December, 1096

I press my hands against the cool glass of my dorm’s window, my breath fogging up the smooth surface.

Outside, the world is painted in a quiet, undisturbed white. It is 22nd of December, and it is snowing. But it isn't like the terrifying thunderstorm that swallowed Tkaronto. There is no howling wind, and the flakes aren't heavy with the sickly, toxic amber glow of active Originium. It is just normal, plain snow, drifting down from a grey sky in soft, gentle clumps.

It is peaceful. But inside the dorm, the quiet feels heavy.

I let my hands drop from the glass. It has been weeks since I last felt the warmth of Amiya's presence, or the grounding calm of Rosmontis. Even the terrifying, freezing glacier of Dr. Kal'tsit's has been completely absent from the corridors of my life.

The landship feels strangely hollowed out, as if a massive, invisible current has swept all the most important people away, leaving me behind in the quiet wake.

I shuffle over to my desk and tap the screen of my slate. Even my in the Archives have been disrupted. Ms. Skyfire hasn't occupied the heavy wooden chair across from me in days. Instead, my slate vibrates with a steady stream of notifications from her.

I open my encrypted messaging channel, scrolling through the recent exchange from earlier this morning.

[Skyfire]: Lethe. Attached are the chapters regarding the secondary physiological impacts of sustained Arts channeling. Read them thoroughly. I expect your completed assessment by 1400.

[Lethe]: Yes. Ms. Skyfire.

[Lethe]: I finished reading them, Ms. Skyfire. I attached my answers to the file. Are you going to be able to come to the Archives this afternoon?

[Skyfire]: Your understanding of the tertiary cellular decay in the second paragraph is entirely inadequate. You are confusing the catalytic threshold with raw thermal output. Re-read page 214 and submit a corrected summary.

[Skyfire]: And no, I will not be at the Archives. My squad has been deployed. You are to continue your independent study in my absence. Do not think that just because I am not physically there to supervise you, you are permitted to slack off.

[Lethe]: I won't slack off, Ms. Skyfire! I promise.

[Skyfire]: See that you do, Lethe.

[Lethe]: Please be safe out there.

I sigh, setting the slate down on the desk next to my brown Cautus-esque plushie. I have gotten a new plushie now. A grey one, colored after Rosmontis.

I wonder what Amiya and Rosmontis are doing.

I look up at the digital clock mounted on my wall. It is almost time.

I reach for my jacket, slipping it over my shoulders and making sure the Rhodes Island Medic band is securely strapped to my thigh. I have a scheduled check-up this afternoon.

Dr. Warfarin rarely ever leaves her laboratory. She doesn't deploy on field missions, and she always seems to know every single secret echoing through the landship's vents. If anyone knows why my friends are missing, and why the entire company is suddenly mobilized, it will be her.

I just have to brave the needles to get an answer.

The corridors of the landship are eerily quiet.

The usual chaotic, overlapping chatter of logistics Operators and Medics has been entirely entirely smothered. People are still moving, but they do so with a hushed, grim efficiency. Heavy crates are wheeled down the hallways without a single wasted word, and the Field Ops. I pass stand rigidly at attention, their faces set in hard, unreadable masks.

Even my breakfast in the cafeteria had been a solitary affair. Erika wasn’t there to slide a warm bowl of oats onto my tray or gently scold me for eyeing the sweet pastries. She had sent a quick message, explaining that she was busy getting her new Arts Unit today; the final, official step in her promotion to Combat Medic. She promised she would show me the new gear later.

I am incredibly proud of her, but eating alone only made the hollow, echoing quiet of the landship feel that much heavier.

I reach the doors of the high-security laboratory. The locks disengage with a heavy clank, and I step inside.

The sharp, sterile scent of bleach, ozone, and cold steel instantly bites at my nose. The room is blindingly bright.

Dr. Warfarin is already standing near her desk. She turns around, her hair shifting over her shoulders. Her eyes lock onto my frame, and that familiar, predatory smirk stretches across her lips, flashing her sharp fangs.

"The prized blood bag is actually early!" Dr. Warfarin drawls, her voice echoing dramatically in the lab. She leans back against the counter, crossing her arms with a theatrical sigh. "Finally overcame your needle phobia now, or you just miss the little old me that much, little anomaly?"

I am in absolutely no mood to entertain her.

"Where is everyone, Dr. Warfarin?" I ask.

Dr. Warfarin pauses.

"Everyone?" Dr. Warfarin repeats, tilting her head slightly.

"Amiya," I say, stepping further into the laboratory. My hands tighten around my staff.

"Rosmontis. Even Dr. Kal’tsit. Ms. Skyfire hasn't been to the Archives in days. The whole landship is empty, and the people who are left are whispering."

Dr. Warfarin's eyes narrow. She turns fully toward me, her posture straightening.

"That’s not your concern, little anomaly," Dr. Warfarin states dismissively, waving a hand as she turns back toward her monitors. "Your concern is keeping your Oripathy stable and making sure your veins are ready for my syringes. The operational movements of this company are above your clearance."

I step closer, stopping right beside the padded examination chair.

"Please… Dr. Warfarin," I whisper. "I just want to know if they are safe."

Dr. Warfarin’s hand freezes over the glass screen of her terminal.

The silence in the laboratory stretches, thick and heavy. I can practically taste the conflict in the air. The sharp, cold copper of her normal taste warring against a faint, begrudging undertone of spiced pears.

Dr. Warfarin lets out a long, sharp sigh. She drops her hand from the console and turns to face me.

"They are preparing," Dr. Warfarin says, her voice dropping into a low, deadly serious murmur. "We are preparing."

"Preparing for what?"

"A Catastrophe is heading towards an Ursus city called Chernobog," she answers. "An Originium meteor shower. We are gearing up for refugees."

My heart completely stalls in my chest.

An Originium meteor shower.

Lumps of Originium falling from the sky. It is an apocalypse.

"Amiya went there?" I choke out, my voice fracturing into a tiny, terrified squeak. "Into a meteor shower?"

"Amiya, the Elite Ops, most of our Field Ops. Yes," Dr. Warfarin replies. She crosses her arms tightly. "They are walking directly into the impact zone to pull as many people out of the rubble as they can. The landship is currently moving to intercept the evacuation routes."

"They could die," I whisper, the tears finally spilling over my cheeks.

"They are Rhodes Island Operators, Lethe," Dr. Warfarin states coldly. "This is what we do. We walk into the storms. And your job is to sit in the Convalescent Garden and wait to put the pieces back together when they return."

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small lollipop. She steps forward and presses it gently into my hands.

"Sit down, Lethe," Dr. Warfarin commands. "Roll up your sleeve. We have work to do, and I need you healthy when the triage bays open."

I carefully peel back the crinkly packaging of the lollipop Dr. Warfarin handed me. The mixed berry flavor floods my tongue.

Then, the sting comes.

The sharp bite of the needle piercing the skin in the crook of my elbow makes my breath hitch.

"Hmph…" A pathetic, muffled whine escapes my lips around the plastic stick of the candy. I squeeze my eyes shut, my shoulders tensing instinctively as my long tail wraps into a tight, defensive coil.

"Don't squirm," Dr. Warfarin commands.

She withdraws the syringe with terrifying, practiced speed, pressing a cotton ball down onto the puncture. I hold it in place with a finger, pressing my back flat against the padded examination chair.

I sit there for twenty agonizing minutes.

As I sit on the edge of the chair, swinging my legs nervously, my mind races.

An Originium meteor shower. Amiya is out there in the freezing wasteland, walking directly into falling rocks and shattered cities.

Finally, the machines spin down to a halt. Dr. Warfarin swipes away dense datas of my bloodwork.

"Stable," she announces, her eyes flicking toward me. "Your assimilation rate hasn't crept up a single decimal. You are cleared, Lethe. Now get out of my lab and go rest. We will need you running at full capacity very soon."

"Thank you, Dr. Warfarin," I whisper. I toss the cotton ball into the biohazard bin, slide off the examination chair, and offer her a small bow before slipping out through the blast doors.

The arteries of the landship are just as eerily quiet and tense as before. I walk slowly. Suddenly, a sharp, synthetic chime cuts through the silence.

My slate vibrates. I pause.

[Caladria]: Come to my dorm, Lethe. I have something to show you.

I make my way down the hallways. I stop in front of her door and gently knock.

"Come in," her voice calls out from inside.

I step inside.

Erika is standing in the center of the room. She is different.

She is wearing a high-collared, deep plum tactical shirt that perfectly complements the pale, downy plumage framing her face. Layered over it is a sleek, translucent coat made of a specialized, weatherproof material that catches the ambient light of the room. Her legs are clad in dark, specialized combat pants featuring lateral breakaway slits running down the outside of the thighs.

Heavy, reinforced boots have replaced her standard boots from before. Stitched proudly onto the shoulder of the translucent coat is the black and white Rhodes Island rook, while a sleek, high-visibility Medic cross is emblazoned on a specialized utility band strapped securely to her bicep. Small, modular medical pouches hang from a utilitarian belt at her waist, ready for immediate deployment.

But it is the brand-new Arts Unit unit resting in her grip that completely anchors my attention.

It is a long, polished metallic staff. At its apex sits a complex, geometric construct that looks exactly like a mechanical puzzle cube. As I stare at it, the interlocking segments of the cube smoothly detach, rotate, and click back into place with a quiet, satisfying mechanical hum. It is constantly shifting.

Beneath her normal taste there is a deeply saturated with a fizzy, nervous excitement and a profound, hard-earned pride.

"Well?" Erika asks, her voice softening with a sudden, shy vulnerability. She nervously smooths down the front of her translucent coat, the feathers at her temples twitching.

"What do you think, Lethe? They took a long time to make this Arts Unit."

"Who are you?" I ask.

I tilt my head to the left, letting the mass of my longer horn pull my neck down just a fraction. I widen my eyes, putting on a perfectly blank, innocent smile.

Erika completely freezes. The ambient flavor of the room instantly spikes with a sharp, terrifying jolt of ice-cold panic. She stares at me, her eyes blowing wide.

The horrific tension radiating from her is too much. It tastes completely spoiled. I cannot hold the cruel joke for more than a few seconds.

"It looks really good, Erika," I say, dropping the act as a soft giggle escapes my lips. I step forward, and wrap my arms securely around her waist, giving her a big, tight squeeze.

The terror in her spine shatters into a massive, shuddering exhale. She drops her free hand to my shoulder, her fingers gripping the fabric of my jacket.

"Don't do that, Lethe," Erika scolds me. She rests her cheek lightly against my forehead.

"You are going to give me a heart attack."

“No promises.” I smile at her.

"I am glad you are feeling a lot better now, my little Lethe."

Erika doesn’t pull back. Her arms remain securely wrapped around my shoulders, her chin resting gently against the top of my head, right in front of my horns.

"What do you mean?" I murmur, my voice muffled against the unfamiliar, weatherproof fabric of her new translucent coat.

I feel her take a slow, deep breath, her chest rising against my cheek.

"You were so scared," Erika says, her tone thick with honey sweetness. Her fingers begin to rhythmically stroke my hair. "You were so careful all the time for almost half a year. Like you were walking on broken glass. But lately… you are a lot more happy now. You smile more. You aren't always looking over your shoulder."

"Everyone on Rhodes Island helped," I whisper, looking up at her. "Dr. Warfarin and Dr. Kal’tsit cured the ghost. I'm not scared of my own head anymore."

Erika pauses.

Her fingers completely still in my hair.

Slowly, she pulls back, creating a small space between us so she can look me directly in the eyes. Her hands slide down to grip my shoulders. As she does, the ambient air in the dim, amber-lit dorm room violently shifts. The warm, fizzy excitement of her promotion evaporates entirely.

A heavy, cloying taste floods the back of my tongue. It is sticky, bitter, and intensely sour, like biting directly into the thick rind of an unripe citrus fruit coated in congealing, spoiled tree sap.

"Lethe," Erika says. Her voice completely drops its normal cadence, adopting the hardened, uncompromising tone of a combat Medic. "Listen to me. I am getting deployed."

My heart completely stalls in my chest.

"To Chernobog?" The words tear out of my throat in a panicked, high-pitched gasp. My hands fly up, my fingers frantically grabbing the sleeves of her new tactical shirt.

"Please don’t go!"

Erika's eyes blow wide in absolute shock. The sticky, sour flavor in the air spikes with dark yuzu coca flavored bewilderment.

"How… how do you know?" Erika stammers, her grip on my shoulders tightening. "That is highly classified deployment intel, Lethe. How do you know about Chernobog?"

"Dr. Warfarin," I choke out. The hot tears are already welling in the corners of my eyes, blurring the sharp lines of her new uniform. "I had a check-up today… she told me that’s where everyone is. She said a meteor shower is falling from the sky. A Catastrophe…”

I squeeze the fabric of her sleeves as hard as my hands will allow, desperately trying to anchor her to the safety of her room.

"You cannot go," I sob, the sheer terror of losing her fracturing my voice into a desperate whine. "Erika, please! You cannot walk into falling rocks! Please don't leave me!"

"Lethe. I need to go."

Erika takes a step towards the door. Her voice is gentle, but it carries a heavy, unyielding weight.

"No!"

My hands lock onto her sleeves with a death grip. My tail thrashes blindly behind me, knocking against the metal frame of the desk.

She stops pulling away. Her hands come up to gently grasp my trembling shoulders.

"Lethe! Look at me."

I force my head up. "Erika..." I sob, my vision completely blurred by tears. They spill over my eyelashes, leaving wet tracks down my cheeks.

"I need you to be brave," Erika murmurs.

"I…" My jaw trembles so violently my teeth click together.

"I know it is hard," Erika continues, her thumbs gently brushing the fabric of my dark grey jacket. Her voice cracks just a fraction, betraying the immense, crushing weight of the deployment she is about to walk into. "But you have to be. If you just cry all day when I deploy… I won't be able to focus out there. I will just be worrying about my little Lethe."

The realization hits me like a bucket of freezing water.

I am actively making this harder for her.

I suck in a sharp, jagged breath.

"Sorry!" I gasp out. I forcefully let go of her sleeves, bringing my hands up to frantically scrub the tears from my face.

I shake my head so hard my horns cut through the air, desperately trying to physically shake the terror out of my spine. I force my chin up, forcing my breathing to even out, and lock my eyes onto hers.

"I… I will be brave," I push the words out, injecting all the desperate willpower I have into my voice. I grab her hands, squeezing her fingers tightly. "But promise you will be back!" The sharp, sour dread radiating from her instantly melts.

"I will," Erika whispers fiercely, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Everyone will."

She leans forward, her feathers brushing softly against my skin, and presses a warm, lingering kiss directly to my tear-stained cheek.

She pulls back, offering me a brave, trembling smile as she steps toward the heavy metal door.

"I will see you tomorrow, okay?"

I stand in the center of the room, my hands clenched tightly at my sides, and give her a single, resolute nod.

"Okay. See you soon… mom."

Erika completely freezes.

The word hangs in the air, heavy and absolute. Her hand, which had been resting on the door's control panel, drops limply to her side.

Slowly, she turns back around. Her eyes are blown impossibly wide, shimmering with a sudden, overwhelming moisture. The feathers at her temples flutter in sheer shock.

"Le… Lethe?" she breathes, her voice fracturing into a breathless whisper.

She drops to her knees on the cold floor, bringing herself perfectly to my eye level. I look at her, my vision completely blurred by the fresh tears welling in my eyes. But I force the corners of my lips up. I stretch my face into a brave, wobbly smile, looking at the woman who had pulled me from the ruins, fed me, and chased away the freezing dark.

"If you don't mind…" I murmur, my voice trembling, scraping against the raw lump in my throat. "Can I keep calling you that?"

The ambient flavor in the room instantly shatters.

The sharp, sour dread of the deployment evaporates, completely annihilated by a massive, rushing wave of pure honey and blindingly bright sugar.

Erika's composure breaks entirely. A ragged, wet sob tears out of her throat. She reaches out, cupping my tear-stained cheeks with trembling fingers.

"Of… of course, Lethe!" mom cries, her voice thick and desperate. "Of course you can." She pulls me in for one last, fleeting, crushing embrace, pressing her face into my shoulder. I can feel the dampness of her tears soaking into the dark grey fabric of my jacket. I squeeze her back just as fiercely, wrapping my arms around her neck.

"Then, go," I whisper into her eara, anchoring myself to the promise I just made. "But come back safe, mom."

She pulls away, offering me a watery, radiant smile. She reaches up, quickly wiping her own tears away with the back of her glove, and gives me a single, resolute nod.

"I will."

She turns. The panels slide shut behind her with a definitive, echoing clank.

I stand there in the center of the room.

The sudden silence is deafening. My hands drop to my sides, my fingers curling into tight fists. My chest heaves.

The burning sting in my eyes flares up again, demanding release. I want to cry. I want to chase after her, to grab the hem of her new coat, and beg Dr. Kal'tsit to leave her behind.

But I bite down hard on my lower lip. I taste the faint, metallic tang of blood.

I need to be brave.

Mom needs me to be strong so she can focus on surviving the meteors.

I draw a long, shuddering breath, forcing the air deep into my lungs. I reach up, using the oversized sleeves of my jacket to meticulously scrub the remaining tears from my cheeks.

I turn around, walking out of mom's dorm room.

As the door seals behind me, I step back into the corridor. The landship is a ghost town of grim efficiency, as if the entire mobile fortress is holding its breath, bracing for the apocalyptic impact of the Chernobog Catastrophe.

I keep my head down, I guide my steps toward the Convalescent Garden.

I step across the threshold of the garden.

But the peaceful sanctuary doesn't feel the same. The shadow of the deployment hangs heavy even here under the canopy.

A few paces down the winding path, standing near a cabinet of herbs, are Miss Sussurro and Miss Lena. They are deep in a hushed conversation, their voices barely carrying over the rustling vines..

The moment my sneakers squeak against the floor tiles, they both stop.

"Good evening, Lethe," Miss Sussurro says. She looks exhausted.

Miss Lena turns fully toward me. The serene, welcoming smile on the Vulpo's face falters the instant her eyes lock onto my frame.

"Lethe. Oh dear," Miss Lena breathes, her voice dropping into a soft, aching melody of alarm. She takes a step forward, her hands raising slightly. "Are you okay?"

"I… I am…" I stammer. "Evening, Miss Lena. Miss Sussurro. Sorry to intrude…"

The silence that follows is thick.

I peek up through my messy bangs. Miss Lena and Miss Sussurro share a quick, silent look over my head.

Miss Sussurro adjusts the collar of her coat, her expression returning to its stoic, capable baseline.

"I am needed back at the medical wing," Miss Sussurro announces. "Good night, Perfumer. And Lethe."

"Good night, Miss Sussurro," I whisper back.

She offers a single nod and walks past me, her shoes clicking purposefully against the floor. Leaving me entirely alone with the warmth of Miss Lena.

"Lethe, sit."

Miss Lena gently places a hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward one of the wooden benches nestled between blooming flowers.

I let her lead me. My legs feel like lead, I sink onto the polished wood, pulling my knees up tightly against my chest, my tail wrapping loops around my ankles.

Miss Lena sits down right beside me.

"What’s wrong, Lethe?" she asks.

"Everyone…" I whisper, my voice cracking as the dam finally shatters. I bury my face in my hands. "Amiya, Rosmontis, Ms. Skyfire… Mom… I mean Erika… they are all going… to the Catastrophe…"

The slip of the tongue burns my cheeks, but I am too exhausted to hide it. I just sit there and cry.

Miss Lena reaches out, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, and gently pulls me flush against her side. I lean into her, pressing my face against the soft fabric of her clothing, letting the tears fall freely.

"Oh, my sweet Lethe," Miss Lena murmurs, her hand coming up to gently, rhythmically stroke my long hair. "You don't need to correct yourself. Erika loves you very much. She is your mother now, in every way that truly matters."

A jagged sob tears out of my throat at her words. I grip the fabric of her sleeve, burying my face deeper into her warmth.

"They are going to walk into falling rocks," I cry, my voice muffled. "Dr. Warfarin said it's a meteor shower. Why do they have to go? Why cannot they just stay here where it's safe?"

Miss Lena continues to stroke my hair, her touch slowly begins to ease the frantic hammering of my heart.

"The world outside this landship is very dark, and it is very cruel. Amiya, Skyfire, Rosmontis, and your mother… they are the brave ones who choose to walk into that dark, so that the people trapped in the ruins might have a chance to see the light again."

She shifts slightly. She gently tilts my head up, forcing me to meet her serene, unwavering gaze. Her eyes hold no pity, only a deep, enduring respect.

"It is terrifying to watch the people we love walk into the storm," Miss Lena whispers, using her thumb to brush away a fresh tear tracking down my cheek. "But we cannot ask them to stay. If they stayed, who would have pulled you from the rubble in Kazdel? Who would have carried Opal out of the sandstorm in Rim Billiton?"

The truth of her words hits me like a physical weight. If mom hadn't walked into the Catastrophe in January, I would have starved to death in a wasteland, entirely consumed by the black crystals in my own skull.

I swallow hard. "But… what if they don't come back?"

"They will," Miss Lena says with fierce, uncompromising certainty. "Because they have a reason to. They have a home to return to. And that is where our duty lies, Lethe."

"We cannot stand on the front lines with them, and we cannot shield them from the falling rocks," she tells me. "But we can keep the hearth warm. We can keep this garden blooming. We prepare the teas, we ready the beds, and we wait. So that when they do come back to us, bruised and exhausted from the storm, they know there is a safe, quiet sanctuary waiting to heal them."

Miss Lena offers me a small, beautiful smile.

"Can you be brave enough to keep the hearth warm with me, Lethe?"

I look at Miss Lena. She is right. I am not helpless. I have a job to do. I have to be ready to siphon the nightmares when the blast doors finally open.

I look back up at Miss Lena, and give her a slow, deliberate nod.

"Yes," I whisper, my voice steadying in the humid air of the greenhouse. "I will keep it warm."

"Now, sweetie," Miss Lena murmurs, her thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "You should go to bed to keep your strength up."

I immediately shrink back, my shoulders tense. I shake my head, my lopsided horns swaying heavily with the motion. The thought of lying alone in my dim dorm room while my mind races with images of falling meteors and shattered cities…

"I am scared if I sleep…" I whisper, my voice fracturing. I clutch the fabric of my jacket.

"The dark is too dark today…"

Miss Lena doesn't push.

"Then want to learn how to make tea?" Miss Lena asks. "We will make soothing ones without caffeine."

I blink, the suffocating grip of my anxiety loosening just a fraction at the invitation. I look up at her kind face.

"Okay!" I nod eagerly.

I pick up my Arts Unit from the floor, leaning it carefully against the edge of the bench, and follow her down the winding path. We weave through the hanging ivy and large, potted ferns until we reach the small tea counter nestled deeply among the vines. The moment we step behind the counter, a symphony of aromas hits my nose.

It is incredibly grounding. The air here is thick with the fragrance of dozens of teas, dried flowers, and medicinal herbs stored in beautiful glass jars lining the wooden shelves. The bright tang of dried yuzu peel mingles with the earthy, grounded scent of roasted roots and the delicate, powdery sweetness of crushed petals.

"Come stand right here beside me, Lethe," Miss Lena instructs softly, pulling a small wooden stepping stool out from beneath the counter so I can properly reach the workspace.

I carefully climb onto the stool, planting my feet firmly on the wood, and look down at the array of delicate porcelain teapots, bamboo strainers, and digital scales.

"When the world outside feels too heavy, or when the dark is too loud," Miss Lena explains, her voice a gentle, rhythmic melody as she reaches for a row of glass jars, "it helps to focus on something small. Something you can hold in your hands and control." She unscrews the lid of a wide jar and tilts it toward me.

"This is dried chamomile," she murmurs. "Reach in and take a small pinch. Tell me what it feels like."

I reach out. I pinch a small cluster of the dried, yellow-and-white flower heads.

"It feels… crumbly," I whisper, rolling the dried flowers between my thumb and index finger. "And light. Like paper."

"Exactly," Miss Lena smiles. "Put it in the strainer."

I carefully drop the chamomile into the bamboo mesh.

She guides me through the entire process. She has me measure out a scoop of dried lemon balm, the citrusy scent immediately cutting through the phantom taste of ash in the back of my throat. Next, she lets me crush a few dried lavender buds with a small mortar and pestle.

"We don't use boiling water for these delicate flowers," Miss Lena instructs, setting a temperature-controlled kettle onto the counter. "Boiling water burns them and makes the tea bitter. We want it to be just hot enough to coax the flavor out gently. Just like healing, Lethe. It takes patience, and a gentle touch."

I watch in silent awe as she pours the steaming water over the crushed herbs we prepared. The water immediately blooms into a pale, golden amber, sending a thick, fragrant cloud of steam rising into the humid air of the greenhouse.

Miss Lena places a small porcelain cup in front of me and pours the freshly steeped tea.

I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat seep through the porcelain and directly into my fingers. I close my eyes, lowering my face toward the surface, and take a slow, deep breath. The soothing, floral aroma fills my lungs, entirely washing away the lingering metallic tang of my panic.

"Thank you, Miss Lena," I whisper, taking a tiny, careful sip of the warm liquid.

She leans against the counter beside me, taking a graceful sip from her own cup. The garden is quiet, save for thrum of the engines carrying us toward the Catastrophe. But standing here at the tea station, anchored by the warmth in my hands and the serenity of Miss Lena at my side, the dark doesn't feel quite so terrifying anymore.

"Lethe. Lethe. Are you okay?"

The voice is a soft murmur, pulling me gently from a heavy sleep.

A wave of bitter citrus tea hits me.

I slowly rub my eyes open, my pale brushing against the dry, rough tear tracks still clinging to me.

I blink against the soft, diffused light filtering through the canopy above. I think I fell asleep in the garden. Tucked securely around my shoulders is a thick, woven blanket that smells deeply of soothing florals and Miss Lena’s quiet comfort.

I turn my head, my long tail shifting lazily beneath the fabric. Standing right beside the bench is Podenco.

Her ears are drooping limply against her hair, and the dark circles under her eyes mirror the bone-deep exhaustion I feel in my own limbs.

"Good… morning… Podenco," I croak.

Podenco offers a fragile smile, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She reaches out, her hand coming to rest gently against my shoulder.

"You look like a proper mess, Lethe," Podenco murmurs.

I open my mouth wanting to ask about her.

"They will be back soon," Podenco promises, cutting me off before I can speak, her eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding, fierce certainty. "Trust me, Lethe."

I give Podenco a slow, heavy nod.

We spend the rest of the morning burying our hands in the damp earth. The physical, mundane labor of tending the flowers and preparing the medicinal herbs with Miss Lena offers a tiny, much-needed distraction from the racing of my own heart. The garden smells richly of crushed mint and wet soil. Soon, Lisa bounds in to join us. She relentlessly to cheer everyone up, her tails wagging and her presence radiating that familiar, blindingly bright flavor. But today, even Lisa’s radiant optimism struggles to completely pierce the thick, grey dread hanging in the humid air.

Eventually, Miss Lena wipes her hands on a small towel. She offers us a tired smile and dismisses us, gently commanding us to head to the cafeteria for lunch to keep our strength up.

As we approach the cafeteria block, we pass by one of the open recreational lounges. A small cluster of off-duty Operators is gathered inside. They aren't talking, resting, or eating; they are standing rigidly in a semi-circle, their eyes glued to the large, shared wall-mounted television screen.

The ambient flavor bleeding off the group spills out into the hallway, hitting the back of my tongue like a physical strike. It tastes like cracked peppercorns, battery acid, and cold iron.

I stop. Drawn by the terrible taste in the air, I step closer to the open doorway, Lisa and Podenco halting right behind me.

On the screen, an Ursus news anchor is delivering a breaking update over choppy, static-laced footage of a burning metropolis.

"…following ongoing developments in Ursus," the anchor's voice echoes, clipped and strained. "The nomadic city of Chernobog has completely fallen to the infected terrorist organization known as Reunion. Remaining Ursine military and police forces have reportedly retreated from the sectors."

The broadcast cuts to a wide, dizzying aerial shot. The massive, tiered city plates of Chernobog are wreathed in thick, suffocating black smoke. Fires rage across the urban grid, completely unchecked.

"The city's propulsion tracks have been entirely halted," the anchor continues, the terrifying finality of his words ringing through the silent lounge. "A Catastrophe; a meteor shower; is confirmed to be heading directly towards the immobilized city."

The blood completely drains from my face. The sterile, cold air of the corridor suddenly feels entirely unbreathable.

My hands go numb. My fingers completely lose their grip on my Arts Unit. The heavy wood hits the steel floor grates with a loud, hollow cling.

Reunion?

No one mentioned Reunion to me. No one never said anything about terrorists.

Who are they?

My family aren't just walking into an apocalyptic storm of falling Originium. They are walking directly into an active, burning warzone.

And they are trapped there.

One of the Medics standing in the semi-circle turns around. It is Ansel, a Cautus with long, soft pink hair tied neatly back. His tired eyes drop to the staff resting on the floor, and then snap up to my horrified face.

His expression tightens. He lunges for the remote resting on the table.

Click.

The screen goes pitch black. The burning, smoking skyline of Chernobog is instantly severed, leaving behind a terrible, echoing silence in the lounge.

"The kids are here," Ansel whispers quietly to the other Operators, his voice strained as he completely blocks the television with his own body.

The suffocating tension in the room is unbearable. Before the adults can offer any empty reassurances, Podenco reacts.

She ducks down, and scoops up the Kazdelian artifact from the floor.

"Sorry to intrude," Podenco murmurs rapidly, her voice tight and breathless.

She presses a firm hand against the center of my back and practically shoves me forward. She ushers Lisa and me away from the open doorway, her steps quick and frantic, desperate to put as much distance between us and the black screen as possible.

We walk briskly down the corridor.

Podenco presses the wood back into my numb hands. My fingers curl around the black shaft mechanically, seeking the familiar anchor, but the freezing dread in my chest refuses to thaw.

"What do you guys want to eat?" Podenco asks. Her voice is pitched just a fraction too high, vibrating with a desperate, forceful normalcy.

Lisa steps right beside me.

"Hopefully they have pasta today!" Lisa chimes.

But the flavor radiating from Lisa entirely lacks her usual, blindingly bright sweetness. It tastes frantic and brittle, like spun sugar stretched so terrifyingly thin that it is right on the verge of snapping.

"I…"

I force myself to look up.

Lisa and Podenco are both looking at me. Their steps have slowed. Their eyes are wide, shimmering with unshed tears and a silent, desperate plea.

I swallow the jagged lump of dread sitting in my throat.

For them, I have to be brave. I have to keep the hearth warm.

I force my chin up. I push the corners of my lips upward, stretching my face into an incredibly fragile smile.

"Sweet red bean rolls."

The cafeteria is agonizingly quiet.

The vast room is almost half empty today. Whole rows of the functional chairs sit unoccupied, looking like missing teeth in a broken smile.

I stare down at the sweet red bean roll resting on my tray.

That is why there was no alarm for me. That is why no one pulled me aside to warn me. Dr. Kal’tsit, Dr. Warfarin, Miss Lena… even mom. They all knew this Catastrophe was coming. They knew Chernobog wasn't just a city in the path of a meteor shower; they knew it was an active, burning war zone. And they had meticulously, deliberately hidden it all from us, wrapping us in a fragile bubble of tea and board games while they walked straight into the fire to save who they could.

A sudden, sharp chime cuts through the subdued murmur of the hall.

“All onboard medical and logistics personnel, prepare for refugee intake.”

The PA system’s synthesized voice is completely devoid of emotion, but the ambient air in the cafeteria violently shatters. The remaining off-duty Operators scramble from their tables, abandoning their meals in a synchronized rush of shifting chairs and pounding boots.

I pick up my roll. I force myself to take a massive bite, quickly squeezing the pastry down my dry throat. It is supposed to be comforting, but the dough feels like ash, and the sweet paste is entirely overpowered by the bitter flavor of fear bleeding off the adults around me.

Beside me, a quiet buzz vibrates against the metal table.

Lisa is looking down at her slate. Her tails drop completely limp against her chair.

"I am being told to go to my study room," Lisa whispers, her voice sounding impossibly small. She looks up at me and Podenco, her eyes shimmering with helpless frustration.

"I won’t be able to help. Sorry."

"Okay," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady over the rising din of the cafeteria.

"Good luck, Lisa."

Podenco nods firmly beside me. We both raise our hands, offering reassuring wave as the Lisa gathers her slate and hurries away, retreating into the heavily fortified safety of the inner residential blocks where the administrative protocols demand she stay.

Podenco turns to me, her own ears pinned flat.

I don't need her to say it. I reach down and grab my Arts Unit from the floor.

We run.

The corridors of the landship are no longer just waking up; they are exploding into a terrifying, synchronized nightmare.

Operators blur past us in every direction. Logistics Operators shout commands, hauling massive, reinforced crates of bandages, IV fluids, and Oripathy suppressants directly toward the triage bays. The psychic noise bleeding through the air is absolute chaos. It is so thick with overlapping emotions; the frantic, metallic tang of panic, the heavy, suffocating weight of impending grief, and the sharp, burning heat of desperate determination; that it feels like trying to breathe underwater.

I grip my staff tighter, my tail lashing behind me for balance as I follow Podenco through the rushing crowds. I cannot be out there in the rubble with mom and Amiya, but I am an Operator of the Medical Department.

I have my own work.

The Convalescent Garden is no longer a quiet greenhouse; it is a frantic, overflowing staging area. The scent of damp soil and blooming flowers is being rapidly smothered by the harsh, metallic tang of fresh blood, scorched ozone, and the suffocating odor of burning ash clinging to the uniforms of the returning Operators.

Miss Lena intercepts me before I can even fully step off the main path. Her hands come down to rest firmly on my shoulders.

"Lethe. Remember," Miss Lena murmurs, her eyes locking onto mine with absolute intensity.

"If it is too much, I stop," I recite, my voice trembling just a fraction over the chaotic din of the garden.

"Good," she affirms, her grip tightening for a brief, grounding second. She glances over her shoulder at the sheer volume of battered people being ushered inside. "Just focus on our own Operators, okay? There are too many refugees."

I look at the sea of terrified civilians mingling with our wounded personnel. If I open my channels to the entire room, the sheer, concentrated mass of their collective trauma will instantly shatter my mind.

"Okay," I whisper.

I begin weaving my way through the crowded floor tiles.

My eyes lock onto a Perro Operator huddled on one of the benches. He is a complete mess. His armor is scored with deep, blackened gouges, and he is looking around with frantic, blown-out eyes. Every time a medical cart rattles past or a logistics worker shouts a command, he violently jumps, his hands twitching toward a weapon he has already surrendered to the quartermasters.

The ambient flavor bleeding off him hits the back of my tongue like a physical strike. I approach him slowly.

The moment my shadow falls over him, he violently flinches. He cowers, shrinking back against the wooden slats of the bench, raising his scarred hands defensively.

"Don’t come closer!" he snaps, his voice ragged and torn.

I freeze instantly. I lower my Arts Unit, letting the base rest quietly against the floor so it doesn't look like a weapon.

"It is okay," I say, pitching my voice to be as soft and steady as a chime. "I am Lethe. I am an Operator of Rhodes Island."

I slowly raise my hand. I point to the bold, white RHODES ISLAND lettering printed vertically down the front of my oversized jacket. Then, I lower my finger, pointing to the black and white Medic cross strapped securely on my right thigh.

He breathes heavily, his chest heaving. His bloodshot eyes dart from my face to the jacket, down to the Medic band, and finally to the monitor locked securely around my throat. He scans me repeatedly.

Finally, the rigid, terrifying tension in his shoulders drops just a fraction. He lowers his hands, letting out a jagged, shuddering exhale.

"What happened?" I ask gently, taking a single, careful step closer.

He freezes. The question acts like a physical lock snapping shut over his jaw. His eyes go distant, glazing over.

I grip the black shaft of and actively push my own passive empathy outward. I try my absolute best to project a concentrated emotional resonance of soothing sweetness into the space between us..

The sweetness washes over him. His breath catches, and the dam finally breaks.

"The outer sector," he chokes out, staring blankly at the floor tiles. "It was… a slaughterhouse. We were caught right in the middle."

He tells me about the streets. He describes squads of Ursus military police, clad in heavy, intimidating black gear, violently clashing with waves of masked rioters wearing tattered white coats. Reunion.

"Blood just… coated the street," the Perro whispers, his voice trembling so violently his teeth click together. "The streets… It was just red and grey. People being burnt to literal ash by fire Arts right in front of me. Civilians bleeding out in the gutters with crossbow bolts in their heads. Bodies entirely mangled by falling debris and heavy sword strikes…”

The sheer, visceral horror of his words makes my stomach physically heave, but I force myself to remain perfectly still, holding the sweet emotional resonance steady.

"My squad…" He swallows hard, tears finally spilling over his ash-stained cheeks. "We were in an apartment building. We were trying to escort a group of civilians out before the plate completely destabilized. But we were ambushed."

His hands curl into tight fists against his knees.

"The Reunion rioters… they didn't even care that there were civilians inside," he sobs, the sound tearing out of his throat. "Their Casters just started hitting the structural support beams with explosive Arts. They brought the whole building down on us."

The acidic flavor in the air completely sours, curdling into a thick, suffocating sludge.

"I barely escaped," he cries, burying his face in his hands. "The ceiling started to collapse… the roar of the concrete giving way… My squad, they shoved me and a civilian Feline child out the door just as the beams snapped."

He rocks forward on the bench, his shoulders shaking with violent, agonizing sobs.

"They didn’t make it. They didn't make it out…”

The heavy, paralyzing despair threatens to completely crush whatever is left of his mind. I don't hesitate anymore. I step right up to the edge of the bench. I place my left hand gently over his trembling knuckles, and with my right hand, I grip the twisted wood.

I close my eyes, and I aggressively inhale the ash.

The influx hits my core like a landslide of sharp shards.

I pull the invisible channel shut, and instantly, the Perro Operator slumps forward. The rigid, terrifying tension that had locked his spine in a state of perpetual panic completely melts away. He lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He doesn't even look up at me; he simply sags against the wood, finally able to breathe.

But the cost of his relief completely floods my own throat.

The taste is horrific. It is a vile. The psychic backlash is so severe that my vision violently strobes, blurring the edges of the greenhouse into a nauseating smear of green and grey.

At the same time, the ambient noise and taste of the Convalescent Garden crashes into me like physical blows.

I slap both of my hands over my mouth, my eyes blowing wide as my stomach violently heaves. I want to throw up. I gag, my chest convulsing as the phantom taste of Chernobog's spilled blood tries to force its way back up my throat.

Instantly, the suffocating smog of trauma is pierced by a wave of warmth.

Miss Lena is by my side in a heartbeat. Her hand rests firmly against my back.

She raises her head and immediately beckons across the chaotic greenhouse.

Podenco, who had been organizing a stack of bandages near the cabinets, catches the gesture. The young girl drops her supplies and rushes over.

"Take Lethe back to her dorm," Miss Lena orders, her voice dropping into a low, uncompromising octave that leaves absolutely no room for debate.

"Mmm!" I protest, violently shaking my head. My horns sway heavily with the motion, pulling painfully at the muscles in my neck. I keep my hands clamped over my mouth to keep from gagging again, but I desperately try to dig my sneakers into the floor tiles. I cannot leave. There are so many more Operators bleeding on the benches.

Miss Lena steps squarely in front of me. She reaches out, gently but firmly taking hold of my wrists, pulling my hands just a fraction away from my face so I am forced to look at her.

"No, sweetie," Miss Lena murmurs. "We agreed. Rest."

I let out a ragged, muffled whine, fresh tears of frustration and nausea prickling at the corners of my eyes.

Podenco doesn't hesitate. She firmly wraps her free arm around my waist.

"Come on, Lethe," Podenco says, her voice tight with worry but laced with an unyielding, protective stubbornness.

Before I can formulate another muffled protest, Podenco turns and practically drags me away from the bench. She hauls my stumbling, trembling frame down the winding path, pulling me out of the chaotic garden and back into the cold arteries of our home. When we finally reach my dorm, I am too weak to even lift my hands. Podenco doesn't wait; she reaches directly into the pocket of my dark grey jacket and fishes out my ID card. She swipes it against the terminal, and the door hisses open.

I don't even wait for the lights of the room to fully engage. I tear myself out of Podenco's grip and scramble toward the door marked with a shower icon.

I drop heavily to my knees before the toilet and completely empty my stomach. The spasms are violent and agonizing, tearing through my fragile torso. I gag and heave, my frame convulsing as my body desperately tries to physically purge the rotting, psychic sludge of the slaughter out of my system.

Podenco is right beside me. She drops to her knees on the cold tile, her hands coming up to gently, rhythmically pat my back. She navigates carefully around the heavy curtain of my grey hair, her touch steady and grounding.

Once the violent heaving finally subsides into wet, ragged hiccups, I drag myself up to the sink. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely turn the handle. The cold water rushes out, and I aggressively rinse my mouth. I swish and spit, over and over again, scrubbing my tongue with the freezing water until the metallic tang of trauma is finally dulled to a bearable ache.

I lean heavily against the porcelain basin, completely spent.

Podenco wraps a supportive arm around my waist, gently guiding me out of the bathroom and back into the dim amber light of the dorm room. My legs feel like liquid lead. Every step is a monumental effort. When we reach the recessed alcove, I simply let my knees buckle, sinking limply onto the edge of the mattress. My tail drops to the floor like a dead snake, entirely devoid of energy.

Podenco steps away for a brief moment. I hear the quiet rustle of her uniform, followed by the soft clink of glass against metal.

She returns, gently pressing a small cup into my hands.

"I have something, Lethe," Podenco murmurs, her voice incredibly soft in the quiet room. She gestures to the desk where a small, empty vial now sits. "Here, some water, drink this, and it will help you rest."

I don't have the energy to question her. I just want the dull ache in my skull to stop. I lift the cup to my lips and swallow. The medicine mixed into the water hits my tongue with a sharp, aggressive bitterness that makes me wince, completely offensive to my usual preference for sweet pastries and sugary drinks. I force myself to gulp down the rest of the water to wash the terrible taste away.

The effect is terrifyingly fast.

Almost instantly, a thick, heavy fog rolls over my brain. The edges of the room begin to blur and swim. A profound, unnatural drowsiness drags at my bones, pulling me downward with the inescapable force of gravity.

My body simply gives out.

The cup slips from my limp fingers, bouncing harmlessly against the floor as I crash sideways onto the mattress. My cheek hits the pillows, my eyelids fluttering shut.

Through the rapidly encroaching darkness, I feel Podenco gently lift my legs onto the bed. She pulls the thick blankets up, tucking them securely around my shoulders.

"Sorry, Lethe," Podenco whispers. Her voice sounds distant, echoing through the heavy, chemical fog swallowing my mind. "If I don't put you to sleep… you would just run back later. Rest well."

The darkness rushes in, thick and dreamless, pulling me entirely under.

I open my eyes. The ceiling panels above me are familiar, but the air is completely wrong. I am standing inside our home. No. I look around. This is not our landship. It looks older.

The room I am in is a massive, dimly lit command center, the walls stripped down to dark metal and heavy industrial cabling. The space is dominated by a sprawling array of bulky, glowing monitors, their harsh blue light Arts Unit long shadows across the floorboards.

Standing near the central console is a Sarkaz woman. I have seen her last time as well. Standing right beside her is a figure completely shrouded in a heavy, dark coat, their face obscured by a thick hood and an opaque visor. His emotional resonance, it is an absolute, suffocating abyss. It feels ancient, vast, and entirely unknowable; like staring over the edge of a sheer cliff into an endless, dark ocean that was quietly, patiently calculating the exact depth of the drop.

It is a mind that felt fundamentally alien.

Just what is he?

They are leaning over a tactical display, deep in conversation. I take a hesitant step forward, straining my ears to listen. But the words don't reach me. Their voices are heavily distorted, sounding distant and muffled, as if I am submerged deep underwater. When my eyes finally flutter open again, the crushing, suffocating grief that fills my entire being is entirely gone.

I blink, my vision slowly adjusting. The ceiling above me isn't the familiar, low-hanging steel of my dorm room. The ambient air is scrubbed aggressively clean.

I am in a medical ward. The main overhead lights are completely turned off, leaving the room bathed in a deep, heavy darkness, save for the faint glow of a muted diagnostic monitor on the wall.

I slowly turn my head against the pillows.

A silhouette is sitting in a plush chair right next to my bed. She is slumped forward, her upper body resting heavily against the edge of my mattress, completely dead to the world. Even in the dark, I can make out the pale, downy plumage framing her face. Mom.

I shift slightly, the sheets rustling against my legs.

The tiny sound is enough. She stirs instantly, her head lifting from the mattress.

"Lethe…?" she murmurs, her voice raspy and thick with sleep.

She raises a hand, clumsily rubbing her eyes in the darkness. She blinks once. Twice. Then, her gaze locks onto my face, registering that my eyes are wide open and looking back at her.

The exhaustion completely vanishes from her posture.

She practically launches herself out of the chair. Before I can even push myself up, she crashes onto the edge of the bed, her arms wrapping around me with a desperate, crushing intensity. She pulls me flush against her chest, burying her face into my hair.

"Oh, my Lethe!" Mom gasps, her voice breaking into a ragged, wet sob that echoes in the dark room. She squeezes me so tightly it nearly knocks the breath out of my lungs, but I don't care. I wrap my arms around her neck, burying my face into the collar of her coat.

But beneath the profound sweetness, I can taste the heavy, grey flavor of sheer, unimaginable physical exhaustion and sorrow.

"It has been almost three days," she cries, her fingers gripping the back of my medical gown as if she is terrified I might disappear if she lets go. "You were asleep for three days."

Three days.

"I'm here," I whisper, my voice trembling as I squeeze her back just as fiercely. "I'm right here, mom. You came back."

"Please don't be mad at Podenco," I murmur into the fabric of her coat. "It is not her fault."

Mom pulls back just enough to look me directly in the eyes. Her face is pale and entirely exhausted, but her expression holds a stern, uncompromising terror.

"It is not her fault," she agrees, her voice firm despite the tears shining in her eyes. "You are too reckless, young lady. Dr. Warfarin confirmed your Oripathy was agitated. You were hurting yourself. Podenco did the right thing."

"I… I just…" I stammer, my fingers weakly gripping the lapels of her coat. I just wanted to help.

"Lethe. Listen to me…" Mom's voice cracks, the absolute vulnerability. She pulls me flush against her chest again. "I cannot lose you…"

We hug in silence for a long time.

The only sounds in the pitch-black medical ward are our overlapping, shaky breaths. But the silence allows the dread to creep back in.

"Is… is Amiya, Rosmontis… Ms. Skyfire… Are they alive?" I whisper, my voice tiny and fragile in the quiet room.

Mom's hand completely freezes in my hair.

"They are… they are…" she stammers.

Instantly, the ambient taste in the room violently shatters. The warm, protective honey is entirely swallowed by a sudden, suffocating wave of cold, stagnant water and the sharp, rotting tang of profound grief.

"Mom? What’s wrong?"

She swallows hard, turning her face away from the faint, muted glow of the diagnostic monitor on the wall. "Nothing. Lethe."

I push myself back, breaking the embrace entirely. My hands clench into tight, trembling fists. I am so tired of the fragile bubble they keep putting me in.

"Please!" I cry out, my voice cracking with desperate, raw frustration that echoes off the walls. "Everyone lies to me! I want to know the truth! I don’t want to be kept in the dark!"

Mom stops.

Her shoulders slump. The last remaining reserves of her strength finally give out completely. She turns her head back toward me, her eyes hollow, bloodshot, and completely devastated.

"Ace… Scout…” she whispers, the names scraping against her throat.

I freeze. The air is violently sucked out of my lungs.

The image flashes in my mind: the massive, towering defender with the warm, booming chuckle, and the sharp-eyed sniper standing beside him in the cafeteria hallway. I remember Ace reaching down, gently ruffling my hair and telling me to eat more so I could keep up.

"…And many other Operators…" mom continues, her voice breaking entirely as fresh tears spill over. "…they are not coming back, Lethe…"

The words fall like heavy lead into the quiet ward.

"How…” The word barely escapes my lips, fracturing in the dark, quiet air of the ward. My mind scrambles, violently rejecting the information. I picture them again. Ace and Scout. They were the walking titans of our home, the absolute apex of our military might. I remember Ace's massive, towering frame, his heavy shield, and the rugged, scarred face that radiated veteran reliability. I remember Scout's sharp-eyed stealth, his presence so naturally lethal. They looked so incredibly capable. They looked invincible. How could falling rocks and rioters possibly kill them?

And then, a terrifying realization hits me.

I remember standing in the corridor outside the cafeteria that day. I remember my sneakers squeaking to a dead halt against the floor. Most of all, I remember a crushing, agonizing sorrow seizing my chest the exact moment I laid eyes on them.

Why?

My mind grasps empty air.

There is absolutely nothing.

Mom breaks the silence.

"Reunion was all over the city," mom finally whispers, her voice hollow and trembling against the dark. "It was horrible, Lethe…”

The sheer magnitude of the slaughter bleeds through her words, painting a visceral nightmare of rioters, blinding Arts, and endless rubble. If the rioters were strong enough to tear down Elite Ops, then the armored plating of our home suddenly feels as fragile as paper.

"Where are we going then, mom?" I ask, my voice pitching upward in frantic, desperate panic. I need to know we are running away. I need to know we are putting as much distance between us and that graveyard as possible. "Are we safe now?"

Mom stares over my shoulder into the dark.

"We are heading towards Lungmen," she replies, the name dropping heavily into the sterile air.

"Lungmen?"

"Reunion is going for Lungmen… Lethe," mom states. "This is a war now."

"I am scared, mom…" I whisper into the quiet room. I am scared of the war. I am scared of the dark. I am scared of the sheer, unfathomable cost of our home moving forward. And I am scared that I might need to meet the hooded man in my vision.

Her hand, which had been resting against my back, shifts to gently stroke my hair.

"I know, my little Lethe. I know," she murmurs, her voice raspy but steeped in that profound, protective honey-sweetness that always manages to anchor me. She lets out a slow exhale, pulling back just enough to look down at my tear-stained face. She brushes a damp strand of hair from my cheek. "Lethe. Are you hungry?"

I blink, my stomach giving a small, hollow twist at the mention of food.

"Yes," I murmur, giving a small, hesitant nod.

The corners of her exhausted eyes crinkle into a soft smile. "Lungmen buns?"

I tilt my head. "What is that?"

"They are a Lungmen special," she explains, her voice taking on a gentle, coaxing lilt.

"They are baked fresh, incredibly sweet, with a crunchy golden top. And… they can have red bean paste in them."

The mere mention of red bean paste acts like a localized spell.

I nod furiously, my lopsided horns swaying with the motion.

Her smile widens just a bit. She gently disentangles herself from my grip and stands up, her joints popping quietly in the still air. She looks incredibly frail in the dim light, but she straightens her spine.

"Okay, sit here, Lethe. I will be back," she promises, turning toward the heavy blast doors of the ward.

"Okay.”

The doors shut, sealing me inside the quiet room.

I wait.

I watch the clock on the monitors. Five minutes pass. The silence in the room stretches, thick and oppressive. I curl my tail tightly, my eyes fixed on the door.

Ten minutes.

The knot of anxiety in my stomach begins to twist again. The cafeteria isn't that far, and mom usually walks with a brisk, purposeful stride. Why is it taking so long?

Finally, the mechanical locks clank.

Dr. Warfarin steps into the dim light.

"Here’s the little anomaly who almost crystallised her own brain," Dr. Warfarin drawls, her voice slicing through the quiet with a dry, abrasive smirk. She saunters into the room.

I freeze, my hands gripping the edge of the blanket.

"Where’s... m... Erika?" I stammer.

Dr. Warfarin stops at the foot of my bed. The predatory amusement drops from her face.

"She passed out in the hallway," Dr. Warfarin states flatly, her eyes completely unreadable. "She is resting."

"What?!"

The word tears out of my throat in a panicked squeak. I throw the blankets off, scrambling frantically toward the edge of the mattress. My bare feet hit the cold floor.

"I suggest you stay in your bed, little anomaly," Dr. Warfarin commands. Freezing me perfectly in my tracks.

She crosses her arms over her coat.

"She is overworked," Dr. Warfarin continues, her tone clinical and unforgiving. "And she is nursing a chest injury from her deployment in the outer sectors."

The air is violently sucked out of my lungs.

"She is injured?" I choke out, my eyes blowing wide.

How did I not taste it?

"I… I didn't even know," I whisper, my voice breaking entirely.

My knees buckle. I sink back onto the edge of the mattress, my hands covering my face as hot, stinging tears spill over.

She walked into a Catastrophe to save lives. She came back battered and broken, and instead of taking care of her, I forced her to take care of me until her body literally gave out.

I pull my knees up to my chest, curling into a miserable, shaking ball under the harsh gaze of Dr. Warfarin.

I am a failure of a daughter.

"Don’t look so despondent," Dr. Warfarin drawls, her voice slicing through the sound of my ragged sobbing. "You are souring your exquisite blood."

I flinch, my hands dropping from my face. I look up through blurred vision. Dr. Warfarin simply watches me from the foot of the mattress.

I pull my knees tighter against my chest, my tail coiling defensively.

"You… you are here to drain my blood?" I hiccup, my voice wavering pitifully.

Dr. Warfarin rolls her eyes with a heavy sigh. She steps past the edge of my bed and approaches the heavy diagnostic console mounted to the wall.

"To check your Oripathy progression," Dr. Warfarin corrects dryly, her fingers dancing rapidly across the screen.

Above us, the ceiling track hums to life. The massive, halo-like scanner begins its slow, mechanical descent, vibrating with a low frequency that rattles the horns on my skull. I watch the machinery lower into place, but the violent, visceral memory of the Convalescent Garden still burns in the back of my throat. The sheer physical agony of vomiting on the bathroom floor, my body convulsing as it tried to purge the nightmare I had swallowed from the Operator, feels entirely different from anything I have experienced before.

"Dr. Warfarin," I whisper. "I never actually reacted so violently to a taste… why this time?"

Dr. Warfarin doesn’t pause her preparations. Her sharp fingernails continue to tap out a rapid rhythm against the terminal. The halo scanner halts just above my head, its internal rings spinning up with a high-pitched whine.

"You are a Djall, little anomaly," Dr. Warfarin states, not even bothering to look at me. Her tone is entirely matter-of-fact. "And no one has taught you how to be a proper one."

She finally turns around, leaning her hip against the console.

"Your kind isn’t rare because you cannot survive on bad emotions," Dr. Warfarin explains, her voice taking on the sharp, clinical cadence of a lecture. "Grief, fear, exhaustion. Those are standard fare. But what you swallowed today from that Field Operator was not just fear. You swallowed the residue of a warzone."

"Emotions born out of malice and cruelty are toxic to you," Dr. Warfarin continues, her gaze narrowing with a terrifying, absolute certainty. "When that Operator watched rioters burn civilians to ash and crush his squad, the trauma he absorbed was steeped in the pure, unfiltered malice of the attackers. You didn't just siphon his sadness, Lethe. You ingested the venom of the people trying to kill him."

Dr. Warfarin pushes herself off the console and steps right up to the edge of the mattress. She reaches out, tapping a finger against the side of the halo scanner hovering just above my horns.

"Now you learned it firsthand," Dr. Warfarin says, her eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding, predatory gleam. "If you are going to survive outside of a quarantine box, you need to learn what you can eat, and what will rot you from the inside out."

She hits a button on her slate. The halo scanner powers up, Arts Unit a blinding, grid- like blue light over my face.

"Sit still."

The scanner finally hums down to a halt.

"Your Oripathy is stable once again," Dr. Warfarin announces. She doesn't look up from the screen, her voice echoing off the walls. "But it has indeed progressed. If you start to hallucinate again, tell me."

The phantom taste of cold copper spikes in the back of my throat. I grip the edges of the padded examination chair, my knuckles turning bone-white. The thought of the static returning makes my chest tighten into a painful knot.

"The ghost… the voice…" I whisper. "She will return? I am scared."

Dr. Warfarin finally lowers the slate. She glances down at the twisted branch of the Kazdelian Arts Unit resting against the base of my chair.

"The artifact is functioning as intended," Dr. Warfarin states. "Your mind should stay quiet."

I let out a long, shaky exhale.

"Okay. Thank you, Dr. Warfarin," I murmur.

She turns her back to me. She starts to wipe the raw data slowly, meticulously erasing the hyperactive anomalies of my broken brain from the main registry, just as Dr. Kal'tsit had mandated months ago.

I watch her for a moment, my tail slowly uncoiling from its defensive posture.

"Can I go visit mom and Opal?" I ask softly.

Dr. Warfarin's fingers stop dead on the glass screen.

She slowly turns her head. The ambient flavor in the room spikes with a taste that reminds me of the blueberry matcha Amiya asked me to try a while back.

"Mom?" she repeats, her tone dripping with dry disbelief.

My cheeks instantly flush with a hot, burning embarrassment. I duck my head.

"Eri… Erika," I stammer, correcting myself in a tiny, flustered squeak.

Dr. Warfarin stares at me for a single second. Then, a sharp, highly theatrical scoff escapes her lips. The ambient flavor in the room ripples with a dry, deeply amused exasperation, like the taste of a tart, over-fermented grape.

"You are cleared to go back to your dorm and do whatever you do," she drawls, waving a dismissive hand in my direction.

Without another word, she turns on her heel, leaving me alone in the cold room to gather my staff and find my family.

The cold steel of the floor bites at my bare feet as I hurry back into my dorm.

I waste no time. I shed the sterile, crinkly fabric of the hospital gown, letting it pool onto the floor, and pull open my small closet. My spare uniform is waiting. I quickly pull the white turtleneck over my head, the fabric settling softly beneath the black monitor. Next comes the dark pleated skirt and the heavily insulated stockings. I meticulously strap the tactical leg band around my right thigh, ensuring the Rhodes Island Medic symbol is facing outward.

Finally, I slide my arms into the oversized, dark grey jacket. The familiar weight of it settles over my shoulders, the split tailcoat back parting easily to let my tail swing free. I grab my Arts Unit from the nightstand, my fingers wrapping tightly around the staff. When the door to my dorm opens, I step out into the corridors. The landship is deeply submerged in its night cycle, the ceiling panels dialed down to a dim, bruised amber. But the quiet is a complete lie.

The moment I cross the threshold, the psychic atmosphere of the landship hits the back of my tongue with the force of a physical blow. The air is so thick it feels like trying to breathe through a suffocating layer of bile. I gag, my hand flying up to cover my mouth.

It is a concentrated, agonizing cocktail of suffering. The pain tastes like crushed glass and raw, freezing copper. The sorrow is a heavy, drowning ocean of stagnant saltwater and rotting ash. But beneath it all, pulsing with a volatile, acidic heat that burns the back of my throat, is the hatred.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I force my jaw tight, swallowing the vile taste, and push my feet forward. I make my way toward the medical wing intersections. Standing in the center of the light is Miss Sussurro.

Gathered tightly around her are Hibiscus and Ansel, both looking completely battered by the sheer scale of the emergency.

"We have almost two thousand refugees on board," Miss Sussurro states, her voice clipping through the heavy air with sharp, uncompromising authority. "You two, as reserves, keep focusing strictly on basic triage. We stabilize the bleeding, we suppress the Oripathy spikes, and we keep them breathing. That is all."

I step into the edge of the light.

Hibiscus turns her head. The normally energetic Medic looks entirely drained, but the moment she sees me standing there in my uniform, a faint, sweet spark of relief bleeds into her emotional resonance.

"Hi, Lethe," Hibiscus says, offering a smile. "Glad you are okay now."

"I am going to the cafeteria," I say, ensuring voice remain as steady and resolute as possible. I look between the three Medics, giving them a quick, firm nod as I move to pass by. "I will visit Opal later."

Miss Sussurro turns her head, she gives me a single, crisp nod. Beside her, Ansel nods back, his Cautus ears drooping with fatigue but his posture remaining resolute.

I don't linger to distract them. I continue my march down the dim, amber-lit arteries of our home, wading through the suffocating tastes as I head toward the cafeteria.

The double doors of the cafeteria slide open with a muted hiss. The vast room, usually a chaotic symphony of clattering trays and overlapping chatter, is a cavern of bruised shadows and quiet desolation.

A few scattered night-shift Operators are slumped across the cold metal tables, their bodies entirely surrendered to the gravity of their exhaustion. Plumes of steam rise lazily from abandoned coffee mugs, but the air doesn't smell like roasted beans. It tastes like heavy, suffocating grey fog.

As I step quietly across the epoxy floor, my eyes catch a Kuranta sitting alone near the center aisle. He isn't moving, his head bowed so low his face is completely hidden in the shadows. But his hands are trembling violently. He is gripping a standard-issue steel coffee cup so fiercely that the thick metal is audibly groaning, the cylindrical walls slowly caving inward under his crushing grip.

The ambient emotion bleeding off him hits my senses like a jagged blade. It is a suffocating, volatile cocktail of helpless rage and rusted iron. I give him a wide berth, keeping my steps completely silent against the floor so I don't shatter his fragile, agonizing silence.

I make my way to the far wall, where the end-of-the-day bakery section sits under a solitary light. The glass display is mostly barren. These are the leftovers, the sparse rations meant to sustain the night crews before being unceremoniously disposed of at dawn.

But resting on a metal tray in the far corner are three small, domed pastries.

I step closer, peering through the glass. They have a distinct, crunchy golden top, the baked crust fractured into a delicate, checkered pattern that makes them look exactly like the rough exterior of a pineapple. Even through the sterile chill of the cafeteria, I can catch the faint, lingering aroma of baked sugar, butter, and the sweet promise of red bean paste hidden inside.

Lungmen buns.

These must be exactly what mom mentioned to me in the ward. A tiny, sugary luxury from Lungmen.

I reach behind the partition and carefully gather all three into a small paper slip. One for mom. One for Opal. And one for me.

I clutch the paper bag tightly against my chest, letting the faint, sugary warmth act as a fragile shield against the acidic taste of the landship's grief. I turn my back on the slumped Operators and step out into the corridors.

Mom is definitely asleep in her our ward now. I will let her rest just a little bit longer before I wake her up.

I adjust my grip on the petrified wood of my Arts Unit and chart my course toward the high-security quarantine sector. I am going to see Opal first.

The locks of the high-security ward disengage. I step inside, the ambient air in the room isn't the void I am used to finding her in. Instead, it vibrates with a sharp, active static. The taste hits the back of my tongue instantly.

Fear.

It is a terrible, acidic flavor, but it brings a strange, bittersweet relief to my chest. She isn't hollow anymore. The absolute numbness has retreated, leaving behind a girl who is fully awake, fully present, and genuinely terrified.

Opal is sitting bolt upright on her mattress. She has the plushie clutched so tightly to her chest that her small knuckles are entirely bone-white. Her long, dark ears are completely upright, trembling visibly. Her eyes dart toward the door, blowing wide the second she registers my jacket and the turtleneck.

"Lethe," she whispers.

I don't hesitate. I drop my Arts Unit, and I rush over to the edge of her bed.

"Sorry," I reach out, my fingers gently resting against the edge of her bed. "I am so sorry. We couldn't be with you recently."

I reach into the crinkly paper slip I have kept clutched to my chest, carefully pulling out one of the golden-crusted pastries.

"Here, Opal," I murmur, holding the sweet treat out to her.

Opal slowly uncurls one of her hands from the stuffed plushie. Her trembling fingers reach out and carefully take the Lungmen bun from my palm. She doesn't take a bite. She simply brings it closer to her lap, her eyes dropping to meticulously study the checkered, golden crust. She inspects the soft dough thoroughly.

The quiet stretches for a few seconds, broken only by the rhythmic, steady beep of her medical monitors.

Then, she looks back up at me.

"What's happening?"

The question is tiny, but it carries a heavy, desperate weight.

The horrific truth burns the back of my throat. War. Rioters. Falling rocks and slaughtered Operators.

But I look at her thin, trembling frame. I look at the jagged black Originium crystals piercing the skin. She has already survived the complete eradication of her world; she does not need to carry the crushing, bloody weight of Chernobog disaster and our war with Reunion on her shoulders.

I force the corners of my lips upward, stretching my face into the gentlest, most reassuring smile I can muster. I reach out and lightly lay my hand over hers.

"We…" I stammer slightly, pitching my voice to sound completely calm and unaffected.

"Just a Catastrophe, Opal. We were busy moving the landship around it."

I give her cold fingers a soft, grounding squeeze.

"It will be okay soon."

I linger for just a moment in the dim corridor, letting out a long, slow exhale. Opal is finally asleep, the golden crumbs of the Lungmen pastry resting on her blanket, her hands securely wrapped around her plushie. Her fear has finally smoothed out into a quiet, exhausted rest.

I reach into my bag and pull out the slate. The glass screen is a harsh white against the light of the night cycle.

I open the encrypted messaging channel. My thumbs hover over the digital keyboard. Where is mom.

I stare at the three words. I quickly tap the backspace key, deleting the letters one by one until the text box is empty again.

Where is Erika’s ward?

I hit send.

The three pulsing grey dots appear quickly before the sharp chime of a reply echoes in the quiet hall.

[Warfarin]: 301.

[Lethe]: Thank you, Dr. Warfarin.

I slip the slate back into my bag. I turn my steps toward the primary recovery wing. I keep my head down, entirely focused on the numbers etched beside the doors.

301.

I press my ID against the control panel and enter the ward.

She is still asleep.

Mom is lying on the standard medical mattress, dressed in a loose hospital gown. The fabric is pulled down slightly at the shoulder, exposing the thick white bandages wrapped tightly around her chest. Her face is incredibly pale, the delicate, downy plumage plastered flat against her skin with dried sweat.

I step inside and quietly drag the plush visitor's chair closer to the edge of the mattress. I climb into the seat, carefully arranging my skirt as my tail coils neatly around the base of the chair.

I watch the slow, steady rise and fall of her bandaged chest. The monitors beep with a calm, reassuring rhythm.

She is resting.

I reach into the crinkly paper bag resting in my lap. I slowly pull out a Lungmen bun. The golden, checkered crust is slightly cold now.

I take a small, quiet bite. The sweetness melts on my tongue. I chew silently, pulling my knees up into the chair, my eyes never leaving her exhausted face.

She had sat by my bed while I slept through the nightmare. Now, as the landship carries us away from the burning ruins of Chernobog, it is my turn to be her silent vigil.

I wrap my hands around the ceramic mug. The milk tea is warm, sending a soothing, sugary heat through my fingers.