January, 1098

The clock mounted on the break room wall clicks.

2nd of January, 1098.

I am supposed to be 14 now.

It has been exactly two years, at least that’s what the record say, since I was saved by my dearest Liberi mom. Two years of surviving the dark of Terra.

I am sitting quietly in one of the plush, oversized chairs tucked into the far corner of the room, my legs pulled up to my chest. The ambient air of the lounge is absolutely intoxicating. It is a massive, overlapping symphony of joy that completely overwhelms the sterile, recycled oxygen of the landship.

I rest my digital slate against my knees, the screen glowing softly in the dim light.

I scroll past the blank spaces in my mind and open my encrypted personal logs. My eyes trace the short, distilled paragraphs I have meticulously curated to fight the creeping void of my Oripathy. The absolute pillars of my existence.

Mom. Erika. Caladria. She pulled you out. She gave you a future.

Lisa. Suzuran. The blinding light.

Podenco. The teasing anchor.

Amiya. The CEO who holds your hand in the dark.

Miss Lena. Perfumer. The guardian of the sanctuary.

Rosmontis. The quiet anchor.

And so on…

I look up from the glowing glass.

I scan the bustling, brightly lit room. Almost every single name carved into my digital fortress is physically standing right in front of me. Mom is laughing near the kitchenette with Miss Lena. Rosmontis is quietly nibbling on a slice of fruit, safely anchored by Amiya’s warm presence.

They are all here. The physical manifestations of my digital soul.

I let out a slow, shuddering exhale, an aching swell of gratitude blooming directly in the center of my chest. The last two months had been incredibly eventful, but miraculously, entirely devoid of the horrific, blood-soaked tragedies that usually haunted our deployments.

The rumors echoing through the corridors had been massive. Miss Adele had briefly filled me in on the absolute chaos unfolding in Victoria. The highly anticipated assault by the eight Grand Dukes to reclaim their own capital of Londinium from the Military Commission of Kazdel had apparently ended in a catastrophic failure. The whispers among the logistics Operators said that half of the Dukes’ armies had been wiped out, and their remaining forces devastated. Yet, despite the apocalyptic scale of the siege, the legendary Steam Knights I had read about in Lisa's history books were still absolutely nowhere to be seen.

And then there was Kjerag.

We had lingered in the snow-capped basin for weeks. I don't exactly know what Doctor and Amiya did behind the closed doors of that isolated nation, but something fundamental had shifted. The impenetrable ice had thawed. By the time the landship finally raised its deployment ramps to leave, the locals were drastically more receptive to our presence.

They had even sent an envoy to stay with us. I had only caught a brief glimpse of him in the logistics bay. He is a massive, towering Forte man bearing the crest of Karlan Trade. He looked incredibly imposing, built like a walking mountain of muscle, but the ambient flavor radiating off him had tasted surprisingly warm, like hearty, roasted root vegetables and dependable steel. He became our cook.

My quiet, geopolitical daydreaming is abruptly and violently shattered.

"Lethe!"

The bright voice cuts through the ambient chatter of the room. I blink, looking up just in time to see a blur of auburn silk racing directly toward my corner.

Lisa stops right in front of my chair, her hands planted firmly on her hips. She is wearing a beautiful, festive dress, and her nine tails are puffed up in a display of absolute, uncompromising authority.

"Lethe, this is your birthday!" Lisa declares. She reaches forward and completely covers the screen of my slate with her hands. "No playing on your slate in the corner!"

I flinch.

"I wasn't playing!" I protest as I quickly press the power button to darken the screen. "I was just… I was just reading my notes!"

"No notes either!" Lisa insists. The mock-stern facade completely melts, replaced by a radiant smile that makes the air taste like pure sugar and sunshine.

She doesn't give me a single second to argue. Lisa grabs my free hand, her grip incredibly warm and undeniably firm. With a surprisingly strong tug, she practically hauls me out of the plush chair.

"Come on!" Lisa cheers as she drags me away from the quiet shadows of the corner and straight toward the brightly lit center of the room. "Amiya is waiting for us at the main table!"

I stumble slightly, scrambling to keep my balance, completely surrendering to the overwhelming, joyful gravity of my radiant Vulpo friend.

As we approach the massive central table, the sheer, blazing heat of Ms. Blaze's roaring presence and Amiya's spun-sugar warmth washes over me.

The golden, flaky crust of the apple pie sits squarely in the center of the table, radiating a rich, mouth-watering aroma of baked cinnamon, caramelized sugar, and warm pastry. When Amiya had gently pulled me aside on New Year’s Eve to ask what I wanted for my birthday, I immediately refused anything elaborate or overly complicated. The logistics lines were always strained, and our CEO carried enough weight on her shoulders without having to orchestrate a massive celebration. A simple apple pie was all I wanted. It was a sweet, grounded anchor to a memory completely devoid of the sharp bite of Catastrophes or the rotting ash of the battlefield.

"Amiya," I say, looking up from the rustic, perfectly baked dessert to meet her kind, eyes. I offer her a bright smile. "Thank you for the pie."

Amiya is entirely relaxed.

"Don’t mention…" Amiya begins, her voice carrying a light, musical bounce.

Then, she abruptly stops.

A sharp, synchronized vibration buzzes against the fabric of her jacket. At the exact same moment, a hum resonates from the opposite side of the table. Ms. Blaze, who had enthusiastically popped into the break room strictly to claim a slice of pie as an excuse to drink from her metal flask, pauses mid-gulp.

Amiya pulls her communicator from her pocket. Ms. Blaze does the same.

The transition is instantaneous.

The warm, protective bubble completely shatters. The ambient air curdles. The sweetness is instantly replaced by a sharp, suffocating spike of sterilized bleach, and the unmistakable, biting tang of rusted copper.

My tail, which had been swaying happily, snaps rigidly.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

Amiya lowers her slate. The gentle, smiling friend who had ordered my birthday dessert is entirely gone, instantly swallowed by the crushing, invisible mantle of Rhodes Island's leader. The dark, exhaustion-carved shadows under her eyes seem to deepen in the span of a single heartbeat.

"Sorry. Lethe… we need to go," Amiya whispers. Her voice is incredibly tight, laced with a heavy, bleeding sorrow that tastes like cold ash.

She shares a dark, silent look with Ms. Blaze, whose fierce, competitive grin has completely flatlined into a mask of lethal, uncompromising focus. Across the room, Rosmontis stands up silently, her face unreadable as ever.

Without another word, Amiya turns. The three hurry out of the break room, their footsteps echoing with a grim, militarized urgency.

The door hiss and slide shut behind them, sealing with a definitive clank.

I just sit there, staring blankly at the closed door. The sudden, deafening silence of the room rings in my ears. The freezing dread continues to pool in my chest, a terrifying reminder that the world outside this landship is always waiting to tear my family away. A soft rustle of clothing breaks the heavy quiet.

Mom steps up right beside me. She doesn't speak immediately. She simply reaches out, her hand coming down to rest securely on my shoulder. Her touch is a firm, undeniable anchor.

"Lethe," mom’s voice dropping into a soft, steadying command that leaves no room for the panic to take root. "Just focus on the food for now."

I stare at the golden, flaky crust of the apple pie sits squarely in the center of the table. Just a few minutes ago, the rich aroma of baked cinnamon and caramelized sugar was the ultimate symbol of a peaceful, mundane birthday. Now, the scent just makes my stomach twist.

I look at the rustic dessert, my appetite entirely ruined.

"Lethe?"

Lisa’s voice is fragile and trembling. She steps closer and reaches out, her hands gently resting against my arm. The blindingly bright spun-sugar of her presence pushes desperately against the sudden, freezing dread pooling in the room.

"We… we can still cut the pie, Lethe!" Lisa chirps, injecting as much fierce, unyielding optimism into her voice as she possibly can. "Amiya got it especially for you. We can eat a piece now and save her a slice for when she gets back! She would want you to eat it!" Beside her, Podenco doesn't join in the forced cheer.

She looks past us, her eyes locking onto Miss Lena, whose hands are clasped tightly together over her dress.

"It will be fine, Miss Lena," Podenco says. She offers the older Vulpo a firm, resolute nod. "Doctor and Amiya will guide us through this. As always."

Miss Lena closes her eyes, letting out a slow, measured breath to steady herself.

"They will," Miss Lena’s voice is soft, trying  to soothe us all. "They will."

I stare blankly at the pie. The thought of eating a sweet pastry while Amiya and the Elite Ops are actively rushing into the dark to face whatever nightmare just triggered their communicators feels fundamentally wrong. It feels like a betrayal.

"Lisa… Podenco…" I breathe out.

I slowly push my chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floorboards.

"You can take the food back to the garden," I tell them, my eyes dropping to the floor tiles. "Or share it. I'm… I'm not hungry anymore."

I turn away from the table, intending to drag my heavy, leaden legs back to the quiet isolation of my dorm.

But before I can take a single step, a hand gently but firmly catches my wrist.

"Lethe?" mom asks.

Her voice drops into that aching melody of absolute, unconditional protectiveness. The rich, honeyed flavor of her presence wraps securely around me, desperately trying to anchor me to the safety of the room.

I stop, but I don't look back at her. I just stare blankly at the door that Amiya had just disappeared through.

"I want to just take a look outside…"

The hot, unbidden tears finally well up, blurring my vision. My mind races back through the fractured, burning timeline of my existence.

"Last birthday… Chernobog fell and Lungmen was on fire," I choke out, a ragged, shuddering breath rattling my chest.

I look down at my hands, trembling so hard that I can barely hold on.

"This one… a new crisis," I sob quietly, the devastating realization crushing the breath from my lungs. "I must be a curse."

The grip on my wrist tightens. It doesn't hurt, but it is a sharp, deliberate pressure that abruptly halts my spiraling panic.

Mom pulls me around so I am forced to look directly into her eyes.

"Lethe, look at me," mom commands, her voice dropping all of its gentle cadence to become an absolute, uncompromising authority. She reaches up, her hands firmly cupping my tear-stained cheeks. "Do not ever say that."

I sniffle, my lower lip trembling uncontrollably as I stare up at her.

"You are not a curse," mom says, her light purple eyes blazing with a fierce, teary-eyed conviction. "You are the reason many of the people on this landship are still standing. You survived the dark to be our light. Catastrophes and wars happen because the world is broken, Lethe. Not because you were born."

Suddenly, a pair of arms wraps securely around my waist from the side.

Lisa buries her face into my shoulder, her nine tails wrapping around my legs like a warm, auburn shield.

"You are our best friend, Lethe!" Lisa cries out, her voice fierce and wavering with emotion. "You take away the nightmares! You're a blessing, not a curse!"

Podenco steps up right beside her.

"If you're a curse, then you're the best curse to ever happen to Rhodes Island,"

Podenco states, crossing her arms with a stubborn, watery sniff. "Don't you dare think otherwise. We wouldn't trade you for the world."

A soft rustle of fabric draws my attention away from the overwhelming wave of affection.

Miss Lena steps toward the table. With methodical care, she begins to wrap the golden crust of the apple pie back into its box.

"I will take this back to the garden," Miss Lena offers me a flawless, comforting smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. "I will keep it safe and perfectly warm. When the storm passes, and our Operators return, we will sit down and celebrate your birthday properly. A sanctuary always waits, Lethe."

I offer them all a slow, weak nod.

Mom doesn't let go of my hand.

"Come on," mom whispers, gently wiping a final tear from my cheek with her thumb.

"Let's get you back to your dorm."

She guides me out of the break room, leading me away from the heavy silence and into the corridors of the landship. Her thumb rhythmically brushes against my knuckles, a silent, steadying metronome as we walk toward the residential blocks.

The hallways of the landship have already adopted a grim, hurried efficiency. But as we turn a corner, the flickering glare of a wall-mounted monitor catches my eye.

We pass one of the open recreational lounges. A small cluster of off-duty Operators is standing rigidly in front of the television screen. The ambient air bleeding out into the hallway tastes of sharp, cracked peppercorns, battery acid, and cold iron.

I slow my pace, my steps dragging to a halt as my eyes lock onto the scrolling broadcast.

The Liberi news anchor's face is grim, speaking over shaky, static-laced footage of a burning cityscape. It is a region of classic brick architecture currently wreathed in thick, suffocating black smoke.

“…following breaking developments out of County Hillock," the anchor's voice echoes into the quiet corridor, strained and professional. "Reports confirm a violent, large-scale uprising in the Victorian territory. Taran independence forces, identifying themselves as 'Dublinn', alongside local resistance groups, have launched a coordinated and highly destructive assault against the local Victorian military garrisons."

The screen flashes to terrifying images of civilians fleeing through cobblestone streets, while violent bursts of Originium Arts detonate against military barricades. Then suddenly, a Feline man slowly walks down the street, dropping a bag near a group of Victorian patrols. Instantly, fire and explosions engulf the entire street.

"…The scale of the conflict is escalating rapidly," the broadcast continues, the anchor trying to remain calm, the grim finality of the words ringing in my ears. “The situation on the ground remains entirely unknown. Casualty reports are currently unverified, but municipal authorities have lost control of several key sectors."

I stand completely frozen in the hallway, the blood draining entirely from my face.

County Hillock. Victoria.

I look up at the screen, watching the fires of the Taran uprising consume the Hillock streets.

The flickering glare of the wall-mounted monitor burns against my eyes.

I stand completely frozen in the hallway, the blood draining entirely from my face.

Another crisis. Another war.

Before the paralyzing dread can completely lock my lungs, a hand gently but firmly covers my eyes, physically severing my connection to the burning screen.

"Don't look at the news, Lethe," mom commands softly.

She turns me around, wrapping her arms securely around my shoulders and pulling my face against the familiar fabric of her uniform.

"Focus," mom whispers into my hair. "Just focus on me."

I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face deeper into her embrace.

"Okay…” I breathe out. "Okay… mom."

Mom doesn't let go of my shoulder. She keeps her body positioned firmly between me and the television screen, gently guiding me down the corridor. We walk away from the recreational lounge, leaving the blood-soaked broadcast behind us.

The walk back to the residential block is quiet, but the landship around us is already beginning to hum with that terrifying, familiar frequency. The frantic rush of boots and the clatter of logistics crates echo in the distance. Rhodes Island is waking up to the fires of Victoria.

When the heavy doors to my dorm finally hiss open, we step inside. The room is bathed in its usual, comforting light, a stark contrast to the chaotic shadows of the hallway. Mom stops just inside the threshold. She turns to me, her eyes filled with a heavy, aching reluctance.

"I need to report to the medical wing," mom says, her voice tight. “With the uprising in County Hillock, the triage centers will be prepping for an influx of refugees and wounded. I have to go to work."

She looks at me, desperately searching my face for any sign of a panic attack, no doubt.

I look up at her. I cannot let her worry about me when there are people out there bleeding in the ruins.

"It is okay," I murmur, offering her the bravest, most reassuring smile I can muster. I reach up and gently squeeze her hand. "You can go to work, mom. I am safe here." Mom lets out a slow, shuddering exhale. The sharp, anxious spike in her aura melts just a fraction. She leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss directly to my forehead.

"I will check back later, my little Lethe," she promises fiercely. "Stay in your room."

"I will."

Mom gives my hand one last, grounding squeeze before stepping backward into the corridor. The pneumatic locks clank, and the heavy metal door slides shut, completely sealing the frantic noise of the landship away.

The sudden silence in the dorm is deafening.

I stand in the center of the room for a long moment. My tail, which had been wrapped tightly around my leg, slowly uncoils, dropping limply toward the floorboards.

Without mom's presence to anchor me, the sheer gravity of the world outside feels overwhelmingly heavy. Another war. Another city burning.

I shuffle over to my recessed bed. I crawl onto the mattress, pulling my knees up tightly to my chest.

Resting at the foot of the bed is my massive, oversized shark plushie; one I had meticulously hoarded my internal credits to buy from Ms. Closure's store. I grab it, pulling its incredibly soft, squishy bulk securely against my chest. I wrap my arms around it, burying my face into the plush fabric, letting its physical weight ground my trembling shoulders.

Right next to my pillows sit two smaller figures. The soft brown plushie with the bright blue button eyes, and the floppy-eared grey one. Amiya and Rosmontis.

I reach out with one hand, gently pulling the two bunnies closer until they are resting right beside my head. I look at them, clutching my shark plushie tight.

I don't know when the exhaustion finally pulled me under. The dreamless dark simply swallowed the world, pulling me into a merciful, silent void.

A gentle, rhythmic pressure against my shoulder coaxes me back to the surface.

Before I even open my eyes, my empathic Arts brush against the ambient air. Instead of the suffocating, freezing dread, a massive, comforting wave of rich, protective honey washes over my senses. It is warm and undeniably safe, though tinged with the faint, grey dust of a long shift in the medical wards.

"Lethe. Lethe."

The soft murmur vibrates in the quiet of the dorm.

I burrow my face deeper into the squishy fabric of my shark plushie, letting out a muffled groan.

"Mom…" I mumble, my voice raspy and thick with sleep.

I slowly pry my eyes open, bringing a hand up to rub at my face with the oversized sleeve of my jacket. The room is still bathed in the dim amber light of the night cycle. Mom is sitting on the very edge of my bed.

She looks very tired. Shadows coat the underside of her eyes.

She reaches out, her fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," mom says, her voice carrying a gentle, exhausted warmth. Her lips curve into a small, fond smile. "You need to eat something. It is almost dinner time." Dinner time.

The two words act like a physical spark. The fog of sleep instantly burns away. The memories of the break room, the interrupted birthday pie, and the horrific news broadcast all come rushing back in a violent, chaotic flood.

I shoot straight up from the mattress. I clutch the massive plushie to my chest, my eyes wide as I look frantically around the room.

"Amiya? Rosmontis?" I gasp, the panic instantly tightening my throat into a painful knot. I look back at mom. "Are they…? Did they leave?!"

Mom’s hand slides from my hair to gently cup the side of my face, her thumb tracing my cheekbone to physically anchor me to the present. The honey in the air doesn't sour; it remains perfectly steady.

"They are not deploying," mom replies. Her voice is absolute, leaving absolutely no room for the terror to take root.

"They… they are not?" I whisper, my Arts searching her emotions for any hidden fractures or lies.

Mom shakes her head slowly. The exhausted lines around her eyes soften with a deep, shared relief.

"I am not sure what exactly is going on up in Command," mom explains, her tone dropping into a hushed, reassuring tone. "But there are no deployment orders into the Victorian territories. We are simply holding a pattern outside the borders to ensure refugees can reach us or our outposts safely."

They are not walking into the fire. Amiya isn't stepping into the blazing, collapsing streets of County Hillock, and Rosmontis isn't being thrown into another apocalyptic, blood-soaked battlefield. They are staying on the landship. They are safe behind the armored walls.

The suffocating, heavy anvil that had been crushing my lungs all day completely shatters.

I let out a long exhale. My shoulders completely slump, the rigid terror melting out of my spine entirely. The shark plushie slips from my grip, tumbling harmlessly onto the blankets. I throw my arms around mom's neck, burying my face into the collar of her shirt, and let out a wet, breathless laugh.

"They are safe," I breathe into the fabric, squeezing her tightly.

"They are safe," mom echoes, wrapping her arms securely around my waist and pulling me flush against her chest. "The landship is secure, Lethe."

We hold each other for a long moment in the quiet amber light of the dorm. The terrifying abyss of Terra had threatened to swallow us whole once again, but today, it had missed.

Eventually, mom's stomach gives a faint, highly undignified rumble against my ribs. I pull back just a fraction, a bright, teary-eyed smile breaking across my face. I look up at her, my tail finally uncoiling to give a happy, rhythmic thump against the mattress.

"You're hungry, mom," I tease gently.

Mom chuckles, a faint flush warming her cheeks. "It has been a very long day in the triage prep bays, Lethe. And I believe I promised a certain twelve-year-old birthday girl that we would finish celebrating once the storm passed."

She stands up from the mattress, offering her hand to me.

"Come on," mom says, her eyes sparkling with that familiar, protective light. "Let's go to the garden. I think Miss Lena is keeping a golden apple pie perfectly warm for us." The walk from the residential block to the Convalescent Garden is quiet. Mom’s hand is securely wrapped around mine, her thumb rhythmically brushing against my knuckles. The terrifying, heavy dread that had suffocated the landship just hours ago has finally begun to recede, leaving behind the steady, mechanical heartbeat of our home.

As we approach the primary intersection, the sound of rapid, frantic footsteps echoes down the metallic corridor.

Before I can even process the noise, a massive, golden blur tears past us at an absolutely terrifying speed. The wind of her passing violently rustles the fabric of my jacket, making me stumble a step backward into mom’s side.

"Vulcan told me the cafeteria is running out of honey biscuits!" the blur yells, her voice echoing wildly off the bulkheads as she sprints blindly toward the dining hall.

The flavor that washes over my tongue is absolutely, staggeringly pure. It tastes like biting into a thick slice of warm, sun-baked bread dripping with wildly sweet, untamed honey, completely saturated with the dizzying, popping fizzy candies. It is a chaotic, untamed explosion of pure excitement.

I blink, completely overwhelmed by the sheer brightness of it. I look up at mom, my tail swinging wildly.

"Uhmm… mom?" I ask, pointing down the empty hallway. "Who is that?"

Mom lets out a bright, breathless giggle, her shoulders shaking with amusement as she watches the golden Perro disappear around the bend.

"That’s our dear Ceobe," mom explains, offering me a warm, reassuring smile. She gently tugs my hand, resuming our walk. "She has a bit of a one-track mind when it comes to the kitchens. Good thing your birthday pie is kept safely in the garden, Lethe. Let’s go."

I nod fervently. The thought of that chaotic, hungry Perro accidentally intercepting my birthday dessert makes my pace quicken just a fraction.

The doors of the Convalescent Garden slide apart with a soft hiss. The rich, humid wave of warm air spills out, carrying the earthy, grounded scent of damp soil and blooming flora.

Deep within the foliage, a small wooden table has already been meticulously set up.

"Lethe!"

The bright, chiming voice rings through the canopy.

Lisa doesn't just walk over; she practically launches herself down the winding path. A blur of auburn silk and radiant, sugary joy barrels directly toward me. I barely have a second to brace myself before she crashes into me, her arms wrapping securely around my neck.

The impact of her hug and the sheer, overwhelming weight of her nine tails nearly floors me. I stumble backward, my sneakers squeaking against the floor tiles, but I manage to catch my balance, wrapping my free arm tightly around her waist and burying my face into her shoulder.

"You're here!" Lisa cheers, pulling back just enough to look at me, her eyes sparkling with absolute delight.

Standing by the edge of the table, is Podenco, who is carefully positioning the tablewares.

"Lisa has been asking when she can eat the pie for the last hour," Podenco teases, her tail giving a slow, rhythmic sway. "She's just glad you are finally here so we can cut it." Lisa whips her head around, a furious, rosy flush instantly warming her cheeks. Her tails puff up into a massive, defensive shield.

"I was not!" Lisa protests, puffing her cheeks out in an adorable display of absolute indignation. "I was just waiting for Lethe!"

Podenco simply laughs, entirely unrepentant.

From behind the tea counter, the rustle of boxes draws my attention. Miss Lena steps out from the shadows of the hanging ferns. Her serene, welcoming smile reaches all the way to her eyes.

In her hands, she carefully carries a pristine cardboard box.

Miss Lena sets the box gently down in the center of the wooden table. With meticulous care, she opens the flaps, revealing the golden, flaky crust of the apple pie Amiya had ordered for me. The rich aroma of baked cinnamon and caramelized sugar instantly fills the seating area.

Resting right in the center of the beautiful, rustic crust are two small, pristine white candles. Two candles. Two years since mom pulled me from the dark and gave me a reason to live. Even though I no longer hold that memory anymore. Their daily presence are all that I need to reaffirm my existence.

I step up to the edge of the table, my heart swelling until it physically aches against my ribs, entirely ready to celebrate my tomorrow.

Miss Lena steps forward, a long wooden match struck between her fingers. With flawless grace, she touches the tiny flame to the wicks of the two candles resting perfectly in the center of the flaky crust. The twin flames flicker to life, Arts Unit a warm, dancing glow over the table.

Miss Lena gently shakes the match out, a thin wisp of grey smoke curling up into the canopy.

"Any wishes, Lethe?" Miss Lena asks.

I close my eyes. I could wish for world peace or a miracle to cure Oripathy, but those are just lies. Standing here with people who anchor me to this cruel but beautiful world, I just want this light to last forever.

I take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut tight, and project my voice with absolute certainty.

"I wish that everyone gets to eat sweets every day!"

Beside me, Lisa lets out a bright, ringing giggle.

"That is the best wish ever, Lethe!" Lisa cheers, practically vibrating on her heels.

"Dr. Warfarin is going to have an absolute meltdown if she has to manage the blood sugar levels of the entire landship, but I completely support this." Podenco adds.

Mom reaches out, her hand resting gently on the top of my head. Her touch is a warm, steadying weight.

"That's our Lethe," mom says. "Alright. Blow them out, sweetie."

I lean forward, filling my lungs with the sweet, cinnamon-laced air, and blow a sharp gust of breath. The twin flames instantly extinguish, leaving behind two tiny trails of smoke that quickly dissolve into the greenhouse humidity.

"Yay!" Lisa claps her hands together enthusiastically.

Miss Lena reaches beneath the counter and produces a stainless steel cake knife, offering the handle to me with a nod.

I take the handleI look down at the beautiful, rustic dessert.

Okay. Cut the pie into six pieces…

One for me. One for mom. One for Lisa. One for Podenco. One for Miss Lena. And one for Opal later.

I raise the knife, the silver blade hovering just millimeters above the caramelized apples. Then, my hand freezes.

My brow furrows. I lower the knife just a fraction, the joyous, bubbling thrill in my chest suddenly stuttering. I look at the five imaginary slices, and then I look around the quiet, secluded seating area of the garden.

"Should I save some for Amiya and Rosmontis?" I ask. "Where are they?"

The garden goes completely, unnaturally dead silent.

Miss Lena averts her eyes, her gaze dropping to the floor tiles with a heavy stillness. Mom steps forward, seamlessly inserting herself into my line of sight.

"They are… busy with administration duties, Lethe," mom replies.

Her voice is incredibly smooth. The cadence is perfectly measured.

But my empathic Arts catch the shift the exact second the words leave her lips. Her presence is instantly, brutally pierced. It hits me with a thick, cloying wave of artificial sweetener desperately trying to mask the foul, rotting taste of spoiled milk and sour, unripened citrus.

It is the distinct, undeniable flavor of a frantic, desperate lie.

The knife slips from my numb fingers. It hits the ceramic plate with a sharp, echoing clack, the sound ringing terribly in the silent garden.

I take a slow step backward.

I look at mom's face. I look at the dark, exhaustion-carved shadows under her eyes that she is desperately trying to hide behind a mask of calm.

"Wait…"

"Why…? Why are you lying to me?"

She reaches out, her fingers gently wrapping around my own shaking hands.

"I cannot lie to you, can I?" mom whispers. Her voice is incredibly fragile, stripped entirely of its authority. A sad, defeated smile touches her lips as she looks at me. "My little empath."

The ambient flavor of the greenhouse shifts. The rotting, cloying taste of the lie is washed away, but what replaces it offers absolutely no comfort. It is a massive, drowning ocean of bitter ash, wilted petals, and the sharp, freezing tang of cold iron. It is the taste of pure, unfiltered mourning.

"They were in the memorial hall earlier, Lethe," mom breathes out, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

The memorial hall.

The words hit me with the kinetic force of a collapsing building. My mind instantly flashes back to the towering wall of polished obsidian, the blinding lights, and the fresh, silver cuts in the dark steel.

Someone died.

"Who?" I choke out, my fingers gripping her hands so tightly my knuckles ache.

Miss Lena closes her eyes, bowing her head as a silent, profound sorrow settles over her frame. Beside me, Lisa’s tails drop completely dead against the floor tiles.

"One of our Elite Ops," mom answers, the words scraping painfully against the quiet of the garden. "Outcast. She was killed in the Dublinn uprising."

Outcast.

I had never met her in person. She was a Sankta, one of the legendary, halo-crowned marksmen from Laterano. The older Operators in the cafeteria spoke of her with a deep, reverent awe. She was a veteran who had walked through the apocalyptic fires of Chernobog and made it out alive. She was one of the absolute best gunmen Rhodes Island had ever contracted.

She was an Elite Operator.

They are the walking titans of our home. They are the apex, the untouchable veterans who walk into Catastrophes and burning cities to pull the broken from the rubble. The terrifying illusion of their invincibility. The same illusion that had shattered when Ace and Scout fell, shatters all over again, sending jagged shards of ice straight into my heart.

"How…” The word barely escapes my lips. "How…?"

If a legendary Sankta Elite couldn't survive the brick-lined streets of Victoria, then the armored plating of our landship suddenly feels as thin and fragile as paper.

Mom takes a slow, shuddering breath. Her thumbs gently, rhythmically brush over my white knuckles, desperately trying to anchor me to the physical world.

"Our intel said she died protecting the civilians against the Dublinn advance," mom explains, her voice dropping into a heavy, respectful whisper.

I look past mom. I stare at the crust of the apple pie sitting perfectly in the center of the table. Just minutes ago, it was the ultimate symbol of a peaceful, mundane birthday. A sweet, cinnamon-laced luxury.

Now, the twin trails of grey smoke rising from the extinguished candles look like the smoking ruins of a battlefield.

She died protecting people who couldn't protect themselves. She willingly traded her tomorrow so that innocent civilians could have theirs, exactly like the names carved into the obsidian wall before her.

A jagged, ragged sob tears its way out of my throat.

Mom doesn't say a word. She just drops to her knees on the cold floor tiles and wraps her arms securely around me, burying her face into my hair as we weep together for the titan who won't be coming home.

The quiet of our shared mourning is abruptly broken.

The doors of the garden slide apart with a soft, mechanical hiss. The sound echoes sharply against the canopy.

I slowly pull my face away mom’s translucent coat. I wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve, blinking through my blurred vision toward the threshold.

Amiya steps into the humid, earthy sanctuary.

She isn't wearing the pristine, unyielding mask of the CEO right now. She looks incredibly tired. Her signature jacket hangs heavily on her shoulders.

But it is her face that makes my chest physically ache. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, the dark shadows beneath them carved deeper than ever. The tear tracks are completely fresh, still glistening faintly on her cheeks in the warm light of the greenhouse. She has been crying. Crying hard.

"Lethe… There you are."

Her usual, blindingly bright spun-sugar sweetness is completely scorched. It hits the back of my tongue like burnt caramel, thick saltwater, and the heavy, suffocating grey dust of a freshly carved gravestone.

Mom gently loosens her grip on me, her hands resting securely on my shoulders as I slowly push myself up from the garden floor.

I look past Amiya, my eyes frantically searching the empty space behind her.

"Amiya…" my voice cracks, a tiny, fractured whisper. "Where’s Rosmontis?"

Amiya stops near the edge of the wooden table. She looks down at the apple pie, her hands clutching the edges of her jacket tightly.

"She…" Amiya swallows hard. "Doctor deployed her to secure our logistics routes." She lifts her head, her red-rimmed eyes meeting mine..

"We need to make sure we are safe while staying near Victorian borders," Amiya explains, her tone taking on a fraction of her usual, resolute authority to keep her voice from completely breaking.

"We are not going to war, right?" I plead.

I look at her, my eyes begging. I cannot do it again. I cannot stand in the corridors and taste the rotting, metallic sludge of another slaughter. I cannot watch the VTOLs return with empty seats.

Amiya doesn't hesitate. She closes the distance between us.

"We are not, Lethe," Amiya promises.

She holds my eyes for a long, heavy second, anchoring me completely to the safety of the landship. Then, Amiya lets out a slow, shuddering exhale. She turns toward the table once more.

She looks at the two extinguished candles. She looks at the perfectly baked dessert she had ordered specifically to give me a single moment of peace.

Amiya forces the corners of her lips upward, stretching her exhausted, tear-stained face into a brave, radiant smile.

"Come," Amiya murmurs. "Let's enjoy the pie."

The sheer, staggering strength it takes for her to smile right now is overwhelming.

"Okay," I whisper, giving her a firm, deliberate nod.

I step forward, picking up the cake knife from the plate. I look around the table. Mom stands beside me, her eyes shining with absolute relief. Lisa and Podenco step closer, their tails giving slow, comforting swishes of renewed focus. Miss Lena offers a beautiful nod.

The apple pie yields effortlessly under the edge of my fork.

I take a small, careful bite. The rich, comforting burst of baked apples, sharp cinnamon, and caramelized sugar melts on my tongue. It is a brilliant, grounded sweetness that actively pushes back the suffocating war raging outside.

Beside me, Lisa is happily munching on her own slice. The damp, frightened shadows that had clung to her aura just hours ago are slowly being chased away by the sugar. She pauses, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth. Her eyes dart from her plate, trailing up the dark fabric of my oversized jacket, before stopping directly at my head. She tilts her head, her vulpine ears twitching with sudden curiosity.

"Lethe?" Lisa asks. "Have you ever gotten a haircut?"

I stop chewing.

"Uhmmm… haircut?" I repeat, the word feeling strange on my tongue.

"Yeah, a haircut," Lisa nods, using her free hand to mimic the snipping motion of scissors. "Like, someone takes scissors and styles your hair. When you first arrived from the ruins, your hair was, like, a bit past your waist. But now…"

Lisa leans over, gesturing toward the floor.

I follow her gaze. I look over the edge of my chair.

My shimmering, woodsmoke-grey hair has cascaded completely past the hem of my jacket. It flows over the edge of the seat, the longest strands practically pooling against my thick insulated stockings, reaching almost all the way down to my thighs. It has become a massive, heavy curtain. For the past two years, I had been so entirely focused on surviving Oripathy, studying in the Archives, and siphoning the nightmares of our Operators that the slow, creeping weight of my own hair had completely escaped my notice.

A soft, sudden smack echoes across the table.

Mom suddenly hits her forehead with the palm of her hand. She drags her hand down her face, a hot, prickly flush of absolute, undeniable embarrassment instantly warming her cheeks. The ambient flavor in the air ripples with the distinct, sheepish taste of flustered honey and tart lemon.

"Oh, right," mom groans, her voice muffled slightly behind her fingers. "I even dry her hair after her showers. I am literally the one brushing it every morning, and I never actually realized how long it got."

Mom lowers her hand, looking across the table at me with a deeply apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Lethe. I completely neglected your grooming."

"It's okay, mom!" I quickly reassure her, reaching up to gather a thick handful of the heavy strands. "It just keeps me warm! But… it does get caught in the zippers of my jacket a lot."

Amiya, who has been quietly savoring her own slice of pie, lets out a soft giggle.

"We can easily fix that," Amiya adds in, setting her fork down on the plate. "Susie has recently arrived on the landship. She is a great barber. You should check with her." I tilt my head, my longer left horn pulling my neck down just a fraction.

"Susie?" I ask. The name doesn't belong to any of the Medics or Field Ops I usually encounter in the corridors.

"Yes, Susie Glitter. Her Operator codename is Goldenglow," Amiya explains. "She is a Feline. She joined us from Caladon after she saved the Infected community there from a noble’s plot."

Caladon.

My mind instantly flashes back to the hushed aisles of the Archives, to the day Ms. Skyfire had packed her bags and marched into the heart of the Victorian Empire.

Podenco had told me she was stationed in Caladon, using her fiery Arts to protect an Infected district from the blind cruelty of the aristocracy.

"Caladon… Is she… did she work with Ms. Skyfire?"

"She did," Amiya confirms, the pride in her voice unmistakable. "Susie is incredibly brave. The situation in the city became highly volatile, but she stood her ground to protect her friends and the Infected citizens. She is adjusting to life here on Rhodes Island now, and she has set up a small salon space in one of the auxiliary residential blocks."

Another person who walked through the fire. Another Infected who refused to let the cruelty of Terra extinguish their light, finding their way to the armored belly of our home.

And she can give me a haircut.

I look down at the sprawling mass of my hair, and then back up at mom.

"Can I go see her, mom?" I ask. "Can I get a haircut from Miss Susie?"

Mom's face stretches into a beautiful smile.

"Of course, Lethe. We will set up an appointment for you tomorrow. Let's get you cleaned up properly."

“Okay, mom!” I chirp, fully ready to get a haircut.

The rest of the night passes by relatively uneventfully.

Mom gently tucks me into my bed after I changed to my soft sleepwear. Ready for another day.

The daylight simulation in my dorm hasn't even fully transitioned from its bruised, amber night cycle to the crisp white of morning, but I am already wide awake.

I am sitting perfectly upright on the edge of my bed, my tail flicking back and forth against the mattress in a rapid rhythm.

Today is the 3rd of January. Today is my very first haircut.

The pneumatic locks of my dorm disengage with a sharp clank. The door slides apart with a soft hiss.

I don't even hesitate. I launch myself off the mattress, and barrel toward the doorway.

"Mom! Mom! Mom!"

Mom barely has a second to brace herself before I crash into her. She catches me with a breathless laugh, her arms wrapping securely around my shoulders to absorb my momentum.

"Oof! Look who is up bright and early," mom chuckles, her feathers fluffing up she looks down at my beaming face.

"Let’s go to Miss Susie’s!" I urge, practically vibrating on the spot. I grip the fabric of her translucent coat, my eyes wide and pleading. I want to see the salon.

Mom’s smile deepens, but she gently shakes her head. Her hands come up to softly smooth down the messy, tangled strands framing my face.

"Now, now, Lethe. Breakfast first. Goldenglow needs her own breakfast and preparations too, you know. We cannot just barge into her salon before she's even had her coffee."

I freeze. The bubbling excitement stalls for a brief second as the practical logic catches up to me. Miss Susie is an Operator, too. She needs to wake up and eat just like everyone else.

"Oh, right," I mumble. I slump my shoulders slightly, a small, sheepish pout forming on my lips, though my tail continues its happy, rhythmic thump against her leg.

Mom gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and after I quickly pull on my dark pleated skirt, my insulated stockings, and my oversized grey jacket, we step out into the corridors.

The walk to the cafeteria is quiet. As the double doors of the dining hall hiss apart, the contrast is immediately apparent. The sprawling room is significantly more empty than normal. Rows of blue plastic chairs sit completely vacant, missing the usual chaotic, overlapping clatter of Operators rushing to fuel up for their shifts.

The war is still very much affecting our lives. The fires of County Hillock and the shadow of the Dublinn uprising. The ambient air tastes of dull, stagnant rainwater and heavy iron. It is a quiet, lingering anxiety that settles deep into the bones of everyone who remains on board.

I keep my head down, letting my hair fall forward as an instinctual shield, and follow mom closely toward the serving stations. I actively push the dread away, focusing my entire mind on the warm, savory aromas rising from the hot plates.

I point eagerly through the glass, assembling my absolute, all-time favorites.

We find a secluded table near the back. I sit down and eagerly tear into the food, letting the simple, grounded comforts chase away the heavy atmosphere of the room. The rolled omelette is perfectly warm, the delicate, savory yellow layers melting effortlessly on my tongue. I follow it up with a massive, ambitious bite of the sweet red bean roll, the soft, pillowy dough giving way to the rich, earthy sugar of the paste hidden inside. I chew happily, washing the rich sweetness down with a long gulp of warm milk. The soothing heat blooms in my chest, a deeply satisfying, domestic warmth that anchors me perfectly to the present.

I happily tear through the rest of the meal in record time, meticulously wiping a stray crumb of sweet bread from the corner of my mouth.

"I'm ready!" I announce, sliding off my plastic chair and grabbing my Arts Unit from where it rests against the table.

Mom finishes her own coffee, she gathers our empty trays and stands up.

"Alright, Lethe. Let's go.”

We step back out into the arteries of Rhodes Island, turning our steps away from the primary medical blocks and heading deep into the auxiliary residential sectors. We are on our way to Miss Susie’s.

The transition from the wide corridors of the primary sectors to the auxiliary residential blocks is subtle, but the air immediately feels quieter, less burdened by the frantic rush of logistics.

We walk down the corridor until we stop in front of a specific door. Hanging neatly beside the control panel is a small, handcrafted wooden sign. It reads “Susie’s Salon” in careful, curving letters.

I reach out and gingerly press the buzzer.

The heavy metal hisses apart.

Standing in the threshold is a Feline girl. She has soft, incredibly fluffy pink hair that frames her face, and a pair of rounded feline ears that fold slightly downward in an inherently gentle curve. She is wearing a practical, beige styling apron layered over a cozy, slightly oversized sweater, with a pair of metallic scissors peeking safely out from one of the front pockets.

I take a small breath, my empathic Arts naturally brushing against the ambient air around her.

Her presence is wonderfully cozy. It tastes like toasted sugar, warm milk, and fresh, sun-dried linens. But right at the very edges, buzzing beneath the sweetness, is a sharp, crackling fizz; like static electricity dancing across the tongue. She is incredibly warm, but highly charged.

"Oh, hi!" Miss Susie’s eyes widen, crinkling into a bright, welcoming smile as she looks down at us. "You must be Lethe and Caladria?"

"Yes. Miss Susie," I reply, offering a polite nod.

"Come in, come in! Have a seat," Susie ushers us inside, stepping back to reveal a small room that has been meticulously transformed into a comfortable, welcoming shop. "I was just finishing my coffee. Give me ten minutes to set up the chair and my tools." I shuffle inside. The room smells of sweet floral shampoo and sterilized metal. I walk over to a plush, pastel-colored sofa pushed against the wall and carefully climb onto it. I pull my posture upright, my legs dangling over the edge and swinging back and forth in a rhythmic excitement. My tail coils neatly beside me on the cushions.

Mom steps in behind me, slightly sheepish smile on her face.

"Sorry, Goldenglow," mom apologizes, resting a hand on the back of the sofa. "Lethe was way too excited. She woke me up before the daylight simulation even turned on." Susie laughs, a bright sound laced with that faint electric fizz. "It is all good! I am used to early mornings."

Mom checks the digital clock on her wrist terminal.

"Well," mom sighs, her hand dropping to give my shoulder a firm, loving squeeze. "My shift at the medical bay is starting in fifteen minutes. I should head back. Behave yourself, Lethe."

I look up at her.

"Okay! Good luck, mom."

Susie pauses near her styling station, a ceramic mug in her hand. She turns around, her folded pink ears perking up in mild surprise.

"Mom?" Susie echoes, her gaze shifting curiously between me, the Sarkaz and mom, the pale-feathered Liberi. "I didn't know! You are family?"

I stop swinging my legs.

"Mom saved me from a ruin in Kazdel," I explain. "She adopted me. At least… that's what they tell me…”

"Oh…” Susie breathes out, her smile faltering.

Mom steps closer to the sofa.

"Her Oripathy destroys her memories…" mom murmurs gently, offering the Feline barber a sad, deeply understanding smile.

The air in the salon grows heavy. I can feel the pity welling up in MIss Susie's emotional resonance; that bitter, tragic taste of sorrow that I try so hard to avoid. I don't want her to feel sad for me before she even cuts my hair.

"That's okay, I am fine," I quickly chime in, forcing a bright, resolute smile across my face to push the gloom away.

I reach into my bag, my fingers wrapping around the aluminum chassis of my digital slate. I pull it out and tap the screen, holding the glowing device up slightly.

"I write all the people who are important to me in my note," I tell her. "So I don't lose them."

I look at Miss Susie, my smile widening. "I will add one for Miss Susie too."

The heavy, cloying taste of pity that had briefly clouded the room instantly dissolves.

"Then I have to give you the absolute best haircut to earn that placement!" Miss Susie cheers, her eyes sparkling with renewed, cheerful determination.

Mom lets out a soft chuckle. She steps backward toward the threshold.

"I will leave you two to it," mom says, her hand resting on the door's control panel. She looks at me, offering a warm, expectant smile. "Send me a picture once it is done, Lethe."

"Okay!" I promise, giving her an enthusiastic nod.

"Laters, Caladria," Miss Susie calls out, offering a friendly wave with her free hand. Mom returns the wave before stepping out into the corridor.

I stay seated on the plush sofa, watching in quiet fascination as Miss Susie bustles around her styling station. She moves with a practiced, elegant efficiency, laying out gleaming metallic shears, fine-toothed combs, and soft towels onto the counter.

As she lines up a row of small styling clips, she glances at me through the mirror's reflection.

"You know, Skyfire mentioned you," Miss Susie says casually.

My tail, which had been swaying lazily against the cushions, snaps completely rigid.

"Ms. Skyfire did?"

A phantom taste of sharp, roasted spices and a crackling hearth fire suddenly ghosts across me. Even though my fierce Victorian tutor is hundreds of kilometers away in Caladon, the sheer, paralyzing authority of her academic expectations still holds an iron grip on my nervous system.

Miss Susie turns around, leaning her hip against the counter. A bright giggle escapes her lips, her hair shifting as she smiles.

"Well," Miss Susie teases. "She complains about a certain Sarkaz child who cares more about sweets than her Originium thermodynamics homework."

I immediately puff my cheeks out.

"Her homework is hard!" I whine loudly, my hands gripping the edge of the sofa cushions. I lean forward. "The math is so long! Miss Adele’s homework is a lot more interesting. We just look at maps then talk about volcanoes and nations!"

A sudden, terrifying thought strikes me.

"Please don’t tell Ms. Skyfire I said that!" I plead, practically begging. I wave my hands frantically in the air. "If she finds out I like geography more than thermodynamics, she is going to literally appear on the landship straight from Victoria just to give me a pop quiz!"

Miss Susie covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking as a warm laugh echoes across the small salon. The fizzy, static charge in her aura pops like sweet popping candy.

She steps forward, picking up a soft, pristine cape from her station, and gives me a highly reassuring, conspiratorial wink.

"Your secrets are perfectly safe with me, Lethe," Miss Susie promises.

"Come, Lethe," Miss Susie says, gently patting the smooth, leather upholstery of the styling chair. "Let’s get started."

I slide off the plush sofa. I carefully slip my arms out of the sleeves of my R.I. jacket. I fold the fabric neatly and set it on the cushions, leaving me in just my crisp white turtleneck and pleated skirt. Without the jacket's weight, my tail sways a little more freely behind me.

I step up to the styling chair, gripping the armrests, and climb into the seat. It is slightly too big for me, making my feet dangle just above the footrest, but the padded leather is incredibly comfortable. Miss Susie steps behind me, shaking out a pale pink cape. She drapes it smoothly over my shoulders, securing it snugly around the base of my neck, right above the black Arts monitor collar.

She stands behind me, her ears twitching thoughtfully as she looks at our reflection in the large, brightly lit mirror. Her hands reach out, gently gathering the massive, sprawling curtain of my hair.

"How do you want your hair, Lethe?" she asks, her voice carrying a gentle, professional curiosity.

I stare at my reflection. I look at my misty blue eyes, and thetangled ends of my hair pooling against the back of the chair.

"I don’t know what is supposed to look good," I look up, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

"I didn't even know what a haircut and a salon were until yesterday."

"Hmm…" Miss Susie hums, tilting her head as she carefully assesses my face, the heavy length of my hair, and the distinct, lopsided shape of my horns. "Well. Your hair needs to be shorter, that’s for sure. It must be so heavy to carry all this around every day!" She gently lets my hair fall back down and reaches into the pocket of her apron, pulling out a digital terminal.

"I think an asymmetrical cut fits you on the front," she suggests, her fingers swiping rapidly across the glass screen. She leans over my shoulder, holding the terminal up so I can see the display in the mirror. "Since your left horn is a bit longer than your right, an asymmetrical fringe will balance out the silhouette perfectly. It will frame your face without getting caught, and we can take a lot of the weight off the back so it doesn't drag on the floor anymore. What do you think, Lethe?"

I look at the digital reference picture. The girl on the screen looks incredibly neat. The stylish, uneven cut gives her a sharp but delicate appearance.

I give her a firm, trusting nod in the mirror.

"Okay."

Miss Susie takes a deep, steadying breath as she completely steps into her zone.

The sharp, rhythmic snip-snip of her metallic shears fills the quiet room.

Almost instantly, the massive, sprawling curtain of my shimmering grey hair begins to fall. Thick, woodsmoke-grey strands drop onto the pristine pink cape and pool heavily onto the floorboards. The physical relief is immediate and absolutely staggering. For two years, I had been carrying around a stifling, dragging blanket that constantly pulled at the muscles in my neck. As she expertly chops away the dead weight, my head feels miraculously, wonderfully light.

Miss Susie leans in close, her eyes narrowing with absolute, uncompromising focus as she begins the delicate, intricate work of styling the asymmetrical fringe to perfectly frame my horns.

Then, a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity violently arcs from her fingertips, flowing straight through the shears and directly into my scalp.

"Ouchie!" I yelp.

My shoulders jump, and my hands instinctively fly up from beneath the pink cape, pressing flat against the sides of my head.

Miss Susie flinches, immediately yanking her hands and the scissors safely away from my hair. The dense, focused sugar in the air instantly burns with a sharp, frantic spike of panicked guilt.

"Oh no! Sorry!" Miss Susie gasps, her ears folding completely flat against her head in distress. "Lethe, my Arts… when I get too focused or stressed, it reacts by itself. Sorry! I am still learning how to control it."

I blink, lowering my hands. The sharp sting of the static shock is already fading, leaving behind only a faint, tingling warmth against my scalp. I look at her wide, apologetic eyes in the mirror. I know all too well what it is like to have a body and an Oripathy infection that refuses to listen to you.

"It is okay, Miss Susie," I offer her a reassuring smile in the reflection. "I am fine. It didn't hurt much!"

Miss Susie lets out a long, shuddering exhale of relief, the guilty flavor melts away. She gives me a grateful, wobbly smile and carefully raises her shears to resume her meticulous work.

As I sit quietly in the chair, watching the faint, involuntary sparks of static electricity occasionally dance across the tips of her hair, my mind drifts away from the salon. It drifts back to the hushed, climate-controlled aisles of the Archives, surrounded by towering bookshelves and the comforting, dormant hearth fire presence of my tutor.

“Miss Adele,” I had asked one afternoon, tracing the topographical lines of a map while she sat across from me. “What Arts do you use?”

Miss Adele had looked up, her soft eyes reflecting a quiet, immense power.

“My Arts are based on fire, Lethe,” she had said, her voice carrying that gentle, airy melody. “Kind of like a volcano.”

Given that she dedicates her life to studying fault lines and volcanology, the sheer, devastating scale of her abilities made perfect sense.

“Woah,” I had breathed out, completely captivated. “Actually, Miss Adele… why do people use different Arts?”

Miss Adele had set her magnifying glass down on the wooden table, her expression shifting into a patient, academic focus.

“While basic healing for surface wounds, or simple Arts projectiles, are universal skills almost everyone can learn if they study the Arts theory and Arts calculations enough,” Miss Adele had explained, “but, Arts manifest in people afflicted with Oripathy very differently. The Originium alters the pathways. Sometimes the manifestations are entirely mundane. And sometimes… they are dangerous and highly volatile.”

The sharp, rhythmic snip of the shears pulls my mind back to the present.

I look at Miss Susie in the brightly lit mirror. Her brow is furrowed in deep concentration, her eyes tracking every single strand of hair she cuts. She is trying so incredibly hard to keep her hands steady, actively fighting the volatile, electric static crackling beneath her skin just so she can give me a beautiful haircut.

Her Arts must be very, very hard to control.

I keep perfectly, completely still in the leather chair, making absolutely sure I don't startle her or break her intense focus, letting her work the magic.

The sharp clicking finally slows to a halt. Miss Susie gives one last, meticulous brush through my shortened locks, gently dusting the stray, clipped strands from the shoulders of the cape.

With a flourish, she steps back and gestures toward the mirror.

"Ta-da. All done," Miss Susie announces, her voice ringing with a bright, triumphant tone. "What do you think, Lethe?"

I stare at my reflection.

The heavy, dragging curtain of woodsmoke-grey hair is completely gone. My hair is now squarely cut off, resting neatly just slightly above my waist. But it is the front that truly transforms my face. The fringe is elegantly, deliberately asymmetrical, sweeping softly to the right. It perfectly offsets the lopsided weight of the longer horn sprouting from the left side of my crown.

I reach up, my fingers gently touching the soft, trimmed ends of my hair.

"I look different," I whisper into the quiet salon, a genuine, radiant smile breaking across my face. "I like it."

The ambient air in the room instantly sweetens.

"You look cute, Lethe," Miss Susie beams. She reaches into her styling apron and pulls out her terminal. "Want me to take a picture and send to Caladria?"

The thought of mom seeing my new look while she is working her shift in the medical bay makes my tail give a happy, rhythmic thump against the styling chair.

"Okay," I chirp, sitting up perfectly straight and offering the terminal my absolute best, brightest smile. "Thank you so much, Miss Susie."

Miss Susie holds up the device. A soft, digital click echoes in the room. Her fingers dance rapidly across the glass screen for a second.

"You are welcome," Miss Susie smiles, lowering the terminal with a satisfied nod. "There. Sent."

Before I can even hop down from the seat, the locks of the salon door disengage. The air in the small room instantly shifts. The cozy, electric sugar of Miss Susie's presence is met by a massive comforting wave of sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak.

Standing at the threshold is Ms. Raidian. The Elite Operator steps into the salon, her sharp eyes immediately locking onto me.

"Oh my, oh my. Look at that! Lethe, looking good!"

She doesn't just walk over; she practically teleports. With the terrifying, effortless speed of a seasoned Elite Ops, she instantly reappears right in front of my styling chair.

Before I can even offer a proper, respectful bow, I am completely trapped. Two of her arms pin the armrests of the leather chair, securely locking my seat in place so I am forced to face her directly. Simultaneously, her other two arms reach up, her hands firmly and affectionately framing my face for a thorough, up-close inspection. She squishes my cheeks together with an undeniable enthusiasm.

"Ms… Ms… Raidian," I stammer, my voice coming out as a completely distorted, high- pitched mumble as she relentlessly squishes my cheeks.

From behind Miss Susie just lets out a highly amused laugh, completely unfazed.

"Good morning, Raidian. Perfect timing," Miss Susie says, wiping down her shears with a soft towel. "Lethe here is just done."

"Well," Ms. Raidian hums approvingly.

She finally lets me go, dropping her arms and stepping back to admire the handiwork. I let out a breathless puff of air, my hands immediately flying up to my head. My brand- new, perfectly styled asymmetrical fringe is already getting messy from her enthusiastic greeting. I hastily try to smooth the grey strands back into place around my horns to preserve Miss Susie's hard work.

Ms. Raidian just gives me a warm, conspiratorial wink.

"You have a garden to enjoy, don't you, Lethe?" she asks, her tone perfectly balancing her Elite authority with a deeply fond warmth.

Miss Lena, Lisa, and Podenco are probably already waiting for me to start my shift.

"I do," I reply.

I carefully slide off the seat, making sure my padded sneakers find the floor safely. I reach over to the plush sofa, grabbing my jacket and my Kazdelian Arts Unit.

I turn back to the styling station, offering Miss Susie a deep grateful bow.

"I will head to work then," I announce, my voice ringing with a renewed, confident clarity.

"Thank you, Miss Susie."

I turn to the Elite Operator, offering her the same deep respect. "Take care on your missions, Ms. Raidian."

"Bye, Lethe," Miss Susie calls out, waving a hand with a warm smile.

I step out into the quiet corridor. I immediately notice the difference; my head feels miraculously light, the dragging curtain of my hair no longer catching on my collar. Almost instantly, a frantic, rhythmic buzzing starts vibrating against my hip. It is so intense that my dark crossbody bag practically bounces against my skirt.

I hastily fish out my slate. The screen is absolutely lit up with a rapid-fire barrage of notifications. All of them are from mom.

I let out an exasperated sigh, tapping the glass to open our encrypted channel.

[Lethe]: Mom, focus on work.

The three pulsing grey dots appear immediately. She is definitely not focusing on her triage prep.

[Caladria]: Come to cafeteria for lunch! I have to see it in person.

I let out a soft chuckle. I quickly type back a confirmation, slip the slate safely back into my bag.

The walk to the Convalescent Garden feels incredibly breezy. As the doors slide apart, the familiar, comforting wave of humid, earthy air washes over me.

I step onto the polished floor. It feels a little quieter than usual today. I search the ambient air, but the blindingly bright, spun-sugar presence of Lisa is missing. She must be tied up with her Supporter drills or academic tutoring this morning.

Deep within the garden, standing near the control panels of the micro-climate pods, are Miss Lena and Podenco. They are deep in conversation, entirely focused on their botanical duties.

"Make sure the water cycles are on the exact time I outlined in the documents," Miss Lena instructs.

"Yes, Miss Lena," Podenco replies diligently, tapping a quick sequence into her slate. I step down the path. I stop just a few paces away from the terrariums.

Podenco lowers her slate and turns to look at me. Her ears swivel forward. She stares at my face, taking in the elegantly styled asymmetrical fringe, and the drastically shortened length of my hair resting neatly near my waist.

For a long second, her face remains completely, flawlessly deadpan.

"Hi," Podenco says, her voice entirely flat and completely devoid of recognition. "You are?"

My jaw drops. My hands fly up in absolute, unadulterated shock.

"What?!" I yelp, my tail snapping rigidly behind me. "It is me, Lethe!"

Podenco narrows her eyes. She crosses her arms over her teal jacket, leaning in to inspect me with a highly exaggerated, scrutinizing glare.

"That doesn't look right," Podenco states, maintaining her stony, serious facade perfectly.

But she cannot lie to me.

The moment my Arts brush against the ambient air, the truth completely shatters her performance. The sharp, tangy citrus of her presence practically explodes. It tastes like a violently fizzy, carbonated burst of pure, barely restrained amusement. She is absolutely dying of laughter on the inside.

I instantly drop my hands to my hips, puffing my cheeks out into my fiercest pout.

"Podenco!" I whine, stamping my foot lightly against the floorboards. "You can taste like a shaken soda bottle right now! Stop teasing me!"

The deadpan mask immediately crumbles. Podenco bursts into a bright, ringing chuckle that echoes beautifully across the greenhouse canopy.

"I couldn't resist!" Podenco giggles, uncrossing her arms to gesture at my new look.

"You look so different, Lethe! The shorter hair really suits you. You look like a proper, highly professional assistant now!"

Miss Lena turns from the environmental controls, a melodic chuckle escaping her lips.

"It frames your face beautifully, sweetie," Miss Lena murmurs, offering me a warm smile.

"Susie did a wonderful job. You look very lovely."

"Thank you, Miss Lena," I reply, the prickly heat of embarrassment melting away into a bright, genuine smile. I reach up, my fingers lightly brushing the soft, trimmed ends of my asymmetrical fringe. "It feels a lot lighter, too."

The lighthearted, teasing atmosphere of the greenhouse is abruptly grounded as Miss Lena gently clears her throat. The sound is delicate, but it carries that unmistakable, serene authority that instantly commands the attention of everyone in the room.

"I am going to be away for a few days, maybe longer, Lethe," Miss Lena announces. My tail, which had just resumed its happy swaying, completely freezes in mid-air. The bright, bubbly joy in my chest stalls.

"Miss Lena? Where are you going?"

Miss Lena offers a reassuring smile.

"Since we are not involving ourselves with the war," Miss Lena explains, her voice a calm hum that completely belies the gravity of her words, "I think it is a good time for me to attach myself to the Field Ops teams to study the plant life of Victoria."

She gestures toward the thick botanical encyclopedias resting on Podenco's workstation.

"The Victorian Empire sits on one of the most fertile plains in Terra," she continues, her eyes shining with an academic passion. "The plants there are incredibly diverse, and potentially very valuable to our medical research. If we can secure unique samples from the Victorian soil, it could drastically improve the efficacy of our healing poultices and Oripathy suppressants."

Victoria.

My mind instantly flashes back to the shaky, static-laced footage of County Hillock burning. I see the terrified civilians fleeing through the cobblestone streets, the violent bursts of Originium Arts from the Dublinn uprising, and the terrifying shadow of the Kazdelian occupation of Londinium.

"But…” I stammer. I take a desperate step forward, my eyes pleading as I look up at her.

"Wouldn't it be dangerous?"

Miss Lena steps across. She reaches out, her warm, steady hands coming down to rest gently on my shoulders.

"Don't worry, Lethe," Miss Lena murmurs, leaning down just a fraction so she is looking directly into my terrified eyes. Her smile is completely devoid of fear. "I am a trained Field Medic. And I will have Field Ops escorts.”

In the peaceful, humid quiet of the garden, pouring tea and pruning ferns, it is so incredibly easy to forget. Miss Lena isn't just a botanist. She wears the Rhodes Island emblem for a reason. She is a veteran who has walked the scarred, broken lands of Terra to heal the wounded. She knows exactly how to navigate the dark.

Miss Lena gives my shoulders a firm, grounding squeeze.

"Take care of the garden for me with Podenco and Beanstalk, okay?" she asks, her tone shifting into a gentle, trusting request.

I look at her. I think of the safe, beautiful sanctuary she has built for us, the haven where our broken Operators come to rest their heavy heads. She is leaving to find more ways to heal them, and she is trusting me to keep the hearth warm while she is out in the cold.

I push the terrifying images of burning Hillock streets out of my mind, and give her a slow, deliberate, and deeply solemn nod.

"Okay," I whisper, my voice steadying in the humid air. "We will keep it safe, Miss Lena. We promise."

"I know you will, all of you."

Miss Lena turns her gaze toward a small counter, where the glossy, embossed cover of a Victorian romance novel sits partially hidden beneath a stack of botanical charts. A delicate, entirely un-manager-like sigh escapes her lips.

"I hope I can finish reading my novel before I leave tomorrow," she murmurs.

Beside me, Podenco's tail perks straight up, fanning the air.

"We can summarise the story for you when you are back," Podenco offers, her cheekiest, most innocent smile stretching across her face.

"No you will not, young lady," Miss Lena interrupts smoothly, though a frantic, fizzy spike of sweet rosewater completely betrays her serene facade. She swiftly steps in front of the counter, shielding her precious literature from view. "I am hiding the books." I press my hands over my mouth, my shoulders shaking as a giggle bubbles up in my throat.

Before Miss Lena can properly secure her novel, the doors of the garden opens.

Miss Beanstalk strides down the winding path. The earthy, dry flavor of sun-baked hay and roasted seeds trails behind her, accompanied by the faint, metallic clicking of a tiny crab trailing her.

"What you three laughing at?" Miss Beanstalk asks, tilting her head as she looks between my flushed, giggling face and Miss Lena's highly defensive posture.

Miss Lena gracefully smooths the front of her apron, her flawless, tranquil sanctuary- guardian persona snapping back into place in a heartbeat. The frantic rosewater flavor vanishes entirely.

"Nothing serious, Beanstalk," Miss Lena replies smoothly, her voice returning to its calming tone. "Just giving them pointers on managing the garden while I am on field. How’s your incubators?"

It is a perfectly polite, innocent question.

It is also a fatal mistake.

Miss Beanstalk completely freezes. The ambient air in the greenhouse violently erupts. The dry, earthy flavor of her emotional resonance explodes into a blinding, overwhelming wave of pure entrepreneurial fire. Her eyes literally light up, shining with the terrifying intensity of a breeder who has been waiting all day for this exact prompt. She opens her mouth, drawing in a massive breath, entirely ready to launch into a highly detailed, hours-long lectures.

"I just remember I need to double check the nutrition solutions!" Podenco blurts out, her words overlapping with Miss Beanstalk's sharp inhale.

Without waiting for a response, Podenco executes a perfect, tactical retreat. She takes two rapid steps backward and smoothly disappears behind a dense, impenetrable wall of broad-leafed ferns, vanishing into the foliage like a ghost.

I stand there, my hands dropping from my mouth.

I turn my head, staring at the slightly swaying ferns where my Perro friend had just been standing. The absolute, unmitigated betrayal hits me. I am left entirely alone in the crossfire, my tail dropping limply against the floorboards as I brace myself for the impending crustacean lecture.

"And if you carefully monitor the ambient temperature, their molting phase is completely seamless!" Miss Beanstalk practically vibrates, her hands gesturing wildly to emphasize the sheer, magnificent scale of her crustacean empire.

I nod blankly, my eyes entirely glazed over. My horns feel heavy, and my tail gives a slow, defeated twitch against the floor.

I am finally, mercifully let go.

My stomach gives a hollow, desperate twist, reminding me that the morning cycle has completely ticked over into the lunch hour. I drag my feet out of the Convalescent Garden, moving with the sluggish, heavy steps of the utterly exhausted. Surviving Miss Beanstalk's impassioned agricultural seminars takes nearly as much endurance as running laps for Ms. Dobermann.

As I go, navigating the corridors toward the cafeteria, a familiar figure steps into my path.

Miss Sussurro passes by. Her crisp white coat rustles softly, and her presence still the sharp, grounding wave of unsweetened dark chocolate and black coffee.

“Good afternoon, Lethe,” Miss Sussurro says, her voice carrying its usual, uncompromising professional severity.

I stop, gripping the dark shaft of my Arts Unit, and force my spine straight.

“Good afternoon, Miss Sussurro. How’s Opal?”

The bitter, exhausted edge of the senior Medic's emotional resonance softens just a fraction. The stern lines of her face ease into a quiet, clinical satisfaction.

“She is sleeping," Miss Sussurro replies, looking up at me. "Dr. Warfarin’s application of suppressants are working better than expected. Given current recovery results, she will be cleared for light activities again next week.”

The words hit me like a rush of pure, filtered oxygen. The suffocating dread that always lingers around Opal's prognosis recedes, chased away by the miraculous, undeniable efficacy of our medical department's interventions. She is stabilizing. We bought her more time.

“That’s good," I breathe out, a genuine, relieved smile breaking across my face, entirely banishing my lingering fatigue. "Thank you, Miss Sussurro.”

Miss Sussurro gives a curt nod. Her sharp eyes sweep over my slouching posture, my drooping ears, and the utterly drained expression I haven't quite managed to hide.

“Go get some food, Lethe," Miss Sussurro advises, her tone laced with a faint, strict undertone of care. "You look exhausted.”

“I will,” I promise, letting out a heavy sigh as I offer her a respectful bow and begin to shuffle past her toward the dining hall.

Only if she knew what I went through.

The horrors of the battlefield and the sharp sting of Dr. Warfarin's needles have absolutely nothing on an inescapable, hour-long lecture about the optimal dietary minerals for mechanical crabs.

I keep trudge my way towards the cafeteria.

Before I can even step foot into the bustling dining hall, two arms wrap securely around my shoulders from behind, pulling me into a warm, inescapable embrace.

"Oh my. My little Lethe! Look at you."

Mom’s voice rings out clearly in the hallway.

The clatter of the corridor noticeably slows. A few passing logistics Operators and off- duty Field Ops pause their conversations, turning around to look at us. I catch the highly amused smiles stretching across their faces.

My cheeks instantly erupt in a hot, prickly flush. I duck my head, desperately trying to shrink into the collar of my oversized jacket.

"Mom…" I mumble, my voice dropping into a frantic, embarrassed whine. "It is embarrassing."

Mom doesn't let go; instead, she steps around to face me, reaching out to gently pinch my burning cheek.

"Because you are our cutest little Lethe here," mom coos, her eyes crinkling with absolute fondness.

But then, her expression shifts. She tilts her head, her eyes scanning the exhausted droop of my ears and the heavy slump of my shoulders.

"Though, you look a bit tired," mom observes. "Are you not eating your vegetables again? Don’t make me confiscate your ID card again."

I flinch, my hand instinctively flying to the pocket where my hard-earned internal credits are safely stored.

"Or perhaps, you need Hibiscus’s smoothies."

Mom leans in just a fraction closer while delivering her ultimate, apocalyptic ultimatum. The mere mention of the energetic Sarkaz Medic's "nutritionally complete" concoctions sends a violent, freezing shudder straight down my spine. My mind immediately flashes to the ominous, swamp-green sludge that smells intensely of raw kale and concentrated bitter roots. In my eyes, that shaker bottle is nothing short of literal biological warfare. My survival instincts completely override my exhaustion. I practically shoot up to attention, my hands flying up in a frantic, absolute surrender.

"I will eat my steamed broccoli!" I yelp.

Mom’s stern facade instantly shatters into a victorious giggle. She reaches out, gently ruffling my neatly styled asymmetrical fringe, entirely satisfied that her medical terrorism has secured my dietary compliance.

Mom and I walk into the cafeteria, the lunch today smells different.

Usually, the sprawling dining hall is a chaotic clash of intense aromas. From the biting, creamy aroma of Leithanian stews warring against the delicate, savory steam of Higashian broths. But today, the air is incredibly dense and comforting. It smells deeply of heavy butter, roasted vegetables, and thick, simmering gravies that instantly make my stomach give a loud, demanding rumble.

Mom and I walk over to the serving stations, our shoes clicking in unison against the epoxy floor.

Behind the heated glass partitions, the culinary team has laid out a massive, sprawling spread of traditional Victorian cuisine. Resting on the heavy iron hot plates are massive, golden-crusted pies. The thick, flaky pastry tops are scored to let out plumes of fragrant steam, practically overflowing with tender, slow-roasted meats and a dark, peppery gravy that bubbles lazily at the edges. Next to them sits a towering mountain of thick-cut, salt-dusted tubers, paired perfectly with massive fillets of coastal fish encased in a crispy, deep-golden batter. It looks incredibly hearty, the kind of heavy, calorie-dense food designed to fuel soldiers marching through the rain-swept streets of Londinium and their sprawling but crumbling Empire.

But my eyes entirely bypass the savory meats and fried fish. My focus locks immediately onto the bakery section at the very end of the line.

Resting on a pristine cooling rack are rows of tall, perfect buttery bakes. Their exteriors are crumbly and golden, split slightly at the waists to reveal soft, fluffy interiors. One row is heavily speckled with chunks of dark, melting chocolate, while the other is dotted with vibrant, tart dried berries. Sitting right beside the trays is a massive ceramic bowl filled to the brim with thick, whipped clotted cream.

I look up at mom, widening my eyes to project the absolute maximum amount of pleading innocence I can physically muster.

"Mom?" I point directly at the bakery display. "Can I have the chocolate and fruit bakes? Please?"

Mom pauses, her tray hovering over the rails. She looks at the towering pastries, and then down at me.

She lets out a soft, breathy sigh, the feathers near her temples fluffing up in surrender.

"Only if you eat a full bowl of fresh greens with it, Lethe," mom compromises. "No skipping the vegetables."

"I promise!"

I eagerly slide my tray down the line. I dutifully accept the massive, leafy salad bowl mom mandates for my nutritional baseline, before practically shoving my plate toward the baker to secure my prized, buttery bakes.

I take my buttery bakes and salad bowl to the table, carefully balancing the heavy tray as we navigate the bustling crowd.

We find an empty spot near one of the observation windows. I slide into my plastic chair, my eyes entirely fixed on the crumbly, chocolate-studded pastry resting next to my greens. I pick up my fork, carving away a generous piece of the pastry, and drag it through the thick clotted cream before taking a bite.

The texture is incredible. It is dense but crumbly, the rich, savory butter melting seamlessly against the bitter snap of the dark chocolate and the heavy, luxurious cream. It is refined, indulgent, and entirely unapologetic in its richness.

I chew slowly, a soft, contented hum vibrating in my throat. I look at the golden crust and the perfect, delicate crumb.

So this is what Ms. Skyfire approves of.

I think back to the hushed aisles of the Archives, to my fiery tutor turning her nose up at the mass-produced Columbian sugar-treats with full disdain. Tasting this rich, perfectly balanced Victorian pastry, her intense, haughty pride suddenly makes absolute, undeniable sense. If this is the kind of culinary perfection she was raised on, no wonder she refuses to settle for anything less.

I swallow the rich, buttery bite, carefully wiping a smudge of clotted cream from my mouth. Across the table, mom is resting her chin in her hand, watching me demolish the pastry.

"So, my little sugar-filled Djall," mom begins. "What’s your favourite so far? You have tasted about half of the world’s signature desserts now."

I pause, looking down at my plate. My mind sifts through the incredible culinary journey I've had in my short-life. The towering, cloud-like pancakes of Trimounts, the sweet milk- fudges of Kjerag, the delicate red bean rolls on the landship, and now these crumbly, heavy Victorian bakes.

"I mean, all of them are great," I murmur, my tail giving a slow, thoughtful swish against the legs of my chair. I look up at her, tilting my head slightly. "It is still hard to beat Higashian or Yanese ones, though. They just make me feel warmer and relaxed. I don’t know why."

It is a strange, phantom comfort. A deep, instinctual safety that I cannot trace back to any specific origin point in my fractured mind, completely devoid of the terrifying context of Catastrophes or Oripathy.

Mom's smile softens into something incredibly tender. She reaches across the table, her fingers gently brushing a stray crumb from the sleeve of my jacket.

"Well," mom says, her voice dropping into a gentle hum. "Your first real meal on Rhodes Island was a Higashi-styled cup of steamed egg."

I don’t remember it at all. But as long as mom says so, I believe her.

"So that’s why Amiya teases me as a Higashian Djall," I chime.

Mom rolls her eyes, a highly exaggerated, dramatic sigh escaping her lips.

"Amiya enables your sweet tooth way too much," mom declares.

"How do you know, mom?" I ask, my voice pitching up in genuine surprise. I am usually so incredibly careful about my secret dessert excursions with our leader.

Mom just smirks. She leans forward just a fraction, tapping the tip of my nose playfully.

"Trade secrets, Lethe."

The sheer, cheeky confidence of her reply makes me slump back in my chair with a defeated, dramatic groan. She always knows. She knew about my secret stash of vending machine snacks, and she definitively knows exactly how many sweet Amiya sneaks me.

Mom lets out a soft chuckle, the playful tension melting away. She lowers her hands, her expression shifting into a more grounded, practical focus as she looks at me.

"Well," mom says, her tone returning to its steady baseline. "Lethe, in seriousness. What’s your plan this afternoon?"

I look down at my plate, picking up my fork to finish the last, chocolate-studded bite of my lunch. The reality of the landship's shifting schedules presses back in.

"I think I will head to the Archives," I reply, ensuring my voice is resolute. "Miss Lena is leaving tomorrow. I need to tell Miss Adele I probably won’t have much time to study until Miss Lena is back."

With Miss Lena gone on her field mission to Victoria, the garden will rely entirely on me, Podenco, and Miss Beanstalk to keep the sanctuary running. I won't have the luxury of burying myself in geological maps and thermodynamic equations for the next few days. Mom nods slowly, her eyes shining with quiet, undeniable pride.

"That is very responsible of you, Lethe," mom murmurs, her honeyed emotional resonance wrapping securely around me. "Miss Lena will appreciate you stepping up to watch the garden. Finish your greens, and then you can go let Eyjafjalla know."

I swallow the last forkful of the mandated greens. They taste completely bland compared to the rich Victorian pastry, but the warm, approving smile from mom makes the crisp leaves entirely bearable.

"All done, mom!" I announce, proudly holding up my meticulously cleared plate.

I slide out of the plastic chair, picking up my tray to head toward the return station. "I will see you tonight."

"Okay. Good luck, little researcher," mom calls after me.

The walk to the Archives is a quiet transition. The bustling, clattering noise of the cafeteria fades, replaced by the hushed, climate-controlled stillness of the towering bookshelves. The scent of old paper, binding glue, and sterile dust fills the air.

I navigate the labyrinthine aisles. Deep within the stacks, I spot her.

Miss Adele is walking slowly along one of the massive, floor-to-ceiling geographical racks. Her hands are tracing the spines of the books, her brow furrowed in intense, quiet concentration. The ambient flavor of her presence flickers with a faint, frustrating edge of static. She is searching for something specific, and it is eluding her.

"Miss Adele," I call out softly, pitching my voice to be as gentle as possible so as not to startle her in the quiet aisle. "Can I help?"

She doesn't stop. Her hands continue to scan the shelves, her curling horns dipping as she leans closer to the fading text on the binders.

My chest gives a hollow, painful twist.

She didn't hear me.

The insidious, creeping theft of her Oripathy has taken another fraction of the world away from her.

I step carefully down the aisle, closing the distance until I am standing just a few paces behind her.

"Miss Adele," I say again, deliberately raising the volume and clarity of my voice.

She jumps slightly, her shoulders tensing before she whips her head around.

"Oh! Lethe," Miss Adele breathes out, her hand resting against her chest. Her soft voice carries an apologetic melody. "I didn't hear you coming. Are you okay?"

I offer her the brightest, most reassuring smile I can muster, actively projecting a wave of calm, sweet comfort to push back her lingering frustration.

"I am fine, Miss Adele," I say, stepping right up to her side. "Can I help you find something?"

Her face softens, the dormant hearth fire and roasted chestnuts of her emotional resonance blooming warmly in the aisle once again.

"Ah, yes, Lethe," Miss Adele murmurs, turning her attention back to the towering shelves. "I am looking for a specific topographical map. On the Targangils Prime Vein."

"Prime… prime vein?" I echo, the words feeling entirely foreign on my tongue.

Miss Adele reaches out, her hand resting gently on my shoulder. Her eyes shine with that fierce, undeniably brilliant academic passion that always manages to push back the dark of Terra.

"Yes, Lethe. It is one of the three Originium Prime Veins in the world," Miss Adele explains, her voice a hushed, reverent whisper. "They are the mineral veins of Originium in our world. They are where Originium come from. The epicenter."

The very epicenter of the black crystals. The absolute source of the disease that is slowly consuming her hearing and incinerating my memories to keep me breathing. Yet, looking at her, there is no fear or malice; only a profound, unyielding desire to understand the planet.

Miss Adele offers me a gentle, encouraging smile.

"Help me find the map," she suggests, her tone lifting with a quiet, scholarly thrill, "and we can have a look at it together, shall we?"

I look up at the towering shelves of geographical records, feeling the familiar, burning resolve ignite in my chest.

"Yes, Miss Adele," I declare, stepping forward to scan the massive spines. "Let's find it." I run my fingers along the bottom row of the massive geographical archives, squinting at the faded, blocky lettering on the thick, dust-coated spines. My eyes scan past dozens of regional surveys until they land on a heavy, reinforced binder bearing the faded crest of a mining consortium.

"Ah here, Miss Adele!" I call out, pitching my voice clearly through the hushed aisle. "I found it."

I grip the thick spine with both hands, bracing myself as I pull it free from the shelf. It is surprisingly heavy, nearly threatening to tip me over, but I manage to carry it back to our table and let it drop onto the surface with a loud, satisfying thud.

Miss Adele looks up, her eyes lighting up with genuine, scholarly delight.

"Brilliant," Miss Adele praises gently, reaching out to unclasp the heavy leather bindings.

"Let’s have a look, Lethe."

She opens the bound, carefully unfolding a sprawling, highly detailed topographical map that covers nearly the entire length of our table. The map is covered in intricate elevation lines, national borders, and massive, terrifyingly dark shaded zones that span across the entire continent.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table as I stare at the sprawling ink.

"So what is this?" I ask, my eyes tracing one of the massive, dark zones.

Miss Adele picks up her magnifying glass, hovering it over the paper.

"There are three Prime Veins in our world, Lethe," Miss Adele begins. She traces the glass over the northern and western expanses of the map. "The first is Kolossal. It is massive, sprawling across the territories of Ursus, Columbia, Bolívar, and Sargon. The second is the Jingyu Vein, located in the east, entirely within the borders of Great Yan." She slowly moves the magnifying glass down toward the southern-central part of the continent, tapping her finger against a densely shaded, jagged region.

"And this," Miss Adele murmurs, "is Targangils."

I look closely at the region she is pointing to.

"The Targangils Prime Vein is the second largest prime vein on Terra," she explains, her attention entirely captivated by the geological lines.

She traces the trajectory of the dark ink with a delicate finger. "It stretches from the lake regions in eastern Victoria, passes directly through the fertile flatlands of Laterano, and then… it fully covers the entire outback of Rim Billiton."

Rim Billiton.

I think of Opal. Mom had told me a Catastrophe, a sandstorm completely levelled her home and took her parents.

"As the richest deposit on Terra, the Targangils Vein accounts for sixty percent of the entire Terran Originium deposit," Miss Adele states, the sheer, staggering mathematical weight of the number echoing quietly in the aisle. "Within Rim Billiton alone, it occupies thirty percent of the global deposit."

Thirty percent of the world's Originium, all concentrated beneath a single country.

"Because of the sheer density of Targangils' presence, it drastically alters the region's entire climate," Miss Adele continues, her voice dropping into a heavy, mournful whisper. "The constant Catastrophes that plague Rim Billiton are not random. They are caused by the accumulating, hyper-dense mineral dusts from the vein itself."

She shifts the magnifying glass, pointing to strange, jagged topographical anomalies drawn across the Rim Billiton outback.

I stare blankly at the map.

Opal's family hadn't just been unlucky. The nomadic mining platforms of Rim Billiton weren't just driving through random storms. They were building their homes and their livelihoods directly on top of the richest, most volatile concentration of pure death on the entire planet. They were actively living on the beast's back, breathing in the toxic dust of its scales every single day just to mine the fuel that keeps nations like Victoria and Columbia running.

The ambient flavor of the dormant hearth fire radiating from Miss Adele dims, steeped in a profound, heavy sorrow. She knows exactly how brutal this geological truth is. I reach out, my fingers gently tracing the border of Rim Billiton on the parchment.

"They live right on top of it," I whisper, my voice trembling slightly. "No wonder the sandstorms there are so angry… the earth is literally made of Originium."

Miss Adele slowly lowers her magnifying glass. She reaches across the table, her warm hand gently covering my fingers, anchoring me against the terrifying scale of the world.

"It is a harsh reality, Lethe," Miss Adele murmurs softly, her thumb brushing against my knuckles. "But this is exactly why we study it. If we can map the veins fully, understand the atmospheric pressure, and predict how the mineral dusts accumulate… we can warn the nomadic cities faster. We can give people like Opal's family the time they need to move out of the path."

I look up from the terrifying map, meeting her kind, resolute eyes.

I take a slow, deep breath, letting the steady, enduring warmth of her presence push back the freezing dread in my chest. I cannot destroy the prime veins, and I cannot rip the Originium out of the earth. But I can learn how to read its wrath.

"Okay, Miss Adele," I offer her a firm, determined nod. "Teach me how to read the topographical lines. I want to understand them all."

The hours melt away in the hushed, climate-controlled quiet of the Archives.

The sprawling topographical maps and dense geological ledgers slowly begin to blur together before my tired eyes. I rest my chin heavily against my hands, my eyelids fluttering as I try to force my brain to absorb the intricate fault lines of the continent. Miss Adele reaches across the wooden table, her warm hand gently covering the open page of the book. She closes the cover with a soft, definitive thud.

"I think that’s more than enough for a day, Lethe," Miss Adele says.

I let out a massive, shuddering exhale of relief, my shoulders completely slumping forward. My tail, which had been wrapped tightly around the leg of my chair in intense concentration, finally uncoils and drops limply.

"Thank you, Miss Adele.”

Miss Adele offers a comforting smile as she neatly stacks her notes.

"Though," Miss Adele pauses, her fingers resting lightly on the brass rim of her magnifying glass. "A pop quiz."

A pop quiz?

I quickly sit up straight, gripping the edge of the table as my heart gives a frantic flutter.

Miss Adele tilts her head, her eyes locking onto mine with a playful, academic spark.

"Where is Rhodes Island, the landship, constructed?" she asks.

I blink, the panic stalling as my mind frantically races through the geographical and industrial facts she had just taught me.

I think about the sprawling, metallic arteries of our home. I think about Ms. Closure’s chaotic, highly advanced engineering workshops, the flawless micro-climate pods in the Convalescent Garden, and the sheer, staggering scale of the engines humming beneath our feet. I mentally flip through the superpowers of Terra I had memorized.

"Uhm…" I stammer, leaning forward slightly as I piece the logic together. "It must be Columbia or Victoria, right? This is like, super advanced?"

The ambient air in the aisle instantly ripples. The comforting flavor of Miss Adele's presence bubbles with a sudden, airy lightness.

She covers her mouth with her hand, a bright giggle escapes her lips.

"No, Lethe," Miss Adele smiles.

She reaches out, tapping her index finger lightly against the closed cover of the textbook.

"Rhodes Island was built in Rim Billiton," she corrects smoothly. "If you see our towering laser mining module in the front, the big yellow tube, it has Rim Billiton printed on it." Rim Billiton. The nation that is constantly ravaged by Catastrophes. I stare at her, my mind struggling to reconcile the sleek, advanced sanctuary of our landship with the rusted, rugged mining platforms I had read about.

"Wait," I gasp, my eyes blowing entirely wide in absolute, unadulterated shock. "That’s not a smoke stack?!"

Miss Adele's giggle softens into a fond, echoing chuckle that fills the quiet library aisle.

"Nope," she replies, offering me a highly apologetic, but undeniably cheeky little smile. "I am afraid you failed, Lethe."

I let out a loud, tragic groan, my absolute defeat echoing against the towering bookshelves.

"Awww," I whine, puffing my cheeks out.

I let my upper body completely collapse, my forehead coming to rest softly against the spine of the closed ledger. Defeated by the very landship I live on, I just lay there in the quiet of the Archives, entirely ready to accept my failing grade.

"Want to join me for dinner, my failing student?"

Miss Adele's soft voice floats over the table, carrying a playful lilt that completely softens the blow of my disastrous geographical failure.

I peel my cheek off the table, offering a pathetic, muffled sigh.

"Okay. Miss Adele," I mumble, slowly pushing myself back up.

I reach out, carefully gathering my digital slate and my scattered notes, slipping them securely into my bag. Together, we step out of the Archives.

The corridors are busy with the evening shift change, logistics Operators moving with a hurried efficiency.

As we walk shoulder-to-shoulder, I adjust my grip on my staff.

"Oh right, Miss Adele," I begin, looking up at her as we navigate the hallway. "I will be busier for a few days from tomorrow. Miss Lena, Perfumer, she is going to go to Victorian plains to conduct botanical surveys."

Miss Adele's steps slow just a fraction.

"That’s alright," Miss Adele replies, her voice solemn. "The garden is important. I suspect refugees from County Hillock are going to reach us soon."

The name of the burning Victorian county sends a familiar, icy shiver down my spine. The grim reality of the Taran uprising and the shattered, fleeing civilians looms heavy over us. The Convalescent Garden is going to be flooded with fresh nightmares and broken bodies, and without Miss Lena there to pour the tea and anchor the sanctuary, the burden will fall entirely on me, Podenco, and Miss Beanstalk.

I swallow hard, pushing the freezing dread down. I cannot let the terror consume me before the doors even open.

"Thank you. Miss Adele," I murmur, immensely grateful for her profound understanding. Needing a desperate distraction from the impending flood of trauma, I look up at her, forcing a bright, curious spark into my voice.

"What do you plan to eat tonight?"

Miss Adele tilts her head as she genuinely ponders the question.

"Hmm…" Miss Adele hums, her finger tapping lightly against her chin. "I wonder if they have lava cakes tonight."

My padded sneakers screech to an absolute, dead halt against the steel floor.

I stare at her.

A lava cake. An incredibly rich, dense chocolate pastry explicitly designed to erupt with a molten, scalding-hot core of liquid sugar and fudge. It is the absolute pinnacle of unadulterated dessert indulgence.

I look at the brilliant, dedicated researcher who spends her days mapping fault lines and studying the catastrophic wrath of volcanoes.

"Wait…" I gasp, my voice pitching up into a breathless, awe-struck squeak. "Miss Adele, you are…?"

Miss Adele stops walking. She turns to look at me, her eyes widening slightly in surprise before a bright, rosy flush rapidly dusts her cheeks. The ambient air instantly bubbles with the warm, undeniable flavor of pure sugar and toasted marshmallows.

She offers a tiny, almost sheepish smile.

She nods.

The refined, incredibly smart volcanologist isn't just a brilliant mind; she shares my exact, crippling weakness for heavy desserts.

My tail, which had been hanging limply against my legs, instantly snaps to life. It begins to swish back and forth in a rapid, rhythmic blur of absolute, euphoric victory.

I squeeze the handle of my Arts Unit, a massive, brilliant grin breaking across my face. I have a new partner in crime.

I don’t wait for Miss Adele to consent, I march towards the cafeteria.

The double doors of the cafeteria slide apart.

I walk shoulder-to-shoulder with Miss Adele. Miss Adele scans the room for empty seats.

"Hi Lethe! Hi Miss Eyja!"

The bright chime completely cuts through the ambient noise of the dining hall. I don't even need to search the crowded rows of blue plastic chairs. Lisa.

Lisa is sitting at a table near the center aisle, her nine tails fanning out in a rapid, joyful blur as she waves enthusiastically at us.

"Hi Lisa!" I call back as we navigate the maze of tables to join her.

Miss Adele steps up beside me. Settling comfortably in her chair.

"Hi there, Suzuran," Miss Adele greets. "How are you?"

Lisa lets out a dramatic, highly exaggerated sigh, slumping her shoulders playfully against the plastic backrest of her chair.

"The Arts theory class was so long today!" Lisa whines, puffing her cheeks out. But the bright, sugary flavor doesn't dim in the slightest; it just bubbles with a restless, academic fatigue. She turns to me, her eyes sparkling with absolute determination.

"Lethe, we should do our homework together! If I have to calculate one more Arts energy threshold by myself, my ears going to fall off!”

I open my mouth to eagerly agree, completely ready to unite our brain cells against the terrifying mountain of thermodynamics and geological homework.

But before I can speak, Miss Adele covers her mouth with her hand. A soft, highly amused giggle escapes her lips.

"That’s a good idea," Miss Adele chimes in. "Lethe here just failed a pop quiz."

I instinctively bring my hands up to cover my face.

"Miss Adele! No fair!" I whine loudly.

Lisa covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking as a bright, ringing laugh echoes across the table at my expense.

Miss Adele just smiles, entirely unrepentant. She shifts her attention away from my burning embarrassment, her eyes tracking toward the glowing dessert display cases at the far end of the serving line.

"I will check if they have lava cake today," Miss Adele offers, her tone lifting with a quiet, shared thrill of indulgence that instantly makes my mouth water. She looks back at us, her eyes shining with an undeniable, sugary ambition. "Want to share one together, Lethe, Suzuran?"

The sheer, absolute perfection of a dense chocolate pastry erupting with boiling hot fudge instantly overrides my academic humiliation.

"Yes!" Lisa and I answer in perfect, instantaneous, and entirely unapologetic unison.

"Lisa," I begin, leaning forward slightly over the cafeteria table. "Will you be in the garden for the next few days?"

The reality of the upcoming schedule is a still heavy weight in my chest.

"I will try to be there as much as possible," Lisa replies. "Podenco has told me that Miss Lena is heading out."

"We will make sure the garden is better than ever," I declare, trying to project the absolute, uncompromising authority like Miss Lena.

Then, I think about the micro-climate pods, the delicate watering schedules, and the sheer volume of dirt involved. And Miss Beanstalk’s metal crab empire. My shoulders instantly slump just a fraction.

"Hopefully," I add, my voice dropping into a tiny, much less confident tone.

Before I can fret any further over our impending botanical responsibilities, a rich, heavy, and undeniably intoxicating aroma hits me.

Miss Adele steps up to our table. Resting carefully in her hands is a big plate, and sitting squarely in the center of it is the absolute pinnacle of dessert engineering.

It is a dark, perfectly domed chocolate cake. It looks incredibly dense, its exterior baked to a flawless, slightly cracked matte finish. Thick, fragrant plumes of steam curl lazily up from the crust, carrying the overwhelming scent of deep cocoa, melted butter, and caramelized sugar straight into my lungs.

Miss Adele gently sets the plate down in the center of the table, placing three small forks perfectly beside it.

"My treat, young ladies," Miss Adele says.

"Thank you, Miss Adele!" Lisa and I chime in absolute, perfect unison.

We do not hesitate for a single second. Driven by a shared, desperate need for sugar, all three of us reach for our forks.

I press the edge of my silver fork into the side of the pastry. The spongy, dark exterior yields effortlessly. The exact moment the crust breaks, the structural integrity of the cake completely gives way. A thick, scalding-hot river of molten chocolate fudge violently erupts from the core, pooling gloriously onto the pristine ceramic plate in a dark, glossy wave.

I scoop up a generous piece of the cake, making sure it is absolutely drenched in the liquid fudge, and take a bite.

The flavor is staggering.

It is a violent, beautiful contrast of textures and temperatures. The delicate, refined bitterness of the baked outer crumb melts seamlessly against the scalding, overwhelmingly rich sweetness of the molten core. It is dense, luxurious, and completely unapologetic in its indulgence. The heat of the chocolate blooms directly in the center of my chest.

Beside me, Lisa lets out a soft, delighted hum.

I look across the table. Miss Adele takes a slow bite, her eyes fluttering shut as a soft smile stretches across her face. The quiet, melancholic shadows that sometimes cling to the edges of her existence are entirely banished.

For this one, perfect moment, there is only the absolute bliss of sharing a molten chocolate cake.

I am just scraping the last, glorious puddle of molten fudge onto my fork when the ambient taste shifts.

The overwhelming, sugary bliss is instantly pierced by a sharp, tart spike of unripe lemon and toasted honey.

"Lethe."

I freeze. My mouth is still half-open around the silver fork. My tail, which had been swishing in a state of absolute euphoria, drops completely dead against the chair. I slowly turn my head.

Mom is standing right behind me. Her hands are planted firmly on her hips, and her attention are locked directly onto the decimated remains of the massive chocolate lava cake sitting in the center of our table.

"I thought," mom begins, her voice dropping dangerously calm, "we were maintaining a balanced nutritional baseline before dinner."

I quickly pull the fork out of my mouth. I gesture frantically toward the empty ceramic plate, my mind scrambling for a defense against her medical tyranny.

"I… I am just recovering my brain cells, mom!" I blurt out. "I failed a really hard pop quiz in the Archives today! And Lisa and I have to do Arts theory homework tonight! My brain desperately needs the sugar to process the energy thresholds, or I won't be able to study!"

Beside me, Lisa nods vigorously. "It is true, Miss Erika!" Lisa chimes in, her eyes wide and earnest. "Arts calculations require a massive amount of glucose to perform safely!" Mom simply raises an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by our desperate, highly unscientific medical justifications.

Before she can decree another month of vegetable purgatory, Miss Adele covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a soft giggle.

"Please don't be too harsh on her, Caladria," Miss Adele intervenes, offering a serene, unapologetic smile across the table. "It was entirely my idea. The girls have been studying incredibly hard today, and I decided a small reward was in order to lift their spirits."

Mom stares at my brilliant Leithanien tutor for a long second. The sharp, tart lemon flavor in the air slowly dissolves, melting back into a pool of rich, exhausted honey. She lets out a long sigh, her hands dropping from her hips.

"You are spoiling her, Eyjafjalla," mom says, though the corners of her lips twitch with a defeated smile. She reaches out, gently ruffling my hair. "Fine. But you are eating a double portion of roasted root vegetables tonight, Lethe. No arguments."

"Yes, mom!" I chirp, instantly sagging against my chair in a massive exhale of relief. The sugar high is officially safe.

Days continues by smoothly.

The ambient air tastes like warm, sleepy sugar.

I slowly blink my eyes open. I am not in my own bed. I am completely tangled in a massive, incredibly soft pile of silk. Scattered across the floorboards and the desk are our digital slates and a chaotic mess of handwritten notes detailing Originium energy output. We had entirely failed to defeat our Arts theory homework, surrendering to the heavy exhaustion of the day sometime around midnight.

I carefully untangle myself from the fluffy tails, my movement accompanied by the soft rustling of the blankets.

Lisa shifts beside me, her ears twitching as she rubs the sleep from her eyes.

"Morning, Lisa," I murmur, my voice raspy and quiet in the dim light of her dorm.

Lisa lets out a soft yawn, her tails curling lazily against the mattress. "Morning, Lethe." I push myself up, stretching my arms above my head until my shoulders pop. "I will go get ready. See you soon."

I slip out of her room and make the quick walk down the residential corridors back to my own dorm. The moment the pneumatic locks of my door disengage, a familiar, sharp spike of tart lemon hits.

Mom is standing near my desk, fully dressed in her uniform, her arms crossed over her chest. The relief of seeing me walk through the door instantly washes away the tartness.

"Sorry, mom," I apologize immediately, ducking my head in a highly practiced, sheepish bow. "I didn't mean to make you worry. I was doing homework with Lisa and we just fell asleep."

Mom lets out a heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping.

"I assumed as much when your slate location pinged in her room," mom says, her voice a mix of exasperation and deep fondness. "Just send me a message next time, Lethe. Now, go wash your face. You have a strict bowl of oats waiting for you in the cafeteria before your shift."

I obediently devour my mandated, highly nutritious breakfast under her watchful eye, washing it down with a glass of milk before gathering my Arts Unit.

When I finally step through the doors of the Convalescent Garden, the atmosphere is entirely different. The usual tranquil, domestic stillness is replaced by an undeniable air of departure.

Miss Lena is standing near the center. She is no longer wearing her simple white blouse and apron. She is fully dressed for the rugged terrain of the Victorian plains, wearing a sturdy, weather-resistant travel coat, heavy boots, and a specialized, reinforced field pack slung securely over her shoulder.

Gathered around her are the girls. Lisa is clutching her hands together. Podenco is trying her absolute best to maintain a brave, professional facade, though her citrusy emotional resonance is practically vibrating with nervous energy. Even Miss Beanstalk has paused her usual entrepreneurial hustle.

I step forward, joining the small circle of my friends. I look up at Miss Lena who built this sanctuary for us. Without her grounding, lavender-scented presence, the massive greenhouse already feels just a little bit colder.

"Stay safe out there, Miss Lena," I tell her, gripping my staff tightly.

Miss Lena looks around at the four of us. Her serene, flawless smile radiates a warmth that completely pushes back the chill. She reaches out, gently adjusting the collar of Podenco's jacket, before offering a soft, reassuring nod to all of us.

"Take care of the garden, girls," Miss Lena’s voice a beautiful, calming melody. "I will see you all soon."

With a final, graceful wave, she turns on her heel. We stand together in silence, watching her navigate the path and step out through the blast doors, marching bravely into the dark of Terra to find new ways to heal our broken Operators.

The quiet tranquility of the greenhouse barely lasts ten minutes. Terra simply refuses to give us a break.

A sharp, synthetic chime suddenly echoes through the garden's PA system, instantly shattering the peace.

"Attention all medical and logistics personnel. Rhodes Island is now receiving the first wave of refugees from County Hillock. Report to your designated stations immediately." The sterile, synthesized voice hangs in the air.

Before Lisa, Podenco, or Miss Beanstalk can even react to the announcement, the doors of the garden part.

The ambient temperature of the greenhouse plummets. The rich scent of blooming flowers is instantly completely crushed under the overwhelming, suffocating weight of an ancient, freezing glacier.

Dr. Kal'tsit steps in.

Her crisp white coat snaps sharply around her legs, her piercing green eyes locking directly onto me with absolute, uncompromising authority.

"Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit commands. "You are required in triage with Sussurro, Hibiscus, and Ansel. The influx of civilian casualties has exceeded our baseline projections, and far too many of our combat Medics are currently being deployed to secure the perimeter." I nod, forcing my spine completely straight under her terrifying scrutiny.

"Okay," I reply, my voice trembling just a fraction before I push it steady.

But a sudden, terrifying thought spikes in my chest. If combat Medics are being deployed to the perimeter…

"Is…” I stammer. "Is… mo… Caladria getting deployed too?"

I catch the slip instantly, my cheeks burning with a brief, panicked flush, but Dr. Kal'tsit doesn't even blink. Her expression remains carved entirely from stone.

"She will be sent on a short-range mission to a Victorian town soon," Dr. Kal'tsit states.

"We need to negotiate refugee resettlement for the displaced citizens. She will be part of the vanguard securing those diplomatic and logistical channels."

A Victorian town. Mom is going into the heart of the conflict zone. She isn't just going to be treating the wounded behind the reinforced steel; she is walking back out into the freezing, unpredictable dark of a nation tearing itself apart.

I cannot beg Dr. Kal'tsit to keep her here, not when thousands of innocent people have just lost their homes to the fire. Mom made her choice to be a Combat Medic for exactly this reason.

I take a slow breath, filling my lungs with the last traces of the garden's clean air.

"Understood, Dr. Kal'tsit," I say, offering her a crisp, respectful bow.

I turn back to my friends. Lisa is clutching her hands tightly against her chest, her eyes wide with worry, while Podenco gives me a firm, resolute nod.

"I have to go," I tell them, my voice ringing with a desperate, practiced bravery. "Keep the garden safe for me."

Without waiting for their replies, I grip my staff and march toward the blast doors, following Dr. Kal'tsit's terrifying shadow out of the sanctuary.

The doors of the primary triage center slide apart, and the moment the seal breaks, the sheer volume of the room crashes into me like a physical wall.

The air is thick and suffocating, reeking of sharp antiseptic, fresh copper blood, and the distinct, ozone-heavy static of active Originium. The ambient emotional atmosphere is a catastrophic, swirling sludge of pure terror, agonizing grief, and a metallic, sour panic that instantly coats the back of my tongue.

Dr. Kal'tsit does not linger to comfort the bleeding. With her directives delivered, she turns and immediately excuses herself, disappearing back into the chaotic arteries of the landship to manage the macro-scale disaster of the County Hillock influx.

I am left standing near the threshold with Miss Sussurro, Hibiscus, and Ansel.

Miss Sussurro doesn't wait either.

"Listen to me," Miss Sussurro orders, her voice slicing cleanly through the agonizing moans of the refugees with absolute, uncompromising severity. "We treat the most severely injured first. If a patient requires surgery to survive, you stabilize them for the operating theaters. Do not waste critical resources on superficial wounds or lost causes. We keep them breathing. That is all."

I give her a firm nod.

It is the brutal, unforgiving calculus of battlefield medicine. The grim truth of triage. We cannot save everyone; we can only patch the bleeding to buy them time.

I step fully into the bay. It is completely overflowing. Every cot is occupied, and overflow mats have been hastily rolled out across the brushed steel floor. The refugees are covered in soot and blood, their clothes tattered and their faces drawn tight with the unspeakable horrors of the Dublinn uprising.

My eyes lock onto a Feline man slumping heavily against the frame of a cot near the far wall. He looks completely shattered. His clothes are scorched and torn, and where his entire left leg should be, there is only a heavily bandaged, blood-soaked stump. The Medics have already treated his physical wounds, stabilizing the catastrophic amputation, but his eyes are wide, glassy, and completely vacant.

The ambient flavor bleeding off him is a dense, suffocating fog of freezing dread and rusted iron and sickening taste of burning flesh.

I take a slow, careful step toward him, lowering my Arts Unit so the base rests quietly against the floor to look non-threatening. I remember my solemn promise to myself out in the barrens: I will not leave them nameless in my mind.

I stop just a few paces away from his cot, forcing the corners of my lips upward into a gentle, reassuring smile.

"Hi," I say softly, pitching my voice to be as gentle as a chime. "I am Lethe. What is your name?"

The Feline man flinches violently, a sharp, ragged gasp tearing through his throat. He slowly lifts his head, his bloodshot eyes dragging over my oversized Rhodes Island jacket, moving past my face, and locking directly onto the dark, lopsided horns and the spade-tipped tail swaying behind me.

The freezing despair in his emotional resonance instantly curdles. It explodes into a sharp, acidic spike that tastes like rancid vinegar and rotting meat.

"Don't come any closer, devil!" he yells out, his voice cracking into a hysterical, panicked shriek that echoes terribly across the crowded triage bay.

He scrambles backward, pressing his back flat against the wall, his hands flying up defensively as if I am about to eat his soul.

I stop dead in my tracks.

The word hangs in the air, heavy and absolute.

The frantic, overlapping clatter of the triage bay stutters. Dozens of exhausted, hollow eyes turn from their own suffering to stare directly at our corner of the room. The ambient flavor of the bay spikes, the freezing despair curdling into a sharp, suffocating wave of superstitious dread and hostility.

I stand completely paralyzed. My fingers are locked in a death grip around the shaft of my Arts Unit. The acidic, venomous hatred bleeding off the amputee hits the back of my throat like a physical strike. I cannot breathe.

Before the terrified Feline can scream again, a blur of white and purple moves.

Hibiscus instantly squeezes herself squarely between me and the man.

The moment she interposes her frame, her ambient presence flares. The sweet, concentrated burst of floral nectar mixed perfectly with the sharp, clearing bite of medicinal eucalyptus washes over me, physically buffering the toxic sludge of his panic.

"Well, now! Shouting at the top of your lungs certainly isn't going to help that elevated heart rate of yours, is it?" Hibiscus chirps, her voice ringing out with a blindingly bright, almost aggressively cheerful tone.

She leans over the cot, planting her hands firmly on her hips.

"I am Hibiscus, and I can see your bandages are already beginning to bleed through!" she declares, completely ignoring his slur and pointing a stern finger directly at his amputated leg. "If you keep thrashing around and screaming like that, you are going to tear your stitches wide open! Now, you are going to lie back down and let the medicine work, or I am going to have to personally prescribe you a double-portion of my special nutritional recovery smoothie to rebuild your red blood cells!"

The sheer, overwhelming force of her completely short-circuits the man's hysteria. The terrified Feline blinks, utterly stunned into silence by the bubbly Sarkaz Medic threatening him with dietary warfare. He slowly sags back, his breathing ragged but quieted.

Without missing a single beat, Hibiscus reaches behind her back. Her hand wraps securely around my wrist.

She turns and briskly drags me away from the cot, pulling my stumbling frame through the chaotic aisles of wounded refugees until we reach a secluded supply cart stacked high with sterile gauze, disinfectants, and surgical tape.

She lets go of my wrist and immediately begins sorting a stack of bandages.

"Lethe," Hibiscus says softly.

I don't reply. I stare blankly at the brushed steel floor. My tail is wrapped so tightly around my ankle it physically aches, my entire body trembling. I am wearing the Rhodes Island jacket. I am wearing the black and white Medic cross strapped securely to my thigh. But it doesn't matter.

"Lethe," Hibiscus repeats, her voice completely dropping its cheerful, bubbly facade. I slowly lift my head. The hot, stinging tears spill over my lashes, carving tracks down my cheeks.

"I just…" I whisper, my voice fracturing into a broken wheeze. "I just… want to help." Hibiscus stops sorting the gauze. She turns to face me. Her purple eyes are incredibly soft, shining with a profound, aching understanding.

She reaches out, her hands gently resting on my trembling shoulders.

"I know you do, Lethe," Hibiscus’s touch a steadying anchor. "But you have to understand what they just survived. They just watched their homes burn to the ground. They were slaughtered in the streets. And to the people of Terra, our horns and our tails… they mean war. They mean fire and death."

She gently brushes a tear from my cheek with her thumb.

"He isn't seeing Lethe, the sweet girl who works in the garden," Hibiscus explains. "He is looking at his own nightmares, and he is lashing out because he is terrified."

I swallow. "But… we are Medics…”

"We are," Hibiscus agrees firmly, offering me a small, brave smile. "And that is exactly why we cannot let their fear stop us. We do not heal people so that they will like us, Lethe. We heal them because they are broken, and because it is our job."

Her signature eucalyptus and floral flavor pushing back the cold dread in my chest.

"You cannot fix the world's prejudice inside a triage bay," Hibiscus tells me, her eyes locking onto mine. "But you can fix their wounds. Now, take a deep breath. We have a lot of gauze to prep, and Miss Sussurro is going to need these sterile pads in three minutes."

I take a deep, shuddering breath. I wipe the remaining moisture from my cheeks with the back of my sleeve and turn my eyes away from the crowded, groaning triage bay. I focus entirely on the stainless-steel supply cart, forcing my trembling fingers to meticulously sort and stack the sterile gauze pads just as Hibiscus instructed.

The ambient air around the cart shifts.

The flavor that washes over me is incredibly clean and organized. It tastes of crisp, cooling peppermint perfectly layered over the warm, soothing starch of freshly laundered linens, anchored by a faint, methodical undertone of sterile saline.

Ansel stops beside our cart.

The Cautus Medic's long, soft pink hair is tied neatly back, though a few stray strands have escaped in the chaos of the influx. His face is pale and visibly exhausted from the grueling shifts, but his eyes are sharp and deeply attentive.

"You okay, Lethe?" Ansel asks. His voice is a quiet, steadying hum over the frantic clatter of the bay.

I keep my hands firmly on the stacks of sterile gauze. I force myself to look up at his long ears and his kind, tired eyes.

"Yes… I am."

Ansel studies my face.

"Whenever you need a break, just tell us," Ansel says softly.

"I will," I whisper, offering him a small, fragile nod. "Thank you."

Ansel gives me a gentle, reassuring smile. He turns his head, sharing a brief, silent look with Hibiscus. He gives the Sarkaz Medic a single, crisp nod, reaches across the cart to grab a handful of the prepared medical supplies, and immediately strides back into the chaotic aisles to continue his work.

I force my attention entirely onto the sterile gauze and surgical tape, trying to let the repetitive, mechanical motion of my hands anchor my spiraling mind.

But the ambient air of the triage bay simply refuses to settle.

A sudden, localized flash of pure hostility violently ignites just a few aisles over. It hits my senses like a splash of boiling acid, cutting right through the lingering smog of fear. It tastes like scorching ash, rusted iron, and the deep, rotting sludge of generational hatred.

"Curse those Victorians!"

A refugee's voice cracks with raw, bleeding fury. He is a Feline as well, his clothes caked in soot and his arm wrapped in a hasty, blood-stained splint.

"The garrison just starts to detain and kill anyone who sounds and looks like a Taran," he snarls, his voice trembling with a desperate, helpless rage that echoes across the cots. "What did my family even do!"

From the opposite side of the aisle, another wounded civilian violently shifts against their mattress.

"You Tarans started this war!" the second refugee spits back, their voice dripping with absolute venom. “You are all terrorists!”

"You conquered our land, take our resources and culture!" the Taran man yells, practically lurching forward against his splint. His eyes are wild, entirely consumed by the roaring fires of the uprising. "We started this war?"

My hands freeze over the supply cart. My stomach gives a sickening, hollow heave. It is happening all over again. The exact same suffocating, toxic malice that had burned Chernobog to the ground, the identical hatred that had caused the Winterwisps and Elafians of Wolumonde to slaughter each other in the streets. They are bleeding, their homes are reduced to ash, and yet, they are still actively trying to tear each other's throats out right here in the medical ward.

Before the shouting match can escalate into physical violence, a small figure steps directly into the center of the aisle.

Miss Sussurro simply walks into the crossfire.

"Enough," Miss Sussurro says.

She doesn't raise her voice by a single decibel. She doesn't have to. The word drops into the chaotic air with the absolute, uncompromising weight of a falling anvil.

Both refugees instantly snap their mouths shut, stunned into silence by the sheer gravity of the Vulpo standing between them.

Miss Sussurro sweeps her sharp, unrelenting gaze over the two bleeding men.

"Rhodes Island is a neutral facility," Miss Sussurro states, her tone completely flat. "We heal the wounded. If you want to settle your grudges, do that outside our landship. Here you are a patient and nothing else."

She holds their stares for a long, heavy second, daring either of them to speak another word of war inside her sanctuary.

Neither of them does. The Taran man slowly slumps back onto his cot, turning his face away toward the steel wall. The Victorian civilian lowers his head, glaring silently at his lap. The explosive, acidic flavor of their hostility doesn't vanish, but it is forcefully choked down, contained by the absolute authority of the senior Medic.

Miss Sussurro gives a single nod of satisfaction. She turns on her heel and immediately returns to assessing a critical patient's vitals, seamlessly picking up exactly where she left off.

I stand behind the supply cart, my fingers slowly loosening their death grip on a roll of surgical tape.

I look at Miss Sussurro, my chest aching with a profound, terrifying realization. Hibiscus was right. We cannot fix the broken world. We cannot erase the hatred between the empires and the infected, or the Tarans and the Victorians. The cruelty of the world is a bottomless, freezing well.

But we can absolutely refuse to let them bleed to death in the dark.

The chaotic, overlapping clatter of the triage bay continues to rage around me, a terrifying symphony of agonizing moans and shouted medical directives. I keep my head down. I focus entirely on preparation. I force my fingers to keep moving, meticulously stacking the sterile gauze pads and lining up the rolls of surgical tape against the cold steel of the supply cart.

If they cannot see my face, maybe they won't remember I am a monster.

A moment later, the oppressive, metallic tang of the ward is pierced by a familiar, concentrated burst of nectar and eucalyptus.

Hibiscus swings back to the cart. She drops a handful of blood-stained splints into a biohazard bin with a heavy clatter, her chest heaving with a tired sigh before she reaches across the surface to grab a fresh stack of bandages.

I pause, my hands hovering over a roll of tape. The question has been burning a hole in my chest ever since the Feline amputee screamed at me.

"Hibiscus," I murmur, keeping my voice incredibly small so it doesn't carry beyond our secluded corner. "I am curious… why don't they…”

I swallow hard, completely unable to finish the sentence.

Hibiscus stops sorting the gauze. She turns her head, her eyes softening with a profound, aching understanding.

"Fear me as much?" she asks, her voice dropping its usual, aggressively cheerful cadence to meet my hushed tone.

"Yes…”

Hibiscus lets out a slow, quiet exhale. The floral sweetness in her aura dims just a fraction, tinged with a faint, melancholic resignation that tastes like dried lavender. She raises her hand, gesturing delicately toward her own face. Her fingers tap the space near her hairline, brushing against the two tiny horns sprouting from her forehead, before tracing the curve of her pointed ears.

"I only have two tiny horns and no tail," Hibiscus explains, her voice a gentle whisper amidst the chaos. "I am not a pureblood like you, Lethe. To them, I no longer look that special."

I stare at her. I look at her soft, approachable features, entirely devoid of the lopsided crowns of bone or the spade-tipped pendulum that marks my own existence. To the shattered refugees of County Hillock, her diluted bloodline makes her just another Medic. She is safe.

I look down at my hands, the weight of my long horns suddenly pulling at my neck muscles with an unbearable gravity.

Hibiscus reaches out, her hand resting firmly over mine.

"We don't get to choose how the world sees us, Lethe," Hibiscus states fiercely, anchoring me back to the present. "But we get to choose what we do with our hands. Now, come on. Miss Sussurro is going to need three more rolls of tape for the next sector."

I force myself to keep working, letting the repetitive, mechanical rhythm of sorting sterile supplies anchor my mind against the horrific symphony of the triage bay. I stack the gauze and surgical tape until my shoulders physically ache and my fingers grow numb under the harsh, clinical lights.

The chaotic noise of our aisle is suddenly cut by a sharp, methodical presence.

Miss Sussurro steps up to the supply cart. Her white coat is stained with faint smears of crimson and soot, and the dark shadows under her eyes betray the grueling toll, but her posture remains as rigidly unyielding as ever.

"Good work, Lethe," Miss Sussurro states. "Go check on Opal and go to lunch. You can stay in the garden this afternoon."

My hand stops over a roll of bandages.

"Miss Sussurro? I can come back…"

Miss Sussurro simply shakes her head. She holds my gaze, her expression softening just a tiny bit, offering a quiet, clinical satisfaction that anchors me completely.

"We will be fine," she replies firmly, leaving absolutely no room for argument.

"Okay," I murmur, my shoulders slumping with a massive, involuntary sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

I carefully step away from the supply cart. The moment the doors of the triage center slide shut behind me, the physical relief is staggering. The deafening, overlapping roar of suffering is instantly severed by the thick reinforced metal, leaving me in the relatively quiet of the corridor.

I lean back against the bulkhead, letting out a long, ragged exhale. I reach into my bag and pull out my slate.

The screen illuminates the dim hallway. I tap open the messaging app, my thumbs moving quickly over the glass.

[Lethe]: Mom, are you still on the landship?

I stare at the screen, holding my breath as I wait. Almost instantly, the three pulsing grey dots appear. A massive wave of relief washes over me as her reply chimes through the speaker.

[Caladria]: Yes. I am with Opal.

[Lethe]: I am on my way.

I slip the slate safely back into my bag. With a renewed, determined energy, I push myself off the steel bulkhead and turn my steps down the corridor, hurrying toward the high-security wards.

I step inside Opal’s ward.Mom is standing near the head of the bed, a digital medical slate tucked neatly under her arm as she reviews the monitors. And sitting up on the mattress, her back supported by a stack of white pillows, is Opal.

The Cautus girl has her floppy-eared brown Amiya plushie resting securely in her lap. In her hands, she is holding a small ceramic bowl filled with crisp, freshly sliced apple wedges. She is munching on them happily, a faint, rhythmic crunch filling the quiet ward. I smile instantly, the sight pulling a brief, fond memory to the surface; Miss Almond, the sharp-eared Perro engineer, had fiercely threatened the entire logistics team not to empty the cafeteria of those exact same apple wedges during one of our expedition in the barrens.

Opal pauses her chewing as I approach the edge of the bed.

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

I offer her the brightest, most genuine smile I can muster.

"Hi, Opal," I reply softly. "How are you recently? It has been a few days since we last met."

Opal looks down at the half-eaten apple wedge in her fingers. The ambient flavor in the sterile ward suddenly shifts. The faint, sweet taste of the fruit is abruptly pierced by a sharp, metallic spike of clinical dread. It tastes like cold copper and the sterile bite of iodine.

Her long, dark ears droop instantly.

"The vampire doctor…" Opal whispers, her voice trembling with a profound, undeniable sincerity. "…is scary."

The sheer, unadulterated truth of her statement hangs in the air.

I slowly turn my head to look across the mattress at mom.

Mom lowers her slate, looking back at me. For a split second, the room is perfectly silent. Then, a shared, deeply empathetic understanding passes between us. We both know exactly how terrifying it is when the ancient, pureblood Sarkaz leans over a hospital bed, her crimson eyes gleaming with predatory, scientific hunger, and her sharp fangs flashing in the clinical light.

A weak, highly amused smile breaks across both of our faces simultaneously. The rich honey of mom's emotional resonance ripples with a dry, exasperated note of tart, over- fermented grapes; the exact flavor of dealing with Dr. Warfarin's theatrical bedside manner.

I turn back to the trembling girl. I reach out, my fingers gently resting over the edge of her blankets.

"I know, Opal," I tell her, my voice dropping into a hushed, conspiratorial whisper of absolute solidarity. "I have a weekly check-up with Dr. Warfarin too. She has terrifyingly big needles, and she looks at us like we are fascinating science projects."

I give the blanket a tiny, reassuring squeeze, making sure she knows she isn't alone in her fear.

"She may be scary," I continue, my tone steadying into a firm, undeniable promise. "But she is one of our best doctors. She is the one who formulates the medicine that keeps the black crystals asleep. As long as she is here, you are safe."

Opal gives a slow, deliberate nod. She resumes to bring another apple wedge to her lips. The crisp crunch of the fruit is the only sound in the ward. I watch her chew, my Arts brushing against a faint, fragile note of calm; like plain water infused with the faintest hint of sweet fruit.

I turn my head, looking up at mom.

"Mom," I ask, pitching my voice softly so as not to disrupt the quiet peace of the ward.

"Can Opal join me in the garden later?"

"Sure," mom replies, her voice a soothing anchor. "She is free to leave. The fresh air will be good for her."

I turn back to the bed.

"That's good," I tell the young girl, offering her a cheerful nod. "I will see you after lunch. Okay, Opal?"

Opal pauses her chewing. She gives a tiny, brave nod.

"Okay," she whispers.

Mom gently pats my shoulder, and together, we step backward toward the blast doors. The pneumatic locks clank, and the panels slide shut with a definitive hiss, sealing Opal safely inside her quiet bubble. We step out into the bustling, metallic corridors of the medical wing.

The moment the doors close, the comfortable, domestic warmth in my chest stalls. The reality of the landship's frantic, militarized efficiency presses down on me. I look up at mom, my fingers nervously twisting the fabric of my jacket.

"Mom," I murmur, the word catching slightly in my throat. "You are deploying soon, right?"

Mom stops walking.

"Yeah," mom sighs softly, her eyes dropping to meet mine with absolute sincerity. "After lunch."

She reaches out, her hand resting gently on my shoulder.

"We are going to a town in County Kevin," she explains, her voice dropping into a hushed, serious tone. "It is right next to Hillock. We are going to see if we can resettle the refugees."

I step forward, completely abandoning the space between us. I throw my arms around her waist, burying my face deeply into the crisp fabric of her uniform. I give her a massive, desperate squeeze, holding onto her as if my sheer physical strength could shield her from the fires of Victoria.

"Stay safe, mom," I whisper into her coat, my voice trembling but fiercely absolute. Mom doesn't let go immediately. Her arms wrap securely around my shoulders, returning the crushing embrace as she rests her chin gently against the top of my head.

"I will, my little Lethe," mom murmurs into my hair, her voice vibrating with a fierce, unconditional promise. "I will."

She holds me for another long, grounding second before she slowly pulls back. She reaches up, using her thumbs to gently wipe a stray tear from the corner of my eye.

"Now," mom declares, her tone brisk and purposefully light to chase away the lingering shadows, "let’s grab our lunch before I need to get ready. With extra servings of vegetables for you."

My heart, which had just been swelling with profound, teary-eyed affection, completely stalls.

My tail, which had been curled securely around her leg, drops completely dead with a pathetic thud.

"Aww," I whine, puffing my cheeks out as I look up at her. "But mom."

Mom doesn't even blink.

"No, but," mom counters smoothly, effortlessly cutting off my protests before they can even fully form. "We both know when I leave, with Lena not here too, you are going to survive on sugar. Dr. Warfarin’s blood draws going to see your blood filled with liquid sugar."

I flinch.

The visual is entirely too accurate. Without Miss Lena's grounding presence in the garden to monitor my snacks, and with mom deployed to County Kevin, the temptation to quietly raid Ms. Closure's vending machines for sour gummies and sugary drinks is dangerously high. And the terrifying image of Dr. Warfarin holding up a pristine glass vial, her eyes gleaming with predatory amusement as she literally measures the syrup in my veins, makes me visibly shudder.

I quickly grip my Arts Unit with both hands, pulling it defensively against my chest. I widen my eyes to project the absolute maximum amount of sincere, innocent conviction I can physically muster.

"I won’t," I declare, making sure my voice rings with absolute certainty. "I promise." Mom simply raises an eyebrow, her expression entirely unimpressed by my desperate, sugar-addicted vows, but a soft, melodic chuckle betrays her stern facade.

"We will see about that," she teases gently. "Come on. The cafeteria is waiting, and those steamed greens aren't going to eat themselves."

I dutifully scrape the last, utterly bland bite of my mandated steamed vegetables from my tray. I push the plate away and stand up, the heavy reality of the landship's schedule pressing back in.

I throw my arms around mom for one last, desperate squeeze before she heads to deployment.

"Stay safe out there," I whisper, burying my face into the fabric of her uniform.

Mom hugs me back fiercely. "See you soon, Lethe," mom replies softly, her thumb gently brushing my cheek before she turns to march into the dark.

I watch her go, taking a slow, steadying breath, before turning my steps back toward the high-security wards to get Opal.

Opal is sitting on the edge of her mattress, her padded slippers already on her feet.

"Opal. Ready?" I ask.

"Ready," Opal replies. Her voice is still soft, but it carries an undeniable steadiness. She reaches out, her fingers wrapping confidently around mine.

I hold Opal’s hand as we navigate the corridors of the landship, leaving the biting scent of bleach and ozone behind.

As we step onto the polished floor of the garden, Podenco looks up from a bed of fragile sprouts near her workstation.

"Hi, Lethe. Hi Opal," Podenco says, her tail giving a cheerful sway.

Almost instantly, a blur of auburn tears down the walkways.

"Lethe! Opal! Hi!" Lisa chimes, skidding to a halt right in front of us.

Further back in the annexed section, near the hum of the micro-climate pods and her designated nursery pen, Miss Beanstalk pops her head up. A small metal crab clicks its claws rhythmically as it rests comfortably in her hands.

"Oh! Opal, Lethe. Afternoon," Miss Beanstalk waves enthusiastically.

Lisa steps back from our initial greeting, her hands patting the sides of the small, circular brown bag resting against her hip. Her tails droop just a fraction.

"Well. I don't have any board games today," Lisa says.

"That’s alright," I tell her, shifting my focus to the lush, blooming flowerbeds. I look down at the Cautus girl standing securely by my side. "We can help with the gardening. Right, Opal?"

Opal looks around at the sprawling vines and the delicate, moisture-loving flowers thriving along the winding paths. She adjusts her grip on her plushie, her ears giving a slow, thoughtful twitch.

"We can try…" Opal replies.

The clinks of vials announces Podenco's arrival. She comes over, wiping a speck of damp soil from her trowel. She offers Opal a warm, encouraging smile, before throwing a highly exaggerated, teasing smirk in my direction.

"I am sure Opal can do a lot better than Lethe," Podenco declares, her tone dripping with playful arrogance.

The sheer, unapologetic audacity of the tease hits me instantly. My mind violently flashes back to my very first attempt at gardening, where my tail had completely betrayed me and sliced straight through a row of her freshly sprouted medicinal herbs.

"Hey!" I yelp. I drop my hands to my hips, puffing my cheeks out as I fix the Perro with my fiercest, most defensive glare. "I… I am good at pulling weeds and categorising!" Podenco simply rolls her eyes, entirely unfazed by my indignant defense.

"Sure you are," Podenco drawls, her voice dripping with playful indulgence. She turns away from me and offers a gentle, open palm to Opal standing beside me. "Come, Opal. Let big sis Podenco show you how it is done."

Opal looks down at the outstretched hand. The fragile, sweet flavor of berries and plums radiates warmly from her. Opal gladly takes it, holding her brown plushie securely against her chest with her free arm as she lets Podenco gently guide her down the winding path toward the medicinal herb beds.

I am left standing entirely abandoned. I let out a long, tragic groan, my shoulders completely slumping in defeat.

Lisa steps up right beside me, her hands reaching out to gently pat my arm. Trying to soothe my wounded Sarkaz pride.

"There, there, Lethe," Lisa comforts me. She offers me a radiant, utterly sincere smile.

"You are our best palliative care Medic."

I let my head drop heavily, my horns pointing toward the floor.

"More like I am the only one…" I mumble miserably, staring at my white sneakers. It isn't exactly a fiercely contested title when I am the only Djall on the landship actively siphoning trauma to keep my body from starving.

"You can always help me clean the shells!"

The bright, completely unbothered voice calls out from deep within the greenhouse. I whip my head around. Miss Beanstalk is leaning over the clear fencing of her designated nursery pen. She is holding a small brush. A small cluster of her signature metal crabs scurries around her shoes, their claws clicking sharply.

My blood instantly runs cold. My mind violently flashes back to the agonizing, terrifying moment one of those exact same menaces had clamped its pincers aggressively onto the sensitive, spade-shaped tip of my tail. I remember the uncoordinated, frantic flailing that almost sent me face-first into the dirt.

My tail instantly snaps rigid, shooting up before wrapping itself into a tight, incredibly defensive coil around my thigh, tucking the tip as far away from the Reproba breeder as physically possible.

"I categorically refuse!" I yelp, taking a massive, frantic step backward. "They are going for my tail again!"

Miss Beanstalk gasps, looking absolutely scandalized. She immediately drops her brush and scoops one of the metal crabs up into her arms.

"They won’t!" Miss Beanstalk protests loudly, holding the crab up to defend its honor.

"Look at them! They are the best, most behaving little ones."

I narrow my eyes at the flailing legs. Given my past experiences with her chaotic pets, I remain absolutely, fundamentally unconvinced.

I let out a long, highly exaggerated sigh, completely refusing to engage with the crustaceans for a single second longer.

"Well," I declare, turning on my heel and marching toward the far wall. "I will focus on making sure our inventory aligns with the records. Someone has to protect the medical supply chain."

"Okay! I will help you, Miss Beanstalk!" Lisa chimes.

The radiant Vulpo bounds away, practically skipping toward the seasoned breeder to learn the highly specific art of polishing metal crab shells.

I grab a digital clipboard from the counter, my fingers tapping the glass screen to pull up the latest logistical manifest. I stand in front of the tall, glass-fronted cabinets, narrowing my eyes as I begin to meticulously count the neatly stacked boxes of dried herbs, and vials.

A few paces away, Podenco has guided Opal to a tiered planter box filled with lush, vibrant greenery.

"Look closely at the edges of this one, Opal," Podenco instructs. Her voice is soft and, taking on the patient, educational tone of a true botanist. She gently parts the leaves to reveal a cluster of small, bell-shaped blue flowers. "See how the petals curl inward? It creates a tiny, natural cup to catch the morning dew."

Opal leans in, her eyes wide with quiet fascination.

"Does the dew… taste good?" Opal asks.

"Wait, Opal, don't eat it!" I yelp, my voice thick with sudden, protective panic. "It might be a trick! Remember the Dust-weaver! It will make your throat feel like you just swallowed a mouthful of raw sand!"

Podenco freezes. She slowly turns her head, fixing me with a completely flat, deadpan stare.

"Lethe," Podenco sighs, resting her free hand on her hip. "This is an Azure Sugar-bell. Miss Lena literally uses the nectar from these to sweeten the tea you drink every single afternoon. You would know that if you didn't run away to Archives every time I offer a botany lesson."

I blink. A hot, prickly flush of absolute embarrassment violently crashes over my cheeks.

"I…" I stammer, my hand dropping limply to my side. "I am just being cautious! You are the one who told me not to snack in the wild!"

"We are inside a climate-controlled greenhouse, Lethe," Podenco counters. "The only danger here is you mislabeling the Oripathy suppressants as nutrient paste again."

"That was one time! And now you made me lose my count! I was up to forty-two boxes of herbs, and now I have to start all over!"

A tiny sound breaks the standoff.

I look downwards. Opal is staring at my wildly swishing tail. The edges of her lips tremble upward, and a soft, incredibly fragile little giggle bubbles out from behind her plushie.

Podenco's smirk instantly softens into a warm, radiant smile as she looks at the laughing Cautus girl.

I let out a defeated groan. I don't even care that I have to recount the entire shelf. If it makes Opal laugh, Podenco can tease my Kazdelian intellect all she wants.

The rest of the week has become a blur of suffocating, anxious routine.

I eat. I go to the Convalescent Garden. I sit among the ferns and absolutely dread for mom. I sleep. The ambient air of the entire landship has tasted of stagnant rainwater and cold iron, a heavy, collective holding pattern as we wait on the fringes of the burning Victorian borders.

But today is the 8th of January. Today is my scheduled check-up.

I drag my feet through the hallways, pushing through the blast doors of the high- security medical laboratory. The sharp, biting scent of bleach, sterilized steel, and cold ozone instantly claws at my nose.

Dr. Warfarin is standing by her gleaming centrifuges, her white hair catching the harsh, clinical light of the room. The moment the pneumatic locks click shut behind me, she turns. Her focus locks onto my slouching frame, and that familiar, predatory smirk stretches across her lips.

The ambient air in the lab immediately spikes with the taste of cold copper and expensive, old wine.

"Oh! Look who it is!" Dr. Warfarin drawls, her voice echoing dramatically against the stainless-steel walls. "My favorite blood bag. Finally miss little old me now?"

I slowly shuffle toward the padded examination chair. I don't even have the energy to argue.

"Dr. Warfarin…" I climb onto the chair, pulling my knees up slightly.

Doctor rolls her eyes, letting out a highly theatrical sigh as she saunters over to my corner.

"Don’t look so down, little anomaly," Dr. Warfarin dismisses. "If you don’t know. We are finally leaving this dreadful piece of land."

"We are?" I ask, my eyes wide as I look up at her.

"Yes," she states, her tone dropping into a dry, pragmatic tone. She swipes away a chart floating above her console. "Victorians lost hold of Hillock. That means the refugees are no longer our problem soon. In short, we are leaving."

The words hit me. They lost the city. The uprising, the fires, the barricades; it was all over. If the refugees are no longer our problem, if the perimeter is closed, then the vanguard teams are pulling back.

"So mom is coming back," I breathe out.

A massive, rushing wave of profound relief completely overrides the freezing anxiety in my stomach. She is coming back to the landship. She is safe.

"Well, less worry about your 'mom'," Dr. Warfarin purrs, her voice suddenly dropping into a dangerously smooth octave.

Before I can even process her sudden shift in proximity, her hand darts out with terrifying speed.

She shoves a small lollipop directly into my mouth.

The sharp, artificial burst of mixed berry floods my tongue, completely shocking my senses. But before my brain can even register the sweet, sugary anchor, she grabs my arm, expertly rolling up the sleeve of my jacket and turtleneck.

She instantly jabs me.

"Mmph!"

I yelp around the plastic stick of the candy, my entire body violently flinching. The sudden, biting sting of the needle piercing the crook of my elbow sends a jolt of panic straight up my spine. My tail instantly snaps rigid, lashing wildly against the base of the padded chair, and I instinctively try to squirm backward to escape the pinch.

Dr. Warfarin's grip on my arm is absolute iron. She doesn't let me retreat a single bit, easily holding me in place as the vacuum tube engages, drawing my blood.

"After more than two years of blood draw, you are still squirming," Dr. Warfarin sighs, shaking her head in mock disappointment as she watches the vial fill. Her eyes gleam with a wicked, highly amused delight. "You are making the Djall bloodline look bad, little anomaly.”

Dr. Warfarin turns around and starts her centrifuges like normal.

I sit there waiting, sucking on my lollipop.

The hum of the centrifuges finally spins down to a halt, leaving the laboratory in a heavy, clinical quiet.

I keep the mixed berry lollipop securely in my mouth, pressing the cotton ball down on my arm as I wait for my Vampire doctor to deliver her verdict.

"Your Oripathy is still stable," Dr. Warfarin announces, turning away from the screens to look at me. She crosses her arms, tilting her head. "Though, how about your memory, little anomaly? Any visions recently?"

I take the plastic stick of the lollipop out of my mouth.

"No," I reply, shaking my head. "Nothing recently. Last time was the one I told Dr. Kal'tsit about. In the old landship with Doctor, Dr. Kal’tsit… and a Sarkaz woman."

The exact moment the words Sarkaz woman leave my lips, the ambient air in the laboratory violently shatters.

The familiar, predatory hum completely fractures. It is instantaneously replaced by a sharp, agonizing spike that hits me like a physical strike. It tastes like shattered glass drowning in a pool of soured, centuries-old vintage, heavily steeped in the suffocating, freezing ash of a profound, bleeding grief.

It is pure, unadulterated pain.

"Dr. Warfarin?" I whisper, my voice trembling in the sudden, crushing gravity of the room.

Dr. Warfarin stands perfectly, terrifyingly still. Her eyes are wide, staring blankly at the floor. For a fraction of a second, the ancient, untouchable scientist looks completely shattered.

Then, Dr. Warfarin lets out a long, slow exhale. The jagged, bleeding shards of her grief are forcefully swallowed down, locked tightly away behind a towering wall of flawless, clinical detachment.

"A passing thought. Disregard it," Dr. Warfarin commands, her voice seamlessly adopting its usual, dry tone. She waves dismissively in the air, actively diffusing the tension. She steps back toward her terminal. "Tell me, little anomaly. How far back does your memory trace now? What is the edge of your void?"

I stare at her back for a second, tasting the lingering, phantom sting of her hidden sorrow. I don't press her. Miss Lena's lesson echoes in my mind: We need to let people keep their bandages on until they are ready to move on.

I look down at my lap, pulling my knees up slightly. I reach into the dark cavern of my mind, searching for the exact shoreline where the ashes of my burnt memories meet the solid ground of the present.

"Around October 1096…"

I trace the first, solid anchor I can find.

"We were in the Convalescent Garden," I explain, a faint, bittersweet smile touching my lips. "Lisa brought a brightly colored cardboard box. It was a board game. Pioneers of Columbia. It was the first time we ever played it together."

"Podenco bankrupted me," I whine softly. "Hard. She bought the entire financial district before I could even build a single house."

"Losing to a Perro botanist," Dr. Warfarin scoffs. She crosses her arms over her coat, her crimson eyes gleaming with wicked, predatory amusement. "You are really misplacing all your Kazdelian intellect on seeking carbohydrates, little anomaly."

"But you get taped to the ceiling by a Feline too…" I mumble, my voice small but undeniably cheeky, pointing out her legendary, highly undignified punishment at the hands of the Medical Director.

The ambient air in the high-security laboratory explodes into a sharp, aggressive spike of absolute, aristocratic indignation, heavily soaked in the tart, sour taste of over- fermented grapes.

Dr. Warfarin whips around to face her medical tray, her hand darting out to snatch up a massive, pristine syringe.

"What did you say?" Dr. Warfarin purrs. Her voice drops into a dangerously smooth, lethal octave as she turns back toward me, holding the gleaming needle up to the harsh fluorescent lights. "A new vial? Just for the Blood Bank?"

My heart completely stops.

The reckless bravery evaporates in a single heartbeat, entirely replaced by pure, unadulterated survival instinct.

I don't even think.

I scramble wildly off the edge of the examination chair, my padded sneakers hitting the floor with a frantic squeak. I snatch up my Arts Unit like a lifeline.

"I will head back to the garden! Thank you, Dr. Warfarin!" I yelp.

I don't wait for her to take a single step forward. I spin on my heel, my hair whipping over my shoulders, and I run as fast as I can away from the lair of Dr. Warfarin. I sprint blindly into the corridors, leaving the ancient Vampire and her terrifying needles far behind me.

I sprint blindly through the corridors, my thick-soled sneakers squeaking frantically. My tail lashes behind me, completely throwing off my balance as I put as much distance between myself and the terrifying, pristine syringes as physically possible.

I am so focused on making my escape that I don't even check my corners.

Thud.

I collide directly into a solid, entirely immovable object. The impact completely halts my frantic momentum, sending me stumbling a half-step backward. I let out a surprised squeak, my hands flying up to my nose.

My Arts brush against the obstacle. The panicked, adrenaline-fueled rush in my throat is met by the dense taste of cool, smooth stone and the heavy, crackling static electricity that precedes a violent thunderstorm. But tucked safely beneath that immense, crushing pressure is a faint, unmistakable, and profoundly comforting undertone of sweet vanilla soft serve.

I look up, rubbing my nose.

Standing perfectly still in the middle of the hallway, entirely unfazed by my clumsy collision, is Rosmontis.

"Lethe? What’s wrong?" Rosmontis asks.

Her voice is perfectly flat, a quiet, steady hum over the ambient noise of the landship. She looks at me, her feline ears giving a tiny, curious twitch as she takes in my slightly breathless, panicked state.

The lingering terror of Dr. Warfarin completely vanishes, instantly replaced by a massive, rushing wave of pure relief.

"You are back safely!" I gasp out.

I don't hesitate. I step forward and throw my arms securely around her. Hugging Rosmontis is always a unique experience; despite her tiny frame, she feels as dense and immovable as a reinforced steel bulkhead. She is a walking fortress of telekinetic gravity, but her presence is undeniably, incredibly safe.

I pull back, offering her a bright, breathless smile as I smooth down the front of my jacket.

"I was just getting to the garden," I explain, gesturing loosely down the corridor. "What about you?"

Rosmontis blinks, her expression remaining beautifully, distantly calm.

"Dr. Kal’tsit and Dr. Warfarin’s check up for post operation," she states simply.

The cool stone flavor of her presence doesn't waver, but I physically wince in absolute, unadulterated sympathy. If Dr. Warfarin is a menace during a routine blood draw, a mandatory, post-deployment check-up overseen by both the Medical Director and the ancient Vampire sounds like a completely exhausting, terrifying ordeal.

"Okay! Good luck, Rosmontis," I tell her, offering a firm, encouraging nod to help her brave the clinical depths of the medical wing. "If you are free for lunch or dinner, let me know."

Rosmontis looks at me for a quiet second. Her ears give a slow, deliberate twitch, and she offers a tiny, affirmative nod.

I raise my free hand, waving her goodbye with a warm smile. I watch her turn and pad silently down the corridor toward the laboratory I had just fled, before I finally turn my own steps toward the humid, earthy safety of the Convalescent Garden.

The hallways of the landship are relatively quiet after I part ways with Rosmontis, the low thrum of the engines humming steadily beneath the floorboards.

As I turn the corner toward the primary intersections leading to the Convalescent Garden, I slow my pace. Standing near one of the recessed bulkheads are two Operators engaged in a hushed, intense conversation. I recognize their distinct armor and insignias immediately.

They are knights of Kazimierz. They belong to a specific knightclub called Pinus Sylvestris; at least, that is what Miss Whislash, the Kuranta training instructor, had told me during an Arts training session one time.

I hang back, keeping my footsteps light, completely captivated by the ambient flavors bleeding off the two of them.

The first knight is a Zalak. She is small but visibly radiating a restless, coiled energy, her vibrant reddish-orange hair tied back and her bushy tail flicking in sharp, agitated arcs behind her. The taste she projects is intensely complex. It starts as a bright, bubbling splash of sparkling cider, but the sweetness is violently overwhelmed by the sharp, acidic tang of battery acid and the metallic bite of rusted copper.

Standing beside her is a tall Liberi with pale hair and incredibly sharp, observant eyes that seem to naturally scan the corridor for threats. She carries a specialized, long- range weapon slung over her shoulder. Her presence is a stark contrast to the Zalak's fiery static. The Liberi tastes like crisp, freezing pine needles and smooth, chilled glass.

"Did you hear, Justyna?" the Zalak girl asks, her voice dropping into a tight, frustrated whisper that still manages to carry down the quiet hallway. "One of the Infected Knights making rounds has been assassinated."

"They say you can gain citizenship by fighting in the Majors," the Zalak continues, her tone dripping with absolute, venomous disdain for her own homeland. "The moment you start to threaten their corporate-sponsored Knights, the Armorless Union just quietly disappears you."

The name of the corporate assassins sends a terrifying, freezing shiver straight down my spine. The Armorless Union. My mind instantly flashes back to the Convalescent Garden, to the sobbing Feline Caster, Ms. Fres, who had barely survived the horrific, blood-soaked slaughter of the Infected in the dark underbelly of Kawalerielki, known as Area 0. The neon-lit circus of the Kazimierz Major is nothing but a blinding distraction from the bodies buried in the dark.

The Liberi, Justyna, shifts her weight slightly, her expression remaining entirely unreadable.

"It never changes, Sona," Justyna replies. Her voice is calm, carrying that same chilly, pine-scented detachment, but laced with a heavy, enduring exhaustion. "They tried it on us too, don’t forget."

Sona’s hands clench into tight fists at her sides, her bushy tail lashing with renewed, bitter aggression.

"Of course not!" Sona snaps back, her eyes blazing with a fierce, unyielding fire. "That’s why we fight for Rhodes Island now! But I wish I could take one back from them."

I stand perfectly still, pressing my back against the cold steel of the wall so I don't interrupt them.

I take a slow, silent breath, forcing the phantom taste of rusted copper and battery acid of Area 0 down my throat. I lower my head, waiting for the two knights to finish their conversation before I slip past them, carrying the heavy truth of their survival with me all the way to the safety of the garden.

I finally reach the familiar confines of the garden.

I step over the threshold, my eyes scanning the sprawling, leafy canopy.

Deep within the foliage, near the glowing pods, the sanctuary is entirely alive.

Miss Lena is back. She stands by the botanical workstation, carefully unpacking a series of sealed, reinforced specimen containers from her field pack. Beside her, Podenco is practically vibrating, her tail swishing in a frantic, joyous blur.

"Look at the serration on these leaves, Podenco," Miss Lena murmurs, her voice a gentle, melodic hum that I have missed so desperately over the last few days. "They thrive in the ash-rich soil of the Victorian plains. If we can isolate the alkaloid compounds, they could drastically improve our burn salves."

"They are incredible, Miss Lena!" Podenco cheers, her eyes sparkling with unadulterated academic delight.

I take a step further down the path. But before I can call out to them, my eyes drift to the curved, golden-brown wooden bench resting in the dappled shade of a large fern. Sitting there, leaning heavily against the wooden slats with a steaming porcelain teacup cradled in her hands, is mom.

She has shed her translucent tactical coat, wearing only her plum undershirt. Her downy feathers look a little disheveled.

"Mom! Miss Lena!"

The words tear out of my throat. I don't hesitate for a single second. I break into a run.

"Lethe," mom breathes out.

She hastily sets her teacup down on the table, opening her arms to catch me.

"Hi, Lethe," Miss Lena calls out warmly from the workstation, her eyes crinkling with fondness as she watches me blur past the flowerbeds.

I crash into mom, throwing my arms securely around her neck and burying my face into her shoulder.

"You are safe!" I gasp into the fabric of her shirt, squeezing her tightly. "Both of you are safe!"

Mom lets out a soft, breathy chuckle, her arms wrapping securely around my back. "We are safe, my little Lethe. We are home."

I pull back from the embrace, wanting to say how much I missed her. But she tastes wrong, my hands dropping to her shoulders. I scan her face, the dark smudges under her eyes, and then my gaze drops downward.

The heavy, dark fabric of her specialized combat pants has been deliberately cut away at the mid-thigh. Wrapped tightly around her left leg, stark and glaringly white against the muted colors of her uniform, is a thick layer of medical bandages. A faint, unmistakable bloom of crimson seeps through the very center of the sterile gauze.

"Mom… You are injured…"

The bustling, joyful energy of the greenhouse completely stalls. Podenco lowers her specimen container, her ears drooping slightly, while Miss Lena watches us with a quiet, solemn grace.

Mom lets out a slow, heavy sigh. She reaches out, gently catching my hands and folding them securely within her own.

"I am okay, Lethe," mom murmurs, her voice dropping into a soft, steadying anchor. She looks directly into my tear-filled eyes. "It looks much worse than it is, I promise."

"What happened?"

"We were caught in the crossfire," mom explains. "Dublinn forces and the Victorian military were clashing in the sector we were evacuating. It was chaotic. I was just trying to pull a civilian behind the barricades, and I got grazed by a stray crossbow bolt." A crossbow bolt.

A cold shiver traces its way down my spine, rattling the horns on my skull. It wasn't a scrape from falling debris. It was a weapon of war. A few centimeters higher, or a fraction of a second slower, and the bolt wouldn't have just grazed her leg.

"Mom…" I choke out, fresh, hot tears spilling over my lashes. I drop to my knees on the floor tiles, and carefully rest my forehead against her uninjured knee.

Mom gently extracts one of her hands from mine. She reaches down, her fingers sinking softly into my hair.

"I am here, Lethe," she whispers fiercely into the quiet garden. "The bolt missed anything vital. Sussurro has already cleaned and stitched the wound. I just need to rest it for a few weeks."

I sniffle, rubbing my cheek against the rough fabric of her pants.

"Then you are not allowed to move," I declare. I grip her hand tightly. "I will bring you your meals from the cafeteria. And I will make sure Miss Lena's teas are always warm. You are staying right here in the garden until you are completely healed."

A soft, melodic laugh echoes from the botanical workstation.

Miss Lena steps out from behind the counter, carrying a fresh, steaming porcelain cup. She walks over and gently sets the restorative herbal tea on the small table beside mom.

"You have a very strict, very capable palliative care nurse looking after you now, Erika," Miss Lena smiles. "I suggest you follow her orders."

Mom looks down at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. The sharp, metallic sting of her injury is still there, but it is completely enveloped by the warmth of our sanctuary.

"I wouldn't dare disobey her," mom whispers, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss directly to my forehead. "I am not going anywhere, Lethe."

I stubbornly keep my grip on her hand, refusing to let her pull away entirely. I settle myself onto the floor tiles right beside her, curling my legs beneath me so I can keep a constant, watchful eye on the white bandages wrapped around her thigh.

"That’s right, mom," I declare. "You are not going anywhere."

I lean my head against her uninjured knee, the adrenaline of her return finally beginning to ebb, leaving behind a heavy, contemplative quiet.

"Well, since everyone is back," my voice dropping into a softer, more hesitant tone. "I saw Rosmontis earlier too. And during my check-up… Dr. Warfarin said we are leaving soon. That Hillock has fallen to Dublinn. Is that true?"

"Yes. Lethe," mom replies, the words scraping painfully against the tranquil air of the greenhouse. "That’s why we all pulled back. Refugees will be resettled soon."

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Well. We don’t know yet," mom admits. She reaches over to the small table, picking up the cup Miss Lena had poured for her. The warmth of the herbal tea seems to ground us slightly. She takes a slow sip, her expression firming into that quiet, unyielding resolve that defines every Medic on this landship. "But I would assume we continue to hunt down Catastrophes."

That is our existence. We are a sanctuary, forever chasing the darkest, most terrifying storms on the planet so that no one has to bleed to death in the dark alone.

A soft, delicate rustle of clothing breaks the heavy gravity of the moment.

Miss Lena steps fully out from behind her botanical workstation. She has finished unpacking the reinforced specimen containers she had carried back from the frontlines. The serene, calming lavender of her presence deliberately swells, actively pushing back the bitter ash of the warzone.

"I did wish I could stay in Victoria longer," Miss Lena sighs wistfully, offering a gentle, nostalgic smile as she looks at the sealed containers. "There’s so many beautiful plants." The sheer, unadulterated thrill of a new project completely overrides my melancholy. I scramble up from the floor, my hands flying up in sheer excitement.

"Miss Lena! We should cultivate them now!" Podenco cheers. She immediately grabs a stack of glass terrariums. "We have the soil acidity regulators perfectly calibrated for the Victorian plains! We can set up the germination trays right this second!"

Miss Lena covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a graceful, melodic chuckle.

"Alright, alright, you two," Miss Lena laughs softly. She reaches out, gently popping the seal on the first container. "Let us see what we managed to bring back from the ash." The gloomy, war-torn shadows instantly evaporate from my mind.

“Okay, Miss Lena!” Podenco and I declare in unison.