June, 1096

The sterile air of the high-security ward hasn't changed much in two months, but Opal has. Erika has been monitoring her closely and tells me the news is good: Opal is becoming more responsive. She recently asked for something other than the bland nutrient pouches; a small, defiant spark of a physical appetite returning.

Today is the 10th of June, my designated weekly visit. I sit by her bed with a book of Rim Billiton folklore. I chose a tale set on one of the rare coastal nomadic platforms of her homeland, where the salt air supposedly smells like ancient metal and the sea. As I read, for a moment, the voice of the ghost in my head shift. She murmurs with a strange, localized intensity, whispering that I am from Rim Billiton too, that I should know the smell of that salt air. It’s absurd; I am a Sarkaz from the Kazdel outskirts. I ignore the crazy static in my skull and focus on the girl in the bed. Opal is looking at me; not with the hollow void I first encountered, but with a quiet, exhausted curiosity.

"What…" she begins, her voice still sounding like fragile, thin glass. "What is your name?"

I offer her a soft, genuine smile. "I am Lethe," I tell her.

Erika enters carrying a tray. The savory, comforting scent of soft noodle soup cuts through the sterile air of the high-security ward.

"Lunchtime, Opal," Erika announces gently.

Erika sets the tray down at the bedside table. Then she turns to me, “You too Lethe, you should go eat, I will see you at dinner tonight.”

“Yes, Erika. See you later.” I nods.

I gather my Arts Unit from the floor, adjusting my grip on the black shaft.

"I will see you next week, Opal," I say softly, offering her a small, timid wave.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't look up from the blankets draped over her lap. But as I step backward toward the threshold, her chin dips down a fraction. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

It is a victory. I hold onto that fragile spark of connection as the heavy doors seal shut behind me.

My slate chimes almost instantly in my crossbody bag. A calendar notification. Routine Check-up. Dr. Warfarin's Laboratory. The warmth of the moment evaporates entirely, replaced by a cold, leaden dread that pools heavily in my stomach.

Ten minutes later, I am backed entirely into the corner of the gleaming stainless-steel laboratory. My knees are pulled tightly against my chest.

"Honestly, Lethe, it has been months. You would think a creature of your pedigree would build at least a marginal tolerance to a simple needle," Warfarin sighs dramatically. Her eyes roll as she paces toward my corner.

I shrink back further against the freezing metal wall. "Please…" I beg.

The Vampire doesn't even break her stride. She effortlessly plucks my arm from my defensive coil, unwraps a lollipop with her free hand, and shoves it unceremoniously into my mouth. Artificial grape floods my tongue, a sharp, sugary shock to my system. Before I can even process the candy, the needle bites into the crook of my elbow. I whimper around the plastic stick, squeezing my eyes shut and gripping the edge of the examination chair as my Originium-laced blood fills the glass vial.

"There. Try not to squirm," Warfarin drawls, withdrawing the syringe with terrifying, practiced speed and pressing a cotton ball down onto the puncture. "Hold that. Don't bleed on my floor."

I press down, shivering violently, as she turns back to her centrifuges and monitors.

"Well, little anomaly," she purrs a few minutes later, swiping through the floating data with a sharp, red fingernail. "You remain terrifyingly stable. Your cell-Originium assimilation hasn't crept up a single decimal. For a Sarkaz basically inhaling trauma every day, you are the picture of health."

I take the lollipop out of my mouth, my fingers still shaking slightly. "Dr. Warfarin…?" I start, my voice hesitant.

She doesn't look away from the glowing screen. "Spit it out.”

"I think… I think the rocks in my head are making things up again," I confess, the admission tasting sour in my mouth. "When I was reading a Rim Billiton story to Opal today… my brain told me I knew what the coast there smelled like. It sounded like… a girl. She calls herself Iori. But I know I am from the Kazdel outskirts. I never even been to Rim Billiton. Is the infection getting worse?"

Warfarin finally stops tapping the glass. She turns slowly, her predatory amusement fading into a sharp, clinical focus. She steps forward, pulling up a specialized scan of my brain on her slate.

The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. I brace myself for the worst.

"No," Warfarin says simply. She lowers the slate. "Your Oripathy hasn't progressed. In fact, the localized Originium density in your temporal lobe is registering as less active than your baseline in April. You are burning fewer calories, so to speak."

She crosses her arms, looking down at me with a dismissive shrug. "Oripathy-induced hallucinations are a textbook symptom, especially in heavily infected memory centers. Your brain is likely just misfiring, stringing together environmental context clues from the book you were reading and labeling them as facts. Don't worry your little head too much about a phantom voice claiming to be a beachgoer."

She turns back to her desk, waving her left hand in a shooing motion. "Just keep doing your job. But if this 'Iori' starts telling you to sabotage the landship's engines or bite an Operator, do be a good girl and tell me."

I nod slowly, clutching my slate against my chest. If this "Iori" ever tries to make me do something that breaches my contract, she will definitely need to be removed. It is just the Oripathy acting up, stringing together nonsense. She talks entirely too much sometimes anyway.

I slip out of the laboratory, the doors hissing shut on the ancient Vampire and her centrifuges.

Before my sneakers can even carry me down the main corridor toward the cafeteria, a hand gently catches my sleeve. I blink, looking up into a pair of bright, determined eyes and long Cautus ears.

Amiya doesn't even give me a chance to ask. With a warm, conspiratorial smile, the young CEO basically drags me away from the main thoroughfare, navigating us through a maze of quieter hallways until we reach a secluded, off-duty break room.

Sitting at the small, circular table inside is Rosmontis. The silver-haired Feline looks up as we enter, her feline ears twitching in a quiet, subtle greeting.

Sitting in the exact center of the table is a pristine cardboard box.

"I had a special delivery come in today," Amiya announces, her tone dropping into a hushed, excited whisper as she gently pushes me into a chair next to Rosmontis. She opens the box, and the rich, mouth-watering aroma of baked cinnamon, caramelized sugar, and warm pastry instantly floods the room.

An entire, perfectly baked apple pie.

I stare at the golden crust.

"Woah," I breathe out. I look up at her. "But… doesn't the landship cafeteria bake apple pies? Why did you need to get one delivered?"

Amiya pulls a small stack of paper plates and forks from a nearby cabinet, her smile turning incredibly fond. "Because the Sankta who delivers for this logistics company knows absolutely everything about apple pies. She claims this bakery makes the 'best of the best' in all of Lungmen, and she is never wrong about desserts."

A Sankta.

Suddenly, a violent burst of static crackles in my mind. Iori misfires again. An intrusive, absurd mental image flashes behind my eyes: a chaotic girl with bright red hair, a glowing halo, and a terrifying submachine gun, grinning while holding a box of pastries. I wince slightly, shaking my head to quickly wave the phantom image away. Warfarin was right; my Oripathy is just throwing random, nonsensical pictures at me to fill the gaps. I focus my attention entirely back on the real world, and the incredibly real, warm slice of pie Amiya slides onto a plate in front of me.

I pick up the plastic fork. The first bite is absolute heaven. The cinnamon and sugar melt on my tongue, completely washing away the lingering, metallic dread of the laboratory check-up. It is sweet, warm, and entirely devoid of the horrific trauma flavors I usually siphon. It is just pure, baked joy.

It is also incredibly, undeniably against Erika's strict nutritional mandates for my stunted, recovering body.

I take another massive bite, looking between Amiya and the quietly munching Rosmontis. I offer a wide, sugar-coated smile.

"Please don't tell Erika," I chime, my voice muffled around the pastry. "Or she is going to make me eat nothing but steamed broccoli for a month."

Amiya giggles.

“I won’t.” She says two simple words.

After our little pastry break. Amiya heads back to the upper decks with Rosmontis following suit. While I slowly make my way to my own work with a belly full of sugary joy.

The Convalescent Garden is quiet today, lacking the bright, bouncing energy of its usual younger residents. Podenco is off fulfilling her logistics duties, and Lisa is caught up in her own medical treatments and Arts training.

But it isn't entirely peaceful. Prowling the perimeter of the medicinal herb beds is a fellow Sarkaz Medic. Hibiscus.

She hums a terrifyingly upbeat tune, her purple hair bouncing as she vigorously shakes a translucent bottle filled with a thick, ominous, swamp-green sludge. She is actively hunting for victims… I mean, patients; to test her latest "nutritionally complete"

smoothie on.

My stomach recoils. I can practically smell the raw kale and concentrated bitter roots from across the room. After Amiya's secret delivery of that glorious, cinnamon-laced apple pie just hours ago, drinking whatever biological warfare is in that shaker bottle is the absolute last thing I want.

I strategically duck behind a massive, broad-leafed fern, waiting for her energetic footsteps to pass by, before slipping deeper into the secluded seating areas.

Sitting on one of the curved, golden-brown wooden benches is a Sarkaz mercenary. He looks exactly like the kind of man Terra chews up and spits out: heavily scarred, his armor battered, with a dark, heavy exhaustion pulling at the corners of his eyes. He is staring blankly at the glass canopy above.

I approach slowly. I lower my Arts Unit so the base rests on the floor, offering a timid, polite bow.

"Excuse me," I ask softly, my voice chiming in the quiet space. "Would you like to tell me a story?"

The mercenary slowly drags his gaze down to me. He takes in the dark grey jacket, the black monitor locked around my throat, and the twisted, petrified branch I am clutching. His eyes narrow slightly, recognizing the silhouette.

"I know what you are," he rumbles, his voice like grinding stones. A dry, humorless chuckle escapes his chest. "A Djall. Haven't seen one of your bloodline since the old days in Kazdel. You want a story? Fine. Eat my nightmares, little empath. Take the edge off."

He doesn't wait for a prompt. He simply leans back, closes his eyes, and begins to speak of a mud-soaked trench, the deafening shriek of Originium Arts, and the hollow thud of a friend hitting the dirt.

The ambient air immediately turns sour, thick with the rusted, metallic taste of survivor's guilt and visceral terror.

I clench my jaw, pressing my palm firmly against the smooth, black shaft of the Arts Unit. I visualize the channel opening, bracing myself to siphon the rotting sludge of his trauma.

But the moment the connection clicks open, something goes horribly wrong.

The staff doesn't pull. It pushes.

A violent, vibrating hum shoots up the petrified wood, bypassing my empathic Arts entirely and striking directly into my mind. The humid, lavender-scented air of the greenhouse is violently ripped away.

My breath catches. The world around me overrides into a hallucination.

I am standing inside a landship corridor, but it isn't the bustling, brightly lit Rhodes Island I know. The air here is colder, heavier. The lighting is muted and dim, Arts Unit long, bruised shadows across the floor. Thick, translucent plastic sheeting hangs haphazardly from the unfinished ceiling panels like massive, synthetic cobwebs. The bulkheads around me are stripped down to raw, dark metal, utterly devoid of the sleek white paneling or the blue-and-white rook logos. It feels like the skeleton of a war machine, quiet and waiting.

Then, she steps into the corridor.

A Sarkaz woman.

She stops just a few paces in front of me. She is looking down directly at me, her expression impossibly gentle. A smile touches her lips, a smile so profoundly full of warmth, sorrow, and overwhelming, unconditional love that it physically aches in the center of my chest.

Who is she? The adult inside me, the ghost of Iori, lunges frantically for the lore. I know this face. I know, I know this face. I dig my mental fingers into the archives of my past life, desperate for the name, for the history, for the context of the plastic-draped hallways.

But my fingers grasp empty air. She is a complete stranger to me.

Before the panic can fully set in, a second figure steps into view.

Walking past me, stepping confidently toward the smiling Sarkaz woman, is a tiny Cautus girl. Her brown hair is shorter, her oversized jacket swallowing her small frame, her long Cautus ears twitching as she reaches up to take the woman's hand.

Amiya.

The vision holds for a single, breathless second, a snapshot of a forgotten era, trapped inside the petrified wood of my staff, before the connection violently snaps shut.

I gasp, stumbling backward. My heavy tail smacks against the golden-brown wood of the bench as my knees buckle slightly. The muted, plastic-draped corridor shatters, instantly replaced by the bright, humid canopy of the Convalescent Garden.

The Sarkaz mercenary opens his eyes, letting out a long, heavy exhale. The rigid tension in his shoulders has melted away. He looks at me, offering a weary, grateful nod.

I stand there shivering, my hands gripping the Kazdelian artifact so tightly my knuckles are white. Ms. Closure's warning echoes in the hollow void of my chest. That stick is worth far more than you are.

Whatever Dr. Kal'tsit handed me is dangerous.

I don't even wait for the Sarkaz mercenary to fully open his eyes.

I pull the Arts Unit away and practically stumble backward.

"I need a moment, Miss Lena," I gasp, my voice trembling. I don't look back to see the confusion on the Vulpo's serene face.

I turn and run.

My sneakers slap frantically against the smooth floor of the Convalescent Garden, the sound echoing sharply under the glass canopy. I burst into the metallic corridors of the landship. My breath comes in short, jagged hitches, burning my throat. My tail lashes wildly behind me, completely throwing off my balance, but I don't slow down.

I weave through the bustling logistics Operators and passing Field Ops, entirely blind to the chaotic symphony of the ship.

"Lethe?"

The voice is warm, laced with immediate alarm. Erika. I blur past her near one of the triage intersections. I see her light purple eyes go wide, her hand reaching out instinctively to catch my arm.

"Lethe, wait! Where are you going?"

I cannot stop. I don't have the breath to explain that the Originium in my skull are colliding violently with the Kazdelian artifact in my hands, tearing open windows into a reality that I shouldn’t know about.

I push myself until my lungs burn and my legs ache, finally skidding to a halt deep within the Medical Department.

I stand before the heavy, reinforced blast door of Dr. Kal'tsit's office. The air here is freezing, perfectly sterile, and utterly devoid of the landship's usual chatter.

I freeze. My hand hovers a pace away from the digital chime panel. My fingers are shaking so violently they blur.

Should I?

But before my trembling finger can even touch the glass, the intercom crackles.

"Come in, Lethe."

Her voice calm. She didn't need me to ring the chime. PRTS tracked my frantic sprint across the ship, and she has been watching me hyperventilate outside her door for the last thirty seconds.

The door hisses open.

I step into the sprawling, immaculate office. The lighting is crisp and unforgiving. Kal'tsit is seated behind her massive desk, a mountain of datapads and physical reports neatly arranged around her. She doesn't look up immediately, her pen scratching methodically across a document.

"Dr. Kal'tsit…" My voice cracks. It sounds incredibly small in the cavernous room.

I step forward, gripping the black staff with both hands like a physical shield.

"When I asked Ms. Closure about this Arts Unit a few months back... the Originium in my head misfired." I swallow hard, my chest heaving. "The ghost in my head… Iori… it threw a word at me. It told me this staff had something to do with 'Babel.'"

Kal'tsit's pen stops.

The silence that follows is absolute. The ambient temperature in the room seems to plummet to absolute zero.

"And I just used it," I push on, the words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush. "I tried to siphon a mercenary's trauma in the garden, but the staff pushed back. It didn't pull his nightmare. It showed me a memory. A landship… but older. Dusty, stripped down to raw metal and plastic tarps."

Kal'tsit slowly lifts her head. Her piercing green eyes lock onto mine, completely unreadable, radiating that ancient, crushing stillness.

"I saw a Sarkaz woman," I whisper, a fresh tear escaping my eye, entirely unbidden. Just mentioning the ghost's smile makes my chest ache with a profound, transplanted grief.

"She was so kind. And… and Amiya was there. But she was just a tiny girl."

I stand there, waiting for the Feline to speak. For her to diagnose the hallucination, or to demand the staff back, or for the shadows behind her to twist and tear as Mon3tr is summoned to silence a biological anomaly that knows too much.

Kal'tsit stays entirely silent. She just looks at me, measuring the exact weight of my existence against the catastrophic risk of my infected memory centers.

Then, the air in the room shifts.

It is a purely physical sensation, a sudden, lethal drop in atmospheric pressure right behind my shoulders. It feels like standing on the edge of a sheer cliff in the dark. I flinch, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat as I whip my head around.

Standing between me and the sealed blast door is a tall Sarkaz woman.

She is cloaked entirely in dark, utilitarian combat gear, her presence so dense and perfectly muted that she seems to absorb the harsh lighting of the office. Her face is obscured by the shadows of her hood, but the sheer, suffocating intent radiating from her is unmistakable. It is the absolute, refined emotional resonance of an apex predator. My heart completely stops. My tail wraps around my legs in a tight, terrified coil.

Has she always been there? I didn't hear the door open. I didn't hear a single footstep. She simply materialized from the void, severing my only exit.

But Dr. Kal’tsit merely sets her pen down on the brushed steel of her desk. Her expression remains completely carved from stone, undisturbed by my frantic confession about the ghost, the artifact, or the vision.

"What are your opinions, Ascalon?" Kal'tsit asks. Her voice is completely calm, a steady, measured cadence that instantly drains the immediate, lethal threat from the room. Whatever nonsense I just spouted is clearly not grounds for my immediate execution. The heavy, suffocating intent behind me shifts. The Sarkaz woman, Ascalon, steps forward, moving so silently she seems to glide over the metallic floor rather than walk on it. She comes to stand beside Kal'tsit's desk, her face still half-hidden beneath the dark hood of her cloak.

"A spy would not do this," Ascalon rasps. Her voice is low, like dry leaves scraping against stone. She glances down at me, her eyes sweeping over my trembling frame, the black monitor around my throat, and the petrified branch in my hands. "An infiltrator who accidentally stumbles upon the deepest, most highly classified secrets of Rhodes Island does not run straight to your office in a panic to report it. They hide it. They transmit it."

Ascalon crosses her arms, the dark fabric of her combat gear shifting soundlessly. "By all intents and purposes, Kal'tsit, she is exactly what Warfarin diagnosed yesterday. The girl is a confused child. Her Oripathy are causing severe cognitive misfires. Her mind is actively fracturing, and her Oripathy has simply created this 'Iori' persona to filter the hallucinations."

Ascalon's terrifying gaze drops to the Kazdelian artifact in my hands. "But her resonance is undeniably strong. She is a pureblood Djall holding an artifact steeped in old Sarkaz memories. The staff isn't showing her the future, or classified secrets. It's just echoing the past, and her diseased brain is trying to make sense of the static." I stand there, listening to the apex predator dissect my existence with cold logic.

And… she is right.

I am Lethe. I am a Sarkaz girl dying of Oripathy, and Iori is just the name my tumor gave itself to make the dying easier.

Kal'tsit looks at me for a long time. Her piercing eyes evaluate the shift in my posture, watching as the frantic, panicked tension drains out of my small shoulders, leaving only an exhausted compliance.

"The artifact is a relic," Kal'tsit finally states, her tone shifting to an absolute, unyielding decree. "It has absorbed fragments of residual emotional data over decades. Your unique empathic Arts, uninhibited by the limiter matrix when channeling, inadvertently accessed that residual data."

She leans forward slightly, interlocking her fingers and resting them on the desk. "This concludes the explanation, Lethe. And it brings us to your ultimatum."

I swallow hard.

"No one must know of these visions," Dr. Kal'tsit commands. "You are forbidden from discussing the contents of your hallucinations, the name Babel, or anything the staff shows you, with anyone. Not Amiya. Not Erika. Not Perfumer."

Her look hardens, pinning me to the spot with absolute authority. "The only personnel cleared to hear what you see are myself, Dr. Warfarin, Closure, and Ascalon, should you ever encounter her again. If the artifact pushes back and reveals anything else to you, you will cease your palliative care immediately and report it directly to me. Is that understood?"

"I understand," I whisper, my voice steadying in the cold air of the office. "I will report everything."

"You are dismissed, Lethe. Erika is waiting for you outside," Kal'tsit states, her tone indicating the absolute end of our conversation.

I offer a stiff, obedient nod and turn around. Ascalon has already melted back into the shadows, a phantom dissolving seamlessly into the dark corners of the office.

Erika is pacing right outside in the metallic corridor.

"Lethe!" She rushes forward, her hands hovering nervously as if she is afraid she might break me if she holds me too tightly. Her light purple eyes are blown wide, frantically scanning my frame for injuries. "What happened? You ran out of the garden so fast, and then you locked yourself in with Dr. Kal'tsit… Are you in trouble? Are you hurt?" I look up at her, my grip loosening slightly. The terrifying, clinical logic of Warfarin and Ascalon settles heavily in my chest. The desperate fantasy that I was a displaced soul holding onto a past life is completely gone. I am just Lethe, a sick Sarkaz girl.

"I'm not in trouble," I murmur, my voice sounding incredibly small and exhausted. "It was just… the ghost in my head acting up."

Erika freezes. The soft feathers near her temples twitch, laying flat against her skin as her hands drop to her sides. "The… ghost?"

I nod, letting my eyes drop to the white toes of my sneakers. "I had a check-up with Dr. Warfarin yesterday. She said my Oripathy are causing severe cognitive misfires, and that my brain is hallucinating to cope with the infection. And just now, another Operator… Ascalon… she explained that this staff," I lift the Kazdelian artifact slightly,

"is full of old Sarkaz memories. When I used it in the garden, my Oripathy-laden brain couldn't handle the static. It made up a persona to filter the hallucinations."

Erika stares at me, the burnt edge of her panic slowly melting into a profound, aching sorrow. "Lethe…"

"I've been hearing a phantom voice ever since you pulled me out of the ruins," I confess. The admission is fragile, vibrating in the quiet corridor. "She calls herself Iori.

Sometimes she tells me things, or tries to give me memories of places that don't exist. I was just… I was too afraid to tell anyone until yesterday."

I look back up at the Liberi Medic, hot tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

"I didn't want you or Dr. Kal'tsit to think I was crazy," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I was so scared you would lock me in the quarantine ward forever."

I am buried in the soft fabric of Erika’s uniform.

Erika escorts me back to my own dorm room.

It is quiet, the ceiling lights mercifully dialed down to a dim, soothing amber.

Erika has been holding me for a long time, her hand gently, rhythmically stroking my hair, always careful to navigate around the sensitive bases of my horns.

Miss Lena sits near the foot of my mattress, her hands folded neatly in her lap, radiating that deep, grounding calmness of warm lavender. Amiya stands close by, her long ears drooping with a profound, aching concern that fills the space between us. They had hurried over the moment Erika brought me back to my room, wrapping me in a protective bubble of Rhodes Island's kindest souls.

I lean my head against Erika's collarbone, my tail curled securely against my leg.

I feel so stupid.

When I first woke up in the Kazdel ruins, the phantom voice was so loud. It constantly whispered to me, filling my fractured mind with static and paranoia. It told me to be absolutely terrified of Dr. Kal'tsit and Dr. Warfarin. It convinced me to hide the hallucinations, to pretend my brain wasn't misfiring.

I should have just told them the truth on the very first day. Dr. Warfarin is scary, and her needles hurt, but she stabilized my Oripathy. She gave me the medicine to keep the glowing black crystals in my brain from spreading. If I had just been brave enough to tell her about the ghost earlier, maybe her science could have removed the voice entirely before it got this bad.

"You should take a few days of break, Lethe," Lena says, her voice a soft, melodic murmur in the quiet room. "Stay here in the dorms. Rest your mind, and let us bring your meals to you."

Erika nods, her chin resting lightly against the top of my head. "Yes. Absolutely. No Convalescent Garden until you feel perfectly steady again."

"I agree," Amiya adds, offering a gentle, encouraging smile. "Your health comes first." The suggestion is meant to be comforting, but a cold, jagged spike of terror instantly pierces through my chest.

"No," I whisper, my fingers weakly grabbing the fabric of Erika's sleeve.

I pull myself back slightly, looking between the three of them with wide eyes. The terrifying, clinical logic of my contract echoes in my ears. I am a biological hazard on a leash.

"I have to go back to work," I plead, my voice trembling. "If I don't work... if I'm not useful, then I'm just a mad liability. If I'm broken, Dr. Kal'tsit will lock me back in the quarantine ward."

Erika's grip tightens around my shoulders instantly.

"Lethe, absolutely not," Erika says, her voice dropping its soft cadence to become fiercely absolute. She looks me dead in the eyes, chasing away the shadows of the Feline director. "No one thinks you are a liability. And no one thinks you are mad or crazy. Do you understand me?"

Amiya steps forward, crouching slightly beside the metal frame of the bed so we are perfectly at eye level. Her brown eyes are impossibly kind, devoid of any pity, holding only a deep, shared understanding.

"You are not crazy, Lethe," Amiya says softly, reaching out to rest her small hand gently over my trembling fingers. "I know how overwhelming the static can be. I am an empath, too."

I blink, looking at my CEO and friend.

"Living every day while hearing and feeling the intense emotions of everyone around you… it is incredibly hard," Amiya continues, her voice steady and sincere. "And for a Djall, having your Arts accidentally brush against residual memories makes it even heavier. It is terrifying when your own mind feels crowded."

She gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

"But you are just adjusting. You will get used to it, and we are going to teach you how to manage the noise," Amiya promises, her ears perking up slightly. "We are not going to lock you away just because your Arts are difficult to carry. Rhodes Island is here to help you."

The sheer, crushing weight of my terrifying confession finally breaks. I bury my face into my hands, my shoulders shaking violently as the exhaustion and relief spill over.

"Thank you," I sob, the words tearing out of my throat in a jagged, desperate rush. I look up through my blurred vision at the Cautus, the Vulpo, and the Liberi who have anchored my being to this world. "Thank you. Thank you, everyone."

Amiya smiles, her eyes impossibly kind and devoid of any pity. She gives my hand one last, reassuring squeeze before she slowly stands up.

"Get some rest, Lethe," Amiya says softly, her voice a soothing anchor in the quiet room. "You have been incredibly brave. I need to get back to work now, but we will see you tomorrow." With that, she turns and slips out of the dimly lit dorm, leaving behind a lingering warmth.

Miss Lena lingers for a moment longer. She offers a serene smile, before gracefully stepping away from the foot of the mattress. She leaves me safely enveloped in Erika's warm embrace, the door shut with a soft click behind her.

The room falls into a profound, peaceful quiet.

Erika doesn't say another word to break the stillness. She just holds me against her side. Her fingers begin to gently, rhythmically comb through my tangled grey hair. Under the steady, comforting rhythm of her touch and her honey-scented emotions, the exhaustion finally claims me. The static in my mind completely fades, lulling me down into a deep sleep.

When I open my eyes, the dim amber glow of the night cycle has already shifted into the crisp white of the morning cycle.

The door of my dorm opens just after I finish getting dressed. Erika steps inside, carrying a small metal tray. The recycled air of the room is instantly warmed by the sweet, comforting aroma of breakfast. She sets the tray carefully on my nightstand. It is a warm ceramic bowl of oats, dotted with plump, dark blueberries, resting alongside a cold glass of milk.

"Good morning, Lethe," Erika says. Her voice is soft, but it carries a distinct, serious undertone that makes my ears twitch slightly.

I sit up, "Good morning, Erika."

She doesn't immediately hand me the spoon. Instead, she sits on the edge of the mattress, her eyes locking directly onto mine.

"I have some news," Erika begins, keeping her tone incredibly steady. "Dr. Warfarin and Dr. Kal'tsit have reviewed your recent episodes. They have advised that you are not to work for the time being."

My heart instantly stalls in my chest.

"No, wait," I blurt out, the panic bubbling up hot and frantic in my throat. I reach out, my fingers weakly grabbing the fabric of her dress. "I need to work, Erika! If I don't work… if I'm not useful, Dr. Kal'tsit will think I'm broken. She will lock me back in the quarantine ward. I cannot be a liability…"

"Shh," Erika murmurs.

She reaches out, gently pressing a finger to my lips and effectively shushing my spiral. She takes my hands in hers, giving them a firm, grounding squeeze. The ambient flavor of her presence washes over me, thick with a rich, honey-scented reassurance that completely pushes back the cold dread.

"You are not a liability, Lethe," Erika explains patiently, her expression softening into absolute fondness. "And this wasn't a punishment from Dr. Kal'tsit. Miss Lena actually brought the idea up."

I blink, the frantic hammering of my heart slowing just a fraction. "Miss Lena?"

Erika nods, a warm smile touching her lips. "She went to administration on your behalf. Amiya personally reviewed the request and approved it this morning. They want to give your mind the time it needs to truly stabilize, without the constant strain of siphoning other people's trauma."

Erika reaches for the bowl of blueberry oats, handing it to me with unyielding medical authority.

"You are still completely free to go around the landship," she clarifies, her tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "You can visit the cafeteria, or just sit in the garden with Lisa and Podenco. But absolutely no work. No using your Arts. That is an official order from the CEO herself."

I don’t protest anymore, and digs into the comfort of warm oats.

I scrape the last of the sweet, purple-stained milk from the ceramic bowl, the metal spoon clinking softly against the rim. Erika watches me finish, her professional routine shifting back into place as she gathers her slate and prepares to leave the dorm. She mentions she needs to head to the high-security wards to check on Opal's vitals for the morning.

As she reaches the door, a sharp pang of guilt twists violently in my chest.

"Sorry, Erika," I murmur.

Erika freezes. Her hand pauses right over the door's control panel. She turns around, blinking in genuine confusion. The feathers near her temples give a slight twitch.

"What's that for?" she asks, her tone tilting with gentle perplexity.

I look down at my empty bowl, my fingers nervously twisting the edge of my blanket.

"You are just so busy," I whisper, the words tumbling out heavy with shame. "You work so hard in the triage bays, and you have to take care of Opal, and… and I just keep adding to your workload. I am supposed to be an Operator helping you, but instead, I am just taking up your time again."

The door is entirely forgotten.

Erika walks right back to the edge of my recessed mattress.

She leans over me, her fingers reaching out to gently brush the curtain of hair away from my forehead. Then, she leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss directly to my brow.

"Stop thinking of yourself as a liability, Lethe," Erika murmurs against my skin.

She pulls back just enough to look me dead in the eyes.

"You are not a burden. Taking care of you is not a chore; it is one of the best parts of my day," Erika says, her voice acting as a fierce, protective anchor. "No one on this landship thinks of you that way. Not me, not Amiya, not Lena…"

A small, knowing smile touches her lips.

"Not even Dr. Kal'tsit."

"Not even Dr. Kal'tsit?" I repeat.

Erika gives a soft chuckle. "Not even her," she insists, her tone carrying a dry, pragmatic humor. "Trust me, Lethe. If she truly thought you were a liability, she would have tossed you out of the landship a long time ago."

A sudden, vivid image flashes through my mind.

I picture the terrifying crystalline nightmare of Mon3tr materializing from the dark corners of the Medical Director's office. In my head, the jagged beast simply reaches down, picks my small frame up by the scruff of my oversized jacket, and unceremoniously yeets me right through one of the reinforced glass observation windows into the barren Terran wasteland.

It is a completely absurd, morbidly funny thought. The sheer ridiculousness of the mental picture slices right through whatever lingering anxiety I have left.

A genuine, relaxed smile finally breaks across my face. I let out a soft giggle, the rigid tension melting out of my shoulders entirely.

"Okay, okay," I concede, giving her arm a gentle, playful nudge. "You really need to get back to work now, Erika. Opal is waiting for you."

Erika stands up, her eyes shining with absolute relief as she sees the shadows finally clear from my expression.

"I am going," Erika says, heading toward the exit. "You behave yourself today."

"I will," I promise, swinging my legs lightly over the edge of the mattress. "Don't worry about me. I think I will go bother Podenco or Lisa in the garden today. Or… if Rosmontis is still on the landship and not deployed, I might go visit her."

Erika offers one last, fond smile before stepping out into the corridor.

The following days blur together into a warm, humid haze of routine.

My mandated medical leave means my hours in the Convalescent Garden are no longer spent actively siphoning trauma from exhausted Operators. Instead, I simply sit on the curved benches, tucking my knees up to my chest and watching Miss Lena and Podenco work.

They speak in a rapid, overlapping botanical language that is entirely beyond my comprehension.

"The alkaloid yield from this batch of Lirium is far lower than expected," Miss Lena murmurs, her fingers gently inspecting a broad-leafed plant. "We might need to adjust the soil acidity. The Originium trace in the recycled water supply is likely throwing off the nutrient absorption."

"I could mix in some crushed basalt!" Podenco suggests brightly, she hovers with a watering can. "Or maybe we increase the ambient humidity around the terrarium to stimulate the spore pods?"

"Let's try the basalt first," Lena smiles serenely, carefully pruning a stem. "We do not want to accidentally induce a rapid rot in the root network."

I just sit there on my bench, blinking my wide eyes and nodding solemnly, pretending as if I understand a single word of their agricultural crisis.

Podenco, filled with her usual energy, actively tries to include me. She hands me a small trowel and tries to teach me the delicate art of planting seedlings. I genuinely try. But my the spade-tipped pendulum swinging from my tailbone proves to be an absolute, unmitigated hazard in a greenhouse full of fragile flora.

The moment Podenco claps her hands and praises me for digging a perfect little trench, a spark of genuine excitement flares in my chest. My tail gives a happy, involuntary wag.

Thwack.

The sharp spade at the tip of my tail effortlessly slices straight through a row of delicate, newly sprouted medicinal herbs, sending dirt and shredded green leaves flying across the pristine floor tiles. I instantly drop the trowel, grabbing my rogue tail with both hands and hugging it defensively against my chest while apologizing profusely. Podenco just laughs her bright, chiming laugh, but we mutually agree that I should probably stay away from the fragile flower beds for now.

When the garden is quiet, Lisa visits me. The Vulpo bounds in after her own shifts, her nine tails swishing happily as she takes the seat beside me on the bench. She fills the humid air with stories from her daily life on the landship. She complains softly about the strict instructors in her theoretical Arts training, or groans about the mountain of standard-issue homework the tutoring staff assigns her. I sit there listening, wondering what homework are, I have never seen them before.

I do try to branch out as well. One afternoon, tapping away on the digital slate, I submit a formal request to the administrative system for Rosmontis's schedule. I wanted to see if I could catch her for lunch in the cafeteria again.

Less than a minute later, a harsh red banner flashes across my screen: DENIED.

CLASSIFIED SECURITY PROTOCOL.

Shortly after the rejection pings, a direct message from Amiya pops up. The young CEO's text is full of soft, apologetic words. She promises that she will ping my slate whenever she or Rosmontis are actually free to hang out.

I set my slate down on the bench, leaning my head back to look up through the frosted glass canopy. The warm, lavender-scented air of the garden washes over me.

It is a quiet existence, but it is mine.