October, 1098

I stare at the white ceiling of the medical ward. The rhythmic beeping of the life-support monitors is the only anchor in the silent room.

The door hisses open. The lingering, clinical smell of antiseptic is swept away by a wave of warmth.

Crystallized sugar.

I turn my head against the pillows. A young Vulpo girl steps into the room, her nine fluffy tails swaying behind her, and offers me a bright smile.

"Good morning, Lita," Lisa says, her voice soft and careful.

She hops onto the plush chair next to my bed, her tails curling neatly around her legs.

"Good morning, Lisa."

"How are you feeling?" she asks, earnest.

I reach up and brush my fingers over the black monitor collar around my neck. It suppresses my passive Arts so I don't drown in the emotions of the landship, and so my Oripathy doesn't get worse.

I thought it was a shackle. It's a medical device.

"I'm doing fine…" I lower my hand back to the sheets. "Dr. Warfarin says I can get back to work soon. Though… I don't know what work really is."

The idea that I have a job here, working alongside these kind people in a place called the Convalescent Garden, feels like reading a storybook written in a language I can no longer speak.

Lisa leans forward, her hands on the edge of my mattress.

"Don't worry, Lethe."

She stops short.

"Sorry… Lita," she corrects herself. "We can find out together."

"It's okay," I say, and manage a small smile.

I look at the monitors. "It's already October now, isn't it?"

The escape from Londinium feels like a lifetime ago.

"Yeah, today is the 2nd of October," Lisa nods quietly.

I pull the white blanket a little higher.

"I wonder how Amiya and everyone is doing…"

My heart picks up an anxious rhythm. Amiya. Raidian, Blaze, Doctor — all of them risked their lives and stayed behind in the ruins of the capital.

"They are winning," Lisa states.

"They are?"

"Yes!" Her tails give a hopeful swish. Then her posture sags, and the crystallized sugar coming off her goes damp, tainted by bruised peaches and stagnant rainwater.

"The Shard fell…" Her voice drops to a tremble. "But… a lot of people are dying…"

The Shard.

Three hundred stories of architecture. The beacon of the Regent's wrath that could pull Catastrophes out of the sky, the symbol of Kazdelian iron, the fortress I once marched toward and was proud of.

It fell. Theresis's power is broken.

But the bruised peaches and rainwater keep bleeding off Lisa, and the mountain of guilt presses down on my lungs again. The war might be ending. The cost was an ocean of blood. I lower my head and look at my hands on the sheets.

I added to that ocean myself.

The door opens again, breaking the hum of the medical machinery. Another Sarkaz steps into the ward.

It's Hibiscus.

The second she crosses the threshold she washes over the sterile room — a concentrated burst of floral nectar, balanced by the clearing bite of medicinal eucalyptus. A mature, no-nonsense warmth that refuses to let you wallow in self-pity.

After Dr. Warfarin stabilized my Oripathy, a grueling four-day course and a great many complaints from her, she appointed Hibiscus as my primary medic. Caladria is too busy to be pulled away from frontline triage, with the endless waves of casualties pouring in from the Victorian conflict.

Hibiscus walks briskly toward my bed, holding a large plastic shaker bottle.

It's filled with a thick, highly questionable, purplish-green sludge.

The bane of my existence.

"Morning, Hibiscus…" I mumble, my tail drooping dead against the bed frame in defeat.

"Good morning, Hibiscus," Lisa adds brightly from her chair.

"Morning, Lita and Suzuran," Hibiscus replies. Her smile is radiant and gives no ground. She sets the shaker bottle on my bedside tray with a dull thud. "Your daily nutrition, Lita. Be sure to drink it all."

I shrink back against my pillows, staring at the liquid clinging stubbornly to the sides of the bottle.

"Can we not…" My voice cracks.

I stare at the smoothie. For the first time since escaping the Regent and the Royal Court, I find myself missing the bland, dry nutrient bars of the Military Commission of Kazdel. At least those tasted like compressed cardboard and ash, rather than whatever medicinal nightmare Hibiscus has synthesized for me today.

She stands beside my bed, composed in her dark purple and black uniform, the pink floral accent on her lapel bright against the coat. I look down at the shaker bottle on my tray, then back up at her face.

I give her the most pleading look I can muster.

"No can do, Lita," Hibiscus states, unmoved.

"It's very necessary for you," she continues. "Your digestive system is a mess right now."

I whine, shrinking back.

"I will smu…" Lisa starts beside me.

Her nine fluffy tails puff out in a flash of panic before she corrects herself.

"I will get you some red bean roll later, Lita!" Lisa promises. "Your favorites!"

Hibiscus narrows her eyes at the young Vulpo, a strict and deeply calculated side-glance, and sighs.

"Just one," Hibiscus says, closing the negotiation.

The bottle sits on my bedside tray like a localized Catastrophe. I reach out and pick it up, and the second I pop the cap open the smell hits me — raw, unidentifiable vegetation and synthetic vitamins, strong enough to bury the antiseptic.

I pinch my nose shut with my free hand, squeeze my eyes tight, tilt my head back, and start drinking.

The purplish-green sludge hits my tongue. Thick, gritty, and tasting exactly like liquefied despair.

Just think about red bean rolls, I chant in my head, forcing my throat to work. Red bean rolls. Sweet, soft, warm red bean rolls. This tastes so unbelievably bad…

Red bean rolls…

I swallow the last gulp of it. The sludge hits my stomach like a cold rock, tasting like wet grass.

With a clang, I slam the shaker bottle onto the bedside tray and scrub the residual grit off my lips with the edge of my Rhodes Island patient gown.

"There," I wheeze, my face scrunching into itself.

"Good job, Lita," Hibiscus praises, her expression softening into a smile.

She turns to the monitors mounted on the wall and taps at the terminal, logging my forced nutritional intake.

I watch her in the clinical light of the ward, my fingers twisting the fabric of my gown.

"Hibiscus… I…" My voice barely clears the beeping of the machinery. "You've been taking care of me for almost two weeks. But I never asked… have we met… before everything…?"

Hibiscus pauses her typing and turns her head, her expression gentle.

"Well, Lita," she begins. "We were colleagues back when I was just a Reserve Ops medic in 1096. But we didn't really talk much back then. We properly connected when we were in Siesta last year, and then again during the triage for County Hillock in January this year."

Siesta. County Hillock.

The names echo in my mind and land against a void. No warmth, no picture, nothing to grasp. My shoulders sag against the pillows.

"Sorry… I don't remember any of it…"

Hibiscus steps back to the side of my bed and pats the top of my blanket.

"That's fine, Lita," she says, warm and certain. "You are back with us now, and that's all that matters."

I nod weakly, comforted by the safety coming off her.

I look between Hibiscus and Lisa, sitting quietly in the plush chair next to me.

"Actually…" I start again. "How old is everyone? Sorry if that's something I shouldn't have asked. I am curious because Caladria told me… I am fourteen."

"I am nineteen," Hibiscus answers smoothly.

"I am fourteen as well," Lisa chimes in from her seat.

Her nine fluffy tails sway happily behind her, the crystallized sugar of her filling the small space between us. She leans forward, resting her hands on her knees, and offers me a bright smile.

"I picked your age, Lita."

I blink, bewildered.

"You… picked it, Lisa?"

"Yep!" Lisa adds. "We weren't too sure how old you are, so we decided we are the same age!"

"I see…"

"And I didn't know back then our real names are so close," Lisa adds, her nine fluffy tails swishing excitedly behind her. "Lisa and Lita. We are destined to be sisters!"

I smile at her. She's so sweet. Unlike me.

We chat a while longer, the hum of the machinery fading behind her gentle chatter about the landship. After a few minutes a chime interrupts us, and Lisa reaches into the pocket of her skirt for her PRTS communicator.

"Time for me to go to my classes, Lita." She hops off the plush chair, smooths down her skirt, and flashes me one last bright smile. "See you later. I will bring the roll! Promise."

"Okay, laters," I reply.

The door hisses open and shut behind her, sealing the ward back into its clinical rhythm.

Hibiscus stays.

She finishes logging my vitals, then turns back to my bed, her hands on the footboard.

I look at her.

"You know, Lita," Hibiscus says softly. "It's nice to not have my patients fear me. When they are not Sarkaz, I mean…"

My chest tightens.

"I…" I swallow hard, my voice going ragged. "I think I made sure the world fears us more…"

Hibiscus steps closer, closing the distance to my bedside.

"The Regent and his Military Commission use that fear to justify their atrocities, Lita," she states. "But do not let their crimes define you."

She reaches out, her hand resting over my trembling fingers.

"You were a healer, like me." Her floral resonance blooms with certainty. "I am sure you can be again."

I stare at her hand covering mine, and think of the life I don't remember, the people waiting for me, and the grace they have extended to a girl who wore the enemy's colors.

"I… I hope so," I say, and something warm flickers to life in the void of my chest.

Hibiscus steps back from the bed, the clinical light reflecting off the datapad in her hand.

"Have some rest, Lita," she instructs, gentle but firm. "You used way too much of your Arts recently. We found you just in time, before any lasting damage happened to your nervous system."

I reach up, my fingers grazing the cold matte black of the monitor collar around my neck.

Then I lower my hand and shrink down into the crisp white sheets.

"Okay… Sorry…"

Hibiscus pauses, crosses the small distance to my bedside, and rests her hand over the blanket near my shoulder.

"It's not your fault, Lita. The Military Commission forced you to wield those Arts, and they didn't even give you a proper focal unit to shield your mind. It's basically a miracle your Oripathy didn't completely spiral. Dr. Warfarin's suppressants are working."

She offers a reassuring smile. "Your old one is still kept by Perfumer. Once you are better and cleared for duty, you can have it back."

"Okay. Thank you, Hibiscus. I will take a nap."

"See you later, Lita." She adjusts the IV drip one last time. "Rest well."

The door hisses open and slides shut, sealing the medical ward in a sterile quiet.

I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the steady beeping of the life-support monitors, and let my eyes fall shut. The void drags me under — a dreamless, quiet sleep.

When I blink my eyes open again, the surgical lights overhead have been extinguished.

The ward is bathed in the amber glow of the landship's night cycle. The air is still, filled only by the hum of Rhodes Island's engines pushing us through the barren wastelands.

I let out a slow breath and turn my head against the pillows.

Resting on the bedside tray is a small, neatly folded brown paper bag.

I push myself up onto my elbows and lean closer to the tray.

Pulling the bag onto my lap, I find a small white sticky note pinned to the fold, in neat, delicate handwriting.

Two red bean rolls for Lita. - Suzuran.

I peel the note off and open the bag. The rich scent of baked dough and warm red bean paste wafts into the dim air. She actually came back — slipped into the room while I was asleep, just to leave me the exact treat she promised.

I hold the paper bag against my chest in the quiet light of the ward.

Hot tears run down my cheeks.

They are all so nice.

The sweet warmth of the red bean rolls settles in my stomach, melting away the grassy nightmare of Hibiscus's sludge. I hold the empty bag for a long time in the amber light, the rhythm of the monitors pulling me back under.

When I blink my eyes open again, the night-cycle amber has shifted back to the crisp white of the landship's morning.

The door of the ward opens.

Even through the suppressing weight of the black monitor collar around my neck, the flavor brushes against my senses. A sun-drenched field overflowing with warm honey.

Caladria — Erika — steps into the room.

She looks exhausted. Dark circles bruise the skin under her eyes, and her deep plum tactical shirt is rumpled, as if she hasn't slept in a proper bed for days. The toll of frontline triage is stamped into her posture. But the moment she sees me sitting up in the bed, the exhaustion is eclipsed by relief.

"Oh, Lita, you are awake," Erika says softly, her voice frayed and warm. She walks to the side of the bed, slow but deliberate.

"Good morning… Erika," I murmur. The name still feels a bit unfamiliar on my tongue.

Erika smiles and rests her hand on the edge of my mattress.

"I have good news, Lita." Her thumb brushes the blanket. "Amiya and everyone else… they are back today."

"They are?"

"Yes." Erika's expression grows solemn, the sun-drenched field shifting with the weight of the world outside this sterile room. "The conflict in Londinium… it has reached an end. Theresis and Theresa were killed in the fighting."

The beeping of the heart monitor next to my bed fades into the background.

Theresa.

The ghost of her sweeping ocean of unconditional love aches in my chest.

"An organization called Babel, led by someone named Wiš'adel, has declared themselves as the new government of Kazdel," Erika continues, steady. "The remaining Sarkaz forces have retreated."

"Wait… Babel?"

Babel. The name Raidian spoke in the medical tent. The place where my birth mother, Lethia, had fought for the light, and the place where the Confessarii slaughtered her.

"Yes?" Erika tilts her head, her white feathers shifting. Her warm hand moves to cover my trembling fingers. "What's wrong, Lita?"

I stare at our joined hands and push the mountain of guilt and phantom sorrow back down into the void.

"It… it's nothing," I say, forcing a small smile for her sake.

Erika searches my face, but she doesn't push. With a patient sigh she turns and reaches for the insulated container she brought with her.

"I have your breakfast, Lita," she says. She opens the container and places a warm ceramic bowl onto my bedside tray.

I look down. Warm, creamy oats, generously topped with fresh, brightly colored fruit. It smells of sweet berries and hearth-warmth.

"Once you are done," Erika murmurs, her hand brushing a stray lock of woodsmoke grey hair behind my ear, "we can see if you can visit them. If you want."

I look at the oats, then back up at Erika — exhausted, relieved, loving me with her entire being.

My tail gives a slow swish against the sheets.

"I… I would like to," I say, picking up the spoon. "Thank you, Erika."

I eat the oats slowly, steadily, and take my suppressants with them.

"I finished. The meds too," I say, setting the ceramic bowl and the small plastic pill case down onto the bedside tray.

"Good job, Lita. Let's go?" Erika asks, her exhausted face softening into a warm smile.

"Okay."

Erika reaches down and sets a pair of soft slippers onto the floor for me. I slide my feet into them.

We leave the ward together, walking slowly down the brushed-metal corridors, the hum of the engines thrumming under our feet, and take a reinforced elevator up to the upper decks.

Erika taps the terminal. The doors to Amiya's office part with a soft hiss.

We step inside.

Amiya stands near the center of the room. The first thing that strikes me is her expression — she looks so sad. The spun sugar of her is submerged in a heavy, quiet mourning.

She is dressed in a pristine white dress with a ruffled bodice that cascades down her frame. Over it she wears a black, oversized tactical jacket, similar to the one she lent me in the ruins but more intricate, its blue inner lining flashing against the black fabric. Long pale ribbons drift weightlessly around her, tangling with her long brown hair. Dark tights and simple blue shoes complete the attire.

But the clothes don't hold me. My attention is pulled upward, transfixed by what rests just above her head.

It's a crown.

Dark, jagged, geometric shards — shattered obsidian and cold iron, suspended in the air by nothing at all. The spikes frame her Cautus ears, sharp and heavy.

But the crown…

What bleeds off it crashes into me. A sweeping ocean of unconditional love, saturated in sorrow. Crushed ash, spilled blood, the weight of a million weeping ghosts.

It tastes exactly like Theresa.

"Lita… Caladria… glad to see you two are safe," Amiya says.

Her voice is soft, trembling under the weight of the recent days.

I grip the hem of my patient gown. "Amiya…"

Amiya looks at Erika, standing beside me.

"Caladria, if you don't mind," she asks quietly. "Can I have some time with just Lita?"

Erika's warm honey presence flutters with protective hesitation, but she understands.

"Of course, Amiya." Erika reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. "Just ping me to pick Lita up."

"Thank you. I will."

Erika turns and steps back out into the corridor. The door hisses and clicks shut, sealing me alone in the office with Amiya.

The air near her flickers, vibrating with a dense energy.

I take a hesitant step backward, my eyes locked on the shattered obsidian hovering above her.

"Amiya…" I stammer, my breath catching. "What's… the crown? Why…"

Why does it taste exactly like the woman who co-ruled the Military Commission?

Amiya lowers her gaze. Her long ears droop.

"It is the Civilight Eterna," Amiya answers. "The Black Crown of the Sarkaz."

"Wait, are you…?"

"Yes." Amiya looks up, her eyes brimming with sorrow. "I am the Lord of Fiends. The King of Sarkaz, Lita…"

Before I can begin to process a Cautus girl ruling my people, the air in the office ripples.

It isn't a flavor anymore. The ocean of unconditional love and aching sorrow condenses in the sterile light of the room, and the scent of crushed ash, spilled blood, and weeping ghosts fills my lungs.

A woman appears.

She manifests right beside Amiya, stepping seamlessly out of the flickering air. The same pristine white gown with dark, jagged crystalline accents. Her long pinkish-white hair spills around her striking black horns, and her pink-hued eyes are composed.

I pause. My knees go weak, the metal floor dropping out from under my slippers. This is the woman who walked into my quarters in the shadow of the Shard, who touched my horns and wept for the cold iron I was made to wear.

"Theresa?!"

"No, Lita… Theresa is no more," the woman says.

Her voice is gentle, carrying the same tragic, fragile cadence that echoed in my quarters back in Londinium.

"This body, this vestige before you, is but a program that exists within the 'King of Sarkaz.' My form and my presence are the result of Amiya's emotions. Though I remember everything from the past, please do not mistake me for Theresa herself."

I stare at her.

"But…" My voice cracks. "You feel just like her… I…"

I take a trembling step forward and reach out toward her flowing white gown.

My fingertips brush against her.

There is nothing.

My hand passes through the projection. No temperature, no resistance, no warmth. A ghost woven out of memories and light.

My hand drops to my side, my shoulders collapsing under the weight of the hospital gown.

The vestige of Theresa looks at me with that familiar sorrow.

"Lita…" the projection murmurs. "You are back with Rhodes Island… with the successor of Babel. I am sure Theresa and Lethia will be very glad."

She remembers everything…

"Lita…"

Amiya steps forward, closes the distance, and wraps her arms around my shoulders. I lean into her, burying my face against the dark fabric of her jacket.

The vestige of Theresa smiles — soft, beautiful, holding no malice, only grace.

"The myriad souls have departed…" the projection says into the quiet room, with the final weight of a closed chapter of history. "Sarkaz are no longer bound by their ancestral hatred… Lita. There is hope yet."

My voice fractures in the sterile air of the office.

"I… I… I am not…"

I can't finish the sentence. I'm not strong enough to hear this. I'm not worthy of standing here, wrapped in the arms of the Lord of Fiends, receiving the grace of a ghost I blindly served to destroy.

Amiya's arms tighten around me. The drowning ocean of her sorrow and spun sugar wraps around me and holds me in place.

"It is okay, Lita," Amiya says softly, her voice trembling against my ear.

I take a ragged breath, my fingers digging white-knuckled into the fabric of her oversized jacket.

I need to know the cost.

"What happened in Londinium…" I ask, my eyes dropping to the floor panels. "…after I left?"

Amiya's ears fold back.

"After you left…" she begins, her voice tight and wavering. "Alexandrina 'Vina' Victoria, the newly elected speaker of the Parliament and the true heir of the Aslan royalty… she and her Exemplars initiated a counterattack."

I listen to her heartbeat drumming against my chest.

"But the Sanguinarch of Vampires, Duq'arael…" Amiya's hands begin to shake against my back. "He initiated a blood witchcraft that turned the townspeople to…"

What bleeds off her is paralyzing horror — the metallic tang of spilled blood, the stagnant rot of innocents turned into monsters.

Something in me locks up. I know what Royal Court cruelty looks like when it's unleashed on the defenseless.

I reach up and place my trembling hand over Amiya's to stop her.

"It is okay, Amiya…"

She doesn't need to finish that sentence. I already know the shape of the nightmare.

Amiya takes a slow, shaky breath, leaning her weight fully against me.

"You probably heard Wiš'adel… she took control of the Lifebone…" she continues, her voice dropping to a wheeze. "Kazdel's flagship, built from the bones of a Feranmut. With all this, the Grand Dukes finally acted."

She pauses. The sorrow coming off her spikes into a dread that makes my lungs burn.

"But Theresis… he used the first Originium. And the Shard…" Amiya chokes on the words. "He summoned a Catastrophe that… it was… it wiped out three of the Grand Dukes themselves…"

My mind stalls.

I remember trekking across the wastelands with Blaze and Raidian, looking out at the monolithic silhouettes of the Grand Dukes' landships, the entrenched armies stretching across the jagged horizon like iron mountains. Wiped out? In one instant?

"What…" The word barely escapes my lips, hollow. "How…"

Above us, the shattered obsidian shards of the Civilight Eterna pulse with a quiet energy.

The vestige of Theresa shifts. Her eyes find us, brimming with that tragic grace, and her guilt crashes over the room.

"It was… Theresa and Theresis believed there was no other way…" the projection says.

"…to free the Sarkaz from the myriad souls trapped in the Originium network," the Civilight Eterna says, her flowing white gown shifting in the air.

"He also tried to use Amnannam to summon Catastrophes on top of the Columbian capital of Max D.C., Lateran City, Zwillingstürme, capital of Leithanien… everywhere… the clouds were forming…"

The Civilight Eterna lowers her head, offering a peaceful, mournful smile.

"The first Originium, Amnannam… is with Babel now. It is safe."

"Yes… well, what else… Tara has declared itself independent…" Amiya finally adds.

Her voice is a fragile, exhausted whisper, but the ocean of her sorrow parts a fraction. Through the heavy grief of the war, a faint light of spun sugar bleeds into the sterile air of the office.

"It will take a long time for the Sarkaz to truly lay down their arms…" Amiya continues, her ring-clad hands squeezing my shoulders. "But Lita… there's perhaps finally a road to peace…"

A road to peace.

I look at Amiya — her exhausted, tear-stained face, the impossible burden she carries as the Lord of Fiends. Then I tilt my head up, tracing the dark, shattered obsidian of the Civilight Eterna hovering above her, and the tragic ghost of Theresa watching over us with her unconditional love.

My hands tremble against the fabric of Amiya's jacket.

"I… I don't know if I truly deserve this chance still…" My eyes drop to the floor. The mountain of guilt burns in my throat. I'm a monster who tasted the terror of innocents.

Amiya opens her mouth to speak.

"But…" My voice cracks, cutting her off before she can say a single syllable of absolution.

I lift my hands and rest my fingers against Amiya's arms, holding onto her as securely as she's holding onto me. My spine straightens. I push the void of my guilt down and grasp at the warmth that Hibiscus, Raidian, and Erika had coaxed back to life in my chest.

I look into Amiya's shimmering eyes.

"I want to help you walk that road, Amiya."

My knees give, and we sink down together onto the cold metal floor of the office, holding onto each other.

Her grip on my shoulders is a lifeline.

We just sit there.

Then the doors of the office hiss open.

Before the footsteps cross the threshold, the air has a new taste.

A flavor I recognize from Londinium — dark, over-steeped black tea and cold iron. But the muted melting snow and thick grey fog that had clouded him is torn away.

In its place is an agonizing clarity.

It tastes of guilt. Rusted iron chains dragging endlessly across the lightless bottom of a freezing ocean. Bitter ash buried under a mountain of regret so deep my own chest seizes in sympathy.

It's the resonance of someone who believes he has failed the world.

Doctor walks in, obscured beneath his dark coat and tactical hood. He takes one step into the room and freezes, his posture going rigid.

"Oh…" Doctor breathes out. The single word is muffled beneath his cowl, dropping into the sterile air like a lead weight.

The vestige of Theresa turns her head toward him. Her expression stays flawless.

"Doctor," the Civilight Eterna greets softly, her voice brushing against the walls with absolute grace.

Amiya's ears snap straight up.

"Ah! Doctor…" she stammers, flustered.

The drowning ocean of her sorrow spikes with nervous energy. Amiya lets go of me, her ring-clad hands pulling back as she scrambles to wipe her tear-stained cheeks with the sleeves of her jacket.

I stay sitting on the floor, hands in my lap, looking up at the man frozen in the doorway.

The lightless ocean of his guilt keeps bleeding into the room, crashing against me.

I stare at him.

If it's bleeding this powerfully into the air, then I'm not the only one tasting it.

I look at Amiya. I look at the ghost of Theresa, born out of the shattered obsidian shards of the Black Crown.

They feel it too. They have to. They're standing right here, wrapped in the rusted chains of his regret.

It floods the sterile office, so heavy I can't hold it in. "Doctor…" The word scrapes out of my throat. "Your taste… why does it hurt so much?"

He doesn't answer. He stays frozen in the doorway, rigid beneath the coat.

Beside me, Amiya squeezes my shoulder before stepping forward.

"Doctor," she says softly, her voice trembling but resolute. "I can feel your guilt, your confusion… and your sorrow."

She stops a few paces from him. "But… we need to look forward. We have to. Blaze invited me to an event she's organizing. It's to celebrate our return to the landship, and a lot of Elite Ops will be there."

Doctor's dark visor shifts toward her, but the rusted iron chains of his regret don't loosen.

Then the vestige of Theresa moves.

"Doctor," the Civilight Eterna murmurs. "Go and spend some more time with Amiya and Kal'tsit."

Kal'tsit.

My mind goes back to the damp, subterranean maintenance room in Londinium — white bandages soaked through with dark crimson, and the shattering glacier of her presence as she clung to the edge of life.

"Kal'tsit…" My fingers curl into the fabric of my patient gown. I look up at Amiya. "She is…?"

Amiya turns her head back to me, her expression softening into a relieved, tired smile.

"She is," Amiya answers quietly. "She is weak… but she is alive."

A weight lifts off my chest. The woman who threw herself in front of the Regent's blade to save the future actually survived. Shining and Nightingale had done it.

I look back at Doctor, then up at Amiya and the ghost of Theresa. This is their moment. They're the heart of Rhodes Island, and every one of them tastes worn out, like the war nearly broke them all. I shouldn't be the one anchoring them to the floor.

I push myself up off the metal panels, my soft slippers finding purchase.

"Please go…" My voice steadies a fraction, and I offer Doctor a small nod. "The Elites… I am sure they would like you all to be there."

"Thank you, Lita." Amiya reaches into her jacket and taps her PRTS communicator. "I will ping Caladria. She will come back soon."

As Amiya turns back to Doctor, the air in the office ripples. The projection of Theresa offers one last composed smile before she dissolves into the sterile light. But the flavor doesn't disappear. I feel it retract, settling quietly into the shattered obsidian shards of the Black Crown above Amiya's head. She is still there, living within the Lord of Fiends.

A few minutes pass in a heavy stillness before the doors of the office hiss open once more.

The biting cold of Doctor's lingering guilt is swept away by a sun-drenched field overflowing with warm honey. Erika steps into the room.

She takes in the three of us, exhausted — my hospital gown, Amiya's solemn posture.

Amiya steps toward the doorway, Doctor falling silently into step beside her.

"Please take care of Lita, Caladria," Amiya requests.

Erika's expression softens. She steps forward and rests her hand warmly against my shoulder.

"I will," Erika promises.

The doors of Amiya's office shut behind us, cutting off the weight of Doctor's guilt and the lingering grace of the Black Crown.

We step back into the brushed-metal corridors of the landship.

I walk slowly beside her, my slippers padding against the polished floor panels, my mind still spinning, trying to organize everything I've just been handed.

Theresis is dead. The Shard has fallen. And Babel is in control of Kazdel.

I tilt my head up at Erika, walking exhausted beside me.

"Erika…" I start. "Who is Wiš'adel? Have I met her before?"

The second the name leaves my mouth, the sun-warmed honey around Erika spikes, and a sharp undertone of tart, spoiled berries bleeds into the air.

Erika lets out a long sigh and rubs the bridge of her nose.

"Thankfully, no," she answers, weary. "She was… W. A Sarkaz mercenary who tried to kill us back in Chernobog and Lungmen…"

She drops her hand, shaking her head as we continue down the corridor.

"She eventually joined us…" Erika continues, the tart berries vibrating with disbelief. "But her idea of entertainment is planting explosives everywhere and just seeing what will happen…"

My slippers halt on the metal floor panels.

My tail stops mid-swish.

"She… she is leading Kazdel now?"

The new ruler of the Sarkaz. The one who replaced the ancient monolith of Kazdelian might…

Is an explosive-obsessed mercenary who treats detonations as casual entertainment?

Erika stops and looks back at me. The tartness melts away, replaced by the dependable care of her usual warmth.

"Yep…" Erika sighs, offering a small, complicated smile. "She is smart and she is strong… I am sure it will be okay."

I stand there in the sterile hallway, trying to reconcile the terrifying image of the Military Commission with a woman who randomly plants bombs for fun.

I nod slowly.

"Okay…" I say, deciding that Kazdel's politics are way too confusing for me right now.

We keep walking.

The brushed-metal corridors of Rhodes Island stretch out before us, the hum of the engines vibrating against the soles of my slippers. Every step takes me further from the quiet safety of the medical ward.

My fingers twist the hem of my gown.

"Where are you taking me, Erika?" I ask. "I am not getting in trouble… am I?"

I'm an executioner of the Military Commission. Even though Amiya and Doctor accepted me, surely there must be consequences. An interrogation. A tribunal. Something.

Erika glances at me. A gentle smile touches her lips, her white feathers shifting.

"Of course not," she answers, light and teasing. "Unless you are not eating your veggies."

"I… I am," I insist, trying to defend my nutritional honor. "I drank the whole grassy sludge Hibiscus gave me!"

Erika lets out a warm, quiet chuckle.

"See? Not in trouble."

My shoulders sag. "But where are we going?"

"Well," Erika says, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "We are going to go to the garden."

The Convalescent Garden.

The mountain of guilt presses down on my lungs — the ash-choked streets of Londinium, the blood on my hands.

"The garden…" I shrink back against the corridor wall. "Can I really go there…? It sounds too peaceful for someone like me…"

Monsters don't belong in sanctuaries.

Erika stops, turns back to me, and cups my shoulders in her hands.

"That is exactly the reason for you to visit, Lita." Her warmth washes over me. "Peace is exactly what you need."

I look into her patient eyes, force a breath into my lungs, and nod.

We reach the angular doors of the Convalescent Garden.

Erika rests her hand on the control panel and looks down at me.

"Ready, Lita?"

I squeeze my hands into fists, bracing myself.

"Ready."

The doors hiss, sliding apart with a heavy mechanical thud.

The second I step across the threshold—

BOOM! POP!

A volley of explosions shatters the quiet air.

"Eh?! An attack?!"

I stumble back, hands flying up to shield my face, reaching into the void of my mind for my Fear Beast.

Instead, brightly colored paper confetti and shimmering streamers rain down from the ceiling, burying my head, my lopsided horns, and my hospital gown.

"Welcome back, Lita!!" a chorus of voices yells out in joyous unison.

I peer out through the colorful paper draped over my eyes.

In the middle of the sunlit greenhouse, a banner is strung between the ferns: WELCOME HOME, LITA! in bright, slightly messy letters.

And standing beneath it are the people I was certain I didn't deserve to see again.

A tidal wave of bright, pure flavors crashes into my channels.

"Lita!"

Leading the charge is Lisa. She flies across the pathways, her nine fluffy tails swaying frantically, the crystallized sugar flooding the air as she throws her arms around me.

Before I can even process the sugar, a Perro girl crashes into my other side.

"You're finally awake!" she cheers, her tail wagging so fast it's a blur. Sun-ripened yuzu tempered by smooth green tea wraps around my panicked frame.

I stand there, paralyzed by the embrace, my hands hovering in the air. "W… What is all this…?"

"It's a party, obviously!"

A Reproba woman steps forward with a confident grin, happy chitters rising from the metal crabs scuttling around her boots. Roasted seeds and dry, sun-baked hay.

Beside her is a Caprinae girl with a quiet, enduring smile. Under the calm, she wraps around me like a dormant hearth fire mixed with the earthy sweetness of roasted chestnuts.

"We are so glad you are safe, Lita," she says softly, relief plain in her voice.

"We even brought the good snacks from the procurement department!" A Feline girl with a scholarly energy bounds forward, her flavor a buzzing static of freshly printed parchment and sweet mint leaves.

They blur in front of me. Past the younger girls, the older Operators stand near a wooden picnic table piled impossibly high with pastries, teas, and sweets.

An older Vulpo woman smiles at me with a mature calm. Her presence washes through the garden, tasting like a safe cup of warm lavender and steeped chamomile.

Next to her, a striking Feline in a sharply tailored coat crosses her arms, holding onto an aristocratic composure while her tail flicks behind her. Sharp chili pepper and spicy cinnamon, softening into roasted spices and a crackling hearth fire.

And finally, setting down a massive tray of fresh cakes, another Feline, pink-haired. She wipes her hands on her apron, and the space around her fills with toasted sugar and warm milk, spiked with a happy crackle of static.

All of it at once — the vibrant flora, the confetti dusting the grass, the table full of food, and the smiling faces of the people who still love me.

I am not an executioner here.

"I…" A tear escapes and tracks down my cheek, catching a piece of stray confetti.

I wrap my arms around Lisa and the Perro girl and hug them back.

The confetti settles over the green ferns and my white hospital gown. I pull back from them.

Erika steps forward, her sun-drenched field and warm honey cutting through the excitement of the room. She places a guiding hand on my shoulder and leads me to the wooden picnic table.

Resting right next to the massive tray of fresh cakes is a brand new slate.

"Because your old slate was destroyed when you were taken… all your documentation and notes were lost," Erika says softly, an aching tenderness in her voice. She taps the polished glass screen of the new device. "But you can write down everything again, Lita. Starting right now."

I look at the slate, then up at the faces around the table, and pick up the device with trembling fingers. The screen lights, casting a soft glow against my face.

Erika stands beside me, pointing to each person in the greenhouse as she does a careful round of introductions. I pull up a blank document, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

I take a shaky breath, and I begin to type.

Lisa (Suzuran): Your best friend, and dessert smuggler.

Podenco: A very teasing botanist. She is nice.

Beanstalk: The master of metal crabs.

Adele (Eyjafjalla): My geological tutor. The world's best Catastrophe Messenger.

Eleanor (Mint): My study buddy and also a geologist. Am I a geologist too?

Lena (Perfumer): The owner of the garden, and my manager, I think so?

Skyfire: Mint's senior and my thermodynamics tutor. She is secretly a softie.

Susie (Goldenglow): Rhodes Island's resident barber. She is cozy.

As I type each name, their love bleeds into the air. The sun-ripened yuzu of Podenco, the roasted chestnuts of Adele, the buzzing academic static of Eleanor, the lavender of Lena.

Plink.

A burning teardrop slips from my eyelashes and hits the glass screen, distorting the neatly typed letters.

I stare at the growing list.

So many people…

The Confessarii told me I was nothing but a hollow blade, a pureblood executioner stripped of all warmth.

But looking at this slate, at all these people who really, truly knew me… my life was overflowing with warmth.

I keep typing, my vision blurring with fresh tears, thinking of the people I had just spent time with in the medical ward.

Dr. Warfarin: The scary but brilliant doctor. She definitely sees you as a blood bag.

Hibiscus: A gentle medic who needs a cooking lesson.

Erika (Caladria): She tastes so safe. She feels so safe.

I wipe my eyes with the oversized sleeve of my gown, my mind drifting past the landship, back to the ash-choked ruins of Londinium. The people who risked everything to drag me out of the dark, who held me while I wept, who looked at my Kazdelian uniform with nothing but weeping pity and grace.

Bagpipe: A brilliant soldier, and definitely a country girl.

Logos: Don't mess with him. Unless you want to end up conceptually nonexistent.

Closure: She seems fun. But… I have a feeling that's not everything…

Misery: He is reliable. He kept the camp safe.

Raidian: The person who brings you back from the brink. She is secretly very scary.

Blaze: Do NOT let her carry you ever. EVER.

Shining: She proves anyone can choose to heal. Her blade is still eerie though.

Liz (Nightingale): A fragile but dedicated healer.

Theresa: She loves you. Even though she is no longer of this world. Her memory lives on in the Civilight Eterna.

Doctor: A brilliant man drowning in his own grief.

Amiya: Heir to the Black Crown. She is technically your King, but she acts as your friend. You will fight for her. She also needs a cake and a break.

And then my fingers stop over the keyboard. The phantom ache in my chest swells as I type the last anchor of my reality. My biological mother.

Lethia: A mother who fought and died for the light.

"There are so many more, Lita!"

A bright voice pulls me from the screen. Lisa leans over my shoulder, looking at the tear-stained list.

I blink up at her, bewildered. "More?"

"Yes!" Lisa beams. "You were friends with Rosmontis! She is an Elite Ops!"

An Elite Ops? I was friends with someone of Blaze and Raidian's caliber?

"You also met Sussurro, and Breeze, and Dr. Folinic!" Lisa continues, counting them off on her fingers. "And Franka, and Almond… oh! And Gummy, and Zima, and Frostleaf… there are so many others, Lita!"

I sit at the picnic table, the slate heavy in my lap, and look at Lisa, then at Erika, then at the sea of smiling faces beneath the messy WELCOME HOME banner.

I am not a monster forged in the shadows of the Shard.

Ping.

The cheerful chime of the new slate pulls me out of my tearful reverie.

I blink down at the glass screen. A bright envelope icon bounces in the top corner.

"A mail?" My voice is still thick with it. I scrub the remaining tears off my cheeks with the sleeve of my hospital gown.

I tap it, thumbs navigating clumsily through the unfamiliar operating system, find the mail application, and open the single unread message in my inbox.

The sender ID reads: Chief Engineer Closure.

Closure. I swallow hard.

I read the text.

Kiddo. This is your 3rd tablet. You lost your custom-tailored uniform. And the oxygen you are breathing in the garden is premium. Not to mention your medicines.

Consider we are not paying you in any LMD, and consider you are a Djall with a few centuries to live. Just work free for us, deal?

The slate turns into a slab of cold concrete in my hands. My tail, which had been swishing against the wooden bench, drops dead.

I knew it!

Rhodes Island really is just a smuggling ring! The Confessarii warned me about this! They are going to chain me in the dark and make me their docile puppet — administrative paperwork and sweeping the landship corridors for the next three hundred years, just to pay off a tablet!

I look up from the screen, over the sunlit greenhouse. The table piled high with fresh cakes, pastries, and warm teas. The confetti still resting on the fern leaves.

This party… I swallow a dry lump in my throat. This is it. This is my last full meal before they send me to the Originium mines.

"Lita?"

Lisa's voice cuts through the panic. She tilts her head, tails drooping, the crystallized sugar rippling with concern. "Are you okay? You look really pale all of a sudden…"

I reach out with a trembling hand, grab the largest frosting-covered cinnamon pastry off the tray, and pull it defensively to my chest, ready to savor my final taste of freedom.

"I… I have to pay for the oxygen…" I don't look away from the cake.

Erika, behind me, pauses. The sun-drenched field and warm honey shift, and tart, spoiled berries bleed into the air.

She leans over my shoulder and scans the screen of my slate.

Erika lets out a long, exasperated sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"That Vampire," she mutters, weary.

She places her hand over mine and presses the slate face-down onto the picnic table. The tart berries melt back into honey.

"Lita, sweetie, look at me." Erika offers me a strained but immensely patient smile, her feathers puffing up as she shakes her head. "Closure is joking. She just has a terrible sense of humor and an obsession with accounting. You are not paying for the oxygen, and you are absolutely not working for free for the next century."

"I'm… I'm not…?" I clutch the pastry a little tighter against my hospital gown.

"No," Erika promises, her thumb rubbing my shoulder to anchor me back to reality. "You are an Operator, and you are a patient. Your medical care is covered, and we will get you a new uniform. Now, please, eat your cake before Ceobe smells it from three decks down."

I look down at the pastry, then back up at the smiling faces around the table. The mountain of indentured servitude lifts off my lungs.

I take a slow, shaky bite.

It's warm. The dough is soft, gooey sugar mixed with sharp cinnamon, topped with melting cream cheese icing.

It's unimaginably sweet.

"Okay…" I mumble around a mouthful of frosting, my tail finally giving a tentative, happy flick behind me. "But I am keeping the tablet close… just in case."

The last crumb vanishes, leaving my fingers coated in melting cream cheese icing and caramelized sugar. I hold my hands up awkwardly, trying to work out how to use the new slate without turning the polished glass into a mess.

Before I can reach for a napkin, Erika is beside my bench with a damp cloth from a drawer, offering a patient smile.

"Here, let me," she murmurs.

She takes my wrists and wipes the icing off my fingers, careful and methodical, her warmth grounding the last of my anxiety.

As she finishes, the space on the bench beside me is occupied.

Crystallized sugar crashes into my right side, mingled with sun-ripened yuzu and smooth green tea on my left. Lisa and Podenco squeeze in next to me, holding out their communicators and their photo albums.

"Look at this one, Lita!" Lisa says, tapping the screen.

An image projects onto the table. Us, right here in the Convalescent Garden, laughing around a steaming pot of cheese. Amiya is there, and a silver-haired Feline girl, and a young Cautus with severe Oripathy.

"This is our Kjerag-themed fondue picnic!" Podenco chimes in, her Perro tail wagging with enthusiasm. "We had so much fun setting it up the night we got back from the mountains."

Lisa swipes to the next picture. A rolling grassy plain, a group of us in camping gear beside a cave entrance. Me pulling Eleanor, me curved into a V shape while she marches into the dark.

"And this is in County Ascarat," Podenco adds, pointing to the screen. "We went on a huge geological and botanical expedition together!"

I stare at the smiling girl with lopsided horns in the photograph. I look so happy.

Across the picnic table, the air superheats with theatrical flair.

A biting wave of chili pepper and spicy cinnamon floods the greenhouse, softening into roasted spices and a crackling hearth fire. Skyfire stands at the edge of the table, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing as she commands the attention of the scholars.

"It wasn't just a normal eruption," Skyfire recounts, with the confident authority of a senior caster. "Deep within the Siesta Volcano, the ambient Originium density was off the charts."

She leans forward, narrowing her eyes for effect.

"And rising directly from the magma was a monstrosity. An Originium slug, but absolutely gigantic. They called it Pompeii. It was a walking, superheated Catastrophe."

Across from her, Eleanor is paralyzed with awe, her flavor vibrating at an impossible frequency, leaning so far over the table she's nearly out of her seat, tail wagging like a metronome.

"Fascinating…" Eleanor breathes out, her eyes wide. "The sheer thermal output required for an organism to survive in that magma chamber…!"

Beside her, Adele sits with her hands neatly in her lap, offering a soft, enduring smile, nodding calmly along to her peer's explosive retelling of the crisis.

Across the table, Susie looks on in awe, a half-eaten chewy egg tart forgotten in her hands.

While the geological team gets swept up in tales of mutant slugs, a quieter conversation drifts from the back of the greenhouse.

Lena and Beanstalk are standing near a row of hydroponic tanks.

"If we adjust the humidity regulators on the southern vents by just five percent, it should prevent rusting of their metal shells," Beanstalk explains, casually petting behind the shell of a metal crab scuttling up her arm.

Lena nods thoughtfully, her presence a sanctuary of peace. "I will have the engineering department look at the ventilation filters this afternoon. The current moisture levels are perfect for the lavender, but we certainly don't want to compromise your little friends' carapace."

"Lita? Look at this one!"

Lisa's bright voice pulls me back, away from the weight of my lost history and onto the glowing screen of her communicator.

I lean closer to her.

The image projects a cozy café with warm-lit windows and polished wooden tables. In the center of the frame is me, posture undone — melted into the booth, arms draped weakly over the edge of the table in awe.

On a ceramic plate in front of that past version of me is a towering, impossibly thick stack of Columbian pancakes, fluffy, drowning in melting butter and rich syrup, wobbling under their own weight.

"This was in Trimounts!" Lisa giggles. "Miss Erika took us to this really nice café on our shore leave."

Erika steps up behind us, leaning over my shoulder.

"That was the city I used to work in before I found my way to Rhodes Island," she adds, fond and nostalgic. She reaches out and taps the edge of the screen. "You had never seen a pancake that big before, Lita. I genuinely thought you were going to dissolve into a puddle right there in the booth."

I study the lines of my own face in the digital photograph.

The girl in the picture doesn't have the cold, calculating eyes of a Djall executioner. No Kazdelian history pressing down on her shoulders. No Royal Court dictating her every move. Just a normal girl, immobilized by the simple, innocent joy of a sweet dessert.

They are really me…

I look up from the communicator — at Lisa's earnest smile, at Podenco's wagging tail, at Erika's patience. Beyond them the Convalescent Garden is bathed in gentle light, overflowing with life, scattered confetti, and safety.

The void in my mind is still there. It will always be there.

Unless I fill it with new memories.

If I lived that life once, I can live it again.

The wastelands outside might be scarred by Catastrophes, betrayals, and endless wars, but there are still cozy cafés, towering wobbly pancakes, and sunlit greenhouses waiting out there for us.

"Can we…" My voice is still raspy, but my tail gives a hesitant swish against the bench. I look up at Erika, then back to Lisa. "Can we go back there someday? To get more pancakes?"

Lisa's eyes light up. Her tails puff out, the crystallized sugar of her filling the air to the brim.

"Yes!" she cheers, pressing her cheek happily against my shoulder. "We can go anywhere, Lita! Together!"

"Together." Podenco adds.

"Okay. Together." I reply.