June, 1098

The screen of my slate casts a cool light across my face. I trace my thumb over the glass, eyes locked on the numbers in the corner.

10th of June, 1098.

I sink deeper into the mattress. Arranged around my pillows like an honor guard are my anchors: the soft brown Amiya bunny, the floppy-eared grey Rosmontis bunny, and the little squishy cake mom gave me. Resting over my legs is the oversized bulk of my shark plushie.

Leaning against the nightstand, within arm's reach, is my new Arts Unit, humming its mechanical heartbeat into the dark. Ms. Closure built something that sounds like it's breathing.

It's been quiet ever since Ms. Ascalon dragged me back from that high-speed detour through Siracusa.

The days have settled into an unbroken rhythm. My shifts in the Convalescent Garden are no longer interrupted by klaxons or an influx of bleeding refugees. Instead my afternoons are counting vials of Oripathy suppressants and organizing Miss Lena's dried herbs, while she and Podenco tend the soil and the roots. Whenever she isn't buried in Supporter drills or tutoring, Lisa pops into the sanctuary, tails swaying, and fills the humid, earthy air with her light.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Rhodes Island is at peace.

The landship feels lighter, too. An expedition team recently boarded one of the aircraft and departed for the rainforests of Sargon.

Doctor is gone, taking the bottomless void of his tactical mind with him. Ms. Blaze and Ceobe deployed as well, draining the corridors of Blaze's machine-grease fire and Ceobe's spicy hurricane. Ms. Gavial, Miss Utage, and Miss Croissant rounded out the squad, leaving the medical wings and the logistics bays unusually serene.

A giggle bubbles up as I think of Miss Croissant.

She had dropped by the medical wing a few days before the Sargon deployment to pick up her field kits. She tasted grounded—toasted grain, rich butter, and the satisfying clink of physical coins.

While I was handing over her bandages, she leaned over the counter and shared a piece of corporate gossip.

Apparently, when Miss Exusiai returned to the Lungmen branch without me, she was devastated. According to Miss Croissant, she spent an entire afternoon drafting a volatile tactical plan to blow a hole through Rhodes Island's armored hull, just so she could smuggle me into Lungmen for an apple pie date.

A shiver traced down my spine at the absurdity of it. I pictured her Arts projectiles tearing through the steel bulkheads of my dorm.

Thankfully, Miss Croissant laughed and assured me that Miss Texas had vetoed the explosive "rescue" with her deadpan authority. I silently thanked the ancient Feranmuts for her chilled, dark-chocolate pragmatism.

I press the power button on the side of my slate. The screen snaps to black, dropping the room back into the dim glow of the night cycle.

Sliding down against the pillows, I wrap my arms around the shark plushie and let my eyes fall shut.

I gasp, my cheek pressed against freezing steel.

I peel my face off the floorboards, groaning as a dull ache pulses at the base of my horns. The fleece lining of my kitten hoodie is gone, replaced by a chill that seeps into my bones.

Up onto my hands and knees, vision swimming, I look around.

This is not my dorm.

The corridor ahead is a narrow tunnel of raw dark metal. Industrial cables hang from unfinished ceiling panels like synthetic cobwebs. The lighting is dim, throwing bruised shadows across the scuffed floor grates. The air smells wrong—no clinical bleach, no ozone off the purifiers. It smells of stale grease, old dust, and damp iron.

I look at the bulkheads. The white paneling is missing. There are no blue tactical monitors, and no black-and-white Rhodes Island rook logo marking every intersection of our home.

It looks like the skeleton of a war machine.

"What's the rush, Lethia?"

The voice cuts through the dim hallway. I flinch, tail snapping rigid behind me, and whip my head around.

Standing a few paces away is a Liberi woman. I recognize the sharp eyes, the quiet and enduring strength. Ms. Raidian.

But she looks younger. Her uniform lacks the tactical tailoring I am used to seeing on the Elite Ops; it is rugged, utilitarian, worn at the edges. On my tongue she is sun-warmed linen and polished oak, steeped in the metallic tang of wartime fatigue.

Lethia?

"Ms. Raidian?" I try to ask. I want to ask her where mom is. I want to ask why the landship looks so broken.

But my jaw clenches. My throat tightens, hijacked by a force that is not my own. Terror spikes in my chest as my lips part, and a different set of words tumbles out.

"Think I slipped on the floor," my voice says.

It sounds like mine, but the cadence is wrong—casual, carrying a weary edge I do not have. My mouth keeps moving without my permission.

"Where's Ace? Raidian?"

Panic floods my skull.

Ace?

Amiya told me Ace died in Chernobog. I stood beneath the obsidian wall and read his name cut in silver. Why am I asking for him? Why can't I stop my own tongue?

Ms. Raidian lets out a huffing sigh. She shifts her weight, unaware of the panic trapped behind my eyes.

"He is with Theresa and Doctor in Theresa's office," Ms. Raidian replies, dropping the names into the dusty air like the most mundane update in the world. "Entelechia is there too."

Theresa. Entelechia.

The syllables feel alien on my tongue.

"Thanks, Raidian," my mouth says.

I try to force my jaw shut, to scream for mom, or Amiya, or anyone, but I am powerless—a prisoner locked behind these eyes.

Ms. Raidian lingers a second longer.

"Take care of yourself, Lethia." Her voice drops. "Passing out in the hallway isn't a good sign."

"I will."

Ms. Raidian nods and turns, her shoes clicking against the grated floor as she disappears down the unfinished tunnel of the skeletal landship.

The moment she is gone, my body starts to move.

I try to dig my heels into the floor, to command my legs to freeze, to turn around and run back to the medical wards, but my mind has no purchase on the muscles. I am walked down the dark industrial corridor.

We pass a reinforced observation window. The glass is smudged with dirt, but as we step into the pale light bleeding through the pane, it catches our reflection.

I stare at the glass. It is me, but it isn't. The person looking back is a woman. Her face carries the same soft lines, the same misty blue eyes I see in the mirror every morning. But the crown of horns jutting from her grey hair is even—a symmetrical pair of pureblood Djall horns, without the lopsided weight that pulls at my neck.

Who is this?

But Lethia doesn't linger on her reflection. Her attention drifts past the smudged glass to the world outside.

I look through her eyes.

It is a graveyard of the earth. Monoliths of dark stone pierce the bruised sky like broken teeth. The barren ground stretches away, choked with grey ash and dead brush. But the earth isn't just dead; it is infected. At the bases of the stone pillars the ground festers with active Originium, the crystals glowing a sick red-orange, pulsing like a dying heartbeat across the wasteland.

A land consumed by fire, rot, and Catastrophes.

Lethia raises a hand and presses her palm flat to the cold glass. Sorrow swells in her chest, so deep and so old that it bleeds into my own mind—a mouthful of freezing ocean water, rusted blades, and crushed petals.

"When will this war end," my mouth says. The voice cracks under the glowing monoliths outside.

"Theresis… Why. Why can we not have peace?"

The name drops into the heavy air like an executioner's blade. The grief attached to it hits critical mass in my chest.

The vision ruptures.

I bolt upright.

The sterile air of my Rhodes Island dorm rushes into my lungs in a ragged gasp. My chest heaves until my ribs ache. My knuckles are bone-white in the blankets. The kitten hoodie clinging to my frame is soaked through with cold sweat.

I am shaking.

Mom. I want mom.

I want to bury my face in her neck and let her chase the cold dead eyes of the ghost away.

I scramble off the mattress, legs tangling in the blankets, and hit the floorboards with a clumsy thud, bare feet scrambling for traction as I bolt toward the door of my dorm.

My hand slams against the control panel.

But as my fingers brush the cool glass of the sensor, I freeze.

My chest is still heaving, but a memory anchors my momentum. I remember the burnt-honey terror that came off mom when I finally got back from that high-speed detour through Siracusa with the Penguin Logistics couriers.

She had gripped me so tightly I thought my ribs would crack. For an entire month after that she didn't let me out of her sight, strung tight with an acid anxiety, certain the world was going to snatch me away again the moment she blinked.

I look down at my hand resting against the door panel.

If I wake her up right now, soaked in cold sweat, babbling about a ghost woman named Lethia and the names of people who don't exist anymore… she will panic. That protective terror will take her again. She'll drag me straight to the high-security quarantine ward, convinced my Oripathy is finally burning away the last pieces of my mind.

I can't do that to her. I can't be the reason she looks at me like that ever again.

My hand drops from the control panel. I force the hammering in my chest to slow.

I turn around, eyes locking onto the black Arts Unit resting against the nightstand.

Dr. Kal'tsit is the one who figured out how to keep me alive.

If anyone on this landship knows who Lethia is, if anyone knows why the dead wasteland of Terra is suddenly bleeding into me, it's her.

I don't bother changing out of my sweat-soaked kitten hoodie. I grab my Arts Unit and hit the panel.

The locks disengage with a quiet clank. I step out into the amber-lit corridors of the night cycle, turning away from the medical wing and marching toward the upper administrative decks to face the glacier.

The reinforced blast doors of Dr. Kal'tsit's office hiss apart before I raise a hand to the control panel.

The lighting inside is muted, the clinical glow of PRTS monitors. Seated behind her desk, walled in by physical documents and glowing screens, is Dr. Kal'tsit. She is awake. She always is.

She doesn't look up from the report she is annotating.

"Lethe. You should be sleeping. A developing body does not tolerate a broken sleep cycle."

I step over the threshold, the heavy metal panels sliding shut behind me with a clank.

I force my shaking legs to carry me to the edge of her desk. My kitten hoodie is still damp with cold sweat, clinging to my shoulders.

"Dr. Kal'tsit…" My voice barely makes it out. I pull the sterile, ozone-tinged air of her office deep into my lungs.

"Who are Lethia… Entelechia… Theresa, and Theresis?"

The scratching of her pen stops.

Dr. Kal'tsit goes still.

For a fraction of a second the impenetrable glacier of her presence fractures: crushed petals, centuries of bitter ash, cold stagnant rainwater.

But coiled beneath the grief is a spike of threat—a drawn blade and concentrated ozone—and the pressure in the room drops until the air is hard to breathe.

I shrink back, my tail snapping into a coil around my leg, pinned by the size of what is bleeding off her.

Then the storm is choked down and shoved back beneath the ice.

Dr. Kal'tsit lifts her head. Her eyes lock onto mine.

She just looks at me.

"Speak."

The command slices through the sterile air of the office. She does not raise her voice, but the single word carries the gravity of a collapsing star.

"What did you see."

Pulling the Arts Unit against my chest with both hands, I watch the liquid inside the matte black halos at its crest swirl in an erratic dance, matching my heart.

"I… I was asleep," I stammer. "But I wasn't in my dorm. I was standing in a hallway. It looked like Rhodes Island, but it was older. Stripped down to bare metal and hanging cables."

Dr. Kal'tsit remains still. She does not interrupt.

"Ms. Raidian was there," I continue, my breath hitching as the sorrow of the vision bleeds back into my chest. "She looked younger. And so tired. She called me Lethia."

I look down at my bare feet. A tear gets out before I can stop it. "I looked in the glass, Dr. Kal'tsit. The woman looking back… she had my face. She had my eyes. But her horns were symmetrical. It wasn't me, and I was inside her head. I felt everything she felt."

Looking back up, I meet her gaze.

"She asked Ms. Raidian where Ace was. Ms. Raidian said he was with… with Theresa, and Doctor, and someone named Entelechia. And then Lethia looked out the window at the burning wasteland, and she cried. She asked why Theresis wouldn't just let them have peace."

The office plunges into a silence I can hear.

The glacier in her hollows out. For one moment Dr. Kal'tsit looks unimaginably old.

She closes her eyes and lets out a measured breath.

"The Kazdelian artifact we issued held centuries of residual echoes." Her voice is a clinical hum that betrays nothing. "It was an external buffer: useless data fed to the Originium in your temporal lobe, sparing your own cognitive framework."

She opens her eyes and locks them onto my tear-stained face.

"What you experience now is not an external echo, Lethe. It is internal. It is your bloodline."

"My… bloodline?" My fingers tighten around my staff.

"Sarkaz purebloods of ancient lineages, the Djall among them, resonate with Originium." She stands up from her desk and folds her hands behind her back. "It is a conduit, not only for Arts but for genetic memory. The crystals in your brain burn your neural pathways for fuel, and unearth the ancestral echoes dormant in your blood."

Dr. Kal'tsit steps around the edge of her desk. The freezing pressure of her presence returns, pressing down on the room.

"I have suspected this since Caladria pulled you from the rubble of that Kazdelian town," Dr. Kal'tsit says, her tone the strike of a gavel. "Your age, the coordinates of retrieval, your Djall traits. I could not ignore the probability."

She stops a few paces away from me.

"You are Lethia's biological daughter."

My knees buckle under it.

A mother.

The woman in the glass, with that old and crushing sorrow. She wasn't just a ghost. She was my mother, and she had stood in the skeletal halls of an older landship alongside the people who protect me now.

"Dr. Kal'tsit…" I choke out. "If she was here… if she knew Ms. Raidian and Doctor… where is she?"

"She is a casualty of a war that ended long before you woke up," Dr. Kal'tsit replies. The truth drops into the sterile air and cuts away the hope I had conjured.

Before I can process the grief of losing a mother I never knew, Dr. Kal'tsit steps into my space. The temperature in the room drops. The shadow of Mon3tr does not manifest, but the intent behind it hangs over my shoulders.

"Listen to me carefully, Lethe." Her voice drops into something smooth and lethal.

"You will never speak of this vision again."

I flinch, shrinking back into the collar of my hoodie.

"You will not mention Lethia to Raidian. You will not ask Doctor about Entelechia. You will never utter Theresa or Theresis to Amiya, Caladria, or anyone else on this landship."

She leans down a fraction, until her eyes are the only thing in the world.

"Those names belong to Babel—to a blood-soaked past that tore our predecessor organization apart. The grief attached to them is a powder keg. Speaking them brings no closure. It wounds the veterans who survived that slaughter and draws lethal scrutiny onto you."

She holds my gaze for a long second.

"Do I make myself clear, Lethe?"

"I understand… I won't, Dr. Kal'tsit," I say, and it is barely more than a tremor in the office.

Dr. Kal'tsit stays silent. She watches me, a pillar of white fabric and freezing stillness. The pressure in the room recedes, banking from an active threat back into the cold baseline of her usual presence.

But as the terror fades, a hollow ache opens in my chest.

Lethia.

My biological mother.

The foundation of my world tilts, the digital anchors I built so carefully on my slate shifting under it.

"Dr. Kal'tsit…" I lift my head and force myself to meet those steady eyes. "Is mom… I mean, Erika… is she still my mom, if Lethia was my mom?"

The question hangs in the office.

Dr. Kal'tsit does not answer immediately.

"What do you believe, Lethe?" Dr. Kal'tsit asks.

I close my eyes. I think back to two months ago, when Ms. Ascalon dragged me home from that high-speed detour through Trieste.

I remember the moment mom hauled me out of the transport—the desperation in her voice as she cried out my name and fractured into a ragged, wet sob, the honey closing over me as she crushed me against her, burying her face in my jacket, shaking because she thought she had lost me.

She didn't care about my bloodline. She didn't care about the Originium eating my mind. She just cared about me.

I open my eyes.

"Erika… is mom."

Dr. Kal'tsit gives a slow nod.

"Biological lineage dictates your genetic origin, Lethe—inherited data, ancestral resonance," Dr. Kal'tsit says, in that academic cadence of hers. "It explains the shape of your horns and your empathic Arts. It does not define your anchors."

She folds her hands behind her back, ears twitching.

"A family is not a biological right. It is forged—deliberate action, shared trauma, mutual preservation," Dr. Kal'tsit continues. "Caladria chose to pull you from the ruins. She chose to endure your rehabilitation. The ghosts of Babel do not invalidate her title. She earned it in the present."

The weight that had been pressing down on my shoulders dissolves. Dr. Kal'tsit is right. My life is here.

"Thank you, Dr. Kal'tsit."

"Your gratitude is unnecessary. Compliance with your medical parameters is what is required." She gestures toward the blast doors. "The hour is late, and your cognitive baseline has been agitated enough. Return to your dorm and sleep. I expect an acceptable baseline at 0830."

"Yes, Dr. Kal'tsit."

I hold my Arts Unit against my chest and step backward. The reinforced panels hiss apart and let me out of the clinical cold of her office. As the doors seal behind me with a clank, I let out a long exhale.

I make my way down the amber-lit corridors of the landship.

The cold steel of the corridor fades as I slip back into the quiet safety of my dorm. I lean my black Arts Unit against the nightstand, the liquid in its halos glowing faintly in the dark. I climb onto my mattress, pull the blankets around my still-damp hoodie, and crash into a dreamless void.

"Lethe! Sleepyhead. You are going to be late to work."

A gentle shake on my shoulder pulls me out of sleep. I blink against the white glare of the daylight simulation cycle.

I bolt up, the blankets tumbling off my chest. "Mom?!" I gasp, rubbing my eyes. "What time is it?"

Mom stands beside my bed, already dressed in her translucent tactical coat, arms crossed loosely over her chest, thoroughly amused.

"0800." Mom taps her wrist terminal. "Your shift starts at 0830, remember? You don't want to be late, do you?"

The Convalescent Garden! Miss Lena will have my tail if I leave her and Podenco to run the morning routines alone. I throw the covers off my legs, bare feet hitting the floorboards.

"Oh no! Mom, I need to shower!" I yelp, grabbing for the clean uniform I laid out on my chair.

Mom chuckles, but her eyes narrow a fraction. She reaches out and peels a few damp, tangled strands of hair off my forehead.

"Sure you do." She stops teasing. "Your hair is plastered to your face. You are not sick, are you?"

An anxious jolt hits me. The cold sweat that soaked through my hoodie after the vision tries to surface—the ghost of the skeletal landship, the sorrow of the woman in the glass, the names I am forbidden to speak.

I push the thought down and lock it behind a door, just as Dr. Kal'tsit commanded. I can't let mom worry.

I smile before the alarm can finish blooming, heading off the acid spike at her edges.

"No… mom, I'm all good," I promise, giving her a firm nod as I grab my towel. "Just slept too warm in my hoodie! I'll be ready in ten minutes, I swear!"

I scramble into the bathroom and turn the dial, eager to beat the clock. The hot water runs over my shoulders and melts away the clammy residue of the night cycle. I scrub myself clean, letting the warm spray and the mild soap anchor me back to the present. Exactly ten minutes later I step out, wrapping myself in a towel as the steam billows into the dorm.

I pull on my white turtleneck, dark pleated skirt, and stockings, making sure the black monitor collar sits square around my throat. Then I sit on the edge of my bed.

Mom is waiting. She steps behind me with a soft towel and a hairbrush. This is our daily routine. She dries my hair, her touch gentle, and as she starts to brush, her fingers navigate around the hypersensitive bases of my horns.

The air in the dorm is saturated with her. Anchored by the strokes of the brush and the safety of her honey, I can almost believe the dark abyss of Terra is far away.

"Thank you, mom."

The brush pauses. "What's that for, Lethe?" she asks, her tone tilting into a gentle, affectionate perplexity.

I lean my head back a little, resting it against her, still dizzy with the relief of waking up in this room with her watching over me.

"Just thank you for always being here for me."

Mom lets out a breathy chuckle that vibrates against my shoulders. She resumes brushing, smoothing down the strands of my asymmetrical fringe so it frames my face.

"Of course," she says, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. "You are my little Lethe after all."

She gives my hair one final brush and steps back, hands on her hips, the soft feathers near her temples fluffing up.

"Well. Off you go." She points a firm finger toward the door. "Grab a bread roll at the cafeteria first. No skipping breakfast."

I slide off the mattress, grab my Arts Unit from the nightstand, and give her my most obedient smile.

"I wouldn't dare."

Once I'm out of my room I sprint down the hallway and burst into the bright, bustling cafeteria, making a targeted tactical strike on the bakery display.

I snatch a warm red bean roll and pivot toward the neon-lit corner housing Ms. Closure's overpriced vending machines. I slap my ID card against the scanner, justifying the exorbitant internal credit charge because the sweet milk tea that drops into the tray with a heavy thunk is technically milk, which makes it a one-hundred-percent mom-approved breakfast beverage. I convince myself.

With breakfast secured and my new Arts Unit under my arm, I jog the rest of the way to the medical wing.

The doors of the Convalescent Garden hiss apart. Humid air washes over me, carrying damp soil and crushed leaves. I step onto the polished floor tiles, tail swishing in a hurried, apologetic rhythm as I take an eager bite of the sweet roll.

"You are exactly one minute late, Lethe."

The melodic voice floats through the canopy. Miss Lena stands near her botanical workstation, a pair of pruning shears resting in her hands. She looks up at the digital clock mounted near the environmental controls and lets out an exaggerated sigh.

Her warm lavender and steeped chamomile ripples with a playful spark of carbonated sweetness. "Oh dear," Miss Lena continues, shaking her head with flawless disappointment. "I suppose as your manager I have to dock your pay today."

My eyes blow wide. The panic of losing my precious plushie-and-pastry funds paralyzes me.

"Mmph!" I yelp.

I can't form a single coherent word of defense. My cheeks are stuffed to capacity with soft dough and thick, sweet red bean paste. I wave my free arm in the air, my other hand juggling the sleek black shaft of my Arts Unit and the cold can of milk tea, trying to convey my deepest apologies through uncoordinated flailing.

"She looks exactly like a Zalak trying to hoard food for the winter."

A cheeky voice chimes in. Podenco pops her head up from behind a dense row of blooming ferns and rests her chin on her hands, ears twitching as she watches my panicked, cheek-bulging distress.

The air in the greenhouse bubbles. "If you drop a single crumb of that on my newly sprouted moss, Lethe, I'm making you re-pot the entire western flowerbeds."

I let out another muffled whine, chewing as fast as my jaw will allow and shaking my head to promise I won't drop anything.

Miss Lena lowers her shears. The teasing tension in the sanctuary melts back into her usual warmth. A radiant smile breaks across her face, her tail swishing thoughtfully.

"Take a breath." She gestures toward the crescent wooden benches. "Finish your breakfast first, Lethe. The work can wait."

I swallow the last sweet bite of the red bean roll and chase it with a long gulp of milk tea, then wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve, proud that I haven't dropped a single crumb onto Podenco's floor tiles.

The doors of the garden hiss apart again, and a familiar, grounded flavor hits: roasted seeds and dry, sun-baked hay.

Miss Beanstalk strides down the path. "Good morning, Lethe," she calls out, offering a bright, energetic wave.

"Good morning, Miss Beanstalk!" I wave back.

Then an opportunistic spark ignites in my chest. I spin around on the bench, point a dramatic, accusing finger at her, and turn my wide eyes on Miss Lena.

"Miss Lena, look! She's even later than I am!" I puff my cheeks out with righteous indignation. "If my pay is going to be docked for being one minute late, she should be in the negative by now!"

Miss Lena simply smiles into her hand.

Miss Beanstalk stops dead in her tracks. She plants her hands on her hips and flashes me a confident smirk. "Excuse me now, Lethe," she counters, buzzing with unbothered pride. "Technically, I am my own manager. And for the record, I was with Flamebringer and Myrrh on official garden business."

I blink and lower my accusing finger. I know those names. Mr. Flamebringer is the battle-hardened Sarkaz swordsman who, despite his combat record, spends his downtime meticulously pruning the greenhouse flowers. And Myrrh is the quiet young Medic whose knowledge of rare medicinal herbs rivals even Podenco's. If she was with them, it was official business.

My defiant posture collapses. I duck my head into the collar of my oversized jacket, tail giving a sheepish twitch against the bench. "Sorry…" I mumble into the fabric.

Miss Beanstalk lets out a bright laugh, and my embarrassment goes with it. "It's okay, Lethe!" She steps closer to her nursery pen to check on the crustaceans. "Just don't miscount the feed for my lovely little crabbies today, and we'll call it even!"

I straighten my spine and take up my Arts Unit, giving her a resolute nod.

"I won't!" I promise, ready to defend the medical supply chain, and the crab feed, with my best effort.

The morning cycle marches toward noon, and the simulated sunlight filtering through the frosted glass canopy grows warm and heavy.

The day has been mercifully standard. Between counting out the minerals for Miss Beanstalk's metal crabs and sorting vials with Podenco, I have been tending the steady trickle of Operators filtering into the sanctuary. Most of them aren't carrying the bleeding nightmares of an active warzone today. They are just exhausted.

I sit on one of the wooden benches, hands resting around the black shaft of my new Arts Unit, and open the empathic channel. Skimming the surface of their minds the way Amiya taught me, I pull away the aching flavors of frayed nerves, stiff joints, and the stale, dusty taste of bureaucratic stress. I siphon the edge off, Miss Lena pours them a warm cup of steeped chamomile, and they are all good to go.

"Thank you, Lethe."

I sever the invisible tether and open my eyes. Sitting across from me on the crescent bench is a stoic Forte woman with light brown hair. Her broad shoulders relax, the defensive tension melting out of her spine.

"Anytime, Ms. Mercury." I smile at her.

Ms. Mercury stares down at the steaming porcelain teacup in her hands. She tastes of worn leather and polished iron.

"You know," she says, her low voice barely carrying over the rustle of the broad-leafed ferns. "When they first told me we had a little Djall that could make the pain feel easier to deal with… I didn't believe them."

She lifts her head, her light blue eyes locking onto mine with an unwavering sincerity.

"But you really saved me back in the Chernobog-Lungmen crisis."

"I am glad," I tell her softly.

I look at her face, at the sturdy set of her jaw and the Rhodes Island emblem stitched onto her uniform.

I don't remember her at all.

But the girl I used to be pulled this woman out of a nightmare. Even if my mind is empty, the people I saved are still standing in the light. If I helped her, I am happy.

"Well." Ms. Mercury reaches over and sets her teacup down on the table with a definitive clink.

She pushes herself up from the bench, the stoic lines of her face giving way to an amused smirk as she takes in my frame swimming inside my jacket.

"Thanks again." She turns to leave, then pauses, throwing a teasing glance over her shoulder. "Be sure to eat more. You didn't get any taller in two years."

"I am trying!" I pout, my tail snapping up to thump against the wooden slats of the bench. "Mom makes me eat steamed vegetables every single day!"

Ms. Mercury lets out a low chuckle that carries up through the greenhouse canopy, gives me one last respectful nod, and turns on her heel.

"See you, Ms. Mercury," I call out, watching her navigate the winding path and step out through the doors.

I let out a soft sigh, my fingers tracing the smooth black shaft of my Arts Unit. It hums under my hand, anchoring me in the brief lull of the morning cycle.

But before I can sink into the quiet comfort of the bench, the doors slide apart.

The earthy, humid air of the sanctuary is overwhelmed. A wave of sugar and sunshine washes over me.

"Hi, everyone!"

Lisa comes down the winding stone path, her nine fluffy tails fanning out behind her in a joyous blur. Her eyes sparkle with that unyielding optimism as she skids to a halt near the center of the garden.

I sit up straighter. "Hi, Lisa!"

A few paces away, Podenco pops her head up and wipes a stray smudge of nutrient soil from her gloves. "Hey, Lisa. Finished your morning drills already?"

"I did!" Lisa beams, clasping her hands together in front of her skirt. She rocks back on her heels, eyes going between the two of us. "Lethe, Podenco, do you want to have lunch together?"

Podenco glances up at the digital clock mounted near the environmental controls, then stretches her arms high above her head until her shoulders pop.

"Sure." She steps away from the planter boxes. "It's almost lunch break anyway. I could use a break from calibrating the soil acidity."

"You girls can go now, if you want."

Miss Lena rises from her chair, her pruning shears resting in her apron pocket.

I look between the digital clock and Miss Lena. "Wait, really? But we still have ten minutes left on the shift!"

"Of course, dear. You have both worked wonderfully this morning. Go on and enjoy your meals. The garden will be perfectly fine," Miss Lena replies.

"Okay! Thank you, Miss Lena!" I chirp. I don't waste a single second, scrambling off the bench and reaching down for the dark shaft of my Arts Unit.

Podenco unfastens her gardening apron and tosses it neatly over the back of a chair. "Let's go, Lethe. Lisa," she calls out, her tail wagging as she falls into step beside Lisa.

I hurry down the path. We wave one last, grateful goodbye to Miss Lena before stepping through the hissing doors, leaving the humid sanctuary behind and marching into the corridors toward the promise of lunch.

We pass an observation window in the hallway.

The world outside is desolate—an ocean of shifting, bruised-grey dust and barren peaks that stretch endlessly toward an overcast sky. But what holds my gaze is the colossal structure half-buried in the center of the wasteland.

It is a skull. A bleached white skull with hollow, cavernous eye sockets and a sweeping, elongated snout that dwarfs the mountains behind it. Its spine arches out of the dead earth like a broken bridge, the ribs jutting into the air like the spears of a fallen army. A flock of tiny white birds circles the rotting monolith.

"Where are we?" I ask.

Podenco pauses beside me and stares out at the sweeping dunes. "I think this is called the Bleached Wasteland." Her ears droop a fraction. "It sits right in the dead center, between Bolívar, Columbia, Sargon, and Minos."

"That's probably a Feranmut's remains," Lisa adds, stepping up to my other side, her tails giving a slow, subdued sway. "My tutors were talking about Feranmuts just last week. It looks exactly like the archival sketches they showed me."

A dead Feranmut, left to rot in the open air. A shiver goes down my spine and sinks deep into my bones.

"What happened here?" I ask, unable to tear my eyes away from the hollow sockets of the colossal skull.

"No one is too sure," Podenco replies, shaking her head slowly. "We won't be able to enter it. We are just skimming its outer borders. Constant Catastrophes haunt this place; the Originium density is a nightmare. In Columbian folklore, they believe it's where Gaulish restorationists hide underground… and where they buried their dead king after the war."

"I see…" I murmur.

Podenco claps her hands together, a crisp sound that breaks the melancholy of the corridor.

"Enough sightseeing." She grabs my free hand. "Let's get lunch before the logistics teams take all the good stuff. Staring at old bones isn't going to fill our stomachs!"

"Podenco is right!" Lisa adds. "Come on, Lethe!"

I let them pull me away from the window, willing to turn my back on the Bleached Wasteland.

The double doors of the cafeteria hiss apart, and the change hits at once. The air is thick, humid, and perfumed with a mouth-watering clash of spices, roasted meats, and caramelized sugar. The clatter of trays and the exhausted but relaxed chatter of the Operators washes over us in a comforting wave.

I take a deep breath, and my stomach gives a loud, demanding rumble that makes Podenco snicker.

"What's today's spread?" I ask, up on my tiptoes to peek over the heads of the towering Defenders in the serving line.

"Well," Podenco hums, pointing toward the sprawling row of hot plates and glass display cases. "Since we're bordering four different territories, the culinary teams went all out. We have Minoan, Sargonian, Columbian, and Bolívarian cuisines today."

I look toward the Minoan station, where platters of flaky, honey-drenched pastries layered with crushed walnuts sit beside savory olive-oiled salads. Next to it the Sargonian grill sizzles, the air thick with the smoke of roasted skewers and rich, earthy spices. The Columbian section is a mountain of golden deep-fried comforts and thick, stacked sandwiches.

And then my gaze locks onto the Bolívarian display. Tucked behind the glass are rows of warm golden-fried dough, dusted in cinnamon and sugar, resting right beside steaming bowls of thick melted caramel meant for dipping.

"Oh…" I breathe out, my tail thumping against the floor. The dead gods and buried kings of the wasteland are forgotten. "I think I need a tray. A really, really big tray."

Podenco grabs my arm and drags me toward the Bolívarian display case.

"You have to try these, Lethe!" She points through the glass. "Back home you can find these at almost every single street market."

She gestures toward a platter of thick, savory pockets made from grilled corn dough, split open and stuffed with slow-roasted shredded meat and melting fresh cheese. Right next to them sits the mountain of golden-fried dough sticks I had been eyeing earlier.

I don't need any further convincing. I happily load my tray with a bit of everything.

By the time the meal is over, I am immobilized. I lean back against the blue plastic chair and let out a long, contented groan. My tail drops dead.

"I am completely full." The rich, savory corn dough and the sugary caramel have defeated me.

I haul myself upright.

"Well. Lisa, Podenco, it's Archives time for me now," I announce, offering them both a warm smile. "See you two for dinner?"

"Sure. See you, Lethe," Podenco replies, happily wiping a stray crumb from her chin.

"Say hello to Miss Eyja for us, Lethe!" Lisa calls out as she waves goodbye.

I wave back and turn away from the chaotic clatter of the dining hall.

The step into the Archives is, as always, a jarring but welcome relief. The air cools, scrubbed clean of roasted meat and sugary syrup, replaced by the hushed scent of dry parchment, binding glue, and quiet preservation. I navigate the labyrinth of towering bookshelves.

I find her at our usual secluded wooden table. Miss Adele sits quietly, her magnifying glass hovering over a sprawling, detailed geologic map, the dormant hearth fire of her radiating into the quiet aisle.

"Good afternoon, Miss Adele," I whisper, pulling out the chair across from her and resting my staff against the edge of the table.

Before Miss Adele can lift her head to return the greeting, the hush of the library breaks.

Rapid, uncoordinated footsteps echo sharply down the aisle.

A new flavor hits the back of my tongue: crisp printed parchment, sweet mint leaves, and the buzzing static of academic panic, like a thoroughly shaken tea soda. It tastes exactly like someone who has been staring at a library catalog for three days straight without blinking.

A Feline girl stumbles into view, carrying a teetering stack of heavy books far too large for her frame.

She loses her balance. Her foot catches on the floorboards, and she lets out a sharp, breathless squeak.

She pitches forward and lands full-length on our table with an echoing thud. The stack erupts. Heavy volumes, loose parchment, and rolled-up maps scatter across the wooden surface, burying Miss Adele's meticulous geologic charts in an avalanche of literature.

She scrambles back up out of the sprawling mess of academic texts.

Her oversized black jacket, accented with bright teal straps and striking white cross patterns, swallows her frame. Her pale ash-green hair is disheveled from the impact, and her wide blue eyes are blown out in mortification. She fumbles to adjust the hardcover book still clutched under her arm.

"Sorry! I'll clean it up!" she gasps, her voice a high-pitched squeak that echoes down the hushed aisle.

The flavor of the library spikes, the parchment and mint vibrating with embarrassment.

My Arts Unit has clattered to the floor under the avalanche. I pick it up and lean it against the leg of the wooden table.

"Uhm… I'll help…" I pick up one of the scattered books.

Miss Adele doesn't look the least bit upset that her meticulous geologic charts have been buried. She offers a forgiving smile and leans over to help us gather the scattered maps and books.

Between the three of us, we stack the fallen literature back into a neat, towering pile on the edge of the table.

Her shoulders slump as the frantic static in her smooths out into a relieved hum, and she clutches her own heavy book against her chest.

"Thank you for helping me clean up all these books!" she breathes out, giving us a deeply apologetic, flustered bow.

"It's okay," I reply, brushing a speck of dust from my skirt. I tilt my head up at those wide blue eyes. "Uhm… my name is Lethe, what's yours?"

"Oh, my codename is Mint. Or Eleanor. Whichever you prefer," she answers, her ears twitching nervously.

Then she freezes. She leans forward, her eyes darting to the horns on my crown and the Rhodes Island Medic jacket draped over my shoulders.

"Wait. Lethe. You're Lethe?" Mint asks, her voice pitching up in surprise.

I blink, my tail giving a slow, uncertain swish behind me. "Yes?"

"Skyfire mentioned you before!" Mint exclaims, her face lighting up.

I have never met Ms. Skyfire since I lost my memories, but the old me definitely cherished her quite a lot.

"Ms. Skyfire did?" I ask, my eyes widening with curiosity.

"Yes!" Mint nods, the last of her clumsy panic melting into starry-eyed admiration. "Skyfire is an alumna from my university back in Victoria. She graduated soon after I entered—she skipped a year—but she still looked after me…"

Mint pauses, her expression softening into something grateful. "Oh, speaking of! She's also the one who introduced me to Rhodes Island! It's thanks to her I'm receiving treatment here."

Mint turns to Miss Adele, sitting quietly at the table, her head tilting. "And you are?" she asks.

Miss Adele folds her hands over her geologic maps and smiles. "Eyjafjalla. Or Adele."

Mint's jaw drops.

"Oh! Miss Eyjafjalla!" Mint gasps, her soft black Feline tail swishing in a joyous blur. "Skyfire mentioned you as well! I am studying geology too! Heheh! I am so lucky!"

"It will be delightful for you to join us," Miss Adele says. "We can share our studies. There is still so much I don't know about volcanoes and Catastrophes. Want to have a seat with us, Mint?"

Mint doesn't hesitate. She pulls out the wooden chair beside me and sits, her posture snapping to academic attention.

"Of course! Miss Eyjafjalla, what were you studying today?" Mint asks.

Miss Adele shifts the scattered books aside, uncovering the geologic map she had been examining before the literary avalanche. "Since we are near the Bleached Wasteland, I was looking at intercepted field reports from the Maylander Foundation's Exploration Society."

I blink, tilting my head. "Uhm… what is the Maylander Foundation?"

"They are an NGO with quite a lot of sub-divisions in Columbia," Mint says.

"That is correct," Miss Adele agrees. She taps a shaded, desolate region on the map. "So, Lethe. Mint. The wasteland is an environment covered by grey salinized sand, eroded landforms, and fossils of giant creatures."

I stare at the map, my mind flashing back to the colossal bleached skull I'd seen through the observation window half an hour ago.

"People believe them to be dead Feranmuts," Miss Adele says. "But no one is sure."

Mint leans over the table, her blue eyes scanning the topographical lines. "The region is so prone to constant Catastrophes." Her brow furrows.

"But we never understand why! The meteorological data just doesn't align with standard Originium accumulation models."

Miss Adele nods. "Yes. But the Maylander report is interesting. We always thought the region was part of the great lakes that dried up millennia ago. But Maylander uncovered buried ruins beneath the salinized sand that look to be associated with the Sarkaz Royal Court."

The words make me blink. Sarkaz Royal Court. The blood-stained lineage of my own kind.

I lean forward over the map again, tracing the faded borders from the desolate stretch of the Bleached Wasteland eastward across the scarred landmass of Terra.

"But…" I tilt my head. "Kazdel is nestled right between Siracusa, Rim Billiton, Ursus, Laterano, and Yan… It's halfway across the continent."

"Exactly!" Mint exclaims. "That's why the region is always such a mystery." She gestures at the open pages. "Constant Catastrophes with no observable geological causes. And now, ancient Sarkaz ruins buried thousands of kilometers away from Kazdel. It breaks our historical and geological models."

I sit back in my chair, remembering something from earlier.

"Podenco told me," I pipe up, looking between the two researchers. "She said there are Columbian folktales that claim Gaulish restorationists hide out there in the wasteland. Is it true? Are they causing the Catastrophes with weapons, like the Witch King?"

The academic tension at the table breaks. Miss Adele's composure goes with it, folding into a melodic laugh she doesn't bother to hide—roasted chestnuts, a dormant hearth fire.

"No, Lethe," Miss Adele smiles. "That's just folktales. Sometimes people invent stories to explain what they treat as unexplainable. It's easier to blame the ghosts of a fallen empire than to admit we simply don't know."

She rests her hand over the geological map, her gaze turning determined. "And that is exactly why we study. So we understand why, instead of just being afraid of the dark."

Beside me, Mint nods, her hair bouncing around her shoulders.

"Sarkaz must have some folklore on the region, right?" Mint asks. "Sometimes folktales are based on historical truths. Do you know any stories about the Wasteland, Lethe?"

"Sorry…" My shoulders slump, my focus dropping to the wood of the table. "I… I don't remember anything before February this year."

Mint's academic excitement stalls and sours—wilted mint leaves and damp paper. "Oh…" she breathes out. "I'm so sorry, Lethe, I didn't…"

"No! Don't worry!" I lift my head and give her the brightest smile I have, pushing back against her distress.

I wake the slate and open my curated My Life folder, holding the glowing glass out so she can see the neat rows of profiles, pictures, the pillars of my existence.

"I write everyone down here so I don't forget anyone," I say, showing her the digital fortress I built to protect my anchors. I tap the screen to create a new entry right below Ms. Skyfire's.

My thumbs fly across the keyboard. "Mint. Eleanor," I narrate aloud as the white text appears. I type the next line. "Clumsy geologist."

The wilted taste vanishes in a hot, carbonated rush of embarrassment.

"Hey!" Mint yelps, her hands flying up in a flustered wave. "I am trying my best! The books were just really heavy!"

A soft giggle echoes from the other side of the table. Miss Adele covers her smile with her hand.

"Now, now, you two," Miss Adele chimes in. "Let's leave the teasing for later. We still have several tectonic fault lines and Originium pressure triggers to review."

I chuckle and slip my slate back into my bag.

I lean my chin on my hands, listening as the two geologists discuss Catastrophe formations, atmospheric Originium triggers, and the mechanics of the world outside our landship.

Time flies fast in the Archives.

My calendar tells me it is the 20th of June, 1098.

I make my way down the corridors, hungry for breakfast. Mom had already been pulled away for an early shift in the medical wards, leaving me to navigate the morning cycle on my own.

I adjust my grip on my Arts Unit. The liquid suspended within the two halos swirls with my steps, humming with a steady mechanical heartbeat. A physical anchor in the quiet corridors.

As I near the entrance of the cafeteria, the corridor widens into a logistics staging area. I slow. A group of Operators is huddled near a stack of reinforced cargo crates, their voices hushed but buzzing with restless energy.

"Have you guys heard?" a Liberi logistics operator says, leaning in to his two companions. He gestures at the screen of his digital slate. "Engineering recently sent drones to the Londinium outskirts. Apparently we're planning to intervene in the Londinium crisis now."

"What happened out there?" the Phidia Operator beside him asks. She gasps, her hands flying up to cover her mouth.

Londinium. Ms. Skyfire's home. The occupied capital of the Victorian Empire.

I know what mom would do if she were here. She would turn me around, gently but firmly, pressing my face into her coat to shield me from the world's cruelty. She would tell me to focus on her and look away.

But mom isn't here. And the need to understand the dark Terra my friends keep fighting to shield me from overrides my obedience.

I wedge myself into the shadowed gap between the bulkhead and the cargo. Moving as quietly as I can, I climb the stack of metal crates, using the reinforced latches as footholds, until I can peek over the Liberi operator's shoulder at his slate.

What I see is simply… the end of the world.

The drone footage does not show a city. It shows a wasteland.

The earth has been scorched and torn into towering spikes of dark Originium. Scattered across the hellscape, dominating the valleys, are the skeletal remains of colossal Victorian warships. Their hulls are torn in half, insides exposed, embedded in the dead earth like discarded toys.

The camera pans over the ash-choked plains: rusted cross-shaped structures dotting the ground, barbed wire littering the dark dirt. There is no sign of life. Just the smoking corpses of an empire's military might, resting under a bleeding sky.

My hands shake. Cold copper and scorched iron flood the back of my mouth.

This isn't just a battlefield. It is a graveyard of titans. And it is the nightmare Amiya, Doctor, and the Elite Ops are preparing to walk into, barely a week after the Sargon team came home.

"Woah, miss. Don't play on the crates," the Perro operator calls out, breaking my trance.

I flinch so hard my sneakers nearly slip from the metal latches.

"Sor… sorry!" I gasp.

I scramble down the stack of metal, my thick sneakers hitting the floor grates with a thud.

I duck my head, letting my asymmetrical fringe hide my eyes, and offer them a quick, polite bow.

"Sorry to disturb. I will be going."

I don't wait for them to respond. Turning on my heel, clutching my staff to my chest, I hurry away from the logistics staging area. I just want the cafeteria, to drown the bleeding sky of Londinium in the mundane comfort of breakfast.

But as I reach the end of the corridor and turn the corner, the air behind me shifts. It doesn't clear. It sours.

"There are many Sarkaz on Rhodes Island," the Phidia's voice drifts down the hallway, hushed and unsteady. "We can trust them, right? Kazdel… did all of that…"

In the shadows at the corner, I stand still, my breath caught. I listen for the Perro's reassurance. I wait for the Liberi to defend our medical staff, our Field Ops, our family.

But neither of them speaks.

Their silence tastes of cracked ice, bitter lemon rind, and a rotting seed of doubt. They aren't sure.

I raise a hand, my fingertips brushing the smooth curve of my left horn.

Kazdel did all of that.

The wasteland. The burning corpses of the Victorian warships. The bruised sky. It wasn't a natural Catastrophe. It was a slaughter engineered by the Military Commission of Kazdel. By my people.

The oversized Rhodes Island jacket feels cold against my shoulders.

I lower my hand, gripping the black shaft of my Arts Unit until my knuckles ache. Then I make myself step away from the corner.

The mechanical hum of the landship's engines vibrates against the soles of my sneakers as I force my legs to carry me toward the cafeteria.

The Phidia Operator's question still rings in my ears.

"Lethe?"

The voice is soft, airy, familiar, cutting cleanly through the cold silence of the corridor.

I freeze. My tail snaps rigid against my leg. Standing a few paces away is Mint, clutching a thick hardcover book against her chest, her wide eyes blinking at me.

I want to reach out. To seek comfort.

But Mint is Victorian.

Her home, her country, is currently burning, crushed beneath the boots and the Arts of the Military Commission of Kazdel. Under the boots of my people.

Does she hate me? Does she look at the lopsided horns on my crown and the spade-tipped tail behind my skirt and see the same monsters that are destroying her city?

I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for the acidic sludge of betrayal. Hesitantly, I push my Arts outward, letting them brush against the air around her. I wait for the rot of hatred, or the rusted-iron tang of resentment.

But the venom never comes.

What reaches me is fresh parchment and sweet mint leaves, with no malice in it at all—only concern, warm as black tea on a freezing winter night.

"Lethe?" Mint steps closer, her ears twitching as she takes in my pale face and rigid posture. "What's wrong?"

My shoulders come down.

"Mint…" I manage. "Sorry…"

Mint tilts her head, her brow furrowing in confusion. She hugs her heavy book a little tighter. "What for?"

"Londinium…" The name scrapes on the way out. I drop my gaze to the floor, unable to meet her eyes. "The Sarkaz… my people… they did all of that to your home."

The corridor falls quiet for a fraction of a second. Mint shifts her weight, her shoes clicking softly against the floor.

"Yes?" Mint asks, her tone tilting with perplexity, without a trace of the accusation I had braced for. "What's wrong?"

I lift my head, my eyes brimming with unshed tears. "You… you don't hate me?"

Mint's eyes soften. She reaches out with her free hand, resting her fingers against the sleeve of my jacket.

"Why should I?" Mint asks softly, her voice ringing with sincerity. "You are Lethe. You are my friend from the Archives who helps me pick up the books I drop and studies together with Miss Eyjafjalla. You are not the Military Commission."

Something in my lungs lets go.

"Sorry…" I sniffle, scrubbing the tears from my cheeks with the back of my sleeve, and smile at her, small and wobbly and relieved.

Mint's face lights up, a smile bright enough to push the lingering shadows out of the hallway.

"Come on," Mint chimes, gently tugging at my sleeve. "Let's get some breakfast! I heard Gummy made fresh pancakes today!"

"I would love that," I reply, and fall in beside her.

We walk down the metallic corridor together, side by side.

"How are your studies recently, Mint?" I ask.

Mint brightens all over again.

"Oh, they are going wonderfully!" Mint beams, her eyes sparkling. "Miss Eyjafjalla is so well-researched on environmental geology! She has been to so many active zones. She is giving me so many inspirations on my own research!"

"Miss Adele is brilliant. She makes everything sound so fascinating, even the terrifying parts."

Before we reach the end of the hallway, the air in the corridor shifts.

The sterile, climate-controlled chill of Rhodes Island is swallowed by a wave of heat—roasted spices, sharp cinnamon, the crackling comfort of a hearth fire. It makes me stop.

We round the corner. Standing a few paces away, looking out the panoramic observation window, is a Feline woman.

She is impossible to miss. Her voluminous hair is a brown-crimson that seems to smolder in the window light, and an aristocratic coat of deep crimson and black is draped over her shoulders.

Ms. Skyfire.

I know her name. I know her face. The paragraph in my slate declares her the tutor who taught me the thermodynamic laws of Originium. But standing here, looking at the elegant reality of her, my chest gives a hollow twist. I haven't met her since I incinerated my memories. To my broken mind, the woman by the window is a stranger holding a piece of my lost life.

Mint doesn't share my hesitation.

"Skyfire! Skyfire!" Mint calls out, her voice a bright chime of excitement. She practically bounds down the corridor to her. "When did you get here?!"

I make my legs move, following Mint, keeping my posture respectful.

She turns away from the window. Her amber eyes sweep over Mint's buzzing, energetic form before shifting to lock onto me.

"Mint," she greets, her voice clear and refined. Her gaze softens just a fraction as she looks at me. "Lethe."

"I have returned to coordinate directly with the central administration." She brushes a strand of hair over her shoulder. "The political climate in Victoria is deteriorating. I will be deploying alongside our Field Ops as part of Rhodes Island's upcoming operations in the region."

Mint gasps softly. "Victoria…" Her voice wavers with worry for her alumna. "It is so dangerous there right now, Skyfire. Please… you have to be careful."

"We will keep the landship safe for you, Ms. Skyfire," I promise, putting as much resolve into my voice as I can muster. "So you have a home to come back to."

Ms. Skyfire's expression softens. A proud warmth ripples off her, chasing away the smoke of the battlefield.

"I expect nothing less from you both," she replies, offering us a brief nod.

Then the sentiment evaporates. Ms. Skyfire straightens her spine, crossing her arms over her coat. Her eyes narrow into the unyielding glare of a strict academic overseer.

"However," Ms. Skyfire says, "my geographical indisposition is not an excuse for academic stagnation. Tell me, how are your studies progressing? I trust Ms. Naumann has been keeping you both rigorously occupied in the Archives?"

Mint perks up, the static of her worry gone in a rush of pride. "Oh, yes! Miss Eyjafjalla has been wonderful! We were going over the tectonic fault lines yesterday!"

I go still.

The blood drains from my face. My tail, which had been swaying, coils tight against my leg. I look up at her.

I take a slow, shaky breath.

"Ms. Skyfire…" I whisper, dropping my gaze to the floor. "I… I don't remember."

The corridor goes unnaturally silent. Mint stops her rambling.

"I don't remember the lessons," I choke out. "I had… an incident. In February. My Oripathy flared, and it burned my memories away to fuel my Arts."

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. The shame of disappointing the woman who spent hours lecturing me is unbearable.

"I know you are my tutor," I say, reaching for my crossbody bag, my voice cracking. "I know because I wrote it down in my slate. I wrote down that you are brilliant, and that you taught me Originium thermodynamics. But the actual math… the history of the empires… everything you taught me before February is gone. I am a blank slate again. I'm sorry."

I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for that crackling heat to sour into frustrated disappointment. I expect her to scoff, to say her time was wasted on a broken, infected mind.

Instead she flares—roasted cinnamon, scorched spices, and an unyielding defiance that burns the freezing dread out of my chest.

Footsteps close the distance. A hand reaches out, a single finger tapping sharply against my forehead.

"Open your eyes, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire commands.

Her voice isn't soft. It doesn't carry the cloying pity that I hate. It rings with an authority that demands I stand tall.

I open my eyes, blinking through my tears to look up at her.

"A true scholar is not defined by the books they have already read. They are defined by their willingness to open those books again."

She lowers her hand and rests it on her hip.

"If the Oripathy has burned your foundation to ash, then we will forge a new, stronger one." Her tone leaves no room for grief or surrender. "We will review the primers. We will rebuild the thermodynamic equations from the ground up. And I will personally ensure you grasp the material twice as fast this time around."

A watery gasp escapes me.

"Do not think for a single second, Lethe, that a minor bout of amnesia will excuse you from my curriculum."

I grip the shaft of my Arts Unit with both hands.

"I won't," I say. "I will study extra hard so I can help Amiya realize her visions!"

Ms. Skyfire looks at me. The academic severity in her eyes softens, and the heat around her banks down into a proud hearth fire.

"You be sure to do that, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire replies.

"Lethe is a great study friend!" Mint chimes in. She looks up at Ms. Skyfire, her eyes wide with admiration. "She asks a lot of questions! It really helps me to review my own notes."

Then the academic momentum of the conversation stalls.

The three of us stand there in the quiet hallway. Mint blinks, her ears giving a slow, bewildered twitch.

"What were we doing again?" Mint asks as she looks between me and Ms. Skyfire.

"Uhm…" I trail off.

Ms. Skyfire lets out a sigh.

"I believe you two should be heading to breakfast," Ms. Skyfire announces, her voice slipping back into uncompromising authority. She adjusts her cuffs with practiced elegance. "Just so happens I am in need of some, as well. Do keep up."

Without waiting for a word of confirmation, she turns on her heel and marches down the aisle with long, fast strides.

Mint panics.

"Skyfire, uhm, Skyfire, wait for me!" Mint gasps and breaks into a frantic jog. "Uwwhh, please don't walk so fast…"

I don't waste a second either, falling into step behind the panicking Mint, jogging to keep pace with the unstoppable force of nature leading us toward the cafeteria.

We catch up to Ms. Skyfire's stride just as the cafeteria doors slide apart. The usual clatter of the dining hall has thinned. The morning rush has passed, leaving a quiet room of off-duty logistics personnel and a few Field Ops on a late breakfast.

We make our way toward the hot plates. Behind the counter, standing on a small stool to reach the serving trays, is Gummy. The moment she spots us, her face lights up.

"Here, Lethe! Gummy just cooked them fresh!" she declares. She wields her spatula with culinary authority, flipping two thick, dense pancakes onto my plate.

I give her a bright smile, focusing on the sunny warmth she projects rather than the pitch-black abyss I know is under it. "Thank you, Gummy." I balance my tray with one hand, the other keeping its grip on my Arts Unit.

We settle at a table next to one of the panoramic observation windows. I slide into my seat and rest my staff against the table leg.

I look out the reinforced glass. Beyond the armored hull, the fertile plains of Victoria stretch toward the horizon. It looks peaceful. The grass sways in the wind, an untouched expanse that feels impossibly far from the blood-soaked horrors of Londinium.

But the scenery cannot wash away the dread settling in my chest. I look away from the window, across the table.

"Ms. Skyfire," I ask. "Do you know… are they going already? I want to say goodbye to Amiya and Doctor."

Ms. Skyfire pauses, her fork hovering above her plate. The roasted-spice heat of her dims into a controlled simmer.

"Lethe, they need to focus," she says, her tone lacking its usual edge. "A deployment of this magnitude requires undivided tactical clarity. Interrupting their final preparations for sentimental farewells, however well-intentioned, could be a fatal distraction."

I drop my attention to my plate. The pancakes are warm, the heat radiating into my face. A square of butter melts across the golden-brown surface, catching the crimson streak of berry jam Gummy dolloped on top, dragging the red syrup down the side.

It looks exactly like a bleeding heart.

"They will strive to come back, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire adds. I look up. She gestures with her fork at the dining hall—the exhausted Operators, the humming drones, the bulkheads of our home. "We all will. Every single Operator who walks off the landship has a reason to return. We all have something worth coming back for."

She is right. I cannot pull them away from their duty, but I can make sure they know they are loved. I get my slate out.

"I will wish them luck on messaging, then. I will study hard. And I will make sure the garden is blooming when they return."

The solemn atmosphere over the table is punctured by a bright, unrestrained gasp.

"Actually, Lethe!" Mint pipes up, leaning so far forward over her own breakfast that her hair nearly brushes her plate. "Are you cleared for external deployments now?"

She grips the edge of the table. "You could come with me!" Mint declares, her tail giving an excited twitch. "We could go out into the plains and gather interesting rocks!"

Ms. Skyfire clears her throat.

"Before you go running off into the barrens to hoard geological samples, Mint, I highly suggest you finish your breakfast first. Furthermore, if you are planning an external excursion, you will need to finalize the deployment manifest with Dobermann or Whislash. I will not have my students wandering off the landship without proper operational clearance."

"Oh! Right!" Mint gasps. "I will submit the request to them right after we eat!"

We devour the rest of our meals under Ms. Skyfire's watchful eye. Once my plate is clean of the pancakes and the bleeding red jam, I grab my Arts Unit and push my chair back.

I look between the two of them. A Victorian university bond, and a homeland that is currently bleeding. They need this time together.

"I will excuse myself." I offer them both a polite bow. "You two should catch up." I look at Mint and smile. "Just send me a message if you get the clearance, Mint. I will be ready."

"I will, Lethe!" Mint promises.

I wave goodbye and step away from the table, leaving the dining hall behind, and navigate the corridors toward my own work.

The familiar doors of the Convalescent Garden hiss apart as I approach.

Deep in the foliage, Miss Lena, Podenco, and Lisa are gathered around the low table.

Lisa is holding a woven wicker basket in her lap. Beside her, Podenco wields a pair of small gardening shears, trimming the stems of freshly bloomed flowers.

Miss Lena stands just behind them, her hands guiding Lisa's, showing her how to weave the fragile petals into the rim of the basket without crushing them.

"Good morning, everyone! What are you doing?" I call out, raising my free hand to wave as I walk over.

Lisa turns her head. "We are making a flower basket for Miss Breeze!" Lisa explains, holding up the half-woven wicker. "She looked a bit down when I saw her earlier."

Miss Breeze. The name clicks. She is a Vulpo Medic who joined us recently. Mom mentioned her background over one of our dinners: born into Victorian nobility, an educated herbalist who abandoned the safety of her high-society home to heal the destitute in the mud. And she had contracted Oripathy in the process.

I step right up to the table.

"I want to help," I say, with a firm nod.

Podenco scoots over to make room on the bench, a welcoming smile breaking across her face. "Grab a seat, Lethe," she says, her tail swaying as she reaches into her pile of freshly harvested flora.

She picks up a long green vine dotted with small, pale violet blossoms and hands it to me. "Here. You have to be very gentle," Podenco instructs.

She leans over, pointing to a small gap in the woven rim of Lisa's basket. "Take the stem and weave it under the primary wicker strand, but don't pull it too tight or you will snap the stalk and crush the petals. Just coax it into place so the flowers face outward, like this."

Podenco demonstrates the motion with her own flower, guiding the stem through the gaps with practiced grace. I take the vine from her and move my fingers to mirror her technique.

I hold my breath, my tongue poking out from the corner of my mouth as I thread the pale violet blossom through the wicker. I pull the stem, trying to match the overlapping pattern Podenco just showed me.

Snap.

The green stalk bends at a sharp, unnatural angle. Two of the petals crush against the rough wood, bruising into a dark smudge. I pull my hands back and stare at my handiwork.

My addition to the basket is terrible. It juts out awkwardly, ruining the flow of the rim.

"Oops."

Beside me, Podenco pauses her own clipping. She leans over, inspecting the mangled flower.

"Well," Podenco sighs dramatically. "I suppose weaving a simple flower basket is just far too common folk for the skillsets of Miss Sarkaz Royalty. We shouldn't expect such delicate, aristocratic hands to perform mundane manual labor."

"Hey!" I yelp, my tail thumping once against the bench in protest. I puff my cheeks out, glaring at her. "I was being gentle! The stem was just… structurally compromised!"

Lisa's giggle rings bright through the canopy.

"It's perfect, Lethe!" Lisa pats my arm. She looks at the lopsided, bruised flower with unyielding optimism. "It adds character! I am sure Miss Breeze will appreciate it very much!"

"Exactly. The intention behind the gift is what truly matters to a healing heart," Miss Lena adds.

She steps forward, her hands moving with serene grace as she makes a few expert adjustments to the wicker, securing my clumsy flower so it doesn't fall out. Then she steps back to admire the finished, brightly colored basket nestled in Lisa's hands.

"Now, girls," Miss Lena smiles, wiping a stray speck of smudge from her apron. "Want to bring it to Breeze? I believe she is in the workshop with Erika right now."

Delivering a gift to a new friend, and I get to see mom while she is working?

"Yes!" I eagerly slide off the bench.

"Let's go cheer her up!" Lisa agrees, her eyes sparkling as she carefully holds the woven basket against her chest.

Podenco, Lisa, and I step out of the humid sanctuary of the Convalescent Garden.

As we walk down the corridors, a sharp, synthetic ping vibrates against my side.

I pause, pulling my handheld communicator out of my jacket pocket. A direct message banner drops down from the top edge.

[Mint]: Miss Whislash approves on the condition we must have a bigger group just to be safe. Skyfire is leaving soon, so, I am thinking of asking Miss Eyjafjalla. Do you have any ideas, Lethe? Or I can check with Reserve Ops as well. Oh, by the way, this will be a trek. I want to head to County Ascarat. So we will probably do some camping.

Camping.

In County Ascarat, out in the sprawling Victorian plains. The thought of sleeping under the open sky with my friends makes my heart flutter.

I tap my thumbs against the screen.

[Lethe]: I will ask Lisa and Podenco.

I slip the communicator back into my jacket pocket. My two friends have stopped a few paces ahead, waiting for me.

"Lisa, Podenco," I call out, jogging to catch up to them. My tail is already swishing. "Mint and I were planning to do a geological survey of the plains! We want to go to County Ascarat to gather rocks and study the terrain."

"A survey mission! That sounds so fun!" Lisa smiles.

"But Miss Whislash said we need a bigger group to be safe," I explain, looking between my two friends. "And Mint said it will be a long trek. We will probably have to do some camping out in the wild! Do you guys want to come with us?"

Podenco crosses her arms over her jacket. She tilts her head, fixing me with an unamused stare.

"Camping out in the vast plains sounds great, Lethe," Podenco says, her voice going dry. "But I think you are forgetting one very important logistical hurdle."

I blink, my excited smile faltering. "What hurdle?"

"Miss Lena." She lets the name sit there. "You are still officially under her medical supervision and assigned to the Convalescent Garden. You can't just pack a tent and run off into the wilderness without her signing off on your deployment forms."

Podenco leans forward, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Even though," she adds, "you practically live in the Archives with your study groups more than you actually stay in the garden these days."

I duck my head into the collar of my jacket, my tail dropping limply against my insulated stockings.

"Right…" I mumble. "Sorry. I got a little ahead of myself."

Lisa steps closer, her hand gently resting on my arm.

"It's okay, Lethe!" Lisa says, with a bright, unwavering smile. "You can just ask Miss Lena when we get back! I am sure she will say yes if you promise to be careful and bring back lots of rare plant samples for her!"

Podenco sighs, her cheeky smirk melting into a smile. "Exactly," she agrees, turning her steps back down the corridor. "But first things first. Let's get this flower basket to Miss Breeze, then we will see about your grand camping expedition. Alright?"

I lift my head, offering them both a firm nod.

"Alright," I promise.

We finally reach the workshop.

I press the door panel.

The air inside the workshop is crisp and sterile, smelling faintly of medical alcohol and clean linens. Standing near a long counter are mom and Miss Breeze.

I peek past mom's silhouette at the new Medic. Miss Breeze is a Vulpo, long blonde hair cascading down her back. She wears an elegant black and grey coat with a red cross on it—the symbol of Medic in Terra, though not Rhodes Island's. Leaning against the counter beside her is a staff that looks more like an antique Victorian heirloom than a focal unit.

As we step over the threshold, my Arts brush outward. Mom's honey is there, rich and familiar, but what comes off Miss Breeze is new: expensive, delicate tea blended with sweet, creamy vanilla.

But right beneath that noble sweetness is a heavy, quiet undertone: crushed dried lavender and sterile bandages.

Neither of them notices us. They are absorbed in the medicines they are formulating.

"We are running low on Polymerization Preparation," Miss Breeze says, her voice soft, carrying an aristocratic lilt. Her ears droop a fraction.

Mom lets out a tired chuckle, rubbing the back of her neck. "Closure is going to have a field day again when I submit the requisition forms," she groans.

Before mom can spiral any further into the nightmare of Rhodes Island's administrative paperwork, Lisa bounds into the room.

"Miss Erika! Miss Breeze!" Lisa catches their attention, her bright, chiming voice shattering the clinical quiet of the workshop.

"Sorry to interrupt!" Lisa chimes, stepping forward with the woven wicker basket held proudly out in front of her. "But here, a flower basket for you, Miss Breeze!"

Miss Breeze turns, her eyes widening in surprise. The melancholy under her lightens. "Oh my," she breathes out, reaching to gently take the basket. "That looks so beautiful. Thank you, young ladies. This is incredibly thoughtful."

Mom steps up beside her, her eyes scanning the petals woven into the rim. Her gaze stops dead on one pale violet blossom—the one jutting out at a structurally compromised angle. She doesn't say a word, but her shoulders shake with a suppressed chuckle, an affectionate smile stretching across her face.

"We picked the freshest blooms from the primary planters," Podenco adds, her tail wagging cheerfully. "Lethe even helped weave the rim!"

I flush, adjusting my grip on the shaft of my Arts Unit. "I tried my best."

Miss Breeze offers a warm smile. "It is perfect. I will make sure to keep it right on my desk."

"I am glad you like it, Miss Breeze!" Lisa smiles.

I take a slow breath, letting the warm atmosphere bolster my courage. "Actually, mom," I begin, looking up at her. "Mint and I are planning a geological expedition."

The playful amusement in mom's eyes sharpens into protective alertness. "An expedition? Where to, Lethe?"

"County Ascarat," I say quickly. "We want to gather rocks and study the terrain. Mint said Miss Whislash already approved it, as long as we have a bigger group."

Miss Breeze hums, setting the flower basket down on the counter. "County Ascarat," she muses. "That county is quite peaceful, Erika. It is still heavily guarded by the Victorian Army. They shouldn't run into any rebel activity or Military Commission in that region."

The tart spike of panic that had threatened to sour mom's honey dissolves. She sighs, crossing her arms over her plum shirt. "Well," mom concedes, giving me a stern but loving look. "Sure. If Lena approves of you leaving the garden, I will pack your bag with you."

She leans forward, tapping the tip of my nose playfully. "Or else you are just going to run off into the wilderness with nothing but gummy worms and milk tea."

I gasp. "I wouldn't!" I protest. I let out a defeated groan, my shoulders slumping. "But… okay, mom."

"We should get going," Lisa chimes in, taking a polite step back. She smooths the front of her skirt and offers the two Medics a light curtsy. "Sorry to interrupt your medicine preps."

"Oh, don't worry at all," Miss Breeze smiles, her posture relaxing. "We were counting stocks mostly. But you are right, the materials are not going to magically synthesize themselves."

Mom sighs, turning her focus toward the towering stacks of empty vials and unprocessed chemical components waiting on the workbench. "Would be nice if there were Arts for that."

I immediately straighten my spine.

"Arts cannot manipulate matter like that, mom!" I puff my chest out, channeling my most academic tone. "It is mostly just energy! Or telekinesis, like Rosmontis!"

Mom pauses, looking at me, and the chuckle escapes before she can stop it. "My little researcher," mom coos, reaching out to ruffle my hair. "You are entirely correct. Now, now, don't you have an expedition to plan?"

I quickly reach up to smooth my hair back into place. "Right!" I chirp, offering them a bright wave. "See you, Miss Breeze! Bye, mom!"

"Laters, Miss Breeze, Miss Erika," Podenco and Lisa add in unison, both offering cheerful waves as we step backward toward the workshop's threshold.

"Have fun, girls," mom calls after us, turning her attention back to the grueling inventory.

The blast doors shut, sealing the quiet workshop behind us. With the flower basket delivered and my camping permission secured from mom, I fall into step between my two friends, and we turn back toward the Convalescent Garden.

The doors hiss apart as always, welcoming us back into the rich, earthy humidity of the sanctuary. We follow the winding path through the broad-leafed ferns and hanging ivy to the secluded seating area.

Miss Lena is resting on one of the lounge chairs, buried in a brand-new book, her eyes scanning the pages with unwavering focus. But my Arts catch the truth of her literature before I can read the title: a fizzy spike of sweet rosewater. She is definitely reading another Victorian romance novel.

"Miss Lena, we are back," Podenco announces, her voice carrying a cheerful bounce.

Miss Lena gives a tiny, almost imperceptible jump. With one practiced motion she snaps the book shut and tucks it beneath a decorative pillow on her chair. Her serene sanctuary-guardian persona snaps back into place in a heartbeat, smothering the rosewater.

"Oh, how did it go, girls?" Miss Lena asks, her melodic voice even.

"Miss Breeze was happy!" Lisa chimes, stepping forward with a radiant smile. "She said she would put it right on her desk!"

"We do have news, though," I add, stepping up beside Lisa. I look up at her, offering a hopeful smile. "Mint and I are planning a geological expedition to County Ascarat in Victoria. Podenco and Lisa want to come too… if we can."

Miss Lena's eyes soften. "Of course you three can go," she smiles, sweeping over the three of us. "We have quite a lot of people that can cover your work right now. We don't even need to submit paperwork."

My tail, which had just started to give a happy swish, stalls mid-air. I stare at Miss Lena.

"Wait… we don't?" I squeak, the absurdity of it fracturing my voice. On Rhodes Island, everything requires paperwork, especially when it involves Dr. Kal'tsit's parameters.

Miss Lena reaches up, holding a hand to her cheek. A long, exhausted sigh escapes her, breaking the serene facade for a fraction of a second.

"It is so much trouble doing paperwork for Kal'tsit."

I just stand there, blinking, as the most responsible grown-up in the whole garden tells us it's fine to sneak around Dr. Kal'tsit's rules.

"Eh?"

"You three going out and enjoying yourselves is far more important," Miss Lena says, with a conspiratorial smile. "The paperwork required to officially deploy anywhere near the Victorian borders right now would be too much, especially with Command planning to engage in Londinium. As long as the expedition is planned out and stays strictly on safe routes, I don't see a reason why you three cannot go."

She pauses. "Just be sure to get at least two older Operators to escort you."

I tap my chin thoughtfully. "Miss Adele might be able to come…" I murmur, looking between Lisa and Podenco. "But who else?"

"What about Miss Susie?" Lisa asks.

"Miss Susie?" I echo, already reaching for my slate. I tap the screen, opening the encrypted My Life folder. My thumb swipes down the curated profiles until I land on a pink-haired Feline.

I stare at the pillar of truth I had carved into the digital ink.

Miss Susie. Goldenglow. Best barber ever.

I lower the slate and look up at Lisa, then at Miss Lena, my brow furrowing. "A barber?" I ask, my voice pitching up. Are we really going to take a hairdresser to defend us against the hostile, untamed wilds?

Miss Lena laughs lightly at my bewildered expression.

"Oh, Lethe," Miss Lena smiles, her eyes crinkling gently. "She is a very capable Caster. If she and Eyjafjalla are with you girls, I am sure nothing can get close."

I sit down on a wooden bench, carefully balancing the sleek black shaft of my new Arts Unit against my knee. The liquid in the halos hums its quiet mechanical rhythm against my leg. I get my slate out.

My thumbs fly across the keyboard, my heart fluttering with a frantic, bubbling thrill.

[Lethe]: Miss Lena said we can go! So Lisa and Podenco can come too!

Mint replies.

[Mint]: That's great! Miss Eyjafjalla says she will come. I am so excited!

I let out a soft, relieved exhale. I quickly tap my thumbs against the glass again, passing along the sanctuary guardian's highly unexpected recommendation.

[Lethe]: Miss Lena says we could ask Miss Susie too.

[Mint]: I will ask her now!

A few minutes later, a sharp, synchronized chime echoes through the foliage. My slate, along with the communicators tucked into Lisa's and Podenco's pockets, vibrates at the exact same time.

I lift my slate and tap the banner. A brand-new group chat window opens.

Mint invited Eyjafjalla, Lethe, Suzuran, Podenco, Goldenglow.

Right beneath the system message, another line of white text appears.

Mint renamed group to Geological, botanical camping trip.

"Geological, botanical camping trip," Podenco reads aloud from her own screen. "Well, that sounds like a highly official, incredibly academic excuse to go sleep in a tent and eat toasted marshmallows."

"I am going to pack so many snacks!" Lisa chimes in. "We get to sleep under the stars! Do you think Miss Susie will help us style our hair in the morning out in the woods?"

"I think Miss Susie is going to be far too busy making sure we don't accidentally get eaten by a wild beast," Podenco teases, though her fanning tail betrays her own excitement.

I am going to step out into the unknown. But I am not doing it alone. I am doing it with my best friends, my brilliant tutor, and the best barber on the landship. I press the slate happily against my chest, ready for our grand expedition.

1098 II