By the time I reach the lobby, everyone is already there, geared and waiting. No one comments on my lateness. We move as soon as I arrive.

  Leaving the city proves far easier than entering it. Our affiliation with the Valiants carries weight; the guards open the gates without question, offering only brief nods and wishes for safe travel. No inspections. No delays.

  Boots crunch against packed earth as we pass beyond the walls. Vellaris drops away behind us—stone and towers swallowed by drifting smoke—until only open land remains. The morning air feels thinner out here, stripped of stone and crowd noise, carrying only damp soil and the faint bite of metal.

  Ulric leads without looking back. A slab of metal that can only generously be called a shield rests against his back, its edge scarred and heavy. A brutal-looking axe hangs at his hip, worn the way a familiar tool is worn. Veil keeps close at his side, fingers idly working a dagger, spinning it with practiced ease as if to burn off excess tension.

  Cinna walks just behind them, and the sight of her nearly makes my heart ache. Her combat robes differ little from her usual attire, flowing with the same careful grace. Her attention drifts beyond where I’m willing to follow, as though she’s already attuning herself to the flow of Vire around us.

  Her staff, however, is another matter—delicate, inlaid with stars and gemstones, crowned unmistakably with a bow.

  …I really want to pat her.

  A low hum reaches me from behind.

  Cattleya.

  Not a tune. Not quite music. Just a wandering sound, like she’s aligning herself to something beneath the ground. I make a point of not looking back.

  The farmland stretches wide and empty on either side of the road. Low fences. Silent sheds. Fields lying fallow where crops should be growing.

  “This is it,” Ulric says at last, lifting his chin toward a marker along the path. “From that point on, it’s council land. Sharecropped, like you said.”

  He doesn’t turn to look at me, but I know he means it.

  The road continues on ahead—long, quiet, and lined with nothing but unremarkable fields.

  Cinna stops abruptly.

  “There,” she says, eyes snapping open as she points deeper into the field.

  Everyone halts at once, turning toward her.

  “Ulric,” she adds, her voice firm now. She draws her arms in close, bracing herself, and offers the Bovaryn a short, resolute nod.

  Ulric grins.

  “Alright. Let’s move.”

  He scoops Cinna up with practiced ease, settling her securely onto his shoulder. His posture lowers immediately, body coiling tight like a sprinter at the line. Cinna grips one of his horns, the other arm braced across his back.

  The moment he feels her steady—

  He’s gone.

  The ground seems to vanish beneath him as he launches forward, speed violent and sudden. Veil is already moving alongside him, entirely accustomed to the pace.

  I stand there, stunned.

  Do I… actually have to keep up with that?

  “Imo, come on.”

  Cattleya glances at me over her shoulder as she breaks into a run.

  I flinch.

  Those three letters again.

  Still—she’s slower. Manageably so. I push off after her, breath evening out as I fall into stride.

  She could go faster. I can tell. That massive sword on her back clearly isn’t helping—how she even carries the thing is beyond me. It’s nearly as tall as she is.

  As we run, my eyes keep drifting back to her form. Not athletic in any conventional sense—almost feral. She leans forward, arms swinging low, movement suggesting she might drop to all fours at any moment, but never quite does. The tight leather straps of her armor pull against lean muscle, more apparent now under exertion. Her white hair and tail stream behind her like alabaster brushstrokes against the green fields.

  Ahead, Ulric and Veil have already slowed.

  Cinna stands between them, crouched low as she inspects the crops.

  “There’s no mistaking it,” she says. “This is the same Vire signature I detected in the elixir.”

  She steps aside, allowing Cattleya and me a clearer view.

  A flower.

  Petals violet and faintly luminous, pulsing with a subtle inner glow.

  Cattleya drifts toward it instinctively—but Ulric’s sharp glance snaps her back into place without a word.

  I scan the surrounding land. Acres of ordinary farmland—wheat, corn, sturdy crops meant to feed the city. And at the center of it all, hidden in plain sight, a small cultivated patch no larger than a garden plot.

  Veil snaps his communicator shut.

  “Aight. Aureate’s on their way. Told ’em exactly where we are.”

  Cinna stiffens.

  “…Someone’s here.”

  Her eyes widen as she looks out across the fields.

  “They’re running,” she says. “If they reach cover, they’ll warn others.”

  Ulric exhales slowly, a low rumble building in his chest.

  “We split,” he says. “We hold this site until the Aureate arrives. If this field burns before we present proof, whoever’s behind it walks free.”

  His gaze moves over the group—then stops on me.

  Then Cattleya.

  A faint smirk tugs at his expression.

  “…You two up for it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cattleya answers instantly, stepping forward with a crisp salute.

  I hesitate for half a heartbeat.

  Protesting now would be a mistake on every possible level.

  “…Yes, sir,” I echo, matching her salute.

  Veil steps closer and presses his communicator into my hand.

  “If anything goes wrong, call Lucius. Stay alive, coves.”

  And then they’re gone.

  Ulric surges forward like a charging bull, Cinna secure on his shoulder, Veil keeping pace with effortless agility.

  And I—

  I’m left behind.

  With her.

  I close my eyes and let out a long, frustrated breath, tension draining from my shoulders.

  When I open them, I will be disciplined. Focused. Professional.

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  I open my eyes.

  Cattleya is eating one of the flowers.

  I gasp and lunge forward, grabbing her wrist—but she’s already chewing.

  “What are you doing?!” I hiss. “Those could be dangerous! We’re supposed to guard them!”

  She doesn’t react to my grip. Just chews thoughtfully, as if savoring something expensive.

  Then she swallows.

  “…There are more, Imo,” she says mildly, tilting her head. “It’s sweet. Like honey.”

  She leans closer.

  Before I can fully process it, she lifts the gloved fingers I’m still holding and drags her tongue across the leather.

  “…And something else,” she adds. “I can’t name it.”

  I release her hand immediately and step back, cheeks burning.

  She reaches for another flower. I point sharply.

  “No. Work first. Fun later. We are working.”

  She pauses.

  Then, without protest, lets the flower go and steps neatly back beside me.

  “Mm,” she hums in agreement.

  I exhale slowly.

  I force myself to focus on the job.

  We’re on watch. That’s all. Watching.

  Something about it feels wrong.

  Cattleya steps forward first. Her ears flick, her head turning in small, precise movements as she tracks something I can’t quite hear yet. Then her hand reaches back.

  The sword comes free with a dull scrape and lands tip-down in the soil with a heavy thud. She grips the hilt in both hands and widens her stance.

  She’s ready to cut through whoever shows themselves.

  I shake my head and follow her gaze.

  Movement—faint, wrong—threading through the corn.

  I step forward and nod once, readying an ambush.

  A blade glints between the stalks.

  Cattleya moves first.

  Her swing is brutal and controlled, the flat of her sword slamming into arm and weapon alike. Bone cracks—audible, final—and the man collapses to his knees with a strangled cry.

  I don’t need to look at her to know.

  I turn.

  A second attacker lunges. I parry cleanly, sliding his blade aside and striking his back in the same motion, sending him tumbling face-first into the dirt.

  Focus. Form. Fundamentals.

  That’s all I need.

  I settle into my stance—sideways, profile narrow, left hand tight to my chest.

  They rush me wild and desperate—nothing disciplined in their movements.

  The first barely registers pain as I strike his hand, disarming him before sweeping his legs out from under him.

  The second resists, but I close the distance and end it with a sharp pommel blow to the throat—knocking the air from him in a wet gasp. I bat his sword away and step past him.

  The third never reaches me.

  The flat of Cattleya’s blade crashes into his sword arm with a sound like splitting wood. He screams as the limb gives way.

  Silence returns.

  For a heartbeat, we study one another—not with words, but with assessment. Positioning. Rhythm. Trust.

  I step toward her.

  She turns.

  Our backs touch briefly—reassuring, grounding—then we separate. I catch the arc of her wide swings in my periphery, covering my blind spot without needing to look.

  Another attacker emerges.

  Two scimitars. Steady eyes.

  Not an amateur.

  His blows come fast. I meet them all, steel ringing as I give ground inch by inch.

  He never overextends. He’s betting I’ll falter.

  Patience. Deliberation.

  No greed. No glory.

  I step in closer, my parries growing sharper, more violent. I break his rhythm—

  I drive my left fist into his chest.

  The movement is precise—surgical. His weapons slip from nerveless fingers as he folds inward, wheezing.

  It works—but something about it is wrong.

  For a fleeting moment, it feels like my body moved before I did.

  That blow should have carried more. There should have been resistance, recoil—something answering the motion. Instead I feel only bone and muscle, dull and insufficient.

  That move was always dangerous. Maybe I should have—

  No. Stop. Normal. Remember?

  The fight ends there.

  Cattleya retrieves a length of rope from her pack and we bind the attackers quickly, wrists secured, bodies slack and unmoving. She works without looking, hands moving from habit alone.

  I can feel her eyes on me the entire time.

  “What?” I snap as I finish the last knot and straighten.

  “…Why are you holding back?” she asks.

  The words hit hard.

  The question isn’t accusatory. That’s worse.

  I stumble back a step, breath catching as if something shows its grip around my heart.

  Why does she know?

  My mouth opens. Nothing comes. I don’t want anyone past that wall.

  Rustling breaks the moment.

  We turn.

  Golden armor crests the field, sunlight flaring across polished plates—the Aureate.

  “Lieutenant Rogier,” the man announces as he removes his helmet. Altari ears, hair cut short, expression clean and composed.

  Cattleya salutes. “Valiants. Chariot Squad.”

  Rogier returns the salute, then surveys the field. With a curt motion, he directs his escort to apprehend the bound men.

  “Mistbloom,” he murmurs. “So close to the city walls…”

  He looks back to us. “May I speak with your commanding officer?”

  I reach for the communicator—

  The ground begins to tremble.

  Ulric returns like a charging storm.

  He sets Cinna down carefully, chest slick with sweat, grin wide and feral with life. Veil steps forward next, battered but proud—one eye purpled, a split lip—still smiling as he offers the sack in his hands.

  Bloody.

  Again.

  Rogier opens it and exhales sharply.

  “A second bounty,” he says, relief cutting through his composure. “Your service is… deeply appreciated.”

  He straightens.

  “Return. Rest. I will deliver your bounty personally and speak with your commander later.”

  A sharp gesture sends four guards moving, claiming the field with imposing silence.

  We don’t argue.

  The lieutenant heads north.

  We turn south—back toward the gates.

  The tension from the morning is gone.

  Victory settles in its place, warm and almost sweet.

  “Now,” Ulric says, clapping a heavy hand against Veil’s back and guiding him closer, “you’re going to do me a favor.”

  Veil barely has time to look up before Ulric leans in, voice lowered with mock urgency. “Gloat your heart out to the little missy. Be sure to tell her you’re never leaving my side. Ever.”

  Veil bursts out laughing, completely restored—no, brighter than before. Lighter than when I first met him.

  It’s… nice. I feel something warm loosen in my chest.

  “While I agree Veil should demonstrate our superiority over that unpleasant woman,” Cinna says primly, then turns to me with a gentle smile, “we should remember that it is thanks to our newest member that we found this bounty at all.”

  My heart stutters.

  I feel everyone’s eyes on me. My cheeks burn. I freeze.

  “C’mere,” Ulric says.

  Before I can protest, his hands are already lifting me. The ground vanishes beneath my feet as he settles me onto his shoulder—the same place Cinna rode earlier.

  I’ve never done this before.

  It feels like I could slip at any second. I grab his horn—rude, probably—and instinctively tighten an arm around his head, fingers tangling briefly in his short hair.

  Ulric guffaws, slowing his pace without comment.

  “Relax,” he says easily. “Enjoy the view. You’ve earned it.”

  I do.

  The sun hangs low now, fields of gold stretching out on one side, the stone walls of Vellaris catching the light and turning red as embers. It’s… beautiful.

  I let myself breathe.

  “I’m heading straight for the kitchen once we’re back,” Veil announces. “Lemon bars. Won’t take long.”

  Cheers answer him—Cinna especially, her excitement barely contained.

  “I’ll help,” she adds shyly.

  I catch her fingers slipping into his. Veil grins like he’s won something priceless.

  My gaze drifts downward.

  Cattleya is looking up at me.

  Her expression is calm, pleased in a way I’m only beginning to recognize.

  “Mm,” she hums, giving a small nod.

  Praise, I think.

  On the walk back, I find myself glancing at her more than once.

  I don’t understand her.

  At all.

  Ulric sets me down at the gates, and we pass into the city without ceremony. No customs. No delays. It’s a relief not to relive that ordeal.

  The return to the tower is slower, swallowed by crowds and noise. The city presses in, loud and alive.

  Then—

  We stop.

  For the first time, I almost forget to stay alert.

  Everyone is gathered outside the tower.

  Saria is the first I spot, fury etched into every line of her face, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. Leonie stands close, arms around her, murmuring something soothing.

  Lucius waits near the entrance.

  His expression is controlled. His posture is not.

  “What’s going on, boss?” Ulric asks carefully.

  Then he freezes.

  I follow his gaze.

  Five heads are strung together with rope, blood drained and drying, hanging from the tower doors like a grotesque offering.

  “…It’s the Shield,” Lucius says quietly. “We lost them.”

  The words land heavy.

  Someone gasps. Someone swears.

  I just stare.

  And in that moment, the truth settles in—cold, wrong, crawling under my skin.

  This wasn’t an accident.