“Hey, Prim…

  I need you.”

  “I know.”

  My voice answers the thought aloud.

  I push myself back—away from muscle, away from breath—and narrow my focus to my left hand alone. I give her the rest.

  The world slows.

  She is already moving, already hunting—but she waits. She always waits for me.

  I breathe in, steady.

  I’ve done this thousands of times.

  Vire floods into my left hand, seeping out in a molten orange mass. I gather it, compress it, shape it with careful intent. It expands, grows denser, crystalline edges forming at my direction.

  Prim knows the moment it’s ready.

  She stops abruptly, arching my body, and my arm snaps forward like a whip. The mass tears free, streaking through the air to land just in front of Cattleya.

  On contact, it blossoms.

  Pale orange crystal erupts outward in fractal layers, expanding rapidly into a solid barrier.

  The puppet hesitates—only a fraction of a second—but it still fires.

  Vire detonates against the crystal in a violent burst of light.

  The barrier holds.

  The faceless head turns toward me.

  I smirk.

  Or she does.

  “We’re not done with you,” my voice says, sword lifting in challenge.

  The puppet angles its head, studying us.

  “Could it be?” the voice echoes from the wooden form, something like interest creeping into its tone.

  It steps forward—invigorated.

  Prim moves.

  Her footwork is always remarkable. No matter how long I train, I can never quite match it. We bob and weave through the puppet’s strikes, her movements fluid, precise. The blows feel like an obligation more than a focus.

  She keeps my left hand tight to my chest.

  Because she knows I won’t fail her.

  “Go,” I whisper.

  She disengages instantly—one thrust, a hop back—buying us just enough time.

  My left hand floods the blade with my own Vire.

  Crystal crawls along the sword’s length, coating it in serrated, jagged orange facets—Prim is already moving before it finishes forming.

  We re-enter the fight without pause.

  The blade bites deep. Crystal shreds through wood and Vire alike, tearing past reinforced bindings.

  “Remarkable,” the puppet murmurs, inspecting the damage—clinical, almost pleased.

  It closes the distance again—faster now. Angrier. Testing.

  Prim dances through the assault, each deflection carving shallow wounds. I compress energy again, tighter this time, denser.

  She knows when it’s ready.

  A flick of the wrist sends the mass sliding between the puppet’s legs.

  Crystal surges upward.

  The structure buckles.

  Her strike follows—precise, final, brutal.

  The blade cleaves straight through the puppet’s torso.

  Wood splits like wet bark—

  —and stops.

  Something harder resists.

  The puppet stumbles back from the force alone, unmoved by pain but not by impact.

  When it steadies, the gash in its chest reveals a crystal core.

  “This vessel was costly,” the voice observes, without regret.

  The wooden hand brushes the crystal lodged in its torso, fingers testing the fracture as I watch tight strands of Vire unravel, snapping one by one.

  “Materials of this purity are not replaceable. But scarcity has never slowed progress.”

  A pause.

  “To encounter another of your kind,” he muses, reverent and proprietary at once. “Fascinating.”

  The puppet surges forward.

  Not to strike—to seize.

  Its arms lock around us in a crushing embrace. Our blows glance uselessly off reinforced wood, crystal and splinters shedding without purchase.

  My breath catches. I can feel it now—the Vire compressing, folding in on itself, forced tighter and tighter.

  Unstable.

  Dangerous.

  “Indulge me in one final observation.” the voice says calmly

  The pressure spikes.

  Light obliterates everything.

  Sound collapses into a single, endless note.

  Gods. I just want it to stop.

  My body feels heavy, but I push myself up.

  Or rather—

  Prim jerks me upright.

  Pain blooms across my forehead—sharp, grounding—and my vision spins.

  “Ow…”

  I groan softly, rubbing the sore spot as sensation rushes back in uneven waves.

  My eyes open.

  Cattleya kneels over me. A thin cut mars her eyebrow, the first bead of blood slipping free.

  She isn’t afraid.

  She isn’t angry.

  She’s watching me with open curiosity—something close to awe.

  I take stock of myself with a wince. My clothes hang in tatters, orange crystal clinging to my skin like a shell. Slowly, it dissolves into mist, its energy sinking back into me until nothing remains.

  Fingers brush my cheek. I tense as Cattleya tilts my head toward her, forcing my gaze to meet hers.

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  Her eyes are wide. Searching. Unconcerned with her own wound.

  “Who are you?” she asks quietly.

  No accusation.

  No fear.

  Just interest.

  I manage a crooked, tired smile and don’t pull away.

  “How about a deal?” I murmur. “We keep what happened here between us… and in return, I’ll tell you.”

  Her expression softens. That familiar warmth returns.

  “Mm.”

  She rises, retrieving her sword. A moment later, I feel her coat settle over my shoulders, shielding what little dignity I have left.

  When I look up, she isn’t watching me anymore.

  She’s staring down the tunnel we came from.

  Footsteps echo—calm, measured this time.

  My emerald eye sharpens, catching three familiar silhouettes before the torchlight does.

  It’s them.

  I whisper an apology under my breath and pull myself back—hard—into place.

  Normal.

  Ordinary.

  Unremarkable.

  I stand, properly slipping my arms into Cattleya’s coat and fastening it closed. It hangs heavy on me, grounding. Before anyone can say anything, I grab the last mark by the wrist and start dragging him toward the approaching figures.

  “Oi—Cat—godsdamn it,” Ulric mutters as he approaches. “You look like hell. Ci, take a look at her, will you?”

  He scans the chamber, brow furrowing. “And what in the Hells—was that crater always there? Is that where the blast came from?”

  He gestures toward the spot where I’d been lying.

  My blood goes cold.

  Instead of answering, I haul the body the last few steps and let it drop at their feet with a dull thud.

  “Why don’t you,” I huff, breath catching, “take a look at this instead.”

  Veil lets out a low whistle. He bumps fists with Ulric without breaking his grin.

  “Lancers—one. Chariot—two,” Ulric declares.

  They cheer. I cheer with them—half a beat late.

  Because I feel it.

  Cinna.

  Her gaze lingers on me longer than it should. Not accusatory. Not fearful.

  Concerned.

  She’s sensitive to Vire. She always has been.

  Did something leak through?

  “Let’s bag the bounty and regroup with the commander,” Ulric says. “I’m guessing you two handled the conjurer? Golem fell apart like a house of cards.”

  He hefts his axe and steps toward the corpse.

  I turn away before I have to watch.

  Wet sounds follow—cutting, tearing. I move closer to the others, jaw tight.

  “Yeah,” I say quickly. “Me and Cat got him. Didn’t stand a chance.”

  I glance at her for confirmation.

  She only tilts her head, expression serene—like truth itself is optional.

  A gentle tug at my sleeve.

  Cinna.

  “…Isn’t this yours?” she asks, fingers brushing the coat.

  Cattleya hums softly. “Mm.”

  Cinna looks back up at me. Her gaze is steady now. Unyielding.

  “…What happened?”

  I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

  My eyes betray me, flicking toward the crater.

  Cinna follows the glance.

  Her breath catches.

  She moves fast—kneeling, palm hovering just above the fractured stone, Vire residue still shimmering faintly in the air.

  “…So much,” she whispers. “So violent. Nothing like that should leave a body standing.”

  She looks up at me sharply. “You were hit by this?”

  My chest tightens.

  She doesn’t look convinced. She doesn’t look away.

  “I’m fine,” I say too quickly. “I got lucky. It only caught my clothes.”

  The words sound thin even to me.

  Cinna stares at the crater again, baffled. Silent.

  I meet Veil’s eyes.

  He squints—just slightly.

  Then his expression smooths, deliberate — a choice made and filed away.

  “All right,” Ulric says, straightening as he lifts the burlap sack. “That’s done. Chariot—move out.”

  I don’t look at the sack. I don’t look at what it came from.

  As we turn to leave, a familiar presence steps in close and presses something into my hands.

  My sword.

  I’d forgotten it.

  I clutch it to my chest like a lifeline.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  “Mm,” she replies, as if it needs no thought at all.

  Maybe it doesn’t.

  Maybe this—

  this is just how it is now.

  We start back through the tunnels. I’m quietly grateful the blast spared my boots—the ground is jagged, uneven, littered with stone and splintered debris.

  And I walk carefully.

  Carefully enough that no one notices how close I stay to her side.

  My fingers tighten unconsciously around the coat.

  The world narrows—comfort, belonging—so sudden it almost hurts.

  What I always wanted.

  What I kept reaching for.

  What I put at risk because of—

  I steal a glance at her. She isn’t looking back. She just walks beside me, unbothered, unthinking—like this is simply how things are meant to be.

  …Please.

  Just let me survive this. I want this to work so badly. I don’t want to pack my things and move again.

  A shout cuts through the tunnel, snapping me out of it.

  “Where the fuck have you been!?” Saria bellows as Cinna’s light spills into view.

  We approach. Ulric lifts the sack triumphantly.

  Saria freezes.

  Then gasps.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Do you know how many fuckers I had to cut? You get one head, we get—”

  She falters as we draw closer. Her voice drops as Leonie leans in to whisper something.

  “…Fifty. Over fifty,” Saria finishes, straightening. “We’re tied.”

  Veil snickers.

  “Quality over quantity, eh, cove? How much were those bounties worth?”

  “Fine,” she snaps back. “Next time you hold the line while I go scurrying around picking the juicy targets.”

  Ulric’s hand settles on Veil’s shoulder before he can retort.

  “Draw,” Ulric says, lowering himself until he’s eye-level with Saria. “On one condition.”

  She scowls.

  “Veil’s mine,” Ulric continues, grin spreading. “You stop threatening to steal him.”

  Saria scoffs and turns away.

  “…What made you think I wanted him? I was just messing with you.”

  She stalks back toward the main tent. Leonie lingers long enough to wave at us warmly before following.

  “Sore loser,” Ulric mutters, pulling Veil in with a possessive arm.

  I snort despite myself. The tension drains out of me.

  Yeah.

  This is nice.

  At the main tent, Ulric hands the sack to Lucius without ceremony.

  “Good work,” Lucius says. “Our operation here is complete. You’ll return with me. The Lancers will remain to cover the Mantle’s withdrawal.”

  Saria groans but doesn’t argue.

  “Aye, boss… Lancers,” she mutters, gesturing for her squad to fall in. The fire’s gone from her voice.

  As we walk, I feel Lucius’s gaze on me.

  Cold.

  Measuring.

  Silent.

  He says nothing, but it’s enough to make a shiver crawl down my spine—like he’s cataloging me, piece by piece.

  The tower doors come into view.

  I bolt.

  “I—uh—I really need a bath,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll see everyone in a bit, alright?”

  No one protests. Just a few resigned looks.

  I sprint up the stairs, detour to my room for clean clothes, then straight to the sixth-floor baths.

  Empty.

  Relief floods me as I latch the door.

  The tub sits at the center of the chamber—large, metal, deep—steam curling lazily from its surface. Someone anticipated our return.

  All mine.

  I set my clothes aside and strip—first the coat, then the battered armor, then what’s left of my clothing.

  The plates are scorched but intact. The straps warped. The leather ruined. Boots torn. Socks barely holding together.

  I sigh.

  My gaze lingers on her coat longer than it should.

  I lift it, turn it over once more. She always wore it open, careless. It suited her. Made her look… effortless.

  “…Yeah,” I murmur. “You did look cool.”

  Something inside me agrees.

  I set it neatly beside my clothes, making a mental note to have it cleaned, then sink into the tub.

  No—

  I melt.

  The heat wraps around me, loosening everything at once. I slide under, letting the water swallow my head, staying there longer than I should.

  When I surface, I notice the bucket in the corner. Soap. Shampoo.

  …Probably should’ve washed first.

  I float instead, limbs drifting, staring up as memories creep in.

  Rivers. Lakes. Pools.

  I used to love floating like this.

  The memory shifts—déjà vu sharp enough to make my breath hitch.

  I’ve said this before.

  To him.

  “…It’s been a while,” I murmur. “Hasn’t it?”

  The water laps softly around me, pretending nothing has changed.