July, 1098 — Mission

The velvet indigo of the night sky bruises into a hazy lavender as the sun breaches the horizon.

The morning wind of the plains still nips at my cheeks, but the exhaustion that usually comes with dawn is absent. With Miss Mousse and Miss Grani joining our roster, the grueling rotation of the night watch has been mercifully halved. For the first time since we stepped off the landship, I feel properly rested.

I sit in my camping chair, my chin buried in the wool of my scarf.

My eye stays on my highly distractible companion, though the oversight isn't necessary this morning. Mint hasn't tried to wander off into the dark to accidentally plunge into an uncharted limestone fissure. Instead she's curled up in her own chair across the dying embers of the fire — nose buried in her journals.

The quiet of the dawn breaks on the rasp of a tent zipper.

Miss Mousse steps out into the crisp morning air, already dressed for the day, bundled into her trench coat and red scarf.

She offers me a shy smile and an eager nod before marching toward our crates, where she unpacks the portable stove and a cast-iron skillet. I rest my chin on my hands, watching her two tails sway in a happy, synchronized rhythm behind her while she preps the morning rations.

As the savory sizzle of breakfast fills the air, the rest of the camp comes to life.

Just a few paces away, Miss Susie is already hard at work. Podenco sits cross-legged on a supply crate, her eyes half-closed and her ears drooping as she surrenders to the brush. Miss Susie wields her brush in rhythmic strokes, untangling the sleep-mussed knots from Podenco's light blonde hair and fur. The air around them is a blended harmony — sleepy yuzu and green tea wrapped in toasted sugar.

The crunch of padded shoes on the frost-tipped grass draws my attention back to the center of camp.

Miss Adele walks over to the fading campfire, the glowing screen of her slate casting blue light across her face. She pulls up a chair right next to Mint.

"Mint, take a look at this." Miss Adele tilts the screen toward Mint. "If we're sweeping for Gaulish restorationist caches today, we need to narrow down their logistical footprint."

Mint lowers her journal and leans over the slate.

"We know they prefer subterranean camouflage," Miss Adele continues, tracing her finger across the screen. "Given the weight and volume of the Kazdelian armaments we found, they can't be transporting them over the open plains without leaving tracks. They have to be utilizing natural, interconnected blind spots."

"Oh! I see what you mean, Miss Eyjafjalla!" Mint gasps, her tail giving an excited flick. She taps a region on the screen. "Look at the limestone dissolution patterns along this ridge! The soil composition in this sector indicates a collapsed subterranean watershed. It would create a naturally formed tunnel system invisible from the surface!"

"Exactly," Miss Adele nods, a proud smile touching her lips. "If you were a rebel cell trying to hide heavy military contraband from Victorian patrols, a dry, reinforced watershed would be the perfect staging ground."

Breakfast is a swift and satisfying affair. With our stomachs full of Miss Mousse's platter, the morning chill is banished. We pack away the tents, fold the collapsible chairs, and extinguish the campfire, leaving no trace behind in the clearing.

We drag our gear toward the two all-terrain vehicles parked in the shadows of the trees.

Miss Grani gives her weapon a confident twirl before securing it to the side mount of the lead vehicle. She hops into the driver's seat, her hair fluttering beneath her tactical cap.

"Okay, I'm driving!" Miss Grani announces cheerfully, giving the steering wheel an eager pat. "Mount up!"

Miss Adele steps forward, her slate already glowing with the topographical maps of County Ascarat. "Okay, I'll navigate for Grani," she offers. She climbs into the front passenger seat. Behind her, Podenco and Miss Mousse pile into the back row, securing their gear.

"I got the second one," Miss Susie chimes in. She jogs over to the second ATV, her fluffy hair bouncing as she slides into the driver's seat.

"I got it for Miss Susie!" Mint declares. She scrambles into the passenger seat beside her.

I climb up into the armored chassis, sliding across the reinforced upholstery to make room. Lisa hops in after me and pulls the heavy-duty seatbelt across her lap. I balance my Arts Unit between my knees and grab my own buckle — the click echoing in the cabin.

Up front, Miss Susie reaches for the ignition. She stares at the array of buttons, levers, and dials on the ATV's dashboard. Her toasted sugar wavers — a hesitant crackle of pink static.

"Okay… how do I start this again?" Miss Susie murmurs to herself, her hands hovering over the controls.

In the passenger seat, Mint's ears flatten.

"Uhm… Miss Susie?" Mint asks.

"I got this!" Miss Susie declares bravely.

She reaches out, twists the ignition, and slams her foot down.

The armored ATV doesn't just start — it erupts. The engine roars with a mechanical shriek. The tires bite into the dirt, obliterating the morning quiet as the vehicle lunges forward like a fired artillery shell.

"Wahhh!" I scream.

The kinetic force slams me backward — spine pinned flat against the chair, hands locked around the black shaft of my Arts Unit in a death grip. Beside me, Lisa yelps, her nine tails puffing up into a rigid ball of shock.

VROOOM!

We blast out of the tree line in a blur of chassis and flying dirt, rocketing past the lead ATV, blowing past Miss Grani's window in a screaming streak of pink static and airborne mud. I barely catch her bewildered, wide-eyed stare before she disappears in our dust cloud.

"Ahhhhh! The brake! Where's the brake?!" Miss Susie shrieks.

"You're pressing the accelerator! Let go of the accelerator!" Mint screams, her composure shattered as she drops her books and grabs the dashboard for dear life.

We careen across the open Victorian plains, bouncing over the rolling grass. Every bump in the terrain launches us out of our seats, only to be slammed back down by the seatbelts.

"Miss Susie!" I yell, my hair whipping in the wind.

The bone-rattling ride feels like it stretches on for an eternity. The Victorian plains blur into a smeared canvas of green and grey. The armored chassis groans under the abuse of Miss Susie's panicked lead foot.

I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the black shaft of my Arts Unit like a lifeline. I'm convinced this is how my story ends.

"Someone tell mom that my plushies can be given to the orphans onboard," I declare over the roaring engine, my voice trembling with resignation. "She can keep the shark one… if she wants…"

Up front, the terror radiating from Miss Susie hits a critical threshold. The smell of scorched ozone floods the cabin.

"Noooo!" Miss Susie shrieks again, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles shake.

A spark of pink static arcs off her fingertips and shoots into the ATV's steering column with a crack.

The dashboard flashes. The digital displays flicker for a fraction of a second before the console shorts out. The engine gives a pathetic mechanical whine and dies.

The vehicle loses all momentum. We skid against the dirt — the ATV lurching forward one last time before coming to a dead halt in the middle of the empty plains.

A cloud of dust catches up to us, washing over the windshield.

Inside the cabin, it's silent.

The four of us just sit there, frozen in our seats. I open one eye, then the other. I'm still alive. My Arts Unit is still in one piece.

A collective breath echoes through the small space. I let out a long exhale, my spine melting into the chair as my heart tries to hammer its way out of my ribcage. Beside me, Lisa's tails begin to deflate from their puffed-up state, sagging.

In the driver's seat, Miss Susie sits completely still. Her hair stands on end, crackling with residual pops of static. She lowers her hands from the steering wheel.

"I…" Miss Susie stammers, her voice pitching up into a breathy squeak. She turns her head to look back at us, offering a strained smile. "…I got this… see?"

A rustle of fabric sounds beside me. Lisa unbuckles her seatbelt and leans forward, peering over the back of the driver's seat.

"Miss Susie," Lisa says, her voice a gentle chime. She points a finger down toward the floorboards. "That rectangular one on the right is the accelerator. And the wide, square one in the middle… that's the brake."

"Right… right, the brake is in the middle," Miss Susie repeats weakly, burying her face in her hands. "I'm so sorry…"

On the other side of the cabin, the click of a glove compartment popping open breaks the tension.

Mint — her panic abandoned — pulls out a thick, plastic-wrapped Rhodes Island ATV operation manual.

"Okay, let's see here," Mint mutters, flipping through the pages until she lands on the dashboard schematics. "If the primary ignition is stalled due to a circuit overload… we just need to hit the manual breaker reset. It should be the yellow button next to the climate controls…"

Mint leans over the center console, inspecting the array of buttons against the diagram in the manual.

I slump back into my seat, letting my head hit the headrest, and look out the passenger window at the dust cloud settling over the untouched grass. Somewhere far behind us, Miss Grani and the others are probably racing to catch up to our unintentional high-speed scouting maneuver.

I let out another long sigh.

Click. Mint's finger presses the yellow button on the center console. The shorted-out dashboard flickers back to life, lighting the cabin with a steady glow.

The engine gives a rough cough, sputters for a second, and settles into a low purr that doesn't sound like an enraged beast.

"See? Just basic circuit maintenance!" Mint cheers, her tail giving a victorious swish.

Before anyone can offer a sigh of relief, the crunch of tires against dry grass echoes outside.

I turn my head and look out the passenger window. Emerging from the dust cloud we kicked up is the lead ATV. It rolls to a controlled halt alongside our vehicle. The driver's side window slides down with a mechanical hum.

Miss Grani is staring at us — long ears straight up, twitching.

Behind her, Miss Adele leans forward so she's visible from the passenger seat. She offers us a weak, amused smile.

In the back seats, Miss Mousse presses her hands against the glass, her tails puffed up into thick bristles. Beside her, Podenco looks worried.

"You all okay?" Miss Grani asks, her voice stripped of its bouncy cadence.

In our driver's seat, Miss Susie stiffens — she snaps her hands back onto the steering wheel, gripping it in a flawless position.

"Yes… Yes," Miss Susie stammers, forcing a brave smile. "The car is still working. I know which one is the brake, and which one is the accelerator now."

To cement our newly acquired vehicular competence, Mint pops up from the passenger seat. She waves the thick, plastic-wrapped Rhodes Island ATV operation manual in front of the window for the other group to see.

"And I have the manual!" Mint declares, her voice ringing with triumph.

Miss Grani blinks. She looks at the manual, then at Miss Susie's rigid posture, and finally at the back seat, where Lisa and I are sitting perfectly, now fully buckled again.

Miss Grani lets out a slow, deliberate exhale. She reaches up, adjusting the brim of her tactical cap with a lopsided grin.

"Uh… okay, then," Miss Grani says, her tone careful. She gives her steering wheel a light pat. "Just… follow my lead. Slowly."

The rest of the drive across the Victorian plains is "smoothish," thank Terra.

"Smoothish" means Miss Susie keeps the ATV locked at a painstakingly cautious crawl for the remainder of the journey, her hands tight on the steering wheel.

We eventually roll to a halt near the base of a rocky ridge, parking the vehicles side-by-side. The engines cut off, and the rushing wind of the open plains fills the silence.

We dismount. The second my sneakers hit the unmoving dirt, I let out a shuddering exhale of relief.

A few paces away, Miss Adele and Mint get to work. The two researchers walk along the edge of the rock formation, their eyes scanning the patterns and checking the geological readouts on their slates to pinpoint the hidden entrance.

Behind them, Miss Susie leans against the armored chassis of the ATV, running her small, sturdy comb through her hair, trying to smooth down the strands that still defy gravity from her Arts misfire.

Beside me, Lisa adjusts the strap of her bag.

"That was fun, right?" Lisa asks, looking at me with a bright smile.

I stare at my best friend, thinking of the certainty that my plushie collection was about to be orphaned. My tail hangs limp.

"That's… that's one way to put it, Lisa," I reply.

Before Lisa can defend the extreme nature of our morning commute, a voice calls out from the rocks.

"Here!" Mint waves from afar, her other hand pointing at a seemingly solid, unremarkable wall of grey stone. "Entrance! It's camouflaged!"

Miss Grani hops down from the lead vehicle, unlatching her polearm with a clank. She takes the front, leading the charge. We gather our gear and follow her toward the rock face.

As we approach the spot Mint indicated, my empathic Arts brush against the air. It feels… damp. A primal, sluggish, wet resonance that barely registers as conscious thought. Then my ears catch it.

Squelch. Squelch. Schhhhk.

It's a thick, wet sound coming from directly behind the stone illusion. It sounds like something gelatinous dragging itself across wet rocks.

"Wait," I whisper, my hands gripping the black shaft of my Arts Unit. "I hear squelching sounds…"

Before I can warn them to brace for the worst, Miss Grani steps up to the illusion. She raises her polearm and breaks the Arts camouflage.

The illusion shatters with a resonant crack, dissolving into the chilling Victorian air.

The hidden entrance of the limestone fissure is revealed — and my worst nightmare is waiting on the other side.

Clustered in the damp mouth of the subterranean cave is a group of what I can only describe as the worst horror in Terra. They're massive gelatinous slugs. Their bodies are made of a thick, dark olive-green slime that leaves a wet trail against the stone. But the worst part isn't the slime — jutting out of their backs are clusters of vibrant green, blood-red, and pitch-black crystals. A sickly, glowing green spot illuminates the sides of their heads as their antennae twitch blindly toward us.

They look like crawling, mutated jewelry boxes made of toxic sludge.

I don't hesitate — I dive behind Lisa, gripping the fabric of her jacket and using her as a fluffy shield.

"What are those!" I shriek, my voice echoing against the limestone walls. I point a finger over Lisa's shoulder. "Miss Adele! Please burn them! Drop the volcano on this cave right now!"

To my horror, my tutor doesn't summon a roaring pillar of cleansing magma. Miss Adele simply stands there, resting her hands on her Arts Unit. Beside her, Miss Susie is equally unbothered. They just look at the squelching, crystalline monsters with mild, detached observation as Miss Susie fixes her hair.

Podenco and Mint, on the other hand, react differently.

"Look at those mineral growths!" Mint declares. She bounces on her heels, leaning dangerously close to the squelching horrors. "The crystalline refraction is incredible!"

"Are they like that because they've been snacking on the exposed weapon-grade Originium?!" Podenco asks. She is captivated by the red and green shards protruding from the slugs' backs. "The local soil composition couldn't possibly support that kind of rapid crystalline mutation on its own!"

"Be careful, girls," Miss Adele warns gently. "Their crystalline structures might be volatile if agitated."

Before I can beg them to step away from the giant slime monsters, Miss Grani takes charge.

She doesn't even blink. She marches straight into the infested cavern — and not with the bladed edge of her weapon. She wields the blunt shaft, gently but firmly sweeping the mutated slugs out of her path like she's clearing delivery bots from the hallways.

"Sorry, little guys!" Miss Grani chirps, her bouncy tone echoing in the dark. "Rhodes Island coming through! We need to access the crates!"

Right behind her, Miss Mousse follows suit. She trembles, but she raises her oversized protective gloves, her claws scratching at the remaining slugs that squelch too close to the path.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry!" Miss Mousse squeaks, her eyes squeezed shut as she bats a large green-crystal slug away from a metal container. "Hopefully it doesn't hurt much! Please just stay away!"

I stay anchored behind Lisa's fluffy tails, watching in paralyzed bewilderment as our strike team apologizes to the horrifying slime monsters while dismantling a rebel supply cache.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against Lisa's back.

"I refuse to look anymore," I declare, my voice muffled against the fabric. "Lisa, tell me when it's clear."

"Okay!" Lisa replies brightly.

With my vision voluntarily plunged into darkness, I'm forced to rely on my hearing and the passive empathic brush of my Arts.

From deep within the damp, squelching cavern, the screech of tearing metal echoes off the limestone walls.

"Well, the crates got breached by the slug," Miss Grani's voice rings out. "There's only a few left."

Click. Click. Click. I listen as Miss Grani uses her communicator to photograph the Kazdelian armaments.

"Alright! Evidence collected," Miss Grani announces. "Time for disposal."

What follows is a symphony of structural violence.

The concussive smash of Miss Grani's polearm against heavy iron. The cavern rings with metal shattering, wood splintering, crates crushed into oblivion. Beneath the impacts I can hear the wet squelching of the Originium slugs fleeing the noise, retreating deeper into the subterranean watershed.

I flinch with every crash, my hands gripping my Arts Unit, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut.

Eventually the clatter settles. The echoing destruction fades, replaced by the rushing wind of the plains outside the cave.

Then the air beside me shifts. A bright wave of sparkling ginger beer, sun-warmed grass, and the bite of a cool autumn breeze washes over me.

I open one eye, peering around Lisa's shoulder. Miss Grani is standing there, her polearm resting on her shoulder. She flashes a triumphant grin.

"Crime stopped!" Miss Grani declares proudly.

"You can open your eyes now, Lethe," Lisa says softly.

I take a hesitant breath and peel my eyes open, peeking around the barrier of her tails.

Standing a few paces away in the damp dirt is Podenco. I scan the ground around her shoes, my heart fluttering — but there isn't a single mutated, squelching slime monster in sight. Miss Grani and Miss Mousse had cleared the area.

Podenco lets out a long sigh, her ears drooping against her light blonde hair.

"Too bad, Lethe," Podenco shakes her head, gesturing with an empty glass containment unit. "They're just way too big to capture. They wouldn't even fit in the logistics crates."

I stare at her, my jaw dropping open in disbelief. My grip tightens on my Arts Unit, my tail snapping into a rigid coil against Lisa's leg.

"What do you mean, too big?! Podenco, they were all bigger than us! They're like half the size of our ATVs! They aren't botanical samples — they're monsters!"

"But they're fascinating monsters!"

Mint pops out from behind Podenco, vibrating with uncontained thrill. She holds up her communicator, tapping the screen eagerly.

"The crystals on their backs can light up in the dark, Lethe!" Mint claims excitedly, ignoring my horror. "The bioluminescence is directly tied to the Originium density! I took a lot of pictures!"

She shoves the glowing screen into my face, displaying a high-resolution image of a slimy, olive-green slug glowing with light.

I squeeze my eyes shut again, letting out a muffled, tragic groan as I bury my face back into the safety of Lisa's jacket.

"You just need to do more field missions, Lethe!" Miss Grani declares.

She flashes me a confident grin. "You'll get used to the wildlife out here in no time!"

I peek out from behind Lisa's tails, my eyes narrowing into a flat, unamused stare.

"I'd rather not," I reply deadpan, my voice dripping with refusal.

Before Miss Grani can sell me on the tactical merits of embracing giant slime monsters, a soft, timid voice interrupts.

"Well… it's lunchtime now…" Miss Mousse asks, her voice barely carrying over the wind of the plains. She rubs her gloves together. "We should eat?"

"Okay, let's find a clearing to camp," Miss Susie agrees, her ears twitching. "Away from the cave."

"Let's," Miss Adele replies softly, her hearth fire settling back to its academic baseline. She turns away from the shattered illusion, her slate tucked into her satchel.

We gather our gear and make our way back to where the two armored Rhodes Island ATVs are parked in the grass. As we approach the vehicles, a heavy tension descends on our half of the strike team.

Miss Susie reaches for the driver's side door of our ATV.

My tail snaps rigid. Beside me, Mint's mint leaf spikes with apprehension, and even Lisa's tails puff up a fraction.

Miss Mousse steps forward, placing her thick glove on the door handle before Miss Susie can open it.

"I… I should be driving…" Miss Mousse says, her voice unsteady but carrying a firm resolve.

Miss Susie blinks, her hand hovering in the air. A sheepish flush warms her cheeks, and a pop of static arcs off her hair. She steps back, offering Miss Mousse an apologetic smile. "Right. That… that's probably for the best."

I let out a long exhale, my spine melting in relief.

The drive across the plains for the next two days is blissfully uneventful.

With Miss Mousse behind the wheel, the armored ATV doesn't roar or careen over the grass. She drives with the same care she uses to bake her delicate crepe cakes. The vehicle glides over the rolling green hills, keeping a safe distance behind Miss Grani's lead ATV.

For the rest of the expedition, we fall into a coordinated rhythm. I keep adding lines to the count on my slate, and they start to look the same on the screen. The skies stay overcast, but the air is crisp and clean — free of the bruised-purple atmospheric pressure of a Catastrophe.

During the drives, I get to look out the window and enjoy the pastoral beauty of the Victorian countryside. Lisa sits beside me, her tails swaying in a relaxed rhythm, though she still keeps a vigilant eye on the distant ridges. Podenco catalogs the flora whizzing by the glass and shares her love of botany whenever we stop, and Mint spends hours comparing her topographical notes with Miss Adele over the comms. At night our camps are warm and filled with the aroma of Miss Mousse's baking.

Our primary mission, however, continues.

Following Miss Adele and Mint's geological mapping of the subterranean caverns, we stop to check a few more potential camouflage spots.

Most of them are empty — just damp caves filled with normal rocks, which Mint happily documents while I wait outside under the cloudy sky.

But on one of the afternoons, we find one more active cache.

The moment Miss Grani shatters the Arts illusion covering the rocky fissure, the metallic stench of Kazdelian iron bleeds out into the plains.

I don't even step close to the entrance. I retreat to the safety of the ATVs, sitting on the armored hood with my hands clamped over my ears. Deep inside the cave, the concussive smash of Miss Grani's polearm echoes out, followed by the sounds of metal shattering and crates being crushed into oblivion.

Eyes squeezed shut, I focus on the steady hum of the liquid swirling within the halos of my Arts Unit, waiting for Miss Grani to finish stopping the crime.

With that, our time on the plains is coming to a close.

It's the 24th already.

I push myself up from the collapsible chair, raise my arms above my head, and stretch. My joints pop in protest against the lingering damp chill of the Victorian plains. Beside me, Mint finally closes her journal with a satisfying thud.

This is it. Our final morning shift. The freezing rotation of the night watch is officially coming to an end.

The zipper of the neighboring tent goes again. By now I could set a clock by it. Miss Adele and Miss Susie step out into the frost-tipped grass, Miss Susie yawning into the back of her hand.

"Good morning, Miss Susie, Miss Adele," I call out, my voice forming a cloud of mist in the cold air.

"Good morning, Lethe and Mint," Miss Adele replies.

Another zipper sounds. Miss Mousse steps out from her own tent, adjusting her gloves, her tails swaying in a sleepy rhythm behind her.

"Good morning, everyone…" Miss Mousse waves timidly. The sweet aroma of baked bread and whipped cream bubbles into the air. She turns her steps toward our portable stove, ready to start prepping our morning rations.

But before the sleepy serenity of the dawn can settle, a booming voice shatters the quiet.

"Good morning, team!"

Miss Grani bounds into the center of the campsite, vibrating with uncontainable morning energy.

Her eyes sparkle with dedication to justice. "Ready to hit the last two spots?"

I blink, overwhelmed by her enthusiasm before the sun has crested the hills. But relief warms my chest. Just two more potential sites to sweep, and then we're finally done hunting for Kazdelian contraband.

"Ready!" I declare.

Miss Mousse works her culinary magic in the field one last time. The portable camping stove hisses, and the frosty morning air of the plains fills with the rich aroma of melting butter and caramelized sugar.

I sit in my folding chair, my hands gripping the black shaft of my Arts Unit, entranced by the sizzling cast-iron skillet. With a flip of her spatula, Miss Mousse plates her final camp breakfast for us.

It's pan-fried toast, elevated to an art form. The thick slices of bread have been soaked in a rich egg batter until golden-brown and crisped at the edges. They're dusted with a snow-like layer of powdered sugar and drizzled with warm amber syrup that pools on the paper plates.

"This is so good, Miss Mousse," Lisa says. She takes a bite, her eyes closing in delight. Her sweetness blooms into the cold morning air again, and the campsite settles around it.

I don't have the words to speak. I nod in vigorous agreement, my cheeks puffed out as I chew. The pillowy center of the bread melts on my tongue, the syrup chasing away the damp chill of the plains.

Miss Mousse flinches at the praise, a rosy flush warming her cheeks.

"Eh heh. Thank you… I'm glad."

Once our plates are scraped clean, we fall into our practiced routine. We pack away the tents, collapse the portable stove, and load the logistics crates into the back of the ATVs.

With my bag strapped over my shoulder, I pause near the armored chassis of our vehicle, my staff held against my chest. I look out over the grass and the rocky ridges of the Victorian horizon.

We had survived a Catastrophe, uncovered a hidden Gaulish rebel cache, escaped a musical Arts slaughter, and avoided giant, glowing slime monsters.

"It's been fun, Ascarat," I murmur into my woolen scarf, letting out a wistful sigh. "But I really miss my plushies, and mom."

A few paces away, Podenco stops securing a terrarium and tilts her head, fixing me with a mischievous smirk.

"Plushies, then mom?" Podenco asks, letting out a sigh. "Miss Erika is going to be so sad when she hears that she ranks second to your stuffed animals."

I freeze, the blood draining from my face before rushing back in a hot flush that burns all the way up to the tips of my lopsided horns.

"What? No!" I gasp, waving my free hand in the air to dispel the accusation. "I love her with everything I have!"

Fabric rustles beside me. Lisa steps up to the ATV, her tails fanning out in a playful rhythm, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Awww…" Lisa chimes in, her voice dropping into a tragic pout. "Lethe doesn't love us, then?"

I stare at my two best friends. There's no tactical retreat from this combined ambush.

"You guys are just digging a hole for me!" I yelp, puffing my cheeks out as I glare at the two of them, then turn on my heel and march toward the passenger door of the ATV with as much dignity as I can muster. "I refuse to engage anymore!"

A chorus of laughter erupts across the morning camp, lifting the last of the shadows from my shoulders as I climb into the armored cabin, ready to go home.

The first location Miss Adele had pinpointed turns out to be a dud.

We had spent over an hour surveying a cluster of rocks, only for Mint and Miss Adele to conclude that it was a natural sinkhole devoid of hidden Gaulish rebel supplies.

We climb back into our vehicles and press on across the plains. By noon, our ATVs roll to a controlled halt near the final coordinates.

We dismount. The overcast sky hangs over the grassy hills, the wind carrying a chill. Miss Grani leads our strike team toward an imposing ridge of grey stone.

But before we reach the shadow of the rocks, Podenco stops, her eyes narrowing in concentration.

"Everyone," Podenco whispers, raising a hand to signal a dead stop. "There's voices."

We all pause in the tall grass. Miss Grani lowers her polearm into a ready stance, while Lisa steps closer to my side. Miss Mousse adjusts her gloves.

I let my empathic channels brush past the artificial data swirling within the halos and push my Arts forward, letting them seep into the damp air around the hidden cave entrance.

What hits the back of my tongue is devastating.

It tastes like chewing cold, rusted iron and swallowing wet, rotting ash — a vacuum of hopelessness, stripped of the fermented zealotry and adrenaline I tasted in the rebels back in that first cavern.

"I taste them," I whisper. "They're desperate…"

We move forward, our shoes stepping over the grass to avoid making a sound. As we approach the camouflaged entrance, the muffled voices from deep within the cavern become clear.

"This is the last cache," a woman's voice rings out, thick with exhaustion and a hollow despair. "The others… they're completely empty. Smashed to pieces."

An echoing silence follows her words, before a man's voice breaks the gloom.

"Did the Duke's forces find them?" he asks, his tone fraying with panic. "Are the patrols sweeping the county?"

"It could be…" the woman replies, her voice fracturing into a suppressed sob. "Viktor and Lucas never came back…"

The names drop into the cold air like an executioner's blade.

Beside me, Mint gasps, mint leaf and parchment spiking with horror. Her eyes blow wide, and she slaps both of her hands over her mouth, smothering the sound before it can echo into the cave and blow our cover.

Before the dread of the cavern can paralyze us, Miss Grani takes charge.

She doesn't hesitate. She steps right out of the tall grass, marching into the damp, shadowed entrance of the cavern.

"Stand down, citizens!" Miss Grani's voice rings out, commanding, echoing against the cave walls. She rests the bottom tip of her polearm on the ground and points her free hand toward the stunned figures. "I'm Mounted Police Officer Grani! We're officially confiscating and neutralizing this illegal contraband! Please step aside and do not resist!"

We file into the dim cavern behind her, fanning out into a cautious perimeter.

I keep myself tucked behind Lisa, peeking around her as my eyes adjust to the gloom.

There are three of them huddled near the stacks of reinforced crates. Two Felines, a male and a female, and a tall Vouivre male.

They're unarmed. They just look small, wearing soot-stained winter cloaks, their shoulders slumped with a bone-deep fatigue.

The three rebels stare at us in paralyzed shock. Their eyes dart from Miss Grani's polearm to the Arts Units in our hands, then sweep past Miss Adele and Miss Susie and land squarely on me.

Or more accurately, on my clothes.

Their eyes lock onto the oversized, dark grey jacket draped over my shoulders with RHODES ISLAND printed proudly.

The despair in the cavern sours into betrayal.

"Rhodes Island?" the Feline woman breathes out.

The Vouivre male steps forward, placing himself protectively in front of the two Felines. His hands clench into shaking fists at his sides as he glares at us.

"Why?" he spits out, his voice thick with a ragged anger. "Why is a pharmaceutical company acting as the Duke's lapdog?"

Miss Grani doesn't flinch at the venom in his voice. She tightens her grip on her polearm, though she keeps the blade pointed away from them.

"The weapons behind you," Miss Grani declares, her voice cutting through the air. "They're from the Military Commission of Kazdel. They're illegally imported, and we're here to destroy them."

I can't stay hidden behind Lisa anymore.

"Please. Listen to us," I beg, my voice trembling but echoing in the subterranean space. "They don't care about Gaul. They don't care who wins. The Military Commission is just sowing seeds of war to create more mercenary contracts for themselves! Stop this before you lose your lives! I beg you!"

The Vouivre man's eyes snap toward me. His despair combusts into hatred. He stares directly at the horns on my head and the tail behind my skirt.

"Quite the words coming from a devil herself," he snarls. "You think we don't know they're from your kind?"

They knew. They knew exactly who was funding their slaughter.

Beside me, Mint stutters in academic shock. She clutches her journal to her chest, her eyes wide.

"Then… why?" Mint asks, her voice a bewildered whisper. "If you know they're just using you… why would you take them?"

The Vouivre lets out a laugh with no humor in it — a hollow sound that rattles against the limestone walls.

"You think the Victorian aristocracy cares about any of us?!" he roars, his rage echoing off the walls. He points a soot-stained finger toward the cave exit, toward the plains. "Did you see what happened to Porte-Léon?! They say it was a tragedy! But how could they not see it coming? Victoria claims they have the absolute best Catastrophe Messengers in the world!"

"They didn't miss it…" the Feline man behind him adds. His ears are pinned flat, his voice a defeated rasp. "They just don't care. They just need bodies. Bodies for their factories, and bodies for their wars…"

They aren't fighting because they think they can win.

Miss Susie steps forward, her hands raised in a pleading gesture, her face tight with sorrow.

"Please…" Miss Susie pleads, her voice shaking as she looks at the three unarmed rebels. "Those weapons… they have exposed, raw Originium woven directly into the iron. Even if you don't fight, just carrying them will only spread Oripathy to everyone in your camps, your families…"

The Vouivre man doesn't blink. He stands tall.

"If Kazdel, if the devils are willing to give us weapons to burn the Victorians," he declares, his voice a vow in the dark, "I will gladly take them!"

The silence of the cavern presses down on us.

"This is our last cache…" the Feline woman adds. Her voice is barely a whisper, echoing against the wet stone. She slumps forward, her eyes vacant. "Without this, our rebellion is already dead… we are already dead…"

The Feline man beside her moves. He doesn't raise his hands to fight — he steps in front of the towering stack of crates, shielding the Kazdelian armaments with his own frail, soot-stained body.

"If you want to destroy the cache, you have to go through us!" he shouts, his voice cracking with defiance. His eyes burn with an accusatory glare that locks onto our uniforms. "You already killed Lucas and Viktor! What's three more bodies, right? The contract money must have been nice!"

Contract money? We had left that cave covered in their blood, weeping for people who had just tried to kill us.

"What? No!" The denial tears out of my throat as I take a step forward. "We didn't kill anyone!"

Beside me, Miss Adele steps ahead of our perimeter. Her hearth goes out under volcanic ash and sorrow.

"Viktor… accidentally killed Lucas when we told him the truth…" Miss Adele says. Her voice keeps its gentle melody, but it's weighed down. She looks at the three rebels, her eyes reflecting the dim light.

The Feline woman closes her eyes. A shuddering breath escapes her lips.

"He was always the unstable one…" she murmurs, her voice breaking into a sob. "But he never came back to us. And the Duke's patrols were crawling over the plains the morning after the storm."

She waits for an answer.

Miss Adele doesn't give one. Neither does anyone else.

When the Feline woman opens her eyes, the grief in them has sharpened into something condemning. She looks right at me, at the Rhodes Island Medic symbol on my thigh.

"And you just handed him to the Empire?" she demands, her voice trembling with fury. "Are you truly any better? Your company claims to try to heal Oripathy, to provide humanitarian relief. Then, what is this?"

She gestures toward the crates behind her, then to her own shivering frame.

"Do our lives not matter?!"

The question echoes against the damp limestone, ringing in my ears like a physical strike.

I stare at her, my mouth opening and closing. There's so much I want to tell her — about the Catastrophe storm, about the realities of our extraction, about how I threw my own mind into Viktor's freezing abyss to keep his shattered sanity from flatlining. I want to scream that we do care, that my friends stained their hands with Lucas's blood trying to save him.

But the words fail me. Standing in the cold dark, looking at three unarmed people, I have no counter.

Miss Grani lifts the dark-grey weapon and drives the blunt base into the damp cavern dirt.

The thud echoes against the limestone walls, drawing every eye in the cave.

"This has nothing to do with protecting the Duke or the aristocracy," Miss Grani declares. Her voice drops its bouncy cadence, replaced by a fierce sincerity. "We're here to protect the people. Victorians, Gallians, Infected, or otherwise."

She points her free hand at the stack of metal crates the Feline man is trying to shield.

"Those weapons are laced with raw, volatile Originium. Letting you wield them, letting you start a war that will only spread Oripathy and slaughter through the county, is something Rhodes Island and myself will never allow to happen. With or without an aristocrat's permission."

Miss Grani softens her stance a fraction.

"We're not the Duke's executioners, and we're not here to arrest you or hand you over to the patrols," Miss Grani promises, offering them a choice. "You can turn around right now and walk out of this cave. You can survive to find another way. But these Kazdelian weapons are staying here, and they're going to be destroyed."

The silence of the cavern returns. But the Feline man doesn't move from the crates, and the Vouivre doesn't lower his guard.

"Easy for you to say," the Vouivre says, his voice trembling into a hollow sneer.

He looks down at his own ragged hands.

"Walk out to what?" he demands, his voice fracturing into a wet rasp. "To break our backs in the Duke's factories? To slave away in the wheat fields for a few pounds? And then what? Just wait until the Empire drafts us and sends us to our deaths in Londinium anyway?"

"You don't have to!"

Mint steps out from behind Miss Adele's shadow.

"Join Rhodes Island! Join us!" Mint pleads, her voice echoing with innocent sincerity. "We have logistics departments, and agricultural teams! There's always a place…"

"You think we didn't try, young lady?" the Feline man interrupts.

His voice isn't angry anymore. It's just tired.

Mint freezes, her hope stuttering out.

The Feline woman leans against the crates, wrapping her winter cloak tighter around her shoulders. She looks at us, her eyes hollowed out.

"We walked to Lynncardine, near the Leithanian border, to access a branch…" the Feline woman says, her voice drifting like a ghost through the damp cave. "We didn't have the combat, medical, engineering, or logistical skills your company needs… nor do we know Arts… nor are we Infected…"

She lets out a trembling breath.

"After the medical and physical checks… they gave us some food and supplies and showed us the door."

The words drop into the cavern.

We all just stand there in the silence.

I look around the dim cavern at my friends. I look at Miss Adele, a brilliant Leithanian researcher capable of summoning volcanic eruptions. I look at Miss Susie, who wields unique electrical Arts. I look at Mint, an academic prodigy with vortex Arts, and Podenco, a master botanist who can synthesize complex neurotoxins in the field.

I look at Miss Grani, a trained Victorian Mounted Police officer. I look at Miss Mousse, a Guard hiding a severe Oripathy infection beneath her gloves. I look at Lisa, a nine-tailed Vulpo capable of projecting miraculous Foxfire Arts.

And then I look down at my own hands, gripping the black shaft of my custom-forged Arts Unit. I'm a Sarkaz Djall with Originium lodged in my brain, eating my memories, and I can change how everyone around me feels.

We look at each other in the cold, damp dark. We aren't the rule.

We're the exceptions.

I tighten my grip on my Arts Unit. I can't let my friends stain their hands with the blood of desperate people, and I can't let these rebels walk out of here carrying the iron that will get them all killed.

I take a deliberate breath and step past Miss Grani.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice trembling. "I'm so sorry. But I can't allow you to pick up weapons to kill others and yourselves."

I walk forward, closing the distance between our team and the stack of contraband.

"Lethe?" Lisa asks softly behind me.

I don't answer. I raise my staff. The misty blue liquid suspended within the matte black magnetic halos hums to life, swirling with a steady mechanical rhythm. I throw my empathic channels open, connecting my mind to the bitter air of the cave.

I dig into the curated memories anchored in my mind, reaching for a specific brand of resignation.

I summon the lethargy of sitting at the Rhodes Island cafeteria table, staring down at an unseasoned mountain of boiled broccoli and spinach that mom had mandated for my diet. I take that feeling of miserable defeat and layer it with the dread of facing one of Hibiscus's infamous, thick "nutritionally complete" health smoothies.

It's that feeling when you have no fight left in you — when you know you just have to sit there, give up, and swallow it anyway.

I project the wave of lethargy outward, forcing it into their minds to smother their suicidal adrenaline.

The effect is almost instantaneous. The air in the cavern shifts.

The hatred bleeds out of the Vouivre man. The ragged defiance locking the Feline man's spine dissolves, his muscles slackening.

Slowly, their defensive stances drop.

The Vouivre man's shoulders slump. He lowers his head, his arms hanging at his sides as he stares at the dirt.

"I don't care anymore," the Vouivre says. His voice is hollowed out, stripped of its venom. He waves a lethargic hand toward the crates of Kazdelian iron. "Just do whatever you want."

Behind him, the Feline man lets out a long exhale. He steps away from the stack of reinforced metal, abandoning the contraband he had sworn to protect with his own body.

"I'm going home," the Feline man mutters. He turns his back to the crates, his steps dragging against the stone floor as if his shoes are made of lead.

The Feline woman doesn't speak. She turns away from us, retreating to the darkest edge of the cavern, and slides down the damp wall until she hits the rock, pulling her knees loosely to her chest and huddling into her winter cloak, staring into the dark in defeated silence.

I look back to my team.

"Miss Grani, Miss Mousse," I say, my voice softening as I lower my staff a fraction. "Please, destroy the weapons and let's go home."

Miss Grani blinks, shaking her head as if trying to throw off a weight settling over her shoulders. Her brightness comes back sluggish, coated in a layer of phantom kale and pureed wheatgrass.

"Uhh… okay! Leave it to me," Miss Grani replies. She raises her polearm, though her usually effortless heft is delayed and confused. She smacks her lips, her ears twitching in bewilderment. "But… why do I suddenly taste Hibiscus's cooking?"

My empathic projection wasn't focused enough. In my rush to defuse the rebels, the area-of-effect had caught our entire strike team in the crossfire of my nutritional warfare.

"Eh?!" I snap the empathic channel shut, cutting off the broadcast of the smoothie. "Sorry! I stopped my Arts! There!"

Miss Grani lets out an exhale, her bubbly energy returning in a snap.

"Much better!" Miss Grani chirps, giving her polearm a confident twirl.

With the psychological friendly-fire ceased, Miss Grani and Miss Mousse get to work. Without the slugs to apologize to this time, the destruction is swift. The concussive smash of the polearm and the tearing screech of Miss Mousse's claws echo through the damp limestone. The crates are reduced to scrap, the Kazdelian iron crushed and buried beneath the cave's rubble.

Once the cache is neutralized, we step out of the damp shadows and back into the overcast daylight of the Victorian plains.

We stand near the entrance in quiet solidarity, watching the three would-be rebels trudge away into the tall grass. They don't look back. Their shoulders are slumped, their cloaks fluttering in the wind. They're empty, but they're alive. They'll survive to see another day, free from the slaughter the Military Commission had planned for them.

We walk back to where our two ATVs are parked, the melancholy of the cavern lifting as we go.

As we gather near the armored chassis to stow our gear, Mint walks over to me.

"What exactly did you do in there, Lethe?" Mint asks, her brow furrowing. "They just… completely gave up."

The rest of the team pauses their packing. Podenco, Lisa, Miss Susie, and Miss Adele all turn to look at me.

"I…" I mumble, my face burning to the tips of my horns. I stare down at the thick soles of my sneakers. "I pushed my feeling of lethargy when eating mom's vegetable mandates…"

They all go silent.

I poke my index fingers together, unable to meet my tutor and friends' eyes as I confess my unorthodox battlefield tactics.

"…and the absolute despair of drinking Hibiscus's nutritionally complete smoothies," I add, my voice dropping into a mumble. "I needed them to lose their will to die. And nothing makes you want to just sit down and give up more than a plate of unseasoned boiled spinach."

For a split second, nobody says anything.

Then Podenco lets out an incredulous snort. She slaps a hand over her mouth, but it's useless. A ringing laugh bursts out of her, echoing across the empty plains.

Beside me, Lisa's tails fan out in a fluffy wave as a musical giggle escapes her. Even Miss Adele covers her smile with her hand, her shoulders shaking.

"Well," Miss Susie muses, leaning against the ATV's chassis. "I suppose that's one way to save a life, Lethe."

"A highly effective, non-lethal psychological deterrent," Mint says, flipping her journal open to document the phenomenon. "I must make a note of this. Nutritional apathy as a form of combat suppression!"

I puff my cheeks out, glaring at my laughing friends.

We didn't have to fight. Nobody had to bleed.

"Let's just go home," I declare, pulling open the heavy passenger door of the ATV. "And hope mom doesn't actually find out I used her broccoli as a psychological weapon."

"Alright!" Miss Grani's voice rings out, bright and unbothered by the damp of the cave. She taps the screen of her communicator, a satisfied grin stretching across her face. "I've sent the coordinates to Rhodes Island and our Victorian contacts so they can come in to decontaminate the caves. You all did splendidly, team!"

In the driver's seat of our ATV, Miss Mousse lets out a soft exhale.

"Yay…" Miss Mousse whispers. "We can go home now."

We all climb into the armored cabins, pulling the seatbelts across our laps. The engines hum to life.

As the tires crunch against the dirt and we begin our long drive back toward the rendezvous coordinates, I lean my head against the cool glass of the passenger window.

I look at the Victorian plains one more time.

The grass rolls toward the horizon beneath the overcast sky. It looks so peaceful now. You'd never guess what was hiding underneath. My mind drifts back to the bruised sky over Porte-Léon, the weeping cello of Val-de-Lis, and the metallic stench of Lucas's blood pooling on the cold floor.

We didn't save everyone. There are people who died in the dark.

But then I think of the three soot-stained rebels walking away into the tall grass. They were defeated and exhausted, but they were breathing. They were going home instead of marching to their deaths with iron in their hands. I think of the shattered Kazdelian weapons buried under the rocks, neutralized before they could be used to set the county on fire.

We didn't save everyone. But we stopped a war that someone else was trying to start here.

That has to count for something.

As the ATV carries us away from the rocky ridges and back toward the safety of the landship, a quiet warmth settles in my heart. Beside me, Lisa radiates a sleepy comfort. I close my eyes, letting the rhythmic hum of the engine lull me into rest.

Maybe hurting people isn't the only way to fix things.