April, 1097

The ramps of the middle decks lower with a resounding clank, locking securely onto the paved docking station.

I step forward, the thick, insulated soles of my sneakers hitting the ground. The wind that brushes past my cheeks isn't howling, and it doesn't carry the stinging, acidic bite of Originium dust or the rotting scent of a ruined city. It is shockingly clean, smelling of cold concrete, filtered exhaust, and a faint, electric hum of sprawling infrastructure. I look out from the ramp, and my breath completely stalls.

The scene is jarring. It is entirely devoid of the bruised, bleeding rot I have come to associate with the world outside our landship. Towering monoliths of reflective glass and steel pierce the overcast sky, Arts Unit massive, pristine shadows over the immaculately paved streets. To my left, an imposing building features a pristine white, cascading facade that looks like intricately folded paper, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with sleek, dark corporate towers. The pedestrian walkways are flawless, bordered by smooth, rounded white stone seating and strange, lampposts that branch out like skeletal metal trees.

It looks exactly like the digital travel brochure Amiya had downloaded onto my slate for our trip. Looking at it on a glowing screen was one thing; standing in the shadow of its sheer, staggering architectural perfection is another entirely.

It is the 16th of April. Doctor is currently undertaking classified operations within the Columbian Union, and true to her word, Dr. Kal'tsit authorized my shore leave.

"Terra to Lethe."

A small hand waves rapidly in front of my face, breaking my paralyzed trance.

I blink, pulling my eyes away from the towering glass spires to look at Lisa. She is practically buzzing with excitement and radiating sweet joy.

"Sorry…" I look back up at the towering skyscrapers, a cold, irrational shiver tracing its way down my spine. The sky here is too quiet. The buildings are too tall. "But is this actually Terra? A Catastrophe isn’t going to come… is it?"

My mind immediately flashes back to the horrific tales the Operators brought back from Tkaronto.

A warm, gloved hand rests securely on my shoulder, immediately grounding my rising panic.

"Just focus on enjoying the city, little Lethe," mom says. Her voice is a soft, steadying anchor over the distant hum of the Columbian traffic.

I lean back slightly into her touch. The rich, protective honey of her presence pushing back the sudden spike of cold dread. Yet, beneath the honey, I catch a faint, complex undertone. It tastes like cold, sterile metal and old, stagnant rainwater.

Podenco steps up beside us, her eyes wide as she takes in the sprawling metropolis.

"So this is where you were from, Miss Erika," Podenco says, her ears swiveling to take in the sheer verticality of the surrounding architecture.

Mom looks out over the pristine white stones and the imposing glass.

"Yes. This is Trimounts, girls."

The quiet awe of our arrival is abruptly punctured by the sharp, rhythmic click of heavy boots against the pristine pavement.

A stern-looking Perro approaches the base of the ramps. He is dressed in a crisp, immaculately tailored uniform that speaks of strict authority, a stark contrast to the battle-worn tactical gear our Operators usually wear. His canine ears are straight up, alert and entirely unbothered by the sheer size of the landship looming behind us. I instinctively shrink back a fraction. My mind immediately braces for the sharp, bitter taste of prejudice. The acidic hostility Dr. Kal'tsit had warned me about when a pureblood Sarkaz steps off the landship.

But as my Arts brushes against him, the ambient air doesn't sour.

The flavor bleeding off him isn't the rusted iron of malice or the cold copper of fear. It tastes like lukewarm black coffee, pressed starch, and endless stacks of dry paper. He stops just a few paces away, his posture rigid. He raises a gloved finger and points directly to the white starburst emblem pinned securely to his breast pocket, the symbol of the Columbian Union.

"Columbian Customs," the Perro announces, his voice a flat, practiced drone that carries easily over the distant hum of the city. "I am here to document the Rhodes Island personnel designated for municipal entry today. State your callsigns and official operational capacities for the registry."

Mom steps forward, seamlessly inserting her frame halfway between the officer and us.

"Caladria," mom states smoothly, her voice ringing with professional authority. "Combat Medic."

The customs officer gives a single, brisk nod, tapping the glowing screen of his digital slate. He shifts to look to the right.

Podenco straightens her spine, puffing her chest out just a little bit to look as tall and official as her frame will allow.

"Podenco," she declares clearly. "Logistics Support."

Lisa is next. Her tails instantly settle down into a polite, controlled sway. She folds her hands neatly in front of her, perfectly adopting the pristine manners of a Rhodes Island operative.

"Suzuran," Lisa says, her voice sweet but impressively composed. "Field Ops Support." The officer’s eyes finally drop to me.

I swallow the nervous lump in my throat.

I force my chin up, meeting his stern look.

"Lethe," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Palliative Care Assistant."

The Perro’s fingers dance across the glass of his slate for a final second. A soft, electronic blip rings out. He lowers the device, his expression remaining entirely neutral.

"Understood," he says, stepping aside and gesturing loosely toward the sprawling metropolis stretching out behind him. "Rhodes Island personnel are cleared for two-day stays in the city."

He gives us a brief, obligatory nod.

"Welcome to the Union."

The treads of the deployment ramp end abruptly, giving way to a narrow gap, and then, the flawless pavement of the Columbian nomadic plate.

I hesitate at the very edge.

The wind whipping across the gap doesn't carry the familiar, sterile bite of medical bleach or the hum of Rhodes Island’s engines. It smells of crisp, unfiltered altitude, distant exhaust, and the sharp, electric scent of a towering metropolis. It is an entirely alien atmosphere.

I am standing on the absolute threshold of the world. Everything I know, every memory that hasn't been burned to ash by the Originium in my skull, exists entirely behind me in the steel belly of the landship.

I slowly lift my left foot. The thick, insulated sole of my sneaker hovers over the divide. I lower it, tentatively pressing my toe against the pristine white of Trimounts. I push down, testing the weight.

It is completely solid. It doesn't shake.

But a sudden, suffocating spike of vulnerability shoots up my spine. The absolute lack of reinforced walls separating me from the towering, intimidating glass spires is terrifying. I quickly pull my foot back, shrinking into my jacket.

A few paces ahead, the rhythmic clicking of footsteps ceases.

Mom, Lisa, and Podenco notice I am no longer walking beside them. They turn around. Lisa walks back a few steps. Her eyes shine with absolute, unwavering support.

"You can do it, Lethe!" Lisa chimes. She gestures widely to the paved street beneath her loafers. "See! We are all standing on the nomadic plate, it is safe!"

I look at her, my throat tight.

"I…"

I look down at the terrifying gap between the ramp and the city.

Podenco marches back up the ramp. She stops right in front of me, planting her feet firmly on the steel treads. She offers me an exaggerated, highly theatrical bow, and holds out her hand, palm up.

"Now, now, Miss Sarkaz royalty. Do you need a knight to escort you, perhaps?"

I freeze.

The sheer, staggering audacity of the tease hits me like a physical strike. The freezing terror completely evaporates, instantaneously replaced by a hot, prickly rush of absolute embarrassment. The flush crashes over my cheeks, burning all the way up to the tips of my horns.

I puff my cheeks out, fixing the smug Perro with my fiercest, most indignant glare.

"I do not need an escort!"

I ignore her outstretched hand completely. I tighten my grip on my bag, force my chin up, and take a single, massive, uncompromising stride forward.

My sneakers clear the gap and hit the solid Columbian concrete with a firm, definitive squeak.

The impact travels straight up my legs. I stand perfectly still for a second, my chest heaving as I look up at the towering, impossible buildings stretching into the sky.

I am off the landship. For the very first time in my memories, I am standing in the world. Podenco doesn’t even flinch. She just lets out a victorious little chuckle, instantly turning back and falling into step right beside us.

We walk down the pavement.

"So… where do we get the sweets?" I ask, looking up at mom, my tail giving her a poke. Mom ponders for a moment, her fingers tapping lightly against her chin as she scans the immaculate street signs.

"Well, Lethe. Since we have two days. Do you want to try something unique first? I am overdue on some Columbian coffee as well."

"Can I finally try coffee?" I ask, my eyes blowing wide with eager anticipation.

"Absolutely not," mom replies smoothly, completely crushing my caffeinated dreams without missing a single beat. Her medical authority remains entirely uncompromised, even off the landship.

I let out a soft sigh. I know better than to push it.

"So what is like unique?" I ask instead, easily pivoting back to the promise of sugar. Mom doesn’t answer. She mumbles quietly under her breath about street names, grid layouts, and directions, navigating the towering, pristine labyrinth of Trimounts from old memories. Lisa and Podenco follow closely behind us, their eyes darting everywhere, taking in the gleaming storefronts and the sharply dressed Columbian citizens walking past.

There are a few people who looks like me for a moment too long, their emotions taste like the heavy, stagnant air of a humid, rotting basement with a sharp sting of warm vinegar.

I tuck my head down. Stepping closer to mom.

Dr. Kal’tsit is right. They won’t shoot me or hit me, but they still don’t like me.

Mom notices my unease and tightly tucks me against her side.

After a few turns away from the overwhelming rush of the main thoroughfares, we arrive at a tucked-in cafe.

It is nestled neatly between two towering structures of cold glass and steel, an inviting little haven with warmly lit windows and the rich, roasted aroma of coffee beans spilling out into the crisp air. The bell above the door chimes a soft, cheerful note as we step inside.

We find a quiet booth near the back. Mom orders her dark, bitter coffee and then, she orders the "unique" sweet for the three of us.

When the waiter returns and sets the ceramic plate in front of me, my brain stops. I stare at the dish, entirely mesmerized. It isn't a flat, dense pastry, and it isn't a heavy bread roll. It is a towering, impossibly thick stack of pancakes, but they look like they are forged from literal magic.

They jiggle and wobble precariously with the slightest movement of the plate, their structure so incredibly delicate and airy they seem to defy gravity entirely. The tops are baked to a perfect, even golden-brown, while the impossibly tall sides are a soft, pale yellow. A generous, meticulous dusting of powdered sugar falls over them like fresh, pristine snow. Resting right at the summit is a small square of butter, already beginning to melt from the radiant heat, sliding slowly down the impossibly fluffy sides to mingle with a small pool of rich, amber syrup at the base.

"Woah," Lisa breathes out, leaning over the table.

"It looks like a cloud," Podenco murmurs.

I pick up my fork, my fingers actually trembling slightly. I press the side of the metal fork into the top of the stack. There is absolutely no resistance. The metal slides through the thick dough like it is cutting through flavored air.

I lift the piece, coated in melting butter and syrup, and take a bite.

I close my eyes. It dissolves on my tongue almost instantly. It doesn't require chewing; it simply melts into a wave of warm, rich vanilla, sweet egg custard, and caramelized sugar. The savory richness of the melting butter acts as a perfect, grounding anchor to the sheer, overwhelming sweetness.

The sour tastes of the streets instantly vanish, replaced by a massive, rushing wave of pure, unadulterated joy blooming directly from my own chest.

It is exactly the kind of beautiful, meticulous creation Miss Adele had talked about in the Archives.

I open my eyes. I look across the table at mom, who is taking a slow sip of her bitter coffee, watching my reaction with eyes full of fondness.

"It's a cloud," I whisper, my voice thick with absolute wonder. "I'm eating a sweet cloud." The last bite of the sweet, vanilla-soaked cloud dissolves on my tongue. I close my eyes, savoring the lingering warmth of the caramelized sugar and butter, letting it act as a soft, comforting blanket over my senses.

As the sheer, blinding joy of the pastry fades, the ambient noise of the bustling establishment filters back into my ears. The clinking of porcelain cups and the hiss of the espresso machines are soon joined by the casual, overlapping chatter of the patrons sitting in the booth directly behind us.

"Did you hear?" a man's voice murmurs, his tone dropping into a conspiratorial hush.

"Director Kristen Wright disappeared."

"Yeah," another voice replies, accompanied by the dull clatter of a fork against a plate. "I heard Rhine Lab is now aligning itself with the Department of Defense. Things are shifting fast over there."

The words mean absolutely nothing to me. But the ambient air at our table violently shatters.

The rich, comforting scent of roasted coffee and baked dough is instantly pierced by a sharp, suffocating spike. It hits me like a physical strike; a vile, sudden flood of cold, stagnant water and the sharp, acidic bite of rusted steel.

I flinch, my eyes snapping open. I look across the table.

Mom is completely frozen. Her ceramic mug is suspended halfway to her lips, her knuckles turning white around the handle. Her eyes are wide, staring blankly at the wooden surface of the table, entirely swallowed by the shadows of the conversation behind us. The downy plumage framing her face is pinned flat against her skin.

I reach out, my hand hovering over the table, desperately wanting to grab her fingers and pull her back to the present.

But before I can even open my mouth, a blindingly bright wave of crystallized sugar washes over the table, deliberately pushing back the freezing dread.

"Miss Erika!"

Lisa leans forward. Her eyes sparkle with an entirely manufactured innocent curiosity.

"Do you know where are good places to get some souvenirs and clothing?"

Mom violently blinks, the sudden question snapping her out of her paralyzed trance. She lowers her mug, the ceramic clinking loudly against the table. She takes a short breath, her eyes darting between me, Podenco, and my beaming friend.

"Uhm," mom stammers. "Well…”

"There is a mall near the Rhine Lab HQ," mom finally answers. Her voice begins to steady. "We can go there and have a look."

Mom offers us a small smile that quickly strengthens into something entirely genuine.

"They have everything you can imagine," mom promises, the corners of her exhausted eyes relax. "Anything you girls want to see, they will have it."

"Really?!" I gasp, leaning over the table, the sweet taste of the pancake returning in full force as my tail wags excitedly beneath the booth. "Do they have more clothes? Like different jackets?"

Podenco smirks, resting her chin in her hands. "Don't tell me you're already tired of your oversized coat, Lethe. You practically sleep in that thing."

"I am not tired of it! I just want to see what Columbian people wear!"

Mom lets out a soft, breathy chuckle, the last remaining shadows of the overheard conversation melting away.

"Then let's finish our drinks, girls," mom says, her tone light and resolute. "We have a whole city to explore."

We gather our empty plates and step away from the booth, the lingering warmth of the sweet cloud still perfectly settled in my chest.

As we reach the exit, I turn back and offer a polite, deep bow to the cafe owner behind the espresso machines. The Liberi man pauses his wiping of the counter. His eyes briefly flicks up to the lopsided horns on my head and the Rhodes Island jacket draping off my shoulder. He doesn’t smile. His expression remains a completely flat, but he gives a curt, professional nod.

"Thanks for stopping by," he mutters, returning to his work.

I guess, I am naive to expect him to act like Rhodes Island Operators.

We step back out onto the immaculately paved streets of Trimounts. Lisa and Podenco walk a few steps ahead, their heads swiveling constantly as they point out massive advertisements about Popcorn-a-tron Max Pro Popcorn machines and Chug sodas. Then, our destination slowly comes into view.

I stop on the sidewalk, my jaw dropping slightly. It is a massive commercial dome, a sprawling, sprawling titan of vaulted glass and polished white steel that seems to swallow an entire city block. I tilt my head back, staring at the sheer, staggering scale of the architecture.

I used to think Ms. Closure’s general store on the landship was the most chaotic, densely packed place in the world. But standing in the shadow of this colossal Columbian mall, her chaotic workshop feels like a cramped, tiny lemonade stall.

"Come on, Lethe!" Lisa cheers, her tails swishing excitedly as she grabs my free hand, practically dragging me toward the entrance.

The massive, automated glass sliding doors hiss apart as we approach. We step through the threshold, and the transition is jarring.

A rush of aggressively climate-controlled air washes over us. It is a total sensory overload. The ambient air of the mall is an intoxicating, dizzying cocktail of expensive perfumes, roasted nuts, and the overlapping, echoing chatter of thousands of shoppers. The space tastes of bright, carbonated excitement, the dull, grey boredom, and the sharp, minty sting of absolute desire. It is completely overwhelming.

Suddenly, a figure alters her trajectory from the rushing crowd, walking briskly directly toward our small group.

Mom freezes. Her shoulders instantly tense, a rigid, defensive posture snapping into place as we stand so terrifyingly close to the heart of Rhine Lab.

My Arts reaches out before the stranger even closes the distance. The flavor hits the back of my tongue, and I blink in surprise. It is incredibly crisp and beautifully profound. It tastes like the sharp, freezing air of a clear, starry night sky, perfectly layered over the faint shaved ice of intense academic focus.

It is a Liberi woman. She is elegant, dressed in a refined, meticulously tailored waistcoat and intricate dress, clutching a white digital slate against her chest. Her hair flowing in a starry blue color.

The moment she steps fully into the light of the atrium, the rigid terror in mom's spine completely evaporates.

"Erika!" the Liberi woman calls out, her eyes widening in genuine, unadulterated delight.

"Long time no see!"

"Elena?" Mom breathes out. A massive, surprised smile breaks across her face, completely erasing the exhausted lines around her eyes.

The two immediately close the gap to share a brief, incredibly warm embrace. I stand safely behind mom, peeking out from the fabric of her coat.

"I cannot believe it's you," Elena says, pulling back to look at mom with bright eyes. "I heard the rumors you had left Trimounts entirely. You look… different. You look good."

"I joined Rhodes Island," mom explains, her voice ringing with a quiet, undeniable pride as she gestures to the black and white emblem of our home. "It has been a long journey, Elena. But it was the right choice."

Elena nods, a soft, understanding smile touching her lips. "I am glad to hear that, Erika. Truly. Things at the Lab have been…" Her starry, ozone flavor flickers for a fraction of a second, pierced by that same sour, anxious lemon note mom had emitted in the cafe.

"Things have been incredibly chaotic since Director Wright's disappearance. It is a nightmare of paperwork and shifting directives."

Mom's smile softens into a look of deep, shared sympathy. "I heard. Please be careful in there, Elena."

"I will," Elena promises. Then, her crisp attention drops, finally landing on the three of us huddled quietly behind mom's legs. "And who are these little ones?"

Mom turns, reaching back to gently rest her hands on my shoulders, pulling me squarely into the light of the mall's atrium.

"This is Lisa, and Podenco," mom introduces, gesturing to my two friends, who both offer the elegant researcher polite, perfectly practiced bows.

Then, mom’s grip on my shoulders tightens just a fraction.

"And this," mom says, her voice thick with absolute, unapologetic pride, "is my daughter. Lethe."

Elena's eyes blow wide in complete surprise. She looks at my horns, the tail, and then back up at mom's beaming face. A bright, musical giggle escapes the Liberi researcher's lips.

"A daughter? My, you have been busy since you left the Lab, Erika," Elena teases gently. She leans down just a bit, offering me a warm, brilliant smile that tastes like pure, unclouded starlight. "It is an absolute pleasure to meet you, Lethe. You have a very brave mother."

I blush. I grip my staff with both hands and offer her a deep, respectful bow.

"It is nice to meet you too, Miss Elena," I chime softly.

Elena stands back up, letting out a quiet sigh as she taps the screen of her digital slate.

"I wish I could stay and catch up properly over a coffee, Erika, but if I am late returning to the astro-observation deck, my department head will have my feathers. The transition has everyone on edge."

"I understand. Don't let me keep you," mom smiles, taking a respectful step back. "It was so incredibly good to see you, Elena. Stay safe."

"You too, Erika. And it was lovely meeting you, girls! Enjoy Trimounts!"

With a final, elegant wave, Elena turns on her heel. We watch her weave her way back into the bustling, chaotic crowd of the Columbian mall, her crisp flavor slowly fading into the overlapping static of the shoppers until she completely disappears from sight. Mom stands there for a moment, a lingering, nostalgic fondness softening her features. Then, she turns back to us, clapping her hands together with a brisk, energetic snap.

"Alright, girls," mom declares, entirely shaking off the ghosts of her Rhine Lab past. She points toward the endless tiers of glowing storefronts and towering escalators stretching above us. "We have an entire day and a whole mall to conquer. Where do you want to start?"

“Clothing!” Lisa declares.

The sheer volume of the Columbian clothing stores is entirely dizzying. The racks stretch on like colorful, fabric forests, completely devoid of the utilitarian greys, clinical whites, and tactical blues that dominate the wardrobes of Rhodes Island.

I am immediately thrust into the center of a chaotic, whirlwind fashion raid.

Lisa and Podenco are an absolute blur of motion. They dart between the aisles, pulling hangers down with sharp clattering sounds and piling a massive mountain of garments into my arms. Mom simply stands near the fitting rooms, holding a couple of shopping bags and watching the two younger girls completely commandeer my wardrobe with a fond, highly amused smile.

"Try this one, Lethe!" Lisa chirps, thrusting a bright neon yellow jacket into my hands.

"Too bright," Podenco vetoes instantly, snatching it back and replacing it with a heavily strapped, punk-style vest. "This is Columbia! She needs to look cool. Let's try streetwear."

I am ushered into the fitting room. For the next hour, I am subjected to an endless parade of fashion. I struggle with the restrictive collars, the lack of tail cutouts, and the bizarrely complicated layering systems.

Finally, after a dozen vetoed outfits, they hand me a combination that actually works. I step out from behind the heavy curtain, nervously pulling at the hem of the fabric. They had picked out a massive, light grey oversized hoodie. The fabric is incredibly thick and fleecy, swallowing my fragile frame entirely. The collar is wide enough that I managed to slip it over my lopsided horns without catching. Printed squarely in the center of the chest is a small, stylized graphic of a sleeping black kitten.

Below the hoodie, I am wearing a simple pair of dark, distressed denim shorts layered over thick, opaque black tights. They had purposely picked the ones designed with reinforced tail holes.

I stand in front of the large, brilliantly lit mirror, staring at my reflection. My eyes blink back at me.

This is me?

"Well?" Podenco asks, crossing her arms with a triumphant grin. "How does it feel?" I reach up, burying my hands deep into the oversized front pocket of the hoodie. The fleece is incredibly soft against my fingers.

"This is normal?…" I whisper, my voice barely audible over the piped-in pop music of the store. I twist my torso slightly, watching the oversized fabric swish. "It feels weird… Comfy… but weird."

"It looks perfect on you, Lethe," mom says, stepping up behind me. She rests her hands on my shoulders, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. Her emotional resonance swells with absolute sweet adoration. "We are definitely taking it."

After completely draining mom’s Columbian dollars on the new outfit, the chaotic energy of the wardrobe raid leaves us all entirely famished. We migrate toward the sprawling food court of the mall.

The air here is thick with the heavy, savory scent of fried grease, grilled meat, and caramelized sugar. We find a booth, and mom returns from the counters balancing a massive tray loaded with authentic Columbian food.

Resting on the plastic tray are towering, greasy hamburgers wrapped in wax paper, accompanied by a mountain of golden, perfectly salted fries. And for dessert, tall plastic cups filled to the brim with swirled vanilla and strawberry soft serve ice cream. I stare at the hamburger placed in front of me. It is a ridiculous, structural marvel of toasted buns, thick meat patties, melting cheese, crisp lettuce, and an absolute deluge of tangy, reddish-orange sauce.

I eagerly reach out, gripping the massive burger with both of my hands. I squish the soft buns down, trying to compress the towering sandwich into a size that might actually fit into my mouth.

I take a massive, ambitious bite.

Splat.

A thick, violent jet of reddish-orange sauce erupts directly out of the back of the bun. It shoots across the table like a localized, condiment-based Catastrophe, landing squarely against the front of Podenco’s green jacket.

The entire table freezes.

I stop chewing. My eyes blow completely wide, my horns practically vibrating with the sudden spike of sheer, horror.

Podenco slowly looks down at her jacket. A massive, greasy smear of burger sauce is dripping lazily down the fabric. She blinks.

Her presence instantly sharpens into the tangy, explosive flavor of a shaken soda bottle popping its cap.

"Lethe…” Podenco breathes out, her voice dangerously calm. She slowly raises her head, fixing me with a withering, narrowed glare. "Did you just use a hamburger as an Arts projectile?"

"I'm sorry!" I immediately drop the ruined burger back onto the tray, my hands flying up in a frantic, apologetic wave. "I squeezed it too hard! It was an accident!"

Lisa slaps both hands over her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently as a bright, musical giggle tears out of her throat.

Mom lets out a long, heavy sigh. She reaches across the table, grabbing a thick stack of paper napkins, and begins to dutifully scrub the worst of the collateral damage off Podenco’s outfit.

"It's okay, Podenco. We can get that washed when we get back to the landship," mom chuckles, tossing the used napkins onto the tray. She looks at me, shaking her head.

"Eat carefully, Lethe. You are a Djall, not a Phidia."

I blush furiously, ducking my head into the oversized collar of my new kitten hoodie. I spend the rest of the meal taking very tiny, very meticulous bites, chasing the greasy, savory heaven with spoonfuls of the freezing, sugary soft serve.

With our stomachs completely full and the disastrous sauce incident behind us, we spend the afternoon wandering the upper tiers of the commercial dome.

Eventually, the endless rows of clothing and food give way to a sprawling, immaculate exhibition space in the center of the mall. The lighting here shifts from warm retail ambiance to a crisp, clinical white. Sleek, polished pedestals hold complex, rotating miniature displays and pristine white machinery.

Emblazoned on massive banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling is an infinity sign framed with a plus and minus sign.

Rhine Lab L.L.C.

Solve Intelligence. Think Different.

I feel mom's footsteps slow.

We stop near a large display featuring a series of medical beds and towering, humming centrifuges.

"Mom?" I whisper softly, reaching out to gently tug at the sleeve of her translucent coat.

"We don't have to look here if you don't want to."

Mom blinks, pulling her distant stare away from the massive corporate banners. She looks down at me, and the bitter, rusted edge of her emotional resonance softens into a quiet, enduring acceptance. She reaches out, gently resting her hand on my head.

"It is okay, Lethe.”

She steps closer to the machinery on the pedestal, her eyes tracing the familiar, meticulous engineering of the devices.

"Rhine Lab has done terrible things," mom says, her voice dropping into a hushed, private tone meant only for us. "The ambitions of the Directors… the secrets buried in their classified sectors… it is a darkness I could no longer be a part of."

She reaches out, her fingers lightly grazing the polished casing of one of the advanced diagnostic monitors.

"But look at this interface, Lethe. The localized Originium filtration system. The real-time cellular stabilization protocols that enabled Rhodes Island to develop the suppressants." Mom turns back to me.

"Many of the medical equipments we use every single day on Rhodes Island… the very machines that keep Opal's crystals dormant, the centrifuges Dr. Warfarin uses to stabilize your own blood… they are sourced directly from Rhine Lab technologies," mom explains. "They break children, like Rosmontis. I can never ever forgive them for that. But there are people like Elena, like Olivia. They are trying desperately to change the world for the better, refusing to let it drown in ignorance. From them miracles are built. I left Rhine Lab, but I use their miracles to save lives in the ruins."

I stare at the machinery.

Rosmontis… Mom has told me before, it is Rhine Lab who destroyed her mind and gave her the telekinetic powers by deliberately infecting her with Oripathy…

They are who broke my friend…

But they are also who are innovating the change.

I think back of Rosmontis’ quiet lunches with Amiya and I. She is healing, she is creating a life on Rhodes Island. Just like me…

I swallow hard.

"It's a beautiful machine, mom," I whisper, looking back up at her.

She offers me a soft smile.

"It is," she agrees, stepping away from the display. "Now, let's gather our things. It is getting late, and Dr. Kal'tsit will have my feathers and more if I keep you off the landship past curfew."

By the time we finally make the long walk back through the outer sectors of Trimounts, the overcast sky has deepened into a bruised, twilight purple.

The journey back to the docking station feels twice as long as the walk into the city. My arms are weighed down by the crisp, paper shopping bags holding my Operator clothes and a few small souvenirs Lisa had insisted on buying.

As we cross the threshold and step back into the familiar arteries of the landship, the adrenaline of the civilian day finally, entirely crashes.

The exhaustion hits my bones like liquid lead.

I barely remember the walk to the residential block.

When the doors to my dorm finally open, I stumble inside. I don't even bother to turn on the lights.

I drop the shopping bags unceremoniously onto the floor with a dull rustle. I don't take off the oversized kitten hoodie. I just drag my feet to the edge of the recessed mattress and let my entire body collapse forward.

My cheek hits the soft pillows. My tail falls limply over the edge of the bed.

Mom steps quietly into the room behind me. I feel the gentle weight of her hands as she carefully pulls my sneakers off my aching feet. She pulls the thick blankets up, tucking them securely around me, completely enveloping me in the soft fleece of my new hoodie and the warmth of the bed.

"Goodnight, my little Lethe," mom whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of my head.

"Night… mom…” I slur, my eyes already fluttering shut.

The metal door closes, plunging the room into peaceful silence. Safe in the belly of the landship, wrapped in the mundane comfort of a normal day, I drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I wake up with a heavy, bone-deep ache settling into every muscle of me. My legs feel like they have been filled with liquid lead, a lingering, stubborn protest from spending the entire previous day navigating the sprawling, pristine streets and massive commercial domes of Trimounts.

I reach out from beneath the tangle of blankets, my fingers blindly searching the cold metal of the nightstand until they brush against my slate. I drag it closer, squinting against the sudden, harsh glare of the screen.

11:00.

The daylight simulation of the dorm has been running for hours. I let out a soft, pathetic groan, my horns pressing heavily into the pillow.

I tap open the messaging application. My fingers are slow and clumsy as I draft a quick, apologetic message in the group chat with Lisa and Podenco, and then a direct text to mom. I tell them that my legs are completely, entirely spent and ask them to enjoy their second day in the Columbian city without me. Mom replies almost instantly, her text full of warm reassurances and a strict reminder to make sure I eat a proper lunch from the cafeteria.

I set the slate down, letting my hand drop back onto the mattress. I don't want to just sleep the day away. I have a specific mission in mind.

I think about Trimounts. The crisp air. The sweet, melting clouds of pancakes and the bustling, immaculate streets. I want Opal to see it. Even if it is just from the very edge of the deployment ramp, she needs to know that the world outside the steel belly of this landship isn't entirely made of bruised skies, howling sandstorms, and black crystals. She needs to see that there is still beauty left in Terra, and that the world is far more than the Catastrophe that destroyed her home.

I drag myself out of the warm covers. I carefully fold the oversized kitten hoodie I had slept in, setting it aside, and begin the familiar, grounding routine of dressing in my Operator uniform.

Finally, I pick up my Arts Unit.

The walk through the landship's metallic arteries is a slow, shuffling affair. The usual bustling chaos of the corridors is significantly thinned out today, with so many Operators taking advantage of the shore passes and participating in the latest machinations of Doctor.

By the time the doors of the high-security ward open, my calves are burning.

Miss Sussurro is standing right beside the bed. She is meticulously checking the glowing readouts on the diagnostic monitors.

Sitting up on the mattress, her hands resting gently over the floppy ears of her brown plushie, is Opal.

Miss Sussurro finishes noting a metric on her digital clipboard and turns her head.

"Good morning, Lethe.”

Opal looks up from her plushie.

"Morning, Lethe," Opal adds. Her voice is still as fragile as thin glass, but the suffocating void that used to swallow her words is entirely absent.

I lean my weight slightly against the black shaft of my staff, offering them both a warm, genuine smile to push back the heavy sterility of the room.

"Good morning, Miss Sussurro. Opal.”

"What did you have for breakfast today, Opal?" I ask, taking a slow, careful step toward the edge of the mattress. I keep my movements gentle and entirely predictable.

Opal blinks, her eyes dropping from my face to the blankets covering her lap. "Eggs…" she murmurs. "Scrambled eggs."

"That sounds great, Opal," I reply, pouring as much bright, encouraging warmth into my voice as I possibly can. I shift slightly to ease the lingering ache in my legs. "Do you want to have a look at the city today?"

Opal completely freezes.

The ambient air in the sterile ward instantly ripples. A sudden, sharp spike of fear fills the room. Opal’s grip tightens fiercely around her brown plushie, pulling it flush against her chest as a desperate shield against the terrifying prospect of the outside world. I look up, my eyes meeting Miss Sussurro's. I don't speak, but my wide eyes silently beg the senior Medic for permission.

Miss Sussurro reads my silent plea instantly.

"Opal can go and look at the city," Miss Sussurro states, her tone carrying the absolute, uncompromising weight of her medical authority. "But she is strictly not cleared to go ashore. She stays on the landship."

Miss Sussurro turns her head slightly. She doesn't say another word, but she points silently to the diagnostic monitor mounted on the wall above the bed.

I follow her finger. The clinical data scrolling across the glass screen hits me like a physical blow.

Cell-Originium Assimilation: 43% Blood Originium-Crystal Density: 0.42 u/L The numbers are grim. And they have increased. Despite all the technologies, all the medical care. We are just slowing the clock.

A massive, suffocating lump of grief swells in my throat, tasting of heavy, rusted iron. But I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. I refuse to let Opal taste my despair. I forcefully push the tragedy down, burying it deep in my chest, and anchor my mind entirely to the present moment.

I turn back to the trembling girl and stretch my face into the bravest, most radiant smile I can manage. I actively push my passive empathy outward, projecting a wave of sweet, gentle reassurance to chase away the cracked ice of her panic.

"The city is beautiful, if you want to see it, Opal. It is full of towering glass buildings and bright white stone. We can just stand at the very edge of the ramp. You won't even have to step off the landship, and I will hold your hand the entire time."

Opal looks at me. Her dark eyes search my face. She looks down at her plushie, then back up at Miss Sussurro, and finally, back at me.

Very slowly, her chin dips down. A nod.

I reach out, my fingers wrapping securely around her small hand, and I gently guide her off the edge of the bed.

She slips her feet into her padded slippers, keeping her other arm wrapped tightly around the plushie. As we cross the threshold of the quarantine ward and step out into the corridor, I notice the subtle, beautiful shift in her movements. She doesn't shuffle with that terrifying, bone-deep frailty anymore. Her strides are steady and normal now, built up and practiced through her constant, careful forays to the Convalescent Garden and the various other landship facilities with me and mom.

We walk side-by-side in comfortable silence. I keep my pace slow.

As we slowly approach the deployment ramp, the oppressive, recycled air of the medical wing begins to thin out. A rush of crisp, unfiltered altitude spills into the corridor, carrying the sharp, electric scent of a sprawling metropolis.

We stop right at the threshold.

Opal lets out a tiny sound of awe.

I look out over the ramp alongside her. Even if this is the city that disillusioned mom. Even if this is the city that stole Rosmontis’ future. It is still a city completely untouched by Catastrophes, a staggering monument to survival and progress that defies the horrors of the world. It is a future that doesn't just survive, but builds toward the sky.

"This is Trimounts of the Columbian Union.”

"Home of the Rhine Lab," I explain, looking at her wide, captivated eyes. "The place that manufactures the medical equipments that is keeping everyone healthy. That keeps the crystals from hurting you."

Opal stares out at the sprawling, impossible skyline.

Her grip on the plushie loosens just a fraction.

"It… it is so big," Opal whispers.

I give her small hand a gentle, grounding squeeze, letting my own quiet hope bleed into the space between us.

"It is, Opal.”

We just sit on the ramp, watching logistics Operators and Columbian officials and Rhine Lab personnels come and go. Opal rests her head on my shoulder as I lean into her. Almost an hour has passed.

A tiny rumble emanates from my body. Right, I have went straight to Opal’s ward. I haven’t even had breakfast.

“Lethe is hungry?” Opal looks at me and asks innocently.

My face heats up. “Let’s head to the cafeteria, Opal.” I slowly get up, holding out my hand.

Opal hesitates.

“My food, is designed by Erika and Sussurro…”

I offer her a bright, encouraging smile, “It will be fine Opal, I am a Rhodes Island Medic. I will make sure you get your steamed broccolis.”

Opal physically winces at the mention of broccolis.

“Okay. Lethe.” Opal reaches out to take my hand.

The walk toward the cafeteria is slow and measured. I keep my pace perfectly matched to Opal’s, letting our joined hands serve as a quiet, steady anchor.

As we turn the final corner toward the dining hall, we pass by one of the newer Operators who had joined us in the chaotic aftermath of Chernobog.

She is an Ursus girl, standing out immediately with her round, fuzzy bear ears poking out from her short, blonde hair. She wears a modified school uniform layered with heavy, protective winter gear and a thick red armband. Slung casually over her shoulder is an impossibly heavy-looking vault door that she uses as a shield, though right now, she has a large, industrial frying pan strapped to her waist instead.

Her face is bright, her cheeks flushed with an unending, bubbly energy. The moment she spots us, her eyes light up. She stops in the middle of the corridor and waves energetically, practically bouncing on her heels.

"Lethe! Opal!" she calls out, her voice loud and ringing with cheerful enthusiasm. "What you guys having today! Gummy is going to cook a huge pot of traditional Ursus sour beetroot soup and honey biscuits, want to try?"

I look at her bright, wide smile. I look at her bouncing, eager posture.

But her emotional resonance is anything but cheerful. It is a terrifying, pitch-black abyss masquerading as sunlight.

The emotional influx hits like a physical strike. Beneath the fabricated, desperate layer of forced optimism lies a concentrated reservoir of pure, unadulterated horror. It tastes of hollow, gnawing starvation; an empty, agonizing cramp that eats away at the stomach and the mind. It tastes like the freezing, suffocating bite of a winter night that never ends.

And buried beneath the cold and the hunger is something far worse. It is a flavor so vile, so unspeakably foul, that it makes my own throat close up. It is the rotting, metallic tang of rusted copper mixed with spoiled, rancid meat, entirely drenched in the cloying, suffocating venom of primal guilt and desperate, blood-soaked survival.

I instinctively tighten my grip on Opal’s hand, my stomach giving a violent, nauseating heave. I force my jaw completely shut, physically locking my empathic channels so I don't accidentally siphon even a single drop of the toxic sludge radiating from the Ursus girl.

I don’t dared to ask her about what happened. I don't think I ever will. The trauma she carries is so thick, so fundamentally steeped in absolute, unspeakable tragedy, that I know if I ever opened my staff to take it from her, the sheer venom of it would instantly rot my body from the inside out.

I swallow the phantom ash coating my throat and force the corners of my lips upward, stretching my face into a polite, appreciative smile to match her facade.

"That sounds really good, Gummy," I say, keeping my voice as steady and bright as I can manage. I give Opal's hand a tiny, encouraging squeeze. "But Miss Sussurro and my mom put Opal on a very strict diet right now to help her heal. We have to stick to the steamed vegetables today."

Gummy stops, a fleeting shadow crossing her bright face before she instantly rebounds with a massive, beaming nod.

"That's okay! Medics’ orders are the most important!" Gummy chirps, giving us another highly energetic wave. "When Opal is all better, Gummy will make the biggest batch of honey biscuits just for you two! See you later!"

"See you, Gummy," I reply.

I watch her skip away toward the kitchens, her hair bouncing with every step. She disappears through the cafeteria doors, taking the suffocating, rotting taste of her survival with her.

I let out a long, shaky exhale, the rigid tension finally melting out of my spine. I look at Opal, who is watching me quietly.

"Come on, Opal," I murmur, guiding her forward. "Let's go get those vegetables."

The lunch is entirely silent.

The vast, echoing noise of the cafeteria washes over our small metal table, but I don't hear any of it. My eyes are fixed on the plate in front of me, but I am not really seeing the food.

Opal eats her vegetables slowly, meticulously, maneuvering the fork with practiced care. She sits in her quiet, healing bubble.

Every time I try to swallow, the phantom flavor of the Ursus girl's aura claws at the back of my throat. The psychic residue is so thick and vile that it makes the simple cafeteria food taste like dry ash and bile. I force myself to chew, mechanically fueling my body just to keep Dr. Warfarin's medical checkups at bay, but it is an agonizing effort.

When the meal is finally over, I gently guide Opal back through the landship.

Opal steps inside her ward, the padded soles of her slippers brushing softly.

"I will see you tomorrow, Opal," I force a gentle, reassuring smile onto my face to mask the churning nausea in my stomach.

Opal's long ears give a tiny twitch.

"See you, Lethe.”

The doors seal shut, leaving me alone in the corridor.

I stand there for a long moment. I want to move on, to head back to my dorm and rest my aching legs, but my mind simply refuses to let go.

It keeps catching on Gummy’s emotional resonance.

It is the first time I have really tasted her emotions… all other times she has been cooking in the busy cafeteria, her emotional resonance drowned out by the overlapping feelings of hundreds of Operators in one room and the physical distance from the kitchen to the serving stations.

What I tasted on that blonde, smiling girl was an abyss so deep and so incredibly dark that I cannot comprehend how she manages to walk down the hallway and cheer. How can she cook? How can she bounce on her heels and laugh with a void like that festering inside her chest?

I turn my steps away from the residential block, my tired legs still carrying me quickly toward the Convalescent Garden.

The moment the doors part, the sweet fragrance of blooming flora and damp soil is a desperate, necessary relief, actively fighting the phantom stench of rusted copper still clinging to my senses.

I walk down the path.

Near the back of the garden, Miss Lena is sitting on a reclined chair. She is the picture of absolute serenity, her elegant posture relaxed as she reads a beautiful designed book resting in her lap.

But as my footsteps draw closer, the rustle of my approach breaks her concentration. She looks up from the pages.

The serene, welcoming smile that begins to form on her lips instantly falters.

"Lethe?" Miss Lena asks, her voice dropping into a soft, aching melody of immediate concern. She carefully sets her book down on the bench beside her, the lavender emotional resonance spiking with sharp, attentive alarm. "Lethe, what’s wrong?"

I stop right in front of her. My hands are trembling so badly that the base of my Arts Unit clatters softly against the floor tiles. My chest heaves with a shallow, jagged breath.

I look at her, my vision blurring as the sheer, suffocating weight of the landship's hidden horrors threatens to crush me.

"Miss Lena…” I whisper, the words scraping painfully against my throat. "Can we help Gummy? What happened to her…”

Miss Lena does not answer me immediately.

"Lethe, sit," Miss Lena instructs. Her voice is soft, but it carries the undeniable, heavy weight.

"Miss Lena…?"

"Sit," she repeats, her tone leaving absolutely no room for argument, yet entirely wrapped in velvet. "I will make some tea."

I swallow hard.

"Okay…"

I shuffle over to a chair and sink into it. I pull my knees tightly up to my chest, wrapping my tail around my calfs in a rigid, defensive coil.

The ten minutes stretch into an agonizing eternity. Left alone in the quiet seating area, the ambient rustle of the broad-leafed ferns and the quiet hum of the landship's idling engines are the only sounds to ground me. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to focus on the humid scent of the greenhouse, but my mind keeps violently snapping back to Gummy in the corridor.

Finally, the soft rustle of elegant clothing breaks my spiraling thoughts.

Miss Lena steps out from the foliage, carrying a small tray. Resting on it is a single, steaming porcelain cup. She sets the tray down on the small table beside my chair and takes a seat right next to me.

"Here, Lethe," Miss Lena murmurs, her lavender presence pressing against my senses like a thick, weighted blanket, actively pushing back the cold dread.

I slowly uncoil one of my arms, reaching out to take the cup. "Thank you."

I bring the porcelain to my lips and take a slow, hesitant sip. It isn't her usual delicate floral blend. It is steeped with something sharp and aggressively grounding, peppermint and ginger. The hot liquid burns a clean path down to my stomach, thawing the freezing knot of panic just a fraction.

Miss Lena watches me drink. She doesn't rush me. She waits until my shoulders finally drop, the rigid tension melting out of my spine.

"What do you remember about Chernobog?" Miss Lena asks. Her voice is incredibly quiet, slicing through the humid air of the greenhouse with absolute precision.

I lower the teacup, resting it carefully against my knees. I stare down into the dark, amber liquid, watching the faint reflection of my horns ripple on the surface.

The memories hit me. The agonizing wait in the dark of my dorm room. The broken, bleeding Operators stumbling onto the freezing flight deck. And the towering wall in the memorial hall, freshly scarred with names of the fallen.

"Reunion…"

I look up, meeting Miss Lena's serious, unwavering look.

"They hijacked the city and tried to crash it into Lungmen…" I continue, clutching the warm porcelain tighter. "Ace and Scout… died for Doctor and Amiya there.”

Miss Lena looks down at her own hands resting in her lap. The comforting, warm lavender emotional resonance radiating from her dims, overshadowed by a heavy, suffocating blanket of profound sorrow.

"That’s not the entire story, Lethe," Miss Lena says softly, her voice barely rising above the rustle of the greenhouse leaves.

"It is not?" I whisper.

Miss Lena slowly shakes her head. She reaches out, gently resting her hand over mine.

"Chernobog…" She pauses, taking a slow, measured breath before forcing the horrific truth into the quiet air. "The Ursus government sabotaged the city’s engines. They ensured it was stuck in the path of the Catastrophe. They allowed it to fall to Reunion." I stare at her, my mind violently rejecting the information. Sabotaged? They intentionally left an entire nomadic city to be crushed by a meteor shower and slaughtered by rioters?

But Miss Lena isn't finished.

"Gummy and her friends were trapped in Peterheim Middle School by a Reunion leader called Mephisto," Miss Lena continues, her voice dropping into a fragile, trembling murmur. The sheer weight of the tragedy makes Miss Lena close her eyes.

"There was no food, no water, and no one coming to save them until we… until Rhodes Island killed the Reunion leaders."

I sit perfectly still.

Hollow, gnawing starvation.

The teacup rattles violently against its saucer.

"They had to survive…" Miss Lena whispers, the implication hanging in the humid air like an executioner's blade.

My stomach violently heaves. I slap my free hand over my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut as a sickening, freezing terror paralyzes my entire spine.

"Miss Lena…" I choke out, my voice muffled behind my trembling hand. A hot tear escapes, carving a track down my cheek. "If it hurts that much… I can siphon the nightmares. I can just… take the rotting taste away so she doesn't have to carry it anymore! I can take it! I will go find her!”

Miss Lena reaches out with both hands, gently prying my trembling fingers away from my mouth. She takes the rattling teacup from my grip, setting it safely on the table, and pulls my hands into her lap.

She looks at my tear-stained face, her own eyes shimmering with a profound grief.

"Sometimes, Lethe," Miss Lena murmurs, her thumb gently brushing across my cheeks.

"We need to let people keep their bandages on until they are ready to move on."

I stare at her, my chest heaving with shallow, ragged gasps.

"If you tear a bandage off a wound before it has started to heal from the inside," she explains softly, "you will just rip the flesh open all over again. You will make them bleed to death."

Gummy's loud voice, her endless enthusiasm, her obsessive need to cook huge pots of food for everyone around her. It isn't just a facade. It is a load-bearing structure. It is the desperately constructed bandage holding her fractured mind together. If I were to use my Arts to violently siphon away her survival guilt and her trauma right now, I wouldn't be healing her. I would be ripping away the only foundation keeping her sane. I would hollow her out entirely.

I look down at our joined hands.

"I understand."

I pull my hands gently from Miss Lena's grasp and wrap my arms securely around my own torso.

"I won't touch her bandage, Miss Lena," I promise the quiet garden, staring blankly at the flowerbeds. "I will just… let her cook for us. And I will tell her it tastes good."

Miss Lena leans forward, wrapping her arms around my trembling shoulders. She pulls me flush against her side, burying her chin gently into my long grey hair.

"That is exactly right, my sweet, brave Lethe," Miss Lena whispers. "You just be her friend. That is the best healing you can offer her right now."

I just cuddle in Miss Lena’s warm embrace for a long while.

Miss Lena slowly lets go of me. She picks up her book.

“Want to read it together, Lethe?”

I lean closer to look at the beautifully designed book resting in her lap.

The cover is vibrant, featuring an intricate, glossy illustration of a tall, dashing Aslan man in a heavily decorated Victorian military uniform. He is dramatically holding the chin of a wide-eyed, blushing Feline girl, surrounded by a flurry of sparkling, stylized roses.

The title is stamped across the top in sprawling, embossed gold lettering.

The Duke of Victoria’s Secret Contract Bride.

I blink. I stare at the glossy cover, and then I slowly look up at the serene, elegant Vulpo sitting beside me.

"Miss Lena?!"

Miss Lena doesn't flinch. She marks her page with a pressed fern bookmark and turns to me, her expression a mask of absolute, flawless tranquility.

"What’s wrong, Lethe?" Miss Lena asks, her voice maintaining its usual gentle, soothing melody.

"I was… I was expecting…" I stammer, pointing at the dramatic, heart-eyed girl on the cover. "I thought you were reading about plant biology! Or… or the agricultural history of Minos! Not… this!"

"Everyone has hobbies, Lethe," Miss Lena replies smoothly, adjusting the book in her lap.

The serene, calming flavor of Miss Lena is still there, but it is suddenly pierced by a sharp, fizzy spike of sweet rosewater. It is the exact same flavor Lisa gets when she is caught trying to sneak an extra dessert from the cafeteria.

"It is actually a very profound piece of literature," Miss Lena continues, her tone taking on a highly educated, academic cadence. She delicately clears her throat, gently smoothing down the edge of the glossy page. "The narrative provides a fascinating, deeply critical insight into the rigid sociopolitical structures of the Victorian aristocracy. By analyzing the interpersonal dynamics of the Duke and his contracted bride, one can extrapolate the underlying tensions of the era's class divide and the psychological toll of political marriages."

She offers me a perfectly poised, serene smile. "It is practically a sociological study, Lethe."

The lie hits the back of my tongue. It tastes like absolute, undeniable ripe peach and fluffy marshmallow.

Beneath her flawless, academic justification, the truth radiating from my manager is blindingly clear. She is completely, hopelessly invested in the romantic drama, and she desperately wants to know if the Duke is going to confess his feelings in the next chapter.

I look at her poised smile, and then down at the dramatic cover.

I clamp my mouth shut, biting the inside of my cheek to suppress the bright giggle bubbling up in my throat. Miss Lena had taught me about keeping bandages on until people were ready to take them off. I certainly wouldn't dare tear away the elegant sanctuary guardian's carefully constructed bandage of dignity.

"I understand, Miss Lena," I say, offering her a very solemn, deeply serious nod.

"Sociological studies are very important."

I scoot a little closer to her, tucking my legs up and resting my head gently against her shoulder.

"Can we study it together?" I ask as innocently as I can.

Miss Lena's ears give a tiny, delighted twitch.

"Of course, Lethe. Let us start from chapter one."

"Please don't reject him!" I squeeze Miss Lena's arm slightly, my eyes wide as I stare at the page.

We have been reading for what feels like hours, completely absorbed.

"Reject whom?"

I almost jump out of my seat. The sudden voice breaks the quiet rustle of the garden, and my tail instantly snaps straight up, pointing at the ceiling like a rigid, misty blue antenna.

I whip around. Standing right behind our seating, a highly amused smile playing on her lips, is mom. She is holding a brown paper bag that radiates a rich, savory warmth.

"I brought back some bagels from an old cafe I used to go to in Trimounts with Elena," mom says, her feathers fluffing up slightly with fond nostalgia.

"Bagels?" I tilt my head.

Mom reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a wrapped bundle, peeling back the wax paper to show me. It is a dense, ring-shaped bread with a golden-brown, slightly blistered crust, sliced right down the middle. Wedged between the two halves is a vibrant, colorful stack of ingredients: delicate, thinly sliced ribbons of bright pink smoked orange looking fish, layered perfectly over fresh, crisp, deep green spinach leaves. Holding it all together is a thick, incredibly generous spread of smooth white cream cheese.

The sheer, layered complexity of the savory sandwich looks absolutely delicious.

"It's a Columbian classic," mom explains, offering the wrapped bagel toward me.

Then, her eyes drift past the food. Her gaze drops, landing directly on the open book resting in Miss Lena's lap. She reads the sprawling, embossed gold lettering.

Mom blinks, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. "Lena, is that…"

Miss Lena clears her throat.

The sound is incredibly delicate, yet it carries the absolute, uncompromising authority.

"The aromatic profile of those bagels is lovely, Erika," Miss Lena pivots seamlessly. Her serene smile never falters for a single bit. "It must be nearly time for dinner. Speaking of which, how were Lisa and Podenco?"

Mom stares at Miss Lena for a fraction of a second. Then a bright, knowing amusement dances in her bright eyes.

"They are completely knocked out," mom laughs softly. She hands me the bagel and takes a seat on the bench beside us. "A full day exploring the Rhine Lab science park and all the interactive exhibits was a bit too much for them. They fell asleep before our transport vehicle even docked back at the landship."

I take a massive bite into the bagel.

The crunch of the blistered, golden crust gives way instantly to the thick, rich layer of cream cheese. The salty, smoky tang of the fish blends perfectly with the fresh crunch of the spinach leaves. It is heavenly. A low, happy hum vibrates in my throat as I chew, my tail giving slow, utterly contented wag.

Across the table, mom watches me savor the bite. Her feathers give a tiny, deliberate twitch.

"Well, Lethe," mom says, her voice smooth. "Just to let you know, you way over-indexed on junk food for now. Steamed broccoli and baked potatoes for next month."

My jaw completely freezes mid-chew.

The absolute, horrifying betrayal of the sentence hits me. I swallow the heavenly bite of the bagel with a difficult gulp, my eyes blowing wide in sheer, unadulterated panic. My tail instantly stops its happy swishing, dropping dead toward the floorboards.

"What?!" I yelp. I point an accusing, slightly crumb-covered finger directly at her. "No fair! You brought them all for me! It is your fault, mom!"

Mom doesn't even flinch at my accusation.

She simply raises her own half of the bagel to her lips and takes a bite. She chews slowly. Meticulously. Her eyes lock onto mine, sparkling with an overwhelming, bright burst of sparkling grape juice.

"I am a Rhodes Island Medic, Lethe," mom replies, swallowing her bite with a perfectly serene expression. "It is my sworn duty to ensure my patients maintain a balanced, nutritional baseline. And as your mother, it is my duty to enforce it."

"Miss Lena!" I practically throw myself across the table, turning my wide, pleading eyes toward the best manager on the landship. "Tell her she cannot do this! A month of steamed broccoli is cruel! I am a Djall, not a herbivore!"

Miss Lena, who has been quietly watching the exchange with her book resting in her lap, lifts a hand to cover her mouth. Her shoulders shake with a soft chuckle, entirely failing to hide her delight at my despair .

"I am afraid I cannot interfere with a primary care Medic’s orders, Lethe," Miss Lena replies gracefully, her calming emotional resonance rippling with fond amusement.

"Broccoli is very good for your physical development."

I let out a loud, tragic groan, slumping heavily back into my chair. I puff my cheeks out. I glare at the remaining half of the beautiful Columbian bagel in my hand, suddenly acutely aware that this is my last taste of savory freedom before the impending steamed vegetable apocalypse. I aggressively take another massive bite, determined to savor every single second of it.