the Oripathy monitors we all wear, the safe county could turn hostile in a heartbeat.

"Let's focus on trekking," Lisa says, her bright voice cutting through the tension. She claps her hands together.

"Yeah, Lisa's right. There are so many greenies!" Podenco cheers. She spins around, taking in the vegetation blanketing the rolling hills, and pulls an empty glass vial from the lining of her jacket, holding it up to the sky. "There aren't going to be enough terrariums in all of Terra for the samples I want to take!"

"Not to mention the rocks!" Mint agrees, matching her energy. She points toward a ridge rising in the east. "The lakes and rivers here create unique geological formations. And there are quite a lot of caves to explore!"

We continue our march across the undulating hills. The terrain is relatively flat, but even the gentle inclines are enough to remind me of my abysmal physical endurance score.

I halt, my sneakers sinking into the soft grass, and unscrew the cap of my filtered bottle for a long gulp of water. It washes down my throat, a reprieve from the dry wind. I lower the canteen, wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve, and look around at our small expedition team.

A few paces to my left, Miss Adele and Miss Susie walk shoulder to shoulder, deep in a hushed conversation about the effort of controlling their Arts. I catch fragments of Miss Adele advising how to safely vent excess thermal energy, while Miss Susie nods, her ears twitching as she explains the involuntary sparks that jump from her fingertips when she gets stressed.

A little further ahead, Podenco has surrendered to her botanical obsession. She darts from one patch of greenery to the next, ignoring the walking path entirely, holding her communicator up to snap pictures of every foreign sprout, serrated leaf, and wild bloom she can find.

And then there's Lisa. My best friend walks near the front of our formation, looking exactly like a carefree girl on a countryside stroll, a light smile painted across her face. But she can't lie to me. The moment my Arts brush against her, her crystallized sugar is pulled taut — brittle, with an undercurrent of peppermint. Her nine tails swish in a slow, calculated rhythm, and her eyes keep darting toward the tree lines and the rocky ridges. She isn't taking a walk. She's scanning the perimeter.

I smile, my eyes scanning the rest of our group to make sure we're keeping pace.

Miss Adele. Miss Susie. Podenco. Lisa.

I blink and stop in my tracks, my tail freezing mid-sway. I recount the heads bobbing against the Victorian sky. One, two, three, four.

Mint.

I spin around, my eyes sweeping the grassy path behind us. The rolling hills are empty, save for a few shards of black Originium.

"Uhm…" I stammer, a cold spike of panic twisting in my stomach. I grip my staff tighter and raise my voice over the wind. "Where's Mint?"

A few paces away, Miss Susie and Miss Adele stop walking, their conversation cutting off. Up ahead, Lisa freezes. Her nine tails fan out into a defensive posture, her eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of an ambush.

"Oh, stand down, everyone," a voice calls out from above.

I look up. Podenco is standing at the crest of a small hill, lowering her communicator. She points down the opposite slope. "She's just down there looking at a patch of dirt."

I let out a shuddering exhale, my shoulders slumping.

"Don't scare me like that," I mutter, mostly to myself, as we change trajectory and trudge up the grassy incline to join Podenco.

We look down into the shallow depression below. Mint is kneeling squarely in the middle of the scrubland, oblivious to the panic she just caused, her nose all but pressed against the ground.

We make our way down the slope. The crunch of our shoes against the dry grass doesn't make her flinch.

"Mint!" I call out, stopping just a few paces away.

Mint jumps and whips her head around. The moment her eyes land on us, they light up with scholarly thrill.

"Oh! Lethe! Look at this!" Mint says, gesturing at the ground beneath her knees. "The plants aren't growing here! There must be some reason!"

I step closer, peering over her shoulder. She's right. While the rest of the hills are carpeted in resilient grass and wild brush, there's a circle of exposed, barren earth in the middle of the depression. The dirt is dry, cracked, and discolored, gone an ashen hue.

Cloth rustles beside me. Miss Adele walks over and kneels in the dirt next to Mint.

"Fascinating," Miss Adele says. She brushes her fingertips against the discolored soil. "The composition here is remarkably different from the surrounding loam. Look at the salinization along the cracks, Mint."

"I saw that!" Mint nods, pulling a notebook and a pen from her pocket. "Do you think it's a subterranean thermal vent? Or maybe a localized concentration of inert Originium dust altering the pH of the topsoil?"

"It could be micro-fault friction." Miss Adele sits back on her heels. "If the tectonic plates beneath this county are experiencing minor shear stress, it could be releasing trace gases that sterilize the surface roots."

After what feels like an eternity of academic debate, Mint closes her notebook with a satisfying thud. Beside her, Miss Adele scoops a sample of the ashen dirt into a glass vial and seals it tight.

I look up from the patch of barren earth. The sky is already bruising into a velvet indigo. The sun dips below the rolling hills, and as the daylight fades, the silvery light of twin moons bleeds through the clouds, casting long shadows across the grass. A biting chill sweeps over the plains.

Podenco raises a hand to shield her eyes, her ears twitching as she scans the darkening horizon. "Over there," she says, pointing toward a rocky outcrop jutting from the side of a nearby hill. "The rocks will break the wind. We can set up camp for the night around there."

"Good eye, Podenco." Miss Adele stands up, dusting off her knee-high socks. "Let's move before it gets too dark to see the terrain."

We make our way toward the outcrop. The rock formation creates a sheltered half-circle, blocking the wind that sweeps across the plains. I step into the alcove and lean my new Arts Unit against a boulder.

With my hands free, Mint and I get to work. We unstrap the logistics bags and pull out a set of collapsible chairs and a portable camping table. Mint moves with surprising strength, hauling the equipment into place while chattering at me about the cave systems she wants to explore tomorrow. I nod along, snapping the table legs into their locked positions.

In the center of our little camp a fire is built, casting a flickering orange glow against the rocky walls. Resting over the flames on a collapsible metal grate is a small blue pot, stamped with the white Rhodes Island rook logo.

Footsteps crunch against grass. Lisa and Podenco emerge from the moonlit plains, carrying insulated jugs.

"We found a stream just down the hill!" Lisa sets her jug down. "We ran it all through the filtration units, just like the engineering team taught us!"

"Perfect timing, girls," Miss Susie says, smiling. She takes charge of our makeshift kitchen, pouring the filtered river water into the blue R.I. pot and waiting for a rolling boil before tearing open several packets of standard-issue dried rations.

As she stirs the rehydrating vegetables and cured meats into the broth, a cozy humming floats from her lips. The melody is gentle and domestic, drifting into the cold night air.

I sit down on one of the folding chairs, pulling my knees up to my chest. The savory aroma of the simmering stew fills the sheltered outcrop. Around the fire, Mint is showing Lisa a shiny rock she found, and Podenco is organizing her vials of plant cuttings.

"Ta-da!" Miss Susie announces, her voice carrying a triumphant lilt over the campfire.

She lifts the pot from the metal grate with a cloth around her hands and ladles the steaming broth into our camp bowls, passing them around the circle. My mouth waters.

"I made sure to add some instant ramen blocks in there," Miss Susie says, handing a warm bowl to me. "So it'll be a bit more filling for the night."

The words instant ramen drop into my ears like a Catastrophe warning.

I freeze, my hands wrapping around the warm metal bowl. My mind flashes back to the deserted cafeteria on the landship — the hissing electric kettle, Doctor's defeated sigh, and the ancient glacier of Dr. Kal'tsit materializing from the shadows to deliver an uncompromising lecture on cardiovascular health and nutritional sabotage.

I whip my head around, my eyes darting past the orange glow of our campfire into the shadows beyond it. I'm expecting her to step out of the wilderness, confiscate our dinner, and drag me back to the landship by my collar.

"Uhm…" I stammer, my tail curling around the leg of my folding chair. I look up at Miss Susie. "Is… is this Medical Department approved?"

Podenco pauses with her spoon halfway to her mouth.

"Well, Lethe," Podenco points out. "You're technically the only one here who is officially part of the Medical Department. So… do you approve?"

I blink, looking down at the steaming bowl. The aroma of the broth, infused with soft noodles and rehydrated vegetables, is intoxicating. I pick up my spoon, blowing on the hot liquid before taking a hesitant taste.

The flavor is heavenly. The savory warmth spreads down my throat, chasing away the bone-deep chill of the evening plains. A happy hum vibrates in my chest as I take another, larger bite.

"It tastes really nice," I declare, my nervous tension melting into a bright smile. I look up at the rest of the camp and give a firm nod. "I approve."

Podenco smiles. "There we go, then," she announces. "It's officially medically approved. Eat up, everyone!"

The warmth of Miss Susie's fortified soup chases away the damp chill of the night. I scrape the bottom of my bowl, savoring the last noodles, before resting it on my lap.

I look past the flickering orange flames, my eyes wandering toward the moonlit plains. The vastness of the lands stretches out in every direction, swallowed by the dark.

"Actually…" I look around the circle at my friends. "I don't think I ever asked this question. If all the cities move… how do they decide borders? How do they know what land belongs to who?"

"I can answer this!" Lisa sits up straighter in her folding chair.

"Nomadic cities usually move along defined borders that already have established infrastructures," Lisa explains, her tone taking on a practiced, educational lilt that sounds proud. "They have planned-out routes with known geographical features. They have to, otherwise a city's treads might sink into soft earth or get stuck in a ravine! And along those borders, the nations build stationary military bases, or sometimes even smaller, permanent towns to mark their territory."

Mint leans forward from her side of the fire, her eyes shining with academic enthusiasm.

"She's exactly right, Lethe," Mint adds. "It's basically a measure of how far a nation can physically project their power. A border only exists if the country has the military and logistical reach to protect their nomadic cities from scavengers, mercenaries, and roaming Infected within that specific area." I nod.

"And the lands outside the reach of those cities and military bases are generally called the barrens," Miss Adele adds gently. "It's the unclaimed wilderness of Terra. Unless, of course, the land is being farmed, developed, and filled with train routes, much like the plains we're sitting in right now."

"I see," I thank my brilliant friends.

We clean our empty bowls, using the last of the filtered river water to rinse away the residue of our camp dinner. We filter into our tents.

Sleeping in the wild is a new experience. Instead of the low hum of the landship's engines and the steel floorboards beneath my mattress, there's only the rustle of wind against the synthetic fabric of the tent and the unforgiving hardness of the ground.

I wriggle into my thermal blanket, pulling the insulated material up to my chin. The tent is snug — we're all packed closely together. I'm sandwiched in the middle, between Podenco and Lisa. Mint claims the space on the other side of Lisa, her sleeping bag rustling as she settles into the nylon flooring.

I shift my weight, turning onto my side to face Podenco. It's a strategic maneuver — if I try to sleep on my back in such a cramped space, my spade-tipped tail will get pinched beneath my own weight or smothered by a restless sleeper. I pull my knees up, letting my tail rest behind me, brushing against the silk of Lisa's tails. Resting against my pillow, leaning against my bag, is my Arts Unit.

The tent is quiet for a few moments, save for the overlapping sounds of our breathing. Then the fabric of the sleeping bag across from me shifts. Podenco turns over to face me. In the moonlit shadows filtering through the tent walls, I can make out the contour of her ears and her attentive eyes.

"How are you feeling, Lethe?" Podenco whispers, her voice pitched low so as not to wake Miss Susie and Miss Adele in the neighboring tent. She tastes of yuzu and green tea.

I clutch the edge of my thermal blanket, my focus dropping to the narrow space between our sleeping mats. I take a shaky breath, the cold air stinging the back of my throat.

"I'm kind of nervous, to be honest," I admit, looking back up at her. "There's no landship out here. No armored walls… and no Elite Ops to protect us."

We don't have Ms. Blaze's roaring chainsaw or Rosmontis's telekinetic fortresses to hide behind. It's just the open plains, stretching out into the dark.

"Don't worry, Lethe," Podenco promises. "If anything even thinks about getting close to our tent, they'll get a face full of neurotoxins before they can take another step."

A shuffling sound comes from behind my back.

"And my Foxfire will slow them down!" Lisa adds, her hushed voice ringing with fierce optimism. "And if anyone gets a scrape, my Arts will heal the wounds so you don't even have to worry about pulling the pain away, Lethe!"

From the far side of the tent, another voice joins our midnight tactical planning.

"And I can use my vortex Arts to pull people together!" Mint adds, her silhouette shifting as she props herself up on one elbow. "I can draw the bad guys into a single spot so Podenco's vials can hit all of them at once!"

I look at Podenco, then Lisa, and finally Mint. We're not helpless.

I pull the thermal blanket tighter around my shoulders, my tail giving a happy thump against the sleeping mat as I drift into a comforting sleep.

"Lethe. Wake up. It's our shift now."

The whisper cuts through the insulated cocoon of my sleeping bag. A gentle hand rocks my shoulder.

I let out a quiet groan and blink my eyes open, the dim interior of the tent coming into focus. Mint is kneeling beside my mat, her eyes catching the moonlight bleeding through the canvas.

I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Across the tent, Podenco lets out an exaggerated yawn, stretching her arms above her head until her shoulders pop. She and Lisa have just finished the first watch of the night.

"Good luck out there," Podenco murmurs, her voice raspy with exhaustion as she crawls back onto her sleeping mat. Beside her, Lisa is already burying herself in her blankets.

"Rest well, you two," I whisper back.

I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the black shaft of my Arts Unit. The liquid suspended within the halos hums with a steady rhythm, anchoring my groggy mind as I push myself up. I pull my oversized Rhodes Island jacket over my shoulders, wrap a woolen scarf around my neck against the chill, and follow Mint out through the tent flaps.

The moment I step outside, the unfiltered air of the wilderness hits my cheeks. But the cold is forgotten the second I look up.

The night sky is breathtaking. Without the smog of the mobile cities to pollute the view, the heavens are an endless canvas of velvet indigo. Millions of diamond-like stars dot the expanse, glittering in the atmosphere. Hovering over the distant plains are the twin moons, casting long silver shadows across the grasslands.

"It's beautiful, Mint," I breathe out, my voice forming a cloud of mist in the freezing air.

Mint steps up beside me, pulling her coat tighter around her frame.

"This is one of the best parts of geological surveys," Mint sighs, her eyes reflecting the starlight as she gazes up at the cosmos. "You get to see the world exactly as it is, untouched by the cities."

I look at her, taking in her starry-eyed distraction. I know how focused Mint can get when something catches her academic interest.

"Just… please don't wander off, Mint," I warn, tilting my head to fix her with a stern, practiced look I learned from watching mom. "No matter how shiny or geologically fascinating the rock is in the dark."

Mint blinks, a flush of embarrassment warming her cheeks as she offers me a sheepish smile.

"I… I'll try," she mumbles, her voice lacking conviction.

I let out a long sigh. Mint is hopeless sometimes when it comes to her own well-being.

My mind flashes back to a few weeks ago on the landship. I had walked into the Archives for my afternoon study session with Miss Adele, only to find Mint's chair empty. When we went looking for her, we tracked her down in the most neglected aisle of the library. She had lived in the Archives for three days straight, losing track of the daylight cycles and her own meals. Miss Adele and I had found her passed out on the floor, buried under an avalanche of geopolitical textbooks and obscure rock-formation journals, snoring softly.

If I don't keep a close eye on her tonight, she's going to trip over a slumbering beast just to inspect a pebble.

I grip my staff with both hands and step closer to the dying embers of our campfire, pulling my scarf up to my chin. I'm officially on duty, ready to be the responsible one for the night.

I spend the next hour of the night watch with my focus fixed on Mint. The wind howls across the open plains, but the embers of our campfire keep the worst of the cold at bay. I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest, my Arts Unit resting across my lap.

While I try my best to keep an eye out for roaming sandbeasts or scavengers, Mint is lost in her own world. She paces the edge of our campsite, head swiveling as she peers into the dark, trying to analyze the topographical landscape by moonlight alone.

Her pacing stops. Mint's ears give an erratic twitch. She stands up straight, leaning forward to peer into the shadows beyond the glow of our dying fire.

"What's that?" Mint whispers, taking an eager step toward the dark.

I don't hesitate. I drop my staff onto my folding chair and lunge.

Both hands catch her jacket, my sneakers digging into the dirt to anchor her.

"Please, Mint," I plead, my voice a whisper that echoes in the quiet camp. "We can check it out in the morning when the sun is actually up! It's pitch black out there!"

I reach into my pocket with one hand, pulling out my PRTS communicator. The screen flashes white against the darkness. 0430.

"Look," I tell her, holding the screen up so the numbers illuminate her face. "It's four-thirty. The sun will be up soon. Not much longer now. We just have to wait."

Mint freezes. The tension bleeds out of her shoulders as she looks at the digital clock, and then down at my white-knuckled grip on her coat. The mint on my tongue spikes with sheepish embarrassment.

"Whoopsie daisy," Mint mumbles. She takes a quick, compliant step backward, retreating into the illuminated boundary of our camp. "I'll wait, Lethe. Sorry. It just looked like a really unique basalt formation…"

I sigh, releasing my death grip on her jacket. I cross my arms and fix her with my fiercest glare.

"If you wander off into the dark," I warn her, pitching my voice to sound like a strict instructor, "Miss Susie is going to use her Arts to permanently style your hair into a static-charged puffball. And then, Miss Adele is going to make you calculate the tectonic shear stress of the entire Empire of Ursus by hand. Without a calculator."

Mint's jaw drops. Her eyes blow wide in horror.

"Okay! Okay!" Mint yelps, waving her hands in surrender. She scurries back to her folding chair, throwing herself into the seat. She rips a small notebook from her pocket, holding it up in front of her face like a shield. "I'll read my notes! Don't worry, Lethe! I'm not moving!"

I watch her bury her face behind the pages, the panicked rustle of paper filling the quiet campsite. A victorious smile stretches across my face. I pick my Arts Unit back up, settling into my chair, keeping our little expedition safe until the sun breaks over the horizon.

The slow crawl of the night watch begins to yield. I sit huddled in my folding chair. The biting wind of the plains softens a fraction as the black sky begins to shift.

The velvet indigo bruises into a sweeping gradient of soft peach, gold, and blooming violet. The silver glow of twin moons fades, surrendering to the creeping warmth of dawn. The rolling grass catches the first light, sparkling with a layer of morning frost.

I reach out, gently tugging at the sleeve of Mint's oversized jacket.

"Woah. Mint, look!" My voice forms a cloud in the freezing air.

Mint finally lowers her notebook and blinks. The scholarly tension in her shoulders melts away as she takes in the view.

"That's pretty!" Mint breathes out, her voice ringing with wonder.

The quiet of the morning is interrupted by the rasp of a zipper. The flaps of the neighboring tent part, and Miss Adele and Miss Susie step out into the crisp air. Miss Susie raises her arms above her head in a luxurious stretch.

"Anyone need help keeping their sleeping hair in check?" Miss Susie asks, letting out a yawn that echoes across the campsite.

Right on cue, the zipper of my own tent descends. Lisa shuffles out into the cold — eyes half-closed, her usually immaculate hair sticking up in static-charged directions. Her tails drag behind her, tangled from a long night of acting as a makeshift blanket.

"If you don't mind, Miss Susie," Lisa asks, her voice groggy.

Miss Susie's sleepy demeanor vanishes, replaced by the welcoming energy of the landship's best barber. "Of course not," she smiles, patting the empty folding chair beside her. "Come here."

"Thank you!" Lisa hums happily, shuffling over to sink into the chair and surrender to Miss Susie's expert hands.

As the sun climbs higher, illuminating the hills and casting distinct shadows across the plains, the landscape is revealed. A few hundred meters away, jutting out of the rolling hills, is a cluster of striated rock.

"Miss Eyjafjalla! Look at the rock formations over there!" Mint points. Forgetting the lecture I had given her during the night watch, she doesn't wait for a response — she starts marching off toward the distant ridges.

My breath catches, my hands flying to my Arts Unit as I prepare to scramble out of my chair and chase her down before she trips into a ravine.

But Miss Adele covers her mouth with her hand, a chuckle escaping her lips.

"I'll keep an eye on her," Miss Adele says, turning her head back toward the camp with a trusting smile. "Lethe, if you don't mind, please get breakfast ready alongside Podenco when she's up."

The flaps of the tent rustle one last time as Podenco steps out, already tying the bright yellow ribbon at her collar.

"Okay!" Podenco and I declare in cheerful unison, ready to conquer the camp stove.

Day four of the expedition. I keep the count on my slate now — one line for each morning — because the last two days have blurred into grass and dust and the ache in my calves, and I couldn't tell you where one ended and the next began. The crisp wind of the Victorian plains has become a familiar companion, carrying the icy scent of the nearby river that guides our trekking route.

Ahead of us, dominating the horizon, is a Victorian steam-based mobile city. Its towering buildings and reinforced plating gleam under the morning sun. It's stationary at the moment, resting against the rolling green hills like a sleeping giant.

The atmosphere within our small group is infectious. Podenco and Mint are vibrating with excitement. A few paces ahead, Mint holds her notebook open, showing a page of newly recorded topographical notes to Miss Adele as we walk alongside the babbling water.

Right beside me, Podenco is crouched in the dirt, her tail wagging in a blur as she explains the cellular structure of a rare patch of riverbank moss to Lisa. Lisa leans in, her eyes wide with wonder.

I walk quietly behind them. It's a peaceful day.

Until Miss Adele stops dead in her tracks.

The flavor bleeding off her shifts. The hearth fire and roasted chestnuts don't extinguish, but they compress, sharpening into a focused heat that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"What's wrong, Miss Eyjafjalla?" Mint asks as she lowers her notebook.

Miss Adele doesn't answer. Her kind eyes are devoid of their usual gentleness. She closes them, tilting her head as if listening to a frequency the rest of us can't catch.

"The earth…" Miss Adele murmurs, her voice dropping into something deadly serious. "The air…"

She reaches into her satchel and pulls out a heavy-duty sensor.

Everyone stops. Podenco rises from the patch of moss, her ears flattening. Lisa steps closer to my side, her hands gripping her Arts Unit, ready at a moment's notice.

Miss Adele walks in a slow, deliberate circle. She holds the sensor up, her eyes darting between the fluctuating digital readouts and the unblemished horizon. She looks out over the plains, her gaze locking onto the nomadic city in the distance.

"A Catastrophe is forming," Miss Adele declares.

The blood drains from my face.

"Oh no," Miss Susie gasps. Pink static crackles off her. She takes a step forward, pointing a trembling finger toward the unmoving silhouette on the horizon. "The city. That's Porte-Léon, right? Why isn't it moving?"

Miss Adele lowers the sensor, her expression carving into a mask of aching sorrow.

"The atmospheric pressure changes are subtle right now, masked by the river's microclimate," she explains, her voice trembling a fraction under the burden of her knowledge. "The Catastrophe Messengers in the city must not have realized it yet."

I stare at the spiraling city of Porte-Léon in the distance. There are tens of thousands of people in there. Men, women, and children living their lives, unaware that the sky is quietly preparing to crush them into the dirt. I swallow hard.

"If they don't move soon," I ask, my voice fracturing over the rushing water of the river, "would it be too late?"

Miss Adele turns her head to look at me. The truth in her eyes is devastating.

"More than likely."

"We need to warn them," Miss Adele says.

Her voice rings with uncompromising clarity, a volcanic resolve that leaves no room for hesitation.

Without waiting for a response, Miss Adele kneels into the tall grass. She reaches down toward her left ankle, her fingers finding the black band of her Rhodes Island infection monitor. With a click, she disengages the locking mechanism and pulls the device off, tucking it deep into the hidden compartments of her satchel.

I reach up, my fingers brushing against the high collar of my jacket where my own monitor rests.

This is an infiltration.

"Mint," Miss Adele commands, standing back up and looking at her. "Come with me. The rest of you, please wait here."

Mint doesn't hesitate. "Yes, Miss Eyjafjalla," she replies firmly, reaching up to her neck to unclip her own infection monitor and shove it into her pocket.

As the two researchers turn to march toward the steel-plated walls of the mobile city, the reality of our situation crashes down on the rest of the group.

The air beside me ruptures. Whatever calm Miss Susie had is incinerated by a spike of terror.

"Calm down. Susie. Breathe," Miss Susie whispers to herself, wrapping her arms around her own torso and squeezing her eyes shut.

But her body is betraying her. Static electricity erupts into the air, arcing off her clothes and dancing across the tips of her fluffy pink hair. The smell of scorched ozone and burnt sugar floods my senses, making the back of my tongue tingle. Her Originium Arts are misfiring under the weight of her panic. I grip the black shaft of my Arts Unit, the liquid within the magnetic halos swirling as I try to figure out how to push a calming emotion into the storm.

But before I can open my empathic channel, a blur of auburn steps into the electrified air.

Lisa moves next to Miss Susie. Her nine tails fan out in a wide arc, and her staff begins to glow with a soft light. A localized field of her Foxfire Arts washes over us.

The moment the field expands, the wind of the wilderness is neutralized. A wave of crystallized sugar and warm light floods my senses. It doesn't just push the fear away — it wraps around us like a blanket woven from safety and unconditional love, soothing the hammering rhythm of my own heart.

"Miss Susie," Lisa says. Her voice is a steady chime that echoes within the glowing field of her Arts. She reaches out, resting her hands over Miss Susie's arms. "Everything will be okay."

The effect is miraculous. The erratic sparks of pink electricity dancing across Miss Susie's hair sputter and die out. The stench of scorched ozone dissolves, washed away by Lisa's sweetness.

Miss Susie lets out a ragged exhale, her shoulders slumping forward. She opens her eyes, the terror melting into a pool of exhausted relief. Her warmth begins to return, steadying beneath Lisa's Foxfire.

"Thank… thank you, Suzuran," Miss Susie breathes out, offering her a watery smile.

I loosen my grip on my Arts Unit and look at Lisa, standing tall and brave in the wilderness, using her light to guide our friends out of the dark.

I need to learn more from her.

With the panic ebbing away, Lisa tugs on Miss Susie's sleeve and guides her down to the soft grass of the riverbank.

They sit close together, side-by-side. The glow of Lisa's Foxfire fades into the late-morning sunlight, leaving behind a quiet bubble of warmth. They don't speak. They just sit there, letting the rushing melody of the nearby river wash over them, using the sound of the water to drown out the shadow of the nomadic city on the horizon.

A few paces away, Podenco has already thrown herself back into her work. She crouches near the water's edge, dipping a series of glass vials into the rushing current to gather samples of the water itself for later ecological analysis.

I stand near the riverbank and look down at the crystal-clear water cutting through the plains. I recall dipping my hands into the freezing current of a stream when Podenco and I made dinner yesterday evening, the chill grounding against my skin. It had felt good to touch the world.

"Can I step in the river?" I ask, my voice soft over the rushing water.

Podenco doesn't look up from her glass vials. She seals a stopper with a satisfying pop. "Not unless you want to walk around with wet stockings for the rest of the expedition, Lethe," she points out.

I look down at my thick insulated dark stockings and my white sneakers. "Oh, right." A defiant spark of freedom bubbles up in my chest. "I'll take them off then."

I step away from the edge of the water and lean my Arts Unit against a moss-covered boulder. I sit down on a dry patch of grass and get to work.

I untie my sneakers, slipping them off and setting them neatly aside. Then I roll down the light blue knitted leg warmers, placing them in my shoes so they don't touch the dirt. Finally, I peel off the insulated stockings.

The transition is startling. The unblemished air of the wilderness sweeps over my legs. I curl my toes, feeling the soft grass tickle against my bare skin. It's a strange, exhilarating sensation of freedom.

I push myself back up to my feet, reaching out to retrieve my staff from the boulder.

"Just be careful to not get cut by the rocks, Lethe," Podenco warns without turning around as she packs her filled water samples into a padded containment case. "The current smooths most of the riverbed out, but a shard of flint or a stray piece of Originium in the water will ruin our day."

I look down at the babbling water. "I'll be careful, Podenco."

I step down the grassy bank and dip my toes into the rushing river. The icy chill bites, sending a waking shiver up my legs. But it feels grounding. The polished pebbles of the riverbed slide beneath my feet, and the current washes away the stagnant dread of watching Miss Adele and Mint disappear into the shadow of the Victorian mobile city.

I wade out a little further, letting the cold water lap at my ankles. I need a distraction. Turning my head, I look back at the bank where Lisa, Miss Susie, and Podenco are gathered.

"We actually haven't gotten to roast any marshmallows yet," I point out, pitching my voice to carry over the babbling stream. "Weren't we supposed to do that?"

Podenco looks up from her containment case, an amused huff escaping her lips. "To be fair, Lethe," she replies, securing the final latch on her glass vials. "For the past few days, we've all just kind of crashed into the tent the second we finish eating dinner, haven't we? Trekking across the plains is exhausting."

Lisa giggles from her spot beside Miss Susie on the grass. "Well, we still have almost three weeks left on our expedition!" she adds, her tails swishing against the dirt. "That's plenty of time to build a proper campfire and roast them."

Miss Susie leans forward. "Actually, Lethe," she asks, "have you ever even had a marshmallow before?"

I shake my head. "No," I admit softly. "I haven't."

"What?!" Lisa gasps.

She doesn't waste a second. She scrambles over to her canvas bag on the grass, hands digging through the compartments. With a triumphant cheer, she pulls out a large, crinkling plastic bag. Inside are dozens of plump white cylinders, dusted in a fine coat of powdered sugar. They look soft.

Lisa pops the seal on the bag, pulls one out, and walks over to the river's edge. She stretches her arm out, offering the pillowy treat to me. "You have to try it right now!"

"Thank you, Lisa," I say, wading back toward the bank. I reach out, taking the marshmallow from her fingers. It feels impossibly squishy and light.

I bring it to my lips and take a cautious bite. The texture is unique — spongy and resilient for a fraction of a second before it dissolves on my tongue. A wave of concentrated vanilla and airy sugar floods my mouth. The sweetness is uncomplicated, comforting.

I blink. A radiant smile breaks across my face, wiping away the shadows of the looming Catastrophe. My tail snaps out of the freezing water, wagging in a joyous blur.

"It's so fluffy!" I beam, popping the rest of the treat into my mouth.

I step out of the rushing current, my bare feet sinking into the grass of the riverbank. The freezing air bites at my wet skin, but I don't mind. I shuffle over to the circle my friends have formed and take a seat beside Podenco, leaning the black shaft of my Arts Unit against my knees, watching the misty liquid swirl and settle into a steady hum as I stretch my legs out to let the wind dry my toes.

"Here, Lethe! Time for real lunch." Lisa reaches into her bag and pulls out a stack of packed sandwiches wrapped in sealed plastic. She passes them around the group.

"Thank you, Lisa," I murmur, taking one. I bite into it, the savory taste of cold cuts, cheese, and lettuce a grounding follow-up to the sugary rush of the marshmallow. We eat in companionable silence, the rushing of the river our background music.

But as the afternoon wears on, we're running out of small talk.

Then the serene atmosphere begins to curdle.

The sun is already beginning its dip toward the horizon. I look up. Far in the distance, away from the city, the sky is bruising. Unnatural storm cells form and churn, sickly purple and ash-grey.

My tail drops dead against the grass. A cold knot of dread tightens in my stomach.

"Should we move?" I ask, my voice fracturing the quiet of our camp. I look between Podenco, Lisa, and Miss Susie, my fingers tightening around the chassis of my staff. "We don't want to be caught in the middle of a Catastrophe if that storm breaks…"

"We can't, Lethe," Podenco says, her attention fixed on the darkening horizon. "Miss Adele told us to wait right here. If we move the camp, they won't know where to find us when they get out."

"But why isn't the city moving?" I plead, gesturing toward the skyline in the distance. The colossal treads beneath the city remain still. "It's been almost half a day since Miss Adele and Mint went in to warn them. They should be driving away by now!"

Miss Susie sits down and folds her arms over her knees. "The aristocrats… the ruling bodies," she says, her voice low with bitter resignation. "They're proud, Lethe. They probably just looked at a Leithanian researcher and refused to believe her."

She squeezes her eyes shut, a spark of pink static arcing across the tips of her hair. "They probably didn't believe Eyjafjalla… hopefully they're safe in there."

I stare at the city, the weight of Miss Susie's words sinking into my chest.

Then, finally, the silence is shattered.

It starts as a low, subterranean rumble that vibrates through the soles of my feet and hums against the bases of my horns. Then the sirens ring out. The mechanical wail echoes across the plains, a chorus that drowns out the babbling of the river.

I whip my head around, toward the horizon. The steel-plated silhouette of the mobile city is no longer a dormant shadow. It's tearing itself apart. The municipal plates separate, the grinding screech of millions of tons of shifting metal tearing through the air as the city blocks begin to move, mobilizing to outrun the wrath of the earth.

But the earth is already waking up.

I look up. The sky, a bruised twilight only hours ago, is gone. A Catastrophe is forming, rolling over the land as an unnatural storm. The clouds are a maelstrom of sickly purples and pitch-black greys, churning with an atmospheric weight that makes it hard to draw breath. The wind changes direction, howling across the grass and carrying the acidic stench of ozone and sulfur.

Around us, the ground reacts. The muted Originium shards scattered in the countryside — the inert rocks we tiptoed around all day — awaken. They light up, a pulsing yellowish glow bleeding out from under their black crystalline structures as they resonate with the pressure forming above us.

"We're too close," I get out.

The words tumble out as Miss Adele's lectures in the Archives flash through my mind. Originium pressure triggers. Atmospheric resonance.

The air itself is turning into a volatile conductor. "We need to move!" I yell over the wind.

Everything on the riverbank erupts at once. Miss Susie's toasted sugar detonates into a terrified crackle; Lisa's crystallized sugar pulls taut and frayed; Podenco's yuzu sours with panic.

I don't waste a second. Scrambling away from the water's edge, I grab my insulated dark stockings and my white sneakers and dress, shoving my freezing toes into the fabric with clumsy fingers.

"Which way?!" Podenco shouts over the roar of the wind, slinging her containment case over her shoulder.

"That way!" I point my staff toward the horizon, tracking the retreating silhouettes of the mobile platforms. "Heading the same direction that the city blocks are heading! They have Catastrophe Messengers; they know the safest route out of the impact zone!"

We turn, bracing ourselves against the debris-filled gale, prepared to run for our lives.

"Lethe! Podenco! Suzuran! Miss Goldenglow!"

The voice slices through the storm, breathless. I whip my head toward a distant hill. Mint is sprinting down the rocky incline toward us, her jacket billowing in the Catastrophe winds, Miss Adele a few strides behind her.

"There's a cave nearby!" Mint screams, waving toward a dark fissure. "Let's hide there!"

We run.

I force my legs to move, my sneakers slipping against the grass as we scramble up the rocky incline.

The wind is a wall of freezing, debris-laced air that pushes us backward with every step. Behind us, the metallic shrieking of the mobile city tearing itself apart echoes across the plains, eclipsed by the unnatural darkness rolling in from the sky.

"In here! Hurry!" Mint shouts, waving us toward the fissure hidden behind a cluster of boulders.

Lisa darts in first, Podenco behind her. I stumble over a loose rock, nearly dropping to my knees, but Miss Susie's hand shoots out and grabs the back of my jacket, hoisting me forward until we both plunge into the dark opening of the cave. Miss Adele and Mint slide in behind us.

The transition is immediate. The howl of the Catastrophe is muffled — reduced to a hollow roar outside the stone walls.

"We're safe," Mint pants, leaning against the cave wall. "There's… there's no active Originium in here. Miss Eyjafjalla and I found it on our way back from the city and ran the subterranean scans. She made me help her stock it, just in case."

I collapse onto the uneven stone floor. My lungs burn, tasting of stale dust and adrenaline. Beside me, Lisa is curled into a ball, her nine tails wrapped around herself, while Podenco leans against her knees, trying to catch her breath.

Miss Susie doesn't waste a second. Her hands shake, sparks of static arcing across her fingertips, but she pulls a standard-issue Rhodes Island ignition flare from her survival pack. With a strike, she drops it onto the pile of dry kindling stacked against the wall. A crackling fire springs to life, casting an orange glow against the cave walls.

I look toward the entrance of the fissure. The bruised twilight sky we stood under minutes ago is gone. It's pitch black outside. The Catastrophe has swallowed the sun, plunging the plains into premature night.

We gather around the small fire, pulling our coats around our shivering frames. The air in the cave is thick with exhaustion, but the acidic spike of panic begins to thaw under the warmth of the flames.

"What happened in there?" Miss Susie asks, her voice unsteady. She looks across the fire at the two researchers. "Why did it take so long for them to sound the alarms?"

Mint's head snaps up. Her hands clench into fists in her lap.

"They didn't believe Miss Eyjafjalla!" Mint cries out, her voice echoing against the stone. Her eyes blaze with helpless anger. "We went straight to the municipal Catastrophe Messengers. Miss Eyjafjalla showed them the exact pressure readings and the micro-fault anomalies! But they just looked at her and laughed!"

Mint throws her hands up. "They kept going on and on about how their internal sensors and municipal surveys were clear! They called us paranoid tourists!" she continues, her voice cracking. "I had to pull out my identification and tell them I'm a researcher from the Victorian Institution of Higher Studies. I had to threaten to report their negligence to the aristocracy just to get them to look at the sky! And even then, they only hit the mobilization alarms at the last second!"

The silence that follows Mint's outburst is total.

Miss Adele sits on the other side of the fire. The roasted chestnuts and dormant hearth fire that usually radiate from her are extinguished — in their place, volcanic ash. It hits the back of my throat, tasting of bitter tears and the weight of inevitability.

Miss Adele stares into the flames. "The separation sequence was initiated far too late," she says. She lifts her eyes toward the pitch-black entrance of the cave where the storm rages.

"Some plates might be caught still," she adds.

The words drop into the cavern like a lead weight.

I scoot around the fire to Miss Adele's side and rest my free hand over her shaking fingers. I squeeze, pouring every bit of steadying comfort I can muster into the empathic channel between us. She had done everything she could. She had walked right into that city, stood there while they laughed at her, and kept trying to save them anyway.

The roar of the Catastrophe outside is a continuous rumble that shakes the floor of the cavern. I pull my knees to my chest.

"Let's roast some marshmallows," Miss Susie suggests, her voice cutting through the gloom. She rubs her arms, shivering. "It will get cold soon. We can make some cocoa, too."

Lisa sits up, her tails giving a hesitant sway. "I have them!" she chimes, digging into her specialized logistics bag and producing the crinkling pouches of marshmallows and instant cocoa powder.

Podenco stands, brushing the cave dust from her skirt. "I'll help," she says, grabbing our portable Rhodes Island pot to boil the filtered water over the fire.

While the three of them busy themselves around the flames, Mint can't sit still. She paces near the edges of the firelight, pulling a heavy-duty flashlight from the deep pocket of her jacket.

The white beam cuts through the shadows as she sweeps it across the ceiling and the uneven stone walls, her academic curiosity demanding a distraction from the terror outside.

"This looks weird," Mint observes, her voice echoing softly.

I look up from the fire. Mint has stopped at the back of the cavern, staring at a solid, dead-end wall of rock. She tilts her head, brow furrowing, and sweeps the flashlight beam back and forth across the stone.

"Is this natural?" Mint asks, leaning closer. "The striation pattern and the mineral oxidation here contradict the surrounding basalt…"

She steps forward, reaching out to brush the rough surface of the rock. The second her fingers make contact with the stone wall.

Crash.

The rock swallows her hand. Mint lets out a startled yelp, losing her balance as her weight carries her forward. She pitches through the stone, tumbling onto the unseen ground beyond with an echoing clatter.

"Mint!" My heart leaps into my throat. I scramble to my feet, gripping my Arts Unit as Miss Adele, Miss Susie, and the others drop what they're doing.

"What…?" Mint's bewildered voice echoes from the darkness beyond the flickering false wall. "A camouflage?"

Her dropped flashlight rolls across the hidden cavern floor. The beam spins for a second before coming to rest, slicing through the void, illuminating what the camouflage had been designed to hide.

It isn't an empty, dead-end cavern. Stacked in the dark, stretching deep into the back of the hidden tunnel, are organized rows of reinforced military-grade crates.

Painted onto the dark metal is a white emblem. It's hand-drawn, its edges uneven but bold. A regal sword runs down the center, crossed from behind by twin halberds. The weapons are wrapped in a flowing crest that looks like a stylized lily.

I stare at the symbol. It tugs at something from one of Miss Adele's map lessons, but I can't place it. It doesn't look like the Victorian heraldry I've seen in the Archives, and it isn't the Rhodes Island rook.

Mint pushes herself off the dusty cavern floor, eyes wide on the fresh paint. "Miss Eyjafjalla," she asks, her voice barely carrying in the echoing dark. "Is that symbol what I think it is?"

Miss Adele steps forward to inspect the sigil. "Gaul," she says. The word is soft, but it carries historical weight.

Gaul. The fallen empire Miss Adele touched on our map in April. My mind flashes back further, to the communication terminal in Doctor's office — Ms. Closure's caffeinated voice barking through the speaker, declaring that the Gaulish Empire was a superpower wiped off the map by Victoria, Ursus, and Leithanien decades ago.

Lisa steps up, tilting her head, eyes scanning the reinforced latches of the containers. "How?" Her brow furrows. "Those crates look new. There isn't even any rust on the hinges. The nation fell almost seventy years ago."

Miss Adele steps further into the hidden cavern, approaching the stack of supplies, her hand reaching out to inspect the surface of the metal. She touches the edge of the white emblem, analyzing the freshness of the paint.

"This could be restorationists," Miss Adele says, her tone dropping into a grave octave that banishes her usual airy melody. She turns back to us, the shadows of the flashlight playing across her features. "County Ascarat… Ascarat. That sounds Gaulish — this has to be assimilated Gaul territory."

Miss Susie wraps her arms around her sweater. "In recent years there have been some reports of Gaulish protests," she adds, her voice tight. "Whispers of people trying to rebuild what the other empires destroyed."

The dread solidifies in my stomach. We didn't stumble into an empty cave to hide from a Catastrophe. We walked into an active supply cache belonging to a rebel army.

We're trapped between a storm tearing the sky apart outside and the ghost of a dead empire waiting in the dark.

"We need to take pictures," Lisa declares. Her voice cuts through the gloom, trembling a fraction but anchored by resolve. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her communicator, the glow of the screen lighting her face as she points the lens toward the hand-drawn lily crests. "We have to communicate this to Dr. Kal'tsit the second the Catastrophe clears and the signal returns, or this County will fall in war, too."

"Shouldn't we tell the Duke?" Mint asks, looking between the adults. "If there's a rebellion building right under his nose, the local Victorian authorities need to know!"

"No, Mint," Miss Susie says. "He won't believe us. We're Infected, and we're trespassing. Even if he does believe us, he'll just arrest us and accuse us of being foreign saboteurs planting the weapons ourselves. We can't trust the local nobility."

I think of the ancient glacier waiting for us back on the landship. She's terrifying, but when she speaks, people listen. I can't think of anyone safer to have on our side.

"Dr. Kal'tsit will know how to tell them," I add, my voice steadying in the dark cavern. I look at Mint and nod. "We just gather the intel. She always knows what to do."

"Okay." Mint's voice is barely there.

"Let's open a crate."

Podenco is already crouched beside the nearest metal container, her hands fidgeting with the unrusted latches.

"Wait, Podenco, be careful!" Miss Adele starts, but it's too late.

With a clank that echoes against the stone walls, the metal lid pops loose. Podenco heaves it backward. The beam of the dropped flashlight catches the interior of the crate, illuminating the contraband packed within the shock-absorbent foam.

We all step closer, peering over the edge. My breath stalls in my throat.

The weapons inside are monstrous. They're forged from pitted iron, devoid of the polished brass, steam-powered mechanisms, or engravings I had seen in the textbooks documenting the Victorian military. These are oversized swords with saw-toothed edges, and crude staves designed for blunt-force trauma. Woven into the dark metal are exposed conduits of Originium. The crystals pulse with a blood-red luminescence, looking less like manufactured tools and more like extensions of a living disease.

The sight of them makes the blood in my veins run cold, yet a primal instinct ripples deep in my chest. They smell of scorched earth, sulfur, and dried blood. They're weapons built for a slaughterhouse, designed for hands with unnatural physical strength.

Miss Adele leans over the open crate, her eyes widening in horror.

"That's not Victorian," Miss Adele says, her voice barely a breath against the muffled roar of the Catastrophe outside. "The craftsmanship, the raw Originium exposure… these are Sarkaz mercenary armaments. These are weapons from Kazdel."

"Oh no no no…" A series of whispers rings out.

Miss Susie's toasted sugar and warm milk is incinerated. What erupts in its place is scorched ozone. Sparks of static arc off her clothes, dancing across the tips of her hair and crackling against the damp stone walls of the cave.

She takes a staggering step backward, her breathing short and hyperventilating. Her Arts are spiraling out of control again, agitating the volatile air.

I drop my hands from the shaft of my Arts Unit and rush over to her.

"Please calm down, Miss Susie," I plead, grabbing her shaking hands and squeezing. I look up into her panicked eyes. "You have to breathe. The atmospheric Originium pressure from the Catastrophe outside is already too high. Using your Arts right now is really, really bad for your Oripathy prognosis!"

Miss Susie squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a shuddering breath, her fingers gripping mine so tightly they ache. She forces the air deep into her lungs, fighting the surge of electricity under her skin.

She opens her eyes, staring down at me with an expression of dread. "They…" she says, her voice shaking in the dim light of the flare. "The rumors. They're true?"

"Rumors?" I ask, my grip on her hands softening a fraction.

"In my barber sessions," Miss Susie explains, her voice dropping into a hollow murmur. "When Operators sit in my chair, they talk. I… I heard people whisper that the Military Commission of Kazdel secretly funded and armed Reunion, and Dublinn…"

My hands go numb. I let go of Miss Susie and take a shaky step backward. It wasn't just bad luck. It wasn't only hurt, angry people fighting back. My people had put the swords and the Originium explosives into their hands.

"But why?" I look toward Miss Adele, hoping she'll tell me it's an unfounded rumor. "Why would Kazdel want to burn other countries? I thought… I thought they just wanted their own home back."

Miss Adele steps past the open crate, her eyes reflecting the orange flames of our campfire.

"It's highly likely to be true, Lethe," Miss Adele says. "The Military Commission lacks the resources and the standing to fight the empires directly. But if they secretly arm radical factions… the rebellions distract and bleed the empires from the inside out."

She reaches out, her fingertips hovering inches above the crude iron of a Kazdelian sword.

"And more importantly," she adds quietly, "it creates chaos. When the empires are fractured by civil war and uprisings, they grow desperate. They hire mercenaries to quell the violence. It creates lucrative mercenary contracts for the Military Commission to exploit. They get funding and military leverage from the very wars they created."

The cavern plunges into echoing silence. I stare at the dark metal weapons resting in the foam. So the Military Commission wants more than a home. They start the fighting, and then someone pays them to finish it?

And they're my bloodline.

I reach down, my fingers finding the black shaft of my Arts Unit. I stand in the dark of the hidden cache, listening to the muffled roar of the Catastrophe outside, crushed by the weight of the horns on my head.

"I… I… I…"

Hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes, blurring the orange light of the campfire. I open my mouth, ready to let out a sob.

Squish.

A warm, toasted marshmallow is shoved unceremoniously past my lips.

The gooey texture blocks the sob in my throat. I blink, my tear-filled eyes crossing as I look at Podenco, kneeling in front of me.

"You are not them, Lethe," Podenco states. Her voice is fierce, unyielding. She looks me dead in the eyes. "Don't you ever think you are them."

I close my mouth, chewing the marshmallow slowly so I don't choke. The caramelized sugar and warm vanilla coat my tongue.

As the sweetness works its way down my throat, I drop my eyes past the hem of my jacket to the tactical band strapped around my right thigh. Emblazoned in white against the dark fabric is the Medic symbol. It's a promise to heal.

I loosen my grip on my Arts Unit. My fingers trace the black shaft, feeling the steady mechanical hum of the magnetic halos at its crest. The misty blue liquid suspended within swirls lazily — a shield built by Ms. Closure to protect my mind, not a weapon to break others.

I swallow the marshmallow, letting out a shuddering exhale, then look back up at Podenco, and then over at Lisa.

"I… I am a Medic of Rhodes Island. I am Lethe."

The tension in Podenco's shoulders melts into a bright smile. She reaches out, giving my knee a reassuring squeeze.

"Yes," Podenco affirms softly. "You are."

"Everyone, sit down and have a marshmallow and a cup of cocoa," Miss Susie says. Her voice trembles a fraction, but she forces a gentle melody into the echoing gloom. "There's not much else we can do."

I shuffle closer to the low fire and pick up the warm camping cup of cocoa, sipping. The sweet chocolate washes over my tongue, an anchor against the reality of our situation.

The Catastrophe still roars outside. The stone walls of the hidden cavern vibrate with a low rumble — the wrath of the Originium storm tearing the sky apart beyond the entrance.

We're quiet. Huddled together in the dim orange light, the silence inside the cave is heavy, overshadowed by the noise outside.

Then, it hits me.

The scent of cocoa and the lingering smoke of the campfire are overridden by an influx of foreign emotions creeping down the dark tunnel. It tastes like damp slate and held breath. Woven through that stealth is a spike of zealotry — a righteous fury that burns my throat like over-fermented alcohol, chili powder, and the rusted-iron tang of fanaticism.

"Everyone, there are people outside the cave," I say, my voice barely a breath.

Miss Adele doesn't hesitate. She reaches out and stomps on the embers, smothering the campfire. The cavern plunges into pitch-black darkness.

"Everyone, hide in the storage room," Miss Adele commands, hushed and urgent.

I grab the shaft of my Arts Unit, shielding the glowing blue liquid of the focal unit against my chest, and scramble to my feet. Podenco grabs Lisa's hand, and we navigate the dark blindly, retreating deeper into the hidden cache. We press our backs against the cold metal crates, holding our breath in the pitch black.

Footsteps echo down the tunnel, crunching against the loose stone.

"Are you sure about this, Viktor? While a Catastrophe is raging?" a man's voice echoes, nervous.

"Absolutely. There are city blocks that are stranded," Viktor replies, his voice dripping with the zealotry I tasted coming down the tunnel. "The Duke's forces are blind in this storm. We secure the cache now, and by tomorrow morning, Ascarat will remember it belongs to Gaul, not Victoria."

Two beams of white light slice through the pitch-black void of the cavern. From my hiding spot behind the metal shipping containers, I peek out. The beams sweep across the rocky walls and the dead ashes of our campfire, illuminating the two figures stepping into the room. They're Liberi men, their feathers dusted with soot, their clothes rugged and worn.

"Viktor!" The voice of the second man echoes in the cavern, shattering the silence. His flashlight beam jerks downward, locking onto the ground. "Look."

The first man, Viktor, sweeps his light over to join his partner's. The twin beams illuminate the dead ashes of our campfire and the discarded cups we left behind in our scramble.

"Yes, Lucas?" Viktor asks, his voice dropping into a guarded whisper.

Lucas takes a hesitant step forward and kneels on the dusty stone floor, his hand hovering inches above the blackened wood. "The campfire," he breathes out, his head snapping up. "It's still warm."

I press my back as flat against the cold metal crates as I can, my heart hammering against my ribs. Beside me, I can feel Lisa shaking. The air in the pitch-black void sours with the men's adrenaline.

Viktor doesn't hesitate. He swings his flashlight away from the fire, the beam sweeping erratically across the cavern walls and the rocky ceiling, past the stalactites, toward the back of the cave. It stops dead on the open metal container Podenco had unlatched.

"The camouflage!" Viktor gasps, his voice pitching up in alarm. "It's gone! The crate is open!"

Boots pound against the stone floor as they abandon the campfire and rush toward the cache. They skid to a halt in front of the container. The white light spills over the crude metal of the weapons.

"Viktor…" Lucas stammers, his hand hovering over the exposed contraband. He stares down at the iron. "Why do these swords look…"

"Talk later!" Viktor snaps, cutting him off.

The grinding scrape of iron sliding against foam rings out in the cavern. They each reach into the crate and grab one of the Kazdelian swords.

Viktor swings the blade and the beam of his flashlight toward the shadows where we're huddled. "Come out!" he roars, the command echoing against the damp stone walls.

Lucas raises his own weapon, his stance wide and defensive. "Come out! We know you're here!"

There's nowhere to run. We're backed against a dead-end wall of rock. In the dark, Miss Adele gives a resigned nod. I take a shuddering breath, the cold air stinging my lungs.

We step out from behind the metal shipping containers.

I raise my free hand, squinting and turning my face away from the glare of their flashlights. Beside me, Miss Adele, Miss Susie, Podenco, and Lisa step into the light, their hands raised in surrender.

Mint throws her hands up, her shoulders shrinking into her jacket. "We don't mean any harm!" she yelps, her voice a high-pitched squeak.

"Who are you?!" Viktor shouts. His voice echoes off the damp stone walls, jagged with adrenaline. He points his blade toward us with a trembling hand. "What are you doing in our cache?!"

Miss Adele doesn't flinch. "We're simply travelers seeking shelter from the Catastrophe outside," she answers, her voice keeping its airy melody but layered with academic firmness. She lowers one hand, pointing toward the open crate. "But perhaps you should be asking yourselves why you're here. Do you truly know what you are fighting with?"

Viktor's eyes dart to his weapon. "Don't play games with me!" he barks, taking a step forward.

"It's not a game," Miss Adele states. "That is not a Victorian blade. It's a Kazdelian weapon. The Military Commission of Kazdel is supplying you. They secretly arm radical factions and rebellions to bleed the empires from the inside out, creating endless mercenary contracts for themselves. You are not fighting a revolution for Gaul — you are buying their weapons to slaughter yourselves."

The silence of the cave presses down on us. Beside Viktor, Lucas lowers his flashlight a fraction.

"Viktor…" Lucas says, his voice wavering. "She… she might be right. I always thought they looked weird. The top brass told us these were strictly Victorian contraband, smuggled across the border to throw off the Duke's patrols…"

"Don't listen to her, Lucas!" Viktor snaps, whipping his head around to glare at his partner. "She's a Caprinae! She's Leithanian! It's just venom to divide us!"

Viktor sweeps his flashlight back over our group. The beam jerks past Miss Adele and locks onto Mint and Miss Susie. "Look at them!" he sneers, his free hand gesturing. "Two Felines! They're Victorians! They're probably spies sent by the local Duke to sabotage our supply lines!"

Mint shrinks back against the crates, eyes wide, clutching her book to her chest. Beside her, Miss Susie lets out a shaky breath, a spark of pink static arcing off her. I reach out and grab her sleeve to ground her.

"No, Viktor, think about it for a second!" Lucas argues, shaking his head. He refuses to raise his flashlight back toward us, his eyes locked on the open crate. "This entire operation… it always felt suspicious. The armaments were sourced way too quickly. Too smoothly. We're a small, fractured cell, and suddenly we receive a shipment with enough steel to arm an entire battalion? It doesn't make any sense."

Viktor freezes. He stares at the Kazdelian sword in his hand, then at his partner, then back at us.

Whatever is left of his reason tips over. His bloodshot eyes sweep past Miss Adele and my Feline teammates and land on me. The beam of his flashlight illuminates my lopsided horns and the spade-tipped tail coiled around my ankles.

"No… no!" Viktor stammers, his voice rising into a ragged shriek. He points his blade at my chest. "It's her! The Sarkaz devil!"

I flinch, breath catching in my throat, and pull the black shaft of my Arts Unit in against my ribs.

"She's using witchcraft!" Viktor screams, his panic echoing against the stone walls. "They're manipulating us! That devil is mind-controlling us right now! We're just hallucinating the weapons!"

"Viktor! Please!" Lucas yells, his voice cracking. He hoists the Kazdelian sword and shoves it toward his partner. "Feel the weight of the blade, Viktor! Look at it! It's heavy and crude! It's not Victorian!"

Lucas's hands tremble under the bulk of the weapon, cold sweat shining on his face.

"Stop!" Lucas pleads, staring at his friend with begging eyes. "We have to stop before we die for someone else's war!"

The words hit Viktor like a blow. His panic shatters, incinerated by a rage that tastes like battery acid and boiling copper, thick in the humid air of the cavern.

"Someone else's war?!" Viktor roars, the sound tearing out of his throat. He shoves the sword away, the flat of the blade smacking against the stone wall. "Someone else?!"

He whips his head around, his breath ragged. The beam of his flashlight slashes through the dark, back toward Miss Susie and Mint huddled against the crates.

"How dare you say that!" Viktor screams, his free hand trembling as he points at Mint and Miss Susie. "The Victorians! They drafted my two brothers! They dragged them from our home and forced them to fight their war in Londinium!"

The grief behind his rage floods my senses — a sorrow so rotten my stomach heaves. I tighten my grip on the black shaft of my Arts Unit, knuckles bone-white, trying to keep it from hollowing out my own chest.

"Both of them died!" Viktor cries out, his voice fracturing into a wet sob that echoes against the cold stone. Tears carve tracks through the soot on his cheeks. "And what did my family get?! What did we get for giving them everything?!" He grips the hilt of his blade until his knuckles blanch. "Two letters and a few pounds! That's it! We didn't even get bodies to bury!"

"Viktor, please stop!" Lucas begs, his voice cracking into a whine. The Kazdelian sword dips in his hands, the tip scraping against the stone floor. "I know… I know what they did to your brothers. Because… because I was drafted into the exact same wave, Viktor."

Viktor goes still, his bloodshot eyes darting to his partner.

"I was supposed to be there in Londinium with them," Lucas chokes out, his face wet. "But I deserted. I ran. I couldn't face the artillery and the mercenaries. I'm sorry, Viktor. I'm so sorry."

The last of Viktor's sanity goes. The grief in the air doesn't soften — it combusts. He's no longer listening.

His eyes snap away from Lucas and lock onto me.

"It's her fault! I will just have to kill the devil!" Viktor screams.

He drops his flashlight, takes the Kazdelian sword in both hands, and lunges straight at me with the crude iron high over his head.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the impact.

"Viktor, no!" The scream tears through the cavern.

I hear the whoosh of the blade cutting through the damp air, then a blur of motion. A wet thud echoes against the stone.

Something warm and wet splatters across the side of my face. A splash of crimson.

I snap my eyes open. I haven't been hit.

Standing in front of me, shielding me, is Lucas. The blade is lodged deep in his shoulder, cleaving through his winter cloak and into the bone. The force of the blow has nearly split him in half. Blood pours from the wound, staining the iron and dripping onto the cavern floor.

Viktor stops. The fanaticism in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a hollow, uncomprehending shock. He lets go of the hilt, his hands shaking.

Without Viktor's grip to support the weight of the weapon, Lucas's legs give out. He drops onto the ground, collapsing in a heap of blood and tattered fabric at my feet.

The cavern plunges into a ringing silence, broken only by the howling of the Catastrophe outside. The rage in the air drops to nothing.

Viktor falls to his knees, his hands hovering over his bleeding partner.

"Lucas?!" Viktor gasps, his voice fracturing into a wheeze. He scrambles closer, hands gripping the fabric of his friend's blood-soaked cloak. "Lucas?! Lucas?!"

Mom… Dr. Kal'tsit… Dr. Warfarin… Miss Lena… Miss Sussurro… Hibiscus…

I stare at the blood pooling into the dusty stone, shaking under my Rhodes Island jacket.

I need to be brave. I need to be brave.

People are dying right in front of me.

I wear the black and white Medic cross strapped to my thigh. We save them.

We do not leave people to bleed out in the dark, no matter who they are or what they've done.

We are Rhodes Island.

"Mom… watch me," I whisper, drawing on the memory of her honey sweetness to steady my spine.

The ice in my veins shatters. I grip the black shaft of my Arts Unit with both hands, and the liquid suspended within the matte black halos hums to life.

I spin around, my voice slicing through the cavern.

"Miss Adele! Mint! Keep Miss Susie stable!" I command, projecting the uncompromising authority I learned from watching Dr. Kal'tsit. Miss Susie is still shivering against the metal crates, the static of her misfiring Arts volatile in the enclosed space. Mint snaps to attention, dropping her book and grabbing Miss Susie's hands to ground her. Miss Adele nods and comforts the two of them.

I turn back to the bleeding men. "Podenco! Lisa!" I shout over the muffled howling of the Catastrophe outside. "You two know healing Arts! Try to stabilize Lucas! His empathic channel is still there! He's still with us!"

Podenco doesn't hesitate. She scrambles across the dirt, ripping sterile bandages and coagulant vials from her logistics pack. Lisa drops to her knees beside her, the glow of her Foxfire lighting the cave as she casts her Arts over the wound, trying to knit the torn flesh and stall the bleeding.

With Lucas in their hands, I turn to the other casualty — the one whose mind is tearing itself to shreds.

I run to Viktor and drop to my knees on the blood-stained stone beside him. He's unresponsive to the physical world, trapped in a pitch-black abyss of his own guilt and despair.

I throw the channels open and press my hands against the shaft of my staff, letting the artificial data swirling in the liquid act as my mental shield, taking the brunt of the Oripathy's burn. Then I reach into his shattered mind.

I plunge into the ocean of his trauma, wrapping my empathic Arts around the splintered edges of his sanity. I refuse to let the darkness swallow him.

"Viktor," I project my voice, speaking not into the damp cavern but into the freezing void of his consciousness. I pour every bit of my resolve into the tether. "Viktor, you have to come back to us."

I swallow the acidic tang of his panic, and in return I project caramelized sugar and warm vanilla — roasted marshmallow. I push that domestic safety into the abyss of his mind and hope he holds onto it.

But as I pour my energy into stabilizing him, I feel it.

A tether snaps. The ember of emotion that had been struggling against the dark moments ago goes out. Where a living person used to be, there's now… emptiness.

I keep my hands on my staff to maintain Viktor's baseline, but I turn my head.

In the shadows near the crates, Miss Adele stands tall, her arms wrapped around Mint to shield her from the sight, while Mint keeps stroking Miss Susie's shoulders to hold her steady.

But on the blood-stained stone, the struggle hasn't stopped.

Lisa's Foxfire still lights the cavern. Podenco leans over Lucas's still frame, her knees pressed into the dusty floor. Her gloves and the sleeves of her teal jacket are soaked dark crimson. She presses a fresh roll of sterile gauze against the wound, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Podenco… Lisa…" I whisper. "It… is… okay."

But Podenco doesn't hear me. Her yuzu is drowned under the metallic tang of blood. "If I just stabilize this wound," she stammers, her voice cracking as she presses harder against the unmoving chest. She scrambles for another coagulant vial. "I just need to… if the bleeding just stops…"

The Foxfire flickers and dies, plunging that corner of the cave back into shadow.

Lisa stops. Her hands drop to her sides. She looks at Lucas's vacant face, takes a shuddering breath, her eyes shimmering with tears. She reaches out, her hand wrapping around Podenco's blood-soaked wrist.

Podenco freezes. She looks at Lisa's hand holding hers, then lowers her eyes to the stillness of the man beneath her. The quiet in the cave settles over all of us, drowning out the roar of the Catastrophe outside.

The silence becomes physical.

The roar of the Catastrophe eventually begins to thin. The trembling of the cavern walls slows to a stop.

I pull my empathic tether back, my fingers trembling as I loosen my grip on the black shaft of my Arts Unit. The liquid suspended swirls sluggishly. I look down at Viktor. He's alive, but the panic has burned itself out. He sits slumped against the stone, staring at the blood-stained dirt — a hollow shell emptied of everything but the gravity of his loss.

Miss Adele steps into the center of the cavern. Her hearth is banked low, buried under its own ashes.

"We need to move out," Miss Adele instructs. She looks toward the tunnel leading back to the surface. "If the rest of the restorationist rebels realize the storm has passed, they will send patrols to check on this supply cache and their scouts. We can't be here when they arrive."

Nobody argues. Mint gathers our scattered equipment, keeping a wide berth from the tragedy on the floor.

We emerge from the cave into the biting air. The sky is a bruised canvas of unnatural purples and sickly yellows, but the danger has passed. The wind whips across the land.

But the cold wind isn't the worst part. It's the blood.

Podenco's teal jacket and Lisa's skirt are stained with drying crimson. My own clothes carry the metallic smears of the cavern floor. Miss Susie doesn't hesitate. Her toasted sugar pushes through her own lingering fear as she pulls fresh water from our logistics packs and gathers clean cloths.

We strip our ruined outer layers off in the wind. I shiver, my bare arms prickling as Miss Susie washes the copper-scented stains from my skin. She works with a quiet care, wiping away the residue of the violence before wrapping us in crinkling silver thermal blankets.

Lisa, Podenco, and I huddle together on a dry patch of grass. We pull the reflective blankets up to our chins, pressing our shoulders together to share whatever body heat we have left. Lisa stares at her knees, her nine tails tucked out of sight beneath the silver foil. Podenco sits rigidly beside her. I lean my head against Lisa's shoulder.

"Look…" Mint says, her voice unsteady, pointing out across the plains.

I lift my head from Lisa's shoulder. In the far distance, beneath the bruised sky, the silhouette of the mobile city sits on the horizon. The main cluster of the Porte-Léon's plates has detached and driven away, leaving an empty scar in the earth where they once stood.

But one plate didn't make it.

It's stranded, immobilized in the dead center of the Catastrophe's path. I stare at the devastation. Clusters of pitch-black Originium crystals have erupted out of the earth, piercing through the armored steel underbelly of the nomadic plate and jutting into the sky. The Victorian buildings on the surface have been impaled, their architecture shattered and crowned with pulsing black crystal.

Thousands of people were on that plate. They could have gotten away in time, if the ones in charge hadn't been too proud to listen.

Miss Adele steps up to the edge of the ridge, a few paces from where we're huddled. She stands there, the wind whipping her hair around her curling horns.

The warmth of her hearth fire is gone, replaced by cracked stone and ash. My own chest aches with it.

"Why must our world be filled with strife?" Miss Adele asks the freezing air.

The question drifts over the ridge, delicate and shattering. I pull the thermal blanket tighter around me. I look at the dead plate in the distance, impaled by the earth it tried to outrun, and then back at the dark mouth of the cave where a man sits broken beside his friend. Nobody answers her.

The crunch of footsteps against the grass breaks the mourning silence. Miss Susie and Mint hurry toward us from the edge of the river, their arms laden with freshly washed and dried clothing.

"Here. Dress up before you catch a cold," Miss Susie urges softly.

"Thank you…" I whisper, my voice a fractured cloud of mist.

We dress. I shrug off the thermal blanket and pull my layers back on.

As we finish, Podenco stops. She drops her hands from her collar, her ears swiveling toward the obscured horizon, and strains to listen, her brow furrowing.

"Is… is that a combustion engine?" Podenco asks, her voice dropping to a hush.

I listen hard, but I can't hear it.

"We should get moving, everyone," Lisa says. She pulls her bag against her hip, her tails tucking around her legs.

"Right. Let's," Podenco replies, reaching down to grab her reinforced terrarium.

But Mint doesn't move. Her eyes dart toward the yawning entrance of the cavern we had left.

"What about Viktor? He's been in there for a few hours now," Mint asks.

The momentum of our group stalls.

We tried to move him. None of us has the strength to drag him out.

Mint looks between the adults, her mint leaf sharp with hope. "An engine, that's Victorian patrols, no?" She looks around, her voice pitching up. "If they find him… he will be safe, right?"

Miss Adele closes her eyes. She reaches out, gently but firmly taking Mint by the arm.

"We can't stay to find out, Mint. We have to go. Now."

The hum of the combustion engine Podenco had heard earlier never materialized for us. We didn't wait around to find out who it belonged to. We kept moving, putting as much distance between ourselves, the hidden Gaulish supply cache, and the blood-stained floor of the cavern as our legs could manage.

After about half an hour, the cave is far behind us.

We walk slowly but purposefully across the devastated plains. The Catastrophe has transformed the landscape. The rolling grass we trekked through yesterday is gone, replaced by scarred earth, trenches, and smoking shards of black Originium jutting from the soil. I keep my head down, stepping over the debris.

A few paces ahead of me, Lisa holds her communicator high in the air, turning as she searches for a connection. Her tails droop.

"Any signals?" I ask.

Lisa lowers the device with a frustrated sigh. Her crystallized sugar has gone damp and muted. She shakes her head. "No," she says, her voice tinged with worry. "The Catastrophe must have moved closer to the landship's holding pattern. Messages are unsent."

We're cut off — just six of us wandering the scarred plains without a tether to home.

Beside Miss Adele, Mint adjusts her Arts Unit's calibration. The panicked static that had consumed her in the cave is beginning to recede, and her mint leaf is blooming again.

"Miss Eyjafjalla," Mint asks, her eyes scanning the clouds still clinging to the horizon. "How long does a Catastrophe like that last? It felt like it tore the sky apart for hours, but the epicenter shifted so abruptly."

Miss Adele adjusts her own staff, her focus following Mint's to the bruised horizon.

"It varies depending on the region and the geological makeup, Mint," Miss Adele explains. "But generally speaking, Catastrophic storm cells are attracted to dense clusters of active Originium shards in the earth. They act almost like a magnet. The storm feeds on the localized atmospheric pressure, drawing energy from the ground to sustain its rotations."

She points toward the scarred plains stretching out before us. "However, they are inherently unstable," Miss Adele continues. "Once the storm consumes the immediate ambient energy and begins to move across the terrain, it loses its anchor. Without that localized pressure to feed on, the storm cells lose their structural integrity and dissipate quickly. That is why the tremors and the worst of the destruction are confined to a specific window before the storm breaks itself apart."

Miss Adele keeps discussing geology with Mint. They have somehow drifted into Leithanian geography.

"The Winterwisp Mountains form a treacherous natural barrier in the northern territories," Miss Adele explains. "The atmospheric Originium density around the peaks creates localized weather anomalies. It's why navigating those passes requires specialized Catastrophe Messengers."

Mint nods furiously, her notebook already out, her pen scratching against the paper. "So the mountain range effectively isolates the valleys behind it! That explains the cultural divergence in the northern settlements!"

I watch them, my tail giving a slow sway. Everything is back to normal now.

"Miss Susie?" Podenco pops up next to her, matching her stride. She tilts her head, her eyes locking onto the glass dome and the scissor-like drones resting at the crest of Miss Susie's technical staff. "How do your drones work?" she asks, her curiosity overriding her usual botanical focus.

Miss Susie blinks and lifts her staff. "Well, I use my Arts to control them," she explains softly. "They act as remote channels for my Arts. So they can go as far as my eyes can see."

Podenco bubbles with a tactical realization. "So if we can see a target… you can hit it, technically?"

"Technically, yes," Miss Susie nods, though a sheepish smile touches her lips. "But I'm still learning how to control my Arts properly. They can be a little… volatile. Rhodes Island is helping me a lot, though! There are so many brilliant Casters here who have been giving me pointers."

"Now that I think about it," Lisa chimes in, stepping up beside me. "Lethe, Podenco, and I are classified as Supporters in the Rhodes Island system. But Miss Susie, Mint, and Miss Eyja are Casters."

Lisa taps her chin, looking at the different focal units we're all carrying. "Even though we all use Arts Units… Podenco and I both know how to cast basic Arts projectiles to attack, too."

My sneakers come to a dead halt against the grass.

I look at Podenco, who taps the glowing magenta focal point of her staff. Then I look at Lisa, remembering the glow of her Foxfire that she can use to slow down enemies.

I look down at my own black staff. My Arts are empathic. I can siphon pain, and I can push sleepy emotions into people's minds — but shooting a physical projectile of energy?

"Wait…" My voice pitches up. I look between my two best friends, my eyes blowing wide. "I'm the only one who doesn't know how to do that?!"

The realization hits me. If a wild sandbeast charges us, Podenco can throw a vial of neurotoxins, Lisa can cast a Foxfire, and Miss Susie can deploy remote-controlled explosive drones. Miss Adele can summon volcanic Arts. And I'm just going to be standing there, projecting feelings of calmness at a hungry monster.

"I don't either!" Mint stops her note-taking and drops back to join our circle, her face flushed with panicked solidarity, abandoning her geological debate.

"I don't know how to cast projectiles!" Mint confesses. "I only know how to manipulate wind with my Arts! If something attacks, I just… I just make the air pull them in a circle!"

I exhale, my shoulders slumping in relief. I'm not the only one. Grabbing Mint's sleeve, I say, "We'll just have to stand behind Miss Susie and Miss Adele," and give her a solemn nod.

Miss Adele shakes with a giggle that floats back to us. "Don't worry, you two. We have more than enough Casters to keep our team safe."

"I'll just hide behind Lisa then," I declare, puffing my chest out as if I have formulated the greatest tactical maneuver in the history of Rhodes Island. I step sideways, tucking myself behind Lisa and gripping the edges of her sleeves like a shield.

Lisa's nine tails fan out, swaying in a protective rhythm. Across from us, Podenco rests her hands on her hips.

"Just don't fall asleep in her tails while we fight, Miss Sarkaz Royalty," Podenco teases, a knowing smirk stretching across her face.

"I won't!" I yelp, my tail snapping into a defensive thump against the grass.

The flustered panic on my face is the breaking point. Podenco bursts into a ringing laugh. Lisa's musical giggle carries through the cold air, and even Miss Adele and Miss Susie join in with soft chuckles. The shadow of the hidden rebel cache and the bleeding men is pushed back, replaced by the warmth of my friends.

As we continue our trek, the sky above the plains begins to bruise. The afternoon blue melts into velvet indigo, and the sun sets below the rolling hills, casting long shadows across the grass. We halt near a rare sturdy grove of trees, dropping our bags as we decide where to camp for the night.

I set my black Arts Unit against a tree trunk and look around for a headcount. Podenco is already unrolling the tent canvas. Lisa is clearing the ground of rocks. Miss Adele and Miss Susie are discussing the wind direction for the campfire.

I sigh. Mint has wandered off again.

I turn, scanning the darkening horizon. A few paces away, outside our perimeter, a familiar figure crouches in the dirt. Mint has her face pressed against a fissure in the ground, her flashlight illuminating the cracked earth.

"…the limestone dissolution here is incredible," Mint is mumbling to herself, her pen scratching furiously in her notebook, oblivious to the setting sun. "This indicates a massive subterranean watershed. An entire underground river and interconnected cave systems beneath this specific county…"

I march over and grab the collar of her jacket, gently but firmly, dragging her back toward the group before she plummets into the very underground river she is documenting.

Back at the center of camp, Miss Susie kneels beside our logistics crates. She shifts a few silver-foiled packages around, her ears folding down in dismay.

"We might need to go to a town to resupply soon," Miss Susie announces, looking up from the dwindling contents of the box. She holds up a dehydrated packet. "Unless you guys want to eat instant mashed potatoes and instant ramen for the rest of the trip. Porte-Léon is too far by now."

I swallow, my hands gripping the fabric of my jacket. "Dr. Kal'tsit is going to feed us all to Mon3tr if we do that." A cold shiver traces down my spine that has nothing to do with the wind.

Miss Adele pulls out her slate.

The screen casts cool blue light across her face, pushing back the orange shadows of our campfire. She scrolls through the topographical maps, her eyes scanning the elevation lines and sector boundaries with practiced focus.

"Well," Miss Adele announces, her voice floating over the crackling flames. She taps a coordinate on the screen. "There's a small town, Val-de-Lis, about a day's walk northeast from where we're camped. If we alter our trajectory slightly, we can head that way tomorrow to restock."

Across the fire, Miss Susie sighs in relief. She holds a silver-foiled packet of instant mashed potatoes, tearing the top open with a crinkling rip. A puff of starchy dust escapes into the cold air as she dumps the contents into the boiling water of our heavy-duty pot.

"That sounds great." Miss Susie's tail sways as she stirs the thick mixture.

Miss Adele lowers her slate, her expression shifting into a calculated focus. "It's also the safest route," she explains, looking around our small circle. "Heading northeast means we can pivot away from the active Originium fields left behind by the Catastrophe."

She gestures toward the dark horizon, her warmth banking into something protective. "Those zones are not only environmentally volatile, but the armies usually move in fast to secure those fields for state mining operations. We don't want to cross paths with an imperial military patrol out here."

But not everyone in camp shares our relief.

"Aww," Podenco whines. I turn my head. She sits cross-legged on her sleeping mat, her ears drooping against her light blonde hair.

"But the active fields are exactly where the ecosystem gets interesting!" Podenco protests, gesturing with a small glass vial. "The high Originium density usually attracts wild Originium slugs. The ones out here in the Victorian plains have vibrant, unique shell patterns due to the specific mineral composition of the soil!"

She leans forward, pointing in my direction. "I was really hoping to catch one to show Lethe! She has never even seen a slug yet!"

I stare at her, my eyes blowing wide in horror, and pull my knees to my chest, burying the lower half of my face in my scarf, ignoring the fact that she considers this a missed educational opportunity.

"I…" I mumble through the fabric of the scarf, my tail wrapping into a coil around my ankles. "I think I'll pass on ever seeing a slug if I can help it."

The wind howls against the canvas of our tent, but inside, it's warm. We had finished the last scraps of our mashed potatoes and cleared the pot from the dying embers of the campfire. Now, tucked into our sleeping bags, the dread of the day has melted away into a drowsy quiet.

I lie on my side, facing Lisa's soft hair.

"Why did you guys join Rhodes Island?"

The hushed whisper breaks the silence. I blink, lifting my head from my pillow. Across the small space of the tent, Mint is propped up on one elbow, her ears twitching. "If you don't mind answering, that is," she adds quickly, pulling her blanket up to her chin.

"For my story," Mint continues, filling the space before any of us can answer. "I got accidentally infected during a field study. It was terrifying… but then Skyfire found out. She pointed me to Rhodes Island to receive treatment. She told me it was the only place that would actually look after me while letting me continue my research."

Fabric rustles on the sleeping mat beside me. Lisa shifts.

"Well, I'm about the same," Lisa says, her voice gentle. "I got infected during a trip to Siracusa. It was really scary, and my family didn't know what to do to keep me safe. So, my mom entrusted me with Rhodes Island when I was about eleven." She offers a grateful smile into the dim light. "They've taken care of me ever since."

"For me, it was a bit different," Podenco pipes up from the far side of the tent. She rests her hands behind her head, staring up at the canvas ceiling. "I wasn't looking for a hospital. I was just traveling across Terra, trying to find rare seeds and learn about different soils. Trying to find a purpose. Then, I literally ran into Miss Lena."

Podenco chuckles. "She took one look at my botanical notes, saw how much I cared about cultivating plants, and she pretty much hired me on the spot. I've been helping her in the garden ever since."

The tent falls quiet again. Three pairs of eyes shift toward me.

I look at the tent flaps.

I don't have a Siracusa to remember, and I don't have a university field study to miss. My entire existence is curated inside the My Life folder on my digital slate.

I look up at the three girls sharing this tent with me.

"Well," I offer them a small smile. "You guys all know my story. My Oripathy burned away everything before I woke up. I don't have a grand journey or a family that sent me here." I pull my blanket tighter around my shoulders. "I'm just a permanent fixture as far as my memory is concerned."

Lisa shuffles closer, her tails brushing against my sleeping bag, and squeezes my hand.

"Oh, Lethe," Lisa says. "You're definitely the best permanent fixture Rhodes Island could ever ask for."

Before I can stammer out a proper thank you, an amused carbonated fizz bubbles through the air from the other side of the tent.

"And," Podenco adds. "Definitely the easiest to tease, too."

My head snaps up. The teary-eyed warmth evaporates. I drop Lisa's hand and pull my arms out of my sleeping bag.

"Hey!" I yelp, my tail giving an indignant thump against the sleeping mat. "I'm not easy to tease! You guys just gang up on me!"

Lisa slaps both hands over her mouth as a ringing giggle escapes into the tent. Mint fails to hide her own laughter, burying her face in her blanket to muffle her snorts. Even Podenco laughs out loud, unrepentant.

The giggles inside the tent settle into a comfortable, sleepy silence.

"Good night, everyone," Lisa whispers, her voice fading into the dark.

"Good night," I murmur back.

The night marches on. When the clock on my slate dictates the shift change, I slip out of the tent alongside Mint. As usual, the final watch of the night belongs to us. The wind of the night plains bites at my cheeks, but I bury the lower half of my face in my woolen scarf and take my seat on the collapsible folding chair.

I rest the black shaft of my Arts Unit across my lap.

My job for the next few hours is simple, yet critical: I have to stare directly at Mint. I keep my eyes on her, making sure she doesn't wander off into the dark to make friends with a wild Originium slug or walk off a ravine to inspect a fascinating patch of dirt. Mint is vibrating with suppressed academic energy, her flashlight sweeping over the rocky ridges, but she stays within the camp's perimeter.

Eventually, the sky shifts into a vibrant dawn. The camp begins to stir, the rustle of zippers and canvas filling the air as Miss Susie, Miss Adele, Podenco, and Lisa emerge from their tents to greet the crisp morning.

Breakfast is a utilitarian affair. We huddle around the portable thermal burner, pouring boiling water into our leftover silver-foiled pouches of instant oats and stirring steaming cups of powdered cocoa. I sit on my chair, poking at the gelatinous texture of my breakfast.

"Oats without milk sure doesn't taste as good," I mumble into my scarf, letting out a pathetic sigh as I force a sticky spoonful into my mouth.

Miss Susie laughs. She zips up her supply bag and gives it a pat.

"Well, all the more reason for us to reach the town today," Miss Susie smiles, her eyes sparkling. "I'm sure they'll have proper milk and fresh bread waiting for us."

"Hopefully so." We finish our breakfast in relative quiet as we focus on the upcoming trek.

After breakfast, we pack up the remaining camping gear, collapsing the tents and securing the thermal blankets back into our bags. With the fire extinguished and the campsite cleared, we begin our trek once more across the plains.

The trip has been mercifully peaceful. The hills stretch out under an overcast grey sky, the cool wind whipping. Up ahead, Podenco is in her element, darting off the dirt path to take botanical samples of the wild brush. Mint matches her chaotic energy on the opposite side of the road, her eyes scanning the ground as she collects geological samples and mutters to Miss Adele about rock compositions.

While the researchers indulge in their fieldwork, Lisa walks close beside me. She wears her optimistic smile, but her tails sway in a slow, calculated rhythm, her eyes sweeping the perimeter.

We follow the rutted dirt road for a few hours until the landscape levels out. A town comes into view, nestled amidst the rolling greenery.

I stop, my eyes taking in the rustic settlement of Val-de-Lis. It looks like a painting pulled straight from the Archives. Houses built from pale stone and stucco line the dirt path, their pitched roofs topped with brick chimneys. Golden hay bales are stacked near wooden fences, and green hedges border the front doors — a pastoral haven resting untouched under the dreary clouds.

But before we reach the edge of the town, Lisa and Podenco go on alert.

Podenco stops mid-stride, her yuzu souring into an acidic spike of apprehension. Beside me, Lisa's tails fan out into a defensive posture, her crystallized sugar chilling into brittle ice.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

Lisa doesn't take her eyes off the rustic stone houses.

"It's just too quiet." Lisa's voice is tight, stripped of its usual chime.

Podenco stares at the brick chimneys jutting into the overcast sky.

"It's dinner time right now," Podenco adds, her tone dropping into a grave whisper. "But… it's just quiet."

I look back at the town. She's right. No smoke rises from the chimneys. There's no overlapping chatter of families, no barking dogs, no clatter of plates, no scent of cooking fires bleeding into the air. It's an intact settlement, but it's dead.

"Let's be careful," Miss Adele orders.

She raises a hand, signaling for us to stop at the edge of the dirt path leading into the town.

I stare down the empty street. The stone houses and stacked hay bales look pristine, but the silence is an unnatural void.

Then, the void begins to sing.

As we take a cautious step forward, a melody drifts through the overcast sky — quiet, a mournful arrangement that sounds like a solitary cello weeping, synchronized with a hollow woodwind. But it doesn't sound like music playing from a distant radio or a town square speaker. The notes feel like they're bleeding out of the stone walls and the damp earth.

The air itself is vibrating. The melancholic tempo hums against my skin, rattling my teeth, making the liquid of my staff ripple and dance in an agitated rhythm.

"Do you hear that?" I ask.

No answer. The crunch of shoes against the dirt path has ceased. The wind whistling through the hedges is the only noise besides the vibrating cello.

"Everyone?" I ask, my heart giving a flutter. I turn my head around.

Thud.

Mint collapses onto the ground. She doesn't trip, and she doesn't try to catch herself. Her knees evaporate beneath her, and she hits the dirt like a cut marionette, her geology book tumbling from her slack fingers.

"Mint!" I gasp, pivoting.

But as my eyes sweep over the rest of the group, terror paralyzes my lungs. Podenco and Lisa are not moving. They are standing there, arms limp at their sides, eyes blown wide and glazed over. Lisa's tails have dropped dead against the dirt, and Podenco's energetic posture is locked into a stare.

A few paces away, Miss Susie sinks to the ground. She pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs in a trembling ball. Sparks of pink static arc off the tips of her hair, out of control, but she makes no sound.

"Podenco? Miss Susie? Lisa?!" I cry out, my voice cracking in the vibrating air.

Only Miss Adele is still moving, and barely. She leans against her dark staff, knuckles bone-white, shaking her head as she fights whatever is trying to drag her under. Her chest heaves with shallow gasps, her eyes squeezing shut in agony.

"Lethe…" Miss Adele chokes out. Her voice is a fractured wheeze, barely cutting through the weeping melody of the air. "…it is… musical Arts…"

And then, the psychic dam breaks.

My Arts, which had been passively brushing against the silent town, are impaled. The nightmare of my friends hits me like a tidal wave.

It's a toxic sludge. From Mint, the weight of collapsing stone, thick with stale dust and the terror of being buried alive in the dark. From Podenco and Lisa, a rotting flavor floods my senses — dying flowers, burning ash, and the sticky sugar of helplessness from blood-soaked streets.

From Miss Susie, the flavor is acidic — the metallic tang of scorched ozone and the electrocuting panic of losing control of her own body and hurting the people she loves. And from Miss Adele, a pitch-black void bleeds into me: volcanic ash and the dread of sensory death, of losing her sight and her hearing to the black crystals.

My stomach heaves. The venom of the nightmares burns the back of my throat like battery acid. I squeeze my eyes shut, letting out a ragged scream as I drop to my knees in the dirt, pressing my Arts Unit flush against my chest, relying on the artificial data swirling inside the halos to shield my own mind from being incinerated by their terror.

We walked straight into a trap.

I want to throw up. And I do.

The toxicity of their combined hells is too much for my body to hold. I lurch forward, my knees digging into the dirt, and empty my stomach onto the grass. I sit there, my chest heaving with wet gasps as my body purges. The weeping melody of the cello keeps vibrating against my teeth, indifferent.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve and look up through tear-blurred vision at Lisa's blank stare, Podenco's paralysis, Mint's collapsed form, and Miss Susie's sparking silhouette. A few paces away, Miss Adele sinks into the dirt.

I need to drag them out.

"Think, Lethe. Think!" I scream, the sound tearing from my throat. It echoes uselessly against the music of the town.

I can't do offensive Arts. But I'm a Djall. I should be a master of emotions.

"No one controls my friends!" I yell out.

I don't need to siphon this venom. I need to override it.

I squeeze my eyes shut and lock down the empathic tether pulling their nightmares into my lungs. Instead, I dig deep inside myself, reaching into my memories for my pillars — the few things I hold onto the tightest.

I grab the honey of mom's unconditional love. I weave it together with the cool river stones and starlit ozone of Rosmontis. I drag up the fire and machine-grease bravery of Ms. Blaze's grin. And finally, to cut through the fog of the illusion, I summon the bite of Miss Sussurro's unsweetened dark chocolate and pitch-black coffee.

I blend it all together into a concentrated beacon of safety, clinical focus, and fierce survival.

I grip the dark shaft of my staff with both hands and throw the invisible doors of my mind open.

"WAKE UP!" I command.

I push. I shove the cocktail of my anchors outward, forcing the fire, the stone, the coffee, and the honey into the minds of the team. Every bit of willpower I possess goes into projecting the emotional tether like a sledgehammer to shatter the musical Arts suffocating their senses.

I hold the projection, feeling the honey, the stone, and the bitter coffee collide with the weeping melody of the abandoned town. For a fleeting second, I think it works. Mint's shoulders twitch. Podenco lets out a gasp.

But just as I steady myself, the atmosphere thickens. The hostile melody doesn't break — it harmonizes, turning into a dirge that presses down from every angle.

The psychic backlash hits me like a wall of rusted iron. My knees buckle. My padded sneakers slip against the dirt, and I hit the ground hard, the shock shattering my concentration. My fingers slip on the black shaft of my Arts Unit, and the liquid sputters, its mechanical hum drowned out by the music ringing in my skull.

An ethereal light blooms across the desolate street, washing over the dirt road and the shadowed buildings.

It's Foxfire. But it doesn't carry the crystallized-sugar warmth of my best friend. It tastes brittle, damp, and terrified, laced with the acidic bite of panic.

I look up. Lisa stands in the center of the glow, her tails fanned out to their maximum, radiating Originium energy. But her eyes are vacant.

"Please… don't move…" Her voice echoes in the eerie light. She raises her hands, projecting her Arts outward in an indiscriminate dome. "It's for your own good… the Gramophones are nearby."

Gramophones? What? The word means nothing to me, but the terror attached to it makes my blood run cold.

The moment her Foxfire washes over me, the air turns to freezing molasses. My limbs feel as though they're encased in liquid lead. Every movement requires a monumental effort.

"Lisa!" I gasp, my voice barely a wheeze against the weight of her Foxfire. I try to push myself up, but my arms tremble and give out. I can't stand.

I refuse to let her drown in this. If I can't walk, I'll crawl. I drag my leaden body across the dirt, my fingers gripping the black shaft of my Arts Unit, refusing to leave my shield behind. Every crawl feels like moving through wet concrete.

"Lisa! Lisa! Please!" I wheeze, my chest heaving with shallow breaths.

I close the distance until I'm at her feet. "Lisa!" I cry out, reaching up with an exhausted hand to press my palm against her shin.

The second my skin makes contact, the floodgates shatter.

It tastes of flames, ash, and the metallic tang of innocent blood spilling over cobblestones. I feel the helplessness of watching the people you're trying to save turn around and slaughter each other, the flashes of rioters blowing themselves up in the streets, spreading fire and infection to spite their neighbors. It's a town tearing itself apart from the inside out, fueled by a hatred so venomous it consumes the Medics trying to drag the wounded from the crossfire.

My stomach heaves again. Her memories burn the back of my throat. I'm drowning in the nightmare that shattered her, feeling every bit of the terror she's feeling.

My vision swirls. The damp dirt of the abandoned Victorian street dissolves, tearing away like wet paper.

Then, when I open my eyes again, the Victorian town is gone.

The air that hits my lungs is no longer cold. It's hot, thick with a smog that tastes of pulverized concrete and charred flesh. I'm inside a burning town. All around me, towering stone architecture crumbles under the weight of orange flames and billowing plumes of pitch-black smoke.

I'm kneeling on blood-stained cobblestones. Standing in front of me is a tall Feline woman, her dark brown hair whipping in the ash-choked wind. She wears a crisp white Rhodes Island medical coat, but strapped to her back and sides are intimidating mechanical rigs — blocky white machinery that looks far more like artillery than medical equipment.

Is that… Dr. Folinic? Her face matches a profile in my My Life folder: fierce and strict, marching through the medical wards back home, her presence noted as medicinal alcohol and uncompromising lethality. But here, in this nightmare, she radiates a need to protect.

I look past her, through the curtains of smoke and the raining embers.

Looming outside, dominating the shattered plaza, is a greyish mechanical tower — a geometric obelisk that tapers upward, floating above a circular pedestal. It moves up and down with a low, grinding hum, defying gravity.

I feel sluggish. The Foxfire is still trying to bind my limbs.

"Lisa! Lisa! Please!" I scream, but the sound is swallowed by the roaring flames of the hallucination.

I can't let her stay trapped in this ash-choked war zone. Forcing my leaden arms to move, I drag myself forward, my knees scraping against the cobblestones.

"Lisa!" I cry out again, throwing my hand forward to touch her, trying to focus past the weeping music in reality and the burning sky in the phantom vision.

I close my eyes against the flames. I need to override this nightmare.

I gather every anchor, every memory I have saved of my best friend. I think of the bright smile that chased away the dark of my dorm. I think of the warmth of her tails wrapping around me like a shield. I recall the crystallized sugar that floods the Convalescent Garden whenever she walks down the path.

I take all of it — every laugh, every shared pastry, every promise we made — and push it outward, forcing the wave of crystallized sugar through our empathic tether, drowning out the melody playing in her mind.

"Please! Lisa!" I scream, my voice tearing raw from my throat.

I hold onto her for what feels like an eternity, pressing my forehead against her, pouring the domestic safety of Rhodes Island into the freezing abyss of her nightmare. The clash of emotions is agonizing. The acidic bite of her panic fights against the sugar, but I don't let go. I hold her tighter, anchoring her to the present.

Slowly, the gravity pressing down on my shoulders begins to fracture. The ethereal glow of the Foxfire illuminating the desolate street sputters. The phantom vision of the burning ruins loses its grip, the eerie light dimming until it dies out, returning us to the overcast sky.

The weight lifts. I gasp, my lungs finally able to draw a full breath.

The defensive tension in Lisa's frame shatters. Her arms drop to her sides. She takes a ragged gasp of the cold air, blinking as the vacant terror drains from her eyes.

"Lisa?" My voice comes out a tiny cloud of mist.

She looks down at me, her blue eyes wide and disoriented. The brittleness in her begins to thaw, the familiar sweetness blooming back.

"Le… Lethe… Lethe?" she stammers, her voice cracking and breathy.

I don't hesitate. Scrambling up from the dirt, I throw my arms around her neck and pull her into a desperate hug.

"Lisa! Thank Terra you're okay!" I sob, burying my face in her shoulder as the tears finally spill over my lashes.

Lisa raises her arms weakly, wrapping them around my back to return the embrace. She leans her chin against my shoulder, her breathing still shallow and uneven. She turns her head, her eyes scanning the rolling grass hills and the rocky outcrops.

"We are…" Lisa breathes out, her voice thick with exhaustion and dawning relief. She looks around, the nightmare banished. "Oh… we are still in Victoria…"

The relief of holding my best friend is short-lived. I keep my arms wrapped around Lisa, my cheek pressed to her shoulder, but before we can catch our breath, a crack echoes through the abandoned street.

The windows of the nearby stone houses shatter outward. Glass rains down on the dirt paths, propelled by an uncontrolled surge of static.

Lisa gasps, her frame jolting against mine, her tails puffing up in instinctual alarm. She looks past my shoulder, her eyes widening in terror.

"Miss Susie?!" Lisa cries out. She sways, bringing a hand up to her head. "Uh… the music… Lethe… it's still in my head…"

I tighten my grip on her shoulders, forcing her to look at me.

"Stay with me, Lisa," I plead, pitching my voice as steady and anchoring as I can. "Can you cast Foxfire to calm them? I need to get close to Miss Susie, but the electricity is too strong."

Lisa swallows hard, her lower lip trembling. She looks at the sparks arcing through the air a few paces away. "I… I will try," she says, her voice a breathy chime. "It's so hard to focus…"

She grips her staff with both hands. For a second she wobbles on her feet, the weight of the musical Arts pressing against her shoulders. Then a spark of bravery flashes in her eyes, and she digs her heels into the dirt, planting herself like an anchor against the storm.

The ethereal light blooms once more.

But this time it's different. The Foxfire envelops us in a radiant glow. The air sweetens, washing away the metallic tang of fear with crystallized sugar. It's protective — a warm dome that pushes back the haunting music from the Victorian town, carving out a safe haven in the middle of the nightmare.

"Thank you, Lisa," I look back at her, the warmth of her Arts seeping into my bones.

I turn around and go to Miss Susie first.

She's huddled near the base of a low stone wall. The volume of static whipping off her is almost unbearable. Sparks arc from her oversized sweater, snapping against the stones and crackling through the dusty air. The smell of scorched ozone burns the inside of my nose with every breath.

I grip my Arts Unit with both hands, take a deep breath, lower my head, and step into the storm of static.

"Please… don't come closer!" Miss Susie gasps, her voice fracturing into a high-pitched sob. She curls tighter into a ball, burying her face in her knees. "I will just hurt you!"

"Miss Susie?" I call out.

She doesn't answer. Her eyes are squeezed shut, blind to the real world. She isn't seeing me at all. She's trapped inside the loop of her own misfiring Arts — drowning in the fear of losing control and hurting the people she loves.

I clench my jaw and push forward into the electrical storm.

It hurts.

Needles of static bite through the fabric of my uniform, stinging my skin and sending jarring shivers up my arms.

I can't stop. I reach out, forcing my hands through the crackling air to grab her shivering shoulders, and close my eyes, trying to project her own warmth and baseline emotions back into her mind.

Before I can establish the empathic tether, a low groan echoes from the dusty street behind me. I turn my head, wincing as a spark snaps against my cheek.

It's Miss Adele. She's pushing herself up from the dirt, leaning on her Arts Unit, her knuckles tight with the effort. The pitch-black void of volcanic ash that had consumed her mind is being beaten back. She forces her eyes open, shaking her head to throw off the phantom nightmares trying to drag her under.

She stumbles, her shoes scraping against the grass, but she catches her balance and reorients herself in the light of Lisa's Foxfire.

"Lisa… Lethe…" Miss Adele breathes out. Her voice is a fractured wheeze, but it carries resilience. She looks at the glowing dome of light, and then at me. "…you two are okay…"

"Miss Eyja!" Lisa calls out, her voice cracking with tearful relief. The glow of her Foxfire pulses brighter.

Miss Adele takes a shuddering breath. Something catches in her again, pushing back the freezing dread. She lifts her head, her eyes locking onto the buildings surrounding us.

"We need to stop the source," Miss Adele commands, her tone dropping into a grave certainty that cuts through the music. "Or the Arts won't stop."

"I will try to reach Mint," Miss Adele says. She forces herself a step away from the safety of Lisa's Foxfire, leaning on her Arts Unit as she wades toward Mint.

I turn my focus back to Miss Susie, huddled against the wall, and drop to my knees on the dirt road to grab her arms.

"Ah!" A jolt of electricity pulses through my hands, shooting up my arms and rattling my teeth. The misfiring Originium Arts burn against my skin, making my muscles spasm. The stench of ozone is thick enough to make my eyes water, and every survival instinct I have screams at me to pull away from the pink static.

But I can't let go. I refuse to.

I clamp my fingers down tighter, gripping the fabric of her sweater.

"Miss Susie! Come back to us!" I cry out.

"Please…" Miss Susie sobs, her eyes still squeezed shut. She tries weakly to twist her arms out of my grasp, her hair flying as she shakes her head.

"Please… stay away… I'm going to hurt you…"

"No! Miss Susie! Open your eyes!" I plead. "It's me, Lethe! And I'm not abandoning you!"

Miss Susie stays silent. She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't open her eyes, either. She just remains curled into a trembling ball. The air is so thick with ozone that I can barely draw a full breath.

"Miss Susie!" I scream, the words tearing out of my throat to cut through the electricity and the weeping melody. "I don't remember how I met you! I don't remember the haircut you had given me!"

A flinch ripples through her frame. Fresh tears leak from beneath her squeezed eyelids, dropping onto her knees.

"But the asymmetrical fringes are the best haircut I had ever had! I see it every morning of the life I still remember!" I cry out, my voice breaking but refusing to waver. I pour my stubborn affection into the empathic tether between us, forcing her own warmth back into her spiraling mind.

I think of the gentle Cautus girl who sits with me in the dark, and borrow her strength for my own plea.

"Amiya told me once," I gasp, forcing the words through the stinging air. "She said that it doesn't matter what the Originium does to our blood. We are not defined by the terrifying powers we inherit, or the destruction they can accidentally cause. We are defined by what we choose to do with them."

I squeeze her arms, ignoring another shock that rattles up my forearms, and lean in, bringing my face as close to hers as the electrical storm will allow.

"And you, Miss Susie, you choose to be a barber for us," I declare, my tears mingling with the dust. "You choose to make people feel beautiful and safe. You are our friend. And there's no way I'm going to abandon you just because of your Arts!"

Slowly, the snapping bite of the static begins to weaken.

The needles of electricity piercing through me dull into a tingling hum. The stench of scorched ozone clears from the damp Victorian air. I keep my grip firm on her sleeves until the sparks dancing across the dirt road sputter and die out.

I can taste the shift on the back of my tongue. The battery acid that had swallowed her mind melts, washing away to leave behind toasted sugar and warm milk.

Miss Susie lets out a long, ragged exhale. The tension locking her spine collapses.

She opens her eyes, blinking through a sheen of tears. She uncurls her legs from her chest, the defensive ball unraveling as she drops her hands from her face. Her fingers tremble as she reaches up, wiping the dampness from her cheeks. She stares at me for a long, quiet second.

Her folded ears give a hesitant twitch.

"Lethe…" Miss Susie says, her voice thick and raspy from crying. The corners of her lips tremble, tugging upward into a watery little smile. "…your hair… looks like a puffball…"

I pause. The relief of seeing her smile collides with a hot, prickly flush of mortification. I let go of her sleeves and bring my free hand up to my head.

She's right. The electrical storm had ravaged the asymmetrical haircut she gave me back in January. Every strand of my woodsmoke-grey hair stands straight up in every direction, crackling with residual static and defying the laws of gravity. I feel like a fuzzy dandelion.

I puff my cheeks out, whining as I try to pat the floating strands flat against my horns. They spring back up the second I lift my palm.

"I… I was trying to save you!" I protest. "You can't make fun of my hair when you're the one who shocked it!"

A breathless giggle escapes Miss Susie's lips. The sound is tiny, vibrating with the aftermath of her panic, but a playful pop of static returns with it.

"I know," Miss Susie breathes out, taking my hands and pulling them away from my ruined hair. Her grip is warm, and grounding. "I will fix it for you, Lethe. I promise."

"Let's retreat for now," Miss Adele says. Her voice is exhausted.

She reaches down, wrapping an arm around Mint's shoulders to help her to her feet. A few paces away, the glow of the Foxfire extinguishes as Lisa wraps an arm around Podenco's waist to support her. They are all shivering, their frames vibrating as their bodies react to the unnatural strain of the hostile Arts that had just tried to hollow them out.

I grip the shaft of my Arts Unit with both hands, holding it out before me like a shield, and step backward, matching their slow retreat pace by pace.

I keep the empathic channel wide open, projecting my curated anchors — the hearth fire, the toasted sugar, the lavender — outward to form a wall between my friends and the weeping melody of the town. Our logistics supplies, the heavy bags, and Podenco's carefully packed terrariums are left behind, abandoned in the dirt and the chaos. Nothing matters except getting them out.

We walk for what feels like an eternity. The weeping notes of the music begin to thin. The weight lifts from the air, fading into a distant, mournful echo of Val-de-Lis before it dies out, leaving only the howling of the wind.

We collapse near an abandoned wooden shack, far beyond the reach of the town. I sink onto the earth, letting my Arts Unit rest across my lap with a shuddering exhale. The tension draining from my muscles leaves me hollowed out.

Miss Susie shuffles over to my side. Her hands are still trembling, but she pulls a small, sturdy comb from the pocket of her styling apron. Without a word, she scoots close and begins to work through the static-charged puffball of my hair. The gentle strokes through my tangled fringe ground both of us in the familiar, rhythmic motion of her salon.

I let out a slow breath, leaning into the pull of the comb, and look across our huddled, shivering circle. My eyes find my tutor.

"Miss Adele…" I ask. "You said musical Arts. What happened?"

Miss Adele takes a shuddering breath and looks for a long moment at the rising twin moons.

"In Leithanien…" Miss Adele begins, her voice weak but laced with academic precision. "Arts are woven into music. Many focal units are crafted directly into instruments." She looks at me, her expression grave, her warmth guttering. "The music manipulates the ambient Originium energy in the air, creating a resonance that bypasses physical defenses. And… it's especially resonant with Casters. Like us. It forces the Originium in our blood to synchronize with the melody."

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound is slow, rhythmic, and devoid of warmth, slicing through the wind of the plains. Each clap echoes with a concussive bass note that forces the air out of my lungs.

"Genau." A word floats out nearby. Leithanian speech? In the Victorian countryside?!

A woman steps out from the pitch-black shadows on the other side of the shack. She's tall, draped in a flowing black cloak that swallows her silhouette, the fabric shifting soundlessly. A featureless white mask obscures her face, devoid of emotion or humanity. Long, pale hair spills from beneath her dark hood, and a pair of curving horns juts upwards into the air. A Caprinae.

The moment my Arts brush against her, my breath stalls in my throat.

What I taste off her is wrong — cultivated. Aged, freezing plum wine laced with crushed glass, and beneath it the high-pitched hum of a tuned piano wire, pulled tight enough to sever bone.

But her taste isn't the only thing wrong. A sickening crescendo follows in her wake. My body goes rigid. My limbs feel impossibly heavy.

I struggle to even turn my head. Behind me, Miss Susie stops mid-combing, strands of my hair still held in her paused hands.

The masked Caster lowers her hands, the leather of her gloves creaking in the cold. Her voice is smooth, echoing from behind the porcelain mask with an aristocratic elegance.

"I thank you all, truly, from the bottom of my heart," she continues, stepping clear of the shack's shadow. She tilts her masked head, her gaze sweeping over our huddled group. "The symphony I had composed for this miserable Victorian town was growing dreadfully dull. The lingering, terrified echoes of its former residents provided such a repetitive, uninspired chorus."

The air vibrates, setting my teeth on edge.

"But you," she murmurs. "The violent, crackling dissonance of the pink Feline's volatile static… the suppressed, boiling tempo of the Caprinae's volcanic heat… it was a crescendo against my composition."

Then the white mask turns, the empty eye-slits locking onto me.

"And you, kleiner Teufel," she states, taking a gliding step forward. "To use emotional anchors as a localized psychic battering ram? To override a perfectly tuned melody with raw, unfiltered emotion? What a breathtaking piece of sheet music you have handed me tonight."

She pauses. "I must thank you for the performance."

"You… you…" Mint's voice trembles. She's leaning against Miss Adele's side, her fingers gripping Miss Adele's coat. "Val-de-Lis… you said it was dull… what happened to the townsfolk?"

She tilts her head. A soft, wistful sigh escapes her lips, drifting through the air with a detached disappointment.

"They provided a serviceable percussion," she murmurs. "But alas, flesh and bone are terribly fragile instruments."

She raises a hand, tracing an invisible conductor's baton through the freezing air. "They broke in the first movement. I had written four."

Beside me, Mint's crisp sweetness flatlines. It doesn't just sour; it drops into a churning abyss of nausea. My own stomach heaves in response, the casual inhumanity of her words settling like a block of ice in my gut.

"How dare you!" I scream, my voice tearing through the freezing air. "How dare you treat humans as mere instruments! They are people with lives! They had families!"

She doesn't flinch. The white mask looks down at me, radiating a quiet, almost pitying calm.

"People with lives," she echoes, the words floating like a distant, melancholic melody. "That is the tragedy of modern Leithanien. Under the Thronräuber, the ones people call the Twin Empresses, everything has become so terribly sanitized. They have traded true symphony for comfortable, quiet mediocrity."

She spreads her arms, embracing the night as if it were a grand, sold-out concert hall. "I am the last true visionary. I am carrying on the legacy of His Majesty, the Witch King. True art moves the very earth. It demands raw notes."

The dark eye-slits of her mask drop. "Aber eine Kleine wie du, whose only instinct is to desperately smother the music, could never possibly understand the weight of a Meisterwerk."

She actually believes she's some kind of genius. That's the last straw, and it shatters the terror gripping my chest.

"You're just like them," I say, my voice trembling before I force it to ring loud and clear. "You are exactly like the empires. You just use people until they break, and you don't even care."

I reach into the dark and gather every bit of the rotting horror I had tasted when her music first hit us. Miss Adele, Miss Susie, Mint, Lisa, Podenco — all their despair.

If she sees my emotions as a crude battering ram, then she's getting another one.

I launch the concentrated sludge of raw suffering at her.

It hits. The piano wire in the air twangs, jarring out of tune. The melody of her Arts wavers, the gravity lifting off our shoulders for a fraction of a second.

But a fraction of a second is all Miss Adele needs.

The instant the musical hold slackens, the dormant hearth fire of Miss Adele detonates into a supervolcano. The earth directly beneath the masked woman erupts. A pillar of superheated rock and roaring fire tears up through the grass, splitting the ground open and swallowing her in a column of thermal destruction.

The shockwave of heat washes over us, forcing me to raise my arms to shield my face.

I lower my arms as the dust and smoke begin to clear, my chest heaving with gasps. We hit her. We broke the song.

But as the smoke drifts away on the wind, the silhouette remains. She's still there.

She stands at the very edge of the glowing, molten crater Miss Adele had torn into the earth. A rippling barrier of Arts had deflected the heat. Her clothing is unblemished, her posture still elegantly poised, as if she had stepped around a puddle in a ballroom.

She looks at the cooling magma, then lifts her featureless white mask back toward me.

"Enttäuschend," she sighs.

The word hangs in the freezing air, dripping with a detached arrogance. She raises a hand, her fingers curling as if preparing to conduct the next movement of her symphony. The piano-wire tension wraps around my throat once more.

I refuse to let her play another note, and push every bit of my will outward, wrapping my friends in a grounding shield of warmth against the melodic dread.

"We are not your instruments!" Lisa cries out. She steps in front of me, her nine tails fanning out to their maximum. A brilliant light explodes from her staff. The masked woman attempts to glide backward, but the Foxfire turns the air into molasses. Her floating steps stutter. The rippling barrier of Arts that had deflected the molten crater strains, flickering before it shatters under the sluggish weight of Lisa's domain.

"Try singing through this!" Podenco yells. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she hurls a specialized glass vial at the masked woman's feet. It shatters against the grassland with a pop. A noxious cloud of vibrant purple spores erupts, engulfing her.

The masked woman recoils. A ragged cough tears through the toxic cloud, her flawless posture collapsing. The piano wire snaps with a discordant screech as her focus is finally broken.

Enraged, she sweeps her arm through the toxic dust. A barrage of jagged, materialized Originium energy shoots out of the smoke, hurtling toward us with lethal intent.

"I won't let you!" Mint screams. She pulls out her wand, and the air between us twists. A localized vortex rips upward from the ground, catching the barrage of Originium projectiles. The wind howls, swirling the deadly notes into a funnel before launching them harmlessly up into the bruising sky.

Before the masked Caprinae can recover, the smell of scorched ozone floods the air. "My turn!" Miss Susie's voice rings out, devoid of her earlier panic. Static crackles off her as she thrusts her technical staff forward. The scissor-like drones detach from her focal unit, darting through the air with mechanical precision.

They dive at the Witch King loyalist in a relentless, synchronized motion, forcing her to abandon her aristocratic grace. She scrambles backward, weaving and ducking as the sparking blades snap millimeters from her face and tear through the pristine fabric of her coat.

She leaps out of the drones' path, landing heavily on a patch of grassy plains just outside the purple spore cloud.

But she dodges exactly where we needed her to.

The masked Caprinae freezes, looking up. Miss Adele's eyes are closed, her Arts Unit suspended in the air in front of her.

The ground beneath her doesn't just tremble — it ruptures. A colossal pillar of molten magma and thermal energy erupts straight out of the bedrock. The roaring explosion swallows the twisted maestro, lighting up the night with a brilliant orange flare. The heat washes over my face.

The howling wind of Mint's vortex dies down, carrying the last noxious wisps of Podenco's purple spores away into the dark sky. The glow of Lisa's Foxfire fades, and the unnatural silence of the plains rushes back in to fill the void.

I lower my arms, my breath tearing out of my throat in exhausted gasps.

I look toward the edge of the molten crater Miss Adele had ripped into the earth. The smoke clears. There's nothing left. The masked Caprinae, the weeping melody, the piano-wire tension that had threatened to slice our minds to ribbons — it's all gone. Whether she was incinerated by the blast, or if she simply melted away into the shadows the moment her twisted masterpiece was shattered, the plains are empty. My knees wobble.

"Is she… is she gone?" Mint asks, her voice trembling as she lowers her wand. The mint leaves and fresh parchment coming off her are exhausted, stretched paper-thin by the terror of the encounter.

Miss Adele closes her eyes, taking a long, shuddering breath. The warmth creeps back into her by degrees, pushing at the desolate dread coating the battlefield. She opens her eyes, her gaze sweeping over our battered, shivering group.

"She's gone," Miss Adele confirms softly, her airy melody returning to anchor us. She takes a step forward, her warmth wrapping around us like a thick blanket. "How are you girls holding up?"

I look around. Lisa leans against Podenco, her tails drooping toward the scorched grass, drained of their usual crystallized-sugar energy. Miss Susie is huddled nearby, taking deliberate breaths as she suppresses the last pops of static crackling off her.

"I… I'm scared…" I admit, looking up at Miss Adele, my eyes brimming with unshed tears. "We still have over two weeks left on our expedition schedule… what's going to come next… a Feranmut?"

The exhausted silence breaks. Podenco lets out a breathless, incredulous scoff. Beside her, a giggle bubbles out of Lisa's tired throat. Even Miss Susie's shoulders shake with a teary-eyed laugh that chases the last of the bitter ozone from the air.

Miss Adele's face softens into a radiant smile. The remaining shadows of the fight melt away. She steps forward and rests her hand on the top of my head, smoothing down my hair.

"If a Feranmut shows up, Lethe," Miss Adele smiles, her voice a soothing promise in the dark, "then we will simply take notes, gather some very rare geological samples, and rely on you and Lisa to keep it calm while we run away. But for tonight, I think we have survived quite enough of the world."

"I will offer the Feranmut our leftover marshmallows!" Lisa's tails give a determined wag.

Podenco nods as she looks at me. "And well, Lethe might be able to reason with it? Sarkaz bloodlines are ancient too, right?"

Mint vibrates on her heels, her eyes blown wide with scholarly thrill. "Oh! Lethe, if you can talk to a Feranmut, I have so many questions!"

I blink, staring at the three of them in horror.

"I… I think it will just use me as an appetizer," I squeak, my tail wrapping into a defensive coil around my leg. "Maybe even not enough for a full bite…"

Miss Adele giggles, and it breaks the last of the post-combat tension. "Now, now, girls," she says. "Let's go retrieve our gear before the night temperature sets."

The walk back to Val-de-Lis is a slow, quiet march. As we cross back into the abandoned dirt streets, the reality of the slaughter presses down on our shoulders.

We retrieve our logistics bags and Podenco's terrariums from the dirt. As we check that none of the vials shattered during the escape, a bluish glow catches my eye.

Lisa stands a few paces away, her digital slate out, her small thumbs flying across the glass screen. Her sweetness is steeped in a solemn maturity — a steady resilience that reminds me of Amiya.

"What are you doing, Lisa?" I ask, pitching my voice low so I don't disturb the echoing quiet of the abandoned town.

Lisa doesn't look up from the screen. She hits send, her ears drooping a fraction. "Sending this to Dr. Kal'tsit too," she replies, her voice unsteady but ringing with duty. "So the Victorian Army can come and bury the bodies."

I look back at the seemingly pristine settlement.

An entire settlement of innocent people — wiped out in the dark without a single person in the outside world even knowing they were gone.

Dr. Kal'tsit would know how to force the Victorian authorities out to this place, so those townsfolk wouldn't be left to rot and be forgotten in the cold.

A rustle of fabric draws my attention. Podenco drops to her knees in the damp dirt at the edge of the town limits, reaching into one of her botanical pouches for a handful of dormant flower seeds. With reverent care, she presses them into the earth and buries them beneath the soil.

We gather around her. Miss Adele, Miss Susie, Mint, Lisa, Podenco, and I. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the wind, looking out over the silent houses. Nobody says a word. We just stand there, bowing our heads in the dark.

One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

Nothing moves on the plains but the wind. When the three minutes pass, we turn our backs, clutch our bags and our Arts Units, and walk away into the night.

We walk as far as our aching legs can carry us under the silver glow of twin moons, putting as much distance as we can between ourselves and the deathly silence of the dead town. By the time we stop to set up camp in a shallow rocky depression, my muscles are shaking with exhaustion.

I set my new Arts Unit against the leg of my folding chair.

We don't have the energy or the ingredients to cook a proper meal tonight.

Miss Susie sits down on her collapsible chair, cradling a steaming plastic cup between her hands. "Well, instant ramen it is," she sighs, staring down at the curly noodles.

In the other chair beside Miss Adele, Mint is looking at her slate. "Hmmm." Her brow furrows as she traces a finger along the map. "I don't think there's any city too close to our projected routes without a massive detour. We're going to run out of fresh rations."

Podenco blows on her own cup of noodles, her ears drooping in the chilling wind. "I mean. Can we not just ask Engineering to deliver via drones?" she suggests, looking around the small circle. "They're low profile. No Victorian patrols would spot a high-altitude drone out here."

Miss Adele takes a sip of her broth. "We can try to ask," she replies, her voice calm despite the night. "I'll send a message to Engineering."

A delivery drone. From Ms. Closure's engineering department. I deflate — my spine turns to jelly, and my upper body collapses forward until my cheek squishes flat against the surface of our portable camping table.

"They'll do it…" I whine, my voice a muffled groan against the plastic. "And Ms. Closure is going to charge me for sure. She's going to bill my account for the cross-country drone fuel and the hazardous delivery fees!" I squeeze my eyes shut, watching my hard-earned internal credits evaporate into the wind. "I'm so close to my fifth plushie…"

A warm pressure presses against my squished face. Lisa has reached over from the seat next to me, poking my cheek with one finger.

"There, there, Lethe," Lisa says softly. "I'm sure the Vulpo series plushie is coming back next year. You'll have plenty of time to save up again!"

"Not helping."

With laughter, we set up our camp and drift to sleep.

I blink my eyes open, the dim interior of the tent coming into focus. Pushing myself up from the sleeping mat, I raise my arms above my head for a luxurious stretch. My joints pop in quiet protest against the lingering chill of the plains before us.

I reach out instinctively, my fingers wrapping around my Arts Unit. But as my eyes adjust, the white daylight bleeding through the canvas flap catches my attention.

Wait. Daylight?

My heart lurches. I scramble for my slate and tap the cool glass screen. The numbers glare back at me, betraying my internal clock. Day seven. It's morning.

"Oh no!" I yelp, throwing my blankets off in a panic. "I missed my shift!"

A giggle ripples through the quiet tent. I whip my head around. Lisa sits cross-legged on her own mat, running a wooden brush through her tails until the silk-like fur lies smooth.

"You were dead to the world, Lethe," Lisa says, her voice bright and soothing. "So we didn't want to wake you."

From the other side of the tent comes the familiar clinking of glass vials. Podenco is already dressed, adjusting the straps and buckles of her logistics gear. She pauses her work, throwing me a cheeky smirk.

"And you were snoring lightly, too," she adds playfully.

A prickly flush of embarrassment crashes over my cheeks, burning all the way up to the tips of my horns. I duck my head.

"Oh…" I mumble miserably, my tail dead against the sleeping mat.

"Don't worry, Lethe," Podenco says. Her teasing tone softens, melting into a warm comfort that pushes back the brisk morning air. "We were all incredibly tired. Besides, without you, none of us might have survived."

I grab my jacket, rubbing the last stubborn remnants of sleep from my eyes. Looking around our small, enclosed sanctuary, I notice the unzipped, empty sleeping bag near the entrance.

"Where's Mint?" I ask, concern spiking.

Lisa sets her brush down. "She's out there with Miss Adele," she answers, offering me a bright smile. "She's perfectly safe."

I push aside the canvas flap and step out into the brisk morning air. The chill of the plains stings my cheeks, but it feels grounding after the lingering warmth of my sleeping bag.

A few paces away, near the extinguished remains of our campfire, Miss Adele looks out at the horizon, the rising sun casting a golden glow over her curling horns. My empathic Arts brush against her, and I relax. She tastes content.

"Good morning, Miss Adele," I call, my sneakers crunching against the grass.

Miss Adele turns around. Her soft eyes meet mine, and a smile breaks across her face. "Good morning, Lethe."

She steps closer, adjusting the strap of her satchel. "We've received an update. We're going to meet up with another field team," she explains, her voice carrying relief. "Because of the intel we fed back, Command was able to negotiate. The local Duke has given us permission to secure the area."

"Dr. Kal'tsit really saved us…" I breathe, a wave of gratitude warming my chest. Even from kilometers away, she remains our safest shield.

"So who's coming?"

The bright, inquisitive voice shatters the quiet morning. Podenco pops her head out from the tent flaps right behind me.

"Mousse and Grani," Miss Adele answers.

I tilt my head. Mousse. The name brings up a faint profile. "Ah…" I murmur, tapping my chin. "Mousse is the Victorian Feline who likes to read books… and her left hand…" I trail off, remembering the protective gloves she always wears to hide her Oripathy infection. "I don't think I've met Grani, though."

"Grani is a Kuranta from Victoria, too," Miss Adele clarifies gently. "She works as a Vanguard for us."

I blink. Looking at Mint, who is sitting in a camping chair reading her book with a hot cup of tea, I think of Ms. Skyfire, Miss Susie, Mousse and Miss Breeze. "So Victorians aren't all Felines and Vulpo?" I ask, puzzled. I had assumed, based on the people I knew, that the empire was populated by them.

"Far from it, Lethe."

Miss Susie steps out into the light, raising her arms above her head in a long stretch. She lowers them, offering me a relaxed smile.

"There's Vouivre, like Bagpipe. And Sarkaz, like Hibiscus," Miss Susie smiles, stepping up beside Miss Adele.

I stare at her. Hibiscus is from Victoria? The cheerful, eucalyptus-scented Medic with the tiny horns who, according to my notes, once shielded me in the triage bay was born in the very empire we're walking through?

"Our country is actually ruled by Aslans," Miss Susie continues, though her ears droop a fraction. She wraps her arms around her sweater, her voice dropping into a melancholic murmur. "…though the crown has been empty since 1072, since our King was executed."

"Well, let's get our breakfast first!" Lisa declares before the atmosphere gets heavy, ducking out from the flaps of our tent. "We want to meet them before Miss Grani disappears on a treasure hunt!"

"Right!" Miss Susie smiles, walking over to the supplies. "I will get the oats ready."

"I will help!" Lisa happily declares.

We eat our oats quickly, the warm, utilitarian meal chasing away the morning chill, before packing away the tents and the portable stove.

With our gear secured, we begin our trek.

The expanse stretches out endlessly before us. We walk for hours, navigating the rolling grassy hills and steering clear of any darkened clusters of Originium. As the afternoon wears on, the crisp daylight begins to mellow. The sun dips toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the grass, and the sky above us starts to bruise into a hazy twilight.

My legs are beginning to ache when the wind shifts.

I pause, my nose twitching. The chilly air is cut by a comforting aroma — the smoky scent of a crackling campfire, mingling with the savory smell of sizzling meat and frying eggs. My stomach rumbles, betraying my exhaustion.

"Looks like they beat us here," Podenco notes, her tail wagging as she catches the scent.

We clear the crest of a small rise. Nestled in a sheltered clearing below is a well-established campsite. A large white canvas tent is already pitched at the back, and a metal pot hangs from a tripod over an expertly built fire.

Sitting in a camping chair right beside the flames is a Feline girl. Short, light brown hair frames her face, and her ears twitch as she notices our approach. She's bundled up against the evening chill in an oversized tan trench coat and a red scarf wrapped around her neck. Below the coat, she wears dark red knee-high socks tucked into sturdy black boots.

She tastes like warm, freshly baked bread and whipped cream, with a nervous flutter of powdered sugar underneath.

She balances a cast-iron frying pan in one hand, the eggs and thick-cut meat sizzling over the heat. "Oh! You're here!" she greets us, her voice soft but bubbling with excitement. She holds the pan up, offering a welcoming smile. "I… I made some food for everyone! I hope you like eggs and meat for dinner too!"

Before I can even step forward to accept the food, a blur of motion steps out from the shadows of the white tent.

She's a Kuranta. Ash-grey hair spills out from beneath a sleek tactical cap, her long ears standing at rigid attention. She wears a heavily pocketed navy-blue trench coat over a brown combat shirt, an orange armband reading 'POLICJA' strapped to her left sleeve. Metallic shin guards cover her legs, and in her right hand she carries an intricate dark-grey polearm almost as tall as she is. Pinned to the edges of her coat are tiny badges of a fried egg, a Siracusan slice, and a green apple.

She arrives like a high-speed projectile, fearless and brimming with a sense of justice.

She stops right beside Mousse's chair, flashes us a confident grin, winks, and brings her free hand up to the brim of her cap in a cheeky salute.

"Right on time, team!" she announces, her voice ringing across the campsite. "Mounted Police Officer Grani! From this point forward, I will protect you!"

"Hi Grani. Hi Mousse," Miss Susie calls out, offering a relaxed wave as we step fully into the clearing.

Beside me, Lisa smooths the front of her skirt and offers a poised little curtsy. "Hi Miss Grani, and Miss Mousse," she says politely.

I blink, tearing my eyes away from the sizzling pan. The smell of the roasting meat is paralyzing my manners. I adjust my grip on my Arts Unit and follow suit, offering them both a deep, respectful bow.

"H… Hi! I'm Lethe," I stammer. "It smells amazing…"

Miss Grani's grin only widens. She gestures with her free hand toward the edge of the campsite, right behind the canvas tent. Parked neatly in the shadows of the tree formations are two rugged all-terrain vehicles, the white Rhodes Island logo stenciled against their armored chassis.

"Load up your gear, team!" Miss Grani announces, her voice carrying a bouncy cadence. "No more walking for you girls!"

I stare at the ATVs. The relief of not having to drag my aching legs across the plains is instantaneous — but it collides with the reality of what Miss Adele and Ms. Dobermann had said.

"Is… is it safe?" I ask, looking between Miss Grani and Miss Adele. "Didn't we say driving Rhodes Island vehicles in Victorian territory might make the Grand Dukes think we're an invading army?"

Miss Grani rests the shaft of her polearm against her shoulder.

"Don't worry about the Victorian Army, Lethe!" Miss Grani winks, waving her hand dismissively in the air. "If they try to shell us with artillery, Mousse will just scratch the Originium shells to pieces before they even hit the ground!"

At the campfire, the sizzling of the frying pan stalls.

Miss Mousse freezes. She looks down at her protective gloves, and then stares at the grinning Miss Grani in horror.

"Eh?!" Miss Mousse squeaks. She holds the frying pan defensively towards her chest. "I… I can… try?!"

"That's the spirit!" Miss Grani declares, her voice ringing with infectious confidence. She gives her polearm a twirl before planting the base firmly into the dirt.

I stare at Miss Grani, my mind failing to process the physics of Mousse scratching a high-velocity military explosive out of the air. The image of the Victorian army lobbing artillery at our campsite flashes behind my eyes.

Before my spiraling imagination can run away with me, a bright voice cuts through the evening air.

"Let's just get our food first before anyone even thinks about intercepting artillery shells!" Lisa brings the conversation back down to Terra, stepping forward and ignoring Miss Grani's absurd tactical propositions.

Miss Mousse lets out a stuttering exhale. The moment Lisa redirects the focus back to the food, her two feline tails, which had been held rigidly straight behind her, drop and relax into a swaying curve.

We all gather around the crackling campfire, pulling up our collapsible chairs. The evening air of the plains is still biting, but the heat from the flames and the aroma of the pan-fried meat banishes the chill. Mousse distributes the portions, her oversized protective gloves moving with a practiced delicacy as she hands me a plate.

I don't even wait for the meat to cool. Balancing my black Arts Unit against my knees, I take an eager bite. The savory juices burst across my tongue, seasoned and cooked to perfection. It's heavenly. I let out a contented hum, my tail thumping against the leg of my folding chair.

"This is really good, Miss Mousse," I declare, my cheeks puffed out happily as I chew.

Miss Mousse flinches at the direct praise, a rosy flush warming her cheeks.

"Thank… thank you!" Miss Mousse stammers, her voice barely carrying over the crackling fire. She rubs the thick fabric of her gloves together, her eyes darting down to the dirt before she looks back up at us. "I… I also tried to make some cakes before we left the landship. I packed them in the thermal cooler."

She tilts her head, her ears giving an uncertain twitch. "What kind of cake do you all prefer? Mango, or matcha?"

The word 'cake' acts like a localized jolt of electricity. The savory perfection of the meat is overshadowed. Beside me, Lisa goes rigid with the same spark of joy.

"Matcha, please. Thank you." Lisa and I answer at the exact same time, our voices ringing out in unapologetic unison.

Miss Mousse reaches into the thermal cooler resting beside the ATVs, her protective gloves retrieving two identical square boxes. She sets them down gently onto our portable camping table.

With delicate care, she flips the latches and unboxes the first one.

The earthy aroma of matcha hits me, cutting straight through the smoky scent of the meat that had just filled the evening air. It's a crepe cake, stacked with dozens of impossibly thin, uniform green layers bound together by generous spreads of fresh cream.

"That smells so good, Miss Mousse," I say, leaning forward as my mouth begins to water all over again.

"I… I'm glad," Miss Mousse stammers softly.

She picks up a small, serrated camping knife and slices through the layered pastry, placing a wedge onto a paper plate for Lisa, and then another for me. Finally, she cuts a slightly smaller piece for herself.

She holds the knife up, offering a hopeful look to the rest of the Operators gathered around the fire. "If you guys want, feel free to get it," she says, her voice polite.

I don't wait a single second. Picking up my small plastic fork, I press it through the resistant layers of the crepe and take a bite.

The cake is amazing. The delicate bitterness of the premium matcha balances out the rich heavy cream. It melts on my tongue, the impossibly thin layers dissolving into a cloud of culinary perfection.

"This is really good," Lisa adds, her eyes closing in delight. Her crystallized sugar sweetness blooms into the cold Victorian air, wrapping the entire campsite in a peaceful warmth.

As the evening winds down, the adrenaline and terror of the past few days begin to ebb away. I look across the campfire. Miss Adele sits quietly in her collapsible chair, a plate with a slice of yellow mango cake in her hands. She takes a deliberate bite, her eyes turned upward, enjoying the sweet treat while the glittering canopy of the starry night provides the backdrop.

It feels safe.

Then Miss Grani drops a tactical bombshell right into the middle of our tea party.

"Though, just to let you girls know," Miss Grani announces casually. She leans forward, resting her arms on her knees. "We're no longer on a survey mission. We are to sweep the county and destroy any caches."

The sweet taste of the matcha turns to ash on my tongue. My mind flashes back to the pitch-black cavern we had stumbled into. I see the crude iron of the Kazdelian swords resting in the shock-absorbent foam. I smell the metallic tang of innocent blood spilling over the stone floor, and I hear Lucas sobbing, begging his friend to stop before they both died for someone else's war — a war my own people helped start.

"Shouldn't this be the Army's job?" Mint asks, her brow furrowing in academic confusion. She lowers her own slice of cake, looking at Miss Grani. "We're a pharmaceutical company on a geological survey. Sweeping for rebel contraband in a county sounds like high-level military jurisdiction."

Miss Grani doesn't miss a beat. She flashes a confident grin, her ears twitching with fearless enthusiasm.

"Well. They gave us a contract," Miss Grani declares proudly, puffing her chest out and gesturing to the 'POLICJA' armband strapped to her sleeve. "And we stop the crimes!"

Mint lowers her fork. "Hmmm," she muses, tapping her chin as she looks toward her senior. "I suppose Miss Eyjafjalla and I can survey the land to point out potential hidden cave systems or weird geological formations that could be camouflaged."

Miss Adele gives an approving nod, taking another slow bite of her mango cake.

Podenco jumps in, bubbling with botanical pride. "And I can trace Originium pollution in florals and waterways," she adds smoothly, gesturing with her fork. "If any crates are improperly sealed, the leaked radiation will absolutely alter the cellular structure of the nearby moss and roots."

Lisa sits up straight. "Miss Grani, Miss Susie, and I will keep everyone safe!" she declares, her bright voice ringing with the fierce dedication of a true Supporter.

"Of course!" Miss Grani beams, giving her polearm another confident twirl.

Across the fire, Miss Mousse nervously rubs her gloves together.

"Well… I can help…" Miss Mousse says quietly. "I'm very good at scouting too."

The campfire crackles. The tactical planning is flawless. We have elite geological surveyors to map the terrain, a master botanist for chemical tracking, a heavy-hitting Kuranta Vanguard, a drone Caster, and a Foxfire Supporter — a real team, the kind that could actually find those hidden weapon stashes and smash them to bits.

And then there's me. I look around the circle. I look at the brilliant researchers, the brave Casters, and the fearless Vanguard. Then I lower my eyes to the plastic fork in my hand and the half-eaten slice of matcha crepe cake resting on my paper plate. I look at my black Arts Unit, leaning uselessly against my knee.

"Uhm…" I mumble, my tail dropping into an uncertain sway against the grass.

I blink, looking around at my capable friends.

"I… I'm here to eat cakes?"

A chorus of laughter erupts around the circle. Miss Susie's giggle comes out melodic even when she's trying to stifle it, while Grani laughs out loud, the sound unrestrained and infectious. Even Mousse hides a shy smile.

From across the table, Podenco leans forward, flashing me an exaggerated, knowing smirk.

"Oh, she truly is our Miss Sarkaz Royalty, isn't she?"

"Hey! I was just being honest!"

Before Podenco can launch another playful volley, Lisa shifts in her collapsible chair.

"Don't worry, Lethe," Lisa declares, her bright voice cutting through the giggles. She looks at me with sincerity. "You're the only Medic on the team! You're very important!"

I look down at the tactical band strapped around my right thigh, bearing the crisp black and white Rhodes Island Medic symbol. I trace the weight of that title.

"But…" I look between Lisa and Podenco. "You and Podenco both know how to heal… Podenco has her botanical healing vials, and you have your Foxfire Arts to close wounds…"

Lisa doesn't even blink. "You might be classed as a Supporter, but you're the one wearing the Medic band!" she says, stating it as a fundamental law of Terra. "So you need to be our Medic."

I stare at her bright blue eyes. There's no doubt.

I let out a defeated sigh that quickly morphs into a radiant smile. "Okay," I concede.

I pick up my paper plate, scooping up another generous bite of the layered matcha cream. As the dessert melts on my tongue, I settle back into my chair under the starry sky, ready to be the best cake-eating, emotion-siphoning Medic this expedition team has ever seen.