August, 1096

The amber-lit cycles blur together, and before I realize it, the calendar on my slate ticks over to early August.

Things have been almost painfully mundane. The only disruption was a few weeks ago, on the 17th of July. The ghost in my head had whispered frantically that it was my birthday. It was an absurd, terrifyingly specific hallucination. I just forced the static down until the phantom voice finally faded. Just another symptom to ignore.

But today, for the first time since I woke up, Rhodes Island isn't moving. The deep thrum of the engines beneath the floor grates has settled into a quiet, idling purr. We are docked.

Erika and I stand side-by-side near one of the large, pill-shaped observation windows in the outer corridor.

"Tkaronto," Erika murmurs, her soft eyes reflecting the glare of the world outside. "We are in Columbia."

I press my hands against the cool glass, my eyes blown wide in complete, unfeigned awe. It isn't a wasteland of rust-colored dust, and it isn't the jagged, mechanical sprawl of a mining rig. It is a towering forest of glass and steel. Massive skyscrapers pierce the sky, their sheer, mirrored surfaces catching the sunlight in blinding, pristine flashes. It looks impossibly clean, wealthy, and completely untouched by the rot of Terra.

I stare at the shining metropolis, and my mind completely fails to process the woman standing next to me. Why would anyone willingly walk away from this? Why would Erika trade the safety and the staggering, towering progress of Columbia for the blood- stained uniform of a Rhodes Island Medic?

The ambient flavor of her presence shifts slightly. The usual warmth is tinged with a faint, bitter edge, like cold, stagnant water.

"Erika?" I ask, pitching my voice with a fragile, hopeful chime. "Can I… can I go outside? Just for a little bit? I want to see the city."

Erika looks down at me. The bitter edge in her emotional resonance instantly melts back into that fierce protectiveness. She reaches out, her fingers gently brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, but she slowly shakes her head.

"I'm sorry, my little Lethe," she says softly, her tone carrying the absolute, non- negotiable weight of medical authority. "You aren't allowed to have a shore pass yet. Dr. Kal'tsit's protocols are still in place. You have to stay on the landship. But don’t worry, I will stay on the landship with you the entire time."

I reach up, my fingers lightly grazing the black monitor locked securely around my throat. I look down at the floor, swallowing a bitter lump of disappointment.

"Okay," I murmur.

The rest of the day tries to proceed normally, but the atmosphere within the landship is entirely altered. The corridors are practically vibrating with an unfamiliar, chaotic energy. For the first time since I woke up in this world, the sterile, biting scent of ozone and medical bleach is completely overpowered. It is replaced by the rich, earthy fragrance of damp soil, the sweet tang of fresh Columbian apples, and the sharp, heavy aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans. Logistics Operators shout over the din, wheeling massive crates of leafy greens and industrial supplies right past the quiet thresholds of the medical wards.

Then, there are the faces. Strangers.

It is jarring to see Columbian merchants and dock officials strutting through our halls in sharp, tailored coats and streetwear. They mingle awkwardly with our armed Field Ops and exhausted Medics, their eyes darting around.

Even with the monitor locked securely around my throat, the sheer volume of new people makes the air feel terrifyingly thick. The collar muzzles my passive Arts, but it cannot completely filter out the crushing, overlapping static of hundreds of foreign emotional resonances pressing into the confined space. It is unpredictable and muddy, a claustrophobic hum that makes my skin crawl.

I keep my head down, letting my long hair fall forward to veil my face. I grip the edge of my jacket, staying practically glued to Erika's side. She doesn't rush me; instead, she uses her own frame to wedge a safe path through the bustling crowds, her hand resting as a steady, protective anchor on my shoulder.

Dinner mercifully comes, saving me from the chatoic, bustling corridors that has leaked into the garden.

We are sitting in the cafeteria. The room is filled with the comforting aroma of spiced broth, and the ambient noise is a relaxed, overlapping clatter of trays and exhausted Operators ending their shifts.

And then, the world changes once again.

A deafening, bone-rattling klaxon rips through the hall. It is that same mechanical, dual- toned shriek that vibrates directly into my teeth and sends a sharp, agonizing spike of pain straight up the ridges of my horns.

Instantly, the crisp white daylight simulation of the LED panels dies. The cafeteria is plunged into darkness for a fraction of a second before the emergency lighting kicks in, painting the room in a violent, strobing, blood-red glare.

Catastrophe.

The relaxed, carbonated pop of friendly banter in the cafeteria instantly curdles. The air is violently sucked out of the room, replaced by a sharp, acidic bite of adrenaline and the heavy metallic tang of sheer panic. Operators drop their forks, trays clattering against the tables as they scramble to their feet.

I freeze in my chair, my hands flying up to cover my ears.

"Lethe! Look at me!"

Erika's hands are instantly on my shoulders, gripping me with a fierce intensity.

"We are fine, Lethe. You are safe," Erika gasps out over the deafening wail of the sirens, her eyes wide but intensely focused. "Rhodes Island's armor is fully deployed, and our shielding can withstand the impact. The landship is secure."

Within minutes, the cafeteria completely empties. The Medical Department doesn't just respond to the siren; it shifts gears with a terrifying, practiced efficiency. Before my eyes, the quiet place of healing violently transforms into a fully mobilized war machine. Erika's hand is a firm anchor on my shoulder, rushing me away from the panic and back toward the medical bays. The normally quiet corridors are an absolute blur of frantic motion. The blast doors of the Convalescent Garden and the standard wards hiss and slam shut, plunging the non-essential zones into absolute lockdown. Medics and logistics Operators sprint past us in coordinated droves. They shove hovering gurneys down the halls and drag massive, reinforced crates packed with bandages, blood bags, and Oripathy suppressants directly toward the triage centers.

Watching them, the sheer, staggering scale of the preparation makes my stomach violently twist.

Erika stops near the entrance of my dorm, her breath coming in short, shallow hitches.

"Stay inside, Lethe. Do not open the door for anyone but me, Amiya, or Lena. The triage bay is going to be completely overwhelmed with refugees soon."

The heavy shutters slide into place with a mechanical thud. My pill-shaped window is no longer a view of the gleaming Columbian skyscrapers; it is just a solid slab of reinforced steel locking me inside my sterile box.

I retreat to the edge of my mattress, pulling my knees tightly to my chest. My heavy tail wraps securely around my ankles as I grab my slate from the nightstand. My fingers fly across the cold glass screen, opening the internal messaging app.

I send rapid, frantic check-ins. To Lisa. To Podenco. To Miss Lena. To Rosmontis.

Then, I send a direct message to Amiya.

[Lethe]: Is anyone with Opal?

In my own panic, I completely forget to ask Erika to check in on her. The thought of the tiny Cautus girl sitting alone while the klaxons wail makes me shudder. She is going to be so terrified.

A minute later, the slate chimes. A reply from Amiya.

[Amiya]: Sussuro is sitting right beside her, Lethe. Opal is safe. We are monitoring the weather patterns closely. It is a severe Catastrophe. A massive rainstorm mixed with active Originium, bearing straight at the city.

I stare at the white text. The suffocating dread in my chest feels cold and jagged.

Unable to stand the silence of the sealed dorm room, I tap back to the slate's home screen. I carefully open one of the few unrestricted apps Ms. Closure had left on my terminal: a Columbian news feed.

The screen flickers to life. The pristine, shining metropolis of Tkaronto I had marveled at just hours ago is already being swallowed alive.

A cameraman is filming from a high vantage point, the lens shaking violently against the biting wind. An oppressive, suffocating cloud of deep grey is rolling over the horizon, completely blotting out the sun. It doesn't look like normal rain; the sheer density of it looks heavy, pulsing with a sickly, toxic undertone of active Originium.

The news anchor's voice is tight with panicked professionalism, reporting that the city's nomadic plates are desperately initiating their emergency detachment sequences, trying to haul the massive infrastructure out of the storm's direct path.

The feed abruptly cuts to the street level. It is absolute chaos.

"Tkaronto Police officers are doing their best to evacuate citizens from the outer sectors," the anchor narrates over the frantic footage.

The camera swings wildly, catching a group of officers in standard tactical uniforms trying to direct a surge of terrified civilians. One of them, a young Kuranta officer with sharp, determined eyes and dark hair, steps directly into the camera's frame. She is waving her arms frantically, her face pale but resolute against the howling wind.

"Move! You need to fall back to the central plate immediately!" she shouts at the news crew, her voice barely carrying over the deafening roar of the approaching thunderstorm. "Evacuate now!"

Just over her shoulder, two other officers are struggling to hold the line; a Cautus with her eyes squinted shut against the biting wind, and a Perro who looks completely overwhelmed, clutching her riot shield like a lifeline as the panicked crowd surges past them.

I pull my dark grey jacket tighter around my shoulders, my eyes locked onto the glowing screen, entirely helpless to do anything but watch the city freeze.

The camera cuts away from the frantic street level. The news feed switches to a wide, distant shot broadcasted from the edge of Tkaronto.

The screen is filled with the image of a massive, hulking structure resting heavily on the barren outskirts just beyond the city borders. It is a colossal silhouette of dark, utilitarian metal, crisscrossed with thick industrial pipes and a towering exhaust stack. The yellow floodlights pierce through the encroaching, dusty gloom of the approaching thunderstorm, illuminating the massive, heavily armored lower hull that anchors it to the earth.

I stare at the screen, my brow furrowing in confusion. It looks like a fortified, mobile fortress. I have never seen it before.

Then, my eyes drop to the scrolling text at the bottom of the broadcast.

*BREAKING: International Pharmaceutical Company Rhodes Island Offers Assistance.* That is Rhodes Island?

That colossal, terrifyingly heavy war machine against the desolate landscape… that is where I am sitting right now. That is my home.

"The international pharmaceutical company, Rhodes Island, is currently docked just outside Tkaronto's outer sectors," the news anchor's voice crackles through the slate's small speakers, his tone tight with a forced, professional calm. "Their representatives have reached out to the city council. A spokesperson has just released a statement regarding the incoming storm."

The broadcast cuts again.

The background is a dizzying wall of glowing monitors, scrolling data streams, and complex PRTS telemetry.

Sitting in the center of the frame is Amiya.

Her brown hair is perfectly neat, her long ears are held high and rigid, and her blue eyes carry a profound, heavy weight.

"To the citizens of Tkaronto," Amiya begins, her voice projecting through the screen. It is calm, absolute, and cuts straight through the underlying panic of the broadcast.

"Rhodes Island has opened its lower logistics bays and triage centers. Anyone seeking refuge from the Catastrophe, or requiring immediate medical treatment, is welcome to come to our landship. We will not turn you away."

I look at her in absolute awe. The sweet, gentle girl who sat with me on my dorm bed, who promised to help me manage the static in my head… she is gone. In her place is the CEO of Rhodes Island, a young Cautus standing unflinchingly against the end of the world, offering a shield to thousands of terrified people.

I pull my knees up to my chest, my tail curling tightly around my waist. Staring blankly at the slate.

Then, the slate in my hands vibrates.

A notification banner drops down from the top edge of the screen. It is a secure group chat created by Podenco.

[Podenco]: Are you two okay? The structural monitors are holding up fine in the Convalescent Garden. Miss Lena and I just finished securing the furnitures.

[Lisa]: I am okay! I am perfectly safe in my room! Did you guys see Amiya on the broadcast? She was so amazing!

[Podenco]: I saw her. She is incredibly brave. But I need to know you both are staying away from the outer bulkheads. The vibrations can cause micro-fractures in the glass. Lethe, are you safe? Is Miss Erika with you?

I type slowly, my thumbs clumsy on the cold glass screen.

[Lethe]: Erika is in the triage center. I am alone in my dorm. It is really loud.

[Lisa]: Don't be scared, Lethe! Rhodes Island is the strongest landship in the whole world! The armor won't break. And Miss Erika is a hero. She is going to help Amiya save so many people out there!

[Podenco]: Lisa is right. You are in the safest place you could possibly be. Just stay on your bed, Lethe. Wrap up in your blankets and drink some water if the shaking makes your head hurt. We are a team, remember? We're right here with you.

[Podenco]: As soon as the sirens stop and the lockdown lifts, I'm going to ask Miss Lena to make us the biggest pot of tea we've ever had. We'll have a picnic right in the middle of the garden. Promise.

[Lethe]: I would really like that. I promise I will be brave until then.

[Lisa]: We can all be brave together!

The messages stop, leaving a warm, comforting glow on the screen. The crushing, suffocating isolation of the room has receded. I press the slate against my chest, right next to the soft brown ears of the Cautus-esque plushie.

Everyone is a trying their best. I need to be brave for all of them.

Night quickly falls, night cycle switches on. I try my best to sleep through the night, but the landship makes it almost impossible.

The storm doesn't just howl; it batters us. The sheer kinetic force of the heavy thunderstorm slamming against the outer armor sounds like sustained artillery fire. I can feel the violent, rattling vibrations traveling through the steel bulkheads and straight up into my mattress. World splitting sounds of thunders rattle the landship. I pull the blanket up to my chin, my tail curled tightly against my side, and peek at the glowing screen of my slate from time to time.

I leave the news feed running in the dark. Every time the screen illuminates my face in pale blue light, a small, paranoid part of my brain waits for the sharp, synthetic chime of a high-priority message. I expect the blocky white text of Dr. Kal'tsit to appear, demanding I power down the terminal and cease my unauthorized screen time.

But the notification never comes.

I turn my attention back to the slate. The broadcast signal is severely degraded now, thick with jagged lines of static.

The feed shows a reporter and a cameraman huddled behind the remains of a concrete barricade on the city streets, the oppressive, heavy rain swallowing them, blinding flashes of light cut through the screen. The reporter is shouting into a microphone, barely audible over the roaring wind, pointing toward a line of evacuated vehicles. Then, the street violently ruptures.

It happens in the blink of an eye. A massive, jagged lump of black Originium tears straight up through the asphalt and rain-slicked cars, erupting from the earth like a jagged tooth. It pulses with a blinding, toxic amber light. The sheer force of the crystal's sudden growth throws the cameraman backward. The lens spins wildly toward the bruised, howling sky, capturing a brief, terrifying scream before the screen violently tears into static.

The broadcast abruptly cuts back to the pristine, artificial calm of the news studio. The anchor's face is completely bloodless.

"We… we seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties with the feed," the anchor stammers, his professional mask slipping as he shuffles his papers with trembling hands. "Our technicians are working to fix the signal now…"

My throat feels incredibly dry, lined with phantom ash. I slowly reach out and press the physical power button on the side of the chassis. The screen goes black, plunging the dorm room back into the dim, amber glow of the night cycle.

I set the slate down on the metal nightstand, right next to the soft brown Amiya plushie Erika had given me.

I pull my knees up to my chest, burying my face in the blankets, and squeeze my eyes shut against the dark. I try my best to sleep again, but all I can hear is the deafening roar of the thunderstorm violently tearing the world outside apart.

The artificial daylight cycle clicks on, a clinical white that completely ignores the apocalyptic nightmare raging outside the hull.

I am already sitting on the edge of the mattress, when the door opens with a snap. Dr. Kal'tsit.

She steps into the doorway, her coat immaculate despite the chaos that must be consuming the rest of the landship.

"You are aware of the situation outside, Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit states.

I give a small, jerky nod.

"The triage bays are currently reaching maximum capacity with civilian casualties from Tkaronto," the Medical Director continues. "However, your deployment will be strictly contained. You are to report to the Convalescent Garden immediately. Your focus will be exclusively on our own Operators."

She pauses, her gaze narrowing fractionally as she outlines the brutal pragmatism of my task. "Rhodes Island Field Ops have been actively assisting the Tkaronto police force in maintaining the evacuation lines. They are returning severely compromised by the localized Originium density and acute psychological stress. You will ease their combat fatigue and trauma to ensure they are stabilized for redeployment or immediate medical processing."

I grip the edge of the mattress. I force myself to meet her unyielding stare.

"Dr. Kal'tsit…" I whisper, my voice trembling in the sterile air. "Erika… is she outside? In the city?"

Dr. Kal'tsit evaluates my panicked expression for a brief, agonizing second.

"Erika is currently stationed in Triage Bay," Dr. Kal'tsit replies flatly. "She is managing internal trauma response. She has not been deployed into the thunderstorm."

The massive, suffocating knot of dread in my chest instantly dissolves. A ragged, shaky sigh of profound relief tears its way out of my throat.

She is safe.

I slide off the mattress. I reach over to the nightstand and pick up my Arts Unit.

I look up at the Grand Dame of Rhodes Island, and offer her a firm, resolute nod.

"I am ready to work."

“Report to the Convalescent Garden in 10 minutes. Don’t be late.” Kal’tsit decrees and turns to leave.

I watch the door slowly shuts behind her. I need to be brave for everyone. I remind myself once more.

I quickly wash the sleep from my face and sprint towards the garden passing Operators rushing every each directions.

When I finally reach the garden the atmosphere is completely wrong. The garden today feels like a waiting room for ghosts.

The sprawling greenhouse is filled with Operators who have just rotated back from the thunderstorm. They sit clustered on the golden-brown crescent benches or huddled on the floor tiles, their armor battered and their coats stained with ash and dried blood. Even though the ambient temperature of the garden is comfortably warm, many of them are shivering violently, their bodies wracked by a phantom, bone-deep cold that the landship's heaters cannot melt.

I weave through the silent, traumatized crowd.

My eyes lock onto a Feline Caster sitting alone on a bench near a bed of broad-leafed ferns. She is completely falling apart.

Her uniform is torn, and her feline ears are pinned flat against her skull. She is hyperventilating, her chest heaving in short, jagged, desperate gasps that echo terribly in the quiet space. Her hands are gripping her knees so tightly that her nails are digging right through the fabric of her trousers. She is staring blankly at the floor, trapped entirely in a localized nightmare playing out behind her eyes.

I step closer.

"Excuse me," I say softly. I pitch my voice to be as gentle as the rustle of the leaves above us, hoping to cut through the deafening static of her panic attack.

She flinches, a sharp, ragged breath tearing through her throat, and looks up. Her eyes dart wildly, taking in my pale face, the dark grey jacket, and the black monitor locked around my throat.

"Can you tell me your story?" I ask, stepping just a fraction closer. "About the city?" The Feline stares at me. Her jaw trembles, and for a second, I think she might just break down into wordless sobbing. But the need to confess, to purge the horror that is suffocating her, overrides everything else.

"The… the glass," she stammers, her voice ragged and wet. "The buildings…"

I listen quietly. Just hours ago, I had pressed my hands against the window, completely captivated by the pristine, towering skyscrapers of Tkaronto. I had looked at them with the awe of someone who has only seen ruins.

But as the Caster speaks, she shatters that beautiful image completely.

She describes a devastation that is utterly unfathomable. The majestic, mirrored towers hadn't just fallen; they had been violently ruptured from the inside out. Massive, jagged Originium crystals had sprouted directly through the steel girders and glass facades, turning the pristine architecture into twisted, glowing tombs.

And in the ruins of those shattered streets, the storm had brought the wildlife.

"Spiders," she chokes out, her breath hitching painfully. "Originium spiders. They were crawling out of the rubble… Volatile."

Her hands shake violently as the memory drags her back into the blinding thunderstorm.

"They explode," she whispers, the words scraping against her throat. "I… I tried to clear a path for the evacuation line. I cast my Arts. I hit one of them. But I didn't see him. I didn't see that he had pushed forward to cover my flank."

The ambient air in the garden instantly sours, thickening with a crushing, suffocating weight.

"It was a Forte defender," she sobs, the tears finally spilling over her ash-stained cheeks.

"I killed the spider too close to him. The blast… the Originium frost just swallowed him. He froze solid right in front of me. And the shockwave…" She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with violent, racking sobs. "It destabilized the debris above us. A concrete slab… it crushed him. He couldn't raise his shield because he was frozen. Because of me."

I look directly at the broken woman in front of me, and I visualize the invisible channel opening wide.

I drink the horrid cocktail in. I have to.

The influx hits me like a physical blow. The sheer concentration of her guilt burns the back of my throat, a vile sludge that makes my stomach heave in absolute revolt.

But I force my jaw shut. I swallow every drop of her dread. I take it all, burying it deep within my own frame.

Slowly, the violent shaking of the Feline Caster's shoulders begins to subside. Her hyperventilating gasps smooth out into long, exhausted, stuttering exhales. The crushing, paralyzing despondency lifts from her spine, leaving her utterly drained, but finally able to pull the humid, lavender-scented air of the garden into her lungs.

She lowers her hands from her face, blinking at me through her tear-streaked, exhausted eyes. The frantic terror is gone, replaced by a quiet, manageable mourning. I offer her a weak, trembling smile, tasting the ash on the back of my tongue. I step back, carefully severing the connection, leaving her to finally rest.

But I feel wrong.

I cannot even grasp why I feel wrong.

I remember sitting in that blindingly bright laboratory, trembling as I finally confessed to Dr. Warfarin about the ghost. I remember the voice yelling at me during my early days on the landship, frantically warning me about the people around me.

Dr. Warfarin, Ms. Ascalon, and Dr. Kal'tsit all told me it was just a symptom. A cognitive misfire. A hallucination my infected brain fabricated to filter the trauma of the ruins. But… it has been quiet.

Ever since the Catastrophe hit Tkaronto, the hallucination hasn't spoken a single word. There is no static.

Am I cured?

The thought doesn't bring relief. It brings a sudden, suffocating panic. If the ghost is gone, does that mean the incinerator finally burned the last piece of kindling?

"Miss Lena," I murmur, my voice trembling slightly.

The Vulpo turns from her medicinal herbs, her eyes immediately catch the rigid, white- knuckled grip I have on the twisted branch of my Arts Unit.

"Lethe? What is it, sweetie? Are you alright?" she asks, her brow furrowing with gentle concern.

"I need to see Dr. Warfarin," I tell her, forcing my breathing to remain steady. I loosen my grip on the staff just a fraction. "I am mostly fine. I just… want to make sure."

Miss Lena studies my face for a long second, her lavender emotional resonance pressing against my senses like a soft, protective blanket, before she gives a slow, supportive nod.

The walk to the high-security laboratory feels like a death march.

The doors open, releasing the harsh scent of clinical bleach and the terrifying array of gleaming stainless steel.

Dr. Warfarin is standing near a diagnostic console, her white hair catching the blinding overhead lights. She turns, her crimson eyes locking onto me, and that familiar, predatory smile stretches across her lips, flashing her fangs.

"Oh, look who wandered into my lair," Dr. Warfarin drawls, entirely unbothered by my trembling frame. She taps on her slate. "Tell me you are here to donate a vial of that fascinating blood of yours, little anomaly. Strictly for scientific research."

"Dr. Warfarin," I say, my voice comes out flat, hollow, and terribly quiet. "The ghost is gone."

"Elaborate."

The command is sharp, clipping through the sterile air of the laboratory.

She steps away from her monitors, crossing the floor to stand directly in front of me.

"What do you mean, the ghost is gone, Lethe?" she demands, her voice dropping all theatricality.

I swallow hard. My throat feels like sandpaper.

"She used to talk," I explain, my voice trembling slightly. "Whenever I saw something new… or someone important. When I met Ace and Scout, she screamed their names. The hallucination always tried to string things together, to make up stories about the people I met."

I look down at the floor.

"But since we arrived at Tkaronto… since the thunderstorm… there is nothing." I draw a shaky, stuttering breath. "I saw the Columbian skyscrapers. I saw the refugees in the triage bay. The ghost should have screamed. But she didn't."

I look back up into Dr. Warfarin's eyes.

"It has been seven months, Dr. Warfarin," I whisper. "I spent seven months sharing my head with her. Even if she was just a symptom… even if she was just a sickness making things up… she was always there. And now I am completely alone in my own mind." Dr. Warfarin pauses.

The Vampire just stares at me, her face completely unreadable. The silence in the laboratory stretches, thick and suffocating, broken only by the low, mechanical hum of the centrifuges.

Then, she moves.

"Sit. Sleeves up," Dr. Warfarin orders briskly, pointing a finger toward the padded examination chair in the corner. "I am pulling a fresh panel. And we are doing a full neurological sweep. Right now."

She doesn't wait for me to shuffle over. She turns on her heel, her crisp white coat snapping sharply as she strides over to the heavy wall communicator. She hits the comm switch with the palm of her hand.

"Kal," Dr. Warfarin barks into the speaker.

The communicator crackles for a fraction of a second, then Dr. Kal’tsit speaks, "I am currently overseeing the triage overflow, Warfarin. State your emergency."

"Get down to my lab," Dr. Warfarin replies, her eyes flicking back to watch me curl into the examination chair. A dark, intensely curious smirk slowly begins to creep back onto her lips, but it lacks any of its usual teasing warmth. It is pure, unfiltered scientific hunger.

"Drop whatever you are doing and get down here," the Vampire insists, her voice vibrating with a terrifying, academic thrill. "The little anomaly just got a lot more interesting."

Half an hour passes. In the sterile environment of the high-security laboratory, thirty minutes feels like an agonizing eternity.

I sit frozen on the padded examination chair, my legs dangling over the edge, a fresh cotton ball taped to the crook of my elbow still sucking on the lollipop Dr. Warfarin has given me before the blood draw.

Dr. Warfarin stands before her diagnostic console, her fingers dancing rapidly across the glass screen.

Standing right beside her, arms crossed tight, is Dr. Kal'tsit. She watches the scrolling data with an intense, unblinking focus, her piercing focus tracking every decimal point and cognitive baseline.

I just wait.

Finally, with a sharp, highly dramatic sigh, Dr. Warfarin’s emotional resonance flares with distinct, academic disappointment.

"No change in your Oripathy," Dr. Warfarin declares, turning to face me. She crosses her arms, tapping a fingernail against her elbow. "The Originium lesion hasn't grown a single millimeter, nor has it shrunk. The assimilation rate is perfectly stable, and the lobe is still exactly as hyperactive as it was before we docked at Tkaronto."

I blink, the cold air of the laboratory biting at my cheeks. "But… but the voice is gone. If the rocks are still burning, why is it quiet?"

Dr. Kal'tsit steps forward, her shadow falling over the examination chair. She pauses, her gaze dropping to the Kazdelian artifact.

"The Arts Unit unit you were issued was not a random selection from our archives, Lethe," Kal'tsit states. "It was provided to you with dual intent. The first was an operational security test. To observe if you would take the visions it provided; the residual memories of Babel; and attempt to run, or transmit them to an outside handler."

Ms. Ascalon's words in Dr. Kal'tsit's office echo in my mind. It had all been a meticulously orchestrated trap, a final stress test of my loyalty to Rhodes Island.

"You passed that metric," Dr. Kal'tsit continues smoothly, her expression carved from stone. "However, its primary function is to serve as a mental shield."

I look up at her, my eyes wide with confusion. "A shield?"

"Your Originium Arts require memories as fuel to sustain your empathic siphoning," Kal'tsit explains, her tone completely clinical. "By anchoring your Arts through an artifact steeped in centuries of old, fragmented Sarkaz data, the staff provides a buffer of useless, residual memories for your Oripathy to burn. It spares your own cognitive framework, allowing you to safely perform the palliative care that has proven highly valuable to this landship."

Dr. Kal'tsit folds her hands behind her back, her Feline ears twitching slightly.

"As for your hallucination," she states, delivering the final verdict with absolute, uncompromising certainty. "The lack of the 'Iori' persona is not a cause for concern. The Catastrophe at Tkaronto generated a massive, localized Originium resonance. It is highly probable that the extreme atmospheric density simply shifted how your Oripathy manifests. Furthermore, with the artifact actively shielding your memory centers from extreme degradation, your brain no longer requires a fabricated persona to cope with the psychic strain."

Dr. Kal'tsit looks down at me, her gaze cold and absolute. "You are not cured, Lethe. But you are stabilized. The silence in your mind is merely the intended result of your treatment."

I sit there, letting Dr. Kal'tsit’s flawless, clinical explanation wash over me. It is a perfectly constructed narrative.

I slowly reach down, my fingers wrapping around the twisted, petrified wood of my Arts Unit where it rests against the examination chair.

I grip the artifact, my empathic Arts brush against the ambient air. And for the very first time since I woke up in this world, I catch a distinct flicker of emotion bleeding through Dr. Kal'tsit’s impenetrable glacier.

It tastes like an unripe apple. Cold, sharp, and intensely sour.

Apprehension?

She is lying.

But I don't pry.

I force my shoulders to slump, letting the rigid, terrified tension completely drain from my small frame. I exhale a long, shuddering breath.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice wavering with perfect gratitude. I look up. "Thank you, Dr. Kal'tsit. Thank you, Dr. Warfarin. I was… I was just so scared."

I slide off the padded examination chair.

"If I am not getting worse," I murmur, offering a small, polite bow to my wardens, "then I should probably get back to Miss Lena. I have duties in the garden."

I move through the corridors, my mind rehearsing the lie Kal’tsit has told me.

Erika is waiting for me when I finally return to the residential block.

She is pacing the corridor right outside my dorm, her outfit slightly wrinkled. When she turns to face me, the sheer exhaustion on her face is impossible to miss. The endless shifts in the triage bays have carved dark, heavy circles under her eyes.

"Lethe!" Erika rushes forward, her hands hovering anxiously over my shoulders. "Lena messaged me. She said you ran out of the garden looking absolutely terrified and went straight to the high-security laboratory. Are you okay? Did something happen? Is the pain back?"

I look up at her. The Liberi Medic is practically vibrating with a desperate, exhausted panic.

I force the edges of my lips up into a bright, reassuring smile.

"I am okay, Erika," I say, pitching my voice to sound remarkably light and relieved. "I was just scared for a minute, but there is actually really good news."

Erika freezes, the soft feathers near her temples twitching. "Good news?"

I nod, lifting my Arts Unit so she can see it. "Dr. Warfarin ran a full sweep. She said my Oripathy is completely stable. My assimilation rate hasn't gone up at all."

I take a small breath, delivering the Grand Dame's alibi with perfect, practiced innocence.

"And Dr. Kal'tsit explained why Ms. Closure gave me this specific staff," I continue, my eyes wide and earnest. "It's an old artifact filled with ancient, leftover Sarkaz memories. Dr. Kal'tsit said it acts like a mental shield. When I use my Arts in the garden, the Originium in my head burns the history stored inside the wood instead of my own memories."

The effect of the lie is instantaneous.

Erika stares at me, her lips parting in quiet shock as her medical mind processes the incredible implication. A ragged, shuddering sigh tears its way out of her throat. The rigid tension in her spine collapses entirely.

She drops to her knees on the cold steel floor, bringing us to eye level, and pulls me into a fierce, crushing hug. "Oh, Lethe," she breathes into my hair, her voice thick with tears of joy. "That's… that's wonderful. You're safe."

I wrap my arms around her waist, burying my face in the fabric of her clothing.

"I'm safe," I whisper back into the quiet corridor.

"You should go sit with Opal, Lethe," Erika suggests softly, her voice dropping into a quiet murmur. "Everyone in the medical department has been so overwhelmed with the Catastrophe refugees that she has been mostly alone. Sussuro had to put her into a medically induced sleep earlier; the atmospheric Originium resonance from the thunderstorm would have caused her completely unbearable pain."

I give a small, firm nod. The thought of the tiny girl lying alone in that sterile, high- security box while the storm batters the hull outside makes my chest ache. I step back into the chaotic, metallic arteries of the landship.

The corridors are still bustling with a frantic, high-stakes energy, though it has settled into a grim, organized rhythm. I navigate the hallways, keeping my head down and my tail tucked close to my legs to avoid the rushing logistics Operators and Medics.

As I make my way toward the quarantine sector, I pass by one of the primary surgery centers.

The heavy, reinforced blast doors are sealed tight. Above the frame, the blood-red IN OPERATION lights pulse with a silent, urgent rhythm.

But it isn't the flashing lights that make me skid to a sudden halt. It is the two people waiting outside in the corridor.

They are heavily geared, their uniforms stained with melting snow and ash. I recognize them instantly. They are the two police officers I had seen on the local news broadcast, the ones desperately trying to hold the evacuation line just before the Originium crystal ruptured the asphalt.

The Kuranta officer is pacing relentlessly back and forth across the brushed steel floor grates. Her face is set in a mask of absolute, hardened determination. Her brow is furrowed, her jaw clenched tight, and her movements are crisp and militaristic. She looks exactly like the fearless, unwavering defender the city needed her to be.

The ambient flavor bleeding off the pacing Kuranta hits the back of my tongue. It doesn't taste like bravery or resolute focus. It tastes like sour, unripened berries and a frantic, vibrating carbonation that makes my teeth ache.

It is the distinct, overwhelming flavor of pure, unadulterated imposter syndrome.

Beneath the serious, hardened exterior, her internal monologue is a screaming, frantic loop of: I don't know what I am doing. I don't know what I am doing. She is terrified. I shift my attention to her partner. The Cautus officer is leaning heavily against the metallic bulkhead, her arms crossed over her tactical vest. Her long ears are drooping limply, and her eyes are shut tight. Her chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm. To anyone walking past, she looks completely dead on her feet; a deeply exhausted officer who has finally succumbed to the grueling fatigue of the thunderstorm and fallen asleep standing up.

But the taste in the air betrays her completely.

There is no heavy, grey flavor of exhaustion. There is no dull, numbing fog of sleep. The flavor radiating from the resting Cautus is sharp, freezing, and metallic. It tastes like cold mint and the biting edge of a freshly sharpened copper blade.

She is wide awake. And she is calculating. Behind those closed eyelids, her mind is turning like a set of perfectly oiled, ruthless gears, analyzing the corridor, the passing Operators, and the surgery center with a terrifying, absolute clarity.

I stand there for a fraction of a second, the black Arts Unit clutched in my hands. The brutal contrast between Terra's surface and the raw, undeniable truth of my biology is dizzying. In this world, everyone is wearing armor, whether it is forged from steel or fabricated from lies.

I don't linger. I look away from the terrified Kuranta and the calculating Cautus, quickening my pace down the corridor, leaving them to their silent vigil as I hurry toward the quiet safety of Opal's ward.

The air inside her ward is cool, sterile, and perfectly still. The only sound is the rhythmic, reassuring beep of the medical monitors and the low, subsonic thrum of the engines beneath the floor grates.

Opal is asleep.

The heavy dose of sedatives Miss Sussuro administered has finally granted the tiny Cautus girl a reprieve from the agonizing atmospheric resonance of the storm outside. She lies perfectly flat against the mattress, her long, dark ears resting limply against the pillows. Her face is entirely peaceful.

I step up to the edge of the bed and gently rest my Arts Unit against the nightstand. I reach out, sliding my hand over the blankets until my fingers gently rest over hers. Her skin is warm. Her chest heaves with a slow, natural, steady rhythm.

Standing there in the quiet, watching her breathe, a new, quiet thought creeps into the freezing chasm of my chest.

I am an Operator of the Medical Department now. I wear the black and white cross on my thigh. If I am going to stay here, if I am going to be more than just a parasite siphoning trauma to keep myself alive… I really should start to learn more. I should study Oripathy. I should read the research files, understand the medical interventions, and learn how the suppressants Erika gives her actually function.

Maybe, if I learn enough, I can actually help her.

I look at the jagged, black crystals piercing the skin near Opal's collarbone. They are dormant for now, no longer pulsing with that sickly light, but they are still there.

Permanent. Unmoving.

My brow furrows. A profound confusion washes over me.

Why cannot we heal the rocks?

Rhodes Island is massive. We have towering walls of gleaming stainless steel, humming centrifuges, and brilliant, ancient doctors like Kal'tsit and Warfarin. We have endless boxes of medicine and technology that looks like magic. Why can we only put people to sleep to hide the pain? Why cannot we just cut the crystals out and cure it?

I close my eyes, reaching deep into the dark, empty corners of my own mind.

Iori… I whisper into the dark of my own skull, reaching out for the ghost that had haunted me for months. Just what were you? You always seemed to know everything before it happened. You knew their names. Did you know the answer to this? Why cannot we save her?

I grip the fabric of my dark grey jacket, my breath catching in my throat as I wait. Please… I beg the empty space. Talk to me. Just tell me why.

Silence.

Hours has passed with me just sitting by Opal’s side. The rhythmic, reassuring beep of the medical monitors is the only sound in the high-security ward when Opal finally stirs. Her waking isn't peaceful. It happens in a sudden, sharp intake of breath. Her small frame jolts against the mattress, her long ears pinning themselves completely flat against her head as the phantom terrors of the thunderstorm try to drag her back under. Her eyes snap open, wide and unseeing, bracing for the jagged Originium and the crushing debris.

Then, her gaze finds me.

I am sitting quietly in the chair beside her bed. I don't move, allowing her fragmented mind a moment to process the scenery.

Slowly, the rigid terror in her spine melts. Her small shoulders drop with a visible, exhausted exhale. She reaches down, her trembling fingers finding the soft brown Amiya plushie resting beside her. She pulls it tightly against her chest, burying her chin into the fabric. She doesn't speak, but the ambient air in the room remains quiet.

I take a slow breath, forcefully pushing down the cold, heavy dread that has been pooling in my own stomach.

"Good morning," I offer her a small, gentle smile. "The sirens stopped. We just docked at a port city to restock our supplies. The landship will be moving again soon."

Opal blinks, her dark eyes peering at me over the plushie's floppy ears. She processes the information slowly, holding onto the promise of movement; the promise of leaving the nightmare behind.

"Are you hungry, Opal?" I ask, leaning forward just a fraction.

For a long moment, she just stares. Then, ever so slightly, her chin dips. A tiny, deliberate nod.

I immediately reach into the crossbody bag and pull out my slate. My fingers tap quickly across the glass, sending a direct request to Erika, so she can bring Opal something warm and easy to digest.

A few minutes later, Erika steps into the ward, carrying a small metal tray. The comforting aroma of warm vegetable broth and soft bread wafts into the sterile air. Her face is still drawn with the sheer exhaustion of managing the triage overflow, but she summons a bright, professional smile the moment she sees Opal sitting up.

"Look who is awake," Erika says softly, setting the tray down on the bedside table. "I brought you something to warm you up."

My own stomach gives a sudden twist, a loud growl echoing in the quiet room.

“Aww. Someone sounds hungry too? You will get into a world of trouble if you skip your meals little missy. Go, I got it from here.” Erika turns to smile at me.

"I should take my leave," I murmur, my cheeks flushing slightly as I gather my slate and push myself up from the chair. "I will eat my vegetables, Erika.”

I then turn to Opal. “Eat well, Opal. I will come back to see you soon."

Opal watches me go, her grip on the plushie secure.

The corridors are eerily quiet. The chaotic, frantic energy of the night before has completely burned itself out. Operators shuffle past in a silent, collective daze.

I make my way toward the cafeteria. As I round a corner, I pass by one of the large, pill- shaped observation windows cut into the outer hull.

I stop. My hands reach out, pressing against the cool glass.

Yesterday, this window had framed a sprawling, pristine forest of glass and steel. It was a testament to Columbian wealth and progress, a towering metropolis completely untouched by the rot of Terra.

Today, the sky is a bruised, suffocating grey, heavy with the lingering dust of the thunderstorm. And the city… the city is gone.

All that remains in the aftermath is the haunting skeleton of the outer sectors.

I stare at the devastation. The sectors that couldn't detach in time have been devastated. One plate has it the worst. It is a graveyard of twisted metal and crushed concrete, violently pierced by massive, jagged clusters of black Originium that pulse with a sickly light beneath the blanket of snow. A few adjacent plates sit immobilized, partially ruined and abandoned to the elements.

I peel my forehead from the cold glass, my tail falling limp against my legs as I slowly make my way to the cafeteria.

The cafeteria is a wall of noise, a stark contrast to the hollow silence of the observation window. I sit at one of the small metal tables.. Across from me, Lisa is happily chatting about a new flower Miss Lena is trying to cultivate. I nod along, offering quiet hums of agreement as I meticulously focus on my tray. I am carefully deconstructing my poultry avocado sandwich and lotus chips from existence, taking small, deliberate bites.

Then, three figures enter the room, and my fingers freeze over a lotus chip.

I recognize them instantly. It is the trio from the news broadcast. But they aren't wearing the tactical armor of the Columbian police force anymore. They are dressed in standard-issue Rhodes Island refugee clothing, looking bruised, battered, and displaced. The young Perro girl is limping slightly, looking completely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the landship's cafeteria. The Kuranta with the sharp, determined eyes stays close to her side, her hand hovering protectively as she guides the Perro through the crowded tables.

"Careful, Beagle," the Kuranta says, her voice carrying an exhausted, protective edge.

"I am okay… Fang. Thank you," Beagle stammers, gripping the edge of her plastic tray like a lifeline.

Fang manages a weak, reassuring smile, her gaze scanning the bustling room and the steam rising from the hot plates. "They have nice smelling food here, at least."

Beagle shuffles forward in the serving line, looking over her shoulder at the third member of their group; the Cautus girl who had been sleeping standing up outside the surgery center yesterday. Her long Cautus ears are still drooping lazily, and her eyes are squinted shut in that deceptive, relaxed smile.

"What you getting, Kroos?" Beagle asks nervously.

"Something sweet, maybe," Kroos replies, her voice carrying a slow, easy drawl that entirely belies the apocalyptic weather they just walked out of.

I lower my sandwich to the tray, my eyes locked onto the three girls.

They were holding the line for the civilians who couldn't run fast enough.

They had been abandoned by their own city.

Two days has passed since the Tkaronto Catastrophe. The dusts have finally settled enough to free up my own schedule. I can finally study Originium.

As I walk down the corridors toward the Archives, I spot her.

Amiya is walking in the opposite direction, flanked by two Liberi logistics operators carrying stacks of physical dossiers. She looks incredibly tired. The dark circles under her blue eyes are pronounced, and her long ears droop with a profound, invisible weight. I catch the ambient flavor of her presence. It isn't her usual bright, protective warmth. Today, it tastes like burnt sugar and heavy, suffocating grey dust.

The rumors have been floating around. Rhodes Island is currently locked in a bitter, bureaucratic nightmare. Our local branches are desperately trying to negotiate the safe return of the refugees we had pulled from the storm, but the Tkaronto government is stonewalling. The Columbian city were absolutely not thrilled to have those displaced, traumatized, and potentially newly Infected, citizens handed back to them. And the young Cautus girl is carrying the entire weight of it on her small shoulders.

But the moment Amiya looks up and catches sight of me, the heavy burden of the CEO momentarily lifts. The burnt sugar flavor in the air sweetens just a fraction as a warm, genuine smile breaks across her exhausted face. She signals for the logistics operators to go on ahead and steps over to me.

"Good morning, Lethe," Amiya greets, her voice as soft and sincere as always. "Where are you heading off to so early?"

I adjust my grip on the petrified branch of my Arts Unit. I look up at her, letting my eyes convey a quiet, determined resolve.

"I am going to the Archives," I tell her.

I raise my free hand and point down to the tactical leg band strapped securely around my right thigh, tapping the black and white Rhodes Island Medic symbol.

"I want to read up on Oripathy and Originium," I explain, the memory of Opal's jagged, black crystals flashing in my mind. "I am supposed to be a Medic here, but I don't actually understand anything about the sickness. I want to know how the medicine works. I want to learn."

Amiya stares at me for a second, her eyes widening slightly before her smile deepens into something incredibly proud and radiant. The sheer, unadulterated fondness radiating from her is so potent it practically pushes the lingering bureaucratic grey dust entirely out of the hallway.

"That is a wonderful idea, Lethe," Amiya beams, her ears perking up with renewed energy. "The Archives have extensive beginner-level medical texts that should be perfect for you. Dr. Kal'tsit will be very pleased to hear you are taking your studies seriously."

She reaches out, giving my shoulder a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

"I have back-to-back meetings with the Columbian liaisons all afternoon," Amiya sighs softly, a brief shadow crossing her face before her bright optimism returns. "But if I can finish them early, I will come find you in the Archives. I'll bring us some hot tea and pastries."

"I would really like that, Amiya. Thank you," I reply, returning her smile.

I watch her turn and hurry down the corridor, heading back into the grueling, political battlefield of Terra, while I tightly grip my staff and continue my walk toward the Archives in the deck below.

After a quick elevator ride, I finally reach my destination. The Archives is a sprawling, hushed labyrinth of towering bookshelves and glowing racks of digitized data-pads. Technically, this is part of Dr. Kal’tsit’s no-go zone for me, but I am going to risk it, I want to learn about the world I live in. No one has stopped me from walking in.

I wander through the silent aisles, pulling out anything I can find with the words Originium, Oripathy, or Infection Vectors on the spine or screen. I stick strictly to beginner-level, foundational knowledge.

I find a secluded wooden table nestled between two massive rows of physical archives and begin to unload my haul. By the time I am done, the haphazard pile of thick medical textbooks and glowing slates is quite literally taller than I am when sitting down.

I reach for the first book, but before my fingers can brush the cover, the ambient temperature in the aisle shifts violently.

I feel a sudden wave of heat. The sterile, recycled air of the Archive instantly tastes like sharp chili pepper and spicy cinnamon.

I flinch.

Standing at the edge of the aisle is a Feline. She is completely impossible to miss. Her long, voluminous hair is a deep brown that transitions to vibrant, fiery orange-red that seems to practically radiate its own light in the dim library. Two sleek, deep brown feline ears poke out from the vibrant mane, twitching with acute alertness. She wears a striking, aristocratic coat of deep crimson and black draped elegantly over her shoulders, giving her an air of intense, undeniable authority.

And she is staring right at me.

Her eyes are locked onto my small frame, and the comically massive mountain of beginner's medical texts I've hoarded. The Feline's gaze is so fiercely intent, radiating such a staggering, fiery heat.

I shrink back into my wooden chair, my hands instinctively flying up to grip the edge of the table. I try to make myself as small as possible behind the comical, teetering fortress of beginner medical textbooks I just built.

The towering Feline marches over, the deep crimson and black fabric of her coat billowing behind her with dramatic, authoritative flair. She stops right at my table. Her eyes dart from my terrified face, to the monitor locked around my throat, and finally to the titles of the books stacked in front of me.

Originium Basics for the Uninitiated. Understanding Oripathy: A Primary Guide. Her ears twitch. She crosses her arms.

"You are wearing the Medic emblem of Rhodes Island," she states. Her voice is clear, refined, and carries the undeniable cadence of a Victorian noble who is entirely unaccustomed to being ignored. "And yet, you are sitting here hoarding children's primers on the most fundamental element of our world?"

I swallow hard. "I… I work in the Convalescent Garden," I stammer, my voice wavering pitifully under her intense gaze. "I'm a palliative care assistant. I just… take the pain away. But I don't…"

My eyes drop to my lap, shame burning my cheeks. "I don't actually know what the black crystals are. I forgot. And I wanted to learn so I could actually help."

For a second, the Feline just stares at me. I brace myself for the reprimand. I expect her to scoff, to tell me that my ignorance is a liability, and to report me to Dr. Kal'tsit for being dangerously underqualified. Instead, the Feline lets out a long dramatic sigh. She reaches out, grabbing the back of the heavy wooden chair opposite me, and pulls it out with a sharp screech against the floor. She sits down, elegantly crossing her legs and resting her hands on the table.

"A Rhodes Island Medic who doesn't even possess a foundational understanding of Originium? Unacceptable," she declares, tossing her voluminous, fiery orange-red hair over her shoulder. "It reflects exceedingly poorly on the competence of this entire organization if our medical staff are wandering the corridors entirely uneducated." As she speaks the harsh words, the ambient flavor in the air violently shifts.

The sharp, aggressive bite of chili pepper evaporates. In its place, a massive, overwhelming wave of warmth floods my senses. It tastes like roasted spices, and the deep, crackling comfort of a roaring hearth fire on a freezing winter night.

I blink, looking at her. She… she is not upset at me?

"I am Ethelflaed ‘Skyfire’ Julie Mountbelan. Member of King's Wand and Senior Caster," she announces, tapping a manicured finger against the topmost book of my pile. "And seeing as I cannot in good conscience allow you to learn from these atrociously oversimplified picture books, I suppose I will have to tutor you myself."

I loosen my grip on the edge of the table.

"You… you will teach me?" I whisper, a genuine spark of hope slip into my voice.

The Feline scoffs, though the roaring hearth fire flavor radiating from her only grows warmer. "Do try to keep up. I do not repeat myself for inattentive students. Before we begin. How shall I address you?"

“Le… Lethe. Ms… Ms…”

“Call me Skyfire.”

She reaches forward and effortlessly slides the heavy, intimidating textbook toward herself. She flips it open, her eyes scanning the dense text then fixes on me.

"Listen closely, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire begins, her tone shifting from a haughty noble to a passionate, dedicated scholar. "Originium is not simply a 'black crystal' or a disease. It is the greatest catalyst in our world. It is the foundation of our technology, the source of our Arts, and the very engine that keeps this landship moving. It contains an immense, terrifying amount of energy…"

I lean forward, resting my chin in my hands. I listen as the fiery Feline rebuilds the shattered pieces of my world, word by word.

My head is spinning. The sheer density of information Ms. Skyfire is pouring over me is staggering. She doesn't just lecture; she unleashes an academic barrage, her bright amber eyes flashing with intense, scholarly fervor as she dissects the thermodynamic properties of active Originium.

I reach up to rub my temples.

"Ms. Skyfire," I interrupt, my voice wavering against her momentum. I point at a complex diagram glowing on one of the slates. "Wait. You just said the Arts Assimilation metrics we use here on Rhodes Island are unique. Why?"

She stops mid-sentence. The fiery, crackling hearth flavor of her presence dims into a low, exasperated simmer. She lets out a sigh, crossing her arms over the deep crimson and black fabric of her coat.

"Because the internal metrics here were authored by Logos," Ms. Skyfire explains, her tone carrying a profound, albeit reluctant, respect. "An Elite Operator of this company. You see, Lethe, most nations and militaries on Terra measure Originium Arts by a single, brutal metric: destructiveness. How large of a crater can a Caster make? How many enemies can they incinerate in a single volley?"

She reaches out, tapping the heavy medical textbook resting between us.

"Very few organizations possess the resources, or the intellectual inclination, to truly dive into the medical and biological reasoning behind the Arts Unit process," she continues, her gaze darkening with a cynical reality. "Rhodes Island is one. Rhine Lab is another. We measure the intricate neurological pathways, the cellular degradation, and the physiological cost of the Arts, not just the explosive yield."

Before I can fully process what she has said, the ambient flavor in the Archive corridor shifts.

A massive, overwhelming wave of pure, protective sweetness washes into the aisle. The scent of steeped tea, spun sugar, and a profound, gentle warmth completely overrides the sterile, recycled air of the library.

Amiya has come, exactly as she promised.

I turn in my heavy wooden chair. The young CEO is walking toward our secluded table, carefully balancing a silver tray holding a steaming porcelain teapot, three cups, and a plate of delicate, sugar-dusted pastries. The dark, exhausting burden of her Columbian liaison meetings seems to have temporarily melted away, her ears perked up in a soft, genuine greeting.

"Good afternoon, Lethe. Ms. Skyfire," Amiya chimes, her voice a soothing melody in the hushed archives.

Ms. Skyfire turns her head, her deep brown feline ears twitching.

"Good afternoon, Amiya," the Senior Caster replies, her tone perfectly refined before immediately sharpening into a haughty, aristocratic edge. She gestures dramatically toward my fortress of beginner medical texts. "Though I must say, Amiya, if this girl's foundational knowledge is indicative of the Medical Department's current standards, you are truly letting our recruitment bar drop to abysmal depths."

Amiya’s ears give a sharp, deliberate twitch. The soft, gentle demeanor of the young girl firms instantly into the unyielding foundation of the CEO. The sweet, spun-sugar flavor in the air solidifies, taking on a resilient, deeply protective weight.

"Lethe's circumstances are unique, Ms. Skyfire," Amiya replies, her voice perfectly polite but carrying an absolute, uncompromising authority. "Rhodes Island does not measure the worth of our Operators strictly by their pre-existing academic foundations or combat metrics. We look at their potential, and their willingness to heal others. Lethe has already proven she possesses both in abundance."

Ms. Skyfire opens her mouth, her hair shifting as she draws a breath to launch a scathing, highly educated rebuttal.

"However, we can discuss our recruitment philosophy another time," Amiya pivots seamlessly, not missing a beat. She glides forward and sets the tray gently onto our wooden table, perfectly cutting off the Senior Caster's momentum. "I managed to secure some authentic Columbian fruit and custard pastries from the logistics exchange this morning. We should eat them before the tea gets cold."

Ms. Skyfire freezes. Her eyes narrow slightly, darting from the steaming porcelain teapot to the serene, smiling face of the young Cautus.

The sharp, aggressive bite of chili pepper in the air flares for a brief second before melting back into a defeated, albeit warm, simmer.

Ms. Skyfire lets out a dramatic, breathy scoff, gracefully reaching out to take a delicate porcelain cup from the tray. She eyes the sugar-dusted treats with intense, manufactured disdain.

"Columbian pastries," Ms. Skyfire mutters, picking up a small fork. "A dreadful, industrial compromise. They rely entirely too much on raw sugar and butter to mask their fundamental lack of baking technique. They are nowhere near as refined as proper Victorian bakes, Amiya. But… I suppose they will suffice for a break."

Amiya's serene, smiling face does not falter. She gracefully reaches for the steaming porcelain teapot, pouring the amber liquid into the three delicate cups she had brought on the silver tray.

"I appreciate your willingness to compromise, Ms. Skyfire," Amiya replies softly, her long ears swaying gently in the quiet, climate-controlled air. "And I am even more grateful that you have taken a personal interest in Lethe's education."

Ms. Skyfire takes a remarkably delicate bite of the sugar-dusted treat using her fork. Despite her intense, manufactured disdain for the Columbian baked goods, the Senior Caster's expression softens just a fraction as the sugar and butter hit her tongue. I sit quietly between the two of them, the ambient air in the secluded library aisle forming an overwhelming, intoxicating blend. Amiya's presence radiates a pure protectiveness, like steeped tea and sugar, mingling perfectly with Ms. Skyfire's roasted spices and enduring heat.

"Her foundational knowledge was practically nonexistent," Ms. Skyfire states, dabbing her lips gracefully. "For someone wearing the Medic emblem of Rhodes Island, it is a glaring oversight, no matter how you spin it, Amiya. However…" The fiery Feline shifts her eyes toward me. "…she is attentive. She listens when spoken to, which is more than I can say for half the operational staff on this landship."

Amiya's eyes sparkle with quiet amusement. "Lethe has an incredible capacity for healing," she murmurs. "She may have started with picture books, but with a tutor of your caliber, I have no doubt she will catch up."

Ms. Skyfire clears her throat delicately, adjusting the collar of her coat.

"Well, naturally," Ms. Skyfire declares, lifting her chin with aristocratic flair. "If she is going to assist the Medical Department, she will understand the precise thermodynamic properties and cellular degradation caused by the Arts, not just flip through diagrams." I carefully pick up one of the pastries, taking a small bite. The sweet pastry melts on my tongue, a tiny luxury.

"I will study hard, Ms. Skyfire," I promise. "I want to be useful to everyone here."

Amiya reaches over, her hand resting gently near mine.