June, 1098

The screen of my digital slate casts a cool light across my face. I trace my thumb over the glass, my eyes locked onto the numbers displayed in the corner.

10th of June, 1098.

I let out a slow, contented exhale, sinking deeper into the soft mattress. Arranged meticulously around my pillows, standing like a silent, loyal honor guard, are my anchors: the soft brown Amiya bunny, the floppy-eared grey Rosmontis bunny, and the little squishy cake mom had given me. Resting comfortably over my legs is the massive, ridiculously oversized bulk of my shark plushie.

Leaning against the nightstand, well within arm's reach, is my new Arts Unit. The misty blue liquid suspended within the intersecting, matte black magnetic halos swirls lazily, catching the dim amber light of the dorm. It hums with a faint, steady mechanical heartbeat, a comforting reminder of Ms. Closure's engineering.

It has been incredibly, wonderfully quiet ever since Ms. Ascalon dragged me back from that terrifying, high-speed detour through Siracusa.

The days have finally settled into a peaceful, unbroken rhythm. My shifts in the Convalescent Garden are no longer interrupted by blaring klaxons or the sudden, suffocating influx of bleeding refugees. Instead, my afternoons consist of meticulously counting vials of Oripathy suppressants and organizing Miss Lena’s dried herbs, while she and Podenco tend to the soil and the roots. Whenever she isn't buried in her Supporter drills or tutoring sessions, Lisa pops into the sanctuary, her tails swaying in a joyful blur as she fills the humid, earthy air with her blindingly bright, crystalized sugary presence.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Rhodes Island is actually at peace.

The landship feels noticeably lighter, too. A massive expedition team recently boarded one of the aircrafts and departed for the dense rainforests of Sargon.

Doctor is gone, taking the heavy, bottomless void of his tactical mind with him. Ms. Blaze and Ceobe deployed as well, entirely draining the corridors of the towering Feline's roaring, machine-grease fire and the Perro's feral, spicy hurricane. Ms. Gavial, Miss Utage, and Miss Croissant rounded out their squad, leaving the medical wings and the logistics bays unusually serene.

A small, genuine giggle bubbles up in my throat as I think of Miss Croissant.

The sturdy Forte Defender from Penguin Logistics had dropped by the medical wing just a few days before their Sargon deployment to pick up her standard-issue field kits. Her ambient presence had tasted wonderfully grounded; like toasted grain, rich butter, and the heavy, satisfying clink of physical LMD coins.

While I was handing over her bandages, she had casually leaned over the counter and shared a terrifying piece of corporate gossip with me.

Apparently, when Miss Exusiai returned to the Lungmen branch without me, the energetic Sankta had been devastated. According to Miss Croissant, Miss Exusiai had spent an entire afternoon frantically drafting a highly volatile tactical plan to physically blow a hole through Rhodes Island's armored hull, just so she could successfully smuggle me into Lungmen for an apple pie date.

A cold shiver had traced its way down my spine at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it. I had instantly pictured the blinding flash of her Arts projectiles tearing through the steel bulkheads of my dorm.

Thankfully, Miss Croissant had laughed, assuring me that Miss Texas had immediately and absolutely vetoed the explosive “rescue” plot with her signature, deadpan authority. I silently thanked the ancient Feranmuts for the Lupo courier's smoky, chilled-rain pragmatism.

I press the physical power button on the side of my slate's chassis. The screen snaps to black, plunging the room back into the dim, soothing glow of the night cycle.

I slide down against the pillows, wrapping my arms securely around the massive shark plushie, and let my eyes flutter shut.

I gasp, my cheek pressed against freezing, unforgiving steel.

I slowly peel my face off the floorboards, groaning as a dull ache pulses at the base of my horns. The soft, fleece-lined embrace of my oversized kitten hoodie is completely gone, replaced by a harsh chill that seeps directly into my bones.

I push myself up onto my hands and knees, my vision swimming as I look around.

This is not my dorm.

The corridor stretching out before me is a long, narrow tunnel of raw, dark metal. Thick, heavy industrial cables hang loosely from unfinished ceiling panels like synthetic cobwebs. The lighting is incredibly dim, Arts Unit long, bruised shadows across the scuffed floor grates. The air smells entirely wrong; there is no sterile, clinical bleach or the crisp ozone of the air purifiers. It smells of stale grease, old dust, and damp iron. I look at the bulkheads. The pristine white paneling is missing. There are no blue tactical monitors, and completely absent is the black-and-white Rhodes Island rook logo that usually marks every single intersection of our home.

It looks exactly like the skeletal, rundown war machine I had seen in my hallucination months ago.

"What’s the rush, Lethia?"

The voice cuts cleanly through the dim hallway. I flinch, my tail snapping rigidly behind me. I whip my head around.

Standing just a few paces away is a Liberi woman. I recognize her sharp, observant eyes and quiet, enduring strength instantly. Ms. Raidian.

But she looks different. She looks younger. Her uniform lacks the sleek, modern tactical tailoring I am used to seeing on the Elite Ops. It is rugged, highly utilitarian, and visibly worn at the edges. My empathic Arts instinctively brush against the ambient air. The familiar flavor of sun-warmed linen and sturdy oak washes over me, but it is heavily steeped in the harsh, metallic tang of deep, unrelenting wartime fatigue.

Lethia?

"Ms. Raidian?" I try to ask. I want to ask her where mom is. I want to ask why the landship looks so broken.

But my jaw firmly clenches. My throat tightens, entirely hijacked by a physical force that is not my own. The absolute terror of losing my autonomy spikes in my chest as my lips part, and a completely different set of words tumbles out.

"Think I slipped on the floor," my voice says.

It sounds like mine, but the cadence is completely wrong. It is casual, carrying a hardened, weary edge that I do not possess. My mouth continues to move entirely without my permission.

"Where’s Ace? Raidian?"

Internal panic violently floods my skull.

Ace?

Amiya told me Ace died in Chernobog. I stood beneath the towering obsidian wall and read his name carved in silver. Why am I asking for him? Why can't I stop my own tongue?

Ms. Raidian lets out a soft, huffing sigh. She shifts her weight effortlessly, entirely unaware of the screaming, desperate panic trapped behind my eyes.

"He is with Theresa and Doctor in Theresa’s office," Ms. Raidian replies, her tone perfectly casual, dropping the names into the dusty air like it is the most mundane update in the world. "Entelechia is there too."

Theresa. Entelechia.

The syllables feel completely alien on my tongue.

"Thanks, Raidian," my mouth says.

I try to force my jaw shut, to scream out for mom, or Amiya, or anyone, but I am completely powerless. I am a prisoner locked behind these eyes.

The younger, war-weary Ms. Raidian lingers for a fraction of a second.

"Take care of yourself, Lethia," Ms. Raidian says, her voice dropping into a quiet, serious octave. "Passing out in the hallway isn’t a good sign."

"I will."

Ms. Raidian gives a slow nod and turns, her shoes clicking softly against the grated floor as she disappears down the dim, unfinished tunnel of the skeletal landship.

The moment she is gone, my body simply starts to move.

I try to dig my heels into the floor. I try to command my legs to freeze, to turn around and run back to the safety of the medical wards, but my mind has absolutely zero purchase on the muscles. It is a suffocating, paralyzing captivity. I am forced to walk down the dark, industrial corridor.

We pass by a large, reinforced observation window. The glass is smudged with dirt, but as we step into the pale light bleeding through the pane, it catches our reflection. I stare at the glass. It is me, but it isn't. The person looking back is a woman. Her face carries the same soft lines, the exact same misty blue eyes that I see in the mirror every morning in my dorm. But the crown of horns jutting from her grey hair is completely different. They are perfectly even. A flawless, symmetrical pair of pureblood Djall horns, entirely lacking the heavy, lopsided weight that constantly pulls at my neck muscles.

Who is this?

But Lethia doesn't linger on her reflection. Her attention drifts past the smudged glass to the world outside.

I look through her eyes.

It is a graveyard of the earth. Massive, jagged monoliths of dark stone pierce the bruised, overcast sky like broken, rotting teeth. The barren ground stretches out into the distance, completely choked by grey ash and dead, skeletal brush. But the earth isn't just dead; it is infected. At the bases of the towering stone pillars, the ground is festering with a sprawling network of active Originium. The jagged crystals glow with a sickly, burning red-orange heat, pulsing like a dying, venomous heartbeat across the wasteland.

It is a land completely consumed by fire, rot, and Catastrophes.

Lethia slowly raises a hand, pressing her palm flat against the cold glass. As she looks out over the burning, infected wasteland, a profound, crushing wave of sorrow swells in her chest. The emotion is so deep, so agonizingly ancient, that it bleeds directly into my own mind. It tastes like swallowing a mouthful of freezing ocean water mixed with rusted blades and crushed, dead petals.

"When will this war end," my mouth whispers. The voice is fragile, cracking under the crushing weight of the glowing monoliths outside.

"Theresis… Why. Why can we not have peace?"

The name drops into the heavy air like an executioner's blade. The sheer magnitude of the grief attached to it hits a critical mass in my chest.

The vision ruptures.

I bolt upright.

The freezing, sterile air of my Rhodes Island dorm rushes into my lungs in a ragged, desperate gasp. My chest is heaving so violently my ribs ache. I am gripping the blankets so tightly my knuckles are completely bone-white. The oversized kitten hoodie clinging to my frame is entirely soaked through with a freezing, clammy sweat.

I am shaking uncontrollably.

Mom. I want mom.

I want to bury my face into her neck, wrap my arms around her shoulders, and let her chase the cold, dead eyes of the ghost away.

I scramble off the mattress, my legs tangling in the blankets. I hit the floorboards with a clumsy, desperate thud, my bare feet scrambling for traction as I bolt directly toward the door of my dorm.

My hand slams against the control panel.

But right as my fingers brush the cool glass of the sensor, I freeze.

My chest is still heaving with ragged, panicked gasps, but a sudden, heavy memory anchors my frantic momentum. I remember the suffocating, burnt-honey terror that had radiated from mom when I finally returned from my unexpected, high-speed detour through Siracusa with the Penguin Logistics couriers.

She had gripped me so tightly I thought my ribs would crack. For an entire month after that, she hadn't let me out of her sight. Her emotional resonance had been constantly strung tight with a sharp, acidic anxiety, terrified that the world was going to snatch me away again the moment she blinked.

I look down at my trembling hand resting against the door panel.

If I wake her up right now in the morning, soaked in cold sweat, babbling about a ghost woman named Lethia and the names of people who don't exist anymore… she will panic. The agonizing, protective terror will completely consume her again. She will drag me straight to the high-security quarantine ward, entirely convinced my Oripathy is finally burning away the last, fragile pieces of my mind.

I cannot do that to her. I cannot be the reason she looks at me with that devastating, heartbroken terror ever again.

I slowly drop my hand from the control panel. I take a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the frantic hammering in my chest to slow.

I turn around, my eyes locking onto the black Arts Unit resting against the nightstand. Dr. Kal'tsit is the architect of my survival.

If anyone on this landship knows who Lethia is, if anyone knows why the dead wasteland of Terra is suddenly bleeding into me… is she.

I don't bother to change out of my sweat-soaked kitten hoodie. I turn around and grab my Arts Unit, I hit the panel.

The locks disengage with a quiet clank. I step out into the dim, amber-lit corridors of the night cycle, turning my steps away from the medical wing and marching directly toward the upper administrative decks to face the glacier.

The reinforced blast doors of the Medical Director's office hiss apart before I even raise a hand to the control panel.

The lighting inside is muted, bathed in the cool, clinical glow of PRTS monitors. Seated behind her desk, surrounded by a fortress of physical documents and glowing screens, is Dr. Kal’tsit. She is awake. She always is.

She doesn't even look up from the report she is annotating.

"Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "You should be sleeping. Breaking your sleep cycle is an irresponsible behavior for your developing body."

I step over the threshold, the heavy metal panels sliding shut behind me with a definitive clank.

I force my shaking legs to carry me to the edge of her desk. My oversized kitten hoodie is still damp with cold sweat, clinging uncomfortably to my shoulders.

"Dr. Kal’tsit…" I whisper. I take a deep, shuddering breath, pulling the sterile, ozone- tinged air of her office deep into my lung.

"Who are Lethia… Entelechia… Theresa, and Theresis?"

The rhythmic scratching of her pen abruptly ceases.

Dr. Kal'tsit completely stops.

For a fraction of a single second, the ancient, impenetrable glacier of her presence violently fractures. The tastes of crushed, wilted petals, centuries of bitter ash, and cold, stagnant rainwater.

But coiled directly beneath that ancient, devastating grief is an instantaneous, lethal spike of threat. It tastes like the sharp, freezing bite of a drawn blade and concentrated ozone. It is a suffocating, crushing atmospheric drop that makes the air in the room feel entirely unbreathable.

I shrink back slightly, my tail snapping into a rigid, defensive coil around my leg, entirely paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the emotion bleeding off her.

Then, the violent empathic storm is forcefully choked down, shoved back beneath a wall of flawless, freezing ice.

Dr. Kal'tsit slowly lifts her head. Her piercing eyes lock directly onto mine. She doesn't speak a single word.

She just looks at me, completely, utterly silent.

"Speak."

The command slices through the heavy, sterile air of the office. Dr. Kal'tsit does not raise her voice, but the single word carries the absolute, undeniable gravity of a collapsing star.

"What did you see."

I swallow hard, the dry, terrified lump in my throat bobbing. I grip my Arts Unit with both hands, pulling it defensively against my chest. Within the matte black magnetic halos at its crest, the liquid swirls in an agitated, erratic dance, mirroring the frantic hammering of my heart.

"I… I was asleep," I stammer. "But I wasn't in my dorm. I was standing in a hallway. It looked like Rhodes Island, but it was older. Stripped down to bare metal and plastic tarps."

Dr. Kal'tsit remains perfectly still. She does not interrupt.

"Ms. Raidian was there," I continue, my breath hitching as the suffocating sorrow of the vision bleeds back into my chest. "She looked younger. And she looked so incredibly tired. She called me Lethia."

I look down at my bare feet, a hot tear escaping to carve a track down my cheek. "I looked in the glass, Dr. Kal'tsit. The woman looking back… she had my face. She had my eyes. But her horns were perfectly symmetrical. It wasn't me, but I was inside her head. I felt everything she felt."

I look back up, meeting the Medical Director's unyielding gaze.

"She asked Ms. Raidian where Ace was. Ms. Raidian said he was with… with Theresa, and Doctor, and someone named Entelechia. And then Lethia looked out the window at the burning wasteland, and she cried. She asked why Theresis wouldn't just let them have peace."

The sprawling command office plunges into a silence so profound it is physically deafening.

The ancient, freezing glacier of Dr. Kal'tsit’s emotional resonance suddenly hollows out. For a singular, agonizing moment, the Medical Director looks unimaginably old.

She slowly closes her eyes. A quiet, measured exhale escapes her lips.

"The Kazdelian artifact we issued before was steeped in centuries of residual echoes," Dr. Kal'tsit begins, her voice dropping into a low, clinical hum that betrays absolutely nothing. "It acted as an external buffer, feeding the Originium in your temporal lobe useless data to spare your own cognitive framework."

She opens her eyes, locking them onto my tear-stained face.

"But what you are experiencing now is not an external echo, Lethe. It is internal. It is a biological reality of your bloodline."

"My… bloodline?" I whisper, my fingers tightening around my staff.

"The Sarkaz, particularly purebloods of ancient lineages like the Djall, possess a unique, intrinsic resonance with Originium," Dr. Kal'tsit explains, standing up from her desk. She folds her hands neatly behind her back. "It acts as a conduit, not merely for Originium Arts, but for genetic memory. The crystals localized in your brain are aggressively burning your current neural pathways for fuel, but in doing so, they are unearthing the dormant, ancestral echoes buried deep within your veins."

Dr. Kal'tsit takes a slow, deliberate step around the edge of her desk. The lethal, freezing pressure of her presence returns, pressing down on the room.

"I have harbored this suspicion since the day Caladria pulled you from the rubble of the Kazdelian town," Dr. Kal'tsit states, her tone carrying the cold, uncompromising strike of a gavel. "Your approximate age, the exact geographical coordinates of your retrieval, and your Djall traits… it was a statistical probability I could not ignore."

She stops just a few paces away from me.

"You are Lethia's biological daughter."

My knees buckle slightly, the devastating revelation hitting me with the kinetic force of a collapsing building.

A mother.

The woman in the glass with the gentle smile and the profound, crushing sorrow. She wasn't just a ghost. She was my mother, and she had stood in the skeletal halls of an older landship alongside the people who now protect me.

"Dr. Kal'tsit…" I choke out. "If she was here… if she knew Ms. Raidian and Doctor… where is she?"

"She is a casualty of a war that ended long before you woke up," Dr. Kal'tsit replies. The brutal, unsentimental truth drops into the sterile air, completely severing any fragile hope I have conjured.

Before I can even process the grief of losing a mother I never truly knew, Dr. Kal'tsit steps into my personal space. The temperature in the room plummets to absolute zero. The shadow of Mon3tr does not manifest, but the ancient, terrifying intent behind it looms heavy over my shoulders.

"Listen to me very carefully, Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit commands, her voice dropping into a dangerously smooth, lethal octave.

"You will never speak of this vision again."

I flinch, shrinking back into the collar of my hoodie.

"You will not mention the name Lethia to Raidian. You will not ask Doctor about Entelechia. And you will never, under any circumstances, utter the names Theresa or Theresis to Amiya, Caladria, or anyone else on this landship."

She leans down just a fraction, ensuring her eyes are the only thing in my entire world.

"Those names belong to Babel. They belong to a buried, blood-soaked past that tore our predecessor organization apart. The grief attached to those memories is a volatile powder keg. Speaking them will not bring you closure. It will only inflict unnecessary, agonizing pain upon the veterans who survived that slaughter, and it will draw lethal scrutiny directly onto you."

She holds my terrified gaze for a long, heavy second.

"Do I make myself clear, Lethe?"

"I understand… I won't, Dr. Kal'tsit," I whisper, my voice barely a tremor in the office. Dr. Kal'tsit stays entirely silent. She simply watches me, her posture remaining an unyielding pillar of white fabric and ancient, freezing stillness. The suffocating pressure in the room slowly begins to recede, banking from an active, lethal threat back into the cold, calculated baseline of her usual presence.

But as the immediate terror fades, a new, hollow ache opens up in my chest.

Lethia.

My biological mother.

The foundation of my world feels suddenly tilted, the digital anchors I had so meticulously built on my slate shifting uncomfortably.

"Dr. Kal'tsit…" I slowly lift my head, forcing myself to meet those steady eyes. "Is mom… I mean, Erika… is she still my mom, if Lethia was my mom?"

The question hangs in the office.

Dr. Kal'tsit does not immediately answer.

"What do you believe, Lethe?" Dr. Kal'tsit asks.

I close my eyes. I think four months ago, when Ms. Ascalon had dragged me back from the terrifying, high-speed detour through Trieste.

I remember the exact moment I stepped off the transport. I remember the sheer, unadulterated desperation in Erika's voice as she cried out my name, fracturing into a ragged, wet sob. I remember the overwhelming, protective flavor of rich honey wrapping around me as she threw her arms around my neck, burying her face into my jacket and shaking violently because she thought she had lost me.

She didn't care about my bloodline. She didn't care about the Originium actively eating my mind. She just cared about me.

I open my eyes.

"Erika… is mom," I declare.

Dr. Kal'tsit gives a slow, deliberate nod.

"Biological lineage dictates your genetic origin, Lethe. It is merely a sequence of inherited data and ancestral resonance," Dr. Kal'tsit lectures, her tone taking on that familiar, verbose academic cadence. "It explains the shape of your horns and the specific manifestation of your empathic Arts. However, it does not define your anchors." She folds her hands neatly behind her back, her ears twitching just slightly.

"A family is not an inherent biological right. It is a construct forged through continuous, deliberate action, shared trauma, and mutual preservation," Dr. Kal'tsit continues.

"Caladria chose to pull you from the ruins. She chose to endure the physical and psychological toll of your rehabilitation. The title she holds in your mind is not invalidated by the ghosts of Babel, because she earned it in the present."

The heavy, crushing weight that had been pressing down on my shoulders entirely dissolves. Dr. Kal'tsit is right. My life is here.

"Thank you, Dr. Kal'tsit."

"Your gratitude is unnecessary. Your compliance with your medical parameters is what is required," Dr. Kal'tsit states. She turns her head, gesturing toward the blast doors.

"The hour is late. Your cognitive baseline has been sufficiently agitated for one night. Return to your dorm, Lethe. Go to sleep, I expect you to be functioning with an acceptable baseline tomorrow at 0830."

"Yes, Dr. Kal'tsit."

I hold my Arts Unit securely against my chest and step backward. The reinforced panels hiss apart, allowing me to escape the freezing, clinical domain of her office. As the doors seal shut behind me with a definitive clank, I let out a long, contented exhale. I make my way down the dim, amber-lit corridors of the landship.

The cold steel of the corridor fades as I slip back into the familiar, quiet safety of my dorm room. I carefully lean my black Arts Unit against the nightstand, the liquid suspended within its halos glowing faintly in the dark. I climb back onto my mattress, pulling the blankets tightly around my still-damp hoodie, and I instantly crash into a dreamless void.

"Lethe! Sleepyhead. You are going to be late to work."

A gentle, rhythmic shake on my shoulder pulls me from the depths of sleep. I blink against the sudden white glare of the daylight simulation cycle.

I bolt up, the blankets tumbling off my chest. "Mom?!" I gasp, rubbing my eyes frantically. "What time is it?"

Mom stands beside my bed, already fully dressed in her translucent tactical coat. She offers a highly amused smile, her arms crossing loosely over her chest.

"0800," mom states, tapping her wrist terminal. "Your shift starts at 0830, remember? You don’t want to be late, do you?"

The Convalescent Garden! Miss Lena is going to have my tail if I leave her and Podenco to manage the morning routines alone. I throw the covers completely off my legs, my bare feet hitting the floorboards.

"Oh no! Mom, I need to shower!" I yelp, frantically grabbing for the clean uniform I had laid out on my chair.

Mom lets out a soft chuckle, but her eyes narrow just a fraction with immediate scrutiny. She reaches out, her fingers gently brushing against my forehead to peel a few damp, tangled strands of hair away from my skin.

"Sure you do," mom murmurs, her voice dropping its teasing lilt. "Your hair is completely plastered to your face. You are not sick, are you?"

A tiny, anxious jolt hits my stomach. The memory of the freezing, clammy sweat that had soaked entirely through my hoodie after waking up from the horrific vision tries to surface. The ghost of the skeletal landship, the crushing sorrow of the woman in the glass, and the names I am strictly forbidden to speak.

I aggressively push the thought down, mentally locking it behind a door just as Dr. Kal'tsit commanded. I cannot let mom worry.

I force the corners of my lips upward, stretching my face into a bright, unwavering smile to chase away the sharp, acidic spike of alarm I can taste blooming at the edges of her emotional resonance.

"No… mom, I am all good," I promise, giving her a firm, reassuring nod as I grab my towel. "Just slept too warm in my hoodie! I will be ready in ten minutes, I swear!"

I scramble into the bathroom and turn the dial, eager to beat the clock. The hot water cascades over my shoulders, instantly melting away the lingering, clammy residue of the night cycle's terrifying visions. I scrub myself clean, letting the physical sensation of the warm spray and the mild soap anchor me firmly back to the present. Exactly ten minutes later, I step out, wrapping myself in a towel as the humid steam billows out into the dorm.

I quickly pull on my white turtleneck and dark pleated skirt and stockings, ensuring the black monitor collar sits securely around my throat. Then, I sit on the edge of my bed. Mom is waiting. She steps behind me with a soft towel and a hairbrush. This is our daily routine. She meticulously dries my hair, her touch incredibly gentle. As she begins to brush, her fingers navigate perfectly around the hypersensitive bases of my horns. The ambient air in the dorm is completely saturated with her presence. Sitting here, anchored by the rhythmic, soothing strokes of the brush and the undeniable safety of her emotional resonance, the dark abyss of Terra feels impossibly far away.

"Thank you, mom.”

The brush pauses. "What’s that for, Lethe?" she asks, her tone tilting with a gentle, affectionate perplexity.

I lean my head back just a tiny bit, resting it lightly against her. The sheer, staggering relief of waking up in this room with her watching over me.

"Just thank you for always being here for me," I whisper.

Mom lets out a soft, breathy chuckle that vibrates against my shoulders. She resumes her brushing, carefully smoothing down the strands of my asymmetrical fringe so it frames my face perfectly.

"Of course," she says, pressing a quick, tender kiss to the crown of my head. "You are my little Lethe after all."

She gives my hair one final, satisfying brush and steps back. She rests her hands on her hips, the soft feathers near her temples fluffing up slightly.

"Well. Off you go," mom instructs, pointing a firm finger toward the door. "Grab a bread roll at the cafeteria first. No skipping breakfast."

I slide off the mattress, reaching over to grab my Arts Unit from the nightstand. I offer a bright, highly obedient smile.

"I wouldn’t dare," I declare.

Once I leave my room, I practically sprint down the hallway. I burst into the bustling, brightly lit cafeteria, making an immediate, highly targeted tactical strike toward the bakery display.

I snatch a warm, perfectly baked red bean roll, and then immediately pivot toward the glowing, neon-lit corner housing Ms. Closure’s notoriously overpriced vending machines. I slap my ID card against the scanner, entirely justifying the exorbitant internal credit charge because the sweet milk tea that drops into the tray with a heavy thunk is technically milk, making it a one-hundred-percent mom-approved breakfast beverage. I convince myself.

With my breakfast secured and my new Arts Unit clutched tightly under my arm, I jog the rest of the way to the medical wing.

The doors of the Convalescent Garden hiss and slide apart. The rich, humid wave of warm air instantly washes over me, carrying the thick, earthy scent of damp soil and crushed leaves. I step onto the polished floor tiles, my tail swishing with a hurried, apologetic rhythm as I take a massive, eager bite of the sweet roll.

"You are exactly one minute late, Lethe."

The serene, melodic voice floats through the canopy. Miss Lena is standing near her botanical workstation, a pair of pruning shears resting lightly in her hands. She looks up at the digital clock mounted near the environmental controls, and a soft, highly exaggerated sigh escapes her lips.

The comforting, warm lavender and steeped chamomile of her presence ripples with a faint, playful spark of carbonated sweetness. "Oh dear," Miss Lena continues, shaking her head with flawless disappointment. "I guess as your manager, I have to dock your pay today."

My eyes blow completely wide. The sheer, unadulterated panic of losing my precious plushie-and-pastry funds instantly paralyzes me.

"Mmph!" I yelp.

I cannot form a single coherent word of defense. My cheeks are entirely puffed out, stuffed to the absolute maximum capacity with soft dough and thick, sweet red bean paste. I frantically wave my free arm in the air, my other hand awkwardly juggling the sleek black shaft of my Arts Unit and the cold can of milk tea, desperately trying to convey my deepest apologies through pure, uncoordinated flailing.

"She looks exactly like a Zalak trying to hoard food for the winter."

A bright, cheeky voice chimes in. Podenco pops her head up from behind a dense row of blooming ferns. The Perro botanist rests her chin on her hands, her ears twitching playfully as she watches my panicked, cheek-bulging distress.

The ambient air in the greenhouse immediately bubbles. The sharp, tangy citrus of Podenco's emotional resonance practically explodes with the carbonated fizz of pure, unrestrained amusement. "If you drop a single crumb of that on my newly sprouted moss, Lethe, I'm making you re-pot the entire western flowerbeds."

I let out another frantic, muffled whine, chewing as fast as my jaw will physically allow while fiercely shaking my head to promise I won't drop anything.

Miss Lena lowers her shears. The playful, teasing tension in the sanctuary completely melts away, returning instantly to the profound, grounding safety of her usual warmth. A beautiful, radiant smile breaks across the Vulpo's face, her tail swishing thoughtfully.

"Take a breath," Miss Lena murmurs, her voice returning to its soothing, velvet anchor. She gestures gently toward the crescent wooden benches. "Finish your breakfast first, Lethe. The work can wait."

I swallow the last, deliciously sweet bite of the red bean roll and chase it down with a long gulp of my milk tea. I meticulously wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve, immensely proud that I haven't dropped a single crumb onto Podenco's floor tiles. The doors of the garden hiss apart again. The ambient air ripples, and a familiar, grounded flavor hits. It tastes like over-steeped green tea and dry, sun-baked hay. Miss Beanstalk strides down the path. "Good morning, Lethe," Miss Beanstalk calls out, offering a bright, energetic wave.

"Good morning, Miss Beanstalk!" I wave back.

Then, a mischievous, highly opportunistic spark ignites in my chest. I spin around on the bench, pointing a dramatic, accusing finger directly at the Reproba breeder before turning my wide eyes to the sanctuary's manager.

"Miss Lena, look! She is even later than I am!" I declare, puffing my cheeks out with exaggerated, righteous indignation. "If my pay is going to be docked for being one minute late, she should definitely be in the negative now!"

Miss Lena simply covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a quiet, melodic chuckle.

Miss Beanstalk stops dead in her tracks. She rests her hands firmly on her hips, flashing me a highly confident smirk. "Excuse me now, Lethe," Miss Beanstalk counters, her aura buzzing with absolute, unbothered pride. "Technically, I am my own manager. And for the record, I was with Flamebringer and Myrrh on official garden business." I blink, lowering my accusing finger. I know those names. Mr. Flamebringer is the imposing, battle-hardened Sarkaz swordsman who, despite his terrifying combat record, surprisingly spends his downtime meticulously pruning the greenhouse flowers. And Myrrh is the quiet, deeply focused young Vulpo Medic whose knowledge of rare medicinal herbs rivals even Podenco's. If she was with them, it was definitely official business.

My defiant posture completely collapses. I duck my head into the collar of my oversized jacket, my tail giving a sheepish, apologetic twitch against the bench. "Sorry…" I mumble into the fabric.

Miss Beanstalk lets out a bright laugh, completely banishing my brief flash of embarrassment. "It’s okay, Lethe!" she reassures me, stepping closer to her designated nursery pen to check on the crustaceans. "Just don’t miscount the feed for my lovely little crabbies today, and we'll call it even!"

I immediately straighten my spine, reaching out to securely grab my new Arts Unit from where it rests against the table. I look up at the Reproba and offer a resolute, highly dedicated nod.

"I won't!" I promise, entirely ready to protect the medical supply chain, and the crab feed, with my absolute best effort.

The morning cycle slowly marches toward noon, and the simulated sunlight filtering through the frosted glass canopy grows warm and heavy.

The day has been wonderfully, mercifully standard. Between meticulously counting out the minerals for Miss Beanstalk's metal crabs and sorting vials with Podenco, I have been tending to the steady trickle of Operators filtering into the sanctuary. Most of them aren't carrying the catastrophic, bleeding nightmares of an active warzone today. They are just exhausted.

I sit quietly on one of the wooden benches, my hands resting lightly around the black shaft of my new Arts Unit. The misty blue liquid suspended within the magnetic halos swirls lazily, humming with a faint, steady mechanical heartbeat as I open the empathic channel. I gently skim the surface of their minds, just like how Amiya taught me, pulling away the dull, aching flavors of frayed nerves, stiff joints, and the stale, dusty taste of bureaucratic stress. I siphon the edge off, Miss Lena pours them a warm cup of steeped chamomile, and they are all good to go.

"Thank you, Lethe."

I blink, gracefully severing the invisible tether, and open my eyes. Sitting across from me on the crescent bench is a stoic Forte woman with light brown hair. Her broad shoulders relax, the rigid, defensive tension melting completely out of her spine.

"Anytime, Ms. Mercury," I reply, offering her a bright, gentle smile.

Ms. Mercury stares down at the steaming porcelain teacup resting in her hands. The ambient flavor bleeding off her emotional resonance is sturdy and grounded, tasting of worn leather and polished iron.

"You know," Ms. Mercury reminisces, her low, resonant voice barely carrying over the rustle of the broad-leafed ferns. "When they first told me we had a little Djall that could make the pain feel easier to deal with… I didn’t believe them."

She slowly lifts her head, her light blue eyes locking onto mine with a profound, unwavering sincerity.

"But you really saved me back in the Chernobog-Lungmen crisis."

"I am glad," I tell her softly.

I look at her face. I look at the sturdy set of her jaw and the Rhodes Island emblem stitched onto her uniform.

I don't remember her at all.

But if the girl I used to be managed to pull this woman out of a nightmare. Even if my mind is empty, the people I saved are still standing in the light. If I had helped her, I am happy.

"Well." Ms. Mercury reaches over, setting her teacup down onto the table with a soft, definitive clink.

She pushes herself up from the bench, the heavy, stoic lines of her face giving way to a sudden, highly amused smirk. She looks at my frame swimming inside my jacket.

"Thanks again," she says, turning to leave. She pauses, throwing a teasing glance over her shoulder. "Be sure to eat more. You didn't get any taller in two years."

"I am trying!" I pout, my tail snapping up to give a rigid, defensive thump against the wooden slats of the bench. "Mom makes me eat steamed vegetables every single day!" Ms. Mercury lets out a low chuckle that echoes pleasantly through the greenhouse canopy. She gives me one last, respectful nod before turning on her heel.

"See you, Ms. Mercury," I call out, watching the sturdy Forte navigate the winding path and step out through the doors.

I let out a soft sigh, my fingers gently tracing the smooth, black shaft of my new Arts Unit. The misty blue liquid suspended within the magnetic halos hums with a quiet, steady rhythm, anchoring me perfectly in the brief lull of the morning cycle.

But before I can fully sink into the quiet comfort of the bench, the doors slide apart. Instantly, the earthy, humid air of the sanctuary is completely overwhelmed. A massive, blinding wave of crystallized sugar and pure, radiant sunshine washes over my senses.

"Hi, everyone!"

Lisa walks down the winding stone path, her nine fluffy tails fanning out behind her in a rapid, joyous blur. She looks absolutely radiant, her eyes sparkling with that familiar, unyielding optimism as she skids to a halt near the center of the garden.

I immediately sit up straighter. "Hi, Lisa!"

A few paces away, Podenco pops her head up. She wipes a stray smudge of nutrient soil from her gloves. "Hey, Lisa. Finished with your morning drills already?"

"I did!" Lisa beams, clasping her hands together in front of her skirt. She rocks back on her heels, turning her eyes between the two of us. "Lethe, Podenco, do you want to have lunch together?"

Podenco glances up at the digital clock mounted near the environmental controls. She lets out a soft, contented exhale and stretches her arms high above her head until her shoulders pop.

"Sure," Podenco agrees, as she steps away from the planter boxes. "It is almost lunch break time now anyway. I could definitely use a break from calibrating the soil acidity."

"You girls can go now, if you want."

Miss Lena steps out from her chair, her pruning shears resting lightly in her apron pocket.

I look between the digital clock and our manager. "Wait, really? But we still have ten minutes left on the shift!"

"Of course, dear. You have both worked wonderfully this morning. Go on and enjoy your meals. The garden will be perfectly fine." Miss Lena replies.

"Okay! Thank you, Miss Lena!" I chirp enthusiastically. I don't waste a single second. I scramble off the bench, reaching down to securely grab the dark shaft of my Arts Unit. Podenco quickly unfastens her gardening apron, tossing it neatly over the back of a chair. "Let's go, Lethe. Lisa," Podenco calls out, her tail wagging eagerly as she falls into step beside the young Vulpo.

I hurry down the path. We wave one last, grateful goodbye to Miss Lena before stepping through the hissing doors, leaving the humid sanctuary behind and marching happily into the corridors toward the promise of lunch.

We pass by an observation window in the hallway.

The world outside is completely, utterly desolate. It is an ocean of shifting, bruised-grey dust and jagged, barren peaks that stretch endlessly toward a suffocating, overcast sky. But what truly anchors my terrified gaze is the colossal structure half-buried in the center of the wasteland.

It is a skull. A massive, bleached white skull with hollow, cavernous eye sockets and a sweeping, elongated snout that dwarfs the mountains behind it. Its spine arches out of the dead earth like a broken, skeletal bridge, the massive ribs jutting into the air like the spears of a fallen army. A flock of tiny, white birds circles the rotting monolith.

"Where are we?" I ask.

Podenco pauses beside me. She stares out at the sweeping dunes. "I think this is called the Bleached Wasteland," she murmurs, her ears drooping just a fraction. "It sits right in the dead center, between Bolívar, Columbia, Sargon, and Minos."

"That’s probably a Feranmut’s remain," Lisa adds. She steps up to my other side, her tails giving a slow, subdued sway. "My tutors were talking about Feranmuts just last week. It looks exactly like the archival sketches they showed me."

A dead Feranmut. Left to rot in the open air. A cold shiver traces its way down my spine, sinking deep into my bones.

"What happened here?" I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away from the hollow eye sockets of the colossal skull.

"No one is too sure," Podenco replies, shaking her head slowly. "We won’t be able to enter it. We are just skimming its outer borders. Constant Catastrophes haunt this place; the Originium density is a nightmare. In Columbian folklore, they believe it is where Gaulish restorationists hide underground… and where they buried their dead king after the war."

"I see…" I murmur.

Podenco claps her hands together, a sharp, crisp sound that completely shatters the heavy, melancholic atmosphere of the corridor.

"Enough sightseeing," Podenco declares as she grabs my free hand. "Let’s go grab lunch before the logistics teams take all the good stuff. Staring at old bones isn't going to fill our stomachs!"

Lisa adds. "Podenco is right! Come on, Lethe!"

I let them pull me away from the window, entirely willing to turn my back on the Bleached Wasteland.

As the double doors of the cafeteria hiss apart, the transition is immediate and overwhelming. The air is thick, humid, and heavily perfumed with a dizzying, mouth- watering clash of spices, roasted meats, and caramelized sugars. The overlapping clatter of trays and the exhausted but relaxed chatter of the Operators wash over us in a comforting wave.

I take a deep breath, my stomach giving a loud, demanding rumble that makes Podenco snicker.

"What’s today’s spread?" I ask, standing on my tiptoes to try and peek over the heads of the towering Defenders in the serving line.

"Well," Podenco hums, pointing toward the sprawling row of hot plates and glass display cases. "Since we are bordering four different territories, the culinary teams went all out. We have Minoan, Sargonian, Columbian, and Bolívarian cuisines today."

I look toward the Minoan station, where massive platters of flaky, honey-drenched pastries layered with crushed walnuts sit beside savory olive-oiled salads. Next to it, the Sargonian grill sizzles loudly, the air thick with the heavy, mouth-watering smoke of roasted skewers and rich, earthy spices. The Columbian section is a mountain of golden, deep-fried comforts and thick, stacked sandwiches.

And finally, my gaze locks onto the Bolívarian display. Tucked behind the glass are rows of warm, golden-fried dough, heavily dusted in cinnamon and sugar, resting right beside massive, steaming bowls of thick, melted caramel meant for dipping.

"Oh…" I breathe out, my tail instantly gives a frantic, rhythmic thump against the floor. The dead gods and buried kings of the wasteland are entirely forgotten. "I think I need a tray. A really, really big tray."

Podenco grabs my arm. She practically drags me toward the Bolívarian display case.

"You have to try these, Lethe!" Podenco insists, pointing enthusiastically through the glass. "Back home, you can find these at almost every single street market."

She gestures toward a platter of thick, savory pockets made from grilled corn dough, split open and generously stuffed with slow-roasted shredded meat and melting fresh cheese. Right next to them sits the mountain of golden-fried dough sticks I had been eyeing earlier.

I don't need any further convincing. I happily load my tray with a bit of everything. By the time the meal is over, I am entirely immobilized. I lean heavily back against the blue plastic chair, letting out a long, contented groan. My tail drops completely dead.

"I am completely full," I gently pat my stomach. The rich, savory corn dough and the heavy, sugary caramel have completely defeated me.

I take a slow, satisfying breath and force myself to sit up.

"Well. Lisa, Podenco, it is the Archives time for me now," I announce, offering them both a warm smile. "See you two for dinner?"

"Sure. See you Lethe," Podenco replies, happily wiping a stray crumb from her chin.

"Say hello to Miss Eyja for us, Lethe!" Lisa calls out as she waves goodbye.

I wave back, turning my steps away from the overlapping, chaotic clatter of the dining hall.

The transition into the Archives is, as always, a jarring but welcome relief. The air immediately cools, scrubbed clean of the heavy roasted meats and sugary syrups, replaced entirely by the hushed, comforting scent of dry parchment, binding glue, and quiet preservation. I navigate the towering, labyrinthine bookshelves.

I find her at our usual secluded wooden table. Miss Adele is sitting quietly, her magnifying glass hovering meticulously over a sprawling, highly detailed geologic map. The comforting, dormant hearth fire of her presence radiates softly in the quiet aisle.

"Good afternoon, Miss Adele," I whisper, pulling out the chair across from her and gently resting my staff against the edge of the table.

Before Miss Adele can even lift her head to return the greeting, the serene, hushed silence of the library is interrupted.

Rapid, frantic, and entirely uncoordinated footsteps echo sharply down the aisle.

My empathic Arts brush against the ambient air, and a completely new flavor hits the back of my tongue. It is an overwhelming, dizzying rush of crisp, freshly printed parchment, sweet mint leaves, and the frantic, buzzing static of pure, unadulterated academic panic that’s like a thoroughly shaken tea soda. It tastes exactly like someone who has been staring at a library catalog for three days straight without blinking.

A Feline girl suddenly stumbles into view. She is carrying a teetering stack of heavy, books that is entirely too large for her frame.

She loses her balance. Her foot catches on the floorboards, and she lets out a sharp, breathless squeak.

She pitches forward and plants her full body directly onto our table with a massive, echoing thud. The towering stack of books she was carrying violently erupts. Heavy volumes, loose parchment, and rolled-up maps scatter wildly across the wooden surface, completely burying Miss Adele's meticulous geologic charts in a chaotic avalanche of literature.

The Feline frantically scrambles back up from the sprawling mess of academic texts. Her oversized black jacket, heavily accented with bright teal straps and striking white cross patterns, completely swallows her frame. Her pale, ash-green hair is wildly disheveled from the impact, and her wide, brilliant blue eyes are blown out in absolute, unadulterated mortification. She scrambles to adjust the hardcover book still clutched under her arm.

"Sorry! I will clean it up!" she gasps, her voice a frantic, high-pitched squeak that echoes down the hushed aisle.

The ambient flavor of the library completely spikes. The sharp, dizzying rush of crisp parchment and sweet mint leaves practically vibrates with the static of sheer, overwhelming embarrassment.

I carefully lean my new Arts Unit against the leg of the wooden table.

"Uhm… I will help…" I pick up one of the scattered books.

Miss Adele doesn't look the least bit upset that her meticulous geologic charts have been buried. She simply offers a forgiving smile and leans over to help us gather the scattered maps and books.

Working together, we quickly stack the fallen literature back into a neat, towering pile on the edge of the table.

The Feline lets out a massive, shuddering exhale, her shoulders slumping as the frantic static in her emotional resonance finally begins to smooth out into a gentle, relieved hum. She tightly clutches her own heavy book against her chest.

"Thank you for helping me clean up all these books!" she breathes out, offering us a deeply apologetic, flustered bow.

"It's okay," I reply, brushing a speck of dust from my skirt. I tilt my head, looking up at her wide blue eyes. "Uhm… my name is Lethe, what’s yours?"

"Oh, my codename is Mint. Or Eleanor. Whichever you prefer," she answers, her ears twitching nervously.

But then, she completely freezes. She leans forward, her eyes darting to the horns on my crown and the Rhodes Island Medic jacket draped over my shoulders.

"Wait. Lethe. You are Lethe?" Mint asks, her voice pitching up in surprise.

I blink, my tail giving a slow, uncertain swish behind me. "Yes?"

"Skyfire mentioned you before!" Mint exclaims, her face lighting up brilliantly.

I have never met Ms. Skyfire after I lost my memories, but the old me definitely cherished Ms. Skyfire quite a lot.

"Ms. Skyfire did?" I ask, my eyes widening with genuine, eager curiosity.

"Yes!" Mint nods enthusiastically, the last remnants of her clumsy panic melting into a profound, starry-eyed admiration. "Skyfire is an alumna from my university back in Victoria. She graduated soon after I entered since she skipped a year, but even still, she did look after me…”

Mint pauses, her expression softening into something incredibly grateful. The ambient air sweetens with the distinct, heavy flavor of a shared, unspoken burden. "Oh, speaking of! She's also the one who introduced me to Rhodes Island! It's thanks to her I'm receiving treatment here."

Mint then turns her attention toward the Caprinae researcher sitting quietly at the table, her head tilting in polite curiosity. "And you are?" she asks.

Miss Adele folds her hands neatly over her geologic maps. She offers a smile.

"Eyjafjalla. Or Adele."

Mint's jaw drops.

"Oh! Miss Eyjafjalla!" Mint gasps, her soft black Felinetails swishing in a frantic, joyous blur. "Skyfire mentioned you as well! I am studying geology too! Heheh! I am so lucky!"

"It will be delightful for you to join us," Miss Adele says. "We can share our studies. There is still so much I don't know about volcanoes and Catastrophes. Want to have a seat with us, Mint?"

Mint doesn't hesitate for a single second. She eagerly pulls out the wooden chair beside me and sits down, her posture snapping to absolute academic attention.

"Of course! Miss Eyjafjalla, what were you studying today?" Mint asks.

Miss Adele gracefully shifts the scattered books, uncovering the sprawling geologic map she had been meticulously examining before the literary avalanche. "Since we are currently near the Bleached Wasteland, I was looking at intercepted Maylander Foundation’s Exploration Society’s field reports," she explains.

I blink, tilting my head slightly. "Uhm… what is the Maylander Foundation?"

"They are an NGO with quite a lot of sub-divisions in Columbia," Mint explains.

"That is correct," Miss Adele agrees. She taps her finger against a shaded, desolate region on the map. "So, Lethe. Mint. The wasteland is an environment covered by gray salinized sand, eroded landforms, and fossils of giant creatures."

I stare at the map, my mind instantly flashing back to the terrifying, colossal bleached skull I had just stared at through the observation window half an hour ago.

"People believe them to be dead Feranmuts," Miss Adele explains. "But no one is entirely sure."

Mint leans over the table, her brilliant blue eyes intensely scanning the intricate topographical lines. "The region is so prone to constant Catastrophes," her brow furrowing in deep, scholarly frustration.

"But we never understand why! The meteorological data just doesn't align with standard Originium accumulation models."

Miss Adele gives a slow, affirming nod. "Yes. But the Maylander report is incredibly interesting," she explains. "Because we always thought the region was simply part of the great lakes that dried up millennia ago. But Maylander uncovered many buried ruins beneath the salinized sand that look to be associated with the Sarkaz Royal Court." The words make me blink. Sarkaz Royal Court. The ancient, blood-stained lineage of my own kind.

I lean forward, staring at the sprawling map again. My eyes trace the faded borders from the desolate stretch of the Bleached Wasteland, dragging my gaze eastward across the vast, scarred landmass of Terra.

"But…" I observe, tilting my head slightly. "Kazdel is nestled right between Siracusa, Rim Billiton, Ursus, Laterano, and Yan… It is literally halfway across the continent."

"Exactly!" Mint exclaims. "That’s why the region is always such a mystery." She gestures broadly at the open pages. "Constant Catastrophes with absolutely no observable geological causes. And now, ancient Sarkaz ruins buried thousands of kilometres away from Kazdel. It completely breaks our historical and geological models."

I sit back in my chair, I remember just earlier.

"Podenco told me," I pipe up, looking between the two researchers. "She said there are Columbian folktales that claim Gaulish restorationists hide out there in the wasteland. Is it true? Are they causing the Catastrophes somehow with weapons, like the Witch King?"

The academic tension at the table instantly breaks. Miss Adele covers her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking as a soft, melodic giggle escapes her lips. The ambient flavor in the aisle instantly sweetens, the comforting taste of roasted chestnuts and a dormant hearth fire blooming beautifully around us.

"No, Lethe," Miss Adele smiles. "That’s just folktales. Sometimes people invent stories to explain what they treat as unexplainable. It is easier to blame the ghosts of a fallen empire than to admit we simply don't know."

She rests her hand gently over the massive geological map, her gaze turning fiercely, radiantly determined. "And that is exactly why we study. So we understand why, instead of just being afraid of the dark."

Beside me, Mint nods furiously, her hair bouncing around her shoulders in absolute agreement with our brilliant tutor.

"Sarkaz must have some folklore on the region, right?" Mint asks. "Sometimes folktales are heavily based on actual historical truths. Do you know any stories about the Wasteland, Lethe?"

"Sorry…" my shoulders slumping as I drop my focus to the wood of the table. "I… I don't remember anything before February this year."

The bright, academic excitement in Mint's emotional resonance stalls. It instantly sours into a sharp, guilty tang of wilted mint leaves and damp paper. "Oh…" she breathes out,.

"I'm so sorry, Lethe, I didn't…"

"No! Don't worry!" I quickly reassure her, lifting my head and offering a bright, unwavering smile to actively push back her sudden distress.

I reach into my bag. I pull the slate out and wake the screen, opening my carefully curated My Life folder. I hold the glowing glass out so she can see the neat rows of profiles, pictures, and the absolute pillars of my existence.

"I write everyone down here so I don't forget anyone," I explain proudly, showing her the digital fortress I had built to protect my anchors. I tap the screen to create a brand-new entry right below Ms. Skyfire’s.

My thumbs fly across the digital keyboard. "Mint. Eleanor," I narrate aloud as the white text appears on the screen. I quickly type the next line. "Clumsy geologist."

The guilty, wilted flavor of her presence completely vanishes, replaced instantaneously by a hot, prickly rush of frantic, carbonated embarrassment.

"Hey!" Mint yelps, her hands flying up in a flustered wave. "I am trying my best! The books were just really heavy!"

A soft giggle echoes from the other side of the table. Miss Adele covers her smile with her hand.

"Now, now, you two," Miss Adele chimes in. "Let's leave the teasing for later. We still have several tectonic fault lines and Originium pressure triggers to review."

I let out a soft, contented chuckle and slip my slate safely back into my bag.

The rest of the afternoon flies by. I lean my chin on my hands, listening intently as the two brilliant geologists passionately discuss Catastrophe formations, atmospheric Originium triggers, and the terrifying, fascinating mechanics of the world outside our landship.

Time flies fast in the Archives.

My calendar tells me it is the 20th of June, 1098.

I make my way down the corridors, my stomach giving a faint, hollow rumble demanding breakfast. Mom had already been pulled away for an early shift in the medical wards, leaving me to navigate the morning cycle on my own.

I adjust my grip on my Arts Unit. The liquid suspended within the two halos swirls lazily with my steps, humming with a quiet, steady mechanical heartbeat. It is a comforting, physical anchor in the quiet corridors.

As I near the entrance of the cafeteria, the corridor widens into a logistics staging area. I slow my pace. A small group of Operators is huddled closely together near a stack of reinforced cargo crates, their voices hushed but buzzing with a frantic, restless energy.

"Have you guys heard?" a Liberi logistics operator whispers, leaning in closely to his two companions. He gestures animatedly at the screen of his digital slate. "Engineering recently sent drones to Londinium outskirts. Apparently we are planning to intervene in the Londinium crisis now."

"What happened out there?" the Phidia Operator beside him asks. She gasps, her hands flying up to cover her mouth in sheer horror.

Londinium. Ms. Skyfire's home. The occupied capital of the Victorian Empire.

I know exactly what mom would do if she were here. She would gently but firmly turn me around, pressing my face into her coat to shield me from the burning broadcasts of the world's cruelty. She would tell me to just focus on her and look away.

But mom isn't here. And the gnawing, desperate need to understand the dark Terra that my friends are constantly fighting to protect me from overrides my obedience. I carefully wedge myself into the narrow, shadowed gap between the bulkhead and the cargo. Moving as silently as I can, I climb up the stack of heavy metal crates, using the reinforced latches as footholds. I pull myself up just high enough so I can peek directly over the Liberi operator's shoulder, my eyes locking onto the screen of his slate.

What I see is simply… the end of the world.

The drone footage does not show a city. It shows an absolute, apocalyptic wasteland. The earth itself has been violently scorched and torn apart into jagged, towering spikes of dark Originium. And scattered across this hellscape, completely dominating the desolate valleys, are the shattered, skeletal remains of colossal Victorian warships. The sheer scale of the destruction is unfathomable. The massive metallic hulls of the landships are torn completely in half, their devastated insides exposed as they sit embedded deeply into the dead earth like discarded, broken toys.

The camera pans over the ash-choked plains, revealing endless, rusted silhouettes of cross-shaped metallic structures dotting the ground and barbed wire littering the dark dirt. There is no sign of life. Just the smoking corpses of an empire's military might, resting under a bleeding sky.

My hands tremble violently. The phantom taste of cold copper and scorched iron floods the back of my throat.

This isn't just a battlefield. It is a graveyard of titans. And this is the exact nightmare that Amiya, Doctor, and the Elite Ops are preparing to walk directly into.

"Woah, miss. Don't play on the crates," the Perro operator's voice suddenly calls out, completely breaking my paralyzed trance.

I flinch so hard my sneakers nearly slip from the metal latches.

"Sor… sorry!" I gasp.

I carefully scramble down the towering stack of metal, my thick sneakers hitting the floor grates with a thud.

I duck my head, letting my asymmetrical fringe hide the lingering terror in my eyes, and offer them a quick, polite bow.

"Sorry to disturb. I will be going."

I don't wait for them to respond. I turn on my heel, clutching my staff to my chest, and hurry away from the logistics staging area. I just want to reach the safety of the cafeteria, to somehow drown the bleeding sky of Londinium in the mundane comfort of breakfast.

But as I reach the end of the corridor and turn the corner, the ambient air behind me shifts. It doesn't clear. It violently sours.

"There are many Sarkaz on Rhodes Island," the Phidia's voice drifts down the hallway. It is a hushed, trembling whisper. "We can trust them, right? Kazdel… did all of that…" I stand completely still in the shadows of the corner, my breath caught in my throat. I listen for the Perro’s reassurance. I wait for the Liberi to confidently defend our medical staff, our Field Ops, and our family.

But the corridor remains completely, suffocatingly silent. The Perro and the Liberi don't say a single word.

Their silence tastes of cracked ice, bitter lemon rind, and a deep, rotting seed of undeniable doubt. They aren't sure.

I slowly raise a trembling hand, my fingertips brushing against the hard, smooth curve of my left horn.

Kazdel did all of that.

The apocalyptic wasteland. The shattered, burning corpses of the Victorian warships. The bleeding, bruised sky. It wasn't a natural Catastrophe. It was a slaughter engineered by the Military Commission of Kazdel. By my people.

The oversized Rhodes Island jacket suddenly feels incredibly cold against my shoulders. I lower my hand, gripping the black shaft of my Arts Unit so tightly my knuckles ache. I force my legs to move, stepping away from the corner and continuing my solitary march toward the cafeteria.

The mechanical hum of the landship's engines vibrates faintly against the soles of my sneakers as I force my legs to carry me toward the cafeteria.

The Phidia Operator's hushed, terrified whisper still rings relentlessly in my ears.

"Lethe?"

The voice is soft, carrying a familiar, airy curiosity that cuts cleanly through the cold silence of the corridor.

I freeze. My tail snaps rigidly against my leg. I slowly lift my head. Standing just a few paces away is Mint. The Feline is clutching a thick hardcover book against her chest, her wide, brilliant eyes blinking at me.

I want to reach out. To seek comfort.

But Mint is Victorian.

Her home, her country, is currently burning, crushed beneath the boots and the Arts of the Military Commission of Kazdel. Under the boots of my people.

Does she hate me? Does she look at the lopsided horns on my crown and the spade- tipped tail behind my skirt and see the exact same monsters that are destroying her city?

I squeeze my eyes shut. I brace my stomach for the acidic, toxic sludge of betrayal. Very hesitantly, I push my Arts outward, letting it brush gently against the ambient air surrounding the Feline researcher. I wait for the rotting taste of hatred, or the sharp, rusted iron tang of resentment to coat the back of my tongue.

But the venom never comes.

The flavor that washes over my senses is incredibly crisp and profoundly gentle. It tastes exactly like fresh parchment and sweet mint leaves, completely and utterly devoid of malice. Instead, the ambient air pulses with a soft, warm undertone of genuine concern, like a cup of warm black tea in a freezing winter night.

"Lethe?" Mint steps closer, her ears twitching nervously as she takes in my pale face and rigid posture. "What’s wrong?"

I let out a shaky, stuttering exhale, my shoulders slumping under the sheer relief of her untainted emotional resonance.

"Mint…" I whisper. "Sorry…"

Mint tilts her head, her brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion. She hugs her heavy book a little tighter. "What for?"

"Londinium…" I choke out, the name scraping painfully against my raw throat. I drop my gaze to the floor, completely unable to meet her eyes. "The Sarkaz… my people… they did all of that to your home."

The corridor falls totally quiet for a fraction of a second. Mint shifts her weight, her shoes clicking softly against the floor.

"Yes?" Mint asks. Her tone tilts with profound perplexity, completely lacking the crushing accusation I had been terrified of hearing. "What’s wrong?"

I slowly lift my head, my eyes brimming with hot, unshed tears. "You… you don’t hate me?"

Mint’s eyes soften instantly. The crisp, sweet flavor of her emotional resonance swells, wrapping around me like a comforting, protective blanket. She reaches out with her free hand, gently resting her fingers against the sleeve of my jacket.

"Why should I?" Mint asks softly, her voice ringing with absolute, undeniable sincerity.

"You are Lethe. You are my friend from the Archives who helps me pick up the books I drop and studies together with Miss Eyjafjalla. You are not the Military Commission." The heavy, suffocating weight that had been crushing my lungs entirely dissolves.

"Sorry…" I sniffle, quickly raising my arm to meticulously scrub the tears from my cheeks with the back of my sleeve. I offer her a small, wobbly, but incredibly relieved smile.

Mint’s face instantly lights up. She flashes me a bright, highly encouraging smile that completely pushes the lingering shadows out of the hallway.

"Come on," Mint chimes, gently tugging at my sleeve. "Let’s get some breakfast! I heard Gummy made fresh pancakes today!”

“I would love that.” I reply, and promptly follows her steps.

We continue our walk down the metallic corridor, falling into a comfortable, side-by-side pace.

"How are your studies recently, Mint?" I ask.

Mint’s face completely lights up. The ambient air sweetens with a bright, academic enthusiasm.

"Oh, they are going wonderfully!" Mint beams, her eyes sparkling with absolute, unadulterated admiration. "Miss Eyjafjalla is so well-researched on environmental geology! She has been to so many active zones. She is giving me so many inspirations on my own research!"

"Miss Adele is brilliant. She makes everything sound so fascinating, even the terrifying parts."

Before we can reach the end of the hallway to turn the corner, the ambient air in the corridor shifts.

The sterile, climate-controlled chill of Rhodes Island is instantaneously swallowed by a massive, overwhelming wave of heat. It hits me like roasted spices, sharp cinnamon, and the crackling, enduring comfort of a roaring hearth fire. The sheer intensity of it makes me pause.

We round the corner. Standing just a few paces away, looking silently out the panoramic observation window, is a Feline woman.

She is impossible to miss. Her voluminous hair is a vibrant, fiery orange-red that seems to radiate its own light against the dim corridor, and she wears a striking, aristocratic coat of deep crimson and black draped elegantly over her shoulders.

Ms. Skyfire.

I know her name. I know her face. I know the exact, meticulously typed paragraph in my digital slate that declares her as the fierce, brilliant tutor who patiently taught me the thermodynamic laws of Originium. But standing here, staring at the imposing, elegant reality of her, my chest gives a hollow, painful twist. I haven't actually met her since I had entirely incinerated my memories. To my broken mind, the woman standing by the window is a complete stranger holding a massive piece of my lost life.

Mint doesn't share my hesitation.

"Skyfire! Skyfire!" Mint calls out, her voice a bright, frantic chime of excitement. She practically bounds down the corridor, rushing over to the Senior Caster. "When did you get here?!"

I take a slow, shaky breath, forcing my frozen legs to move. I carefully follow Mint, keeping my posture respectful.

The fiery Feline turns away from the window. Her amber eyes sweep over Mint's buzzing, energetic form before shifting smoothly to lock directly onto me.

"Mint," she greets, her voice clear, refined, and carrying that unmistakable, confident cadence. Her gaze softens just a fraction as she looks at me. "Lethe."

"I have returned to coordinate directly with the central administration," Ms. Skyfire explains. She reaches up, elegantly brushing a strand of hair over her shoulder. "The political climate in Victoria is rapidly deteriorating. I will be deploying alongside our Field Ops as part of Rhodes Island's upcoming operations in the region."

Mint gasps softly. "Victoria…" Mint breathes out, her voice trembling with genuine, deep-rooted worry for her alumna. "It is so dangerous there right now, Skyfire. Please… you have to be careful."

"We will keep the landship safe for you, Ms. Skyfire," I promise, inject as much steady resolve into my voice as I can muster. "So you have a home to come back to."

Ms. Skyfire's expression softens for a fraction. A profound, deeply proud warmth ripples through her emotional resonance, chasing away the smoky scent of the battlefield.

"I expect nothing less from you both," she replies, offering us a brief nod.

But then, the sentimental atmosphere completely evaporates. Ms. Skyfire straightens her spine, crossing her arms tightly over her coat. Her eyes narrow, adopting the piercing, unyielding glare of a strict academic overseer.

"However," Ms. Skyfire declares, "my geographical indisposition is absolutely not an excuse for academic stagnation. Tell me, how are your studies progressing? I trust Ms. Naumann has been keeping you both rigorously occupied in the Archives?"

Mint immediately perks up, the terrified static of her worry instantly replaced by a bright, eager rush of pride. "Oh, yes! Miss Eyjafjalla has been wonderful! We were going over the tectonic fault lines yesterday!"

I completely freeze.

The blood drains entirely from my face. My tail, which had been swaying nervously, snaps into a rigid, defensive coil against my leg. I look at the brilliant Caster standing before me.

I take a slow, shaky breath.

"Ms. Skyfire…" I whisper. I drop my gaze to the floor, completely unable to look at her.

"I… I don't remember."

The corridor goes perfectly, unnaturally silent. Mint stops her enthusiastic rambling.

"I don't remember the lessons," I choke out. "I had… an incident. In February. My Oripathy flared, and it burned my memories away to fuel my Arts."

Hot, unbidden tears prick at the corners of my eyes. The sheer, suffocating shame of disappointing the woman who had spent hours lecturing me is unbearable.

"I know you are my tutor," I sob quietly, frantically reaching for my crossbody bag. "I know because I wrote it down in my slate. I wrote down that you are brilliant, and that you taught me Originium thermodynamics. But the actual math… the history of the empires… everything you taught me before February is completely gone. I am a blank slate again. I'm sorry."

I squeeze my eyes shut, entirely prepared for the crackling heat of her emotional resonance to sour into bitter, frustrated disappointment. I expect her to scoff, to declare that her precious time had been wasted on a broken, infected mind.

Instead a massive, blindingly hot geyser of pure, unapologetic fire flares. It tastes like roasted cinnamon, scorched spices, and an absolute, unyielding defiance that completely incinerates the freezing dread in my chest.

Footsteps close the distance. A hand reaches out, a single finger tapping sharply against my forehead.

"Open your eyes, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire commands.

Her voice isn't soft. It doesn't carry the tragic, cloying pity that I so desperately hate. It rings with a fierce, uncompromising authority that demands I stand tall.

I slowly open my eyes, blinking through my tears to look up at her.

"A true scholar is not defined by the books they have already read," Ms. Skyfire declares. "They are defined by their absolute willingness to open those books again." She lowers her hand, resting it proudly on her hip.

"If the Oripathy has burned your foundation to ash, then we will simply forge a new, stronger one," she states, her tone leaving absolutely no room for grief or surrender.

"We will review the primers. We will rebuild the thermodynamic equations from the ground up. And I will personally ensure you grasp the material twice as fast this time around."

A breathless, watery gasp escapes my lips.

"Do not think for a single second, Lethe, that a minor bout of amnesia will excuse you from my curriculum."

I grip the black shaft of my Arts Unit tightly with both hands.

"I won’t," I declare. "I will study extra hard so I can help Amiya realize her visions!"

Ms. Skyfire looks at me. The strict, academic severity in her eyes softens. The ambient air around her swells, the crackling heat of roasted spices and sharp cinnamon banking into a profound, deeply proud hearth fire.

"You be sure to do that, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire replies.

"Lethe is a great study friend!" Mint suddenly chimes in. She looks up at the Senior Caster, her eyes wide with admiration. "She asks a lot of questions! It really helps me to review my own notes."

Then, the bustling, academic momentum of the conversation entirely stalls.

The three of us just stand there in the quiet hallway. The silence stretches for a few seconds. Mint blinks, her ears giving a slow, bewildered twitch.

"What were we doing again?" Mint asks as she looks between me and Ms. Skyfire.

"Uhm…" I trail off.

Ms. Skyfire lets out a sigh.

"I believe you two should be heading to breakfast," Ms. Skyfire announces, her voice effortlessly slipping back into absolute, uncompromising authority. She adjusts her cuffs with a flawless, practiced elegance. "Just so happens I am in need of some, as well. Do keep up."

Without waiting for a single word of confirmation, she turns on her heel, and begins her march down the aisle with long, purposeful, and incredibly fast strides.

Mint completely panics.

"Skyfire, uhm, Skyfire, wait for me!" Mint gasps and breaks into a frantic jog. "Uwwhh, please don't walk so fast…"

I don't waste a second either. I fall into step right behind the panicking Mint, as I jog to keep pace with the fiery, unstoppable force of nature leading us toward the cafeteria. We catch up to Ms. Skyfire’s stride just as the double doors of the cafeteria slide apart. The usual chaotic, overlapping clatter of the dining hall has significantly thinned out. The morning rush has long since passed, leaving behind a sprawling, quiet room filled mostly with off-duty logistics personnel and a few Field Ops enjoying a late breakfast. We make our way toward the hot plates. Behind the counter, standing atop a small stool to properly reach the serving trays, is Gummy. The moment she spots us, her face lights up with a massive, beaming smile.

"Here, Lethe! Gummy just cooked them fresh!" she declares cheerfully. She wields her spatula with absolute culinary authority, effortlessly flipping two thick, incredibly dense pancakes directly onto my plate.

I offer her a bright smile, intentionally focusing entirely on the fabricated, sunny warmth she projects rather than the suffocating, pitch-black abyss I know is hidden beneath it.

"Thank you, Gummy," I balance my tray with one hand while my other keeps a secure grip on my Arts Unit.

We settle at a table right next to one of the panoramic observation windows. I slide into my seat, carefully resting my staff against the table leg.

I look out the reinforced glass. Beyond the armored hull, the rolling, fertile plains of Victoria stretch out toward the horizon. It looks peaceful. The lush grass sways gently in the wind, a pristine, untouched expanse that feels impossibly far away from the manmade, blood-soaked horrors of Londinium.

But the tranquil scenery cannot completely wash away the heavy dread settling in my chest. I look away from the window, turning my focus across the table.

"Ms. Skyfire," I ask. "Do you know… are they going already? I want to say goodbye to Amiya and Doctor."

Ms. Skyfire pauses, her fork hovering just above her own plate. The crackling, roasted- spice heat of her emotional resonance dims into a serious, controlled simmer.

"Lethe, they need to focus," she states gently, her tone completely lacking its usual edge. "A deployment of this magnitude requires absolute, undivided tactical clarity. Interrupting their final preparations for sentimental farewells, while well-intentioned, could be a fatal distraction."

I drop my attention to my plate. The two dense pancakes are warm, the heat radiating up into my face. I watch as a thick square of butter slowly melts across the golden- brown surface. It catches the vibrant, crimson streak of the berry jam Gummy had dolloped on top, dragging the red syrup down the side of the pastry.

It looks exactly like a bleeding heart.

"They will strive to come back, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire adds, her voice cutting through my spiraling dread. I look up. She gestures with her fork toward the sprawling dining hall, encompassing the exhausted Operators, the humming drones, and the very bulkheads of our home. "We all will. Every single Operator who walks off the landship has a reason to return. We all have something worth coming back for."

I swallow the lump in my throat. She is right. I cannot pull them away from their duty, but I can make sure they know they are loved. I reach into my bag and pull out my digital slate.

"I will wish them luck on messaging, then," I declare, my voice steadying. "I will study hard. And I will ensure the garden is always blooming for when they return."

The heavy, solemn atmosphere over the table is abruptly punctured by a bright, completely unrestrained gasp.

"Actually, Lethe!" Mint pipes up, leaning so far forward over her own breakfast that her hair nearly brushes her plate. "Are you cleared for external deployments now?"

She grips the edge of the table. "You could come with me!" Mint declares, her tail giving an excited twitch. "We could go out into the plains and gather interesting rocks!"

Ms. Skyfire clears her throat.

"Before you go running off into the barrens to hoard geological samples, Mint, I highly suggest you finish your breakfast first," Ms. Skyfire states. "Furthermore, if you are planning an external excursion, you will need to finalize the deployment manifest with Dobermann or Whislash. I will not have my students wandering off the landship without proper operational clearance."

"Oh! Right!" Mint gasps. "I will submit the request to them right after we eat!"

We dutifully devour the rest of our meals under the strict, watchful eye of the Senior Caster. Once my plate is completely clean of the dense pancakes and the bleeding red jam, I reach down and grab my Arts Unit as I push my chair back and stand up.

I look between the two Feline Casters. They share a deep, Victorian university bond and a shared homeland that is currently bleeding. They need this time together.

"I will excuse myself," I announce softly, offering them both a polite, respectful bow.

"You two should catch up." I look at Mint, offering a bright, eager smile. "Just send me a message if you get the clearance, Mint. I will be ready."

"I will, Lethe!" Mint promises.

I wave goodbye and step away from the table, leaving the bustling dining hall behind. I navigate the corridors towards my own work.

The familiar doors of the Convalescent Garden hiss apart as I approach.

Deep within the foliage, Miss Lena, Podenco, and Lisa are gathered closely around the low table.

Lisa is holding a beautiful, woven wicker basket in her lap. Beside her, Podenco is wielding a pair of small gardening shears, meticulously trimming the stems of vibrant, freshly bloomed flowers.

Miss Lena stands just behind them. She reaches over, her hands gently guiding Lisa's hand, showing the young Vulpo exactly how to weave the colorful, fragile petals into the rim of the basket without crushing them.

"Good morning, everyone! What are you doing?" I call out, raising my free hand to wave at them as I walk over.

Lisa turns her head. "We are making a flower basket for Miss Breeze!" Lisa explains, holding up the half-woven wicker. "She looked a bit down when I saw her earlier."

Miss Breeze. The name clicks in my mind. She is a Vulpo Medic who joined us quite recently. I remember mom mentioning her background during one of our dinners; she was born into Victorian nobility, a highly educated herbalist who willfully abandoned the luxurious safety of her high-society home to heal the destitute in the mud. And unfortunately, she had contracted the terminal death sentence of Oripathy in the process.

I step right up to the table.

"I want to help," I declare, offering a firm, determined nod.

Podenco scoots over to make room on the bench, a welcoming smile breaking across her face. "Grab a seat, Lethe," Podenco says, her tail giving a happy sway as she reaches into her pile of freshly harvested flora.

She picks up a long, vibrant green vine dotted with small, pale violet blossoms and hands it to me. "Here. You have to be very gentle," Podenco instructs.

She leans over, pointing to a small gap in the woven rim of Lisa's basket. "Take the stem and weave it under the primary wicker strand, but don't pull it too tight or you will snap the stalk and crush the petals. Just coax it into place so the flowers face outward, like this."

Podenco deftly demonstrates the motion with her own flower, guiding the fragile stem through the gaps with practiced, effortless grace. I take the delicate vine from her, my fingers moving carefully to mirror her exact technique.

I hold my breath, my tongue poking out just a tiny bit from the corner of my mouth as I carefully thread the pale violet blossom through the woven wicker. I pull the stem, trying desperately to match the flawless, overlapping pattern Podenco had just demonstrated. Snap.

The fragile green stalk bends at a sharp, entirely unnatural angle. Two of the delicate petals are instantly crushed against the rough wood, bruising into a dark, crumpled smudge. I pull my hands back, staring at my handiwork.

My addition to the beautiful basket is distinctly, undeniably terrible. It juts out awkwardly, completely ruining the seamless, flowing aesthetic of the rim.

"Oops," I whisper.

Beside me, Podenco pauses her own clipping. She leans over, inspecting the mangled flower.

"Well," Podenco sighs dramatically. "I suppose weaving a simple flower basket is just far too common folk for skillsets of Miss Sarkaz Royalty. We shouldn't expect such delicate, aristocratic hands to perform mundane manual labor."

"Hey!" I yelp, my tail giving a rigid, defensive thump against the wooden slats of the bench. I puff my cheeks out, glaring at the highly amused Perro botanist. "I was being gentle! The stem was just… structurally compromised!"

Lisa covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking as a bright, musical giggle echoes through the canopy.

"It's perfect, Lethe!" Lisa declares, reaching out to gently pat my arm. She looks at the lopsided, bruised flower with absolute, unyielding optimism. "It adds character! I am sure Miss Breeze will appreciate it very much!"

"Exactly. The intention behind the gift is what truly matters to a healing heart," Miss Lena adds.

She steps forward, her hands moving with flawless, serene grace as she makes a few tiny, expert adjustments to the wicker, securing my clumsy flower so it doesn't fall out entirely. She steps back, admiring the finished, brightly colored basket nestled in Lisa's hands.

"Now, girls," Miss Lena smiles, wiping a stray speck of smudge from her apron. "Want to bring it to Breeze? I believe she is in the workshop with Erika right now."

Delivering a beautiful gift to a new friend, and I get to see mom while she is working?

"Yes!" I eagerly slide off the bench.

"Let's go cheer her up!" Lisa agrees, her eyes sparkling as she carefully holds the woven basket against her chest.

Podenco, Lisa, and I step out of the earthy, humid sanctuary of the Convalescent Garden.

As we walk down the corridors, a sharp, synthetic ping vibrates against my side.

I pause, reaching into the deep pocket of my jacket to pull out my handheld communicator. A direct message banner drops down from the top edge.

[Mint]: Miss Whislash approves on the condition we must have a bigger group just to be safe. Skyfire is leaving soon, so, I am thinking of asking Miss Eyjafjalla. Do you have any ideas, Lethe? Or I can check with Reserve Ops as well. Oh, by the way, this will be a trek. I want to head to County Ascarat. So we will probably do some camping.

Camping.

In County Ascarat, out in the sprawling Victorian plains. The thrill of sleeping out under the open sky with my friends, makes my heart give a frantic, eager flutter.

I quickly tap my thumbs against the screen.

[Lethe]: I will ask Lisa and Podenco.

I slip the communicator back into my jacket pocket and look up. My two friends have stopped a few paces ahead, waiting for me.

"Lisa, Podenco," I call out, jogging slightly to catch up to them. My tail is already giving a rapid, rhythmic swish. "Mint and I were planning to do a geological survey of the plains! We want to go to County Ascarat to gather rocks and study the terrain."

"A survey mission! That sounds so fun!" Lisa smiles.

"But Miss Whislash said we need a bigger group to be safe," I explain, looking eagerly between my two friends. "And Mint said it will be a long trek. We will probably have to do some camping out in the wild! Do you guys want to come with us?"

Podenco crosses her arms over her jacket. She tilts her head, fixing me with a deeply skeptical, entirely unamused stare.

"Camping out in the vast plains sounds great, Lethe," Podenco says, her voice dropping into a dry, exasperated tone. "But I think you are forgetting one very important logistical hurdle."

I blink, my excited smile faltering just a fraction. "What hurdle?"

"Miss Lena," Podenco states flatly. "You are still officially under her medical supervision and assigned to the Convalescent Garden. You can't just pack a tent and run off into the wilderness without her explicitly signing off on your deployment forms."

Podenco leans forward, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Even though," she adds, "you practically live in the Archives with your study groups more than you actually stay in the garden these days."

I duck my head into the collar of my jacket, my tail dropping limply against my insulated stockings.

"Right…" I mumble. "Sorry. I got a little ahead of myself."

Lisa steps closer, her hand gently resting on my arm.

"It's okay, Lethe!" Lisa reassures me, offering a bright, unwavering smile. "You can just ask Miss Lena when we get back! I am sure she will say yes if you promise to be careful and bring back lots of rare plant samples for her!"

Podenco lets out a soft sigh, her cheeky smirk melting into a genuine smile. "Exactly," she agrees, turning her steps back down the corridor. "But first things first. Let’s get this flower basket to Miss Breeze, then we will see about your grand camping expedition. Alright?"

I lift my head, offering them both a firm nod.

"Alright," I promise.

We finally reach the workshop.

I reach out and press on the door panel.

The air inside the workshop is crisp and highly sterilized, smelling faintly of medical alcohol and clean linens. Standing near a sprawling counter are mom and Miss Breeze. I peek past mom's familiar silhouette to look at the new Medic. Miss Breeze is a Vulpo, with long, beautiful blonde hair that cascades down her back. She is dressed in a meticulous, elegant black and grey coat adorned with a prominent red cross, a symbol of Medic in Terra but not Rhodes Island’s Medic symbol. Leaning against the counter beside her is a staff that looks more like an intricate, antique Victorian heirloom than a focal unit.

As we step over the threshold, my empathic Arts passively brush against the ambient air. The rich, protective honey of mom's presence is immediately recognizable, but the flavor radiating from Miss Breeze is entirely new. She radiates an incredibly refined, elegant warmth. It tastes exactly like a cup of very expensive, delicate black tea blended perfectly with sweet, creamy vanilla.

But right beneath that noble sweetness, hiding just below the surface, is a heavy, quiet undertone. It is the faint, melancholic taste of crushed, dried mint and sterile bandages. Neither of them notices us immediately. They are completely absorbed in the medicines they are currently formulating.

"We are running low on Polymerization Preparation," Miss Breeze says. Her voice is soft and carrying a highly educated, aristocratic lilt, but her Vulpo ears droop just a fraction. Mom lets out a tired, exasperated chuckle, reaching up to rub the back of her neck.

"Closure is going to have a field day again when I submit the requisition forms," mom groans.

Before mom can spiral any further into the nightmare of Rhodes Island's administrative paperwork, Lisa practically bounds into the room.

"Miss Erika! Miss Breeze!" Lisa catches their attention, her bright, chiming voice effortlessly shattering the clinical quiet of the workshop.

"Sorry to interrupt!" Lisa chimes, stepping forward with the woven wicker basket held proudly out in front of her. "But here, a flower basket for you, Miss Breeze!"

Miss Breeze turns, her eyes widening in genuine surprise. The heavy, melancholic undertone hiding just below the surface of her emotional baseline instantly lightens. "Oh my," Miss Breeze breathes out, reaching out to gently take the basket. "That looks so beautiful. Thank you, young ladies. This is incredibly thoughtful."

Mom steps up beside her, her eyes scanning the vibrant array of petals woven into the rim. I watch as her gaze stops dead on a specific pale violet blossom; the one jutting out at a completely awkward, structurally compromised angle. She doesn't say a single word, but her shoulders shake with a suppressed chuckle, a highly knowing, affectionate smile stretching across her face.

"We picked the freshest blooms from the primary planters," Podenco adds, her tail wagging cheerfully. "Lethe even helped weave the rim!"

I flush slightly, my hands adjusting my grip on the shaft of my Arts Unit. "I tried my best.”

Miss Breeze offers a warm smile. "It is perfect. I will make sure to keep it right on my desk."

“I am glad you like it!p, Miss Breeze!” Lisa smiles.

I take a slow breath, letting the warm atmosphere bolster my courage. "Actually, mom," I begin, looking up at her. "Mint and I are planning a geological expedition."

The playful amusement in mom's eyes instantly sharpens into protective alertness. "An expedition? Where to, Lethe?"

"County Ascarat," I say quickly. "We want to gather rocks and study the terrain. Mint said Miss Whislash already approved it, as long as we have a bigger group."

Miss Breeze hums thoughtfully, carefully setting the flower basket down on the counter.

"County Ascarat," she muses. "That county is quite peaceful, Erika. It is still heavily guarded by the Victorian Army. They shouldn't run into any significant rebel activity or Military Commission in that region."

The sharp, tart spike of panic that had briefly threatened to sour mom's rich honey completely dissolves. She lets out a slow sigh, crossing her arms over her plum shirt.

"Well," mom concedes, offering me a stern but loving look. "Sure. If Lena approves of you leaving the garden, I will pack your bag with you."

She leans forward, tapping the tip of my nose playfully. "Or else you are just going to run off into the wilderness with nothing but gummy worms and milk tea."

I gasp. "I wouldn't!" I protest. I let out a defeated groan, my shoulders slumping. "But… okay, mom."

"We should get going," Lisa chimes in, taking a polite step back. She smooths the front of her skirt and offers the two Medics a light, flawless curtsy. "Sorry to interrupt your medicine preps."

“Oh, don’t worry at all," Miss Breeze smiles, her posture relaxing. "We were counting stocks mostly. But you are right, the materials are not going to magically synthesize themselves."

Mom lets out a heavy, tired sigh, turning her focus toward the towering stacks of empty vials and unprocessed chemical components waiting on the workbench. "Would be nice if there were Arts for that.”

I immediately straighten my spine.

"Arts cannot manipulate matter like that, mom!" I declare, puffing my chest out slightly as I channel my absolute best, most academic tone. "It is mostly just energy! Or telekinesis, like Rosmontis!"

Mom pauses, looking at me, she covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a soft chuckle. "My little researcher," mom coos, reaching out to affectionately ruffle my hair.

"You are entirely correct. Now, now, don't you have an expedition to plan?"

I quickly reach up to smooth my hair back into place. "Right!" I chirp, offering them a bright wave. "See you, Miss Breeze! Bye, mom!"

"Laters, Miss Breeze, Miss Erika," Podenco and Lisa add in unison, both offering cheerful waves as we step backward toward the workshop's threshold.

"Have fun, girls," mom calls after us, turning her attention back to the grueling inventory.

The blast doors shut, sealing the quiet workshop behind us. With the flower basket successfully delivered and my camping permission officially secured from mom, I happily fall into step between my two friends. Turning our steps back toward the Convalescent Garden.

The doors hiss apart as always, welcoming us back into the rich, earthy humidity of the sanctuary. We step down the winding path, navigating the broad-leafed ferns and hanging ivy until we reach the secluded seating area.

Miss Lena is resting on one of the lounge chairs. She is completely buried in a brand- new book, her eyes scanning the pages with intense, unwavering focus. But my Arts catch the truth of her literature long before I can even read the title. The ambient air around her is absolutely saturated with a fizzy, unmistakable spike of sweet rosewater. She is definitely reading another Victorian romance novel.

"Miss Lena, we are back," Podenco announces, her voice carrying a bright, cheerful bounce.

Miss Lena gives a tiny, almost imperceptible jump. With a flawlessly smooth, incredibly practiced motion, she snaps the book shut and seamlessly tucks it directly beneath a plush decorative pillow on her chair. Her serene, tranquil sanctuary-guardian persona snaps back into place in a heartbeat, completely smothering the frantic rosewater flavor.

"Oh, how did it go, girls?" Miss Lena asks, her melodic voice perfectly even.

"Miss Breeze was happy!" Lisa chimes, stepping forward with a radiant smile. "She said she would put it right on her desk!"

"We do have news, though," I add, stepping up beside Lisa. I look up at her, offering a hopeful, hesitant smile. "Mint and I are planning a geological expedition to County Ascarat in Victoria. Podenco and Lisa want to come too… if we can."

Miss Lena’s eyes soften. "Of course you three can go," she smiles, sweeping over the three of us. "We have quite a lot of people that can cover your work right now. We don’t even need to submit paperwork."

I freeze. My tail, which had just started to give a happy, rhythmic swish, completely stalls mid-air. I stare at the my Vulpo manager.

"Wait… we don't?" I squeak, the sheer absurdity of the statement fracturing my voice. On Rhodes Island, absolutely everything requires paperwork, especially when it involves Dr. Kal'tsit's strict parameters.

Miss Lena reaches up, gracefully holding a hand to her cheek. A long, profoundly exhausted sigh escapes her lips, completely breaking her flawless, serene facade for just a fraction of a second.

"It is so much trouble doing paperwork for Kal'tsit," Miss Lena murmurs.

I just stand there, blinking in complete bewilderment as the absolute pillar of medical responsibility casually advocates for dodging the Grand Dame's bureaucracy.

"Eh?"

"You three going out and enjoying yourselves is far more important," Miss Lena explains, offering us a soft, conspiratorial smile. "The amount of paperwork required to officially deploy anywhere near the Victorian borders right now would be simply too much, especially with Command planning to engage in Londinium. As long as the expedition is meticulously planned out and remains strictly on safe routes, I don’t see a single reason why you three cannot go."

She pauses. "Just be sure to get at least two older Operators to escort you."

I tap my chin thoughtfully. "Miss Adele might be able to come…" I murmur, looking between Lisa and Podenco. "But who else?"

“What about Miss Susie?" Lisa asks.

"Miss Susie?" I echo. I reach into my bag, and pull out my digital slate. I tap the screen, immediately opening the encrypted My Life folder. My thumb swipes down the curated profiles until I land on a pink-haired Feline.

I stare at the distilled pillar of truth I had carved into the digital ink.

Miss Susie. Goldenglow. Best barber ever.

I blink, lowering the slate. I look up at Lisa, and then at Miss Lena, my brow furrowing in confusion. "A barber?" I ask, my voice pitching up slightly. Are we really going to take a hairdresser to defend us against the hostile, untamed wilds?

Miss Lena covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a light, melodic chuckle at my completely bewildered expression.

"Oh, Lethe," Miss Lena smiles, her eyes crinkling gently. "She is a very capable Caster. If she and Eyjafjalla are with you girls, I am absolutely sure nothing can get close."

I sit down on a wooden bench, carefully balancing the sleek black shaft of my new Arts Unit against my knee. The liquid suspended within the halos hums with a quiet, steady, mechanical rhythm. I reach into my bag and pull out my slate.

My thumbs fly across the keyboard, my heart fluttering with a frantic, bubbling thrill. [Lethe]: Miss Lena said we can go! So Lisa, Suzuran and Podenco can come too!

Mint replies instantly.

[Mint]: That’s great! Miss Eyjafjalla says she will come. I am so excited!

I let out a soft, relieved exhale. I quickly tap my thumbs against the glass again, passing along the sanctuary guardian's highly unexpected recommendation.

[Lethe]: Miss Lena says we could ask Miss Susie too.

[Mint]: I will ask her now!

A few minutes later, a sharp, synchronized chime echoes through the foliage. My slate, along with the communicators tucked into Lisa’s and Podenco’s pockets, vibrate at the exact same time.

I lift my slate, tapping the notification banner that drops down from the top edge of the screen. A brand-new group chat window opens.

Mint invited Eyjafjalla, Lethe, Suzuran, Podenco, Goldenglow.

Right beneath the system message, another line of white text appears.

Mint renamed group to Geological, botanical camping trip.

"Geological, botanical camping trip," Podenco reads aloud from her own screen. "Well, that sounds like a highly official, incredibly academic excuse to go sleep in a tent and eat toasted marshmallows."

"I am going to pack so many snacks!" Lisa chimes in. "We get to sleep under the stars! Do you think Miss Susie will help us style our hair in the morning out in the woods?"

"I think Miss Susie is going to be far too busy making sure we don't accidentally get eaten by a wild beast," Podenco teases, though her fanning tail entirely betrays her own excitement.

I am going to step out into the unknown. But I am not doing it alone. I am doing it with my best friends, my brilliant tutor, and the best barber on the landship. I press the slate happily against my chest, entirely ready for our grand expedition.