September, 1098

I raise my hand, my fingers brushing against the cold, smooth keratin of the beak.

The ash-grey beast towers beside me, its massive, misty blue wings folded tightly against its heavily corded muscles. I run my hand slowly through the wild, misty blue mane that obscures its faceless head. The creature leans into my touch, letting out a low, thrumming vibration that hums against my palm. It is a perfect, lethal extension of my will. No hesitation. No weakness.

I look past the beast's shoulder, my eyes scanning the desolate architecture of the ruined lobby.

The former grandeur of the empire has been reduced to rubble. A toppled, broken grand piano lies in the foreground of the room, its heavy lid shattered and its ivory keys spilling uselessly across the cracked, dirty floor tiles. Thick, ornate stone columns stretch up to a shadowed mezzanine, their classical facades peeling and decaying. Dust dances in the dim, stale light. Near the center of the room, a solitary oil lantern flickers weakly on a small table, illuminating a makeshift camp of torn leather couches, scattered military crates, and a discarded plate of food resting on a folding chair.

Nailed to the peeling plaster behind the ruined reception desk, a faded paper calendar catches my eye. The dates stop dead at September. The current month.

I turn my back to the broken piano and face the squad of Royal Court soldiers standing at strict attention before me.

Their heavy, white armor is scarred by the ash and fire of the Londinium occupation.

My empathic Arts brush against them, and the flavor bleeding into the air is absolute perfection. There is no suffocating dread or bleeding-heart hesitation. It tastes of scorching, fermented noble fight for a homeland, rusted iron, and a fierce, uncompromising loyalty. I wouldn’t tolerate anything less than absolute loyalty.

"We have intel this hotel is a Glasgow hideout," I command. "We clear it out for the Regent!"

The soldiers strike their chests in perfect, deafening unison.

"Yes, Ma'am!"

They immediately break formation, moving with absolute efficiency. They filter out across the ruined lobby, their heavy boots crunching violently over the broken tiles and shattered glass. The concussive, brutal thuds of Kazdelian iron kicking down reinforced doors echo through the grand, hollow halls as they begin their relentless sweep of the ground floor and the mezzanine above.

I stand in the center of the destruction, my hands resting at my sides. Beside me, my Fear Beast lets out a sharp shriek, entirely ready to tear apart anyone who dares to resist the Regent's will.

"Let go of me! You damned Sarkaz!"

The desperate, ragged shout violently slices through the heavy, stale dust of the lobby, echoing sharply down from the shadowed mezzanine above.

The heavy, concussive thud of armored boots immediately follows. One of the Royal Court soldiers emerges at the top of the grand staircase, his hand securely gripping the collar of a struggling prisoner. He practically drags the Feline man down the cracked marble steps, the captive's shoes scraping uselessly against the debris.

The soldier shoves the man forward, forcing him hard to his knees right at my feet.

"Ma’am, here’s one," the soldier reports, his voice muffled behind his iron visor.

The Feline man gasps for breath, his clothes torn and covered in the ash of the capital. He slowly lifts his head, his wide, bloodshot eyes tracking past the hem of my immaculate uniform, up my posture, until they lock directly onto the lopsided horns resting on my crown.

His pupils contract into tiny pinpricks of absolute horror.

"A Djall…?!" he chokes out. His voice fractures into a pathetic, high-pitched wheeze as he frantically tries to scramble backward, his hands slipping against the shattered floor tiles. "Please… please don’t eat my brain…"

The ambient air in the lobby violently erupts.

The flavor bleeding off his shivering frame is absolutely intoxicating. It tastes of freezing, rusted iron and the desperately sweet, rotting nectar of sheer, unadulterated terror.

"Oh, your fear…" I murmur. I tilt my head, looking down at his pathetic, trembling form with a smile. "…tastes so sweet."

I step closer, the heels of my heels clicking sharply against the marble.

"Let’s see what your deepest secrets are."

I don't wait for him to scream again. I throw my empathic channels completely open. I plunge directly into the chaotic abyss of his mind, tearing past his fragile, panicked defenses with absolute ease.

I sink into the drowning ocean of his consciousness, sifting through the frantic, chaotic blur of his recent thoughts.

A dark, cramped room. The suffocating smell of stale bread and unwashed clothes. A woman clutching a crying child to her chest, huddling in the lightless corner of an abandoned apartment complex.

They are hiding. Desperately praying that our patrols will march right past their shattered windows. He was out here trying to scavenge for them, acting as the eyes and ears for whatever remnant of Glasgow still thinks they can reclaim this city.

The memory is so mundane. So completely insignificant.

I forcefully snap the tether shut, pulling my mind back out of his head.

The Feline man collapses forward, gasping for air as if he had just been pulled from underwater. He clutches his head, his mind reeling from the psychic breach.

"He is just an informant," I state.

I look down at him.

I raise my hand, pointing a single, uncompromising finger directly at the kneeling man.

My Fear Beast doesn't hesitate. The ash-grey Arts Creation lunges forward with a terrifying, liquid grace, its wings flaring outward in the dim light. It closes the distance in a fraction of a millisecond.

The sound of flesh and bone giving way is sickeningly wet and entirely absolute. The beast drives its elongated, razor-sharp claw directly through the Feline man's chest, piercing straight through his heart and out the other side.

The man's frantic gasping ceases instantly. The sweet, rotting nectar of his terror completely flatlines into a cold, empty void.

The beast pulls its claw back with a violent jerk, letting the lifeless body slump heavily onto the cracked marble floor. The dark, thick crimson begins to pool rapidly around the shattered ivory keys of the broken piano.

I slowly lower my hand, I look past the corpse to the Royal Court soldier waiting at attention.

"Continue the sweep," I order. "Leave no one alive."

While I walk around the lobby, my eyes spot a bundle of fabric.

I walk over and pick it up. It is a plushie. Very worn and slightly torn. It is based on an Aslan.

I…

No… no one can see me with a plushie that symbolises the enemy.

I toss it as far away as I can.

I stare at the plushie for a while until the quiet is broken by sounds of struggles.

Two more struggling figures are shoved out. They hit the cracked floor hard, gasping for breath against the cold stone.

"Ma'am, there are two more Felines," the Royal Court soldiers report.

I look down at the trembling Felines. They are pathetic, shivering in the ash-choked air. I don't even need to fully open my empathic channels to taste the flavor bleeding off them. It is a shallow, stagnant pool of mundane survival instinct and the sweet tang of sheer terror. There are no tactical secrets hidden in their minds. No grand rebellious plots. Just the suffocating, useless dread of rodents caught in a trap.

"Like before. They have nothing useful."

My Fear Beast doesn't need another command. The executions are instantaneous, a necessary cleansing for the future of our future.

I turn away before the bodies even fully slump against the floor. There is no point sweeping here anymore. I look to the remaining squad.

"Head back to the factories," I command. "I will report back to command."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

They immediately break formation, moving with absolute efficiency as their heavy boots crunch rhythmically against the debris to secure the industrial sectors. I am left entirely alone in the sweeping silence of the occupied capital.

I turn my gaze down the desolate avenue. The evening sun is dipping low, bleeding a heavy, golden-orange hue across the deserted street. The light casts long, sharp shadows across the cracked asphalt, stretching out from the peeling, ornate classical facades of the abandoned Victorian buildings that line the road. Metal barricades and discarded cargo crates litter the thoroughfare, silent monuments to an empire that has been thoroughly brought to its knees.

But my eyes do not linger on the ruins. I look past the dilapidated brickwork, tracing the hazy skyline until my gaze locks onto the monolithic structure dominating the distance. The Shard.

It is a staggering, 300-story tall titan of architecture, an imposing skyscraper that pierces directly through the bruised, golden clouds. It was once the grand palace of the empire's royalty, a symbol of their arrogant, global reach. Now, it has been repurposed. It stands as the absolute, beckoning beacon of our future homeland.

It is not just a monument; it is the ultimate extension of Kazdel's wrath. From that towering skyscraper, the Regent possesses the power to summon Catastrophes at will, pulling apocalyptic Originium storms down from the sky to obliterate anyone who resists, so long as we have an airship positioned to pinpoint the exact coordinates. It is absolute, unyielding power.

I lower my eyes. A faint smattering of pale ash and plaster has settled against the dark, immaculate fabric of my uniform.

With slow, precise, and entirely deliberate movements, I brush my hands over the fabric, meticulously dusting off my sleeves.

I adjust my posture, my spine perfectly straight, and begin my march down the golden- lit street. I walk steadily toward the Shard, entirely ready to report back to the Regent.

Swoosh.

A violent rush of displaced air snaps directly behind me. My Fear Beast doesn't even wait for a command. The Arts Creation darts to my back with grace, its heavily corded arm whipping out to swat something straight out of the air.

A sharp, metallic clatter rings out as the object hits the cracked pavement.

I turn slowly, my posture remaining perfectly rigid. Resting in the dust just a few paces away is a heavy, steel-tipped crossbow bolt.

I narrow my eyes, instantly scanning the desolate, shadow-drenched Victorian architecture lining the avenue. But before my focus can lock onto a shattered window or a darkened rooftop to find the sniper, the ambient air in the street shifts.

A brand new flavor bleeds out from the ruined husk of a nearby building, crashing into my empathic channels with the kinetic force of a high-speed projectile.

It tastes of freshly tilled, sun-baked earth and hearty roasted root vegetables, completely saturated with the roaring, explosive heat of a heavy, pressurized steam- engine. Beneath that explosive energy is a fierce, unyielding vitality.

My Fear Beast lets out a low, thrumming vibration, leaning heavily into my side.

Whoever is hiding in that building is no mere informant.

The shattered remnants of the building's barricade explode outward in a cloud of dust and splintered wood.

A Vouivre woman rushes directly into the golden-lit avenue. She is a striking, imposing figure amidst the desolate ruins; a vibrant mane of long, fiery red hair frames her face, matching the deep crimson of her shirt and the sharp red accents lining her dark, military-style coat. She wields a massive, terrifyingly heavy gun-lance that vents residual steam, her dark horns jutting proudly from her crown.

She lunges at me with the explosive, kinetic force of a siege engine.

I take a calculated, deliberate step backward.

My Fear Beast intercepts. The Arts Creation violently flares its wings, its heavily corded muscles absorbing the devastating impact as it parries the heavy gun-lance with a deafening screech.

The Vouivre woman bounces back from the parry with incredible, forged-steel agility.

She plants her black shoes firmly into the cracked pavement, raises the massive barrel of her lance, and aims it squarely at my chest. The explosive, sun-baked heat of her emotional resonance compresses into a single, lethal point of focus.

But then, her eyes lock onto my face.

Her eyes tracks past my immaculate Kazdelian uniform, sweeping over my features until they stop dead on the lopsided horns resting on my crown and the spade-tipped tail behind me.

The roaring, pressurized steam-engine of her emotional presence violently stutters. The fierce, unyielding vitality within her shatters into a sudden, chaotic spike of absolute bewilderment.

"What?" she breathes out. The heavy tip of her gun-lance dips just a fraction, her rigid combat stance completely unravelling in her shock.

I do not know why she hesitates, and I do not care.

I raise my hand, pointing a single, uncompromising finger directly at the Vouivre woman. My Fear Beast doesn't wait. It lets out shriek and lunges forward, sweeping its claws down in a devastating, lethal arc designed to tear her apart.

The Vouivre woman's raw survival instincts violently override her momentary paralysis.

She throws herself backward, twisting her body with a frantic burst of speed. The claws carve through the empty air, missing her torso by mere millimeters and sparking against the asphalt where she had just been standing.

She hits the ground and immediately scrambles back, her fiery red hair whipping wildly. She hoists her heavy gun-lance.

"Retreat!" she orders, her voice ringing out sharply across the ruined avenue to the hidden sniper still lurking in the shadows.

She doesn't look back again, darting swiftly into the labyrinth of the ruined Victorian architectures.

I watch the dust settle where the Vouivre woman and her unseen sniper vanished into the ruined labyrinth of the city. I make a mental note to include her description in my briefing.

The remnant resistance forces are growing significantly bolder. Their desperate skirmishes and hit-and-run tactics have been getting noticeably fiercer since August.

The exact time I first woke up within the fortified walls of the Shard.

I resume my march, I turn my head slightly, looking at the towering Arts Creation lumbering faithfully by my side.

The ash-grey beast keeps perfect pace with me. I reach out, my fingers brushing against the wild mane that completely obscures its head. It leans into my touch as before, letting out a low, thrumming vibration that hums comfortingly against my palm. It is my protector.

And it is the only absolute certainty I possess.

Because beyond the beast, my mind is an empty, echoing vault.

I don't remember much of my life before waking up in July. Whenever I try to look back past the bruised skies of Londinium, there is only a suffocating, pitch-black void, stripped clean of any faces, names, or warmth.

But the Confessarii and the commanders filled that void with the truth.

They told me exactly what had happened to my fragmented mind. I had been captured by our enemies; a hypocritical pharmaceutical front known as Rhodes Island. They had held me prisoner, exploiting my Sarkaz blood and my Arts, until the Royal Court finally managed to breach their defenses, rescue me, and bring me home to where I belong.

I am a Djall, and I am part of the Royal Court. Since my rescue, they have meticulously taught me how to act, how to harness my empathic Arts, and how to fight a world that stubbornly, violently refuses to let us have a homeland. They gave me a purpose and a blade when I had nothing but empty memories. I will absolutely not fail them.

The golden sunlight bleeding through the ash-choked clouds begins to fade entirely, eclipsed by the sheer, staggering mass of the architecture looming ahead.

I am almost at the Shard now.

The colossal structure casts a massive, sweeping shadow over the ruined avenue, plunging the Victorian street into a cold, imposing twilight. Reinforced barricades and heavily armed Sarkaz patrols line the perimeter, guarding the beating heart of our future. I straighten my spine, my Fear Beast shadowing my every step, and walk directly toward the gates to deliver my report to the Regent.

I cross the heavily fortified threshold and enter the main room of the Shard after a long elevator ride.

The interior of the building is a staggering display of imposing architecture. Massive, geometric pillars of pale concrete and dark metal stretch upward toward the vaulted ceiling, illuminated by stark, intersecting bars of brilliant white light. A wide, highly polished dark walkway runs directly down the center of the cavernous hall, flanked by recessed control pits filled with humming monitors and tactical displays. At the very end of the walkway, framed by the monolithic pillars, rests the seat of our power.

Standing before me, completely dominating the atmosphere of the grand hall, is our twin hope. The absolute rulers of the Sarkaz.

I take a steady breath. The clash of their presences is immediate and utterly overwhelming.

From the Regent, Theresis, the flavor is an absolute, suffocating monolith of iron. He stands tall and broad-shouldered, draped in a heavy black military coat lined with fur, a dark cape cascading over his heavily armored left arm. He tastes of ancient, unyielding steel forged in the absolute hottest, most unforgiving fires of war.

But from the woman standing beside him, Theresa, the resonance is entirely different.

She is breathtaking, dressed in a pristine, flowing white gown adorned with dark, jagged crystalline accents, her long pinkish-white hair spilling around her striking black horns.

It is a boundless, sweeping ocean of unconditional love. But it is tainted. Woven tightly through that radiant warmth is a profound, aching sorrow so deep and rotting that it makes my chest physically hurt. It tastes of crushed ash, spilled blood, and the agonizing, crushing weight of a million weeping ghosts.

I force my spine to remain perfectly straight, shoving the phantom ache down. I bow lightly before the two.

"Regent," I announce, my voice echoing clearly against the pillars. "I have urgent reports on our recent operations."

Theresis and Theresa turn slowly from the tactical displays to face me.

Theresa looks at me. Her pink-hued eyes lock directly onto my horns and my face.

The absolute second her eyes meets mine, the massive wave of pain and sorrow bleeding off her spikes. It crashes into my empathic channels, tasting of raw, unfiltered devastation and a hollow, agonizing guilt. I have to physically clench my jaw to keep my knees from trembling under the sheer weight of her grief.

Yet, despite the catastrophic sorrow radiating from her being, her expression remains entirely composed. Her smile is still gently, perfectly flawless.

Regent is quiet for a moment. His cold, calculating gaze sweeps over my uniform and the Fear Beast waiting obediently in the shadows of the hall behind me.

"Report, Lita," Regent commands. The word drops into the hall with the absolute, uncompromising weight of an iron anvil.

"The purported Glasgow safe house in the industrial sector was just filled with three low-level informants," I state. "They have been dealt with."

"But on my way back," I continue, my eyes remaining locked respectfully on the Regent.

"A Vouivre woman ambushed me, along with a hidden sniper. She was heavily armed, wielding a massive gun-lance. But… she hesitated when she saw me, and retreated."

I wait in the cold, echoing silence of the hall, entirely ready for the Regent's judgment.

"Hesitation is a fatal flaw," Theresis states, his voice a cold, unyielding blade cutting through the cavernous hall. "If this remnant forces herself to pause at the sight of a Djall, you will not give her the luxury of a second thought."

He steps forward, the black cape shifting over his shoulder. "Sweep the industrial sectors. Hunt this Vouivre and her sniper down. When you find her, use that hesitation. End her before she remembers her resolve."

"Yes, Regent," I reply.

I execute a flawless, deep bow, paying my absolute respects to the twin rulers of Kazdel. I turn on my heel, leaving the monolithic room behind.

I walk back to the elevator. The suffocating, iron-heavy gravity of Theresis's presence immediately lifts from my shoulders.

But the other presence does not fade.

My mind completely catches on the ghost of Theresa’s emotional resonance. It clings to my empathic channels like damp ash. The sheer, overwhelming magnitude of her grief is paralyzing. It tasted of spilled blood, crushed crystalline ash, and an agonizingly profound guilt that had completely saturated her boundless, unconditional love.

I slow my pace, my brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion. My fingers tighten around the fabric of my uniform.

Why?

Why did that catastrophic sorrow violently spike the absolute second her eyes locked onto my face?

I am a Djall of the Royal Court. They rescued me from the hypocrites of Rhodes Island. I am wielding my Arts to carve out a future for our people.

I am helping her build our new home.

My Fear Beast lets out a low hum, its arm brushing gently against my side to ground me.

I reach out, running my hand slowly through the beast's mane.

I force a slow, steady breath into my lungs, pushing the phantom taste of Theresa's weeping sorrow down until it is locked securely away in the dark corners of my mind.

I cannot afford to be distracted by the incomprehensible burdens of royalty. The Regent has given me a direct order. There is a fiery-haired Vouivre hiding in the ruins of Londinium, and I have a sector to sweep.

The suffocating, bruised twilight of the capital has finally been entirely swallowed by the pitch-black night.

I march alone down the cracked asphalt of the sector, my Fear Beast keeping perfect, silent pace beside me. The desolate exterior of the sector is a sprawling, oppressive labyrinth of brick structures and towering, smog-choked smokestacks. Heavy iron bridges stretch across the gaps between the facilities, casting long, impenetrable shadows beneath the sickly glow of the few remaining streetlamps. A solitary red train car sits dead on the tracks in the distance, completely abandoned.

This is a big playground to sweep for pests, just by myself.

I tighten my grip on the fabric of my Kazdelian uniform. Theresis gave me a purpose when my mind was nothing but a suffocating void. He gave me a place within the Royal Court. I absolutely cannot fail him.

I approach the looming entrance of a massive, silent processing plant. The doors have been forced open, their reinforced hinges warped by explosives.

The Confessarii told me during my briefings that the Victorians were so stubbornly arrogant that they actively sabotaged their own manufacturing infrastructure rather than let we use it. I cross the threshold. The interior is a massive, echoing graveyard of rusted iron and stagnant water. Heavy, corroded pipes snake violently across the flooded, debris-strewn floor, leaking dark fluids into the murky puddles. The steel support beams are warped, and the catwalks above are shattered, their jagged edges hanging precariously in the heavy shadows. It smells of wet rust, stale oil, and cold, dead earth.

I step carefully over a massive, cylindrical pipe blocking the pathway, my heels splashing softly into the shallow, stagnant water. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, throwing my empathic channels open to sweep the dark, echoing factory for the roaring, pressurized steam-engine flavor of the Vouivre woman.

Clatter.

The sound is incredibly faint. It is the distinct, unmistakable shuffle of a boot scraping against loose rubble, echoing down from the shadowed, rusted catwalks above.

My Fear Beast instantly reacts. It lets out a low hiss.

"Show yourself!"

I wait for the inevitable, intoxicating flavor of human panic to bleed into the air. I wait for the sweet, rotting nectar of terror, or the explosive, sun-baked heat of a desperate ambush to flood my senses.

But the ambient air remains completely, entirely dead.

There is nothing.

I track carefully, my steps echoing faintly against the damp, debris-strewn concrete of the factory floor.

For a long, agonizing stretch of time, the absolute empathic void persists. I weave through the shadows of the rusted machinery, my focus sweeping the dark. But then, a faint ripple disturbs the stagnant, oil-scented air. Slowly, I begin to pick up a taste.

It isn't the explosive, kinetic heat of the Vouivre woman. It tastes of cold, stretched leather and the agonizingly taut snap of coiled tension.

It is moving.

I follow the faint flavor, leaving the flooded factory floor and ascending the grated iron stairs toward the upper control rooms. The rusted corridors above are a labyrinth of shadowed corners and shattered monitors. I walk deliberately down the hall, letting my Arts brush against the steel. As I pass by a heavy, reinforced security door, the taste spikes. It is incredibly concentrated here, vibrating right through the thick metal paneling.

"Tear it down," I command.

With a deafening, metallic screech, the reinforced door is violently ripped entirely off its hinges, thrown into the dark room beyond like a discarded toy.

Standing inside the dim control room, illuminated only by the faint moonlight bleeding through a shattered skylight, is a Feline sniper.

He is dressed for urban warfare, clad in an olive-green military coat over grey tactical trousers, with asymmetrical grey plating guarding his shoulder and chest. His dark, messy hair frames a pale face, and his dark Feline ears are pinned flat against his head in absolute hostility. His long tail whips nervously behind his black combat boots.

The absolute second the door breaches, he raises his heavy crossbow.

Thwack.

He immediately shoots directly at us. The bolt slices through the air with lethal precision, aimed squarely at my chest.

But it is entirely useless.

My Fear Beast intercepts, the heavy bolt striking the dense, physical manifestation of Originium energy and ricocheting harmlessly off into the shadows with a dull clatter.

The sniper scrambles backward, his boots slipping against the rusted floor as he frantically tries to notch another bolt. My Fear Beast lets out a hiss and stalks slowly into the room.

The taut, coiled tension in the Feline’s aura violently shatters.

The ambient air in the control room erupts. The flavor bleeding off his trembling frame turns incredibly, intoxicatingly sweet. It is the rotting, fermented nectar of absolute, primal panic, perfectly laced with the cold, metallic tang of sheer helplessness.

"Stop," I order.

The Fear Beast stops instantly, its elongated claws hovering mere centimeters from the Feline man's throat. The sniper collapses against the control consoles, his chest heaving with ragged, terrified gasps.

I step slowly into the room, the heels of my shoes clicking softly against the grating. I tilt my head, looking down at his shivering form with a smile.

"Let's see your biggest fears."

I don't wait for him to protest, sinking deep into the darkest, most traumatized corners of his mind.

I find it immediately. A memory so utterly devastating that it has permanently burned itself into the core of his being.

It is a vision of the Londinium Secondary Defense Artillery.

I taste the deafening roar of the empire's ultimate weapon. I feel his paralyzing, suffocating helplessness as he watched from a high sniper's nest. He saw the Regent commandeer the artilleries. And turn them completely inward. I feel the blinding, apocalyptic heat as the massive shells rained down on his own people. I hear the screaming of his squad as they were completely annihilated in a localized firestorm of Kazdel's wrath, reduced to ash while he could do absolutely nothing but watch.

The memory is a masterpiece of absolute despair.

I forcefully snap the tether shut, pulling my mind back out of his head.

If this is the hell that broke him, then I will make him live it again.

I gather the massive, concentrated terror of his memory. I take the deafening roar, the blinding heat, and the apocalyptic despair, and I push it outward to physically manifest his nightmare into reality.

The dim, rusted control room instantaneously warps.

The ceiling above us dissolves, tearing away to reveal a bruised, blood-red sky. The ambient air superheats in a fraction of a millisecond, smelling of scorching ozone and pulverized concrete.

BOOM.

A deafening, concussive roar shakes the very foundations of the factory. Blinding, apocalyptic pillars of white-hot artillery fire begin to rain down directly inside the room, tearing through the phantom steel and shattering the floor around him. The phantom shockwaves are physically dense, hitting the Feline sniper with the kinetic force of a collapsing building.

"No! NO!" he screams, dropping his crossbow entirely.

He covers his head with his hands, curling into a tight, pathetic ball on the floor as the deafening shrieks of the artillery deafen him. Phantom embers and raining ash completely blanket the room. The illusory screams of his annihilated squad echo from the burning shadows, perfectly synchronized with the explosive impacts of the bombardment.

I stand perfectly untouched in the center of the manifested firestorm, watching the Feline man completely break under the weight of the Regent's power.

The sweet, rotting nectar of his sheer, unadulterated panic completely saturates my senses, a decadent and intoxicating feast.

"Thank you for the meal," I murmur.

With a sharp, deliberate thought, I forcefully snap the empathic tether shut.

The deafening, apocalyptic roar of the artillery is instantaneously silenced. The burning, blood-red sky tears apart, dissolving seamlessly back into the damp, shadowed ceiling of the rusted control room. The phantom shockwaves and the suffocating heat of the bombardment evaporate, replaced immediately by the freezing, stale draft of the ruined factory.

The Feline sniper remains on the floor, completely curled into a tight ball. His hands are still clamped desperately over his ears, his fingers digging into his dark hair as he violently trembles.

I step closer.

"Now tell me," I command. "Where is the Vouivre woman?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't even look up at me. He just whimpers, a broken, wet, and entirely pathetic sound escaping his throat. I brush my Arts against him, but the flavor bleeding off his frame is completely ruined. It has devolved into a stagnant, hollow puddle of shattered glass and freezing ash. His mind has completely fractured under the weight of his own memories.

There is absolutely no resistance left in him. No tactical secrets to mine. Just the empty shell of a man who has already died inside.

"Broken already?"

He is completely useless. I look past his shivering form to the ash-grey Arts Creation waiting faithfully in the shadows.

"Dispose of him," I order.

The execution is instantaneous. A wet, heavy crunch of bone giving way echoes sharply against the control room walls, and the sniper's broken whimpering ceases entirely. The lingering, stale taste of his trauma completely flatlines into a cold, empty void.

With that over with, I turn my back on the pooling dark crimson. I step over the shattered steel door, leaving the silent control room behind.

I step back out onto the rusted, shadowed catwalks overlooking the factory floor.

I pause my march along the rusted, groaning catwalk.

I turn to the Arts Creation and reach out, my fingers brushing gently against its beak. I run my hand slowly through the mane.

"As long as I am fed, you can exist," I murmur into the damp, industrial gloom.

I look past the beast's folded wings, my eyes scanning the labyrinth of heavy, corroded pipes and shattered support beams sprawling across the floor below.

"But where could they be?" I ask quietly, my gaze tracking the deep, impenetrable shadows beneath the warped catwalks. "That must have been a scout."

If a sniper was stationed in the upper control rooms, then he was covering an approach. The fiery-haired Vouivre woman wouldn't be hiding in the exposed upper levels.

"Sometimes I do wish you could talk," I whisper. I withdraw my hand, letting my fingers drop to my side. "But I guess you are just me. My emotions."

I adjust my posture, ensuring my spine is perfectly straight.

"Come," I command.

The low hum of the beast ceases instantly as it falls back into step behind me.

Together, we descend the rusted iron stairs, heading deeper into the suffocating, waterlogged darkness of the factory to flush the remnant resistance out of their hole.

The damp, suffocating darkness of the underground processing plant yielded absolutely nothing. I spent hours wading through the stagnant, oil-slicked water and tearing apart rusted catwalks, but the fiery-haired Vouivre woman and her sniper had completely slipped through the labyrinth.

Frustrated and smelling of wet rust, I eventually abandoned the search. I marched back through the desolate, ash-choked avenues of the capital, returning to the monolithic, imposing shadow of the Shard.

I suppose I will take a rest for today.

I take the heavy, reinforced elevator up to the residential levels. The doors hiss apart, revealing my assigned quarters. It is an utilitarian room; cold walls, a heavy bed, and devoid of any clutter.

I don't even bother removing my uniform. I step forward and crash directly onto the mattress. My Fear Beast dissolves seamlessly into the shadows of the room, returning to the quiet recesses of my mind as the exhaustion finally catches up to me.

I close my eyes.

Just as the pitch-black void of sleep is pulling me under, the ambient air in the sterile room shifts.

It hits me before the door opens. A boundless, sweeping ocean of unconditional love washes over my senses.

My eyes snap open. The exhaustion evaporates instantly.

I scramble backward on the mattress, pushing myself up into a rigid, kneeling posture as the doors slide apart.

Standing on the threshold is Theresa.

"Your… your majesty!" I gasp, immediately throwing myself forward to offer a deep, respectful bow. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Why is she here?

Theresa steps fully into the room, the door swings shut behind her. The catastrophic sorrow radiating from her is paralyzing, yet her expression remains flawlessly, beautifully composed.

"Please. Just call me Theresa.”

I keep my head bowed, my hands resting tensely on my knees.

"Can I help, Theresa?" I ask, keeping my tone flawlessly respectful and attentive.

She walks slowly toward the edge of my bed. The soft rustle of her gown fills the quiet room.

She reaches out. Her fingers, incredibly gentle and warm, brush against my hair, lightly tracing the curve of my horns.

The absolute second she touches me, the crushing, agonizing guilt in her emotional resonance violently spikes. It tastes like a desperate, hollow apology screamed into an empty void.

"You have been working so hard in the ash," Theresa whispers. Her eyes look at me, brimming with a quiet sorrow. "But this cold iron you wear… this cruelty they have asked you to wield… it does not suit the shape of your true self."

"I am a Djall of the Royal Court," I reply quickly, reciting the absolute truth the Confessarii had given me. "I fight to reclaim our home."

Theresa's hand slowly drops to my cheek. The sweeping ocean of her unconditional love wraps around me, so painfully pure that it makes my throat tighten.

"Kazdel… yes. We all bleed for our home," Theresa sighs, the sound fragile and shattering. "But your hands were not meant to be stained with this blood. I look at you, and I do not see the executioner my brother wishes you to be."

I stare at her, my breath catching. The Confessarii told me my past was a blank slate, entirely erased by the hypocrites of Rhodes Island. They told me my only purpose was the slaughter of our enemies. Yet, the co-ruler of the Sarkaz is looking at me as if she is mourning someone who is already dead.

"I know a soul that reaches out to heal, not to tear apart," Theresa continues, her voice trembling with an aching nostalgia that I cannot comprehend. "A child who anchors those in the dark, who builds sanctuaries instead of slaughterhouses. The Confessarii can weave their pitch-black shadows over your memories, they can force you to command monsters… but they cannot change the fundamental warmth of your heart."

"I… I don't understand," My fingers dig into the heavy mattress. "I don't remember any warmth. I only remember waking up here."

Theresa closes her eyes.

"I know," she breathes out, the profound tragedy of her resonance pressing down on my shoulders. She leans forward, pressing her forehead gently against mine.

"Do not let the dark they placed in your mind become the only truth you see," Theresa whispers fiercely into the quiet room. "You are a child born out of a heart that was aiming for the light. And no matter what uniform they force you to wear, no matter what they tell you… you are so incredibly loved."

She pulls back slowly, her eyes lingering on my face for one last second.

Before I can even formulate a response, before I can ask her what she means or who she thinks I am, she turns gracefully away. She walks back to the threshold.

I am left entirely alone in the room, staring at the empty doorway. The scent of crushed ash and weeping ghosts slowly dissipates.

I cannot sleep.

The mattress feels like a slab of freezing iron beneath me. I stare up at the shadowed ceiling of my assigned quarters, but all I can see are her pink-hued eyes.

How could Theresa know who I am?

I just met her for the very first time in the grand hall of the Shard today. Yet, she had walked into my room, touched my horns, and looked at me as if she were mourning the death of a someone she had known her entire life.

I don't remember any warmth. I only remember waking up in July surrounded by the bruised skies of Londinium and a void where my life used to be.

Just go to sleep, Lita, I say to myself.

I force my breathing to slow. Desperately want the void to pull me under.

But the void lifts.

The suffocating emptiness refuses to hold me. My eyes snap open in the dark.

I sit up abruptly at the edge of my bed.

I cannot lie here and let this fracture my resolve. I am a soldier of the Regent, and he gave me a direct, absolute command.

I need to find the Vouivre.

I swing my legs over the side of the mattress.

The shadows in the corner of my room shift and pool, the massive, ash-grey Arts Creation of my Fear Beast silently materializing to stand faithfully by my side.

I push Theresa’s unconditional love back down.

I am Lita, and I have a job to do.

The pitch-black night still firmly blankets the ruined city as I leave the monolithic shadow of the Shard behind.

I march back through the desolate, ash-choked avenues, my heels crunching rhythmically over the debris. The cold, heavy air is perfectly still. I finally get back to the flooded industrial sector, bypassing the rusted processing plant entirely. My attention locks onto the one structure I had not thoroughly swept earlier: the massive, solitary red train car sitting dead on its tracks in the distance.

As I step within a few meters of the rusted metal chassis, the ambient air shifts.

I taste her instantly.

The Vouivre woman.

"Tear the door…"

Before I can even finish ordering my Fear Beast to strike, the iron door of the train car explodes outward in a violent spray of rusted shrapnel.

She bursts out of the dark. Her hair whips through the freezing air. Before I can take a step backward, she lunges, closing the distance in a fraction.

She violently slams into me, her immense physical strength driving me hard into the cracked asphalt. The impact knocks the breath completely from my lungs, the jagged pavement biting into my shoulders as she swiftly and expertly pins me flat to the ground. Her weight is unyielding forged steel.

"Let go of me!" I hiss.

My Fear Beast does not hesitate. It lets out a deafening, metallic screech that vibrates the ruined asphalt. It lunges toward the Vouivre, raising its razor-sharp claws, entirely ready to strike her down and tear her head from her shoulders.

Then, a brand new flavor bleeds into the desolate avenue.

It does not crash into my senses like the Vouivre's explosive heat. It slips into the air with an absolute, terrifying silence. It tastes of dark blackberry tea and cold obsidian, carrying the sharp, freezing stillness of a mountaintop, perfectly overlaid with a frictionless streak of sheer focus.

A voice cuts effortlessly through the night. It is calm, resonant, and carries the absolute, suffocating weight of ancient law.

"Hul'luqe, paša't la'ni.”

A sharp, deafening crack echoes through the cold air. My Fear Beast simply disintegrates. It unravels, instantly reduced to nothing but a fine, dissipating mist of energy that vanishes completely into the night wind.

"What!" I scream. "How dare you hurt him!"

I struggle wildly under the Vouivre woman's iron grip, dragging my face against the cracked asphalt to turn my head and look past her shoulder.

Stepping out from the shadowed threshold of the abandoned train car is the source of the freezing mountaintop emotional presence.

He is a Sarkaz. A Banshee. He is tall and impossibly, terrifyingly composed. He is dressed in a complex, dark tactical uniform featuring striking blue inner linings and asymmetrical straps, layered beneath a long, sweeping black cloak whose pointed, geometric tails float weightlessly around his long legs. His face is framed by grey, windswept hair and elaborate, jagged dark horns that branch sharply from his crown. In his gloved hand, he lightly twirls a sleek, dark stylus.

His cold, calculating eyes lock directly onto my face.

But it is not his terrifyingly silent Arts or his imposing presence that makes my breath catch in my throat. It is the crisp, white lettering printed starkly across his dark collar and the white rook logo pinned to his shoulder.

They are the insignias of the hypocrites who held me prisoner. The enemies who erased my past and forced the Royal Court to rescue me.

"Rhodes Island?!"

"You traitor!" I yell at the Banshee, my voice tearing violently through the freezing, ash- choked night.

He is a Sarkaz. He shares the blood of our ancestors. Yet he proudly wears the insignia of the hypocrites who steal our memories and actively fight to keep us from reclaiming our homeland.

But he doesn’t even flinch.

I look back at the Vouivre pinning me to the cracked asphalt.

Her hair brushes against my cheek, completely saturated with the smell of sun-baked earth and pressurized steam. I need to move to do anything. I need to free my hands, or at least shift my weight to properly channel my Originium Arts into a physical manifestation. But her grip is absolute. She is an unyielding statue of forged steel, her knees pressing my limbs painfully into the ruins.

If I cannot move my body, I will move her mind.

I forcefully throw my empathic channels wide open, aiming the dark, invasive spear of my Arts directly into the roaring kinetic heat of her emotions. I prepare to plunge straight into the abyss of her consciousness, ready to drag whatever rotting, paralyzing trauma she hides directly to the surface.

"Let’s see how you feel about…"

The Banshee steps forward, his shoes making almost no sound against the pavement.

He raises the dark stylus in his hand.

"Ka'qab šere, nu'r ne'meq."

The incantation is a quiet, resonant hum, but it strikes my mind with the staggering force of a physical blow. The sensory world instantaneously collapses. The rich, vibrant tapestry of flavors are gone. A blinding, pure, and suffocatingly sterile light floods my empathic channels. It is an absolute, impenetrable wall of conceptual clarity that completely severs my connection to the ambient emotions around me.

I gasp, my spine arching off the pavement as my mind is entirely, flawlessly gagged. The intoxicating tastes of fear, resolve, and sorrow are just… gone. I am left completely blind in the dark.

He lowers his hand, his calculating eyes staring at me with cold, uncompromising authority.

"You will manipulate no minds here," the Banshee says. The words are an unyielding iron cage, devoid of any malice but heavy with absolute finality. He turns his focus slightly toward the woman holding me down. "Bagpipe, please, escort our guest back to the camp."

"Aye."

The Vouivre woman’s voice is remarkably bright.

She shifts her immense, unyielding weight off my back just enough to yank me upward. With practiced, forged-steel efficiency, Bagpipe forces my hands behind my back, securing my wrists in a grip that feels like heavy iron shackles. I struggle wildly against her hold, my shoes scraping uselessly against the cracked asphalt.

"Let go of me!" I snarl, twisting my shoulders in a frantic attempt to break free.

Bagpipe doesn’t tighten her grip, but she holds me absolutely firm. She looks at me, and her tone softens into a surprisingly gentle, rural cadence.

"Easy now, Lethe," she soothes, her Taran accent thick and rolling. "Dinna fash yourself. You are just gonna pull a muscle thrashing aboot like a caught beast. We arenae gonna hurt you,  promise. Just come along quietly, lass, alright?"

The name hits my ears like a physical insult.

"Lethe? I am Lita!" My eyes glaring daggers at the Vouivre. The Confessarii warned me about this. They told me explicitly that Rhodes Island would try to trap me in the fabricated life they had forced upon me. I will absolutely not let them overwrite my truth.

The Banshee turns his back to the ruined train car, the dark, sweeping tails of his cloak shifting weightlessly in the cold night wind.

"Walk," he commands.

The word is not a request; it is an absolute, gravitational force. I am practically hauled forward by Bagpipe, my heels stumbling over the debris as I am forced to march.

The journey through the pitch-black night is agonizingly quiet. Without my Fear Beast shadowing my steps, and with my empathic channels flawlessly gagged by the Banshee's blinding, sterile light, I am left entirely hollow. I cannot taste the ambient fear of the shadows or the resolve of my captors. For the first time since waking up in July, I am completely blind to the world, reduced to nothing but the cold, biting wind against my face and the heavy crunch of our footsteps.

We walk for kilometers. We march steadily away from the sweeping, imposing shadow of the Shard, leaving the towering titan of our future homeland behind in the bruised smog.

We eventually cross into an abandoned, desolate sector of the capital. The ruined Victorian architecture here is entirely different from the rest of the city.

Massive, jagged clusters of black Originium crystals jut violently from the melted asphalt and shattered brickwork. The buildings are warped, hollowed out by blinding heat, their classical facades reduced to glassed craters and pulverized concrete. The faint, metallic smell of scorching ozone still lingers heavily in the freezing air. I recognize this devastation intimately. This is a Catastrophe-struck zone. This is the precise, localized wrath pulled down from the sky by the Regent's power.

We navigate through the catastrophic craters until the Banshee leads us toward the hollowed-out husk of a commercial building.

Its roof is completely caved in, but the reinforced structural walls remain standing, offering a deep, impenetrable shadow from the street. Bagpipe marches me directly across the threshold, our boots echoing against the warped tiles of the interior.

Hidden deep within the shell of the building is a makeshift, highly organized forward camp. Dim, low-emission tactical lights illuminate a cluster of heavy, insulated grey tents and stacked equipment crates.

And printed starkly across the canvas of every single tent, glowing faintly in the dim light, is the exact same insignia stitched onto the Banshee's clothing.

The white rook. The undeniable mark of Rhodes Island.

Bagpipe shoves me forward, forcing me through the insulated canvas flaps of the largest tent in the camp.

The interior is a contrast to the apocalyptic ruins outside. It is bathed in the sterile, low- emission glow of tactical monitors and a single, swaying lantern hanging from the reinforced frame. The air is warm, smelling faintly of dry canvas and stale coffee.

Standing over a makeshift table covered in sprawling topographical maps of Londinium are two figures. One is completely obscured by a heavy, dark coat and a tactical hood, their face hidden behind a dark visor.

The other is a young Cautus girl.

At the sound of our entrance, the Cautus instantly turns around.

The absolute second she sees me, she freezes.

I do not need my Arts to read the absolute devastation that violently shatters her composure.

She looks incredibly, agonizingly pained. Her eyes widen, tracking frantically over the fabric of my Kazdelian uniform, sweeping over the military cut of my coat, before finally locking onto the horns resting on my crown. Her breathing visibly hitches. Her hands, adorned with nine dark, heavy rings, tremble violently as she grips the edge of the tactical table to keep herself entirely upright.

"It is really you…" she breathes out. The words are fragile, fracturing in the warm air of the tent like splintered glass. "When Bagpipe said she saw you in Londinium… I didn’t want to believe it…"

I refuse to be looked at with that suffocating, weeping pity. I am not a tragedy; I am a Djall of the Royal Court.

The Cautus girl swallows hard, forcing her trembling hands to release the edge of the table. She takes a slow, shaky breath, her focus never leaving my face.

"Logos… Bagpipe… Doctor…" she says, her voice wavering under the crushing weight of her grief before she forces it back into a steady, commanding cadence. "If you don’t mind, I want… some time, just the two of us."

Behind me, Bagpipe’s unyielding grip on my wrists finally loosens. The Vouivre steps back.

"Are you sure, boss?" Bagpipe asks.

The Cautus girl does not look away from me.

"Yes."

The command is quiet, but it carries an absolute, undeniable authority.

The Banshee, Logos, turns without a single word. The hooded figure, Doctor, turn and walk out into the cold.

Bagpipe gives me one last, intensely calculated glare.

The heavy, insulated canvas flaps swing shut, sealing perfectly together.

I am left entirely alone in the dim light of the command tent.

The absolute, impenetrable wall of light in my mind begins to crack.

The Banshee’s gag is fading. The sensory world rushes back into the void of my chest. The Vouivre woman had called her "boss."

This Cautus girl, standing completely unarmed in front of me, is the enemy commander. She is the leader. If I strike her down right here, right now, I will land a crippling, decapitating blow for the Regent. I can end this.

I bare my teeth. I expect to taste the vile, stagnant rot of deception, or the cold, calculating detachment of a mastermind.

Instead, the flavor crashes into me like a collapsing building.

It is blindingly pure. It tastes of flawless, crystallized sugar. But the sweetness is drowning. It is completely saturated in a boundless, suffocating ocean of profound, aching sorrow. There is no malice in her mind. There is no deception. Just a raw, bleeding-heart grief that radiates off her frame like a physical heat.

Why?

Why do you look at me with that suffocating, weeping pity?! Why don’t you draw a weapon and strike me down?! You are my enemy!

My chest heaves as a frantic, panicked rage begins to boil in my throat. It is a lie. It has to be a lie. This is their trap. They just want to imprison me again. They want to chain me in the dark and force me to be their docile, hollow puppet.

I close my eyes tightly, forcing the phantom ache of her sorrow away. I need a weapon. I need my protector.

I focus my mind, reaching desperately into the dark corners of my consciousness. I try to pull the dense, psychic ash together. I need to summon my only friend. I need the ash-grey beast to materialize, to tear through this warm tent and paint these topographical maps in her blood.

"Lita."

The name cuts through the quiet air.

My eyes snap open.

The Cautus girl takes a single, slow step forward. She does not raise her hands to defend herself.

"You don't have to be Lethe," she says, her voice trembling but incredibly clear. "You have always been Lita, after all."

My focus violently splinters She… she isn't fighting me. She isn't trying to erase who I am right now. She is validating the only name I know.

I stare at her. She just stands there in the dim, low-emission light. No guards. No armor. Just a girl with heavy, dark rings on her fingers and a heart bleeding crystallized sugar and sorrow.

I raise my hand. My fingers curl into a rigid, trembling claw.

I can do this. I can summon the beast. I will kill her. I will fulfill my absolute duty to the Royal Court.

I try to pull the ash together. I try to summon the rage required to execute an enemy of the state.

Her pure, devastating sorrow floods my empathic channels, washing away the ash and the iron. It short-circuits my Arts, drowning my violent resolve in a paralyzing, agonizing sweetness. My hand drops a fraction. My breathing fractures into ragged, shallow gasps.

I cannot kill her.

I cannot focus.

Why?

Why does she feels like Theresa…

Why…

I jam my fingers into my ears, pressing so hard against my own skull that it physically hurts. But it is entirely useless. I can block the sound of her voice, but I absolutely cannot block the tastes.

The paralyzing, suffocating flavor of pure, crystallized sugar and profound sorrow bleeds directly into my empathic channels, bypassing my physical senses entirely. It is a relentless, drowning tide of emotion that refuses to let me go.

"How…" I gasp. "How do you know 'Lita'?! No one ever told you that name! What… what Arts are you using?! Stop manipulating me!"

I stumble backward. My heels catch on the edge of a heavy equipment crate, and I collapse against the insulated wall of the tent. I scramble frantically into the darkest corner I can find, pulling my knees tightly to my chest. I wrap my arms around my legs, squeezing myself into a trembling ball.

This is it for me.

There is absolutely no way for me to run. Bagpipe’s unyielding, forged-steel strength, Logos’s terrifying, frictionless obliteration… and now this girl who can effortlessly dismantle my Arts with nothing but a bleeding heart.

Why? Why are they so unbelievably strong?

"Just kill me," I whisper. My fingers dig so hard into the fabric of my uniform that my knuckles turn white. I squeeze my eyes shut. "Please… just kill me. I don’t… I don't want to be a chained animal…"

The soft, deliberate rustle of clothing approaches. The Cautus girl kneels directly in front of me, closing the distance until the overwhelming emotions of her presence completely envelops me.

"I will never do such a thing. Lita," she says.

Why is she so gentle…

Theresa… is this… is this actually your plan…?

I slowly open my eyes. I look up at her through the blurred, stinging vision of my own unshed tears.

"Why…" I cannot understand the shape of her being. "Why… why do you want me…?"

The Cautus girl reaches out. She doesn't grab my wrists, and she doesn't force me into iron shackles. Instead, her ring-clad hand gently brushes against my cheek. The sheer volume of her unconditional grief washes over me, tasting so incredibly, painfully warm that it makes my chest physically ache.

"Because," she whispers, her eyes brimming with a quiet, devastating sorrow, "we have been friends."

"You are lying..."

I scramble further back, pressing myself so hard against the canvas wall that the cold, night air from the Catastrophe-struck zone bites right through the fabric.

"You are lying!" My voice fractures.

The Cautus girl does not flinch. The overwhelming, drowning tide of pure, crystallized sugar and profound, aching sorrow radiating from her does not waver. She just looks at me, her eyes glistening.

"Just take a break, Lita," she whispers softly.

She turns her head slightly toward the sealed flaps of the tent.

"Raidian… if you will."

The canvas flaps part. The freezing air of the ruined city rushes in, but it is immediately swallowed by a brand new flavor bleeding into my fractured empathic channels.

It tastes of sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak. It is a flavor that is fundamentally, deeply safe and comforting, anchored by an unyielding density. But right now, that grounding warmth is completely submerged in a heavy layer of grief.

She steps into the tent. She is a tall Liberi woman with four arms. Her lower hands are tucked quietly against her sides, while her upper hands softly adjust the collar of her coat. Her eyes find me instantly, huddled in the corner on the floor.

The absolute second she looks at me, her expression shatters into the exact same weeping pity that Amiya holds.

Raidian crosses the tent in a few long strides. I desperately try to summon my Fear Beast, to defend myself, but my mind is an entirely ruined mess. My Arts are dead in the water, I cannot focus.

She kneels right beside me. Her lower arms gently slide around my shoulders, while her upper hands softly cup my arms. She lifts me with an effortless, undeniable physical strength.

"Let… let me… go…" I choke out.

I try to thrash against her hold, but there is no forged-steel brutality in her grip like the Vouivre woman who pinned me to the asphalt. It is just… warm. It is an embrace. My struggle is completely useless, my limbs feeling heavy and numb.

I look up at the Liberi's face. Her eyes are red, shimmering with heavy, unshed tears in the dim light.

"Why…" The word scrapes out of my throat, wet and broken. "Why… why do you all feel bad for me…?"

I am a soldier of the Military Commission.

I am a Djall of the Royal Court.

I am the enemy.

Why do they refuse to hate me?

Raidian does not answer immediately. One of her upper hands shifts, her warm fingers gently and methodically caressing my messy hair. She smoothly untangles the strands caught around my horns, the physical touch sending a phantom, agonizing spike of pure nostalgia directly through my chest.

What…

Why do I feel… that…

She guides me to my feet, supporting my completely numb weight against her side as she leads me toward the exit of the command tent.

"Because you are our Lita," Raidian murmurs. Her voice trembles with an aching, profound tenderness as she guides me out into the freezing, pitch-black night. "And we wouldn't let anyone convince you otherwise."

Raidian’s gentle grip guides me out of the tent. I stumble slightly, my knees weak and my mind a fractured, ruined mess.

A few meters away, Bagpipe stands absolute guard near the perimeter of the makeshift camp. The Vouivre woman leans against a stack of military crates, her massive gun- lance resting by her side. Her emotional presence still pulses with that explosive, sun- baked heat, feeling like an unyielding statue of forged steel. But there is no hostility aimed at me.

Logos, the terrifying Banshee who had effortlessly obliterated my Fear Beast, sits on a nearby crate. He looks entirely unbothered by my presence. He isn't even looking at me. His presence bleeds quietly into the cold air.

The hooded figure stops. The flavor bleeding off him is a complex, sharp biting flavor of dark over-steeped black tea and cold iron, entirely clouded by the muted, tasteless flavor of melting snow and thick grey fog. He observes me for a long, agonizing moment in absolute silence. Then, without a single word of condemnation or command, he turns around and walks right back into the tent.

My fingers dig into the sleeves of my Kazdelian uniform.

"Please…" My voice tears violently through the cold air. I look between Raidian, Bagpipe, and Logos. "Please, just hate me…"

I beg them. I need them to draw their weapons. I need them to chain me, to strike me, to treat me like the enemy I am. I am a Djall of the Royal Court…

But none of them do. Bagpipe just offers a sad, quiet sigh. Logos slowly turns a page on the book he is reading, completely ignoring my frantic plea.

Then, a heavy crunch of boots on cracked asphalt echoes from the dark perimeter.

A brand new flavor violently bleeds out from the jagged, warped ruins of the Catastrophe-struck zone. It crashes into my empathic channels with the roaring intensity of a Catastrophe. It tastes of heavy machine grease, roaring exhaust, and pure, unapologetic fire.

A tall, black-haired Feline woman steps into the dim light of the camp. She is dressed in heavily scarred tactical gear, and resting casually in her grip is a massive, terrifyingly heavy chainsaw.

I stare at the jagged, heavily-oiled teeth of her weapon.

This is it. This is my executioner.

They finally realize I cannot be reasoned with. They brought their brute to strike me down. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing my body for the searing, forged-steel brutality that is about to tear me apart.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of the Feline's boots stops right in front of me. The roaring, unapologetic fire of her aura engulfs me completely.

I wait for the chainsaw's deafening roar.

Instead, a large, calloused hand drops heavily onto my head.

It doesn't strike me. It violently, playfully ruffles my messy hair, completely messing up the strands Raidian had just carefully untangled.

"Kiddo!" The Feline woman's voice booms across the quiet camp, completely devoid of any hostility. It is bright, rowdy, and overwhelmingly warm. "Glad you are safe! Welcome back."

My eyes snap open.

I stare up at her grinning face.

My hands drop to my sides. The phantom ache in my chest shatters into a million agonizing pieces.

"No…" I whisper, my voice cracking into a desperate wheeze. "No…"

I raise my trembling hands, pressing them flat against the Feline woman's scarred tactical gear. With whatever strength I have left, I try to shove her heavy frame away.

"This… this is not my home!" I yell, my voice tearing raw and desperate through the night air. "I live in the Shard! I am your enemy!"

I expect the Feline to finally bare her teeth. I expect her chainsaw to roar to life and cut me down. Instead, it softens into a steady, protective warmth that refuses to burn me.

Blaze gently catches my wrists, effortlessly stopping my frantic thrashing.

"It is okay, kiddo," she says softly, the rowdy brightness in her tone melting away into a profound, grounding patience. "You are just confused. Have some rest. You are safe here."

"I am a Royal Court…" I sob, the words practically choking me.

Behind me, Raidian’s hold shifts. The Liberi pulls me flush against her side, her lower arms wrapping securely and warmly around my shoulders. The flavor of sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak completely envelops me, acting as an unyielding, undeniably safe anchor against my collapsing reality.

"You are our Lita," Raidian murmurs into my messy hair, her voice thick and trembling. "I promised your mom to keep you safe… I lost you twice already… I will not lose you a third time."

The word pierces through the pitch-black void of my mind.

The Confessarii told me I had nothing. They told me my mind was stripped clean of any faces, names, or warmth, and that my only purpose was the bloodline. They said I belonged to the Royal Court.

But… Mom?

"My mom…?" The question scrapes out of my throat, wet, broken, and impossibly small. I look up at Raidian's red, shimmering eyes. "I have… a mom?"

One of Raidian's upper hands moves, her fingers gently cupping my cheek.

"Yes…" Raidian whispers, the heavy, unshed tears in her eyes finally spilling over and tracking down her face in the dim light. "You have two. One who birthed you, and one who loves you with her entire being right now…"

A mother who birthed me. A mother who loves me.

I desperately reach into my consciousness. I try to find the Kazdelian iron. I try to find the Regent's absolute truth. I try to find the ash-grey Fear Beast to protect me from this crushing, paralyzing sweetness.

But there is nothing there.

My knees finally give out completely. Raidian easily takes my entirely numb weight, guiding me down until we are both kneeling on the cracked asphalt.

"I don't remember…" I weep, burying my face into her coat, my fingers digging desperately into her fabric. "I don't remember anything…"

"It is okay to cry, Lita…" Raidian murmurs, her upper hand gently, rhythmically stroking my back while she holds me tightly against her side.

I cry.

I weep with a violent, ragged intensity until my throat is raw and my lungs ache. I cry until I simply cannot anymore, my body completely drained of all its adrenaline and forged-steel tension, leaving me as nothing but a hollow, shivering shell.

When the physical and emotional exhaustion finally drags me completely under, Raidian lifts my entirely numb weight. She carries me back inside the forward camp, walking through the flaps of one of the insulated grey tents. The air inside is warm, smelling faintly of dry canvas. She gently lays me down on a small, utilitarian cot, pulling a thick blanket securely over my shoulders.

I lay there, staring blankly at the dark canvas ceiling. Outside, just beyond the insulated flaps, muffled murmurs filter into the quiet room.

"Is it possible to transfer her back to the landship, Amiya?" an unknown woman's voice asks. It carries a heavy, mechanical exhaustion, though it lacks any hostile intent.

"We can try," the Cautus girl, Amiya, answers softly. Even through the canvas, the boundless, suffocating ocean of her profound, aching sorrow and pure, crystallized sugar bleeds into the night air. "Ms. Closure…"

"It is going to be hard," the unknown woman, Closure, interrupts with a frustrated sigh.

"Any transport will be obliterated by the artilleries the moment they leave the city."

"She can stay here with Kal'tsit," a brand new voice rings out. It is a man's voice, remarkably low, steadfast, and carrying the cold, quiet density of a shadow. "I will keep the camp hidden."

Kal'tsit.

"Thank you, Misery…" Amiya says softly.

The Confessarii had explicitly warned me about that name. Kal'tsit is the arch-enemy.

She is the ruthless, calculating architect of my imprisonment. She is the one who steals Sarkaz memories and keeps us chained in the dark!

A frantic, desperate panic re-ignites in my chest.

"I knew it…" I gasp, my breath hitching as I frantically kick the heavy blanket off my legs. I try to struggle off my bed, my hands slipping against the metal frame of the cot as I force myself upward. I have to get out of this tent. I have to run before the ice completely traps me.

"I knew it!" I yell, my voice fracturing in terror. "You are just disarming me… so Kal'tsit can chain me again!"

Before my feet can even touch the ground, Raidian is there. Her arms wrap around me, catching my thrashing limbs instantly. She gently but firmly pins my shoulders back against the mattress, completely restraining my frantic struggle.

"Just rest… Lita…" Raidian soothes, her voice a quiet, deeply comforting anchor in the dim light. She reaches out, her warm fingers brushing the tear-soaked hair away from my completely terrified eyes. "You can meet her yourself tomorrow…"

I stop thrashing. My muscles are completely spent.

"I…" My voice is nothing but a ragged, broken whisper. I stare up at the dim canvas ceiling, the tears continuing to spill from the corners of my eyes and soak into the mattress. "Why… why… you cannot just fight me…"

Raidian's upper hand continues to gently, rhythmically stroke my messy hair.

"Why should we, Lita?" the Liberi asks softly, her voice thick with that same profound, weeping pity that Amiya carried.

"Because…" I choke on the words, the Confessarii's absolute truth violently fracturing in my throat. "I… I am your enemy… you are my enemy…"

Raidian leans down, her forehead resting gently against the side of my head.

"We never were and never will be, Lita," she murmurs into the quiet room.

I don't have the strength to argue anymore. I turn on my side, pulling my knees tightly to my chest. I wrap my arms and my tail around my legs, curling up into a small, trembling ball beneath the blanket. Raidian doesn't stop me, simply adjusting the covers to make sure I am completely shielded from the draft of the zone.

If they aren't the enemy… if this Cautus girl who bleeds crystallized sugar and this Liberi who holds me so warmly aren't my cruel captors… then what is the truth? Are the Confessarii the ones who placed the pitch-black void in my mind? Was Theresa right about the cold iron I was forced to wear?

Is my entire life just a lie?

My mind simply shuts down.

The pitch-black void finally rises up to swallow me, and this time, I do not fight it.

Exhaustion completely pulls me under.

The pitch-black void of sleep slowly recedes, leaving me completely disoriented.

I open my eyes, staring up at the unfamiliar canvas ceiling. My body aches, and the heavy fabric of my uniform feels stiff and uncomfortable against my skin. I slowly roll off the small cot.

I step forward and push past the heavy, insulated canvas flaps of the tent.

The freezing night has completely passed. The bruised, ash-choked daylight of Londinium bleeds down through the caved-in roof of the hollowed-out commercial building. It looks like midday already.

I scan the perimeter. The makeshift forward camp is eerily quiet. The Vouivre woman with her forged-steel grip, the terrifying Banshee, and the Cautus girl who tastes pure, crystallized sugar are nowhere to be seen. The perimeter is devoid of the tactical presence from last night. The camp looks almost entirely empty.

This is my chance.

I am a Djall of the Royal Court. I am not their prisoner, and I am not their friend. The command tent is completely unguarded. I can slip in, steal the sprawling topographical maps of Londinium right off their tactical table, and march straight back to the towering shadow of the Shard. I will deliver the intel directly to the Regent, and I will prove my absolute loyalty to our cause.

I take a deliberate, calculated step toward the command tent.

But before my heels even fully lands on the cracked asphalt, a familiar flavor bleeds into the stale air. It tastes of sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak, anchored by an unyielding, comforting density.

"Good morning, Lita."

I flinch, spinning around.

Raidian appears from the flaps of one of the adjacent grey tents. The Liberi woman looks at me with a soft, devastatingly gentle smile. Her lower hands are tucked quietly against her sides, while one of her upper hands holds a small, steaming metal bowl.

"Are you hungry?" she asks.

My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My grand, tactical escape plan completely stalls.

"Good… morning… Raidian…" I stammer.

Right on cue, as if to mock myself, my stomach lets out a loud, hollow growl. I haven't eaten a single thing since before I started sweeping the flooded, rusted processing plant yesterday afternoon. My body absolutely, fundamentally betrays me.

Raidian's smile widens.

"We have some oats," she says softly, stepping closer and offering the steaming bowl with one of her hands. "It is not much, but it will fill you up."

I reach out, my trembling fingers moving toward the warm metal. But right before my skin brushes against the bowl, my hands stop.

It has to be poisoned.

They want to chain me in the dark and force me to be their docile, hollow puppet. This food must be laced with sedatives to keep me compliant and weak.

I jerk my hands back, pressing them tightly against the fabric of my uniform.

I look up at the Liberi. Raidian doesn't frown, and she doesn't retract the offering. She just stands there in the bruised, ash-choked daylight, still patiently holding the steaming bowl out to me.

I narrow my eyes and sweep her emotional presence for the trap. I brace myself to taste the vile, stagnant rot of deception, or the cold, calculating detachment of a mastermind. I wait for the rusted iron of malice to bleed into the air.

But there is absolutely nothing.

The flavor crashing into my senses remains fundamentally, deeply safe. It is entirely filled with sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak, anchored by an unyielding density. There is no deception. There is absolutely no malice. Just that heavy, weeping layer of grief, perfectly woven with a profound, unconditional tenderness.

Why?

Why doesn't she have ulterior motives? Why do they all refuse to act like the enemies? My stomach lets out another agonizing, hollow growl.

Slowly, my posture breaks. I reach out again, my fingers wrapping tentatively around the warm metal. Raidian lets go easily, her hands retreating to rest quietly against her sides.

I hold the bowl close to my chest. I pick up the small metal spoon, scooping up a tiny, calculated amount of the oats. I take one careful bite, entirely ready to spit it out at the first hint of bitter medicine or chemical sedatives.

Instead, a rich, soothing sweetness blooms on my tongue.

There is honey in it.

The warmth spreads instantly down my throat, melting away the freezing, hollow ache in my chest.

I dig the spoon back in, practically inhaling the food. The sweet, warm oats vanish in a matter of seconds. The metal spoon scraping loudly against the bottom as I desperately chase the last drops of honey.

I lower the bowl, my hands still trembling slightly against the chill of the morning air.

"Thank… thank you," I whisper.

Raidian’s gentle smile softens even further.

"You are welcome, Lita.”

I look down at the empty metal in my hands. "…where should I put the bowl?"

"Just leave it on the crate, Lita," she answers softly.

I step forward and carefully place the bowl onto a nearby stack of reinforced military supplies, the metal clinking quietly against the hard plastic.

Raidian looks at me.

"Do you want to meet Kal'tsit?"

The name spikes my heart rate.

Kal'tsit.

The supreme architect of all Sarkaz sufferings.

I swallow hard. I look at Raidian’s completely unguarded posture. The camp around us is eerily quiet.

I am still a Djall of the Royal Court.

Maybe this is my chance.

I can get rid of our biggest enemy. I could strike her down right here. I could tear the head off the snake and cripple Rhodes Island permanently.

"Okay…" I reply. I force my voice to remain perfectly steady, desperately hiding the absolute, forged-steel resolve locking into place in my chest.

Raidian turns and leads the way. I follow closely behind her, my heels crunching deliberately against the cracked asphalt. We approach a heavily insulated, sterile-white medical tent situated near the center of the camp.

I square my shoulders. I force my spine to be perfectly straight. My fingers curl into tight, rigid fists. I brace myself to face a terrifying, imposing monster of a commander.

Raidian pulls back the heavy canvas flaps. I step inside, my muscles entirely coiled and ready to strike.

But my breath catches in my throat.

There is no imposing monster. There is no mastermind waiting to chain me in the dark. Lying on a field cot is a pale Feline woman. She is perfectly, terrifyingly still. She is hooked up to a chaotic, desperate array of life-support monitors and intravenous drips, their low-emission screens casting a sickly glow across her drawn features. Her eyes are closed. A heavy swath of pristine white bandages wraps tightly around her torso, but a dark, thick stain of crimson has already soaked straight through the fabric, pooling ominously over the wound.

I brace for the vile, stagnant rot of deception to flood my senses.

Instead, the flavor bleeding off her broken frame is an absolute, catastrophic tragedy.

Beneath the sterile smell of the medical tent, her resonance is ancient. An immovable, towering glacier: the heavy scent of cold iron, deep history, and old paper. But the glacier is shattering. It tastes of cracked, bleeding ice melting helplessly into a pool of freezing, stagnant rainwater. The scent of ancient paper is crumbling into ash, completely saturated with the acidic tang of agonizing physical trauma.

It is the resonance of a dying star, flickering weakly and desperately against a suffocating, pitch-black void. Her unyielding density has been hollowed out, reduced to a fragile, rusted wire stretched to its absolute breaking point.

There is absolutely no threat here. There is no supreme architect of suffering. There is just a broken, bleeding woman desperately clinging to the very edge of life.

My hands drop limply to my sides. My grand, tactical assassination plan shatters into a million useless pieces against the quiet hum of her heart monitor.

"You… you have to be tricking me!"

I stumble backward, my heel catching on the metal leg of a supply tray. I point a trembling finger at the sterile cot. "This is a trick! An illusion! The Confessarii warned me about your deceptions!"

But the agony bleeding off the Feline woman is absolute, unfiltered reality. The shattered glacier, the freezing rainwater, the bitter, suffocating ash of her fading vitality. She tastes real…

My hand slowly drops.

"Lita…" Raidian murmurs.

The Liberi steps up beside me. One of her hands reaches out, gently resting against my back.

I cannot tear my eyes away from the dark crimson stain rapidly expanding across Kal'tsit's white bandages.

"How…" The word scrapes out of my dry throat, barely a whisper over the chaotic, rhythmic beeping of the life-support machines. "How did she…"

Raidian’s real hands tightly clasp each other in front of her chest. She takes a slow, shaky breath.

"They were storming the Shard," Raidian explains, her voice trembling with an aching, profound devastation. "Theresis ambushed them. He was aiming for Amiya… and Kal'tsit blocked it."

Theresis. The Regent. The absolute, unyielding monolith of ancient iron who gave me my purpose.

He aimed his blade at Amiya.

And Kal'tsit… the supreme architect of all Sarkaz suffering, the ruthless mastermind who I was told wanted to keep us chained in the dark… she had thrown herself in front of that blade to save her.

"What… no…"

The absolute truth the Confessarii had built inside my head completely fractures.

If Theresis is the one slaughtering the innocent, and Kal'tsit is the one dying to protect the girl who loves me… then what does that make me?

I look down.

I stare at my own hands. I stare at the immaculate fabric of my Royal Court uniform. It is the uniform of the Regent's executioners. I remember the Feline informants I slaughtered in the lobby. I remember the Feline sniper I mentally destroyed…

Theresa's tragic voice echoes in the quiet corners of my mind.

My hands begin to shake uncontrollably.

I look up at the Liberi, my vision violently blurring with hot, stinging tears.

"Raidian…" My voice cracks into a desperate wheeze. My fingers curl inward, digging my nails so hard into my palms that they threaten to draw blood. "Am I… am I… the bad guy…?"

"Look at me, Lita," she commands.

I force my eyes up, looking at her through my stinging, blurred vision.

Raidian is looking at me, her expression incredibly composed.

"I…" My voice trembles, unable to form a coherent defense.

"I was born in Ursus," Raidian states, her voice remarkably steady in the quiet hum of the medical tent. "I was what they called a prodigy. I can read brain waves with my Arts. I worked as an interrogator… for the world's most brutal military. I had… I had done things… Lita…"

I stare at her, my tear-soaked eyes wide in absolute disbelief. I instinctively brush my Arts against her presence, desperately expecting to find a lie. But the fundamental truth of her words crashes into me. The deep, comforting flavor of sun-warmed linen and sturdy oak parts for just a fraction, revealing a deeply buried, ancient scar in her being. It tastes of freezing, blood-soaked snow and rusted iron chains. And lightless abyss of pure suffering.

It is a flavor of sheer, unapologetic cruelty.

I look at this gentle Liberi woman who had just fed me warm honey oats and stroked my hair while I wept. I am entirely unable to reconcile her profound, unconditional warmth with the pitch-black abyss of an Ursine military interrogator.

"Why…" I whisper, the word completely fragile. "Why are you here…"

Raidian's shimmering eyes soften, the heavy grief returning to the forefront of her resonance.

"I fled to Leithanien after I understood what the Infected are truly going through…"

Raidian explains, her tone carrying the faint, melancholic echo of a distant lifetime. "I had a luxurious life there."

My brow furrows. I look around the canvas walls of the medical tent, at the low- emission tactical lights, and finally back to the agonizing, bleeding reality of Kal'tsit clinging to life on the cot.

"But… you are in a war zone now…"

If she had escaped the darkness and found safety, why would she ever come back to the ash and the blood?

Raidian slowly reaches out. Her hands gently cups my cheek, her thumb wiping away a fresh tear that had spilled down my face.

"I was not satisfied with my safe life," the Liberi murmurs softly. "I joined Theresa, her Babel… it is there I met people who are truly trying for a better future."

"Like your birth mother… Lethia" Raidian whispers.

Lethia.

I had a mother…

A mother who fought side-by-side with this Liberi against the darkness.

Raidian leans down, her forehead coming to rest gently against mine. Her unconditional warmth completely envelops my frame.

"…that's also where I met you… Lita."

"Raidian…" My mind frantically tries to piece together the shattered fragments of my reality. "You said… you were with Theresa… but Theresa is with the Regent… Theresis now… Why are you fighting against us… I mean… them…"

Raidian’s expression tightens. The unshed tears in her eyes threaten to spill over once again, deepening into an abyssal well of grief. She keeps her warm hands firmly on my shoulders, grounding my trembling frame.

"That… we are still trying to understand too, Lita," she says, her voice a quiet, wavering anchor in the sterile hum of the medical tent. "Theresis killed… Theresa during the fall of Babel."

"That is also the night your mother was killed by the Confessarii…" Raidian whispers, the profound tragedy of her resonance pressing down heavily on my shoulders. "We don't know why Theresa is alive, and we don't know why she is standing beside Theresis now."

Theresis killed his own sister?

The Confessarii slaughtered my mother?

"You are lying… You have to be! They… they couldn't have… no… no… please tell me this is not true!"

My hands ball into tight, trembling fists. I strike at her. I beat my fists against the fabric of her coat, my physical strength completely evaporating. It is an entirely useless assault. I want to hurt her, to push her away, to break this new reality before it finishes completely breaking me.

She was an interrogator…

She has to be manipulating me.

I aggressively search for the trap. I desperately pray to taste the vile, stagnant rot of a lie. I want to find the rusted iron of deception, or the cold, calculating detachment of a Rhodes Island mastermind trying to manipulate a prisoner of war.

But there is nothing.

The flavor bleeding off the Liberi is absolute, devastating reality. It remains fundamentally, deeply safe. But right now, that unyielding density is completely submerged in a drowning, suffocating ocean of raw agony.

She has no lies to give me. She is just hurting. She is hurting so unbelievably much, mourning the ghost of a queen and the tragic memory of my mother.

Raidian doesn't fight back. She doesn't even flinch against my strikes. Her hands simply reach out, gently and effortlessly catching my wrists to stop my frantic thrashing. Her touch is overwhelmingly, painfully warm.

"Let's leave the tent, Lita," she murmurs softly, her voice thick and rolling with absolute sorrow. She glances back at the sickly glow of the life-support monitors and the chaotic, desperate beeping keeping the Feline woman alive. "Kal'tsit needs to rest. We can talk more outside."

She doesn't wait for me to argue. I don't have the strength to, anyway. Raidian supports my entirely numb weight, gently but firmly guiding me away from the broken, bleeding mastermind I had once been ordered to hate. With a quiet, unyielding tenderness, she leads my hollow, shivering shell out through the insulated canvas flaps, pulling me back out into the ruined city.

I sit completely blankly on a heavy, reinforced military crate.

The bruised, ash-choked daylight of Londinium bleeds down through the ruined canopy of the commercial building, but I cannot feel its warmth. The freezing, pitch-black void I had been so terrified of has been entirely replaced by a crushing, suffocating mountain of guilt.

Why…

I stare vacantly at the cracked asphalt between my black heels.

Why can this not be a lie? Why…

Why my Arts have to show me the truth…

Raidian’s hand gently enters my peripheral vision, holding a small metal cup.

"Here. Some water, Lita."

I reach out, my trembling fingers wrapping around the cold metal. My hands are shaking so violently that the liquid sloshes dangerously against the rim. I bring the cup closer to my chest, and I look down into the shallow, still depths.

Staring back at me is a stranger.

It is the face of a monster.

I see the lopsided horns resting on my crown. I see the face of an arrogant, indoctrinated executioner. I see the girl who didn't hesitate to summon an ash-grey Fear Beast to violently pierce the heart of a terrified, desperate Feline informant who was only trying to feed a hiding family. I see the girl who gleefully dragged a broken Feline sniper through the apocalyptic, blinding firestorm of his worst trauma just to taste the rot of his panic.

I slaughtered innocents.

And I did it all for the Regent and his Confessarii…

The butchers who murdered my own mother.

The phantom taste of the Feline informant's blood forcefully coats the back of my throat. I am the villain. I am the cruel, hollow puppet they molded me into, a blade forged to strike down the only people who genuinely loved me.

A heavy, burning drop escapes my eyelashes.

It falls.

The tear strikes the surface of the water with a quiet, fragile plink. The surface ripples outward, completely shattering the reflection of the monster into a hundred distorted, weeping pieces.

My grip on the cup is entirely rigid, my knuckles turning a pale, bloodless white as the ripples in the water slowly settle. I cannot look away from the distorted reflection of my lopsided horns, woodsmoke grey hair and misty blue eyes.

The comforting flavor of sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak completely wraps around me. Raidian leans in closer. Her lower hands gently cradle my wrists, while one of her upper hands reaches out, her incredibly warm fingers brushing against mine.

With an undeniable, profound tenderness, she gently pries the cold metal cup from my death grip.

"Here," Raidian murmurs softly. She adjusts her hold, offering the rim of the cup back toward my lips. "Drink it slowly."

I lean forward, my movements completely hollow and mechanical. I part my dry, cracked lips and take a slow, trembling sip. Then another.

The cold water washes over my tongue, sliding down a throat that feels like it has been entirely coated in crushed, freezing ash. The physical sensation violently grounds me. I realize, with a sudden, aching clarity, just how incredibly thirsty I am. My body greedily takes the water, desperate for something that isn't the metallic tang of blood or the rotting tastes of terror.

I take a few more frantic sips before pulling back, my breath hitching as another fresh tear spills down my cheek.

"I am a monster…" The whisper violently tears itself from my throat, raw and completely broken. "I tasted their fear… and I liked it… I smiled, Raidian. I am a monster."

Raidian lowers the cup, setting it quietly aside on the reinforced crate.

Then she immediately reach out, her warm palms gently cupping my face. Her thumbs brush away the wetness tracking down my cheeks.

"No, Lita," she states, her voice carrying the absolute, unyielding density of sturdy oak.

"You are not."

I shake my head frantically against her hold. "But I killed them! I…"

"Look at me," Raidian interrupts, her command quiet but carrying an absolute, undeniable authority. She leans in, forcing me to look directly into her own shimmering, tear-filled eyes. "A monster does not weep for the people it has struck down. A monster does not shatter under the weight of its own actions."

Her thumbs slowly, rhythmically stroke my cheekbones.

"The Confessarii poured their shadows into your mind. They erased your warmth, forced you to wear their iron, and commanded you to tear the world apart. They wanted to build a ruthless executioner," Raidian's voice trembles, thick with an aching, unconditional love. "But your heart is breaking right now because you fundamentally know it was wrong. That agonizing pain you are feeling? That crushing, suffocating guilt?"

She pulls back just a fraction.

"That is the absolute proof that their conditioning failed. That is the proof that you are still our Lita," she whispers into the air. "Because a true monster would never feel this much remorse."

I remain completely silent. Raidian's words echo in the quiet space between us.

I lower my gaze. I look away from her shimmering eyes and stare down at myself.

My eyes track over the immaculate, sterile white fabric of the military dress. I look at the deep grey coat that breaks sharply at my waist, designed for absolute, forged-steel efficiency. I stare at the dark black stockings and the black heels.

It doesn't feel like armor anymore. It feels like a cage of cold iron. The fabric feels like the heavy, physical manifestation of my sins.

"I…" I whisper, my fingers instinctively curling into the pristine white fabric, suddenly desperate to tear it off my body. "I am still wearing their uniform…"

The suffocating weight of the Royal Court's aesthetic physically burns against my skin.

Raidian gently squeezes my shoulder.

"You can wear Amiya's spares if you want, Lita," she offers softly, her tone incredibly casual. "You two are basically the same size."

My head snaps up.

"I can?" I stammer, my mind completely short-circuiting at the suggestion. "She is the leader of the enemy…"

I flinch, my own programmed vocabulary betraying me. I quickly bite my tongue, my voice shrinking into a panicked wheeze.

"…sorry, I mean Rhodes Island… I am…"

I can't even finish the sentence. I am the one who stood in your command tent last night, desperately trying to summon a beast to tear Amiya apart. I am the assassin who just contemplated killing Kal'tsit on her deathbed. I don't deserve to wear Amiya’s clothes. I don't deserve the blinding, pure flavor of crystallized sugar and boundless sorrow that the Cautus girl had poured over me.

Raidian simply smiles. It is a soft, devastatingly gentle smile. She gently smooths down the messy strands of my hair.

"You are one of us. Go ahead and change, Lita."

Raidian offers me the neatly folded pile of fabric. I take it, my arms wrapping tightly around the bundle as if it were a physical shield.

Without another word, I turn and walk back into the grey tent where I had slept.

The heavy canvas flaps swing shut behind me, sealing me inside the dim, quiet space.

The cold draft of the ruined zone bites at the edges of the room.

I set the pile down on the small utilitarian cot. With stiff, trembling fingers, I reach up and begin to unfasten the deep grey coat of my Royal Court uniform. It feels impossibly heavy now, the fabric rigid and completely unforgiving. I let it slip from my shoulders, the military garment dropping to the floor in a lifeless heap. I strip off the sterile white dress, peeling away the dark stockings. Finally, I kick off the sharp black heels.

I stand shivering in the dim light, staring down at the discarded Kazdelian iron. It looks exactly like a shed skin. The skin of a monster.

I turn my back on it and reach for the pile on the cot.

I slowly put on Amiya's clothes. I start with a white, lightly knit sweater. It is incredibly soft, completely lacking the starched, suffocating rigidity of the Regent's aesthetic. A dark, ruffled cravat secures gently around the collar, framing my neck without choking it. Next comes a dark blue, pleated plaid skirt and a pair of dark, opaque tights that wrap warmly around my legs, far more comfortable and yielding than the uniform I had just shed.

I reach for the outerwear. It is a heavy, slightly oversized black jacket, secured with tactical straps and a bright yellow zipper pull. As I slide my arms through the wide cuffs, a flash of vibrant, striking blue lining catches my eye from the inside of the coat.

Finally, I step into a pair of dark leather oxfords with silver buckled straps. They are soft, quiet, and steady against the floor.

I stand perfectly still in the quiet tent.

My eyes fall to the front of the black jacket. Running vertically down the left side, printed starkly across a bright teal panel, are bold, white letters.

I reach up. My fingers slowly trace over the vinyl print, feeling the exact shape of the words.

RHODES ISLAND.

I am wearing the mark of the enemy.

The hypocrites who the Confessarii had explicitly warned me would try to chain me in the dark.

I stare at the white lettering resting right over my heart.

They are…

My fingers curl inward, gripping the teal panel tightly.

They fed me. They held me while I wept. The Cautus girl had looked at me with nothing but unconditional grief, and her dying commander had thrown herself in front of the Regent's blade to save her.

Why…

I close my eyes, a fresh, hot tear slipping down my cheek and soaking into the dark ruffled collar.

Why do they have to exist…

Why couldn't they just be the cruel, unyielding monsters Theresis told me they were?

Why did they have to be so impossibly kind, making my own sins feel so heavy that I can barely breathe?

"Lita?"

Raidian's voice filters softly through the canvas. "Are you okay in there?"

I quickly wipe my eyes with the oversized black sleeve, forcing my ragged breathing to steady.

"Ye… yes…" I call back, my voice barely more than a fractured whisper.

I take one last look at the discarded Royal Court uniform piled on the floor. I leave it there in the shadows. I push past the flaps, stepping out into the bruised daylight wearing the colors of Rhodes Island. "I finished."

I step out of the insulated tent, the heavy, oversized Rhodes Island jacket shifting around my shoulders.

Raidian looks up from the stack of military crates. Her eyes sweep over me.

"Looks good," her voice carrying a fragile but genuine smile. "Welcome back, Lita."

My fingers tighten around the long, dark sleeves of the coat. I look down at my shoes.

"I… I am back?" I whisper. The words feel completely foreign on my tongue.

Raidian’s hands briefly clasp together. "You can take as long as you need, Lita. But our colors fit you much better."

She doesn't push me for an immediate revelation. With a soft exhale, the Liberi turns back to a makeshift tactical table covered in low-emission communication terminals.

She begins adjusting the dials and heavily encrypted frequencies, her hands moving with practiced, methodical efficiency to establish contact through the bruised, ash- choked skies of Londinium.

I stand near the edge of the tent, watching her work.

I watch the gentle, deeply comforting flavor of sun-warmed linen and sturdy oak bleed steadily into the air. I think about the way she held me last night, anchoring me when my programmed reality shattered into pieces.

I lost you twice already… I will not lose you a third time.

The words from last night suddenly echo in the quiet space of my mind, cutting through the dense fog of my guilt.

I take a hesitant step forward, my soft oxfords completely silent against the cracked asphalt.

"Raidian… sorry…" I start, my voice incredibly small. She pauses her calibration, turning her head slightly to listen. "You mentioned you lost me twice… what do you mean?"

Raidian’s hands completely freeze over the communication dials.

The heavy, drowning layer of grief violently violently surges back to the forefront of her emotional presence. She lowers her head, and takes a slow, shaky breath.

"Ah… well," Raidian begins, her voice trembling slightly. "When Babel fell… I didn't find you in the landship… I failed Lethia."

"But then, in 1096…" Raidian continues, she rests heavily on the edge of the terminal.

"They found you in a Catastrophe-struck zone just outside Kazdel. You didn't remember anything anymore."

1096. That was over two years ago.

"But you eventually found your home with us," Raidian says, turning to look at me, her eyes brimming with a quiet, devastating sorrow. "Then, of course, you were abducted sometime recently… sometime in late July, or early August this year, presumably. Our communication with the landship is very limited right now. We didn't even know it had happened until Bagpipe saw you."

I tighten my grip on the long, sleeves, pulling them slightly over my knuckles.

"Raidian…"

"Can I tell you something…" I whisper, my eyes dropping to the cracked pavement between my shoes.

"Of course, Lita," she answers.

I take a slow, shaky breath.

"I don’t know what to believe anymore…" I confess, the words fracturing as they leave my throat. "The Confessarii… they told me my mind was a blank slate because you erased it. They told me you were hypocrites keeping us chained in the dark. They gave me a blade and told me I was saving my home."

I look up, my vision blurring slightly. "But… but when I look at you… when I taste the air around you all… none of it makes sense. I don't feel any malice. I only feel…"

Love.

I can't even bring myself to say the word.

Raidian turns fully away from the terminal. She pats the empty space on the heavy reinforced military crate right beside her.

"Lita, come sit with me," she says softly.

I stare at the empty spot on the crate. It is directly in front of the active tactical table.

The low-emission screens are displaying topographical maps of Londinium, glowing logistical routes, and the active, heavily encrypted radio frequencies of the resistance.

I take a hesitant, trembling step forward.

"Is it really okay?" I ask. "You are showing me… communication intel…”

I look at the maps, the sheer tactical advantage laid completely bare in front of me.

"Raidian, I am a Djall of the Royal Court," I stammer, desperately trying to warn her of my own programmed danger. "I just spent the last month killing informants for less than this! What if… what if I just memorize these coordinates? What if I just walk out of here and tell the Regent exactly where everyone is hiding…"

The ambient air remains fundamentally, deeply safe. Raidian does not scramble to cover the screens. She doesn't draw a weapon to threaten me into silence. The unyielding density of her presence doesn't waver.

She just looks at me. Her expression is an ocean of unconditional tenderness.

"Will you?" Raidian asks quietly.

I stare at her. I desperately search my chest for the scorching, fermented zealotry of Kazdel. I try to find the absolute resolve to memorize the map, to summon my Fear Beast, to strike her down and run back to the towering, imposing shadow of the Shard. But I find absolutely nothing.

My shoulders collapse.

"I…" I choke on the word. I shake my head frantically, my hands rising to grip the lapels of the Rhodes Island jacket. "I… I… I cannot…"

I step forward, my legs giving out just as I reach the crates. I collapse onto the seat beside her, curling my body inward.

Raidian's arm gently wrap around my shoulders, pulling my frame flush against her side. Her hand reaches out, her fingers lightly stroking my hair. She holds me right there, completely unguarded in front of the tactical maps, anchoring me to the undeniable truth that I am finally home.

I stare blankly at the tactical table. The screens are littered with blinking markers and overlapping frequency signals, painting a chaotic, overwhelming picture of the ruined capital.

I trace my eyes over the different insignias dotting the topography.

"There’s so many…" I whisper, the sheer scale of the opposition making my chest feel incredibly tight. I point a finger at the scattered clusters of resistance. "Reunion…

Dublinn… Glasgow… Eartha… the Dukes’s armies outside the walls and Rhodes Island… everyone is fighting against the Regent…"

I had been told that Kazdel was fighting a righteous war against a world that wanted us dead. But looking at this map, looking at the sheer volume of different factions clawing desperately at the Shard's shadow, the absolute truth of the Confessarii crumbles even further.

Raidian’s hand continues to gently stroke my hair.

"He is leading the world down a very dark path, Lita," Raidian says softly, her voice carrying an unshakable, melancholic certainty.

I look up from the map, my eyes meeting her gaze.

"I…"

But before I can say what’s on my mind, the ambient air instantly erupts into a chaotic, overlapping blend of intense emotional resonances.

Amiya bursts through the threshold first. Right behind her is Doctor, heavily obscured in their dark coat and tactical hood.

But the third figure is entirely new.

She is a Vampire, a Sarkaz just like me, with dark, unkempt hair and sharp mechanical gear strapped across her frantic frame. The absolute second she steps near, a highly distinct flavor floods my senses. She tastes of the vibrating, frantic static of sparking copper wires and heavy mechanical grease, but it is completely steeped in a remarkably rich, velvet wave of dark cherry syrup. She carries a heavy, mechanical exhaustion, but beneath it is a blindingly fast, chaotic intellect.

"Raidian, Lita, Misery!" Amiya calls out, her voice tight with urgent, breathless tension.

I shrink back slightly against Raidian's side.

From the deep, impenetrable shadows near the edge of the zone just outside the camp, the ambient air shifts without a single sound.

A slender Sarkaz man appears. He practically bleeds right out of the darkness, his presence an absolute, terrifyingly composed physical manifestation of stealth. His empathic signature is unlike anything I have ever felt. It is a completely lightless void, tasting of freezing, unyielding granite and the quiet, heavy density of a moonless night shadow. He is a phantom.

"What’s happening?" Misery asks. His voice is remarkably low, steadfast, and carries the cold, quiet density of a shadow.

Doctor steps up to the tactical table, their gloved hands quickly tapping a command into the terminal. The map shifts, revealing a series of rapidly approaching red markers converging on our sector.

"There has been increasing patrols here," Amiya says quickly, her pure, sorrowful resonance spiking with a sharp, acidic bite of adrenaline. "We need to move."

The Regent's patrols. My former comrades. If they find us here, they will slaughter everyone in this camp. They will obliterate the girl who gave me her coat, and they will tear apart the Liberi holding me right now.

Raidian immediately stands up, her expression flashes with deep, agonizing worry.

"What about Kal'tsit?" Raidian asks, her voice trembling slightly.

The Vampire woman steps up, "Shining and Nightingale have found a safe house with the help of Eartha," she answers, her tone sharp and intensely focused. "They can look after her."

Amiya turns from the tactical table, her eyes suddenly catching the jacket and the sweater I am wearing.

"Oh, Lita, you changed!" Amiya says, a brief, strained smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "It looks good on you. But… we don’t have time to catch up."

She immediately turns her focus back to the impending threat.

Doctor steps into the center of the command tent. The heavy, clouded fog and sharp iron of their presence completely anchors the room's chaotic panic. He doesn’t waste a single second, his voice muffled but carrying an absolute, pragmatic authority from beneath his dark hood.

"Pack up the slates, communicators, and all Arts Units," Doctor orders. "Gather all the essential medicines. Closure, Raidian, Misery, scrub the camp. Erase every digital footprint and burn the ciphers. We leave the canvas and the crates. This needs to look exactly like a group of desperate refugees who survived the Catastrophe, not a Rhodes Island forward base."

Raidian and Misery immediately break off, moving with absolute, frictionless efficiency to dismantle the communication hubs.

Closure practically flies toward the medical supplies.

"Logos, Shining, and Nightingale are coming soon to transport Kal," Closure reports, swiftly shoving sterile bandages and saline drips into a heavy duffel bag.

I stand completely frozen near the crates.

The Royal Court patrols are coming. My former squad. The heavy, concussive thud of Kazdelian boots that I had proudly commanded just yesterday. If I just slip out through the back of the tent right now, I could run directly toward them. I could escape this overwhelming, agonizing guilt and return to the simplicity of my old life.

This is my chance to run.

I slowly lower my eyes. I stare down at the bright teal panel on my chest and the bold, white letters printed across the jacket. I look at the pleated plaid skirt and the soft leather oxfords.

I can tell them this is just to blend in, I tell myself. I can run to the patrol commander, salute with perfect, strict attention, and tell them I stole the enemy commander's clothes as a tactical disguise. I can tell Theresis I infiltrated their forward camp to map their coordinates for the artilleries. It would be a flawless excuse. I would be welcomed back as a hero of Kazdel.

I can dismantle the oppositions.

I try to summon the cold, ruthless logic of the Confessarii.

But as I stare at the Rhodes Island insignias. The thought of leading the Regent's blades to this camp doesn't fill me with fierce loyalty… it just makes me feel violently, physically sick.

Amiya and Raidian both stop what they are doing.

The frantic, urgent rustling completely stalls. They both look directly at me.

"Lita…" Amiya says softly, her voice thick with worry.

I force my spine straight.

"I… I am okay!" I stammer, my voice cracking nervously in the quiet. I frantically shake my head, desperately trying to push the traitorous thoughts back into the void. "I just… sorry…"

Doctor pauses their rapid typing at the terminal.

"She should go to the safe house too," Doctor orders, his voice muffled but absolute.

"That… that might be for the best…" Amiya agrees softly. "It is too dangerous for her to stay on the move with us."

Before I can even process the command, the ambient air shifts with an absolute, terrifying silence.

Logos is just as impossibly composed as before.

But he is not alone.

Following closely behind him are two female Sarkaz.

The absolute second they step into the tent, a staggering clash of brand new flavors violently crashes into my empathic channels.

From the pale, blonde-haired Sarkaz woman leaning heavily on a staff, the resonance is incredibly fragile. She tastes like shattered, ethereal spun glass and cold medicinal ether, completely hollowed out by a floating, tragic emptiness. She is a ghost, drifting aimlessly through a waking dream.

But it is the woman supporting her that completely paralyzes me.

She is tall, wielding a heavy sword, her face partially obscured by a sweeping hood and striking, dark horns. At first, her flavor is blindingly radiant; it tastes of warm, absolute sunlight and fierce, penitent devotion. But beneath that radiant warmth, buried at the very core of her being, is an ancient, terrifying echo.

It is the undeniable, pitch-black scent of freezing surgical steel, embalming fluid, and old congealed blood trapped in a lightless crypt.

The moment I lay eyes on her, my lungs completely seize.

I violently scramble backward, my soft oxfords slipping against the cracked asphalt. I crash into the crates behind me, desperately shrinking back as far as I physically can into the darkest corner. I wrap my arms defensively over my head, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. My tail completely wraps around my legs.

"She… she… she is a Confessarius!" I scream, my voice tearing raw and terrified through the sterile air of the camp.

The tall Sarkaz woman completely freezes in her tracks.

She looks at my trembling frame with a quiet sorrow.

"How…" she breathes out, her voice barely a whisper.

She pauses, she lowers her head in a gesture of absolute, unyielding humility.

"My apologies," she says softly, her voice steady and carrying the warm, sheltering weight of sunlight. "I am no longer identified by that term. I am a medic."

"What…"

My arms slowly loosen from around my head. I lower my hands, my fingers still violently trembling.

A medic?

I slowly uncurl my body, my eyes darting frantically around the low-emission light of the forward camp.

I look at Shining. A Confessarius.

I look at Logos. A Banshee, standing terrifyingly composed.

I look at Closure. A Vampire.

I look at Misery, the at Nightingale.

They are all Sarkaz.

Logos and Closure are even of Royal Court bloodlines, just like me.

The Confessarii told me Rhodes Island was a hypocritical front. They explicitly told me that they stole Sarkaz memories, exploited our blood, and kept us chained in the dark as docile, hollow puppets.

But I look at their wrists, and there are no iron shackles. I look at their eyes, and there is no hollow, indoctrinated emptiness. They are moving with absolute, frictionless efficiency, driven by a fierce, unyielding loyalty. They are fighting for Rhodes Island.

They are actively risking their lives in a Catastrophe-struck zone to protect Amiya and to save the broken Feline commander bleeding out on a cot.

They are not chained. They chose to be here.

Which means the only one who was ever truly kept in the dark… was me.

"We don't have time," Doctor's voice abruptly slices through my paralyzing revelation.

Doctor doesn't waste a single second. His command is muffled, and absolute.

"Logos, transport Kal'tsit and Lita to the safe house with Shining and Nightingale."

The Banshee steps effortlessly out of the shadows.

"Consider it a success," Logos says.

The words are not just an acknowledgment; they carry the absolute, suffocating weight of ancient law.

"Follow me," Logos commands.

The Banshee turns. He moves forward into the bruised, ash-choked daylight of Londinium with an absolute, terrifyingly composed silence.

I fall into step behind him.

Behind me, the crunch of debris marks the passage of the others.

Shining walks with an unyielding devotion, her frame supporting Kal'tsit's broken, bleeding weight. Even with her sword resting at her side, Shining’s movements are incredibly gentle.

She carries Kal'tsit, whose glacier of a presence is still actively shattering. The dark crimson stain on her white bandages is a horrifying, blinding reality that makes my chest physically ache.

But she is not fading completely.

Walking beside them is Nightingale. The blonde-haired Sarkaz woman leans on her Arts Unit, as we move, I feel the sheer, staggering volume of her Arts bleeding into the ambient air. It is a powerful, dense barrier of pure Originium energy.

I expect it to burn. I expect it to taste of the scorching ozone of a Catastrophe. But it doesn't. It is fundamentally healing. It wraps securely around Kal'tsit's fading glacier, a protective sanctuary of light that forcefully holds the dying star together in the dark.

We carefully wade through the apocalyptic ruins of the sector. The Victorian architecture here is warped and hollowed out, the streets completely littered with jagged clusters of black Originium crystals.

I sweep the deep, impenetrable shadows of the collapsed buildings and the rusted alleyways, actively searching for the scorching, fermented zealotry and rusted iron of the Regent's patrols.

I find absolutely nothing. The ambient air is entirely devoid of Kazdelian hostility.

"I… I don't taste any patrols nearby," I say, my voice a hesitant whisper in the cold air.

Logos doesn't break his frictionless stride. He doesn't even turn his head.

"Your mind is still clouded, Lita," Logos suddenly says. His voice cuts effortlessly through the ruined avenue.

I falter, my soft oxfords catching on a piece of shattered brickwork.

"I… I don't know…" I stammer, my breath hitching nervously. My tail swishes uncertainly. Does he mean my Arts are failing? Or does he mean the pitch-black void the Confessarii poured into my head is still filtering my reality? I frantically search the area again, terrified that my own programmed blindness is going to lead these people directly into a slaughter. I am a monster who can't even rely on her own senses anymore.

Shining pauses her steady march.

She turns her head slightly, the sweeping fabric of her hood shifting as she looks directly at me.

The blindingly radiant warmth of her emotional resonance swells, completely saturated with a profound, empathetic sorrow.

"Another…" Shining breathes out, her voice barely a whisper. "Another child whose warmth they tried to bury in their crypt."

She gently adjusts Kal'tsit's weight, her eyes softening into an ocean of unconditional tenderness.

"You are not broken, Lita," Shining adds softly, the warm, sheltering sunlight of her presence completely enveloping my shivering frame. "You are just finally waking up from their long, terrible dream."

"I… I think I am awake," I whisper. My fingers tighten instinctively on my Rhodes Island jacket, clinging to it like a physical lifeline.

"You are Lita," Shining affirms. Her voice carries no judgment, only that warm, sheltering weight of sunlight that completely defies the pitch-black crypt of her past.

We walk for another ten minutes in absolute, heavy silence. We navigate deeper into the desolate labyrinth.

"Liz, do you need a break?" Shining asks quietly, slowing her pace just a fraction so as not to jar Kal'tsit's broken frame.

Nightingale pauses, her hands gripping her focal unit. She takes a slow, shallow breath, the dense barrier of her healing Arts never wavering around the dying Kal’tsit.

"I… I am fine. Thank you," Nightingale says, her voice incredibly fragile, yet anchored by a quiet, unyielding determination.

I stare at them, my oxfords coming to a halt on the cracked pavement.

They are talking to each other. They are genuinely checking on each other's well-being in the middle of an occupied war zone.

Why are they so incredibly nice?

I think of my life within the towering, monolithic shadow of the Shard. I think of the concussive thuds of boots echoing through grand, hollow halls.

In all the time I spent marching through the ash-choked avenues, wielding my Fear Beast to eliminate terrified informants and shatter the minds of desperate resistance… no one ever asked me how I felt. No one ever asked if I was tired after wading through hours of stagnant, oil-slicked water in rusted processing plants. The Regent commanded, and I simply obeyed.

The absolute only person who ever checked on me… was Theresa.

She was the only one who looked at me.

Actually looked at me.

My vision blurs with fresh, hot tears.

Logos doesn't completely turn his body. He merely shifts his head, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Lita. Keep up. Time is short," Logos commands.

His voice is calm and resonant.

I stare at his cloak. The overwhelming, crushing mountain of guilt completely anchors me to the cracked pavement.

"Wouldn't it be easier… to just leave me here…"

The steady crunch of debris instantly stops.

Shining and Nightingale halt their careful march. The ambient air in the ruined avenue completely stills.

I drop my eyes, unable to look at any of them. I stare intensely at the white Rhodes Island letters.

"I am an executioner…"

I squeeze my eyes shut, a fresh, hot tear spilling down my cheek to soak into the dark, ruffled cravat around my neck.

"I am just a burden… a liability. I might even be a spy and not know it. If you just leave me behind in this zone, you can move faster. You won't have to worry about me dragging you down…" I gesture frantically toward the broken Feline woman in Shining's arms. "You can save Kal'tsit… You can save the people who actually deserve to live!"

I wait for the Banshee to agree.

I wait for his terrifying, frictionless logic to conclude that my life is fundamentally worthless compared to the supreme commander of Rhodes Island.

Instead, the steady, rhythmic crunch of footsteps returns. But they are not walking away.

Logos steps back toward me.

"Ease and rightness are rarely the same path," Logos states. "The Royal Court discards its tools the moment they become inconvenient or hesitant. They strip away your warmth and replace it with coldness, precisely because it is easier to command a hollow puppet than a person with a conscience."

His expression absolutely uncompromising.

"Rhodes Island does not abandon its own," the Banshee continues, his voice an absolute, gravitational force. "We do not trade lives for convenience. Leaving you here would fundamentally betray the very reason we are fighting."

"You are not a liability to us, Lita," Shining adds. She holds Kal'tsit's fading, heavily bandaged frame securely. "Kal'tsit threw herself in front of the Regent's blade to protect the future. And you… you are that future. We will carry both of you out of this ash, together."

“We will protect you.” Nightingale nods weakly.

"I…"

"Wipe your eyes, Lita," Logos orders, turning his back to me once more. "The safe house is not far. Walk."

I reach up with my sleeve, frantically scrubbing the tears from my eyes. I force my spine straight, drawing a shaky breath into my lungs.

"Okay," I whisper.

I step forward, falling perfectly into step behind the Banshee's stride.

We press deeper into the apocalyptic scar of Londinium.

Beside me, Nightingale’s steps begin to falter. The sheer, staggering volume of her Arts she is actively projecting to hold Kal’tsit’s dying star together is clearly taking a massive toll on her. The flavor of shattered, ethereal spun glass and cold medicinal ether bleeding off her frame shivers, hollowing out into a fragile, exhausting emptiness.

She sways, leaning heavily against Shining’s side to keep herself upright.

Shining does not miss a step. She adjusts her hold, her sweeping hood shifting as she supports both the broken Feline and the exhausted medic with an effortless, unyielding devotion.

"I will find you a wheelchair once we are safe, Liz."

"Thank you…" Nightingale breathes out. Her voice is barely a whisper, fracturing like cracked crystal in the freezing air.

Suddenly, the ambient air in the ruined avenue completely stills.

Logos stops instantly. His stride ceases without a single sound. The terrifyingly composed, lightless void of his presence violently expands, tasting of freezing, unyielding granite.

"Halt," the Banshee commands. His voice is an absolute, low whisper. "Patrols. We hide, do not engage."

A second later, I feel them.

A sudden, suffocating wave crashes into me. It is the exact same flavor I bathed in just yesterday: scorching, fermented zealotry, rusted iron, and the fierce, uncompromising loyalty of Kazdel. The heavy, concussive thuds of Royal Court boots begin to echo down the desolate thoroughfare, perfectly synchronized and marching with absolute, forged-steel efficiency.

Shining moves with terrifying grace. We immediately duck off the exposed street, slipping into the hollowed-out husk of a collapsed apartment building. The debris offers a deep, impenetrable shadow.

Shining kneels carefully behind the destroyed masonry. She sets Kal'tsit’s broken, bleeding body flat against the cold rubble.

Logos and Nightingale press themselves seamlessly into the darkness beside them.

I drop to the ground. I scramble backward until I hit the ruined brickwork. I pull my knees tightly to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs and coiling my tail securely around my ankles.

I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face deeply into the soft, white knit of Amiya’s Rhodes Island sweater.

The rhythmic crunch of the patrol draws closer. I know exactly what they look like. I know the scarred white armor, the iron visors, the Royal Court swords.

I bury my face deeper into my knees, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. If I look past this shattered wall, I will see my former comrades. I will see the reality of my own unforgivable sins marching through the ash.

I cannot look. I cannot face them.

I plaster my ears completely flat against my head with my hands, pressing my palms inward with frantic, desperate force.

"No…" The word escapes as a ragged, wet gasp, completely betraying my attempt to stay silent in the shadows.

I start to sob, the violent, heaving motions tearing through my chest.

The ambient air immediately shifts with a terrifyingly composed stillness.

"Pu'sume, qata'm ši'mat," Logos declares.

An absolute, impenetrable barrier of metaphysical freezing, unyielding granite and cold obsidian violently sweeps over our small cluster in the dark.

“They… they taste different… why…”

I think back of their tastes of loyalty here… and the ones when they are near me…

"No…" I weep blindly, my voice fracturing. "I am just a monster… the common soldiers… they were more scared of me than the resistance…"

I remember it so clearly now. I remember the way the Royal Court soldiers stood at strict attention.

The suffocating, heavy dread bleeding off them whenever I commanded my Fear Beast to strike. I thought it was just the fierce, uncompromising loyalty of Kazdel. But it wasn't.

They were terrified of the Djall who could effortlessly plunge into their minds and eat their fears.

They were terrified of me.

Through the suffocating void of my self pity, a physical touch breaks through.

A warm, gentle hand rests against my back.

It begins to pat my back in a slow, steady, and incredibly rhythmic motion.

The flavor wrapping around my shivering frame is blindingly radiant.

She doesn't speak. She just gently, steadily pats my back.

"They are moving away," Logos observes, his voice carrying an absolute, quiet certainty. I let the tears fall for just a minute longer, the salt and ash mixing. The warm, gentle hand on my back doesn't rush me.

Eventually, the frantic heaving in my chest slows into shallow, trembling gasps. I use the sleeve of Amiya’s jacket to frantically scrub the remaining wetness from my eyes.

Shining and Nightingale gently reach out, their hands guiding my entirely numb weight to my feet. Nightingale sways slightly. Yet, despite her exhaustion, she still actively projects a dense, powerful barrier of healing Arts to hold Kal'tsit's fading glacier of a presence together. Shining adjusts the broken, heavily bandaged Feline against her side, balancing the weight with unyielding grace.

"The safe house is not far now, everyone," Shining’s voice a steady comfort in the freezing air. "It is inside the tube."

Logos raises his stylus, pointing silently toward a crumbling, subterranean entrance half-buried beneath the pulverized concrete of a collapsed Victorian facade.

We follow him down into the underground.

As we descend the ruined steps, the bruised, ash-choked daylight of Londinium is entirely swallowed by a vast, cavernous industrial abyss. We step onto a wet concrete landing. The sprawling subterranean view unfolding before us. It is desolate, multi-tiered labyrinth. The tube network is a massive, hollowed-out intersection of heavy, rusted steel and imposing, shadowed concrete pillars. Zig-zagging metal staircases and skeletal catwalks stretch precariously across deep, hazy chasms.

The darkness is only broken by a few scattered, caged work lights resting on the damp floors, their harsh, sterile glow casting long, sharp shadows across stacked wooden crates and heavy metal scaffolding. The ambient air down here is incredibly heavy and completely stagnant, smelling intensely of old machine grease, wet dust, and a trapped heat of the subterraneans.

I carefully step past a glowing work light resting near the edge of the platform. I stay as close to Nightingale's side as I physically can.

I keep my eyes trained on the rusted metal grating.

"So it is true," I say, my voice a quiet, hesitant whisper that echoes faintly against the massive concrete pillars. "The resistances are hiding in the underground sectors of the nomadic plates."

"Theresis is focused on controlling the factories for his war efforts," the Banshee states. "Patrols rarely come down here."

I know.

I know they rarely come down here, because I led one of those rare patrols into these exact tunnels last week, the only time I came down here.

I don't want to tell them. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I can taste a sharp, metallic tang of copper.

My mind forcefully drags me back to the suffocating dark of a tunnel just like this one. There was a group of Eartha resistance members huddled behind a barricade of stacked wooden crates. I remember the exact moment my empathic Arts forcefully tore past their defenses. I remember sifting through their frantic, chaotic thoughts, searching for the coordinates of Rhodes Island's forward camps.

None of them knew where Rhodes Island was hiding. They were completely useless to the Regent's intelligence.

And because they were useless… they didn't stand a chance.

I remember the screech of my Fear Beast, and the sickeningly wet sound of flesh and bone giving way in the dark.

The crushing, suffocating mountain of guilt instantly presses down on my chest, threatening to completely paralyze my legs right here on the catwalk.

No.

Lita. Focus.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, aggressively shoving the pitch-black memory of my sins back down into the void. I cannot break down again. Shining and Nightingale are exhausting themselves to keep Kal'tsit alive. I cannot be a burden to them.

I open my eyes and force my legs to keep moving forward, following closely behind the dense, protective barrier of Nightingale's healing Arts, stepping further into the shadowed depths of the underground.

We navigate past the rusted, groaning catwalks and descend further until we reach a heavy, reinforced steel door tucked away in the deepest, most impenetrable shadows of the maintenance sector.

Standing guard in front of the hidden entrance is a Feline man, clutching a makeshift sword.

The absolute second he sees our group emerge from the dark, his posture completely stiffens. The ambient air in the subterranean tunnel violently erupts. The flavor bleeding off his trembling frame is absolutely unmistakable to me; it tastes of the desperately sweet, rotting nectar of sheer, unadulterated terror, perfectly laced with the cold, metallic tang of absolute helplessness.

His wide, bloodshot eyes track frantically over Logos's imposing frame, Shining's sweeping hood, Nightingale's horns, and then they lock directly onto the lopsided horns resting on my crown.

He thinks he is about to die exactly like the Eartha resistance members I slaughtered in these very tunnels.

I immediately shrink back. I want to completely disappear. I want to pull the heavy collar up to hide my face and my horns so I don't have to taste his paralyzing fear anymore.

But then, his eyes catch the bold, white "RHODES ISLAND" lettering printed across mine and Logos's uniform.

The taut, coiled tension in his aura shatters. His shoulders drop, and the sweet, rotting panic slowly gives way to a shaky, profound relief. He lowers his weapon, his hands visibly trembling.

"Sorry… Rhodes Island," the Feline man stammers, his voice fracturing in the damp, heavy air. He presses his back flat against the rusted wall to give us as much space as physically possible. "I was told to expect… Sarkaz, I didn't know…"

Shining steps forward with a quiet, unyielding grace.

"Is there a bed?" Shining asks, adjusting Kal'tsit's completely broken, bleeding weight against her side. The dark crimson stain on the white bandages is rapidly expanding.

The Feline man's eyes widen at the sight of the blood. He quickly scrambles to pull the heavy, reinforced steel lever of the maintenance door, forcing it open with a loud, metallic groan.

"Ah, yes," he says quickly, gesturing into the dimly lit room beyond. "We have transported a few equipments. It is not much. But that's all we could manage. I will leave this to you now."

"Thank you," Shining replies.

The Eartha guard gives us one last nervous, lingering look before he practically flees down the dark tunnel, his boots splashing frantically through the stagnant puddles.

We immediately cross the threshold, entering the hidden maintenance room and sealing the heavy iron door shut behind us.

Shining moves with an unyielding, terrifying grace, carrying Kal'tsit directly toward the meager, makeshift field bed situated in the center of the dim maintenance room.

Behind them, the dense, protective barrier of pure Originium energy finally dissipates.

Nightingale completely sags. Without the desperate need to hold Kal'tsit's dying star together, the Sarkaz releases her grip on her staff. Her emotional presence completely hollows out. It drains into a fragile, exhausting emptiness. She stumbles toward a rusted metal folding chair in the corner and drops heavily into it, her hands resting limply on her lap as she stares blankly at the floor.

Logos remains standing near the reinforced steel door.

"I will secure the perimeter," the Banshee states, his voice calm, resonant, and carrying the suffocating weight of ancient law. "The Military Commission actively tracks residual Arts usage. I must weave a conceptual silence over this sector so the patrols remain blind to us."

He reaches for the iron lever of the door, but before he pulls it, he pauses. He turns his head slightly, his calculating eyes locking directly onto my face.

"You had an absolute opportunity to defect back to the Royal Court when the patrols passed us," Logos observes. His frictionless tone is completely devoid of malice or judgment. "Yet, you chose to remain in the shadows with us."

Before I can even formulate a response, he steps seamlessly backward. He slips into the pitch-black tunnel, and the steel door shuts firmly behind him with a clank.

I am left entirely alone with the two medics and the dying mastermind I had once been ordered to hate.

Shining reaches up and throws back her sweeping hood, revealing her striking, dark horns and pale hair. She leans over Kal'tsit, her hands moving with practiced, methodical efficiency as she begins to unravel the blood-soaked bandages.

"Lita," Shining calls out, her voice steady and commanding. "I need your help. Fetch me the saline drips, the sterile gauze, and the surgical scissors from that equipment crate." My oxfords feel completely fused to the cracked concrete floor. I stare at the crate she is pointing to, and then I look down at my own trembling hands protruding from the oversized sleeves.

Fetch the medical supplies…

I look at my hands, and all I see are the hands of a monster. I see the fingers that pointed with uncompromising authority to summon a Fear Beast. I see the hands that tore through the minds of Kazdel’s enemies and terrified informants.

I stumble backward. I press my hands tightly against my chest.

"I… I… I don't know…" The words tear themselves from my throat. I look at Kal'tsit's shattered, bleeding form, the crushing mountain of guilt physically suffocating me.

"What if… what if I hurt her…"

Shining’s hands instantly stop moving over Kal'tsit's bleeding wounds.

Shining turns fully toward me. She holds her hands out in the sterile, harsh light of the caged work lamps. Her palms are already stained with Kal'tsit's dark crimson blood.

"Look at my hands, Lita," Shining says quietly, her voice a steady, unyielding anchor in the damp room.

I force my eyes up, looking past my own trembling fingers to look at hers.

"I was a Confessarius," Shining states, her tone completely devoid of deception. "The sword resting on my back is a blade designed to sever the soul itself. My hands were forged in the absolute darkest shadows of Kazdel. I have done far worse things in my past than you could ever possibly imagine."

"But I chose to lay that darkness down," Shining continues. She looks directly into my tear-filled eyes. "I am no longer an executioner. I am a medic now. Our pasts do not have to be our prisons, Lita. Our hands can learn to heal."

She lowers her hands, turning her focus slightly back to Kal’tsit on the bed.

"Do not try to carry the weight of the entire world right now," Shining instructs, her voice carrying an absolute, undeniable tenderness. "Just focus on the small things you can do in this exact moment. Fetch the supplies. Hand them to me. That is all I ask of you."

I look down at my hands again.

If Shining can use her hands to save a life, then maybe I don't have to be a monster forever.

I take a slow, shaky breath. My fingers slowly uncurl.

"Okay…" I whisper. I take a hesitant step toward the stacked metal crates. "Okay… if you trust me…"

I work until my body physically aches.

I scramble back and forth across the concrete, handing Shining everything she asks for. I fetch the saline drips, the sterile gauze, and the surgical tools, my fingers gripping the items as if they were physical lifelines. Whenever something requires a delicate touch or precise mixing, Nightingale is right there. She leans heavily over the makeshift table beside me; despite her sheer exhaustion, her hands gently guide mine, her touch tasting faintly of cold medicinal ether. She doesn't judge the frantic shaking of my wrists. She just helps me.

I completely lose track of time in the suffocating dark of the maintenance room. I don't know how long we fight against the dark crimson stain.

Finally, Shining ties off a fresh, clean swath of white bandages.

"She is stable for now," Shining says. She lets out a slow, heavy exhale, as she steps back from the field bed. She turns her head to look at me. "Take a break."

I lean against the crates, my chest heaving with shallow breaths.

I look at the two medics. They are completely spent. Nightingale is slumped back into the rusted metal folding chair, looking like ethereal spun glass on the absolute verge of shattering. Shining is wiping the residual blood from her hands, her unyielding devotion carrying the heavy, undeniable weight of physical exhaustion.

I force my tired legs to move. I push off the crates and walk softly across the room. I find a supply box in the corner and grab three bottles of water. I pull them tightly to my chest, cradling the cold plastic securely against the jacket.

I walk over to the chair first. I extend one of my hands, holding a bottle out to the blonde-haired Sarkaz woman.

"Here, some water," I whisper softly in the harsh, caged light. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, remembering the name Shining had used on the ruined avenue earlier. "Liz, right?"

Nightingale slowly lifts her head. Her eyes, filled with a floating, tragic emptiness, lock onto the bottle. She reaches out, her fingers gently taking the plastic from my grip.

"Yes…" Nightingale breathes out, her voice fracturing like cracked crystal. A faint, incredibly fragile warmth touches her aura. "Thank you."

I nod, my tail swishing quietly. I turn and walk over to the field bed.

Shining is sitting on the edge of a nearby crate, her sword resting faithfully at her side. I extend the second bottle toward her.

"Here, for you, Shining," I say, my voice steadying just a little bit more.

Shining looks at the water, and then she looks up at my face. The ancient, terrifying echo of the crypt buried at her core is completely silent. All that bleeds into the ambient air is an ocean of unconditional tenderness. She reaches out and takes the bottle.

"Thank you, Lita," Shining says.

We sit in silence for a while. The only sounds in the dim maintenance room are the faint, rhythmic dripping of condensation from the concrete ceiling and the quiet, ragged breathing of the Feline on the bed. I unscrew the cap of my own water bottle and take a slow sip, the cold liquid soothing my raw throat.

Suddenly, a loud, metallic squeak pierces the quiet.

The heavy iron handle on the reinforced steel door begins to slowly turn.

Shining instantly tenses up. The exhausted slump of her shoulders vanishes in a fraction of a second, her hand dropping directly to the hilt of the sword resting by her side.

I don't panic. Before Shining can draw her blade, the ambient air shifts, and I taste it bleeding right through the heavy iron.

It is blindingly pure. It tastes of flawless, crystallized sugar, completely saturated in a boundless, suffocating ocean of profound, aching sorrow.

And right beside it is a heavy, grounding anchor. It is the complex, sharp biting flavor of dark over-steeped black tea and cold iron, entirely clouded by the muted, tasteless flavor of melting snow and thick grey fog.

"Amiya and Doctor," I say quickly, lowering my water bottle.

Shining exhales a sharp breath, her hand slowly releasing the hilt of her sword.

The door swings open with a loud groan, and Amiya immediately rushes across the threshold. Doctor follows closely behind her, pulling the steel door securely shut. They are both breathing hard, their clothes dusted with the pale, pulverized ash of the ruined city.

Amiya's eyes dart frantically around the sterile, caged light of the room. She looks at Nightingale, at me, and finally at Kal'tsit's heavily bandaged, stable form on the field bed. The sharp, acidic bite of adrenaline in her emotional resonance slowly begins to recede.

"Everyone made it," Amiya breathes out, her shoulders completely sagging with immense relief.

Doctor steps further into the room.

"There are more patrols around this sector now," Doctor observes. "They are aggressively sweeping the underground tube networks."

If they are sweeping the underground now, deploying massive amounts of troops into the dark, it isn't to look for scattered Eartha resistance members.

My fingers tighten around my plastic water bottle, the thin material crinkling loudly in the quiet room.

I was a Djall of the Royal Court. I was the Regent's executioner.

And I just vanished.

"…they… are hunting for me…" I stammer, the crushing mountain of guilt violently pressing down on my chest again. "…they have to be…"

"Lita…” Amiya says softly. She takes a step toward me, her hands, adorned with those heavy dark rings, reaching out as if she wants to comfort me. The pure, weeping pity of her sorrow washes over me.

I brought this upon them. I led the Regent's blades directly to the people who just risked their lives to save me.

I look up at the hooded figure, desperately hoping for a denial.

But Doctor just stands there in the dim light.

"It is likely," Doctor confirms.

Amiya lets out a long, trembling sigh. She reaches up, her ring-clad fingers rubbing her temples. Her ears droop heavily.

"Doctor. Maybe we should just retreat…" Amiya whispers, her voice echoing faintly against the rusted steel walls. "Eartha, Glasgow, Reunion, Dublinn… the casualties are just mounting day by day…"

She looks down at her shoes, the overwhelming weight of the occupation pressing down on her shoulders. "And the Grand Dukes’' mobile cities and landships are just sitting outside the walls. Unable… unwilling to act…"

Doctor stands completely still, his tactical hood and dark visor giving nothing away.

"Moving Kal'tsit is too much risk," Doctor states.

Then, the hooded figure turns slightly.

"We should move Lita back to the landship."

Back to the landship.

"Are… are you going to lock me away?!" I gasp, violently scrambling backward until my back hits the cold, damp concrete of the wall. "I… I…"

"No! No… Lita," Amiya immediately cries out. Her ears snap rigid. She rushes forward, her hands raising quickly in a completely non-threatening gesture. The drowning, suffocating ocean of her unconditional grief washes over my frantic senses. "It is not safe for you here in Londinium, the Military Commission is looking for you…"

Amiya stops just a few paces away, her eyes brimming with a quiet, devastating sorrow.

"And we are stretched as thin as we are already," the Amiya adds, her voice trembling slightly. "And we haven't even made a dent in the occupation."

I stare at her.

My shoulders completely collapse.

"Sorry… I am not that useful…”

Amiya closes the final distance between us. She reaches out, her hand resting gently over mine, holding the crinkled plastic bottle.

"You are useful," Amiya says softly, her voice thick with absolute, undeniable tenderness. "But your battleground is back on the landship in the Convalescent Garden, Lita."

I nod weakly, my tail curling tighter.

Amiya turns her head back to look at the hooded tactician.

"But how do we smuggle her out?" Amiya asks.

Doctor doesn't hesitate.

"Blaze and Raidian."

They are elite. They are powerful.

"Are you sure?…" I whisper, shrinking back against the damp concrete wall. "They are worth far more than me…"

"Don't you ever say that again!" Amiya interrupts.

"There are so many people waiting, desperately hoping for your return back on the landship," Amiya continues, her voice trembling slightly with the weight of her sincerity.

"Suzuran, Podenco, Perfumer, Caladria, Mint, Eyjafjalla…"

"I… I… really?" I gasp, my voice sounding impossibly small. The idea that a whole group of people is desperately waiting for a monster like me feels entirely incomprehensible.

"Yes," Amiya answers, her tone holding not a single bit of deception.

Doctor turns toward the door.

"I will contact them," Doctor says, pushing the iron lever down. The door groans open just enough for the hooded figure to slip out into the dark, subterranean tunnels, sealing us back inside the hidden maintenance room.

The moment the door clicks shut, the absolute, undeniable authority of the "enemy commander" completely vanishes from Amiya's frame.

She lets out a long, ragged exhale and simply collapses. The Cautus girl slumps down directly next to me on the cold, cracked concrete, her back hitting the rusted wall. She pulls her knees up, her hands resting limply on her lap. She looks so incredibly young, entirely swallowed by the impossible, suffocating burden of leading this fractured resistance against the Regent.

I sit perfectly still beside her.

I look at the damp, cramped maintenance room. I look at Nightingale, completely exhausted and hollowed out on a folding chair. I look at Shining, sitting tiredly beside a makeshift field bed. I look at Amiya, slumped against the wall with a heart full of sorrow. Then, I think of the towering, monolithic titan of the Shard. I think of the endless legions of heavily armored Sarkaz patrols, the apocalyptic Originium artilleries that can tear the sky open, and the cold, unyielding iron of Theresis's absolute power.

"…the Confessarii said Rhodes Island is the evil superpower…" I whisper into the quiet, sterile air, staring blankly at the floor. "But…"

But there is no superpower here. There is no ruthless mastermind chaining people in the dark. There is just a small, exhausted group of people huddled in a rusted, subterranean box, desperately bleeding to protect the world… and me from the true monsters above.

"Lita…" Amiya murmurs, her voice incredibly small, echoing faintly against the walls.

"Theresis has occupied Londinium since 1094…"

She rests her chin on her knees, staring blankly into the concrete walls.

"We are trying to topple a wall with chisels right now," she whispers, the words cracking under the impossible, suffocating burden she carries. "Because we failed to take the Shard…"

The Shard.

Just yesterday, I had marched down the ash-choked avenues of the capital, staring up at that towering, 300-story monolithic titan with a chest full of fierce, uncompromising pride. I had looked at it as the beating heart of our future homeland. I had believed it was a monument to our righteous survival.

"They told me…" I start, my voice tearing raw and hesitant through the quiet room. "The Confessarii… they told me they fought a glorious battle against the Tower Knights and the Steam Knights. They said they wiped them out in hard-won combat to secure the capital for our people."

Amiya's long ears droop even further.

"It is not untrue…" Amiya says softly, turning her head slightly to look at me. "But… the Military Commission didn't break through the walls in a siege. They were invited in."

"Invited?"

"By one of the Victorian Grand Dukes," Amiya explains, her voice trembling. "Then, with the help of the Dukes, Theresis destroyed the parliamentary forces from the inside. The Steam Knights didn't fall in a fair fight, Lita. They were betrayed."

There was no honorable conquest. There was no righteous, desperate stand against a world that hated us. It was a calculated, bloody manipulation.

Amiya looks back down at the damp concrete, her eyes glistening in the dim light.

"Then, Theresis turned on the Dukes and killed them," she adds, the finality of her words dropping into the room like a heavy iron anvil.

"Is everything…" I choke on the words, a fresh, hot tear spilling down my cheek to soak into the cravat around my neck. "Is everything they told me… a lie?"

Across the cramped, subterranean room, a completely composed voice answers.

Shining shifts slightly beside the makeshift field bed.

"They tell you what fits their design," Shining states quietly.

"They strip away your truth, and they pour their shadows into the void to make you the exact shape they need," the medic continues, her voice a steady comfort in the damp air. "To them, you were never Lita. You were simply a blade."

I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face into my knees just as Amiya is doing. The crushing, suffocating mountain of guilt physically paralyzes my lungs. I was a design. I was a hollow puppet, manipulated by the very butchers who murdered my mother, wielding my empathic Arts to tear apart terrified innocents who were just trying to survive the Regent's web of lies.

A warm, ring-clad hand gently rests over mine.

Amiya just holds my trembling hand in the dark.

I do not want to talk after that.

I just sit on the cold, cracked concrete, my knees pulled tightly to my chest. Amiya does not push me to speak. Her hand remains gently draped over mine.

Everyone is quiet.

The only sounds in the subterranean maintenance room are the faint, rhythmic dripping of condensation falling from the rusted pipes, and the chaotic, desperate beeping of the life-support monitor keeping Kal’tsit alive. For a long stretch of time, the room is completely submerged in a heavy, mourning silence.

That is, until the heavy iron lever of the reinforced steel door groans downward.

The door swings open, and the ambient air in the cramped room instantly erupts.

Doctor steps through first, right behind the hooded tactician, a roaring wave crashes into me.

It tastes of heavy machine grease, roaring exhaust, and pure, unapologetic fire.

Blaze steps into the sterile, caged light of the maintenance room. She is heavily geared, her massive chainsaw resting effortlessly on her shoulder. She takes one look at me cuddled against the damp wall in Amiya's oversized Rhodes Island jacket and a fierce, rowdy grin breaks across her face.

"Well kiddo," Blaze says, her loud, warm voice cutting right through the damp, heavy air of the underground. "Looks like you are getting the Blaze Express experience once again."

I blink, my eyes wide in absolute confusion.

"Blaze… express?" I repeat, my voice a quiet, hesitant whisper.

The fiery Feline chuckles, a rumbling sound that vibrates with pure kinetic energy. She winks, her grin widening into something distinctly chaotic. "Oh, you will see."

Right behind her, the deeply comforting flavor of sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak bleeds into the air. Raidian enters the room. Her hands grip a heavily encrypted communications terminal. Her expression is locked into an unyielding, dense focus.

"I will jam their signals," Raidian states, her voice carrying an absolute, steady certainty. Her eyes lock directly onto mine. "Ready, Lita?"

I stare at them. They are risking their lives to smuggle me out of an occupied capital.

I take a slow, shaky breath.

I scramble up from the concrete floor. I turn back to the center of the room.

I plant my feet together. I press my hands flat against my chest, right over the bold white "RHODES ISLAND" lettering.

And I bow.

I bend deeply at the waist, forcing my spine to fold in an expression of absolute, desperate gratitude.

"Thank… thank you…" the words scrape out, fracturing under the crushing weight of my guilt. A fresh tear slips from my eyelashes, hitting the damp concrete below. "…for saving me. I hope… I can live up to the… chance you gave me."

The ambient air shifts. The drowning ocean of Amiya's profound, aching sorrow parts just enough to let a blindingly pure, genuine warmth shine through.

Amiya stands up from the floor. She brushes the pulverized ash from her dark blue skirt, her ears rising slightly in the dim light.

"I know you will, Lita," Amiya says, her voice echoing with a soft, undeniable absolute truth.

Blaze lets out a tiny, exaggerated sniff.

"That’s enough sentimentality for today," Blaze declares.

Then, without a single second of warning, my entire world turns horizontal.

Blaze steps forward and her arm shoots out, wrapping completely around my waist.

With absolutely zero effort, she hoists me right off the cracked concrete floor, tucking me under her arm like a sack of supplies.

"Eh?!" I yelp, my face suddenly parallel to the damp floor. "Let go of me! I am Royal Court! I am nobility! This is unacceptable!"

I kick and wriggle frantically. The oxfords kick wildly at the empty air, and my tail whips around in a desperate protest. I push against her tactical gear, but my struggle is absolutely useless. Her grip is an unyielding anchor.

"Sure, sure you are, Lita," Blaze laughs, her voice booming with chaotic, kinetic energy.

She adjusts my weight effortlessly against her side. "This is way faster. We don’t have time to waste."

Behind us, the heavy, mourning silence of the subterranean room completely shatters.

Raidian covers her mouth with one of her upper hands, letting out a soft, genuine giggle.

Amiya giggles too.

I awkwardly crane my neck, my face burning with embarrassment as I hang suspended from Blaze's side. Even Nightingale, who is still slumped exhaustedly in the folding chair, manages a fragile smile. Beside her, Shining’s expression softens with quiet amusement. Blaze and Raidian turn toward the center of the room, offering a final, firm nod to Amiya and the hooded Doctor.

"All packed up?" Raidian asks. The Liberi's voice is steady, her hands securing the encrypted communications terminal she will use to mask our escape. "Let’s go."

Blaze shifts her grip on my waist, effortlessly hoisting me a little higher against her.

"Try to keep up, Raidian," the Feline challenges with a grin.

With me still tucked firmly under her arm like a captured package, they march out.

We cross the threshold, leaving the maintenance room behind. The reinforced door groans shut, plunging us back into the damp, heavy darkness of the subterranean tube network. Blaze moves with terrifying, kinetic speed. I bounce awkwardly against her side, my vision filled with a dizzying blur of rusted metal staircases, deep chasms, and massive concrete pillars.

Despite the suffocating, stagnant smell of old machine grease and wet dust in the tunnels, the ambient air directly around me is a completely different world. It is saturated with Raidian's deeply comforting sun-warmed linen and sturdy oak, completely enveloped by Blaze's roaring, protective warmth.

"Why…” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the heavy, rhythmic thud of Blaze's boots on the cracked concrete. "Why do you all have to taste safe…"

Blaze doesn't break her rapid stride.

"You have been with us for more than two and a half years by now, kiddo," Blaze says.

"I don’t know how or when they kidnapped you," Blaze continues, the bright, rowdy edge in her voice dropping into something impossibly fierce. "But I would have teared right through the Shard if I knew."

I crane my neck up, looking at the side of the Feline woman's face in the dim shadows of the underground.

I expect to taste the hollow bravado of a soldier exaggerating their loyalty. I wait for the stagnant rot of deception to bleed into the air.

But I hit a solid wall of pure, unfiltered truth.

The heavy machine grease and unapologetic fire radiating from her frame burns with absolute, forged-steel certainty. Blaze completely means it. She is entirely ready to burn down the Regent and his entire army just to drag me out of.

I let my head drop in absolute defeat, my cheek resting against the tactical pouch on Blaze's hip.

"You people are crazy… I am a pureblood… I am being kidnapped by a Feline with a chainsaw and a Liberi with two extra mechanical arms.”

The dizzying, horizontal blur of the subterranean tube network flashes past my eyes as Blaze carries me through the dark.

Suddenly, that kinetic, forward momentum violently snaps.

Blaze stops on an absolute dime.

Without any warning, my entire body is jerked forward by the sheer force of inertia, swinging like a pendulum beneath her arm.

"Woah! Bl…" I yelp, my voice echoing far too loudly against the steel walls.

Before the syllable can even finish leaving my lips, a hand instantly slaps over my mouth. It isn't a strike; it is a frantic clamp that tastes of heavy machine grease and sheer, unadulterated focus.

Blaze and Raidian immediately pivot, dodging seamlessly into the deep, impenetrable shadow of a massive concrete pillar. Blaze presses her back flat against the cold stone, holding me securely against her hip while keeping her hand firmly over my mouth.

Raidian crouches low right beside us, her lower hands gripping her encrypted communications terminal while her upper hands hover near her drones.

The ambient air in the tunnel violently shifts.

Before I even see them, a suffocating wave crashes into the air.

I know this taste too well.

I slowly turn my head, peering carefully around the edge of Blaze’s tactical gear to look into the distance.

Marching down the one of the catwalk are seven Sarkaz.

Six of them are heavily armored infantry. They wear the unmistakable, immaculate white armor of Kazdel, accented with sharp, geometric shoulder plating and dark grey utility belts. Their faces are completely obscured by featureless white hood, save for a blood- red visor that cuts through the subterranean gloom. They march in strict, terrifying unison, their gauntlets gripping massive blades.

But it is the figure walking in the back of their formation that makes the blood freeze in my veins.

It is a Caster. They are draped in sweeping, angular white and grey robes, their face hidden beneath a heavy white hood with a pointed black crest. In their hand, they hold an ornate staff crackling with volatile, bright purple Originium energy, illuminating the damp walls with an eerie, unnatural glow.

My heart hammers a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs.

These aren't the standard occupation troops. The pristine white armor and the terrifyingly composed discipline… I know exactly who they are. They are the absolute elite of Kazdel's wrath.

Blaze slowly, carefully removes her hand from my mouth.

"They are Royal Court…" I whisper, my voice barely more than a trembling breath in the freezing air. My fingers dig desperately into Blaze. "They are not normal patrols."

Blaze's roaring, unapologetic fire compresses into a tight, lethal coil of absolute readiness.

"We know," Blaze whispers back, her voice a low, unyielding rumble in the dark. "That’s why we hide."

The concussive thuds of Kazdelian boots draw closer, echoing with a terrifying, rhythmic precision against the damp walls.

I press myself as hard as I physically can against Blaze’s side, making my frame as small as possible in the pitch-black shadow of the concrete pillar. The ambient air grows incredibly dense. The scorching, fermented zealotry and rusted iron of the Royal Court patrol washes over us in a suffocating wave, so thick I can almost taste the metallic tang of their drawn blades.

The patrol stops just a few meters away from our hiding spot.

One of the armored infantrymen points toward a cross-section of the catwalk and speaks.

"Qe šamate nar'em."

"Za'dareq?"

The words are sharp, and entirely alien to my ears. It is Kazdelian.

I bite my lip. The Confessarii had explicitly told me I was a Djall of the Royal Court, a pureblood noble fighting to reclaim our ancestral homeland. Yet, as I listen to my former comrades coordinate their sweep, I realize I don't understand a single syllable of our native tongue. They didn't bother to teach me the language of my people; they only taught me how to be their executioner.

I only know how to speak Victorian.

The Caster in the white hood responds with a low, commanding rasp, pointing their crackling purple staff down the adjacent tunnel.

"They don't know we are here," Raidian says quietly, her voice a barely audible breath.

The boots resume their march. The terrifying, pure flavor of Kazdelian loyalty slowly begins to recede, drifting further down the rusted metal catwalk until the glow of the Caster's staff completely fades into the deep, impenetrable shadows of the underground network.

I let out a ragged, trembling exhale, my shoulders sagging.

"How…" I whisper, turning my head to look at the Liberi in the dark. "How do you know, Raidian?"

Raidian lowers her encrypted communications terminal.

"I can read brainwaves, remember?" she answers.

My heart completely stops.

My face flushes with a sudden, burning heat. My tail drops completely dead.

"Oh… wait…" I shrink away from her, my fingers frantically twisting the fabric of my oversized jacket. "So back in the tent… you knew when…"

"When you were thinking of plotting against us?" Raidian finishes the sentence for me.

The Liberi just smiles in the dark. A soft, devastatingly gentle smile.

"Of course," Raidian whispers, her tone carrying a quiet, affectionate amusement. "You have to try a lot harder to trick me, Lita."

I stare at her, completely paralyzed.

She knew. She read the exact shape of my traitorous thoughts. She knew I was actively debating tearing their resistance apart and handing them over to the butchers of the Royal Court.

A fresh, hot tear instantly pricks the corner of my eye.

Blaze lets out a tiny, stifled snort from above me, her arm tightening reassuringly around my waist.

"Don't worry, kiddo," Blaze says quietly. "We are used to you being a little menace. Now hold on tight, the Express is making up for lost time."

Before I can even process her quiet amusement, Blaze’s boots dig into the cracked concrete, and she completely explodes forward.

She breaks into a dead, terrifying sprint, moving with a kinetic velocity that makes my stomach completely drop. Her hand remains clamped firmly over my mouth to keep me from yelping again.

I groan into her palm, my vision dissolving into a chaotic, dizzying smear of rusted iron, damp shadows, and blurring work lights.

I am so dead.

We tear through the subterranean labyrinth for what feels like an eternity before the blistering forward momentum finally violently snaps.

Blaze skids to a halt, the thick soles of her boots tearing a sharp, screeching sound from the wet floor. She slowly drops her hand from my mouth.

I gasp for air, my chest heaving against her side. The tunnel abruptly terminates into a massive, impenetrable blockade of collapsed concrete and twisted, groaning steel. We are standing in a complete dead end.

A few moments later, the soft crunch of footsteps echoes behind us.

Raidian catches up, stepping seamlessly into the dim, caged light. Despite the frantic, high-speed evasion through the underground tube network, the Liberi isn't even breathing heavily. Her expression is still locked into that soft gentle smile. Her emotional resonance remains absolutely untouched by the panic of the chase.

One of Raidian's upper hands raises, pointing gracefully toward a crumbling, partially buried staircase completely choked by shattered masonry.

"Does the wall lead outside?" Blaze asks, staring at the impassable rubble.

Raidian pauses, her lower hands lightly adjusting her terminal. "This should be near the backside of the defense wall," she states softly.

Blaze lets out a sharp huff of breath. The fierce, chaotic grin returns to her face.

"Well," Blaze rumbles, her voice vibrating with an explosive, kinetic thrill. "Hold on tight, kiddo."

"What?"

Before the word fully escapes my throat, Blaze violently shifts her grip. With terrifying, ease, she tosses me upward. I let out a frantic squeak as my center of gravity flips, and she effortlessly catches me, repositioning me directly over her shoulder.

I scramble in absolute panic, my arms completely wrapping around her neck and my tail hooking tightly around her waist. I bury my face desperately into the fabric of her shirt, clinging to her like a lifeline.

Then, she reaches back.

Her hand grips the handle of the massive chainsaw strapped to her back, and she violently yanks the starter cord.

The weapon doesn't just turn on; it roars to life with a deafening, metallic shriek that shakes the dust straight off the ceiling. The ambient air in the cramped tunnel instantaneously superheats. The baseline flavor of heavy machine grease and roaring exhaust that normally radiates from the Feline violently erupts. It flares into a blinding, apocalyptic geyser of pure fire that is exponentially more intense than before.

The raw, pressurized heat rolling off her body is physically staggering, instantly baking the stagnant moisture out of the subterranean air and making my skin flush.

She raises the roaring, jagged teeth of the chainsaw directly toward the impenetrable, reinforced concrete of the defense wall.

"We are taking a shortcut."

Boom!

A deafening explosion of raw, kinetic energy shatters the subterranean gloom. Blaze’s chainsaw tears directly into the reinforced concrete blockade, her Arts superheating the air to absolute extremes.

"Hot! Hot!" I yelp, squeezing my eyes shut and burying my face desperately into the thick fabric of her shirt. The explosive thermal shockwave washes over us, baking the damp tunnel dry in a fraction of a millisecond.

With a final, agonizing metallic shriek, the dead-end wall gives way.

Blaze doesn't even break her stride. She vaults effortlessly over the glowing, molten debris, carrying me right through the breach. Raidian follows closely behind, moving with a frictionless, composed grace.

The stagnant, oil-slicked air of the underground is instantly ripped away, replaced by the biting, freezing wind of the capital. We are outside.

We land heavily on a wide, desolate rooftop. I peek my eyes open, looking out across the flat, pale concrete dotted with heavy, square ventilation fans and scattered military crates. The bruised, ash-choked clouds hang low and heavy over the city.

But my gaze is immediately pulled to the horizon. Piercing directly through the overcast sky, dominating the ruined skyline, is a monolithic, towering skyscraper.

"Is that the Shard in the distance?" I whisper, the lingering dread of the Regent's power making my voice tremble.

"Yep," Raidian says.

"Well kiddo, no time for sightseeing," Blaze rumbles, her chaotic grin returning as she hefts me a little higher on her shoulder. "If you want, I will send you postcards later."

Before I can even process the joke, Blaze takes off again. She crosses the rooftop in a blur and launches us toward the towering structure ahead: the backside of Londinium's outer defense wall. An unending structure that has kept the city safe for centuries.

A dizzying array of rusted, zig-zagging maintenance staircases and skeletal metal catwalks stretch precariously up the sheer concrete face. Blaze and Raidian don't hesitate. They begin to scale the rusted iron steps with terrifying speed, ascending higher and higher into the wind.

I peer down over Blaze's back. The ruined streets of the capital fall rapidly away beneath us, turning into a hazy, dizzying drop of dozens of meters. My stomach completely hollows out.

"This is so tall…" I whimper. I squeeze my arms and tail around Blaze tighter, clinging to the Feline.

Blaze just laughs, her roaring fire wrapping around my shivering frame, keeping the biting wind at bay.

Finally, her boots hit solid, reinforced steel. We crest the top of the wall and vault over the barricades, landing directly on the front-facing battlements.

I slowly lift my head, my eyes widening at the staggering, apocalyptic scale of the Victorian engineering spread out before us.

Resting on massive, angular platforms of pale concrete and dark metal are the defensive batteries. The artillery cannons are monolithic, their impossibly long, dark steel barrels angled sharply toward the bruised sky. Long, elegant blue banners emblazoned with the crests of the empire hang silently from the massive muzzles, fluttering in the cold, smog-choked wind rolling over the fortifications.

These are the batteries. The absolute, unyielding weapons of destruction that have kept the Grand Dukes’ mobile cities and massive armies completely paralyzed at bay.

I look out past the massive, angular barrels of the defensive batteries.

The bruised, ash-choked clouds part just enough to reveal the true, apocalyptic scale of the war. The desolate landscape of the Victorian wastelands washes over me, stretching out into a jagged, broken horizon.

Littering the scorched, pulverized earth below are the skeletal remains of destroyed Victorian landships. They are colossal, multi-tiered mobile cities that have been violently halted in their tracks, their massive armored prows tilted upwards toward the sky like the gravestones of dead titans. Plumes of thick, black smoke still rise lazily from their shattered hulls, painting a picture of the Grand Dukes' failed, desperate assaults against the batteries’ localized wrath.

This is what I was fighting for. A graveyard of twisted metal.

Before the crushing weight of the scene can fully sink into my chest, the ambient air shifts.

"There are too many patrols here," Raidian says quietly.

Her hands adjust the encrypted terminal, but her gaze sweeps the long, exposed stretch of the battlements.

Blaze doesn't even flinch.

"Hop on, Raidian," Blaze rumbles, shifting my weight effortlessly against her side. "And make sure Lita doesn't scream."

"Okay," the Liberi answers, her voice perfectly steady.

I blink, my eyes widening in absolute horror.

"What?" I stammer, my tail whipping frantically against Blaze's leg. "What’s…"

Raidian steps smoothly up to Blaze's side. Her lower arms lock securely around the Feline’s heavy tactical harness. Then, one of her upper hands reaches over and firmly, yet gently, clamps directly over my mouth.

Raidian looks directly into my terrified eyes, and she just winks at me. It is a completely soft, unbothered wink.

Blaze's boots dig into the pale concrete.

She runs.

The blistering, pressurized heat of her Arts violently flares up again, but she doesn't aim it at a wall this time. She sprints directly toward the sheer, unprotected edge of the towering defensive battlement. The dizzying drop to the destroyed wastelands below rushes up to meet us at terrifying, kinetic speed.

Stop! STOP!

I scream against Raidian's palm, my fingers digging completely white-knuckled into Blaze's coat.

She doesn't slow down.

Blaze's boots hit the very lip of the concrete precipice.

Then, she just jumps.

We launch directly off the top of the defensive wall, leaving the solid, reinforced steel behind. Gravity instantaneously completely vanishes. The ash-choked wind turns into a deafening roar as we plummet straight down into the desolate, yawning abyss of the destroyed Victorian landscape, falling almost a hundred meters.

I… I…

Maybe I should have stayed with the Military Commission.

The thought flashes wildly through my mind as the desolate, scorched wasteland rushes up to meet us at a terrifying speed. The sheer velocity of the freefall threatens to tear the breath straight from my lungs, but Raidian's hand remains firmly clamped over my mouth.

Over the deafening roar of the wind, Blaze's voice booms out with chaotic, entirely unbothered cheerfulness.

"Don't worry, Lita! The Blaze Express has airbags!"

Airbags?!

My muffled shriek is completely swallowed by the wind.

Then, the ambient air superheats. The raw, pressurized heat blasts downward, creating a massive, localized thermal updraft beneath us. The immense pressure violently pushes back against gravity, acting as a fiery, atmospheric cushion.

I can actually feel the terrifying velocity of our fall begin to rapidly slow down, the crushing physical force pressing heavily against my chest as we near the earth.

But it isn't exactly a gentle, feather-light landing.

Blaze's boots hit the pulverized wasteland with a concussive, deafening thud.

The sheer kinetic shockwave of the impact ripples straight up through her gear. My white-knuckled grip on her coat completely shatters. I am instantly jolted right off her shoulder.

I launch forward, flying awkwardly through the hot, ash-choked air.

I crash headfirst directly into the scorched dirt.

My upper body is completely buried in the dry, pulverized earth, but my spade-tipped tail remains desperately, stubbornly wrapped around Blaze's waist like a rigid lifeline.

For a long, agonizing second, the only sound is the hiss of residual heat venting from Blaze's gear and the quiet crunch of Raidian landing gracefully on her feet nearby.

I groan, my voice muffled by a mouthful of dirt.

I push my trembling hands against the ground and pull my head backward. With a dull pop, I yank my horns completely out of the dirt. I sit up on my knees, furiously spitting out the bitter, freezing ash and wiping the grime off my face with the oversized sleeves of Amiya's jacket.

I glare up at the tall Feline in sheer, absolute misery.

"…remind me to never, ever, ever let you carry me again," I wheeze, my voice cracking in the air.

Blaze simply rests her hands on her hips. The unapologetic fire of her resonance doesn't carry any guilt. She just flashes that rowdy, chaotic grin down at me.

"No promises, kiddo."

I sit there in the pulverized dirt, my tail finally, begrudgingly uncoiling from around Blaze's waist. I brush the heavy ash off the jacket.

I point a trembling, dirt-covered finger at the two of them, trying desperately to summon the cold, ruthless authority of a pureblood Kazdelian noble.

"I… I… I am going to go back to the Shard… and report you all…" I stammer, my voice echoing weakly across the graveyard of destroyed Victorian landships.

The ambient air doesn't even register a fraction of alarm. Raidian doesn't even look up from her communications terminal.

Blaze casually slings her chainsaw back onto her harness. She reaches down, grabbing me by the back of the jacket collar, and effortlessly hoists me back onto my feet as if I weigh absolutely nothing.

"Time to walk, kiddo," Blaze says, her grin entirely undisturbed by my attempt at treason. "We are one day's trek away from a safe pick-up spot."

Raidian's lower hands continue to methodically adjust the encrypted frequencies.

"I will get on contacting the landship," Raidian says.

I stand there, my soft oxfords sinking slightly into the scorched earth. I reach up to rub the residual dirt from my horns.

I look back at the towering, monolithic Shard piercing the bruised, ash-choked sky in the far distance, surrounded by the apocalyptic wrath of the Regent. Then I look at the two Rhodes Island elites who just risked their lives just to smuggle me out of an occupied war zone.

I let out a long, defeated sigh, my shoulders completely sagging under the oversized black jacket.

"Fine…" I mumble, trudging forward to fall into step behind the Feline.

The bruised, ash-choked daylight slowly begins to bleed into a heavy, suffocating twilight as we continue our trek across the destroyed wastelands.

The scorched earth crunches rhythmically beneath our footsteps. I pull Amiya’s oversized black jacket a little tighter around my shoulders, shivering as the freezing wind whips across the flat expanse. I look out past the graveyard of shattered, skeletal mobile cities.

Looming on the horizon, completely dominating the distance, are the massive silhouettes of the Grand Dukes’ landships and their entrenched armies. They sit out there in the descending dark, motionless and heavily armed. It looks exactly like the edge of an impending apocalypse… a Catastrophe just waiting to crash against the monolithic shadow of the Shard.

"How are you holding up, Lita?"

Blaze’s voice cuts through the biting wind. The Feline walks just a few paces ahead of us, her chainsaw strapped securely to her back.

I stare down at the cracked dirt, my fingers nervously twisting the bright yellow zipper pull of Amiya’s jacket.

"I… I am still not sure…" I stammer, my voice sounding incredibly small in the vast, empty wasteland. I look up at her. "I mean… all my memories are of my time with the Military Commission. I… I have no memory before July…"

The only life I actually remember living is the one where I marched through the capital in Kazdelian uniform, wielding my Fear Beast to shatter the minds of terrified innocents. Blaze doesn't break her stride, but she turns her head slightly, offering me a fierce, grounding smile.

"Don't think too hard about it," Blaze rumbles, her voice vibrating with a warm, chaotic kinetic energy. "When you are back on Rhodes Island, you will get a lot more memories." My tail droops completely dead behind me. I look down at my hands.

"Do I… really deserve this…?" I whisper.

Beside me, Raidian matches my pace.

"Lita," Raidian says softly, her voice carrying an absolute, unyielding density. "If we don't save our own who lost their way, how can we claim to be a sanctuary for those who were drowning in the dark but want to reach for the light?"

I look up at the Liberi.

"Even if you blow up our landship, we will still love you," Raidian adds.

Then, she pauses. Her upper hands casually adjust the collar of her coat.

"…Probably."

My oxfords stop dead in the dirt.

I expect to taste a heavy, solemn gravity. Instead, the flavor of Raidian is undeniably, brilliantly teasing. There is a playful, carbonated spark dancing right over the top of her sturdy oak presence.

"I knew it!" I yell, my voice tearing across the desolate graveyard of landships.

I point a trembling, accusatory finger directly at her, my tail suddenly lashing behind my back.

"This is a trap!" I gasp, taking a frantic, exaggerated step backward. "I am getting kidnapped! This is brainwashing! You just want to take me back to Rhodes Island to study my pureblood brain!"

Blaze bursts into a loud, booming laugh that rattles the cold air, completely unbothered. Raidian just smiles that soft, gentle smile of hers.

I keep glaring at them, my hands balling into tight fists at my sides.

Do I… really mean it?

I look at them.

I look at their Rhodes Island uniforms, if not for the RHODES ISLAND in black on Blaze’s white jacket, the Elite Ops patch on Raidian’s dark blue coat. I wouldn’t even know they are from the same organisation.

Then I look at Amiya’s outfit.

It is all so different.

They are all allowed to be themselves while fighting for a shared future…

My accusations…

I don't mean a single word of it.

We keep on walking.

The bruised, ash-choked clouds finally part just enough to let the night truly settle over the lands.

I look up. The twin moons hang pale and distant in the sky, their faint, silver light barely piercing the heavy smog. The illumination spills weakly over the desolate graveyard of destroyed warships, casting long, skeletal shadows across the pulverized earth.

I am exhausted. Every muscle in my body aches from the adrenaline, the terror, and the sheer physical toll of the day.

"Are… are we not going to camp?" I ask, my voice a quiet, hesitant whisper that threatens to be completely swallowed by the wind.

Blaze, walking a few paces ahead, glances back over her shoulder.

"Well, we don't exactly have camping gear, kiddo," Blaze says, her loud, warm voice cutting easily through the dark. "We just need to push through the night."

She stops, turning fully to face me. Her chaotic, rowdy grin flashes in the moonlight.

"You can always hop on my back if you are tired. The Blaze Express has night routes, too."

The phantom sensation of a hundred-meter, stomach-dropping freefall flashes through my mind. I take a very deliberate, rigid step backward, my tail pinning itself defensively against my leg.

"I… I am fine, thank you!" I stammer quickly, shaking my head so fast my horns practically blur. "I can walk! I am walking very well right now!"

Blaze lets out a rumbling, kinetic laugh that shakes the dust in the air, before turning back around to lead the way.

I let out a small sigh of relief and fall back into step beside Raidian.

As we crest a small ridge of scorched earth, the sheer, staggering scale of the horizon reveals itself again. Looming out there in the descending dark, perfectly motionless, are the massive, monolithic silhouettes of the Grand Dukes' war machines. They are practically mountains of heavily armed steel, their entrenched armies forming an impenetrable ring around the capital.

I stare at the distant, imposing shadows.

"The Dukes' armies… Have they been there since July?"

July. The month my memories began. The month I woke up within the fortified walls of the Shard and was told that those armies were rabid dogs waiting to slaughter our people.

"Longer," Raidian answers.

I keep my eyes fixed on the distant landships. They are massive. They possess the firepower to level Londinium ten times and over, yet they just sit there in the mud, completely paralyzed.

"Are they just scared of the Shard?" I ask, my fingers nervously twisting the bright yellow zipper pull of the jacket. "I mean… I understand why they wouldn't want to march into a Catastrophe."

For a moment, the only sound is the rhythmic crunch of our shoes against the scorched dirt.

Then, Raidian finally sighs.

It is a slow, heavy exhale that carries an impossible weight. The deeply comforting flavor of sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak that radiates from the Liberi suddenly thickens. A suffocating, melancholic layer of exhaustion and profound grief settles over her presence, tasting like old, cold rain hitting cracked stone.

"Lita…" Raidian begins, her voice trembling slightly in the quiet air.

She looks out at the sprawling, distant armies with a look of absolute, unyielding sorrow.

"If… if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to," I quickly add, shrinking back slightly. I don't want to force her to explain the nightmares of the world.

"No, it is just…" Raidian shakes her head, her shimmering eyes reflecting the faint light of the twin moons. "They are not just waiting because of the Catastrophes, Lita. They are more busy pointing their canons at each other."

I stare at her. "What do you mean?"

Raidian stops beside me. The wind catches the edges of her coat as she looks at me.

"The Grand Dukes are not a united front," Raidian explains, her tone carrying a heavy, undeniably tragic weight. "They are competing for the throne. If one Duke launches an assault on Londinium and takes heavy casualties from the Shard's artificial Catastrophes and Londinium’s defense artilleries, the other Dukes won't step in to help them. They will simply wait for them to die, and then march over their corpses to claim the capital for themselves."

I look at the warships again.

They are letting their own capital burn. They are letting the Regent and the Military Commission occupy their homeland, slaughter their citizens, and build apocalyptic weapons, all because they are too paranoid that their rivals might gain an advantage.

"That's why we are here, Lita," Raidian’s voice a quiet, wavering anchor in the vast, empty wasteland. "Rhodes Island is here to stop the occupation, yes. But we are also trying to stop Victoria from completely devolving into a full civil war. If Theresis falls, but the Dukes immediately tear each other apart… the ash will never settle."

The Confessarii had painted the world in simple, pitch-black and absolute-white terms.

They told me Kazdel was fighting a righteous war for survival against a unified, hypocritical world that wanted us dead.

But there is no unified world. There are just broken empires, selfish nobles, and an endless cycle of people perfectly willing to let innocents die if it secures their own power.

And then there is Rhodes Island.

The crushing realization of just how impossible their mission is makes my chest physically ache.

"…you are all trying to save a world that doesn't even want to save itself," I whisper.

Blaze’s boots crunch against the dirt as she steps back toward us. She reaches out, her hand gently ruffling my hair.

"That’s the job description, kiddo," Blaze says softly, her grin melting into a fierce, unyielding pride. "and we intend to get it done."

"Well, let’s keep going, Lita. Hot cocoa awaits you," Raidian adds.

"Cocoa…?" I repeat, the word feeling completely alien on my tongue. I look down at my hands. "What is that?"

The Military Commission never gave me treats. They gave me ration bars for physical sustenance, but my true meals… my true nourishment…

"I… I only feed on the fear of others…" I remember the sickening satisfaction they conditioned me to feel. "I don't… eat normal things…"

Raidian does not flinch. She gently reaches out, her hand lightly brushing the ash from my shoulder.

"You will see, Lita," she promises.

We alter our course, steering away from the exposed, open plains of the wasteland. To avoid the distant, imposing silhouettes of the Grand Dukes' entrenched armies, we move toward the jagged edge of a withered Victorian forest. The trees here are completely dead, their twisted, leafless branches clawing desperately at the smog- choked sky like skeletal fingers. The deep, impenetrable shadows of the woods swallow us, offering a necessary concealment from the war tearing the country apart.

I pull the jacket tighter around myself, my tail swishing nervously against the dry, cracked underbrush.

"Lita…"

I freeze.

The voice slips directly into my ear. It is a woman’s voice… faint, ethereal, and impossibly gentle.

I quickly spin around.

But there is absolutely nothing. The ambient air is completely dead.

"What’s wrong, Lita?" Raidian asks, her steps coming to an immediate halt. The dense, sturdy oak of her presence instantly sharpens with concern.

I stare into the void between the twisted tree trunks, my breath hitching.

"I… I thought I heard something…"

I turn back around to face them, trying to force my tense muscles to relax.

"Lita…"

It happens again. But this time, it sounds so incredibly close, as if the woman is standing directly over my shoulder.

I violently whip around again, my eyes wide with rising panic.

Blaze doesn't ask any questions. The metallic shing of her massive chainsaw being drawn rings out through the dead woods. The Feline steps smoothly in front of me, planting her boots firmly into the dirt. The roaring, unapologetic fire of her aura violently compresses into a lethal, fiercely protective coil. She doesn't rev the engine to maintain our stealth, but her grip on the handle is absolute.

"Dendie. Axie," Raidian commands. Her voice drops its warmth, instantly replaced by the terrifying, frictionless efficiency of a Rhodes Island elite.

From the folds of her dark blue coat, two mechanical drones deploy with a quiet hum.

One is shaped remarkably like a toy fish, swimming weightlessly through the freezing night air. The other is a miniature toy plane. They dart outward into the dead trees, their low-emission lenses sweeping the pitch-black perimeter.

I press my back against Blaze, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I wait for Raidian's drones to spot the Royal Court Caster. I wait for the ambush.

"I don't sense anyone nearby," Raidian states quietly, her eyes opening. She looks directly at me, the tactical tension in her frame shifting into deep confusion. "There are no readable waves. No Arts signatures."

I stare past Raidian's toy fish as it floats silently in the dark.

If there is no one out there… whose voice is calling my name?

"Lita… why do you… leave me?"

I turn around.

Standing just a few paces away, framed by the skeletal, twisted branches of the dead woods, is a woman.

She looks exactly like a matured reflection of me. She has the same woodsmoke grey hair, pulled back into a neat, elegant ponytail at the nape of her neck. She has the same facial features, though softened by age and an agonizing, profound sadness.

But her horns are different. Unlike the lopsided crown resting on my head, hers are perfectly, immaculately symmetrical.

"Why do you…" the woman whispers, her lips barely moving, yet the sound vibrates against my eardrums.

"What…" I stammer, my eyes completely wide. "Who…"

My legs simply give out. I stumble backward, my oxfords catching on a gnarled, dead root protruding from the pulverized earth. I pitch backward, bracing for the hard impact of the cracked ground.

But I don't fall.

Raidian catches me instantly. Her arms wrap securely around my waist, pulling my frame flush against her side. The grounding, undeniably safe flavor of sun-warmed linen and polished, sturdy oak immediately anchors me.

"Lita?" Raidian asks, her voice tight with urgent concern. "There is no one here."

"I…" I raise a trembling hand, pointing a completely white-knuckled finger directly at the woman standing in the shadows. "I see her… right there!"

But the ambient air around the woman is a complete, suffocating void.

There is no rusted iron. There is no crystallized sugar. There is no fear, no resolve, no sorrow. There is absolutely no taste. It is a terrifying, impossible anomaly.

"No…" I gasp, my chest heaving with frantic, shallow breaths as I press myself deeper into Raidian's coat. My hands fly up, pressing desperately against the sides of my head.

"There is no taste! Get out of my head! Get out!"

The woman does not vanish. She doesn't react to my screaming. She just looks at me with those deeply mournful eyes.

"Why…" the woman's voice fractures, echoing with a tragic, ethereal resonance. "I am your mom… Lethia…"

Lethia.

The exact name Raidian had spoken in the medical tent. The mother I never knew. The mother the Confessarii slaughtered on the night Babel fell.

She takes a slow, deliberate step closer. Her shoes make absolutely zero sound against the dry underbrush.

"I love you, Lita."

The words are supposed to be warm, but coming from a ghost with absolutely no empathic flavors, it is pure torture.

"No!" I scream, violently shutting my eyes and burying my face desperately into Raidian's shoulder to block out the symmetrical horns and the haunting face. "You are not real!"

Then, my world shifts.

The biting wind of the dead wood abruptly vanishes. The suffocating smell of pulverized ash and dry dirt is completely erased from my senses.

I open my eyes. The twisted, skeletal trees of the dead woods have melted away.

I am standing in a brightly lit corridor. It is a sterile, utilitarian space. The walls lined with brushed metal paneling and heavy, octagonal reinforced doors. I look down the hall.

Exposed cables snake across the polished grey floor panels, and protective plastic sheets drape carelessly over the upper fixtures. Through the thick, angular bulkhead doors at the end of the hall, I can see into a cavernous, industrial hangar.

It feels like the belly of a massive landship.

I look down at myself. I am so much smaller. Amiya's oversized jacket is gone, replaced by simple, comfortable clothes. My hands are tiny.

I look up.

The woman is kneeling directly in front of me.

But she is no longer the terrifying, tasteless ghost from the woods. The flavor that washes over me makes my now tiny chest physically ache with how beautiful it is. She tastes of sun-warmed earth, sweet blooming jasmine, and the absolute, unyielding density of a sheltering hearth fire. It is a flavor entirely devoid of fear, war, or malice. It is the purest, most profound essence of absolute safety.

"Lita. What's wrong?" the woman asks, her voice brushing against my ears, warm and tangible.

"What… mom…?" The word slips out of my mouth, a fragile, confused whisper. My hands reach out, grazing the soft fabric of her sleeve.

Before I can process the impossibility of the moment, the rhythmic click of heels echoes down the metallic corridor. A brand new flavor bleeds into the air.

It tastes of sharp, aged red wine and ripening plumes, heavily laced with the vibrating, frantic static of a thousand whispered secrets and shadows.

I peek around my mother's shoulder. Walking toward us is a Vampire. She is striking, her pale skin contrasting sharply against her dark attire. She wears a tailored black dress with a deep, blood-red inner lining, intricate thigh-high lace boots, and dark winged motifs resting near her collar. She carries an impossibly massive, curved scythe effortlessly by her side, the dark metal glinting under the corridor's harsh lights. Her pointed tail swishes elegantly behind her as her crimson eyes lock onto us.

"Good morning, Entelechia," mom greets her, her voice steady and warm.

"Morning, Lethia. Morning, little Lita," the Vampire, Entelechia, replies.

"Are you leaving already?" mom asks, standing up and gently taking my small hand in hers.

"The intelligence are not going to gather themselves," Entelechia replies smoothly, adjusting her grip on the scythe. Her sharp, calculating resonance hums with a focused energy. "Someone has to keep an eye on the shadows."

Suddenly, a small blur of grey detaches itself from the Vampire's sweeping coat. It flutters rapidly through the air. A tiny beast. Before I can even register its flight path, it swoops down and lands directly on top of my head, its tiny claws tangling softly in my hair.

"Eh?!" I yelp, my hands immediately flying up to cover my head as I instinctively duck behind my mother's leg. "Don't bite me!"

Entelechia lets out a soft, echoing laugh that tastes exactly like bubbling, rich wine.

"Little Garnet is just an Arts creation, Lita," Entelechia says, her sharp eyes twinkling with amusement as she looks at my cowering form. "Don't worry. She doesn't bite."

"Lita!"

Raidian’s voice violently tears me from the brightly lit corridor of my past. The sterile metal walls and my mother's warm, sheltering smile shatter like glass, instantly dumping me back into the freezing, pitch-black reality of the dead Victorian woods.

A deafening, metallic screech vibrates right through my skull.

I look up. Blaze is locked in an absolute, dead stalemate. The teeth of her massive chainsaw are grinding violently against the crossguard of a steel sword, sending a shower of blinding sparks into the dark canopy above.

The wielder pushing against her is a nightmare pulled straight from my worst terrors.

They are clad in heavy, pitch-black armor layered over a long, dark coat with a tattered, sweeping cloak. Their face is completely obscured by a heavy hood and a horrifying, bone-white skull mask. Jagged, dark horns protrude from the cowl, completing the imposing, lightless silhouette of an executioner.

The ambient air instantly suffocates me. The flavor bleeding off the armored figure is absolute, undeniable terror; it tastes exactly of ancient, freezing surgical steel, embalming fluid, and old, congealed blood trapped in a lightless crypt for centuries.

"A Confessarius guard?!" I yelp.

"There’s another!" Raidian shouts.

The Liberi's composure remains absolute. Her toy fish and toy plane drones whip around with a high-pitched mechanical whine, unleashing a rapid, blinding volley of suppressive fire directly into the dark brush on our flank. The sharp crack of splintering branches and a heavy, armored shuffle echo from the deep shadows.

But the physical threat is completely drowned out by the ghost still clawing at my mind.

"Lita… comeback to us… please…"

My mother's ethereal, tasteless voice continues to haunt me, slipping directly through my empathic channels like a phantom blade.

"No…" I violently scramble backward in the pulverized dirt. I pull my knees tightly to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs, squeezing myself into a trembling ball to shut the voices out.

Ahead of me, Blaze shoves her weight forward, leveraging the immense physical strength of her frame to violently push the first guard back.

She doesn't hesitate. She revs the chainsaw, and her roaring, unapologetic fire completely superheats the ambient air, baking the freezing wind into a blistering thermal shockwave. She swings the massive, molten weapon in a devastating, horizontal arc, completely cleaving through the thick trunks of the dead trees. The wood instantly combusts in an explosion of blinding embers and splintered timber.

But the Confessarius guard moves with a terrifying, frictionless agility. They weave seamlessly under the superheated blade, the scorched, heavy timber crashing harmlessly to the forest floor right behind them.

From the other side of the clearing, the heavy crunch of boots on dead roots grows louder. The second armored guard approaches through the smoke, their long sword drawn and perfectly steady, completely undeterred by Raidian’s attempt at suppression.

"Lita…" the phantom voice pleads one last time, echoing against the sickening taste of old blood and freezing surgical steel.

"No…" I weep into my knees, my tail wrapping tightly around my ankles.

Crash!

Another deafening, metallic screech tears through the dead woods as Blaze’s roaring chainsaw clashes against the first Confessarius guard’s sword. A geyser of blinding orange sparks illuminates the pitch-black armor and the horrifying, bone-white skull mask of the executioner.

The second guard lunges. A long blade sweeps in a lethal, silent arc directly toward Raidian. The Liberi weaves gracefully out of the path, dodging the strike with absolute, frictionless composure.

"Lita… come with mom, let's go home."

The tasteless, ethereal voice slithers directly into my mind again.

"No…" I whimper into my knees, my whole body trembling against the dry earth.

"Blaze! Watch out, behind!" Raidian calls out, her voice cutting sharply through the roaring exhaust of the chainsaw.

"Tsk." Blaze clicks her tongue. The Feline violently twists her frame, bracing her boots in the dirt as the two lightless executioners begin to seamlessly coordinate their strikes, attempting to flank her in the shadows.

"Lita, they are not your friends." The ghost of my mother whispers.

My fingers dig desperately into the soft, white knit of Amiya's sweater.

No.

"No… you are lying.." My voice fractures, but it begins to rise, tearing raw and desperate through my throat. I force the actual absolute truth to the surface. "My home was with Babel… then Rhodes Island. Not the Military Commission…"

"Lita… please… you look so pained…"

The tasteless, ethereal voice of my mother continues to whisper, completely ignoring the desperate refusal in my heart. The ghost steps closer through the dead, twisted trees.

"No…" I scream, my hands flying up block my ears on the side of my head. "I said no already! Just stop!"

Suddenly, the roaring, kinetic energy in the clearing stutters.

"What's this feeling…" Blaze grunts, her boots sliding backward in the dirt. She shakes her head, her grip on the chainsaw wavering. "Hard to focus…"

"Lita!"

Raidian's voice cuts sharply through the static. The Liberi twists her body, narrowly dodging a lethal, sweeping blade strike from the second Confessarius guard. The dark steel misses her coat by mere millimeters. She rushes directly toward me, her hands commanding the toy drones to unleash another rapid barrage of suppressive fire to cover her movement.

Raidian slides into the dirt right beside me, the deeply comforting flavor of sun-warmed linen and sturdy oak struggling to break through the toxic venom of my despair.

"What are you doing, Lita!" Raidian calls out, her voice straining. "Stop pushing… bad memories!"

I look up.

I see Blaze getting pushed back.

Simultaneously, the second armored executioner completely ignores the drone fire.

They stalk forward, methodically closing the distance toward Raidian and me.

"No…" I whisper, my fingers digging completely white-knuckled into the dirt. "I am not a weapon."

"Lita…" the tasteless ghost of my mother whispers, hovering right behind the advancing executioner. "It is your chance."

How dare they. How dare they take the memory of Lethia, the mother who fought for the light, the mother who loved me, and twist her into this hollow, manipulative nightmare?

"I am not your toy!" I scream. I glare directly through the Confessarius guard, locking my eyes onto the tasteless phantom lingering in the shadows. "You are not my mom!

You are just… a corrupted projection!"

Right in front of me, I taste Blaze's unapologetic, roaring fire and heavy machine grease. I taste the fundamentally safe, deeply comforting sun-warmed linen and sturdy oak of Raidian anchoring me to the earth.

My mind reaches further, stretching instinctively across the ruined capital to the people waiting for me in the dark. I taste the blindingly pure, crystallized sugar of Amiya's boundless, weeping heart. I feel the cold obsidian and the absolute, frictionless streak of sheer focus from Logos. I taste Shining's warm, sheltering sunlight, Nightingale's ethereal, shattered spun glass, and the explosive, sun-baked pressurized steam of Bagpipe's forged-steel vitality.

They are real. Their warmth is real.

I scramble to my feet, my oxfords planting firmly into the pulverized dirt. I drop my hands from my ears, my tail lashing fiercely behind me. I glare past the tasteless ghost of my mother, locking my eyes directly onto the pitch-black armor of the Confessarius guards.

"You will not hurt them!"

I focus on a shape. A manifestation of everyone’s will for the light.

My protector. Our protector.

The physical world distorts as my Arts flood the clearing. Bursting forth from the shadows is a four-legged beast. It is easily twice my size. Its pristine white hide completely unmarred by the ash and grime of Londinium. A flashing white tail whips the freezing wind behind it, and it unfurls two white wings stretched taut with a breathtaking, misty blue membrane.

It turns its head toward the advancing executioner. It is faceless, its crown entirely obscured by a wild, flowing mane of woodsmoke grey. Its jaw unhinges, letting out a low, resonant roar that vibrates through the dirt.

It instantly lunges at the Confessarius guard coming at us.

The white Arts Creation moves with a liquid grace, its wings flaring to close the distance. It bites at the guard.

But the guard moves with that same frictionless agility. The executioner seamlessly sidesteps, his tattered black cloak sweeping through the dead brush as he dodges the beast's bite. He raises his steel sword, preparing to counterattack the Arts Creation's exposed flank.

Raidian does not waste time. Moving with the absolute, unyielding precision, she seamlessly follows up my protector's assault. Her drones deliver a devastating, localized strike directly into the armor plating of his shoulder.

Crack!

The sharp, metallic sound of denting armor rings out through the dead woods. The guard flinches, his rigid combat stance completely shattering under the kinetic force of the Liberi's blow.

My beast takes the chance instantly.

Before the guard can recover his balance, the white Arts Creation pounces. It throws its weight forward, slamming the executioner backward into the earth. The impact kicks up a cloud of ash as the beast's paws pin his arms completely flat against the dirt, trapping him in an unyielding vice.

The guard struggles wildly, but he is completely paralyzed beneath the beast's protective mass.

Raidian takes the opening. With fluid, terrifying grace, she steps over the struggling executioner. Her expression is perfectly composed.

The strike from the toy plane drives directly through the bone-white skull mask, sinking deep into the darkness beneath.

The executioner goes completely still. The suffocating scent of the lightless crypt instantly flatlines into a cold, empty void.

"Lita… why?" the ghost asks.

I ignore it completely. My hands ball into tight fists at my sides, my eyes locking onto the absolute reality unfolding in front of me.

Crash!

Blaze parries a heavy, downward cleave from the remaining Confessarius guard.

My new Arts Creation does not wait for a command. Moving with an instinctual, liquid grace, the white, four-legged beast bounds across the earth. Its wings flare outward as it begins to circle the executioner, letting out a low, thrumming growl.

The guard remains terrifyingly composed.

For a fraction, the bone-white skull mask shifts. The guard takes his eyes off the roaring Feline to track the white Arts Creation.

Blaze takes the chance instantly. She shifts her weight. With the explosive force of a siege engine, Blaze drives her combat boot directly into the guard's chest plate.

The sickening crack of denting armor echoes through the clearing. The impact completely shatters the executioner's stance, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward into the dirt. He drops his sword, the blade clattering uselessly against the dead roots.

Before the guard can even fully hit the earth, Blaze instantly plunges directly into him without hesitation. Her chainsaw shrieks, the engine revving as she drives the superheated, jagged teeth directly through the executioner's armor. The execution is immediate and deafening. The suffocating, crypt-like flavor bleeding off the guard violently flatlines, completely erased by the apocalyptic heat of Blaze's weapon.

The ghost disappears. The tasteless, ethereal projection of my mother simply dissolves into a fine mist before vanishing completely into the dark. The oppressive, freezing weight in my mind lifts, leaving behind nothing but the biting wind.

The clearing falls quiet, save for the low, idling hum of Blaze's chainsaw. But Raidian and Blaze remain entirely tense, their postures coiled and ready. Raidian’s drones continue to aggressively sweep the pitch-black perimeter, searching for any lingering threats.

"Lita…" Raidian calls out, her voice tight. "Do you still see what you see?"

I take a slow, shaky breath.

"No," I whisper, my shoulders finally sagging as the massive surge of adrenaline begins to crash. "It is all good now."

At my words, the Arts Creation trots gracefully over to my side. It lowers its faceless head, folding its misty blue wings neatly against its pristine flanks. It affectionately rubs its against my leg, letting out a soft, rumbling purr. I reach down, my fingers sinking into the warm softness of its mane.

Blaze powers down her chainsaw, the deafening roar finally dying out. She rests the weapon over her shoulder and walks over.

"What is that, kiddo?" Blaze asks.

I look at the beautiful creature that just saved my life.

"Uhm… well…" I stammer, a faint, nervous warmth flushing my cheeks. I gently scratch the beast. "It's an Arts Creation… I will call him… Nightmare Eater…"

I duck my head slightly, my tail swishing nervously behind my back as I suddenly feel incredibly self-conscious under the Elite Ops' gazes.

"…not original but… that’s what it does."

"My head…"

The adrenaline that had been keeping my legs upright finally, completely runs out. The vast, dead Victorian woods blur into a dizzying smear. I crash downwards, my knees buckling as gravity reclaims me.

But I never hit the dirt. A pair of strong arms catch me before I can fall.

Then, the world completely disappears.

I blink.

A harsh, blinding light pierces directly through my eyelids. I squeeze my eyes shut and slowly peel them open again, my vision completely blurred. The freezing wind, the pulverized ash, and the skeletal Victorian landships are entirely gone.

"Where am I?" I ask, my voice a dry, raspy wheeze that echoes strangely in the quiet space.

I am lying flat on my back on a rigid, highly mechanical bed. I turn my head, taking in the suffocatingly sterile environment. I am in a blue-tinted medical room. Massive, articulated scanners and heavy, multi-paned surgical lights loom directly over my bed from the ceiling. Glowing monitors and life-support terminals are mounted to the walls, casting a cold, clinical glow across the pristine floor.

A new flavor bleeds into the sterile air.

It tastes of cold copper and expensive wine, buzzing with a distinct, metallic hum of predatory curiosity.

A Vampire stands next to my bed. She possesses long, flowing white hair, pointed ears, and piercing red eyes that evaluate me with intense, calculating focus. She is dressed in a dark, asymmetrical coat adorned with a white medical cross on her left arm, worn over a pleated white skirt and dark tights.

"Oh, look who’s awake," the Vampire remarks, her voice dry and entirely clinical. "I was just wondering how many times I have to do this."

The words strike me like a physical blow.

How many times I have to do this.

Rhodes Island is a hypocritical front. They steal Sarkaz memories. They chain you in the dark and make you a hollow puppet.

They brought me here to erase the truth I just learned. They are going to plunge me back into the void!

"No!" I scream.

I scramble backward across the crisp, white hospital sheets, pressing my back desperately against the hard headboard. I pull my knees to my chest and throw my hands over my head, squeezing my eyes shut.

"Please don't wipe my memories!" I beg, my whole body shaking uncontrollably.

The ambient air in the medical room completely stalls. The metallic buzz of predatory curiosity radiating from the Vampire drops instantly, replaced by a wave of profound, deadpan exasperation.

She lets out a long, heavy sigh.

"This is Rhodes Island, little anomaly," she states, her eyes staring at my form with absolute, unfiltered boredom.

"I don’t want to lose everything again…" I sob.

The Vampire lets out another sigh.

"I need to draw blood, little anomaly," the Vampire states. She taps a glass vial. "If you keep cowering and making this difficult, I am just going to use my fangs. It is faster."

Before I can even process the threat of her fangs, the door of the medical room slides open with a pneumatic hiss.

"Lethe! My dear!"

A voice tears through the sterile air, thick with desperate relief.

A short-haired Liberi woman practically flies across the room. She throws her arms around me and pulling my trembling frame flush against her chest. She hugs me so tightly it knocks the breath right out of my lungs.

"You were gone for almost two months…" she weeps, her voice cracking as she buries her face into my shoulder. "I thought… I thought…"

She tastes so incredibly safe.

The flavor washing over my frantic senses is a blindingly pure, sun-drenched field completely overflowing with warm honey and unadulterated care.

But the moment is interrupted.

"Caladria," the Vampire’s clinical voice cuts through the warm honey. "Help me stabilize her. I need two vials."

Stabilize.

No… no… no… this is a trap…

They brought their medic to hold me down while the Vampire drains my blood and wipes my mind.

"No!" I scream, thrashing against the Liberi's embrace. I press my hands flat against her chest, desperately trying to push her away. "I am not Lethe! And you just want to take my memories! Let me go!"

The absolute second the words leave my mouth, the ambient air shifts.

Caladria's emotional resonance shatters. The sun-drenched field and warm honey are instantly pierced by a profound, agonizing spike of heartbreak. It is the raw, bleeding pain of a mother whose child looks at her as if she were a monster.

Why…

The agonizing pain crashes directly into me.

It is delicious…

My mouth actually waters at the taste of her shattered heart.

I am feeding on her pain. I am a monster.

"No! No! Lita, no!" I sob frantically, my hands flying up to grip my own horns as I violently shake my head. "That’s not delicious… I am a monster… I am a monster…"

I curl into a tight ball.

"Caladria," the Vampire medic says. "Remember, she goes by her birth name, Lita, now." The Liberi woman reaches out again, gently rest her warm hand over mine.

"Right…" Caladria whispers, her voice trembling but incredibly gentle. She wipes a tear from her own cheek. "Sorry… Lita."

I slowly uncurl myself from the tight, trembling ball. My tear-soaked eyes meet the Liberi woman's gaze. Her hand remains resting gently over mine.

"Caladria…" I whisper, my voice still a raw, raspy wheeze. "Why do you… why do you taste like that…"

The Liberi woman tilts her head slightly, her eyes filled with a quiet confusion.

"What do you mean?" she asks softly, her voice catching. "Le… Lita?"

"I…" My fingers twitch beneath her warm palm. "You taste like… a mother who was protecting her child… exactly like the ones I killed in Londinium…"

I remember the desolate streets. I remember the Felines. I had plunged into their minds, tasted the sweet, rotting nectar of their terror, and commanded my Fear Beast to tear them apart.

Caladria does not pull her hand away.

"Lita…" Caladria murmurs, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Well… you used to call me mom…"

I stare at her. I look at her white feathers near her temples, her gentle features, and the undeniable fact of her race.

"But you are a Liberi…" I stammer, my breath hitching in the quiet hum of the life- support monitors. "And Lethia… Lethia is my mom…"

The Confessarii had slaughtered my mother on the night Babel fell. She was a Sarkaz, a pureblood just like me. How could this Liberi woman claim that title?

But then, I remember weeping on the cracked asphalt in the dead of night, held securely against a different Liberi's side. Raidian’s words ring out, cutting directly through the dense fog of my confusion.

You have two. One who birthed you, and one who loves you with her entire being right now…

"You are… you are her… Raidian told me…"

Caladria’s expression softens into an ocean of unconditional tenderness. She leans forward, carefully wrapping her arms around my shoulders once more.

"You are home, my Lita," Caladria whispers into my hair, her voice a steady, deeply comforting anchor. "You are safe."

I want to melt into her embrace.

"But I am just a monster now…" I choke out, my tears spilling hot and fast into the fabric of her shirt. I keep my hands pressed rigidly against my own chest, refusing to return the hug. "I don’t deserve it…"

"I will still love you, Lita," Caladria says, her tone carrying an absolute, undeniable certainty. "If you allow me."

I squeeze my eyes shut.

It is a grace I do not know how to accept.

"I am not sure yet… sorry…" I whisper, slowly pulling myself back from her warmth, shrinking back against the hard headboard.

Caladria lets me go easily, offering a soft, devastated but endlessly patient smile.

"That’s okay, Lita," she murmurs, reaching up to gently wipe a tear from my cheek. "We have all the time in the world."

She takes a slow breath. She turns her head slightly toward the foot of the bed.

"But just as important, Lita," Caladria continues, her voice shifting into a gentle but firm clinical tone. "Dr. Warfarin needs blood to confirm you are healthy, and to see how your Oripathy has progressed… you must have been using your Arts a lot in Londinium."

I flinch, my eyes darting past Caladria.

The Vampire medic is still standing there. Dr. Warfarin’s piercing eyes locking directly onto mine.

Caladria gently squeezes my shoulder. She reaches her other hand into one of the modular medical pouches secured to her utilitarian belt.

When she pulls her hand back out, she is holding a small, strawberry-flavored lollipop.

"Here," Caladria offers. With a quick, practiced motion, she peels away the plastic wrapper and holds the candy out to me.

I blink, my frantic, racing thoughts completely stalling.

I look at the candy, then back up to the Liberi woman's endlessly patient eyes. My fingers slowly uncurl from the white hospital sheets.

"Thanks…"

I take the plastic stick and tentatively place the lollipop into my mouth. The artificial, sugary sweetness of the strawberry instantly blooms on my tongue.

My tense shoulders drop.

A sharp, sudden pinch bites directly into the crook of my arm.

"Mmmph…!"

I squeak around the lollipop, my eyes flying wide open in absolute betrayal. I flinch, my free hand flying up to grip my arm, but Caladria’s hands are already there, gently but firmly holding my elbow steady so I don't tear the needle out.

The Vampire medic smoothly withdraws the needle, transferring the dark crimson liquid into a clear glass vial.

Dr. Warfarin holds the vial up directly into the harsh, glaring beams of the multi-paned surgical lights. She gently swirls the glass, her eyes tracking the viscosity of the blood with intense, unfiltered fascination.

"Well, your blood is still as exquisite as ever, little anomaly," Dr. Warfarin remarks.

She turns away, stepping over to a glowing medical terminal to slot the vial into a heavy, articulated scanner.

"Let’s see if you fried that brain of yours in Londinium," she mutters dryly, her fingers dancing rapidly across the keyboard to begin the analysis.