July, 1098 — Home Once More

The tires of our ATVs finally roll over the thick steel ramp of the deployment bay. As the massive hydraulic doors of the landship hiss shut behind us, entirely sealing away the wind and the overcast sky, Miss Mousse cuts the engine.

The roaring mechanical rumble of the vehicle dies down, instantly replaced by the low, steady, and incredibly comforting vibration of Rhodes Island's primary engines humming beneath the floorboards.

It is the absolute best feeling in the world.

I unbuckle my seatbelt with a satisfying click and push the passenger door open. The moment my padded sneakers hit the solid, metallic grating of the deck, the sterile, climate-controlled air of the bay washes over me. It smells faintly of machine grease, filtered ozone, and absolute safety. We are home.

I grab my bag and my Arts Unit, stepping away from the vehicle. I look across the sprawling, busy hangar, and my heart immediately does a frantic, joyous flutter.

Standing right at the far gate leading back to the primary corridors are two incredibly familiar silhouettes. Before I can even fully process their faces, my Arts passively sweep across the open bay. A massive, overwhelming wave of rich, protective honey and sun- drenched fields instantly washes over me, perfectly layered with the serene, soothing warmth of steeped chamomile and blooming lavender.

"Mom! Miss Lena!" I cry out.

I don't even wait for the rest of the team to grab their gears. I break into a full sprint across the metal decking, my tail swishing in a frantic blur behind me.

Mom steps forward, her arms wide open. I throw myself directly into her embrace, burying my face into the plum fabric of her tactical shirt. She wraps her arms securely around my shoulders, pulling me into a massive, crushing hug that completely banishes the last lingering shadows of the ruined towns and the dark, damp caves.

"Welcome back, my little researcher," mom whispers fiercely into my hair, pressing a warm kiss against the side of my head. "Are you hurt? Did you eat properly?"

"I'm perfectly fine, mom!" I promise, squeezing her back just as tightly. "Miss Mousse made the absolute best meals, and I stayed right behind everyone else during the fights!"

Miss Lena steps up beside us, she gently reaches out to pat my shoulder. "Welcome home, Lethe. You all did wonderfully."

As the rest of our expedition team makes their way over from the parked ATVs, dropping their bags and Podenco's meticulously secured terrariums, the atmosphere in the deployment bay is wonderfully light.

But as we gather around to recount our safe return, Podenco tilts her head, her ears twitching curiously as she looks toward my Caprinae tutor.

"Actually, Miss Eyja," Podenco pipes up. "Where are your little ones?"

My tail pausing mid-sway.

"Little ones?" I ask, my brow furrowing in genuine confusion. I look between Podenco and Miss Adele.

"Yes!" Lisa chimes in, stepping up beside me with a bright, radiant smile. "They are fluffy little beckbeasts! Miss Eyja calls them little sheep. They usually follow her everywhere!" Mint nods vigorously from behind Miss Susie, her ears twitching in absolute agreement. I blink. I immediately let go of mom and reach into my crossbody bag. I pull out my slate, I scroll frantically down the meticulously curated profiles until I land on Miss Adele's entry. I scan the bullet points about tectonic plates, and volcanic Arts.

"Uhm…" I look back up at them, holding the slate to my chest. "They are never in my notes…"

Miss Adele offers a gentle, incredibly apologetic smile.

"You have never seen them yet, Lethe," Miss Adele explains gently. "Since we have met in the Archives almost all of the time, they are not exactly allowed inside the library aisles. The Chief Librarian is very strict about keeping animal fur away from the rare texts."

She pauses, her eyes shifting down to look at the misty blue liquid swirling within the halos of my Arts Unit.

"And… I was slightly concerned you might siphon or feel something weird," Miss Adele admits, her tone dropping into a thoughtful, highly careful register. "Because they are little creatures. They do not possess complex human emotions. I wasn't entirely sure how your Arts would react to their baseline, and I didn't want to risk overwhelming your senses with something foreign."

She had intentionally kept her beloved pets away just to make sure my mind didn't accidentally stumble into something uncomfortable.

But the realization that there are fluffy little sheep on this landship; and that I have been completely missing out on them, instantly overrides any caution.

"Can… can I meet them, Miss Adele?" I ask, my voice breathless and practically vibrating with eager anticipation. "I want to!"

Miss Adele's cautious expression entirely melts into a beautifully gentle smile.

"Of course, Lethe," she replies.

"Wait right here," Miss Adele continues, her eyes sparkling with a warm, playful light. "I will be back quick."

She turns on her heel and hurries down the corridor toward the administrative elevators, leaving me practically vibrating in my sneakers on the deployment deck.

"Be careful with your hands, though," mom warns, crossing her arms over her shirt. A highly knowing, amused smirk tugs at the corner of her lips.

"What do you mean, mom?"

"They can be quite toasty," mom replies effortlessly.

Before I can even attempt to decipher what she means by 'toasty', the soft ding of the administrative elevator echoes across the hangar. The steel doors slide apart, and Miss Adele steps back out onto the grating.

And following right behind her are the absolute cutest things I have ever seen in my entire life.

They are lttle beckbeasts, but they look more like perfectly round, impossibly fluffy clouds of pitch-black soot. They have tiny, delicate hooves that click softly against the floor, and small, beautifully curling horns resting on their heads. But the most mesmerizing part is their fleece. It isn't just dark; hidden deep within the incredibly thick fluff is radiating a warmth that feels exactly like the dying embers of a cozy campfire.

As they trot out onto the deck, a wave of literal, physical heat washes over the sterile air of the hangar. My Arts brush against them, and the flavor is absolutely intoxicating. There is no complex, suffocating human dread or sharp panic. It is just an incredibly pure, primal resonance that tastes exactly like a warm, sun-baked brick and the simple, uncomplicated instinct of wanting to snuggle near a hearth fire.

"What!" I gasp.

I immediately drop to my knees on the cold metal, completely captivated by the little creatures as they happily trot around Miss Adele's ankles, letting out soft, incredibly endearing baaas.

"They are cute, aren’t they?" Miss Adele smiles, her dormant hearth-fire aura blooming with absolute, affectionate pride. She reaches down, effortlessly petting the top of one of the soot-black heads.

She looks at my outreaching hands, which are currently hovering just centimeters away from the incredibly fluffy fleece, completely desperate to pet them.

"Be careful though. You might want to put on oven mittens, Lethe," Miss Adele warns with a gentle, musical giggle.

"I will be fine!" I declare, completely unable to resist the gravitational pull of the absolute fluff.

I reach out, pressing both of my hands directly into the thick fleece of the little sheep.

The feeling is purely intoxicating. The heat doesn't scorch my skin; instead, it wraps around my fingers like a thick, perfectly heated blanket. I let out a long, blissfully happy sigh, entirely ignoring the warning, and pull the little volcanic fire directly into my chest, cuddling it tightly.

I close my eyes, my tail giving a rapid, rhythmic thump against the floor. The pure, uncomplicated emotion radiating from the creature is so incredibly warm and innocent. It fills my empathic senses completely, washing away the lingering exhaustion of the Victorian plains.

But then, the ambient noise of the deployment deck completely vanishes.

The heavy thud of crates being moved, the overlapping chatter of returning Operators, even the distant clanking of the hangar, all goes entirely, suffocatingly silent.

"Lethe?" Mint questions. Her voice is barely a whisper.

"Yes?" I mumble, reluctantly opening my eyes.

I look up from the fluffy creature in my arms. Everyone is just standing there. Mom's arms have dropped limply to her sides, her jaw slightly slack. Lisa is staring with her hands covering her mouth, her nine tails puffed up in sheer shock. Miss Adele is completely frozen, her eyes wide as she looks not at me, but directly behind me. Mint looks absolutely, fundamentally confused.

I blink, my brow furrowing. I slowly turn my head to look over my shoulder.

Rolling playfully across the steel grating of the deck is a beckbeast. But it isn't little. It is absolutely, impossibly gigantic. It is easily the size of three of our ATVs, a massive, towering mountain of black fleece.

As the colossal beckbeast rolls happily onto its back, kicking its massive, delicate hooves into the air, the reinforced metal decking physically groans and shudders beneath its weight. A localized wave of intense, comforting hearth-fire heat washes across the entire hangar, warming the air like a massive furnace.

It lets out a deep, booming, yet incredibly endearing baaaa that vibrates right through the soles of my sneakers and rattles my teeth.

I stare at the giant creature, my mouth opening and closing silently.

I look down at my hands. The liquid suspended within the halos of my Arts Unit isn't just humming; it is swirling in a frantic, chaotic vortex.

"Uhm…" my voice fracturing into a tiny, breathless wheeze in the deafening silence of the room. I look back at mom, and then up at the colossal, rolling ball of volcanic fluff currently taking up half the loading bay. "Is… is that mine?"

No one answers.

We all just stand there in the deployment bay, completely paralyzed, watching a giant beckbeast happily roll around on the floor.

"Lethe? Are you okay?"

Mom drops down to her knees right beside me, her hands urgently gripping my shoulders. She looks between my wide eyes and the colossal mountain of volcanic fluff dominating the hangar.

"Yes, mom, I feel fine," I breathe out, slowly recovering from the absolute shock. "I am just… very surprised."

Beside us, Podenco completely abandons all caution. She steps right up to the giant creature. She reaches out, boldly sinking both of her hands deep into the fleece.

"What? I can actually touch it?" Podenco gasps, her tail wagging furiously. "It is so fluffy!"

Before anyone else can step forward to test the physics of the giant sheep, the sharp ding of the elevator echoes across the deployment bay. The doors slide apart with a frantic hiss.

Dr. Warfarin bursts onto the deck, her coat billowing behind her. She is clutching a heavy-duty, black-crossed emergency trauma kit in both hands, her eyes scanning the bay. She stops dead in her tracks.

The frantic momentum of Dr. Warfarin completely stalls. Her eyes sweep over our perfectly healthy, uninjured expedition team, land briefly on me, and then slowly pan upward to take in the sheer, impossible mass of the giant beckbeast currently rolling happily on the floorboards.

The sharp, metallic tang of rust and red wine bleeding off Dr. Warfarin instantly flatlines. She slowly lowers the emergency trauma kit to the deck.

She pinches her temples with her free hand, closing her eyes as she lets out a long, agonizing sigh that seems to carry the weight of centuries.

Dr. Warfarin groans, her dry, exasperated voice echoing perfectly across the quiet hangar. "Kal goes to play war in Londinium, and she leaves me in charge of a giant petting zoo? Here I thought there’s an actual medical emergency."

She finally looks up, and she glares at the colossal mountain of volcanic fleece. "I am going to have to draw extra later to make sure your Oripathy is stable."

"What?! But I didn't even do anything!" I protest.

Lisa steps forward, her tails swaying in a gentle, bewildered rhythm as she looks up at the medical and engineering heads. "Dr. Warfarin… what is this exactly?" Lisa asks, pointing a finger at the giant, happy beckbeast.

Dr. Warfarin lets out another long, deeply exhausted sigh. She crosses her arms over her coat, her eyes locking directly onto me.

"It is Lethe’s Arts," Dr. Warfarin states flatly.

"My Arts?"

"You are a Djall with incredibly high Arts assimilation," Dr. Warfarin explains. She gestures toward the giant creature. "You shouldn’t just be able to feel and manipulate emotions. A powerful Djall can project their or their targets’ deepest emotions into an illusory Arts."

The Vampire Medic pauses, her eyes sweeping over the soot-black fleece that are currently heating the entire hangar.

"Though, calling it 'illusory' is a massive understatement," Dr. Warfarin corrects herself, shaking her head slightly. "As far as reality is concerned, it is a real, existing physical manifestation."

I look at the Arts Creation. My Arts had simply decided to reflect that overwhelming desire of me hugging the little critter by manifesting a version of the creature that was physically large enough to hug a landship.

I didn't just feel the emotion. I accidentally built a three-story-tall beckbeast out of it.

For a long, agonizing second, absolutely nobody moves.

Then, the academic restraint that usually governs my tutor completely evaporates.

The comforting, dormant hearth fire of Miss Adele's emotional resonance doesn't just spark; it blooms into a blinding wave of pure, overwhelming joy. She drops her satchel onto the metal grating, completely abandoning her usual composed elegance, and practically runs toward the massive wall of volcanic fleece.

"Oh, I simply cannot hold back," Miss Adele gasps. She throws her arms as wide as they can possibly go and presses herself directly into the giant, fluffy side of the colossal creature. "It is a big, little black sheep!"

The giant beckbeast lets out another deep, booming baaaa that rattles the catwalks above us, leaning into Miss Adele's tiny embrace with an affection that radiates physical, furnace-like heat.

Miss Adele turns her head, her face flushed with absolute delight. She looks over at her Feline junior, who is currently just staring at the physics-defying monster.

"Mint!" Miss Adele calls out, her voice bright and breathless. "Mint, please, take some pictures of this!"

Mint violently flinches as she snaps out of her paralyzed trance.

"R-right! Pictures! The structural integrity of an Originium-manifested biological entity!" Mint stammers. She frantically fumbles with her pockets, pulling out her communicator and snapping rapid-fire photos of our tutor hugging a three-story-tall cloud of fleece.

After a few blissful, incredibly toasty minutes, the immense heat radiating from the Arts Creation finally forces Miss Adele to step back. She gently pats the giant fleece one last time before turning around. She clears her throat and brushing a stray piece of her hair from her cheeks as she attempts to seamlessly reconstruct her flawless, scholarly composure.

"That was incredibly wonderful, Lethe. Thank you," Miss Adele says, her airy melody returning. She offers me a gentle, entirely professional smile. "But… perhaps it is best if you dispel the Arts Creation now, before it accidentally crushes a transport or melts the floor."

I blink, looking from her to the giant beckbeast, and then down at my own hands.

"I… I don't know how to do that!" I admit, my voice pitching up in panic. "I didn't even know I made it! How do I turn it off?!"

Dr. Warfarin steps forward. "It is an emotional projection, Lethe," the Vampire instructs, her voice strained. "Just pull the tether back. Stop feeding it the emotion of 'cute and fluffy.' Just drop the feeling."

"Okay! Okay, I can do that," I nod frantically.

I grip the black shaft of my Arts Unit with both hands. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus entirely on the massive, radiating feeling of affection I had poured into the creature. I take a deep breath, mentally grab hold of that warm, fuzzy emotion, and violently yank it backward, cutting off the supply completely.

The giant beckbeast destabilizes. It doesn't gracefully fade away like a mist. Instead, the massive volume of concentrated thermal energy and soot-black fleece simply collapses inward for a fraction of a second, before violently popping.

BOOM.

A massive, concussive shockwave of harmless but incredibly hot air explodes across the deployment bay. The sheer force of the backdraft knocks me flat onto my rear against the metal decking.

The sudden, violent thermal expansion of the popping construct hits the hangar's ceiling sensors.

Wee woo. Wee woo. Wee woo.

The deafening, apocalyptic wail of Rhodes Island's primary fire alarms shatters the peace of the bay. The emergency strobe lights flash a blinding, frantic red. Above our heads, the industrial fire suppression nozzles deploy with a synchronized, mechanical clack.

A torrential, freezing downpour of high-pressure chemical foam and icy water violently rains down upon the entire deployment deck.

"Cold!" I shriek, scrambling across the wet grating as the freezing water instantly soaks through my jacket. Beside me, Lisa lets out a dismayed yelp as her nine perfectly brushed tails are instantly flattened into sad, dripping wet mops.

A few paces away, Dr. Warfarin stands completely still under the freezing downpour.

Her pristine coat is completely plastered to her frame, dripping with water. She slowly raises a soaked hand to her forehead, pressing her fingers against her temples.

"I am going to submit a formal request," Dr. Warfarin mutters, her voice a hollow, defeated rasp over the wailing fire alarms. "To have Kal personally dock my pay.

Because if I am getting paid, it means I am technically obligated to deal with this."

The deafening wail of primary fire alarms continues to shatter the peace of the bay, accompanied by the torrential, freezing downpour of high-pressure chemical foam and icy water.

I sit miserably in a puddle, my jacket completely soaked through to my bones.

Through the icy deluge, a soft giggle cuts cleanly through the sirens. I look over. Miss Adele is completely drenched. The chemical foam drips from her curling horns, but she doesn't seem to care in the slightest. She just giggles, completely unbothered by the freezing rain.

To my right, Mint lets out a frantic, high-pitched yelp. She drops to her knees on the wet grating, curling into a tight, defensive ball. She is throwing her entire body completely over her journals, desperately acting as a physical umbrella for her field notes.

Miss Susie just stands there in the middle of the downpour, looking entirely, utterly defeated. Her hair is now plastered flat against her cheeks and forehead. The cozy, toasted-sugar warmth radiating from the her feels distinctly soggy and resigned.

Miss Grani, however, doesn't even flinch. She wipes a massive glob of white foam from her cheek, and laughs out loud. The sound is completely unrestrained.

"Good job, team!" Miss Grani cheers, gesturing proudly toward the dripping, foam- covered vehicles parked behind us. "That’s definitely one way to wash the ATVs!"

Beside her, Miss Mousse takes a very careful, hesitant step backward.

"Uhm… be careful, everyone…” Miss Mousse warns as she holds her gloves up to shield her face. "The floor is very slippery…"

Suddenly, a massive spray of water hits my side. I turn my head just in time to see Lisa executing a full-body shake. Her nine tails whip back and forth in a frantic blur, sending a massive shower of water and white foam flying in every conceivable direction. She bubbles with a bright, entirely unbothered cheerfulness as she physically fluffs her soaked fur back up.

Podenco smoothly side-steps Lisa's splash zone. She reaches up to wipe her wet hair out of her eyes, fixing me with a smirk.

"Well, Lethe," Podenco notes, her soaked tail giving a slow, deliberate wag as she looks at the absolute chaos I had just accidentally unleashed upon the engineering and medical heads. "This is definitely going to be legendary in the internal rumors."

"Indeed," Miss Lena's serene, melodic voice chimes in.

The sanctuary guardian stands amidst the disaster, her clothes completely soaked, yet she maintains her flawless, tranquil persona perfectly intact. She looks up at the ceiling sprinklers with a soft sigh.

"This is exactly why Kal'tsit should approve the bathhouse construction," Miss Lena muses calmly.

A shadow suddenly falls over me, completely blocking the worst of the downpour. I look up.

Mom is standing directly over me. Thanks to her translucent weatherproof coat doing exactly what it was engineered to do. It completely shields her from the deluge, the water and foam simply beading up and sliding harmlessly off the reinforced fabric.

She looks down at me sitting in the puddle of foam. The rich, protective honey and sun- drenched field of her emotional resonance wraps securely around my shivering frame, but her eyes are narrowed into a stern, highly practiced glare.

"Well, Lethe," Mom says, crossing her arms over her plum tactical shirt. Her tone leaves absolutely zero room for argument. "You conquered the plains. But if you catch a cold here in the hangar, you are definitely getting grounded."

Before I can even open my mouth to protest the absolute unfairness of being threatened with grounding over an accidental, giant-fluff-induced fire alarm, Dr.

Warfarin cuts me off.

"Now, get out of here," Dr. Warfarin orders. "Before I have to explain to Kal why half of the Medics she left on the landship all clocked in sick from hypothermia."

I don't need to be told twice.

I scramble to my feet, my soaked sneakers squeaking against the metal. I hastily grab my Arts Unit, shielding it against my chest as if that could somehow save it from the deluge it has already endured.

"Let’s get you all cleaned up," mom says. She reaches out, her hands gently but firmly gripping my shoulders.

We make our hasty retreat from the deployment bay. The blast doors hiss shut, mercifully cutting off the rain, but the damage is already thoroughly done.

We form an incredibly pathetic, dripping procession as we walk down the pristine, climate-controlled corridors of the landship.

Every single step I take produces a loud, squelching squeak. Lisa walks beside me, her usually immaculate, fluffy tails dragging heavily on the floor grates, leaving a thick, continuous trail of soapy water. Miss Susie is shivering, her arms wrapped tightly around her soaked sweater as tiny, harmless sparks of static occasionally pop off her flattened hair.

Naturally, we draw the attention of absolutely everyone.

Logistics personnel pause mid-stride, lowering their digital slates to stare at us in sheer bewilderment. A group of Reserve Ops huddled near the cafeteria entrance stop their chatter completely, their eyes going wide as they watch our triumphant expedition team arching through the halls looking like we had been dragged backward through an industrial wash.

Hiding is entirely impossible.

Making the spectacle infinitely more noticeable are Miss Adele’s little beckbeasts.

The tiny clouds of fleece trot happily alongside my Leithanian tutor. Because their bodies radiate a constant, intense volcanic heat, the water and chemical foam trapped in their fluff is actively boiling off. They are literally hissing, leaving a thick, billowing cloud of warm steam trailing in their wake.

With every bouncy, energetic step they take, their tiny hooves stamp perfectly round, foamy wet puddles across Rhodes Island's meticulously sterilized floorboards. They let out soft, contented baaaas, completely oblivious to the trail of watery, steaming chaos they are painting down the hallway.

I shuffle a little faster, keeping my eyes glued to the squeaking toes of my sneakers.

"Don’t worry about the sensors, Lethe," Lisa walks by my side.

She bumps her shoulder gently against mine.

"But, that sounds like a lot…" I can physically feel my hard-earned savings evaporating into thin air.

"Well, the Elite Ops and Field Ops level a training room, or blow up a bulkhead every other day," Lisa says, her tone remaining completely bright and cheerful. "Ms. Closure is used to it by now, I am sure."

I stop dead in my tracks.

"What?" I gawk at her.

"That’s just part of the job description!" Miss Grani adds enthusiastically.

The Kuranta Vanguard marches just ahead of us, entirely unbothered by her wet tactical coat.

I immediately turn my head, looking desperately toward the absolute pillars of medical responsibility in the corridor. I stare at mom and Miss Lena, my eyes wide and pleading, desperately hoping that they will tell me the Vanguard and the Supporter are just teaming up to tease me.

But mom just looks at me and lets out a weak, highly strained smile.

Beside her, Miss Lena doesn't seem fazed in the absolute slightest. She simply continues her serene, dripping march down the corridor, entirely undisturbed by the casual confirmation of daily structural explosions.

"Oh…"

I pull my wet jacket tighter around my shoulders. Hoping I don’t ever need to be anywhere a training hall.

A long, scalding hot shower completely washes away the freezing foam and the lingering, damp chill of the Victorian plains. I dry off and happily slip into my casual wear; the massive, light grey oversized fleece hoodie with the sleeping black kitten graphic on the chest. The soft fleece feels like an absolute, physical embrace.

We gather in one of the landship's cozy break rooms. The space is warm and smelling faintly of the freshly brewed tea by Miss Lena that Mint is currently holding.

Over in the small kitchenette attached to the room, a highly professional culinary summit is taking place. Mom, Miss Lena, and Miss Mousse are huddled around the counter, deep in discussion about what to cook for our post-expedition feast.

"We have some fresh poultry from the logistics restock," Miss Lena suggests. "Perhaps a light herb roast? It would be gentle on the stomach after so many days of field rations."

Miss Mousse nods eagerly, her two tails swaying in a happy, synchronized rhythm behind her. "I… I can prepare a sweet glaze for it!" she offers, bubbling with culinary excitement.

"Perfect. I'll get the vegetables prepped," mom agrees, reaching for a cutting board.

Sitting on the other sofa beside Miss Adele, Miss Susie perks up.

"I can help, too," Miss Susie asks, already starting to push herself up from the cushions. The reaction is instantaneous.

Mom visibly tenses up. She whips her head around so fast her hair nearly smacks her in the face.

"Susie, it is okay," mom declares. Her voice is perfectly polite. She holds both of her hands up in a placating gesture. "You take some rest. We got this."

Miss Susie blinks, her ears folding down just a fraction. She slowly sinks back into the sofa cushions, her toasted-sugar aura entirely innocent.

"Okay," Miss Susie smiles softly. "Just let me know if you need any help."

I sit there, burying my chin into the oversized collar of my fleece hoodie. I stare at my friends, my brow furrowing. Miss Susie is incredibly gentle and meticulous with her hands; she is the best barber on the landship. Why would mom treat a simple offer to chop carrots like a localized Catastrophe warning?

Before I can even ask, Podenco leans all the way over, pressing her face entirely into my ear.

"When Miss Susie cooks," Podenco whispers, her voice dropping into a highly conspiratorial, hushed tone, "it usually ends up inedible… or she destroys the equipment."

I stare at my friend botanist, my eyes blowing wide. I look from Podenco to the smiling Feline barber, entirely unable to reconcile the two realities.

"But…" I whisper back. "She cooked for us in camping.”

From my other side. Mint leans over, completely boxing me in.

"She was just boiling water essentially, Lethe," Mint adds, her voice a frantic, terrified whisper.

Mint is exactly right. Back at the camp, Miss Susie hadn't actually cooked anything from scratch. She had just poured filtered river water into our heavy-duty Rhodes Island pot and waited for it to bubble before tearing open packets of pre-made dry rations and instant ramen blocks.

I look at the heavy-duty appliances lining the break room kitchenette. I slowly sink deeper into my hoodie until only my eyes and my horns are visible. Mom was desperately trying to prevent Ms. Closure from billing us for an electrocuted microwave.

The terrifying image of an electrocuted microwave slowly fades from my mind as mom continues her chopping, replaced by another, equally pressing concern that has been bothering me since our soaking wet escape from the deployment bay.

I poke my head back out of my oversized fleece collar. I look around the cozy break room, watching the adults happily prep the herb roast in the kitchenette while my friends relax on the sofas.

"Also… I never asked," I speak up, my voice slightly muffled by the thick fabric of my hoodie. I look at Mint and Lisa. "Everyone says LMD a lot, like when Miss Adele teaches me about operations and when Ms. Closure screams in the comms… Is LMD just a fancy, official way to say internal credits?"

Mint shifts on the sofa, her eyes shining with the exact same scholarly thrill she gets when she finds a unique rock formation.

"Oh no, Lethe," Mint corrects me gently, raising a single finger in the air like a seasoned professor delivering a lecture. "That’s Lungmen dollar."

I blink, tilting my head. "Lungmen dollar?"

"Yes!" Mint nods vigorously. "Since the nomadic city of Lungmen is a massive, central international trade hub, its currency is widely accepted across many nations. It is the standard baseline for international transactions. Even though all nations have their own local currency, most corporations and mercenaries prefer to deal in LMD."

Mint begins to count them off on her fingers, her ears twitching with every new fact.

"For example, Victoria uses the Victorian pound. Leithanien has the Leithanian ducat.

Columbian Union uses the Columbian dollar! And Yan itself actually uses Yanese wen."

I sit there, absorbing the sudden economics lesson. I think about the internal credits I carefully hoard to buy plushies and snacks from the landship's vending machines.

"But…" I ask, looking down at my hands. "Why don’t I earn LMD then? I have an official Rhodes Island ID card. I went on an expedition. Why is my account just filled with internal credits?"

The rhythmic chopping of vegetables in the kitchenette suddenly stops.

Mom turns around from the counter, wiping her hands on a small towel.

"Well, Lethe, Oripathy treatment is incredibly expensive," mom explains, leaning her hip against the counter. "Most Infected Operators use a significant part of their salaries to pay off their medical debt to Rhodes Island, but they do get paid the remainder in actual LMD so they can support their families or buy things in the outside world."

She walks over, gently tapping the top of my lopsided horns with her knuckles.

"But for younger Operators like yourself, whose shore leaves are heavily monitored and constantly escorted by adults," mom continues, her voice dropping into a loving but entirely uncompromising tone, "you don't exactly need a wallet full of international cash. Rhodes Island provides for all of your basic needs, your medical care, and your meals."

"So," Lisa adds in from beside me, her tails swaying happily. "We just use internal credits for the vending machines and the engineering kiosks! And when we do get safe shore leave, like Trimounts or Siesta, the logistics department provides us with actual LMD for the trip if we apply for it!"

I nod slowly.

"Well. As long as my internal credits can get me the plushies from Ms. Closure’s store, I don't see why I need LMD anyway."

Lisa giggles from beside me, while Podenco just shakes her head.

The rest of the evening bleeds into a wonderfully peaceful rhythm. The culinary summit in the kitchenette concludes with absolute success. Mom and Miss Mousse bring out a massive platter of herb-roasted poultry, perfectly glazed with a sweet, savory reduction. We gather around the low tables in the break room, the clatter of silverware and the warm, golden flavors of safety filling the air.

As we eat, mom and Miss Lena sit across from us.

"So," mom asks, resting her chin on her hand as she looks over our team. "Tell us everything. How was the great Victorian expedition?"

The room immediately erupts into overlapping chatter. Mint pulls out her journal, eagerly detailing the subterranean limestone watersheds and the bioluminescent crystalline refractions on the giant Originium slugs. Miss Susie and Miss Adele share the terrifying encounter with the masked Caprinae and her musical Arts, while Lisa and Podenco proudly recount how we completely neutralized the hidden Gaulish rebel caches.

When it finally comes to my turn, I nervously poke my index fingers together, entirely avoiding mom's eyes as I confess how I forced the suicidal rebels to surrender by projecting the soul-crushing lethargy of eating her unseasoned boiled broccoli.

Mom just pauses, a piece of roasted poultry hovering halfway to her mouth. She slowly lowers her fork, fixing me with a deeply unimpressed stare, though I can taste the bubbling, suppressed amusement dancing right beneath her honeyed aura.

But as the stories begin to wind down and the plates are scraped clean, the bustling energy of the break room settles into a quiet lull.

I take a slow sip of my water. I look around the cozy room, and then my eyes drifts toward the door leading out into the landship's corridors. It is too quiet out there.

My mind flashes back. I remember the terrified whispers of the Operators, the drone footage playing on the slate. The skeletal remains of the colossal Victorian landships.

The bruised, bleeding sky.

I lower my cup, the cold realization slowly dawning on me.

"Mom… Miss Lena," I begin, my voice dropping into a hushed, hesitant whisper.

"What is it, Lethe?"

"Amiya and the Elite Ops… are they in Londinium already?"

The break room goes perfectly silent.

Mom doesn't answer immediately. She looks at Miss Lena, sharing a brief, silent conversation. Then, mom turns her focus back to me.

"They are," mom answers softly, her voice steady and entirely honest. "They are in the city with Closure, Doctor and Dr. Kal'tsit."

"What about us?" I ask. "What is the landship doing?"

Miss Lena reaches across the table, her hand gently resting over mine. The warm, floral presence actively pushes back the creeping dread.

"We are currently holding our position just outside Victorian borders," Miss Lena explains. "Our primary directive right now is to act as a safe haven. We are receiving and resettling any refugees and wounded who manage to escape the city limits."

I take a slow, shaky breath and give mom a firm, determined nod.

"Okay. We will be ready for them."

It has been almost a week since we were back home.

I sit cross-legged in the center of my mattress, entirely surrounded by my meticulously arranged mountain of stuffed animals. Resting triumphantly atop the dorsal fin of my massive shark plushie is the newest addition to my collection: the fluffy, vibrant orange Vulpo plushie.

I gently adjust the Vulpo so it doesn't slide off the shark, but my focus isn't truly on my soft, cotton-filled sanctuary.

My eyes are glued to the screen of my slate resting on my lap. I have been scrolling through the Rhodes Island internal network for the past hour, desperately refreshing the intelligence feeds and logistical manifests in hopes of finding a single, concrete update on Londinium.

But there is almost nothing.

The official channels are a terrifying, static void. The only pieces of information bleeding through the blackout are the fragmented, deeply traumatized stories gathered from the influx of Victorian refugees seeking shelter in the medical bays. The intake logs are filled with harrowing whispers of a bleeding capital, of artillery fire shaking the earth, and the suffocating, absolute control of the Military Commission's occupation.

Miss Lena and mom don’t allow me anywhere near the intakes.

After all my people are tearing the refugees’ home apart.

The pneumatic hiss of my dorm door sliding open abruptly shatters the silence.

I flinch, my head snapping up.

Mom steps over the threshold. The absolute second she enters the room, the sterile, climate-controlled chill of the dorm is instantaneously washed away. My Arts catch the brilliant, overwhelmingly protective wave of her presence. Exactly like a sun-drenched field, soft warmth, and the rich, undeniable sweetness of pure honey.

She is wearing her off-duty clothes, but the exhaustion lining her eyes tells me she has been pulling double shifts in the wards again.

"Good morning, Lethe," mom says. Her voice is soft and carrying that familiar, gentle cadence that immediately grounds my racing heart.

"Good morning, mom…" I look past her, staring out into the empty corridor of the dormitory block. "Why is it so quiet?"

Mom sighs softly. She walks over to my bed, the mattress dipping slightly as she takes a seat right next to my fortress of plushies. She reaches out, gently brushing my fringe out of my eyes.

"The Battle of Londinium is ongoing, Lethe…" mom explains, her tone dropping into a grave, quiet register. She drops her hand to rest over mine, her thumb rubbing soothing circles against my knuckles. "The outer counties are absorbing most of the refugees fleeing the crossfire. And information inside the capital… is incredibly scarce right now. The communications are heavily jammed."

I look down at the screen, the white text of the refugee intake logs blurring slightly.

Amiya, Dr. Kal'tsit, Doctor, Ms. Closure and the Elite Ops are all walking directly into that apocalyptic wasteland of shattered warships and bruised skies.

"They are safe, right, mom?”

Mom's expression softens.

"Lethe, you have to trust them," mom whispers fiercely. "They are the strongest people we know.”

I slide off the edge of my mattress. I reach for the dark crossbody bag resting on my desk and carefully sling it over my shoulder, before picking up my Arts Unit.

"Well, mom," I announce softly, offering her a small smile as I adjust my jacket. "Time for me to get to work soon."

Mom remains seated on the edge of the bed. Her expression softening with a quiet, loving curiosity. "How are you doing in the garden, Lethe?"

I pause, my fingers tracing the black shaft of my staff. The Convalescent Garden used to be a quiet, serene sanctuary where Podenco would happily tend to her flora and Lisa would weave flower baskets. But the atmosphere has drastically shifted.

"Well… the garden right now is mostly just people coming in to take a walk and destress," I explain. "But the ambient air… it is heavy, mom."

I swallow hard, the phantom flavor coating the back of my tongue just from thinking about it. "They all taste like… chewing on cold, rusted tin foil. They are terrified."

I reach up with my free hand, my fingertips lightly brushing against the curve of my horns.

"And… I can tell some of them are unsure about me," I admit, my chest tightening with a hollow ache. "When I walk past the benches to check on the planters, that anxiety sharply sours into fear. They look at my horns and my tail, and they taste like bitter lemon rind and cracked ice…"

Mom stands up and closes the distance between us in two rapid strides. She reaches out and pulls me directly into a massive, crushing hug.

"Don't let it affect you, Lethe," her arms wrapping so tightly around my shoulders it feels like an impenetrable shield. "You are my daughter. And you are a Rhodes Island Medic. You wear that cross to heal, not to hurt. Don't you ever let anyone make you feel otherwise."

I close my eyes, completely melting into her embrace. I wrap my free arm securely around her waist, burying my face into the familiar fabric of her shirt.

"I know, mom. Besides, Mint and everyone else are still very nice to me. They don't look at me any differently at all."

Mom pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, her expression fierce and incredibly proud.

"And they never will," she promises.

I look back at the massive, carefully constructed fortress of plushie dominating my mattress.

"Well, since you are off-duty today, mom," I announce, gesturing grandly toward my bed with a small, hopeful smile. "You can stay here with my plushies if you want. They are excellent company, and they are very good at keeping the nightmares away."

Mom lets out a soft chuckle. She reaches out, gently ruffling my hair.

"I will take that under consideration," mom replies, her tired eyes crinkling at the corners. She gives my shoulder a light, encouraging nudge toward the door. "Now go to the garden before you are late for your shift."

"Laters, mom."

"Laters, Lethe."

The doors hiss shut behind me, sealing the quiet, honey-scented warmth of my dorm.

The ambient air of our home is thick and heavy, saturated with the frantic, restless energy of the ongoing Londinium crisis. Operators rush past me with tight jaws and urgent strides, their emotional resonances a chaotic, overwhelming blend of sharp anxiety, cold sweat, and bitter static.

I keep my head down and my eyes focused on the floor, forcing my legs to carry me forward.

Eventually, the sterile metal bulkheads give way to a familiar set of reinforced doors.

They hiss apart as I approach, and the heavy, anxious atmosphere of the landship is instantaneously swallowed by the absolute best atomsphere in the world.

"Good morning, everyone!" I call out, my voice carrying clearly through the broad-leafed ferns and hanging ivy.

"Good morning, Lethe!"

A bright, incredibly energetic voice answers me from a nearby planter. Miss Beanstalk pops up from behind a row of tall, flowering shrubs, enthusiastically waving. The absolute second my empathic Arts brush against her, a wave of over-steeped green tea and dry, sun-baked hay washes over my senses, crisp and brimming with highly optimistic, hardworking energy.

A few paces deeper into the sanctuary, working meticulously near the central floral feature, are Podenco and Miss Lena.

Podenco looks up from a cluster of vibrant seedlings, a cheerful smile breaking across her face as her tail gives a happy wag.

Standing just beside her, delicately pruning a trellis of blooming vines with flawless, practiced grace, is Miss Lena. She turns her head with a welcoming greeting.

I settle into the quiet, mundane rhythm of my shift. I am crouched near the supply cabinets, a digital clipboard in hand, meticulously counting the inventory of fresh potting soil, nutrient solutions, and spare pots. The peaceful hum of the garden, laced with Podenco's yuzu and Miss Lena's lavender, is the perfect anchor.

The hydraulic doors of the Convalescent Garden hiss open.

I don't look up immediately, assuming it is just another exhausted operator or a resettled civilian seeking a quiet moment among the ferns.

"Welcome," Miss Lena greets.

As I tick off the last bag of fertilizer on my screen, my empathic Arts brush outward to gently gauge the newcomer. I brace myself for the usual heavy, suffocating taste of cold, rusted tin foil and bitter terror that clings to the Victorian refugees.

But the absolute second my senses make contact with the man, my blood runs completely, terrifyingly cold.

He tastes all wrong.

There is absolutely no fear. No exhaustion. No sorrow. Instead, a horrific, suffocating void hits the back of my tongue. It tastes like ancient, freezing surgical steel, embalming fluid, and old, congealed blood that has been trapped in a lightless crypt for centuries. It is a presence so unnaturally hollow, so clinically and meticulously devoid of normal human resonance, that it feels like staring directly into the eyes of a preserved corpse. I drop my clipboard. It clatters loudly against the floor.

"Miss Lena!" I scream, desperately trying to push myself up to warn her.

But no voice comes out.

The world around me doesn't just fade; it shatters like thin glass hit by a hammer.

The earthy humidity of the Convalescent Garden, the lush green ferns, and the bright, comforting auras of my friends are instantly incinerated.

I am suddenly in the middle of nowhere. Or rather, the middle of an absolute nightmare. The quiet of Rhodes Island is replaced by deafening, apocalyptic roars. The sky above is choked with thick, suffocating black smoke and falling ash. I am kneeling in the dirt behind a pile of scorched metal rubble. Searing, blood-red Originium Arts projectiles shriek through the air just above my head, exploding violently against the crumbling buildings around me.

I try to lift my hands to grab my Arts Unit, to shield myself. I try to scramble backward. I can't.

My arms move, but not how I want them to. My breathing is heavy, and entirely out of my control. There's no fighting it… I am trapped, locked helplessly behind a pair of eyes that aren't mine, experiencing a terror that belongs to someone else.

I am a passenger inside my biological mother's body. I am Lethia.

Another volley of blood-red Arts violently shatters the barricade to my left, showering my, her, arms with sharp debris and scorching heat.

Suddenly, a frantic blur of motion cuts through the smoke.

A woman rushes forward, sliding across the blood-stained dirt. She vaults effortlessly over the heavy rock and rubble I am hiding behind, dropping into a tight crouch right beside me.

Even through the chaos and the smoke, my empathic Arts recognize her instantly. The ambient flavor is spiked with the sharp, acidic tang of burnt ozone and sheer panic, but beneath the adrenaline, the absolute, foundational core remains: sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak.

It is Ms. Raidian, her uniform torn and dusted with soot.

"Lethia!" Ms. Raidian gasps, her hands gripping my mother's shoulders tightly. Her eyes are wide with desperate, frantic relief. "You are safe!"

My mother's voice tears out of my throat, raw and trembling with a terror I can physically feel vibrating in her chest.

"Raidian. What’s happening!" Lethia cries out, her hands gripping the younger Elite Ops’ arms.

Ms. Raidian shakes her head, her breath catching as another explosion violently rocks the deck beneath us.

"I am not sure…" Ms. Raidian chokes out, her voice barely carrying over the deafening roar of the battlefield. "…but Theresis… his forces breached the landship…"

"How?" Lethia gasps. "Our defenses?"

"I don't know…" Ms. Raidian replies, her grip on Lethia's shoulders tightening with absolute, unwavering resolve. She pulls my mother forward, forcing her to stay low against the smoking rubble. "We need to get back to Rhodes Island, our landship."

We scramble through the burning ruins, Ms. Raidian pulling my mother along the shattered ruins of the town. The air is suffocating, choked with ash and the metallic tang of spilling blood. Every step we take is heavy, frantic, and driven by pure survival.

Suddenly, a massive silhouette rounds the jagged corner of a collapsed building.

It is a Sarkaz mercenary. His armor is scorched, and his eyes are wide with the blinding, fermented zealotry. He lets out a guttural roar, raising a brutal, heavy iron sword high above his head to strike us down.

I flinch, a scream dying in my paralyzed throat, but Ms. Raidian doesn't even blink.

With a sharp, fluid flick of her wrist, a mechanical drone floating just over her shoulder darts forward. It is a sleek, highly specialized device shaped uncannily like a metallic fish. A concentrated projectile shoots directly from its mechanical tube of a mouth, hitting the massive Sarkaz squarely in the chest.

The kinetic force violently staggers him, knocking the breath from his lungs and stalling his downward strike.

In that fraction of a second, I feel it.

It is the exact same empathic Arts that course through me, but it is vastly more refined and carries an agonizing, desperate weight. I feel my mother's mind throw its channels completely open, plunging directly into the freezing, chaotic abyss of the staggered attacker's consciousness.

But she doesn't siphon his pain.

Through my mother's eyes, I see the flash of a memory ripped directly from the mercenary's soul. It is a female Sarkaz, much younger, with a bright smile but a brutally clipped left horn.

“I am sorry I have to do this,” Lethia whispers. The thought echoes with a crushing, hollow guilt directly inside my own mind.

Lethia forcefully rips that image from his memory and projects it entirely outward, wrapping the emotional tether into a vivid, agonizing hallucination that overrides his reality.

The towering Sarkaz mercenary completely freezes. The blinding zealotry in his eyes shatters, instantly replaced by a wide, uncomprehending shock. The brutal iron sword slips in his grip, the tip clattering uselessly against the scorched ground.

"Sis?" the attacker gasps. His voice fractures into a breathless, desperate wheeze.

He stares into the empty, ash-choked air right in front of him, seeing a ghost my mother had painted over his vision.

"Sis? You are alive?" he chokes out, tears instantly cutting through the soot on his face. He drops his weapon entirely, stumbling forward with trembling legs. "What are you doing here?"

He reaches out with both hands, his calloused fingers desperately trying to grab the empty air.

The sheer, absolute cruelty of the civil war hits me. We are watching a man break down, crying out for a sister he had lost, manipulated by the very Arts I use to heal. I feel the heavy, rotting nausea twisting in Lethia's stomach, mirroring my own.

"Lethia, focus…"

Ms. Raidian's voice cuts sharply through the smoke. She grips my mother's arm, violently pulling her away from the tragic scene to keep them moving.

The tether snaps. Lethia forcefully pulls her mind back, leaving the mercenary weeping on his knees in the burning hallway.

"Sorry…" Lethia gasps, her chest heaving with ragged, guilty breaths as she breaks away from the man. She tightens her grip on Ms. Raidian's hand, forcing her legs to carry them into the smoky shadows. "Let’s get out of here…"

We scramble through the burning ruins. Every step we take is heavy, frantic, and driven by pure survival.

Through the thick, billowing curtains of black smoke, a massive, towering silhouette finally cuts through the hazy destruction.

"I see our landship," Lethia gasps, her voice raw and ragged from the smoke.

Ms. Raidian looks up, wiping a streak of soot and blood from her cheek. "It still looks intact," she breathes out, her grip on my mother's hand tightening with a desperate, fragile burst of hope. "There’s hope for us…"

But that fragile hope doesn't even last a single second.

The ambient air in the burning plaza violently drops to. The roaring heat of the flames is instantaneously swallowed by a horrific, suffocating void. It is the exact same taste that had paralyzed me just moments ago in the Convalescent Garden.

A figure steps out from the pitch-black shadow of a destroyed rover, moving with a terrifying, soundless glide.

I stare at him through my mother's eyes, absolute horror paralyzing my lungs. He is draped in a heavy, tattered black cloak that billows like shredded wings in the ash- choked wind. Beneath the dark hood, his face is completely obscured by a horrifying, bleached bone mask resembling a elongated, beast-like skull, crowned with twisted, jagged horns. Thick, asymmetrical dark armor guards his shoulders, adorned with the skeletal remains of dead branches.

In his right hand, he holds a long, slender sword that glints with a cold, cruel lethality.

"Confessarius Guard!" Lethia screams.

Lethia rips her hand out of Ms. Raidian's grasp and shoves the Elite Ops away with every single bit of strength she possesses.

"Raidian, run!"

The Confessarius Guard doesn't rush. He simply tilts his skeletal, horned head, his empty, black eye sockets locking directly onto us.

"A Djall," the Confessarius Guard speaks. His voice is smooth, echoing from behind the bone mask with a hollow chillingness. "What a pity, fighting for the dying cause. Worry not, we can make you see the Regent’s way."

"You will not!" Lethia snarls, her chest heaving as she steps deliberately backward, physically blocking the narrow path between the Confessarius Guard and the stumbling Ms. Raidian.

"Lethia!" Ms. Raidian cries out. She tries to lunge forward to grab my mother, refusing to leave her behind.

"Run, please…" Lethia begs, tears carving clean tracks through the soot on her face.

She doesn't look back at the Liberi. She keeps her eyes entirely locked on the towering, masked executioner. "…take care of Lita for me…"

The entire battlefield completely stops for me.

Lita?

Is that… me…?

Before my shattered mind can even begin to process the weight of the name my mother had given me, the Confessarius Guard moves.

He effortlessly raises his long, slender sword. The motion is so fluid, so mechanically perfect, it looks like a calculated surgical stroke.

"The Liberi can run," the Confessarius Guard states, his voice carrying the absolute, uncompromising weight of the grave. "But she will not run far enough."

The blade flashes, cutting cleanly through the ash-choked air.

Ah!

A sudden, agonizing, shearing pain violently tears directly through our right shoulder.

The strike is so fast and impossibly sharp that it burns white-hot, nearly forcing my mother's consciousness, and mine, into a complete, blinding blackout. Hot blood instantly splatters against the scorched earth.

"Lethia!" Ms. Raidian screams.

My mother staggers, her hand flying up to clutch her bleeding shoulder. "Run! Please!" Lethia cries out, putting every last bit of her desperate, fading strength into the command.

The sun-warmed linen and sturdy oak of Ms. Raidian's presence violently fractures. I can taste her crushing, agonizing hesitation bleeding into the air. With a devastated, reluctant sob, the Liberi finally turns and vanishes into the thick, billowing curtains of black smoke, leaving us entirely alone with the executioner.

Lethia forces her head up. She glares at the towering, masked Confessarius Guard.

"Emotions… doesn't work on you," my mother grates out, her voice trembling with pain but laced with a fierce, feral defiance. "But how about something physical for you!"

I feel my mother's mind shift. She gathers her absolute, desperate need to protect Ms. Raidian and her daughter. She compresses it into a hyper-concentrated core. I watch from the passenger seat of her consciousness as she meticulously visualizes the shape of her will.

The ambient Originium energy in the burning plaza coalesces. A towering, physical construct rips directly into reality before us. It is a terrifying, upright ash grey beast, its frame decently skinny but heavily corded with unnatural, predatory muscle. Massive, misty blue bat-like wings erupt from its back, and its horrifying, faceless beaked head is entirely obscured by a wild, flowing mane of misty blue hair.

The beast throws its head back and lets out an ear-piercing, unearthly shriek that rattles the shattered rubble around us.

Without a single second of hesitation, the beast lunges. It closes the distance in a terrifying blur, swiping its impossibly sharp, elongated claws directly at the Confessarius Guard's skull mask in a lethal, devastating arc.

But the towering executioner doesn't even flinch.

The horrific, embalming-fluid void of his presence remains utterly, terrifyingly dead. He doesn't step back. He doesn't brace for impact. With a casual, almost agonizingly effortless flick of his wrist, he brings his sword up.

Clang.

The blade meets the beast's razor-sharp claws with a deafening screech. The Confessarius Guard effortlessly parries the attack.

The Confessarius Guard doesn't even shift his stance.

"Unfortunately, you gave me no choice," the Confessarius Guard murmurs. The words are hollow, drifting from behind the bone mask like a chilling winter draft. "What a pity." He steps forward, moving with a terrifying, liquid grace. He slips entirely past the beast's guard, raising his arm.

He thrusts the slender blade directly forward.

No!

A horrific, paralyzing cold instantly blooms from the absolute center of her ribs, radiating outward and violently snuffing out the frantic, desperate warmth of her will to live. I feel the air completely leave her lungs in a jagged, wet gasp. The phantom pain in my own chest is so blindingly agonizing that my mind practically tears itself in half.

My mom crumbles.

Her legs give out completely. Her knees slam against the scorched, blood-stained metal decking, and she slumps forward. The roaring flames of the landship, the deafening explosions, and the suffocating scent of ash all begin to rapidly muffle, slipping beneath a rising, deafening tide of ringing static.

"Li… li…"

The words bubble up through the thick, metallic tang of her own blood. Our vision begins to rapidly blur, the edges of the burning plaza eaten away by a creeping, pitch- black darkness. The incredible, heavy weight of death is pulling her under, severing the tethers she had fought so desperately to hold onto.

As my vision fades into a suffocating, narrowing tunnel of darkness, a massive shadow suddenly blurs across the periphery. The Confessarius Guard, begins to turn away from our falling body.

Schhhhk.

I faintly see the towering Confessarius Guard violently jerk. He falls forward, crashing heavily right into our fading view.

Protruding directly from his back, having cleaved brutally through his asymmetrical armor, is a claw. It drips heavily with thick, dark blood. The grey beast had swiped its razor-sharp talons straight through him, striking the executioner down alongside her.

Its final duty fulfilled, the physical manifestation loses its anchor. The massive grey beast shatters, dispersing into a beautiful, tragic cloud of glowing, misty blue dust that rains down over the blood-stained plaza like falling snow.

The darkness completely swallows the ash-choked sky. The pain, the fire, and the deafening roar of the battlefield evaporate into a cold, empty silence.

But right before the memory completely severs, a tiny, impossibly warm ember of emotion pushes through the freezing void. It tastes exactly like pure honey… like my mom now. It is a final, desperate broadcast of pure, unconditional love, wrapping around me just as the connection dies.

"Lita…"

The whisper echoes in the pitch-black abyss.

And then, the hallucination shatters into a million pieces.

I gasp, my lungs burning as if they had just been pierced by freezing steel.

The pitch-black abyss shatters, dumping me back into the waking world. My knees hit the damp, soil-scented tiles of the Convalescent Garden.

"Mom!" I scream, the desperate, raw cry tearing out of my throat as my hands frantically claw at my chest, expecting to feel the horrific, gaping wound the executioner's blade had just carved into us.

But there is no blood on my turtleneck.

As my tear-blurred vision slowly begins to clear, the lush green ferns and humid canopy of the sanctuary come into focus. But standing directly over me is not Miss Lena.

It is Ms. Dobermann.

Her whip is completely uncoiled. The heavy, segmented metal drags menacingly against the floor tiles, coiled with absolute, lethal tension. The ambient air around her is terrifying. The usual cracked black pepper and pitch-black espresso is violently saturated with sheer, uncompromising hostility and tactical lockdown.

Behind her, weapons drawn and stances wide, are Vigna and Miss Grani. The sparkling ginger beer of Grani and the bursting cherry cola of Vigna are pulled incredibly taut.

Their auras taste of pure adrenaline and defensive apprehension. They are looking directly at me.

"What…" I choke out, scrambling backward on my hands and knees until my shoulders hit a planter. "What happened?"

Ms. Dobermann's eyes are narrowed, cold and calculating.

"You are under arrest, Lethe," Ms. Dobermann commands, her voice cracking across the garden like the whip in her hand.

"What?" The word barely leaves my trembling lips.

I look past the barricade of Vigna's lance and Grani's polearm. The serene sanctuary is in ruins. Broad-leafed ferns are slashed to ribbons, and several heavy pots have been violently smashed into the dirt.

Standing near the edge of the foliage, trembling uncontrollably, is Podenco. Her bright yuzu and green tea flavor is entirely soured into a sharp, freezing spike of absolute shock. She is staring at me with wide, horrified eyes. Beside her, Miss Lena covers her mouth, the comforting lavender of her presence completely crushed into devastated, weeping petals.

Near the center of the garden, a small group of Metal Crabs is huddled together in a frantic, defensive formation. A thick, horrific streak of fresh crimson blood smears across the metallic shell of the front-most crab.

Miss Beanstalk is nowhere to be seen.

"You attacked Beanstalk," Ms. Dobermann states, her tone leaving absolutely zero room for argument. "Come with us. Dr. Warfarin will conduct your medical and psychological evaluation in the high-security ward."

"What! No!" I scream, my hands flying to my chest, my fingers desperately searching for the black shaft of my Arts Unit. "I didn't! There was a Confessarius Guard! A masked Sarkaz executioner! I swear! I saw him!"

"There is no one else here, Lethe," Miss Grani says. Her voice trembles just a fraction, entirely stripped of its fearless, bouncy confidence.

I frantically whip my head around, desperately searching the shadows of the ivy and ferns for the refugee that walked in before my vision.

But I don't see the Confessarius Guard.

Looming in the humid shadows of the garden, completely silent, is a massive, ash-grey beast.

It is exactly the same physical manifestation I had just watched my biological mother, Lethia, summon in my nightmare.

And dripping heavily from its razor-sharp, elongated claws is fresh, wet blood.

The horrifying realization hits me with the kinetic force of a projectile. I had done it again. Trapped inside that nightmare vision, I had subconsciously broadcasted my biological mother's desperate, lethal protective instinct and physically ripped her Fear Beast directly into reality.

And it hadn't struck a Confessarius Guard. It had struck Miss Beanstalk.

I am the monster in the garden.

The absolute second my mind recognizes the horrific truth, the emotional tether anchoring the beast abruptly snaps.

The towering, blood-stained construct shudders. It loses its physical cohesion, shattering into a cloud of glowing, misty blue dust.

I just sit in the dirt, my hands trembling violently, staring at the empty space where my monster had just been.

"Please… lock me up…"

I don't reach for my Arts Unit. I leave the black shaft resting in the dirt. I slowly push myself up from the damp soil, my knees shaking violently, and keep my empty hands raised and perfectly visible.

"Lethe!" Podenco yelps.

She takes a sudden step forward, her hands reaching out toward me.

"Don't come any closer!" I scream, the words tearing out of my throat in a raw, panicked sob. "Please…"

Podenco freezes mid-stride. Her shoes skid slightly. Her ears droop completely flat against her hair, and her eyes brim with hot, unshed tears. The heavy, suffocating scent of weeping lavender bleeds from Miss Lena, but I can't look at either of them.

I can't let them near me. If my mind slips again, I could tear my family apart.

I lower my head, letting my asymmetrical fringe hide the absolute terror in my eyes. I step away from the shattered ferns and the blood-stained dirt, falling into line behind Ms. Dobermann's rigid, unyielding silhouette.

Miss Grani and Vigna immediately fall into step perfectly on either side of me. They keep their weapons drawn, escorting the monster out of the sanctuary.

We march out of the doors, leaving the earthy humidity behind. The sterile, climate- controlled chill of the landship's main corridors bites at my skin. Every single step I take feels like I am dragging lead weights chained to my ankles.

"Where…" I whisper as we march, my throat feeling like it is lined with crushed glass.

"Where's Miss Beanstalk?"

Vigna walks closely beside me. Her voice softens just a microscopic fraction, losing its harsh tactical edge.

"She is in an emergency ward," Vigna says quietly. "Caladria is there with her. She is alive."

"Oh…" I choke out.

A single, heavy tear slips down my cheek, tracing a hot path over my jaw and dripping onto the collar of my jacket. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my legs to keep moving forward.

We navigate deep into the medical deck. The ambient air grows incredibly sterile, smelling of harsh antiseptics, bleached linens, and cold steel. The bustling, overlapping chatter of the landship completely dies out. Ms. Dobermann stops in front of a heavy, reinforced blast door at the very end of the hall.

It is the high-security ward.

The hydraulic seals hiss violently, and the heavy metal door slides apart.

I walk inside. It is a clinical cell. There is a simple bed heavily bolted to the floor, seamless steel walls, and absolutely nothing that could be used as a weapon. I step into the center of the room, wrapping my arms tightly around my own shoulders, my tail curling defensively around my leg.

Vigna pauses at the threshold, her hand resting on the door panel.

"Dr. Warfarin will be here shortly," Vigna states, her voice returning to its professional, guarded cadence.

Vigna steps back, and the heavy steel door slides shut. The heavy, mechanical clank of the external locks engaging echoes deafeningly inside the small, sterile room.

I curl there in the blinding white light, entirely alone with the monster inside my head.

After a few minutes, the mechanical clank of the external locks disengaging shatters the suffocating silence of the high-security ward. The seals hiss, and the blast door slides open.

Dr. Warfarin steps over the threshold.

There is absolutely no fear in her emotion. No pity, either. Just an incredibly sharp, clinical focus.

She stops in the center of the sterile room, her piercing red eyes locking directly onto me where I am curled up on the floor.

"Don't look so despondent," Dr. Warfarin commands, her voice crisp and echoing against the walls. "Tell me everything, Lethe."

I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face into my knees. The phantom sensation of a blade piercing my chest still burns like freezing ice against my ribs.

"I am crazy…" I choke out. "I hurt Miss Beanstalk… I am a monster…"

"That’s not what I asked," Dr. Warfarin snaps.

Her tone completely lacks any warmth. It is absolute and uncompromising.

I take a slow breath, the harsh antiseptics of the cell stinging my nose. I force myself to lift my head and look at her. Trembling violently under the blinding white lights, I open my mouth and begin to explain.

I tell her about the deafening roar of Babel. I describe the thick, ash-choked sky and the blood-red Originium Arts raining down on us. I tell her how I was trapped behind the eyes of my biological mother, Lethia, watching Ms. Raidian being forced to run away.

Then, I tell her about the executioner.

"There was a Confessarius Guard, at least my mom… Lethia said that…" I whisper, my voice fracturing. "He wore a bleached bone mask… and he moved like he was already dead. He stabbed her. He stabbed my mom right through the chest…"

Tears carve hot tracks down my cheeks as the final, devastating piece of the memory falls from my lips.

"Before she died… she begged Ms. Raidian to take care of Lita. And then she projected the beast. The ash-grey one with the misty blue wings… the one that attacked the garden," I sob, my hands gripping my own shoulders tightly. "I am Lita. I am Lethia’s daughter."

Dr. Warfarin completely freezes.

The Vampire doesn't say a single word. She just stands there in the center of the cell.

The sharp, metallic tang of her emotional resonance violently thickens, turning into an incredibly dense, heavy weight that presses down on the ambient air.

The silence stretches for a long, agonizing time. The only sound is the frantic, ragged rhythm of my own breathing.

Finally, Dr. Warfarin's eyes narrow.

"What happened before?" Dr. Warfarin asks, her voice dropping into a deadly serious, hushed octave.

I blink, my tear-blurred eyes staring at her in confusion. "Before?"

"Before the memory triggered," Dr. Warfarin clarifies, taking a deliberate step closer.

Her emotion is razor-sharp. "Genetic memories of that magnitude do not just spontaneously surface in a garden, Lethe. Something forced the resonance. What happened the exact second before your mind shattered?"

I swallow hard, forcing my completely exhausted brain to rewind. I think back to the serene humidity of the garden. Miss Beanstalk waving from the planters. Podenco and Miss Lena pruning the vines. Me, holding my digital clipboard.

And then, the doors hissing open.

The horrific, suffocating void.

"A refugee walked in…” I gasp, the blood entirely draining from my face. My heart hammers a frantic, deafening rhythm against my ribs. I look up at her, sheer, absolute terror paralyzing my lungs. "Dr. Warfarin! He tastes exactly like the Confessarius Guard! He felt like freezing surgical steel and congealed blood!"

Dr. Warfarin doesn't even flinch at my panic. She completely ignores my terror.

She instantly raises her hand to the her communicator, entirely turning her back to me. The clinical, metallic tang of her presence erupts into absolute, terrifying lockdown mode.

"PRTS," Dr. Warfarin barks, her voice echoing with lethal, uncompromising authority.

"Give me every single recording of who went through that door."

"Dobermann. Whislash," Dr. Warfarin continues. "Take whatever Reserve Ops and Field Ops you have currently on standby. Initiate a total lockdown of the landship, effective immediately. Secure all sectors. We have an incredibly hostile, high-level infiltrator on board."

Dr. Warfarin turns her attention back to me.

"Lethe," Dr. Warfarin commands, pointing a uncompromising finger directly at the floor beneath me. "You stay exactly here."

I scramble up from the cold floor, my knees still trembling violently.

"I can track him down!" I cry out, taking a desperate step toward the door. "Dr. Warfarin, please! He doesn't have a normal emotional resonance! I can feel exactly where that emptiness is!"

"Absolutely not," Dr. Warfarin snaps, shutting me down with the kinetic force of a slamming blast door.

"But I can help! I need to fix this!" I plead.

"You are in no condition to fix anything, Lethe. That is exactly why you are staying in this cell," Dr. Warfarin states, her voice lowering into a harsh absolute. She steps forward, her presence completely backing me down. "You just suffered a catastrophic neural resonance. You manifested a highly lethal, physical Arts Creation that nearly killed one of our own Operators."

"If you get anywhere near that Confessarius right now," Dr. Warfarin continues, her words biting like a scalpel, "the proximity to his resonance could permanently shatter your sanity. Or worse, your uncontrolled survival instincts could trigger that Arts Creation again right in the middle of a crowded, locked-down hallway. You are a walking liability to yourself and everyone else on this landship."

The desperate, frantic adrenaline drains entirely from my chest. I stumble backward, my shoulders hitting the wall of the cell.

"I…" I stammer, my hands dropping uselessly to my sides.

"You sit down, and you do not move," Dr. Warfarin orders, her coat billowing sharply as she turns on her heel.

She marches toward the threshold of the high-security ward. She doesn't look back as she punches the override code into the wall panel.

"That is a direct medical order, Lethe."

I am left entirely alone in the blinding white light, locked away in the sterile silence while the same type of monster that killed my biological mother stalks the halls of my home. I just sit on the heavy, bolted steel bed of the high-security ward. I don’t know how long it has been since Dr. Warfarin left me alone in this blindingly white, sterile cell. Minutes? Hours? Time completely loses its meaning when you are trapped in a vacuum with nothing but the echoing memory of a monster you created.

Then, a faint shuffle echoes from the corridor outside.

The heavy blast door muffles the noise, but the ambient air in the sterile room shifts. I instantly taste the bright, crystallized sugar of Lisa, perfectly layered with the zesty, energetic yuzu and green tea of Podenco.

But there is a third flavor mixed in with my best friends. It tastes exactly like crisp, polished aluminum and sharp peppermint. It is highly methodical and incredibly stressed.

"Sheesh," an unrecognized, muffled voice complains through the steel. "Why is Rhodes Island’s encryption so secure?"

"Miss Almond, can you unlock it?" Lisa's voice chimes in. Even through the heavy door, her tone rings with a desperate, unyielding determination.

"Of course! I just need time," Miss Almond replies. "You two are going to get me into so much trouble. We are under a ship-wide lockdown!"

"Not if we save Rhodes Island!" Podenco declares fiercely.

My heart gives a massive, frantic lurch.

I scramble off the edge of the bolted mattress, and rush directly toward the door. I raise my hands, completely ready to slam my palms against the metal and beg them to open it.

But my sneakers skid to a violent halt just before the steel panel.

I take a slow, terrified step backward. I look up into the upper corner of the cell.

Blinking with a steady, unblinking red light is a high-security surveillance camera. Dr.

Warfarin is watching. Or PRTS is recording. If the door opens, the Command will know immediately.

"Lisa! Podenco!" I cry out, pressing my face as close to the seam of the blast door as I dare. My voice fractures into a desperate plea. "Stop! You have to stop!"

The frantic clicking of Miss Almond's decryption tools abruptly pauses on the other side of the steel.

"Lethe?!" Lisa gasps, her voice pressing against the metal.

"You have to run away! Right now!" I beg them, tears welling up in my eyes and spilling down my cheeks. "Dr. Warfarin ordered me not to leave! There is a camera in the corner recording everything! If you open this door, you are going to get arrested too!"

"We don't care about getting arrested, Lethe!" Podenco yells back.

"You don't understand!" I sob. "I don't have my Arts Unit! I left it in the garden! If that Confessarius finds us, I can't shield my mind! I will turn into a monster again, and I might hurt you! Please… please just leave me in here where it's safe!"

"I have it with me, you dummy."

Podenco's voice filters through. "You dropped it in the garden, after all."

"Besides, Miss Eyja and Miss Erika approved this!" Podenco declares proudly.

I blink, completely stunned. Mom and Miss Adele authorized breaking me out of a high- security cell during a ship-wide lockdown? My incredibly strict mother, who mandated my broccoli intake, and my brilliant Leithanian tutor, officially signed off on defying Dr.

Warfarin's direct medical orders?

"They did?"

There is a brief, highly suspicious pause on the other side of the door.

"Well," Podenco amends, her tone dropping into a distinctly less confident, defensive mumble. "Not yet. But they will! We have a command center set up in the Archives!"

I let out a ragged, hysterical breath. They are going rogue?!

"We need you, Lethe," Lisa's voice cuts in. her pure, crystallized sugar hardening into a solid shield. "The Reserve Ops and everyone are strong! But we are understaffed, and there’s a super bad guy roaming our hallways."

"You can recognize him," Lisa pleads through the door. "And more importantly, you have that Beast thingy!"

The absolute second she mentions it, the phantom image of the towering, ash-grey beast with misty blue wings violently flashes behind my eyes. I see its elongated claws dripping with fresh, wet blood.

"No! I don't know how to summon it!" I scream, scrambling backward. I wrap my arms around my knees, my chest heaving with panicked gasps. "Or command it! It hurt Miss Beanstalk! I can't control it, Lisa!"

"We trust you, Lethe."

Podenco's words are soft, but they hit me with the kinetic force of a speeding rover.

There is no hesitation in her voice. No lingering fear of the blood-stained soil.

Before I can even formulate a response, Miss Almond lets out a sharp, triumphant gasp.

"There! Got it!"

The deafening, mechanical clank of the high-security locks violently disengaging echoes through the cell. The pneumatic seals release with a massive hiss of pressurized air, and the thick blast door smoothly slides apart.

The blinding white light of my clinical cage spills out into the dimly lit medical corridor.

Standing right on the threshold is Miss Almond, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow as she hurriedly stows her decryption terminal. Right beside her are my two best friends.

Podenco doesn't even wait for the door to open completely. She completely ignores the surveillance camera in the corner. She steps right into the cell, her bright yellow ribbon fluttering, and thrusts her hands forward.

Held securely in her grip is my Arts Unit. The liquid suspended within the magnetic halos swirls with a quiet, steady, and incredibly comforting mechanical rhythm.

I look at the staff, and then up at the fierce, unwavering determination in my friends'

eyes.

“If you trust me…”

"Of course we do."

Podenco’s voice doesn't waver. She simply holds the dark, familiar shaft of my Arts Unit out further, offering it to me with absolute, unwavering faith.

I take a slow breath, the harsh antiseptics of the cell stinging my lungs. I reach out, my fingers trembling violently as they brush against the cold metal.

I wrap both of my hands securely around the shaft.

"Thank you…" I whisper. My voice fractures into a fragile, watery breath, but I grip the staff tightly to my chest, physically anchoring myself to the present.

Beside the doorway, Miss Almond lets out a sharp, profoundly stressed huff.

She glances nervously up at the blinking light of the security camera.

"You three owe me a month’s worth of cafeteria lunches for this," Miss Almond declares, her voice a tight, hurried whisper. "Premium tier, no packed sandwiches. Do you have any idea the kind of firewalls I just had to brute-force? If Dr. Warfarin finds out I spoofed her high-security feed, she is going to personally hang me upside down from the catwalks by my toes."

She zips her toolkit shut with a sharp, definitive rip.

"Now let’s get out of here, before PRTS realizes the camera loop is fabricated," Miss Almond urges, gesturing frantically toward the dim medical corridor.

I step carefully over the threshold of the cell, my padded sneakers hitting the hallway grates. I look at the Engineering Operator, my tail giving a slow, nervous swish.

"Miss Almond," I ask, my grip tightening on my staff. "Are you coming with us?"

Miss Almond freezes. She stares at me as if I had just casually suggested we take a stroll into an active Catastrophe.

"Oh, nah," Miss Almond rapid-fires, violently shaking her head as she takes a massive, deliberate step backward. "I am heading straight back to the Engineering, and I am locking the doors behind me. I fix elevators and communication relays, Lethe. I don't do hand-to-hand combat with assassins."

Beside me, Lisa takes a sudden, deep breath. Her nine fluffy tails give a slow, highly calculated sway as she looks up at the older Operator, her large blue eyes widening.

Miss Almond’s eyes snap to the Vulpo. She immediately throws both of her hands up in a cross, forming a rigid, physical barricade.

"And no, Suzuran," Miss Almond strictly commands, pointing a warning finger directly at my best friend. "Don't you even try the eyes on me again. I am not going to cave in.

Twice in one day is my absolute, unyielding limit for defying the Medical Department."

Lisa immediately stops. The devastatingly tactic evaporates, and she effortlessly smooths the front of her skirt.

"Okay," Lisa’s voice ringing with bright, unfazed politeness. She steps back and offers the stressed engineer a flawless, deeply respectful curtsy. "Thank you so much for your help, Miss Almond. We will make sure to bring you the best lunches!"

Miss Almond turns on her heel, her boots thudding against the metal grates of the deck. As she hurries away toward the nearest secure intersection, she mutters a rapid- fire, highly exasperated string of words under her breath that sounds distinctly Iberian.

“¡Carajo! ¡Qué tan boba para caer en eso!”

Beside me, Podenco slaps a hand over her mouth. The zesty, energetic yuzu of her presence bubbles with a sudden, stifled giggle at whatever colorful phrase the stressed engineer had just used.

"Laura, you are in so much trouble this time," Miss Almond groans to herself, rubbing her temples as she disappears completely around the corner.

The heavy silence of the high-security ward rushes back in to fill the empty space.

"Well," Podenco says, dropping her hand from her mouth. "Let’s get to the Archives."

We don't waste another second.

We hurry down the corridors, our shoes moving as quickly and quietly as possible. The ship-wide lockdown Dr. Warfarin had initiated is terrifyingly absolute. The normally bustling arteries of Rhodes Island are completely, unnaturally empty. The overhead lights have been dropped to their tactical, dim settings, casting long, stretching shadows across the walls. The doors at the major intersections are sealed tight, and there isn't a single drone or roaming Operator in sight.

The silence is deafening, thick with the phantom tension of a high-level infiltrator stalking our home.

As we navigate deeper into the medical wing, approaching the primary surgical theaters, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure, protective honey and sun-drenched fields cuts cleanly through the empty corridor. It is fiercely warm, unapologetic, and completely undeniable.

I slow my steps, my heart giving a frantic, nervous flutter.

Standing just outside one of the closed surgery rooms is a familiar silhouette. She is leaning heavily against the sterile white wall, her eyes completely shut.

Mom.

Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and resting securely in her grip is her specialized focal staff. The intricate, mechanical puzzle-cube at its crest shifts and clicks with a faint, restless energy, completely reflecting the tightly coiled protective tension radiating from her.

As we stop dead in our tracks. Mom slowly opens her eyes.

"I knew it," mom says, her voice echoing cleanly in the empty hallway.

She doesn't sound angry.

Beside me, Lisa steps forward, her hands fidgeting nervously with the hem of her skirt.

"Miss Erika," Lisa stammers. "We just… we needed to get Lethe, because…"

She pushes herself off the wall, standing tall and imposing in her combat gear.

She doesn't wait for Lisa to finish.

"Whatever you three are up to," mom states, her voice dropping into a resolute, uncompromising command, "you need adult supervision."

I stare at the fierce, unwavering resolve in my mother's eyes. The terrifying, crushing weight of the Confessarius stalking our home doesn't vanish, but with her standing here, it suddenly feels entirely bearable.

"Okay…" I offer her a small, incredibly relieved nod. "Thank you, mom."

Mom gives me a firm, brisk nod in return. She immediately takes the point position.

"Stay close, and keep quiet," mom orders, her voice dropping into the hushed, hyper- focused register of a Combat Medic.

We fall into a tight formation right behind her, navigating the maze of Rhodes Island's middle decks. The blast doors block the primary intersections, forcing us to detour through the narrow, dimly lit secondary maintenance corridors.

After what feels like an eternity of dodging sealed bulkheads, we finally reach the reinforced doors of the Archives.

Mom presses her override clearance into the panel. The doors unlatch with a heavy clunk, and we quickly slip inside, sealing the corridor behind us.

The Archives are completely submerged in shadows. The towering, endless aisles of bookshelves are illuminated only by the faint, emergency floor-track lighting. The familiar, comforting scent of old paper and binding glue fills the air.

We hurry down the main aisle. As we round the corner into the deep-storage geology section, I spot a highly familiar silhouette.

Huddled on the floor, completely boxed in by a towering, incredibly precarious fortress of thick textbooks, is Mint.

A small, battery-powered reading lamp is clipped to the spine of a massive encyclopedia, casting a concentrated pool of white light over her lap.

"Mint?" I call out, pitching my voice into a loud, urgent whisper.

She doesn't respond. The crisp, sweet mint leaf and parchment flavor of her emotional resonance is completely, absolutely flatlined in a state of hyper-focused academic isolation.

I take a few steps closer, stepping carefully over a discarded stack of geological surveys.

"Mint?" I say, a little louder this time.

Mint flinches.

"Waaah!" Mint yelps, physically jumping straight up into the air.

Her sudden, frantic jolt knocks her reading lamp completely askew. The precarious tower of textbooks surrounding her immediately collapses, sending a small avalanche of hardcovers sliding across the floorboards with a series of loud, echoing thuds.

Mint scrambles backward against the bookshelf, clutching a journal to her chest like a physical shield. Her wide, brilliant eyes dart frantically through the dim light before finally locking onto us.

"Oh!" Mint gasps, her shoulders instantly slumping in sheer, breathless relief as she recognizes our faces. She lowers the book, blinking in absolute confusion. "Lethe? Lisa, Podenco, Miss Erika… what are you guys doing here?"

I stare at my Feline friend.

"What are we doing here?! The landship is in lockdown, Mint!"

Mint’s ears give a slow, deeply bewildered twitch.

"Lockdown?"

"There's an infiltrator!" I whisper fiercely, keeping my voice as low as possible while stepping closer to the collapsed pile of books. "We need to deal with him before anyone dies."

"Infiltrator?!"

"Yes," Lisa says. She steps up beside me, the pure, crystallized sugar of her presence hardening into a solid, unyielding shield. "We need to come up with a plan."

Mint stares at us for a split second. She looks at the serious expressions on our faces, the drawn Arts Units, and mom's tactical posture. She forcefully swallows her fear, nodding vigorously as she pushes herself up from the floorboards.

"Okay!" Mint declares, her voice dropping into an urgent, hushed whisper. "Count me in. Where could he hide?"

I reach into my bag and pull out my slate. My thumbs fly across the screen, opening the structural schematics of Rhodes Island. The screen casts a crisp, blue light over our huddled faces in the dark aisle.

I pull up the landship layout, swiping to display the three primary cross-sections: the upper decks, the middle decks, and the lower decks.

Mint leans closely over the slate, her eyes darting across the blueprints. "Lower decks?" she suggests, pointing a finger at the sprawling, industrial schematics at the bottom of the screen. "Engineering and our primary engines are down there. A saboteur would definitely target there, right?"

I stare at the blue lines of the middle decks, tracking the path from the Convalescent Garden to the medical wards.

"But why was he in the garden on the middle decks, then?" I ask, my brow furrowing. "If he wanted to blow up the engines, he should have infiltrated the lower hull directly. The garden is right next to the medical and living sectors.”

"Besides," mom adds. "There’s quite a lot of Goliath workers down there right now running maintenance. They are incredibly strong, and they know the engineering corridors better than anyone. An infiltrator wouldn't want to risk getting cornered by them in a closed space."

I look up from the slate, blinking in confusion. "What’s a Goliath?"

Mom shifts her focal staff. "Unlike a Djall like you, Lethe, or Vampires like Ms. Closure and Dr. Warfarin," mom explains quietly, "Goliaths are a non-Royal Court aligned Sarkaz branch. They are massively built and incredibly durable. Most of the frontline Sarkaz mercenaries you see are Goliaths."

The words drop into the dim aisle.

Unlike Djall or Vampires.

"…he isn't a saboteur," I whisper, the blood entirely draining from my face. My hands tremble, nearly dropping the slate. "He has to be an assassin."

"An assassin?" Podenco gasps. "But who is he trying to assassinate? Doctor and Dr.

Kal'tsit are in Londinium!"

I stare at the map of the middle decks. I think about the Confessarius. I think about the Sarkaz Royal Court, the bloodlines, and the ancient, terrifying politics that had murdered my biological mother.

Who else on this landship is a high-ranking, ancient Sarkaz bloodline connected directly to Dr. Kal'tsit and the medical department?

"Dr. Warfarin!" I gasp, pure terror seizing my lungs. I look up at mom and my friends, my eyes blowing completely wide in the dark. "He has to be after Dr. Warfarin!"

"Oh no!" Mint gasps. The crisp, sweet flavor of mint leaves and fresh parchment in her emotional resonance spikes with sudden, sharp worry. "Where is Dr. Warfarin right now?"

Lisa taps her chin. "She has to be in the bridge on the upper decks," Lisa says confidently. "She initiated the ship-wide lockdown. Command protocols dictate she would coordinate the security response from the primary bridge."

"Then she is very heavily guarded," mom states. "The bridge is the most fortified sector of Rhodes Island, and PRTS controls all physical access vectors. Even a Confessarius couldn't just walk in."

"Then we should just focus on hunting down the assassin himself," I declare, my voice steadying in the dim light of the Archives.

Mint adjusts her grip on her book, her eyes lighting up with a sudden, investigative thrill.

"Maybe we can trace where he went from the garden?" she asks, pointing a finger toward the corridor. "Shall we head there?"

I blink, looking at my Feline friend in genuine confusion. "How?"

"You know!" Mint gestures vaguely in the air, wiggling her fingers. "Can you not, like, taste the air? Follow his emotional trail?"

I slowly shake my head. "Not unless someone is close by," I explain. "My Arts don't leave physical footprints like tracking mud. The emotional resonance dissipates into the ambient air once the person leaves the immediate vicinity. If he is already gone, the garden will just taste like the flowers again."

"Then we just go around the landship until we find him!" Podenco declares fiercely.

"Wait," Lisa interjects. The blindingly pure, crystallized sugar of her presence sharpens.

"We could find where the refugees are hidden. If he is an infiltrator, he might be trying to blend in with the displaced crowds to avoid PRTS, or he may be waiting out the lockdown near their temporary quarters."

It makes terrifying, perfect sense. The Confessarius Guard had slipped onto Rhodes Island right under our noses. The only way he could have bypassed the rigorous external security checks was by hiding amidst the chaotic influx of terrified Victorian civilians flooding our triage bays. A hollow ghost walking invisibly among the desperate.

"Good idea," I agree, offering Lisa a firm, resolute nod. "Let's."

Mom steps forward, moving to the absolute front of our small formation.

"Be very, very careful, everyone," mom warns. Her voice drops into a hushed, uncompromising octave that demands absolute obedience. "We are hunting a ghost.

Stay behind me, watch your corners, and do not engage unless I tell you to."

We give mom tight, determined nods in perfect unison.

The heavy, reinforced blast doors of the Archives hiss open just enough for us to slip through. We step out of the comforting scent of old paper and back into the dimly lit, locked-down arteries of the landship.

The journey through the middle decks is a terrifying, nerve-wracking game of cat and mouse. Even with the ship-wide lockdown in effect, heavily armed Reserve Ops and automated security drones are actively sweeping the primary intersections. Mom leads us flawlessly, her seasoned instincts effortlessly guiding our path. We stick to the deepest shadows, pressing our backs flat against the cold metal bulkheads and holding our breath whenever the heavy, rhythmic thud of a patrol's boots echoes down an adjacent hallway.

A particularly large squad of heavily armored Defenders marches past the main medical wing, forcing mom to quickly gesture us into a narrow, unlit secondary maintenance corridor.

The space is incredibly tight and claustrophobic, smelling heavily of sharp ozone, humming coolant pipes, and thick industrial lubricants. I grip the black shaft of my Arts Unit tightly to my chest, desperately trying to steady the frantic, hammering rhythm of my heart.

“Lita.”

The whisper is incredibly faint. It doesn't echo off the metal walls. It drifts directly into the hollow of my skull, carrying the agonizingly familiar, smoky weight of the burning plaza.

I flinch, my sneakers stuttering against the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut and violently shake my head. I must just be stressed, I tell myself, forcing the air into my lungs. The catastrophic resonance from the garden must still be rattling my brain.

I open my eyes, looking desperately at my friends to ground myself. Everyone else is still fiercely, flawlessly focused. Lisa is taking the center of our formation, her eyes constantly darting around to scan the dark pipes and overhead gratings. Podenco and Mint flank her perfectly, their own focal units held at the ready.

No one else heard it.

“Lita.”

The whisper brushes against my mind again. It is louder this time.

Lethia's voice?

Mom...?

I completely stop walking. My spine turns to ice, and my tail drops limply.

Ahead of us, my current mom stops dead in her tracks.

Mom turns around. She looks past Lisa and the others, her eyes locking directly onto mine.

"Lethe?" mom asks, her voice a hushed, gentle murmur cutting through the dark.

"Mom…" I whisper, taking a hesitant step forward.

But before my foot can even hit the metal, the world blinks.

The dim lighting of the maintenance corridor completely evaporates. The heavy, claustrophobic stench of industrial lubricants and humming coolant pipes is instantaneously wiped away. The protective, sun-drenched honey of mom's presence, the bright sugar of Lisa, the zesty yuzu of Podenco, and the crisp mint of Mint; they are all just gone. Plucked entirely out of existence in a fraction of a millisecond.

I stumble forward, catching my balance. The air that hits my lungs is entirely different. It is clean, warm, and smells faintly of old coffee and worn metal.

I look around. I am standing in a brightly lit hallway. The modern, pristine bulkheads of Rhodes Island have been replaced by heavy, utilitarian steel panels and exposed wiring. It is the old landship.

"Mom? Lisa? Podenco? Mint?!" I call out, spinning around frantically to search the empty, illuminated corridor.

I freeze.

I can speak.

I look down at my hands. I am so small… I am just wearing a simple Sunday dress.

I am not myself.

Suddenly, a solid weight crashes gently, but directly into my back.

It isn't a lethal strike or a violent ambush. It is a clumsy, hurried collision, as if someone had just rounded the corner far too fast and tripped entirely over their own feet right into me.

"Lita!"

The voice rings out, bright, breathless, and ringing with a desperate, overwhelming fondness.

It is the exact same voice that had whispered to me in the dark of the maintenance corridor. It is the exact same voice that had screamed for Ms. Raidian to run away in the ash-choked ruins. But here, it is completely stripped of the blood, the terror, and the dying rasp. It is vibrantly, beautifully alive.

I spin around, my hands gripping my Arts Unit tightly to my chest.

She is standing right there. Smiling.

My empathic Arts passively brush against her, and a massive, foundational wave of emotion crashes over my senses. It tastes like a warm, nostalgic embrace, carrying the exact same primal, unconditional love that had pushed through the freezing void just before she died. She tastes like mom…

I stare at her, my mouth opening and closing silently. Looking at her is like looking into a strange, older mirror. She has my exact same misty blue eyes, but above her crown rests a pair of perfectly smooth, beautifully symmetrical horns. Her woodsmoke-grey hair is shorter than mine, pulled back and tied neatly into a practical nape ponytail that rests against her neck.

She is wearing a long, elegant grey dress that flows perfectly around her ankles, layered beneath a sharp, tailored black jacket. Emblazoned proudly on the left shoulder is a triangular emblem that reads Babel.

My biological mother. Lethia.

And she is looking right at me.

"Mo… mom?" I reach out, my small, trembling hand hovering in the brightly lit air.

She is so much taller than me. In this memory, my perspective is shifted entirely downward; I have to crane my neck all the way back just to look up into her eyes. In this hallucination, I am just a little girl again.

Lethia smiles. The massive, foundational wave of unconditional love radiating from her washes over me, completely drowning out the terrifying shadows of the maintenance corridor I had just been standing in.

"Want to go meet Theresa today?" Lethia asks, her voice light and melodic.

"Theresa?"

The name drops into my mind like a lead weight. Theresa. The ghost of Babel. The very name Dr. Kal'tsit had strictly, terrifyingly forbidden me from ever speaking aloud on Rhodes Island..

"Yes!" Lethia laughs softly, her smile bright and entirely untainted by the ash and fire I know is waiting for her in the future. "Everyone is just relaxing today. No serious stuff." Before my mind can process the sheer gravity of where I am, Lethia reaches down. She grabs my hand, her palm incredibly warm and safe against my skin.

"Come on!" she chimes cheerfully.

She gently pulls me along, and I am forced to match her strides down the steel-paneled corridors of the old landship.

As we walk, a shadow falls over us. A skinny Sarkaz man with a relaxed, easygoing posture is walking down the hall in the opposite direction.

My Arts brush against him as he approaches. His emotional resonance tastes like well- worn leather, faint lubricants oil, and an incredibly quiet, steadfast loyalty that feels like a sturdy, unshakeable foundation.

"Good morning, Scout!" Lethia calls out warmly.

The man pauses, offering a small, easy smile that reaches his eyes. "Good morning, Lethia and Lita," he replies, his voice carrying a calm, reassuring depth.

My hand violently tightens around Lethia's fingers.

Scout?

I remember staring at the freshly carved names of the fallen. Ace. Scout. The heroes who had bled out in the apocalyptic ruins of the Ursus city to protect Doctor and the landship.

His name was on the obsidian wall! How…

I just stare at him.

Lethia gently squeezes my hand, looking down at me with a soft, affectionate scolding.

"Say good morning, Lita," Lethia chides gently, nudging me forward just a fraction.

"Where’s your manners?"

I swallow the heavy, agonizing lump in my throat. I force myself to act like the little girl my biological mother expects me to be, desperately fighting back the tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

"Good… good morning, Mr. Scout," I stammer, my voice fracturing over the immense, tragic weight of the greeting.

Mr. Scout’s presence is incredibly warm. He lets out a soft, low chuckle.

"Taking Lita on a tour?" Mr. Scout asks, his tone easy and familiar.

Lethia squeezes my hand gently, her smile brightening. "Yep. Just going to meet Theresa. Hopefully, Amiya is there. Having a playmate is good for both of them."

Amiya…

She is our CEO… no… she is… a child…

What was I thinking?

"I think she might be," Mr. Scout replies, adjusting the strap of his gear. He looks down at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a gentle, parting smile. "Enjoy your time there, Lita. See you later, Lethia."

"Laters," Lethia replies happily.

"Thank you… Mr. Scout," I whisper.

I watch his silhouette turn and disappear down the brightly lit corridor.

As we keep walking, the steady, rhythmic hum of Babel's old engines vibrates softly beneath the soles of my shoes. The ambient air is entirely safe, thick with the unyielding, sun-drenched honey of my mother's love.

But then, a loud bang violently rips through the air.

I flinch. It doesn't sound like it belongs in the corridor. It is incredibly far away, distorted and muffled, like it is echoing from deep underwater. It is a phantom impact that makes the edges of the brightly lit steel bulkheads violently shudder, glitching with a sudden, localized burst of static.

"Lethe! What are you doing! Open this door! Where are you going!"

A voice bleeds through the glitching walls. It is weak, fractured, and thick with a desperate, breathless panic that completely shatters the peaceful hum.

Lethe…

The name drops into my mind, foreign, yet it tugs violently at the very core of my chest. My vision blurs for a fraction of a second. The brightly lit steel panels of Babel warp, threatening to give way to narrow, unlit metal and dark pipes.

Lethe… who is Lethe again…?

I look down at my hands. They are so small. I am just wearing a simple Sunday dress.

Where is my oversized Rhodes Island jacket? Where is the black shaft of my Arts Unit with its swirling, misty blue liquid?

What… what is Rhodes Island again?

The landship… Babel’s landship is named Rhodes Island right?

Think… Le… Lita, think…

The suffocating, claustrophobic stench of industrial lubricants and humming coolant pipes suddenly ghosts over the comforting scent of old coffee.

I instinctively tighten my grip on Lethia's fingers.

"Mom?" I ask. "Do you hear that?"

Lethia pauses. She looks at me. The unconditional, sun-drenched honey of her emotional resonance doesn't even waver.

"Hmm? Lita?" Lethia tilts her head, a soft, genuinely confused smile touching her lips.

"Hear what?"

The, utilitarian doors hiss apart, and mom gently guides me inside by the hand.

The room we step into is a sprawling, meticulously clean command office. Bright, hexagonal lighting fixtures illuminate a massive, sleek white meeting table that dominates the center of the room. Along the back wall, a bank of monitors displays complex topographical maps and cascading tactical data in cool blue hues. Yet, despite the cold efficiency of the space, a small, fragile glass vase rests on the table, holding a vibrant bloom of orange flowers that breathe a desperate touch of life into the sterile air.

Standing near the edge of the long table is a Sarkaz woman.

She is holding the hand of a small Cautus girl.

The emotional resonance bleeding from the woman is so comforting. It isn't just warm; it is a boundless, sweeping ocean of unconditional love and profound, aching sorrow. It feels like standing beneath a gentle, sheltering sun that is desperately trying to warm a freezing, broken world.

She is breathtakingly beautiful. Long, flowing pinkish-white hair cascades down her back, contrasting sharply against the striking, jagged black horns crowned with elegant gold accents that frame her head. She is dressed in a pristine white dress layered over a stark black collar, the fabric flowing with an effortless, regal grace that seems to swallow the harshness of the tactical room.

"Good morning, Lethia," the woman says. Her voice is incredibly soft, carrying a melodic, soothing cadence that instantly settles the nervous flutter in my chest. "Good to see you again."

She turns her gentle, pink-hued eyes down toward me. Her gaze is so full of warmth that I instinctively want to lean into it.

"And morning, Lita," she smiles. "You have grown up."

Lethia gives my hand a reassuring, affectionate squeeze. "Morning, Theresa," my mother replies warmly. She glances down at the small Cautus girl holding Theresa's hand. "And morning, Amiya."

"Good morning," I add. I step forward and offer the regal Sarkaz woman, Theresa, a deep, respectful bow.

Theresa's smile brightens, the sorrow in her aura momentarily parting like clouds. She looks down at the young Cautus beside her.

"Amiya, mind if you show Lita around for a bit?" Theresa gently asks.

Amiya looks up, her expression serious but agreeable. "Okay."

Amiya steps forward and takes my hand. Her palm is warm, and her grip is surprisingly firm.

But the absolute second our fingers interlock. The pristine white table fractures into a burst of static, and the suffocating, heavy scent of a crowded, wounded medical ward suddenly overwrites the air.

"Here, Lethe, a Lungmen bun."

An older Amiya flashes before my eyes. She is standing in the dim, quiet darkness of a medical bay, her face illuminated only by the faint glow of the monitors. She is holding out a warm pastry in a crinkling paper bag, offering it to me.

Lethe.

I blink hard, stumbling backward just a fraction. The smell of the Lungmen bun and the sterile antiseptics instantly evaporate, slamming me right back into the brightly lit office. Amiya pauses, looking at me. Her brown eyes are filled with a quiet, slightly confused concern.

"Lita?" Amiya asks.

I take a shaky breath, my fingers tightening instinctively around hers. My mind feels like it is being torn perfectly in half.

"Oh, nothing," I whisper, forcing a tiny, reassuring smile onto my face to hide the terrifying glitch in my reality.

I let Amiya lead me toward the far side of the massive command table, leaving the two adults to speak.

As we step away, the warm, nostalgic atmosphere between Lethia and Theresa shifts.

"Theresis is consolidating his forces in the outer ruins," Theresa begins, her melodic voice dropping into a grave, hushed octave. "The Royal Court is fracturing further…"

Theresa continues, closing her eyes. A profound, weeping sorrow bleeds into the ambient air, tasting of ash and broken iron. "My brother believes slaughter is the only path to our salvation. But every life we lose… Babel or Military Commission… is a piece of Kazdel's soul dying."

"You have us, Theresa," mom assures her, her voice ringing with a fierce, unyielding loyalty. "I am sure… we can end the war… but Doctor… can we trust him?"

Amiya tugs gently on my hand, leading me away from the heavy, sorrowful tactical discussion between mom and Theresa.

The small Cautus girl guides me toward the edge of the massive, sleek white meeting table. She reaches up on her tiptoes, her ears twitching happily, and points toward a small cluster of items resting near the monitors. A smoothly polished river stone, a little woven trinket made of dried grass, and the fragile glass vase holding the vibrant orange flowers.

"I found these outside," young Amiya whispers, her voice brimming with a quiet, earnest pride. "To make the room look nicer for Theresa."

"They are beautiful, Amiya," I reply softly. I nod along.

Then, suddenly.

The ambient air in the brightly lit office violently drops.

Amiya freezes mid-sentence. The vibrant orange flowers in the glass vase instantly wither, crumbling into dead, grey ash.

A horrific, suffocating void floods my senses. It tastes exactly like ancient, freezing surgical steel, embalming fluid, and old, congealed blood that has been trapped in a lightless crypt for centuries.

“Good. Now let’s go to Londinium.”

I can't move. The brightly lit command office shatters like a broken mirror.

And then, there is nothing.

Absolute, pitch-black darkness swallows me entirely.