April, 1098

"Okay. See you, Lisa, see you, Podenco!" I call out, raising my hand to offer them a bright, energetic wave.

"See you tomorrow, Lethe! Good luck with Miss Eyja!" Lisa waves back enthusiastically. Her tails give a happy wag.

Beside her, Podenco flashes me a confident grin. "See you, Lethe. Once you know what Originium is again, you should learn botany with me!"

"Okay!" I promise, returning her smile with a firm nod.

I watch my two friends weave their way through the sea of blue plastic chairs, heading back toward the earthy, humid sanctuary of the Convalescent Garden. A deeply contented sigh escapes my lips. My stomach is wonderfully, blissfully full.

The Siracusan dish we just shared for lunch was an absolute masterpiece of savory indulgence. The crust was blistered and perfectly thin, snapping with a satisfying, airy crunch that immediately gave way to a rich, tangy spread of crushed sun-ripened tomatoes. It was blanketed in a thick, pulling layer of melted cheese, dotted with fresh basil leaves and savory, cured meats that left a lingering, peppery warmth on the tongue.

I reach down to the edge of the table, my fingers wrapping securely around the smooth grip of my new Arts Unit.

Ms. Closure had flatly informed me that the old Kazdelian artifact was completely, irreparably fried. In its place, the Chief Engineer had forged a completely new one. The new focal unit is a sleek, long black shaft that feels incredibly balanced in my hands. At its crest, suspended within the air by the magnetic fields, is a shifting, misty blue liquid. It swirls lazily, catching the fluorescent lights of the dining hall, framed perfectly by two intersecting, matte black halos that hum with a faint, steady mechanical energy that hold the liquid in place.

Ms. Closure had proudly explained that the blue liquid is a dense, localized data-storage medium. It is completely saturated with "useless information" she ruthlessly scraped from the deepest, most mundane corners of PRTS; decades of maintenance drone pathing logs, outdated cafeteria inventories, and redundant atmospheric readings. It is harmless, sterile fuel for the Originium in my temporal lobe to burn. A perfect, artificial shield to protect the fragile anchors I had rebuilt in my mind.

I sling my crossbody bag over my shoulder, adjusting my oversized grey jacket, and turn my steps away from the bustling dining hall.

It is the 14th of February. The landship is thrumming with its usual, steady rhythm, carrying us safely across the scarred face of Terra. As I navigate the arteries toward the middle deck that contains Archives, a quiet sense of peace settles over my shoulders.

The doors of the Archives part with a soft hiss. A comforting scent of dry parchment, binding glue, and recycled air wraps around me.

The moment I step into the aisle, my Arts brush against the ambient air, and a massive wave of roasted chestnuts and the crackling, enduring safety of a dormant hearth fire floods my senses.

Miss Adele is back.

I quicken my pace. I turn the final corner to a wooden table.

Miss Adele is sitting there. The moment she registers my approach, she lowers the glass. Her kind eyes meet mine, and a beautiful, serene smile breaks across her face.

"Welcome back, Miss Adele!" I pull out the chair across from her and eagerly taking seat. I set my new Arts Unit gently against the edge of the table.

"Hello, Lethe," Miss Adele replies. "It is wonderful to see you. I hope you haven't been too lonely in the Archives without me?"

"I missed you," I admit, offering her a genuine, bright smile. I reach into my bag, pulling out my digital slate and a neat stack of handwritten notes. "But I did exactly what you asked. I read the chapters on the Leithanian Empire. The War of the Four Nations, and the Witch King."

Miss Adele’s smile deepens with absolute, scholarly pride.

"I am very proud of you, Lethe," she folds her hands over the open pages of her own book. "The history of Leithanien is complex, and the legacy of the Witch King is steeped in some of the most terrifying Originium Arts this world has ever seen. Are you ready to review it together?"

I look at the dense, intimidating textbooks stacked on the table, and then up at the brilliant, patient researcher who is dedicated to teaching me how to understand the world.

"I am ready, Miss Adele," I declare, pulling my chair just a fraction closer to the table. Miss Adele leans slightly closer to the sprawling map of Terra spread out between us.

"So. Where you want to start, Lethe?" Miss Adele asks softly.

I trace my finger over the faded borders drawn across the center of the continent. My brow furrows in deep concentration as I try to piece together the chaotic puzzle of empires and bloodlines.

"Let me just make sure I understand correctly," I look up to meet her kind eyes. "The Gaulish Empire was considered the capital of Terra back then…"

"Yes, Lethe," Miss Adele nods gently, her curling horns dipping with the motion.

I look back down at my handwritten notes on my digital slate, processing the sheer scale of the historical conflict. The names alone sound terrifying.

"And Leithanians were unhappy with the brutal reign of Herkunftshorn the Witch King, the most powerful Caster ever," I continue, a cold shiver tracing its way down my spine at the sheer concept of someone wielding that much destructive Arts. "So Gaul eventually invaded."

Miss Adele pauses. She reaches out, her fingertips gently brushing against the crest of the fallen Gaulish Empire on the map.

"Yes and no," Miss Adele corrects softly. "They invaded using liberation as a pretext. But in reality, Victoria just lost Columbia back in 1019 due to Gaul instigating the war, and Victoria also suffered a series of naval defeats against Iberia."

She slowly moves her finger across the map, drawing invisible lines of tension between the massive superpowers.

"Ursus was preparing for the Tenth Ursus-Kazimierz War," Miss Adele explains, her voice dropping into a quiet, grave octave. "The Gaulish Empire believed if they conquered Leithanien, they would become the strongest. The only one."

The words settle heavily into the hushed aisles of the library. I stare at the map, the terrifying reality of Terra's history pressing down on my chest. It wasn't about saving the people of Leithanien from a tyrant at all. It was just a cold, calculated mathematical equation of war and greed.

The empires simply looked at the map, measured the bloodshed, and decided millions of lives were a perfectly acceptable price to pay for absolute power.

"They just wanted to own everything," I whisper, the bitter taste of cold iron and crushed ash lingering faintly on my tongue. "They didn't care who got hurt."

I stare at the blocky text on my slate, my chest tightening with a sudden, suffocating ache.

"So they were winning with Sarkaz as fodders…" my voice dropping into a fragile, horrified whisper. I look down at my own hands, thinking of the ancient blood flowing through my veins. They just threw people like me into the meat grinder.

I trace my finger further down the page. "And many Leithanian cities burned… until the Witch King unleashed Catastrophes…" I look up, my eyes wide as I meet Miss Adele's gaze. "How…?"

Miss Adele closes her eyes. The comforting, sun-warmed flavor of roasted chestnuts and dormant hearth fire bleeding off her completely dims. It is instantly smothered by a heavy, choking wave of scorched earth and dark, volcanic ash.

"He used our Spires and Originium shards to create massive resonances that effectively made Catastrophes," Miss Adele explains, her voice trembling with a deeply rooted sorrow for her homeland. She opens her eyes, and the sheer academic terror in them makes me shiver. "It is an Originium Art that Victoria and Columbia are, unfortunately, trying to replicate…"

"Oh…" The single syllable falls from my lips, hollow and terrified.

Miss Adele reaches across the table, her warm hand gently covering my trembling fingers. The comforting heat of her presence slowly pushes back the dread.

"So, Lethe," Miss Adele says softly, gently guiding my attention back to the sprawling map. "Basically. After this. With the advanced Grande Armée stalled in Leithanien… Victoria and Ursus joined the war."

I take a slow, shaky breath, letting the sterile, recycled air of the Archives steady my lungs. I look back down at my notes, cross-referencing the dates.

"In 1031…" I read aloud, tracing the timeline. "Two years after the start of the war."

"Yes," Miss Adele nods, her expression perfectly solemn. "Together, they completely destroyed the Gallic army and the Gallic capital of Lingones."

I scroll to the next paragraph on my slate, and the numbers staring back at me make the blood completely drain from my face. It is a scale of suffering so massive my brain simply refuses to compute it.

"The text says…" I stammer, my voice cracking entirely. "Thirty million… thirty millions of Gallians became stateless…"

I look up at her, my vision blurring with sudden, unbidden tears.

"…many died in the barrenlands and poor conditions in internment camps…" I finish, the words scraping painfully against my raw throat. Thirty million people, stripped of their homes and thrown out into the dark of Terra to freeze or starve.

I pull my knees up to my chest, shrinking into my jacket.

"This war broke the world, Lethe," Miss Adele says. Her voice is a gentle, airy melody, but the words carry the crushing weight of centuries. "That’s why I want you to understand it."

I blink, slowly lifting my chin from my knees. The hushed, climate-controlled silence of the Archives feels entirely too small for the sheer magnitude of the history sitting between us.

"What do you mean, Miss Adele?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly as I look from the map to her face.

Miss Adele lets out a slow, measured exhale. She traces her fingertip over the faded, intersecting lines of the continent's borders.

"Gaul’s technologies, Originium technologies, were raided by the winning parties," she explains, her tone taking on a precise, clinical sorrow. "Due to the extensive use of such weapons, there was a skyrocketing spike of refugees and soldiers suffering from Oripathy… Oripathy became a crisis overnight."

Oripathy became a crisis overnight.

The terminal diagnosis ticking away inside my own skull. It wasn't just a natural tragedy. The empires had actively weaponized the very disease that was slowly killing everyone I loved, accelerating it into a global nightmare just to win a war.

"Ursine land-based warships are entirely based on Gallic ones," Miss Adele adds quietly. I stare at the map, my brow furrowing as my brain tries to untangle the sheer, dizzying hypocrisy of the political landscape.

"They also say Leithanien resents Ursus and Victoria because of the war…" I murmur, pointing a hesitant finger at the borders separating the three massive nations. I look up at her, entirely confused. "But they helped?"

The ambient flavor bleeding off my tutor abruptly sours. The comforting, dormant hearth fire is completely extinguished. It is instantly replaced by the sharp, bitter taste of spoiled milk, wilted petals and cold, biting ash.

"They helped because Gaul was forced into a stalemate," Miss Adele replies. The airy lightness of her voice is gone, leaving only a stark, unyielding truth.

She rests her hands flat on the table, her eyes locking onto mine.

"Victoria conquered most of the fertile plains of Gaul and absorbed most of its people," she explains, outlining the brutal mathematics of the victory. "Ursus raided the technologies. Leithanien…"

Miss Adele pauses. Her focus drops to the map, staring directly at the territory of her homeland.

"…where almost the entire war was fought on," she whispers, the devastation of her country echoing in the quiet aisle. "Well… we were left with what we had…"

The sheer, breathtaking injustice of it makes my stomach heave. Leithanien had endured the absolute worst of it. They had suffered the apocalyptic madness of the Witch King, the manufactured Catastrophes, and the total annihilation of their lands turning into blood-soaked battlefields. And when the smoke finally cleared, the other empires simply carved up the spoils and left them with nothing but the ashes.

I lean forward across the wooden table, reaching out to gently wrap both of my hands around Miss Adele's.

I close my eyes, digging deep into the center of my chest, and project the absolute warmest, most comforting wave of sweet, protective honey and spun-sugar directly into the space between us, desperately trying to push the cold ash away from my brilliant, dedicated tutor.

"This war is why Kazdel created the Military Commission that eventually delved into the Kazdelian Civil War," Miss Adele sighs then explains, her finger tracing the scarred borders of the my supposed homeland.

"Ursus lost a war with Higashi later on…" Miss Adele continues, moving her hand across the sprawling eastern territories. Her voice darkens, the ambient flavor in the aisle souring with the metallic tang of imperial cruelty. "…and it is why they are desperately trying to start new wars… to justify their military’s existence."

The Empire of Ursus wasn't just cruel; it was a desperate, starving beast that needed constant bloodshed just to keep itself alive.

"This is why Victoria grew arrogant…" Miss Adele adds quietly.

The pieces all fit together. It is a completely unbroken chain of suffering, a domino effect of greed and Originium weapons that broke the world and left millions of people in the dark.

I look up at her, my hands still gently resting over hers. "What about Leithanien?" I ask. Miss Adele looks down at the map. The heavy, suffocating blanket of historical grief slowly begins to lift. The sharp, bitter taste recedes, completely swept away by a sudden, incredibly resilient wave of her familiar warmth.

"We… my home…" Miss Adele murmurs, a small, genuinely proud smile touching the corners of her lips. "Under the rule of the Twin Empresses now, we focus on our Arts study and academics. We built grand universities that are unmatched in Terra."

She pulls her hands gently from mine and reaches for the thick, intimidating textbook on Originium thermodynamics. She pulls it to the center of the table.

"That is why we should start with Originium Arts theories," Miss Adele declares softly. I look at the book.

If I want to help Amiya and Doctor fix this broken world, I cannot just hide from its mechanics. I have to master them.

I sit up completely straight, and offer my incredibly patient tutor a firm, absolute nod.

"Okay. Miss Adele," I declare, my voice ringing with a newfound, unwavering resolve in the hushed library aisle. "Let’s."

I stare blankly at the sprawling, densely packed pages of the historical books. For almost two hours, the Archives has been filled with nothing but the quiet turning of pages and Miss Adele's soft, patient explanations.

But my limit has officially been reached.

"Miss Adele," I groan, letting my upper body completely collapse. My forehead hits the wooden table with a dull thud, and my lopsided horns clatter softly against the grain. "I think my brain is turning into Miss Charlotte’s carrot mush."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the geopolitical timeline of Terra from spinning behind my eyelids. The sheer, brutal scale of the War of the Four Nations. The terrifying elegance of Leithanian Casters using their Originium Arts to weave literal, destructive music. Leithenien and Columbia callously testing their weapons and tactics in the endless proxy wars of Bolívar.

"It is all just mushing together into one giant, terrifying headache," I whine, my voice muffled against the desk. My tail drops completely dead, entirely devoid of energy. The ambient air in the aisle gently ripples.

Miss Adele covers her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking as a soft giggle escapes her lips. She reaches across the table, gently closing the heavy textbook with a definitive, merciful thud.

"Well," Miss Adele says, her voice carrying a playful, melodic lilt that completely softens the heavy academic atmosphere. "We should go get a lava cake, shall we?"

The words act like a localized jolt of electricity.

I instantly peel my cheek off the desk, shooting bolt upright in my chair. The absolute, suffocating exhaustion of Terran history evaporates in a single heartbeat.

"What's a lava cake?"

My tail, which had been hanging limply just seconds ago, instantly snaps to attention, swaying with a frantic, eager rhythm. It is a brand new concept to me.

Yet, the sheer, undeniable promise of the word "cake" is more than enough to override the void in my mind.

Miss Adele stands up.

"You will love it," Miss Adele promises, her smile radiant and impossibly kind. She gently rests her hand on the back of her chair, gesturing toward the main corridors. "Don't worry about cleaning up the books right now. I will be back to sort the texts later."

"Okay!" I chirp, the heavy dread of the proxy wars completely forgotten.

I eagerly reach down and grab my new Arts Unit from where it rests against the table. My fingers wrap securely around the long black shaft.

With my staff safely in hand, I happily fall into step beside Miss Adele, leaving the heavy, complicated history of Leithanien behind in the hushed aisles of the Archives, entirely ready to discover whatever a lava cake is.

The double doors of the cafeteria slide apart with a soft hiss, releasing the ambient, overlapping clatter of the dining hall. I navigate through the maze of chairs and take my seat, carefully resting the sleek black shaft of my new Arts Unit against the edge of the table. The misty blue liquid suspended within the magnetic halos swirls lazily, catching the fluorescent lights.

A few moments later, Miss Adele returns from the serving station, carefully balancing a small ceramic plate. Resting squarely in the center is a dark, dense chocolate pastry. The rich, intoxicating aroma of baked cocoa and warm sugar instantly floods my senses, completely erasing the heavy, complicated history of the Leithanian Empire from my exhausted mind.

I grip my fork with both hands, my mouth practically watering as I lean forward to claim my sugary prize.

"Well. This looks familiar."

I freeze. The fork halts mere millimeters from the chocolate crust.

The voice drops into the air with a calm, practiced exasperation. I slowly turn my head. Mom is standing right behind my chair. Her arms are crossed over, and she is staring directly at the decadent dessert sitting between me and my Leithanien tutor.

Before mom can decree a sudden dietary intervention, Miss Adele simply smiles.

"Want to join us, Caladria?" Miss Adele offers seamlessly.

Mom pauses. Her eyes dart from the rich pastry to my wide, absolutely terrified focus. The stern lines around her eyes soften just a fraction. She lets out a long, heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

"Sure," mom replies.

She sits down in the empty chair beside me. Miss Adele hands her an extra fork.

Mom cuts a small, perfectly measured piece of the cake and brings it to her lips. She chews slowly, her physical expression remaining a mask of absolute, flawless medical stoicism. Not a single muscle in her face betrays any sign of enjoyment.

But my empathic Arts catch the truth instantly. The moment the chocolate melts on her tongue, the rich, exhausted honey of her presence violently shatters into a massive, rushing wave of pure, unadulterated sweetness. She is absolutely loving it.

Across the table, Miss Adele is completely radiating.

Mom lowers her fork, letting out another soft, breathy sigh. She reaches over, her thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face.

"I was secretly hoping," mom murmurs, her tone a dry, affectionate tease, "that Lethe’s amnesia would make her, well, less of a sugar-fueled little Djall."

She looks at my plate, and then directly into my eyes. "But I suppose she runs just as much on glucose as before."

I puff my cheeks out, a hot, prickly flush warming my face. "My brain needs the energy, mom!" I protest, aggressively stabbing a piece of the cake with my fork. "Miss Adele gave me so many hard books to read! If I don't eat the sugar, I won't be able to learn about the origin of Catastrophes!"

"Lethe is just as diligent as before, Caladria," Miss Adele chimes in. "Teaching her is always a pleasure."

"See, mom?" I declare, gesturing grandly with my fork. "I deserve the cake."

Mom doesn't say a single word. She doesn't even blink. Her hand simply darts out across the table with terrifying, practiced speed.

Thwack.

She flicks her index finger directly against the top of my longer left horn.

"Ouchie!" I yelp. The light flick sends a vibrating hum ringing straight through my skull. I instantly drop my fork, bringing both hands up to cover the base of my horn, fixing her with my absolute fiercest, most betrayed pout.

Mom's expression remains a flawless mask of medical authority.

"Double spinach for dinner tonight," mom states, her tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.

My shoulders completely slump. The victorious bravado evaporates in an instant, replaced by the crushing, inevitable reality of my vegetable-filled doom.

"Okay… mom," I grumble.

Miss Adele covers her mouth again, her shoulders shaking with another quiet giggle at my misery. She reaches over and gently taps the edge of my plate.

"Well. All the more reason to enjoy the lava cake, Lethe."

I look at the gooey, molten chocolate oozing from the center of the warm pastry. She makes an incredibly valid point. I grab my silver fork and attack the dessert with renewed, desperate vigor, determined to savor every single sugary bite before the impending spinach Catastrophe.

I scrape the last, glorious puddle of molten fudge onto my fork, savoring the rich chocolate.

I lean back against my chair, glancing at my new Arts Unit resting securely against the table leg.

"So, mom," I ask, slowly pulling the silver fork from my mouth. "Where are we going next?"

Mom shifts in her seat, reaching over to gently wipe a stray smudge of chocolate from the corner of my mouth.

"I heard Command is changing our course to head toward Sargon," mom replies. "Gavial has been complaining about being homesick lately. I wouldn't be surprised if she finally badgered Doctor enough to alter our trajectory."

Sargon.

I mentally flip through the massive geographical maps Miss Adele and I had been pouring over in the Archives.

"Sargon… That is the land with the really dense rainforests and the massive, sprawling desert, right?"

"Yes! That’s correct, Lethe," Miss Adele answers, offering me a gentle smile.

Then the unfamiliar name mom mentioned catches my attention.

"Who is Gavial?" I ask, looking between the two of them.

Mom and Miss Adele share a sudden, highly expressive look across the table. Mom lets out a soft chuckle.

"Gavial is one of the head combat Medics here on Rhodes Island," mom explains. She pauses, her feathers fluffing up slightly. "Her medical style is... unique."

"Unique?" I repeat, tilting my head. "Unique how? Does she use special medicines like Miss Lena?"

Miss Adele covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a quiet giggle.

"Shall we say," Miss Adele chimes in, "an Archosauria is just as good at breaking bones as she is at healing them. If not… significantly better at breaking them."

My tail, which had been swaying happily just a second ago, snaps perfectly rigid. I stare at my mother, and then at my gentle tutor, absolutely horrified.

I glance nervously back at my Arts Unit. If this Gavial ever comes near me with her

"unique" treatments, I might just have to push the absolute maximum amount of lethargy into her mind before she can snap me in half like a twig.

Both Miss Adele and mom laughs.

Miss Adele packs up our empty dishes and heads towards the return station.

"See you, Lethe. Caladria," Miss Adele waves.

"Bye, Miss Adele!" I call out, offering her a bright, energetic wave as the comforting, hearth-fire warmth of her presence slowly drifts away down the cafeteria aisle.

The moment my tutor is out of sight, the warm, indulgent atmosphere of dessert time completely vanishes. Mom turns back to me, the smile remaining on her lips, but her eyes shifting into a look of absolute, uncompromising medical tyranny.

True to her word, she marches right back to the serving station and returns with my actual dinner. I stare down in despair at the plate. It is a towering, violently green mountain of steamed spinach. There isn't even a drop of sesame oil or soy sauce to hide the sheer, unapologetic healthiness of it.

I let out a long, pathetic sigh. But I dutifully pick up my fork. I chew compliantly, forcing the greens down my throat, mourning the memory of the rich Leithanien lava cake with every single bite.

By the time my plate is finally, painstakingly cleared, I am completely exhausted.

Mom gathers our trays with a satisfied nod, and we begin the slow walk back to our dorms. The landship’s corridors have settled into their usual evening rhythm, the ambient air filled with the quiet clatter of logistics teams. I adjust my grip on my new Arts Unit, feeling the faint, reassuring vibration of the magnetic halos keeping the misty blue liquid suspended perfectly at the crest.

As we near the primary intersection leading toward the medical wing, the ambient air in the hallway violently shifts.

It is a completely chaotic clash of flavors. One is the familiar, aggressive wave of roaring fire, machine grease, and high-octane adrenaline. The other is a dense, razor-sharp wall of unsweetened dark chocolate and black coffee.

I peek around the corner. Standing in the middle of the corridor is Ms. Blaze.

The towering Elite Op is currently bent almost entirely in half. Her hands are clapped together high above her head in a highly exaggerated, desperately apologetic bow. And standing directly in front of her, barely reaching the Elite Operator's waist, is Miss Sussurro.

The tiny Vulpo Medic has her hands planted firmly on her hips. Her coat is perfectly crisp, and her face is carved into an expression of absolute, stony exhaustion.

"How many times do I have to remind you, Blaze," Miss Sussurro states, her voice completely flat, slicing through the hallway with terrifying, unrelenting authority.

"Jumping out of a VTOL before it lands is not a valid deployment option."

"Sorry, Sussurro," Ms. Blaze whines, peeking out from beneath her raised arms with a sheepish, incredibly unrepentant grin. "Waiting for the landing sequence is just… too much waiting before combat! The momentum was right there!"

Miss Sussurro simply closes her eyes, a long, deeply suffering sigh escaping her lips. Beside me, mom covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she tries desperately to muffle a laugh.

"You are going to go with me, and I am going to conduct a full-body scan," Miss Sussurro orders.

The aggressive, roaring fire of Ms. Blaze's ambient presence shrinks into a thoroughly sheepish, subdued ember.

Ms. Blaze reaches up, awkwardly scratching the back of her neck. She lets out a long, defeated sigh. "Okay. Lead the way, Sussurro."

Miss Sussurro gives a single, crisp nod. She turns on her heel and marches down the corridor toward the advanced imaging wards, with the towering Feline trailing obediently behind her like a reprimanded cadet.

Beside me, mom lets out a soft chuckle.

"And Blaze wonders why her medical takes longer than other Field Ops," mom shakes her head as she watches the two disappear around the corner.

"Mom…" I begin, looking up at her. "Jumping out of the thingy, called VTOL, is not good, right?"

Mom sighs. "Yes, Lethe. Very much so. VTOLs are aircrafts; they fly high up in the air." She pauses, pointing a finger upward toward the ceiling of the corridor to emphasize the scale. "Think about if someone jumped from the very top deck of the landship all the way to the ground. That’s not good, right?"

I imagine standing on the freezing, wind-scoured flight deck and just plummeting into the empty air. A sudden, cold shiver traces its way down my spine.

"How…" I stammer, my grip tightening on my staff. "How does Ms. Blaze survive? Is she superhuman?"

"No, Lethe. She uses her Arts to overheat the air directly below her to create a thermal updraft and cushion the fall," mom explains. "Even still, she is going to give the entire department a collective heart attack if she keeps doing this."

I stare down the empty hallway where the Elite Op had just been marched away. Using boiling air to catch yourself from a fatal drop sounds absolutely terrifying. I look back up at mom, feeling immensely grateful for the solid, unmoving steel floor beneath my padded sneakers.

"I think I will just use the deployment ramps," I declare solemnly.

Mom laughs, a beautiful, melodic sound that completely washes away the lingering tension in the corridor. "A very wise choice, my little Lethe. Come on, let's go get you back to your dorm."

We resume our walk down the metallic arteries, leaving the bustling intersections behind. The chaotic, overlapping clatter of the evening shift slowly fades into the quiet, dim hum of the residential blocks.

When we finally reach my dorm, the locks disengage with a soft, familiar clank. Mom slides the door open, ushering me into the soothing, amber-lit safety of my room.

She walks over to the small wardrobe, her hands sifting through the neatly folded garments until she pulls out a massive, incredibly soft pile of fleece. It is the oversized hoodie with the sleeping black kitten graphic printed squarely on the chest.

"Here," mom turns around. "Your favorite sleepwear."

"Thanks, mom!" I chirp.

I carefully set my new Arts Unit against the nightstand, ensuring the liquid suspended within the halos is perfectly stable. Then, I eagerly shed the heavy mantle of the Medical Department. I slip out of my jacket, the turtleneck, and the skirt, trading my official Operator uniform for the absolute, drowning comfort of the oversized fleece.

I pull the fabric down. I look up at mom, a sudden, wistful longing bubbling up in my chest.

"I wish I get to visit Trimounts again, though. I want to revisit all the places the old me has been to."

Mom's expression softens instantly. She steps closer, reaching out to gently adjust the collar of my hoodie.

"Maybe when we stop by Sargon, we can apply for a shore leave to Columbia," mom suggests. "We will see how it goes."

"Okay," I smile, offering her a firm, hopeful nod.

I glance over at the digital clock glowing faintly on my slate. The bright numbers read 21:00.

I shuffle over to the edge of my bed and carefully climb in, pulling the blankets up over my lap. "Good night, mom."

Mom leans down, she presses a warm, lingering kiss directly to my forehead.

"Good night, Lethe," mom whispers fiercely. She pulls back, pausing in the doorway to fix me with a stern look. "Don’t play on your slate. You need to rest.”

"I won’t, mom. I promise."

Mom pauses in the doorway. She gives me one last look, her eyes scanning my perfectly tucked-in posture.

With a soft, affectionate smile, she steps backward. The locks engage.

I wait exactly three seconds.

My hands dart out from beneath the blankets, blindly grabbing the cold aluminum chassis of my digital slate from the nightstand.

I tap the glass, and quickly open the encrypted group channel.

[Lethe]: What you guys doing?

[Suzuran]: Just getting ready to sleep!

[Podenco]: Watching a nature documentary on Leithanian fungi. Oh right, we have a big day tomorrow, Lethe. Don’t forget.

I stare at the text, my brow furrowing.

A big day?

[Lethe]: What’s happening tomorrow?

Before I can even hit send on a follow-up question, the locks of my dorm disengage with a sharp, echoing clank.

My heart completely stalls in my chest. A massive spike of sheer, unadulterated panic shoots straight up my spine. My hands spasm so violently I nearly launch the slate directly into the ceiling panels.

The door opens.

"Lethe," mom's voice floats into the room.

I don't even wait to hear the rest of the sentence. "Sorry, mom! I will sleep now!" I yelp. I dive backward, aggressively yanking the blankets all the way up over my face. I scramble blindly under the covers, completely burying myself until only the tips of my horns are poking out into the cool, recycled air of the dorm.

I hold my breath, squeezing my eyes shut in the absolute darkness of my blanket fortress, entirely prepared for the tyranny of a confiscated slate.

Instead, a chuckle drifts across the room. The ambient air ripples with a warm wave of toasted honey. "Goodnight, Lethe," mom sighs gently.

The door hisses shut again, sealing with a definitive click.

I wait a full ten seconds this time, my chest heaving with shallow, adrenaline-fueled gasps, before I finally dare to peek out. I slowly lower the edge of the blanket, my eyes darting nervously toward the sealed door.

Safe.

I let out a massive, shuddering exhale, my shoulders completely slumping into the mattress. I drag the slate back up to my face, my fingers still trembling slightly as I look at the screen.

[Podenco]: We are counting the shipment for Penguin Logistics to deliver to our Lungmen branch, remember?

[Podenco]: Lethe?

[Suzuran]: Did she get busted by Miss Erika?

I quickly type back a confirmation that I am, in fact, still alive and in possession of my slate.

I let out a soft groan, letting my head drop back against the pillows. I tap the power button, plunging the room back into the quiet dark, and finally pull the blankets up properly.

I rub my eyes. The back of my head throbs with a dull, rhythmic ache that pulses directly at the base of my horns. The darkness surrounding me is absolute, a thick, suffocating blanket that refuses to yield even as I blink repeatedly.

Before my eyes can make sense of the pitch black, my Arts brush against the ambient air. Two very distinct flavors bleed through the confined space.

The first is a blindingly bright, chaotic burst of energy. It tastes like sparkling apple cider, ozone, and the sharp, metallic tang of spent gunpowder, completely saturated with a restless, hyperactive popping cinnamon sugar that makes my tongue tingle. The second flavor is a stark contrast. It is incredibly crisp and cool, a sharp, composed stillness. It tastes of bitter dark chocolate, chilled air, and the coiled, lethal readiness of a seasoned combatant.

I shift my weight, my hands blindly searching the dark. My fingers brush against a pile of soft, synthetic foam lining layered generously beneath me. I try to sit up.

Thump.

My horns hit a hard, unyielding wooden surface directly above my head. I gasp, my hands flying up to press flat against the low ceiling. I push, but the wood doesn't budge in the slightest. I ball my hands into fists and bang them frantically against the heavy timber.

I am in a box?

I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to trace the fractured, dizzying edges of my recent memory. I was in the logistics bay. Podenco and I were counting the shipment intended for Penguin Logistics to deliver to our Lungmen branch. It was incredibly busy, the loading docks packed with towering crates and rushing Operators.

How did I end up here?

The pieces slowly fall into place, accompanied by a sharp throb in my skull. I remember holding my digital clipboard. Then, Podenco had shouted something over the din of the bay; a miscalculated navigational command to one of the automated logistics units. A massive, boxy Castle bot had swerved violently off its designated path and rammed directly into my side. The jarring impact, a flash of pain, and then… nothing. Just the dreamless void.

A sudden, freezing spike of panic shoots straight down my spine. My hands fly to my chest, frantically patting down the fabric of my jacket and sweeping across the soft foam lining beneath me.

It isn't there. My Arts Unit is not with me.

Outside the wooden confines of my prison, a sudden jolt rocks the floorboards beneath me, accompanied by the low, mechanical roar of a heavy engine.

"Texas," the bright, energetic voice of the apple-cider presence calls out, barely muffled by the thick wood of the crate. "Am I dreaming, or was there a voice coming from the crates?"

A brief, composed silence follows, underscored by the hum of the engine.

"There was," Texas's voice replies, completely flat and entirely unfazed. "Pull up, Exia." The sudden, violent deceleration throws me forward.

My hands fly out, scrambling blindly against the wooden box.

Pop.

The heavy wooden top swing wide open. A blinding, searing flood of natural daylight violently pierces the pitch-black hold, striking my highly sensitive eyes.

I wince, bringing my arms up to shield my face. My vision swims, blurry white spots dancing across my retinas as I desperately blink against the harsh glare. Two silhouettes block the sunlight at the edge of the open cargo ramp. As my eyes finally adjust, I take in the strangers standing before me.

To the left stands a Lupo woman. She exudes an emotional resonance of absolute, effortless nonchalance. Her long, sleek dark-grey hair flows smoothly around her shoulders, framing a strikingly beautiful, yet perfectly deadpan face. She wears a practical but stylish black and white jacket with a heavy utility belt strapped across her waist. In one hand, she loosely holds a sword with an eye-catching, glowing orange blade. Pinned casually between her lips is a thin chocolate stick.

To her right is a Sankta girl. A glowing, geometric halo hovers brilliantly above her choppy, burgundy-red hair. She is dressed in a matching uniform of white and black, but the way she wears it; alongside the heavy gun resting entirely comfortably against her hip; screams chaotic energy. She flashes a massive, carefree smile.

The Lupo just sighs, the chocolate stick bobbing slightly as she speaks.

"Exia, did you check the crates before you signed the manifest?"

"Nope," the Sankta replies, popping the 'p' with a bright, unapologetic chirp.

The Lupo pauses. She slowly reaches into one of her tactical pouches and pulls out a crumpled paper manifest. Her sharp, amber eyes scan the document with a bored, practiced efficiency.

"No Sarkaz on the sheet," she states, her voice completely flat.

The Sankta girl’s eyes instantly light up. "Oh! A secret VIP delivery to the Lungmen branch? Fun!"

The Lupo slowly lowers the manifest, fixing her energetic partner with a dry, intensely exhausted stare. "You do know the L.G.D.’s policy about Sarkaz, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah," the Sankta waves her free hand dismissively, her bright smile never wavering for a single second. "Detain with extreme prejudice, interrogation and execution, all that."

My blood completely freezes in my veins.

Execution.

I shrink backward, pressing my spine as flat against the back of the crate as I physically can, my tail wrapping into a rigid, terrified coil around my waist.

"Uhm…" I stammer, I clutch the fabric of my jacket, looking frantically between the two.

"I am here, you know… Who… who are you? Where am I?"

The Sankta girl completely ignores my sheer, unadulterated panic. She practically bounds forward, leaning into the cargo hold with a radiant, blindingly sunny grin.

"Exusiai!" she introduces herself proudly. "Ask me anything about apple pies!"

I blink, the suffocating terror momentarily short-circuiting.

Apple pies?

Beside her, the Lupo casually pockets the manifest.

"Texas," she answers flatly. "And we are near Siracusa."

Siracusa.

The land of the Famiglias rule.

"How… how did I end up here?"

I pull my knees tightly to my chest.

Miss Texas casually removes the thin chocolate stick from her mouth.

"Beats me," she replies, her tone completely flat and entirely devoid of deception.

The ambient flavor bleeding off the Lupo doesn't ripple with a single trace of malice. She genuinely believes I am just another box of freight. "We picked up the shipment from R.I. near Leithanien. We're just on our way to Lungmen."

"You need to send me back to the landship!" I plead and scramble forward. "Mom is going to be so worried! Amiya is going to completely freak out! If Dr. Kal'tsit finds out I'm missing, she will have Mon3tr tear this entire van apart!"

Miss Texas sighs. It is a quiet, deeply exhausted breath that carries a faint hint of smoky ash. She leans in, resting her hand on the top of the van. Her eyes lock onto mine.

"Look, kid," Miss Texas states. "The way I see it, you are a special shipment that we need to get to Lungmen safely. Emperor's orders are absolute, and a signed manifest is a signed manifest. We don't drop our cargo."

Miss Exusiai pops her head right over Miss Texas's shoulder, completely invading my personal space. The Sankta's geometric halo glows brilliantly against the dusty Siracusan sunlight streaming into the hold, her hair shifting in the breeze.

"What’s your name, little Sarkaz?" Miss Exusiai chirps.

"Le… Lethe," I stammer, entirely thrown off-balance by her bright energy.

"Lethe! Okay!" Miss Exusiai claps her hands together, the crisp sound echoing loudly in the box. She seamlessly spins on her heel, her gun swaying effortlessly against her hip as she gestures toward the front cab of the transport. "Just take a seat at the front and off we go! I call shotgun, but you can sit in the middle!"

I stare at her retreating back in absolute shock. She is practically vibrating with cheerful energy. The sheer absurdity of the situation finally overrides the freezing terror in my chest.

"Wait!" I yelp.

I scramble out the wooden box.

"This is kidnapping! You are kidnapping a Rhodes Island Operator!"

"Kid, get in."

Miss Texas completely ignores my protest. She points directly at the middle seat of the transport's cab. "Siracusan Mafias roam the area. We don’t want to stay parked out here any longer than we have to."

I don’t need to be asked twice. I scramble up into the cab, my padded sneakers slipping slightly against the metal step before I pull myself onto the seat. I quickly tuck my long tail close to my legs, ensuring it doesn't get pinched in the hinges.

The doors slam shut, and instantly, I am completely flanked. On my left, Miss Texas settles behind the steering wheel. On my right, Miss Exusiai drops into the passenger seat, completely boxing me in.

Miss Texas smoothly shifts the gears. The transport van violently lurches forward, the engine roaring with a deep, aggressive growl as we rapidly accelerate down the dusty, sun-baked Siracusan road.

Miss Exusiai leans forward, her fingers dancing across the dashboard dials. She tunes the radio, filling the cabin with an upbeat, high-tempo pop song that perfectly matches her frantic, bouncing energy. She turns to me, her halo glowing brilliantly.

"Lethe! Amiya orders apple pie from me, you know!" Miss Exusiai declares, her voice ringing effortlessly over the loud music. "Ask away! I know absolutely everything about the perfect cinnamon to sugar ratio!"

I open my mouth, genuinely eager to ask her about the legendary bakery in Lungmen, but the words completely die in my throat.

The ambient air in the cabin shifts. The flavor is entirely sickening.

It hits me like slick, congealing machine oil mixed with the metallic tang of tarnished silver coins. It is a heavy, suffocatingly possessive sensation, tasting of stale cigar smoke, raw avarice, and a cold, calculated cruelty that views human lives as nothing more than disposable poker chips on a betting table. It is the absolute, unapologetic stench of pure greed.

The sheer toxicity of it makes my stomach give a violent, hollow heave. I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands flying up to grip the edge of the dashboard..

"Miss Texas! Miss Exusiai!" I gasp out. "There are bad people nearby."

Miss Texas doesn’t speak. The moment the warning leaves my lips, the exhausted, smoky ash flavor of her emotional resonance violently sharpens into a freezing, razor- thin edge of absolute focus.

She instantly floors it.

The transport van lets out a deafening, mechanical roar as the engine redlines. The sudden, explosive acceleration throws me completely backward. I gasp, the breath knocked out of my lungs as my frame is pinned flat against the worn upholstery of the middle seat. My hands frantically grabbing at the edges of my seatbelt.

Through the dusty windshield, the desolate Siracusan road is no longer empty.

Standing dead in the center of the cracked asphalt is a figure. He is a Lupo, dressed sharply in a dark, tailored suit and a fedora pulled low over his eyes. Raised to his shoulder is a heavy, brutal-looking weapon; a customized repeating crossbow that looks terrifyingly like a firearm. The ambient air flooding into the cabin suddenly reeks of spoiled wine, and the cold, calculated malice of an ambush.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest tightening with a spike of pure panic.

But the terrifying threat doesn't even make Miss Exusiai flinch.

The blindingly bright, spun-sugar presence of the Sankta practically detonates. It explodes with a chaotic, high-octane thrill that tastes like popping candy and pure adrenaline. She doesn't wait for the mafioso to pull the trigger.

With a bright, joyous laugh, Miss Exusiai rolls her window down. She practically throws half of her upper body out of the speeding van, the violent wind whipping her hair and her halo blazing with brilliant, golden light.

The deafening, rapid-fire crack-crack-crack of her Laterano weapon shatters the quiet of the barrens. Blinding flashes of golden Arts illuminate the dusty cabin, the sheer concussive noise making my pointed ears ring. I slap my hands tightly over my ears, shrinking as low as I possibly can into the seat to hide from the crossfire.

Miss Texas smoothly jerks the steering wheel. The tires screech agonizingly against the asphalt as she maneuvers the transport van with terrifying, effortless precision, violently swerving to avoid the incoming bolts while giving her partner a clear line of sight.

"If you fall out, Exia," Miss Texas states. "I am not circling back for you."

"I won’t!" Miss Exusiai chirps back instantly.

Her voice bubbles with pure, unadulterated delight. She leans further out the window, continuing to unleash a relentless, blinding storm of golden projectiles directly into the dust cloud ahead, leaving me completely paralyzed, trapped in the middle seat.

I close my eyes, squeezing them shut against the blinding flashes of Miss Exusiai’s Arts and the terrifying, violent blur of the Siracusan wasteland.

I press my hands flat against my thighs, my fingernails digging desperately into the fabric of my skirt.

Breathe, Lethe, I tell myself, desperately trying to anchor my spiraling mind over the chaotic noise. Just breathe. They are professionals. You are safe.

They are professionals, right?

Then, Miss Texas must have done something incredibly drastic.

The transport van violently lurches, the entire chassis groaning in agonizing protest as the steering wheel is cranked hard. Before I can even brace, gravity completely betrays me. The centrifugal force rips me from the center of the seat, and I am thrown forcefully to the left.

I crash directly into Miss Texas, completely pinning myself against her side. I squeeze onto her arm, my fingers desperately grabbing the fabric of her black and white jacket to keep from sliding further. Despite my sudden weight colliding with her, her posture doesn't buckle in the slightest. She remains as rigid and immovable as a steel bulkhead, her hands effortlessly maintaining their iron grip on the steering wheel.

"Woah!" Miss Exusiai yelps.

The sudden, aggressive swerve nearly dislodges the Sankta from her precarious perch. She pulls herself back into the cabin for a fraction of a second, her halo and six floating light geometric wings tilting wildly as she catches her balance against the door frame. Yet, the blinding, sugary thrill radiating from her doesn't dim at all; she just laughs, entirely invigorated by the chaos.

"We are going off road," Miss Texas declares.

She delivers the warning with a flat, entirely unbothered monotone.

The tires violently leave the paved asphalt.

Instantly, it gets very, very bumpy. The transition from the road to the untamed dirt of the barrens hits us like a physical strike. The suspension of the transport van screams as we plow across the cracked earth at full speed. Every single dip, rock, and jagged crater sends a jarring, bone-rattling shockwave straight up my spine. My teeth clack together painfully, and my horns completely ruin my balance as I am violently jostled in my seat. I squeeze my eyes even tighter, clinging onto Miss Texas's jacket for dear life as we plunge headfirst into the dusty, violently shaking wasteland.

The agonizing, bone-rattling vibrations of the off-road detour finally begin to smooth out. The deafening roar of the transport’s engine drops from a frantic, redlined scream back into a steady, powerful hum.

Behind us, the relentless crack-crack-crack of Originium Arts fire finally ceases, swallowed entirely by the sprawling dust cloud we leave in our wake. The pursuing mobsters have either given up the chase or their vehicles have completely succumbed to the brutal, unforgiving terrain of the barrens.

I slowly uncurl my stiff, aching fingers.

With extreme caution, I peel my face away from Miss Texas's shoulder. I have been practically glued to her side for the last ten minutes, my hands gripping the fabric of her jacket in a terrified death grip. The Lupo doesn't even blink. Her expression remains flawlessly deadpan, her eyes fixed entirely on the dusty horizon as she casually steers the massive van back onto a stretch of paved asphalt. The faint, smoky ash flavor of her presence hasn't shifted a single degree.

I slump back into the middle of the seat, my chest heaving with shallow, jagged gasps. My tail drops limply against the floorboards.

"We are alive," I whisper.

Miss Exusiai smoothly pulls the rest of her body back into the cabin. She casually swipes a stray smudge of dust from her cheek.

"Of course we are!" Miss Exusiai drops back into the passenger seat, kicking her boots up slightly. "This is just a standard delivery speed bump!"

I suppose to her, fighting off a heavily armed Siracusan syndicate isn't a brush with death; it is literally just a minor traffic inconvenience.

My eyes drop from her beaming smile to the weapon resting entirely casually across her lap.

The barrel is still smoking slightly, the metal radiating a faint, residual heat that smells sharply of scorched ozone. I stare at it, my mind flashing back to the sprawling, metallic cavern of the Engineering Workshop on Rhodes Island.

I remember the day Ms. Closure handed me my new Arts Unit. When I had asked the Chief Engineer about the different weapons our Field Ops carried, she had scoffed with absolute, manufacturing pride.

She had rumbled on about different focal units, from Raythean to Rhine Lab to Rhodes Island’s own models. And how ours are definitely the best.

Then I have asked why our Snipers only use crossbows.

“Only the Sankta of Laterano make true firearms,” Ms. Closure had explained. She had pointed at a blueprint. “They aren't just mechanical triggers and gunpowder, kiddo. They are highly advanced, incredibly intricate Originium Arts focal units. Every single time a Sankta pulls the trigger, it is a concentrated Arts strike fused perfectly with kinetic ammunition.” Ms. Closure had rolled her eyes at the mention of other nations.

“Columbia manages to firearms that fire basic kinetic ammo, sure. But compared to Lateran engineering? They are just pale, entirely mechanical imitations, not to mention they cost a fortune to make a single one. They lack the intricacies of the Arts conduits. With Iberians producing some firearms due to their relationship with Laterano.”

Looking at the devastating focal unit resting on Miss Exusiai's lap, Ms. Closure's lesson makes terrifying sense. It wasn't just bullets flying out of the window; it was a storm of raw Originium energy channeled directly through the Sankta's will.

I swallow hard, my hands dropping to my empty lap. My fingers twitch, instinctively curling inward as I search for the familiar, smooth grip of my own black staff. I wish I had my Arts Unit with me. But my hands remain empty, entirely reliant on the two incredibly lethal, nonchalant couriers sitting beside me to navigate the dark.

The relentless, bone-rattling vibration of the transport van slowly begins to dull the lingering edge of my panic.

I sit rigidly in the middle seat, my knees pulled tightly together, trying to make myself as small as physically possible.

Miss Texas takes one hand off the steering wheel, her fingers tapping lightly against the screen of the dashboard GPS.

"We won’t be anywhere near Lungmen today," Miss Texas states. She glances at the scrolling topographical map. "We should rest in Siracusa. We are near Trieste."

"They… They don’t mind Sarkaz?"

Miss Texas keeps her eyes locked on the dusty road ahead. The chocolate stick bobs slightly between her lips.

"In Siracusa? Famiglias hire Sarkaz quite often," she replies. "But most hotels won’t accept you. Too much of a liability to them."

Miss Texas pauses.

"However, there’s a local Rhodes Island branch in Trieste. We can ask them and figure out why you were in a crate."

A Rhodes Island branch. A safehouse.

"Really?!" I gasp, my hands flying up to grip the edge of the dashboard. My tail, which had been wrapped tightly around my waist, uncoils and begins to give a frantic, desperate wag. "I can go home?"

I can find a terminal. I can send a message to mom. I can tell Amiya where I am so they don't have to panic in the dark.

Miss Texas sighs.

"Though kid, there’s an active Catastrophe nearby," she warns, her voice dropping into a somber, uncompromising octave. "The networks are a complete mess. No long range communications. I doubt they actually know anything."

The bright, bubbling thrill in my chest is instantly snuffed out.

The realization hits me like a bucket of freezing water. I won't be able to call mom. I am still completely, utterly cut off from the landship. I slump heavily back into the middle seat, my hands dropping limply into my lap.

I lower my head, my bangs falling forward to hide the hot, sudden sting of tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I am so incredibly far away from the garden.

Miss Exusiai leans across the center console, and a massive, radiant smile stretches across her face.

"Don’t look so upset!" Miss Exusiai chirps, her voice ringing with absolute, weaponized optimism. She reaches out, playfully poking my cheek. "I will make sure to find the best apple pie they can offer in Trieste!"

I blink, looking up at the vibrant Sankta. Her emotional resonance is so fiercely, unconditionally joyful that it is physically impossible to remain entirely swallowed by the dark while sitting next to her.

I sniffle, rubbing my damp eyes. The promise of a sweet pastry acts as a fragile anchor.

"Okay… I'll hold you to that, Miss Exusiai."

The relentless, dusty horizon finally breaks.

Through the windshield of the transport van, a massive, mechanical silhouette slowly begins to materialize out of the Siracusan haze. It is a mobile city. Trieste. Towering, heavily fortified structures of steel and concrete sit atop colossal treads that grind against the earth, leaving deep, permanent scars in the barrens. It is awe-inspiring and incredibly intimidating, a sprawling fortress bathed in the harsh afternoon light.

Before I can even fully process the sheer scale of the city, the van violently jerks.

Miss Texas hits the brakes, the tires crunching aggressively against the gravel shoulder of the road as she pulls the transport to a complete halt. The idling engine rumbles beneath us.

"We are tossing you back in the box, kid," Miss Texas states.

"What?" I whisper, my eyes going wide as I look between the two couriers.

Miss Texas shifts the vehicle into park, her eyes flicking toward the border checkpoints looming in the distance.

"Less explaining to the customs," she replies simply.

Right. I am not on the landship anymore.

To the armed guards of a Siracusan Famiglia, I am just a Sarkaz. I am a threat. I am contraband.

"Okay…" I mumble.

I unbuckle my seatbelt, my shoulders slumping heavily under my oversized jacket. I carefully climb over the backseat rest, my tail tucked rigidly between my legs, and crawl into the dim cargo hold of the van.

I find the shipping crate I had originally woken up in. It smells of dry paper, stale packing foam, and machine grease. I step inside, pulling my knees tightly to my chest and wrapping my arms around my legs to make myself as incredibly small as possible. I carefully angle my head so my horns doesn't scrape against the sides.

Miss Texas steps into the back. She reaches out, pulling the wooden lid over my head to seal me in the dark.

But as the lid closes, her fingers pause. She doesn't shut it completely. She deliberately leaves a small, triangular corner remains peaked open, allowing a thin sliver of light and fresh air to filter into my suffocating prison. I can just barely peek out into the cargo hold. She gives the top of the box a quiet, reassuring double-tap before the back doors of the van slam shut, plunging me into the vibrating shadows.

The engine revs, and the transport begins to move again.

I sit in the dark for a dozen or so minutes. Every bump in the road rattles my teeth, and the claustrophobic space makes my chest ache.

Then, the van comes to a smooth, definitive stop. The low hum of the engine cuts out. We are at the checkpoint.

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath. My empathic Arts brush against the ambient air bleeding through the chassis. The familiar, smoky steel of Miss Texas and the bright, popping cinnamon sugar of Miss Exusiai are suddenly encroached upon by a heavy, entirely new flavor.

It tastes of stale tobacco, greasy paper, and a dull, aggressive boredom.

The customs officer.

Muffled voices filter through the metal walls of the van. I can hear the officer's gruff, demanding tone, followed immediately by the smooth, completely unbothered cadence of Miss Texas answering his questions. A second later, Miss Exusiai's bright, melodic laugh rings out, her blindingly cheerful emotional resonance actively masking whatever tension might be lingering in the air.

Clank.

The rear doors of the transport groan open. A harsh, glaring slice of daylight spills into the cargo hold.

I completely paralyze myself. I press both of my hands firmly over my mouth, biting down hard on my lower lip. I am terrified that even the microscopic sound of my own breathing, or a single nervous twitch of my tail, will rattle the box and give me away. Heavy, imposing boots step up onto the bumper. The suspension of the van dips slightly under the officer's weight. Through the peaked corner of my crate, I watch a harsh white flashlight beam sweep aggressively across the stacked cargo. The beam traces over the reinforced crates, the spares, and finally, sweeps directly across the surface of my box.

I squeeze my eyes shut, silently begging the dark to hide me.

The harsh, glaring beam of the flashlight sweeps across the surface of my box one last time.

"All good."

The gruff, muffled voice from outside is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. Clank.

The metal doors of the transport van slam shut with a concussive thud, completely sealing me back into the vibrating dark. I let out a long, ragged exhale, my tense muscles entirely collapsing against the cardboard. The engine roars to life, and the vehicle lurches forward.

We drive for what feels like an eternity, the tires humming over the paved roads of the mobile city. Then, the van slows. The grinding of the brakes echoes through the chassis, and the engine finally cuts out.

The rear doors groan open, letting a wash of cool, damp air into the hold. The lid above me is pulled back, revealing Miss Texas.

"Okay. Come out, kid," Miss Texas says softly.

I carefully uncurl my legs, my joints aching slightly from the cramped space. I climb out of the crate, my sneakers hitting the floor of the van before I step down onto the pavement.

I look around, pulling my jacket tightly around my shoulders. We are in a narrow, overcast backstreet. The sky above is a heavy, bruised grey, weeping a steady, misty rain that clings to the air. The cobblestones beneath my feet are slick, glistening with small, dark puddles. Tall, weathered buildings loom on either side, their faded plaster and aged brick walls pressing inward to create a secluded, melancholic corridor. A row of green municipal bins sits huddled against a temporary construction fence, and a lone, ornate streetlamp juts out from the masonry above, unlit in the dreary afternoon. It smells of wet asphalt, old rain, and damp earth. It is quiet, completely removed from the deafening, hostile roar of the city's main arteries.

"Stay near us," Miss Texas orders, her eyes scanning the fire escapes and the shadowed alleyways with practiced, lethal efficiency.

I give a rapid, fervent nod, my tail tucking securely against my leg. We walk slowly, hugging the damp walls of the buildings. Miss Exusiai walks on my other side, her bright, sugary presence acting as a radiant shield against the dreary chill. We deliberately avoid the wider intersections, entirely bypassing the crowded streets where the ambient noise of the Famiglias' city echoes.

Finally, we stop in front of a small, unassuming door. My heart gives a sudden leap against my ribs. Etched faintly onto the frosted glass of the entrance is a symbol I know better than my own reflection.

The Rhodes Island rook.

We step inside, and the transition is immediate. The office is heavily utilitarian, smelling of dry dust, old coffee, and quiet preservation. The ceiling is low, illuminated by a single, long fluorescent tube. Brown, heavy curtains are drawn completely shut over the back window, Arts Unit the room in a muted, secure dimness. To the left stands a dark filing cabinet, and on the right, a heavy metal safe serves as a makeshift stand for an antique music player. In the center sits a sturdy wooden desk covered in scattered papers, folders, and a bright red ledger, all illuminated by the warm, concentrated glow of a black desk lamp.

A Lupo man looks up from behind the desk. His ambient flavor hits me; it tastes like dried leaves and worn leather. Dependable, but distinctly startled.

His eyes dart from Miss Texas, to the glowing halo of Miss Exusiai, and finally settle squarely on my horns and the Medic emblem strapped to my thigh.

"Rhodes Island?" the Lupo man asks, his brow furrowing in deep confusion as he stands up. "Wait, you ladies are Penguin. Did she get lost?"

Miss Texas steps forward, her posture relaxed. "We are not sure," she replies smoothly.

"Have you heard anything? We are supposed to escort her to Lungmen, I believe." The Lupo man lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"No. No communications recently," he explains, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling, referencing the weather raging somewhere beyond the city's borders. "She can stay here until the Catastrophe passes. Then we can contact them."

I grip the edges of my jacket. I am safe. I am standing inside a Rhodes Island outpost.

"Stay here, Lethe! We will get you some food," Miss Exusiai flashes me a massive, unapologetic grin, tapping her finger against her chin. "Charged as part of our delivery fee for Amiya to pay, of course!"

I flinch, my hands immediately flying to my bag to protect my ID card. The terrifying image of the Chief Engineer presenting me with an itemized bill flashes in my mind.

"Uhm… okay…" I stammer, my voice pitching up into a nervous, pleading squeak. "But please don’t make it too much… or Ms. Closure is going to charge my plushie fund to cover the deficit!"

"No promises!" Miss Exusiai laughs, throwing a cheerful peace sign over her shoulder. She spins on her heel and practically bounds out the door, the silent, smoke-and-ash presence of Miss Texas trailing smoothly right behind her.

The outpost door clicks shut.

The Lupo man and I are left entirely alone.

I look up at him.

He lets out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at me.

"Well," he begins, his voice echoing slightly in the room. "What’s your name?"

"Lethe," I answer softly as I offer him a small, respectful bow. "Yours, mister?"

"Vito," he replies, lowering his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Vito…" I murmur. I look around the quiet room, taking in the stacked logistics crates, the humming terminals, and the unmistakable, comforting Rhodes Island insignias painted on the equipment. I look back down at my sneakers, a sheepish, embarrassed flush warming my cheeks. "I am pretty sure I am not supposed to be shipped to Lungmen."

A dry, quiet chuckle rumbles in Mr. Vito's chest.

“Sì…" he agrees, leaning his hip against the edge of his desk. "I don’t think we ship our Medics in crates… probabilmente…”

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a standard-issue Rhodes Island communicator. His thumb swipes across the screen, his eyes scanning the scrambled telemetry and localized weather readouts.

"The Catastrophe should pass tomorrow morning," Mr. Vito announces, lowering the device. He gestures with a nod toward a small, enclosed office space tucked near the back of the outpost, separated from the main logistics floor. "You can sleep in the office. It is safe."

I look toward the small room, and then back at the dependable Lupo. I am incredibly far away from mom, Amiya, and the humid warmth of the Convalescent Garden, but standing here in a room marked by the familiar rook logo, the terrifying vastness of Terra feels just a little bit smaller.

I offer him a genuine, relieved smile. "Okay. Thank you, Mr. Vito."

I sit cross-legged on the small cot in the back office, furiously tapping against the glass screen of my digital slate. Ms. Closure’s puzzle games are an absolute, unmitigated nightmare, but the frustrating mechanics are the perfect distraction to keep my mind from spiraling in the quiet room.

I keep playing until the door of the outpost finally clanks and swings open.

Miss Texas steps over the threshold first, her expression perfectly deadpan as she effortlessly carries two massive, heavily stuffed paper bags in her arms. Miss Exusiai practically dances in right behind her.

"Classic Siracusan cuisine coming up!" Miss Exusiai announces, her voice ringing with absolute, unadulterated joy.

Miss Texas walks over to the cleared center table and begins unpacking the bags with practiced, quiet efficiency. The aromas hit me instantly, completely overriding the dry, recycled air of the outpost.

It is an absolute feast. She pulls out deep, foil-wrapped trays of thick, hand-cut noodle drenched in a rich, slow-simmered meat sauce. There is a large carton filled with golden, perfectly fried crispy rice balls that smell heavily of melted mozzarella and savory herbs. A long, crusty loaf of bread practically drips with melted butter and toasted garlic, sitting beside a neatly arranged platter of thinly sliced cured meats, sharp cheeses, and marinated olives.

And then, with an exaggerated, highly theatrical flourish, Miss Exusiai pulls out a pristine white bakery box.

She opens the flaps to reveal a beautiful, rustic apple pie. The golden, flaky crust radiates an intoxicating aroma of baked cinnamon, caramelized apples, and warm pastry. She had kept her promise from the transport van.

I stare at the sprawling, decadent spread covering the table. My eyes blow wide as my mind instantly calculates the exorbitant cost of ordering this much premium food in a foreign city.

Ms. Closure is definitely going to make me Doctor’s permanent free assistant for this. I will be organizing his endless logistics manifests and pulling him away from boiling instant ramen in kettles for the rest of my natural life to pay off this debt.

But then, my stomach gives a loud, demanding twist that practically echoes in the quiet room. The rich, savory smells are absolute torture. I am really, really hungry.

Before I can agonize over my impending financial ruin any further, Miss Exusiai turns toward the Lupo man.

"Come join us too!" Miss Exusiai gestures excitedly at Mr. Vito. She waves her hands, her smile stretching from ear to ear. "There is way too much food for just the three of us!"

I carefully slide off the cot and shuffle over to the table, completely surrendering to my hunger. The sheer, decadent indulgence of the Siracusan spread instantly overrides any lingering fears of Ms. Closure’s financial wrath.

The rich, slow-simmered meat and the perfectly melted mozzarella are a massive, savory comfort that grounds me immediately. I take a bite of the apple pie, and the warm, heavily spiced cinnamon and caramelized apples melt perfectly on my tongue. The food is simply too good. I eat until my stomach is wonderfully, blissfully full, my tail giving a slow, lazy swish in absolute contentment.

Soon, the foil trays and the pristine bakery box are entirely cleared. The satisfied silence of a good meal settles over the outpost.

Miss Texas leans back in her chair. She glances over at the Lupo guard.

"You can go home, Vito," Miss Texas states. "We will guard our packages tonight."

Miss Exusiai nods vigorously in agreement, her bright emotional resonance pulsing with a renewed, sugary energy. "Yep! We have our VIP cargo completely secured!" She shoots a playful, beaming wink directly at me, making absolutely sure I know I am still officially considered part of their delivery manifest.

Mr. Vito gives a slow, appreciative nod. He gathers his things, offering the two couriers a brief salute before stepping out into the night.

With the outpost locked down and my stomach full, the adrenaline crash finally hits. The long, chaotic day drags heavily at my bones. I turn away from the cleared table and shuffle back into the small, enclosed office.

I climb up onto the cot, pulling the thin, practical Rhodes Island blanket up to my chin. I tuck my knees close, letting the quiet hum of the outpost's servers lull my frayed nerves. I look out through the open door of the office, watching the two Penguin Logistics couriers settling into the dim light.

"Good night, Miss Texas. Good night, Miss Exusiai," I call out softly, my voice dropping into a tired, chiming murmur.

"Night, kid," Miss Texas replies.

"Sweet dreams, Lethe!" Miss Exusiai adds.

Surrounded by the smoky ash and bright cinnamon sugar of my unlikely guardians, I close my eyes and let the exhaustion pull me under.

I blink my eyes open, the lingering fog of sleep instantly banished by a voice slicing cleanly through the quiet of the morning.

"Well. This is unexpected." A woman’s voice rings out.

The ambient air in the small office is completely different. The comforting, smoky ash and bright cinnamon sugar of the couriers from the main room are completely smothered. It is a purely physical sensation, a sudden, lethal drop in atmospheric pressure right behind my shoulders. The flavor hits with a heavy, suffocating intent. It tastes like cold, shadowed steel and feels exactly like standing on the edge of a sheer cliff in the dark.

I scramble into a sitting position on the cot, clutching my blanket tightly to my chest. I look out through the open doorway. Miss Texas and Miss Exusiai are still out there on the main logistics floor, looking entirely unbothered. Mr. Vito is already back, standing calmly by the consoles. They aren't on high alert at all.

But standing right inside my room is a tall Sarkaz woman. Her face is still half-hidden beneath the dark hood of her cloak, her movements so perfectly silent she seems to have glided over the floorboards like a phantom. She is incredibly intimidating.

"Eh?! Who are you?" I yelp, shrinking back against the wall of the cot.

"Ascalon," she rasps. Her voice is low, sounding exactly like dry leaves scraping against stone. "Kal’tsit sent me to find you."

The name of the Medical Director cuts through my rising panic. I freeze, my tail uncoiling just a fraction as the sheer terror wrestles with a sudden, desperate relief.

"Dr. Kal’tsit did?" I ask.

"Yes," Ascalon replies, her tone completely flat and absolute.

"Well Lethe. Guess no Lungmen fun for you this time!"

Miss Exusiai leans through the doorway. She shoots me a massive, entirely unrepentant grin. "Next time I will just kid… escort you directly to Lungmen!"

I scramble to my feet, brushing the wrinkles out of my skirt and jacket. I plant my hands on my hips and puff my cheeks out, fixing the Sankta courier with my absolute fiercest pout.

"I think I will pass on being a cargo next time!" I declare.

Instead of being deterred by my Kazdelian glare, Miss Exusiai’s emotional resonance practically erupts with joyous, sparkling apple cider. She closes the distance in a single step, her finger darting out to playfully poke me directly in my puffed-out cheek.

"Aww. Isn’t she so cute, Texas?" Miss Exusiai coos, her eyes crinkling with absolute delight as the air deflates from my mouth with a tiny squeak.

From the main floor, Miss Texas lets out a slow sigh.

"Leave her alone, Exia," Miss Texas states. She adjusts the straps of her utility belt. "We still need to deliver the actual supplies to Lungmen’s R.I. branch."

Miss Exusiai pulls her hand back, her bright wings giving a slight, energetic flutter. The playful, teasing grin softens into a genuinely warm smile.

"Guess this is it," Miss Exusiai says, effortlessly adjusting her firearm against her hip.

"See you, Lethe."

Miss Texas steps up just behind her in the doorway. The Lupo courier doesn't offer a wide smile, but her eyes reflect a quiet, sturdy reliability. She gives me a single, lazy nod.

"See you, kid."

I look at the two Penguin Logistics couriers. They had dragged me through a frantic, high-speed chase across the Siracusan barrens, throwing me around the cabin of their transport van like a ragdoll. But they had kept me undeniably, perfectly safe.

"Bye, Miss Texas. Miss Exusiai," I call out softly. "Thank you for keeping me safe."

I watch as they turn on their heels. The door shuts behind them, leaving me alone in the quiet room with the terrifying, silent phantom of Ms. Ascalon, finally ready to go home.

"We are leaving," Ms. Ascalon states.

"Okay," I nod meekly.

I turn away from the terrifying phantom of the elite assassin and look toward the console. Mr. Vito is standing there, his posture relaxed despite the heavy atmosphere Ms. Ascalon brought with her..

"Thank you, again. Mr. Vito.”

"No worries, Lethe. Arrivederci" Mr. Vito replies. He gives me a small, reassuring nod. I wave goodbye to him, stepping away from the warm, humming terminals of the outpost and following Ascalon's silent, gliding silhouette out into the streets. The door of the branch office shuts behind us.

The morning air is crisp and biting.

"How do we go home, Ms. Ascalon?" I ask, my brow furrowing in confusion. I look up at the tall Sarkaz woman.

Ms. Ascalon doesn't even turn her head. She keeps her focus locked onto the horizon, her cloak shifting soundlessly in the wind.

"Walk."

The single, blunt syllable drops onto the dusty ground like a lead weight.

"What?!" I gasp.

My tail completely freezes mid-swish, dropping limply. The blood entirely drains from my face.

I stare at Ascalon's back in absolute, unadulterated horror, entirely convinced I am going to become a permanent, exhausted fixture in the Siracusan dirt before we even make it halfway to the landship.

Ms. Ascalon doesn’t reply. She doesn't even turn her head to acknowledge my confusion. She simply heads directly into the shadowed back alleys of Trieste.

I follow her through the forgotten, rotting veins of the nomadic city.

We navigate the winding, narrow path for a few minutes until the alley opens up slightly, leading toward a reinforced metal gate that looks like a municipal maintenance elevator. But we aren't alone.

Standing right in the middle of the pathway, leaning casually against the brick wall, is a Lupo man.

The moment my Arts brush against the ambient air around him, my stomach gives a violent, hollow twist. He tastes completely wrong. The flavor bleeding off him is a sickening, toxic sludge of sour grease, stale tobacco, and the sharp, rusted-iron tang of malicious greed. It is the undeniable taste of a predator waiting for easy prey in the dark.

I shrink behind the tall Sarkaz woman, using her cloak as a physical shield.

"Ms. Ascalon," I whisper, my voice a tiny, trembling thread of sound in the quiet alley. She doesn't break her stride. She doesn't even shift her hands toward whatever lethal weaponry she keeps hidden beneath her coat.

"I know," Ms. Ascalon replies, her voice a low, terrifyingly calm rasp that barely disrupts the dusty air.

Hearing our approach, the man pushes himself off the wall. He turns around, a wicked combat knife already flipping effortlessly into his hand. A cruel, arrogant smirk stretches across his unwashed face as he steps fully into the center of the path, blocking our way to the elevator.

"Who is the lucky…"

The taunt dies instantly in his throat.

His eyes dart from my trembling frame to the towering, hooded figure standing right in front of me. His sour, arrogant greed is instantaneously annihilated by a massive, suffocating wave of absolute, unadulterated terror. It tastes like cracked ice and freezing bile.

The man's face goes entirely bloodless.

The knife slips from his fingers, clattering loudly against the cracked pavement. He doesn't even try to pick it up. He stumbles backward, letting out a pathetic, breathless wheeze, his eyes blown wide as he stares at the sheer, suffocating abyss of Ms.

Ascalon's presence.

Without a single word, he spins on his heel and sprints blindly down the opposite end of the alley, his boots slipping frantically against the dirt, desperate to put as much distance as physically possible between himself and the terrifying phantom.

Ms. Ascalon doesn't even break her stride as we reach the reinforced metal gate of the maintenance elevator. She doesn't search her cloak for a keycard or a tool. With a motion so fluid and impossibly fast that my eyes can barely track it, she simply strikes the mechanism.

A sharp, metallic crack echoes through the alleyway as the lock entirely shatters, the pieces clattering uselessly against the pavement. She presses the call button. The rusted, industrial gears of Trieste's underbelly groan in protest, and a moment later, the grating slides open.

Ms. Ascalon steps inside and offers a single, silent gesture with her hand. I don't hesitate. I scurry into the cramped space right behind her, keeping my tail tucked tightly against my legs so it doesn't get caught in the rusted mesh.

The descent takes absolutely forever.

As the elevator grinds downward through the mechanical bowels of the nomadic city, the air grows thick and stiflingly warm, reeking of heavy grease and churning exhaust. I pull at the collar of my jacket, a thin bead of sweat prickling at my hairline. But just as the sweltering heat becomes unbearable, a biting, unfiltered draft slices through the grated floor.

The temperature plummets.

With a heavy, shuddering clank, the elevator comes to a halt. The doors rattle open, and the bruised, dusty expanse of the barrens stretches out endlessly before us. The freezing wind immediately bites at my cheeks.

I step out onto the cracked earth, staring at the desolate, rolling hills and the vast, empty horizon. My heart gives a nervous flutter. I look up at the towering assassin.

"Are we really going to walk all the way back home?" I ask. "Actually… where is it even?" Ms. Ascalon doesn't turn her head. "We walk to my transport," she rasps. "I parked it over the hill."

I let out a massive, highly audible sigh of profound relief. Thank Terra. I don't think I would survive a cross-country trek on foot.

But my relief is entirely premature. The "hill" she mentioned turns out to be a jagged, treacherous incline of loose rock and dry dirt. After about twenty minutes of hiking, my lungs are absolutely burning, and my legs feel like they have been replaced with wet noodles. My physical output truly is a disaster. By the time we crest the ridge and I spot the sleek, dark plating of her hidden transport rover, I am dragging my padded sneakers through the dirt.

I practically collapse into the passenger seat, pulling the heavy door shut and ensuring I am securely strapped in.

The engine turns over with a quiet, stealthy hum. Ms. Ascalon takes the wheel, and we begin to move. And then… nothing.

She doesn't talk. She doesn't turn on the radio. She doesn't even tap her fingers against the steering wheel. The ambient air in the cabin is entirely consumed by her presence. I sit perfectly still in the passenger seat, clutching my hands in my lap. I watch the barren landscape roll by for what feels like hours. I am just on the verge of being completely, utterly bored out of my mind by the terrifying silence, when the dusty horizon finally breaks.

Through the windshield, kicking up massive, billowing clouds of red dirt, a colossal silhouette materializes.

I press my hands against the glass. It is a sprawling, industrial fortress of dark grey metal moving relentlessly across the wasteland. Dominating the very front of the massive structure is a towering, bright yellow cylindrical stack, boldly bearing the black, stenciled letters of RIM BILLITON PLC.

The sheer, staggering scale of the landship grinding its colossal treads into the earth is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I let out a breathless, radiant laugh, my tail finally uncoiling to give a happy thump. We are finally home.

The massive hydraulic deployment ramp groans as it slowly lowers from the belly of the landship, locking into the dry earth with a heavy, resonating clank. Ms. Ascalon doesn't slow down; she steers the transport rover smoothly up the grated incline, gliding us directly into the cavernous, brightly lit embrace of the flight deck.

Even through the reinforced glass of the rover's cabin, my empathic Arts are instantly flooded. The suffocating, terrifying silence of the barrens is completely washed away by a massive, overlapping symphony of pure, unadulterated relief.

It hits the back of my tongue in a beautiful, chaotic rush. There is the blindingly bright, crystallized sugar of Lisa, the zesty yuzu tea of Podenco, the warm lavender of Miss Lena, and the comforting, dormant hearth fire of Miss Adele. Weaving through it all is the soft, spun-sugar sincerity of Amiya.

And tucked deep in the shadows near the blast doors, standing as still and immovable as a statue, is the ancient, freezing glacier of Dr. Kal’tsit. She watches the transport roll to a halt with that absolute, uncompromising authority, her silent presence a terrifying but undeniable confirmation that I am officially back under Rhodes Island's absolute protection.

I reach for the handle of the transport, but I don't even get the chance to pull the latch. The armored door is violently yanked open from the outside.

Mom doesn't wait for me to unbuckle or step down. She reaches right into the cabin, her hands grabbing me firmly by the shoulders, and hauls me directly out of the seat into a desperate, crushing embrace. She squeezes me so fiercely that my sneakers completely lift off the floorboards, leaving my legs dangling uselessly in the cold air of the deployment bay.

"Lethe!" mom cries out, her voice fracturing into a ragged, wet sob that echoes across the deck. She buries her face into the collar of my jacket, her entire frame trembling violently against mine. "You are safe. You are safe. I was so worried."

I don't struggle against the lift. I wrap my arms securely around her neck.

"I am here, mom," I murmur, my own voice thick with unshed tears as I hug her back with everything I have. "It was just a road trip with Miss Texas and Miss Exusiai. They kept me safe."

Beneath us, Lisa practically tackles my dangling legs, her nine tails wrapping around my calves in a warm, auburn shield. Podenco steps up right behind her, letting out a massive, highly exaggerated sigh of relief, while Miss Lena and Miss Adele share a soft, deeply profoundly relieved smile.

Amiya steps closer, her eyes shining with moisture.

I rest my chin on mom's shoulder. The terrifying vastness of Terra is sealed outside the bulkheads once more. I am exactly where I belong.