“Hey… Prim.

  Why do the dreams we chase never seem to survive the world we wake up in?”

  The rain answers instead, tapping softly against the glass.

  I stir awake, my movements slow and heavy. My eyes drift to the window—clouded, overcast, dark.

  Yesterday lingers—

  the shouting, the vows of revenge, Lucius cutting through it all and forcing rest where none of us wanted it.

  My jaw aches like I spent the night clenching it.

  I raise my hand and stare at my palm. Without conscious command, my fingers curl into a fist. The motion feels… resolute.

  I rise.

  At the window, the air smells of damp stone and cold rain. Thin streaks of water trace paths down the glass. I breathe it in and let it out slowly.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  I haven’t been here long, but Ulric and the others—

  The Shield had to be their friends. To find them like that…

  I swallow hard. My stomach churns.

  Focus. Morning tasks.

  I still haven’t bought furniture. My mirror remains propped awkwardly atop the dresser. I could really use a chair.

  My reflection looks as tired as I feel. Heavy shadows under my eyes. My hair has bloomed in the humidity, rebellious and untamed. I set the mirror aside and sit on the bed, brush working methodically—head first, then tail—until each strand falls back into place. I braid my hair, slow and deliberate, then lift the mirror again.

  …There I am.

  I lock my door behind me. Time to start the day.

  At the stairs, I slow—my gaze drifting upward instead of down.

  I hesitate longer than I mean to.

  With a quiet sigh, I change course and climb one floor, stopping in front of door 802.

  I raise my hand to knock.

  Then stop.

  She wouldn’t hear anyway, right?

  I open the door.

  Cattleya isn’t sleeping. She’s leaning against the wall, gaze unfocused, watching the rain-soaked city beyond the window.

  “Imo,” she says, immediately, a gentle smile touching her lips—as if my presence is the most natural thing in the world.

  I, on the other hand, freeze. Then quickly step back from the threshold.

  “...Sorry. I thought you were still asleep. I just—”

  The words tangle. I stop.

  “See you downstairs, yeah?” I ask, already closing the door halfway.

  “Mm,” she hums, as always.

  I close the door and step away slowly. Carefully. As if standing too close might let her hear my thoughts.

  She looks normal.

  And that’s what unsettles me—because she never is.

  I exhale. I did what was asked of me. I need to focus. Move on.

  My feet finally carry me down the stairs.

  I reach the basement bar. Ulric is already seated at the table, Veil and Cinna beside him. They don’t notice me until I pull out a chair and sit.

  Ulric looks up first.

  Not startled—just aware, like he’d already accounted for me before I sat down. There’s a mug in his hand, steam curling from it, untouched for long enough that the surface has gone still.

  “You sleep?” he asks.

  “Enough,” I reply. It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

  Veil glances over next, chair tilted back on two legs, dark circles under his eyes doing little to dull the brightness behind them. There’s a cut on his knuckle he didn’t bother to bandage. He notices me and grins anyway.

  “Morning, cove. You look knackered.”

  I snort despite myself. Cinna’s eyes flick to him—reproachful, but gentle—and then she turns to me properly.

  “I made tea,” she says softly, already reaching for an extra cup. “It’s not sweet, I’m afraid. We ran out of honey.”

  “That’s fine,” I say quickly. “Thank you.”

  She pours with careful precision, hands steady, posture immaculate even now. The cup is warm when she slides it toward me. Grounding.

  For a moment, none of us speak.

  Ulric finally exhales and sets his mug down.

  “Lucius will want us upstairs in a few minutes,” he says. “Aureate’s report came in late,” Ulric says. “It changes nothing.”

  Veil’s chair settles flat on the floor.

  “Bastards,” he mutters.

  My fingers tighten around the cup.

  Cinna closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, they’re focused—resolved in that quiet way of hers.

  “They wanted us to see it,” she says. “The display. The placement. It wasn’t efficient. It was deliberate.”

  Ulric nods once. “Exactly.”

  My chest feels tight. Not fear—something closer to anger, slow and simmering.

  “So what now?” I ask.

  Three heads turn toward me.

  Not questioning. Not doubting.

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  Expectant.

  “Come on! Commander needs us upstairs.” Saria’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp and decisive, granting me a breath of relief.

  “Looks like we’re about to find out,” Ulric says as he pushes himself up, Veil and Cinna following close behind.

  I draw in a slow breath, let everything settle, then rise with them.

  We reach the floor above reception. A long table dominates the room, surrounded by boards crowded with maps, notices, and hastily pinned reports. This isn’t a common room. This is command.

  At the far end stands Lucius—and beside him, unmistakable in gold, the lieutenant from yesterday. Rogier. Neatly trimmed hair, no beard, posture carved from discipline.

  He meets my eyes and inclines his head. I return the gesture.

  Then he nods again—past me.

  I follow his gaze.

  …Cattleya stands at my side.

  When did she get there?

  Ulric takes a seat. Veil drops into the chair beside him. Cinna follows, then me. Cattleya settles last, quiet as a shadow.

  Rogier steps forward, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Lieutenant Rogier. Aureate Guard.”

  No preamble. No flourish.

  “Your assessment was correct. Illegal Mistbloom production was operating out of the sharecropped fields. My investigation revealed a network of tunnels beneath the site, tied into the old sewer lines. It’s the largest operation we’ve identified this close to the walls.”

  A murmur runs through the room.

  “The fields were cleared before we arrived,” he continues. “Deliberately. But residue remained. Enough for confirmation.”

  He pauses, jaw tightening.

  “There’s a problem.”

  Eyes lift. Bodies still.

  “Our charter ends at the surface. Soil and structures above ground are ours. Everything beneath it…” He exhales through his nose. “It isn’t.”

  Someone swears under their breath.

  “That limitation is under review,” Rogier says evenly. “But it won’t change today. We can’t enter the tunnels without triggering a jurisdiction dispute. And that buys the people down there time.”

  Lucius doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt.

  “You’ll have Aureate coverage topside,” Rogier finishes. “Perimeter security. Rapid response if anything breaches the streets. But below ground…” He turns his gaze to Lucius. “That’s yours.”

  Lucius steps forward.

  “Then we’ll take it,” he says.

  He looks around the room, voice calm but carrying.

  “The Aureate will hold the tower and the streets. Every able squad deploys underground. Lancers, Chariot, Mantle—joint operation.”

  A ripple of anticipation.

  “I’ll be in the field,” Lucius adds. “We move fast. We move together. We end this before it spills into the city.”

  He glances at Rogier.

  “Thirty minutes.”

  Lucius turns back to the room.

  “Dismissed.”

  The room erupts.

  Chairs scrape back. Hands strike tables. Voices rise in fierce approval.

  “Fuck yeah,” Ulric mutters, slamming a fist into his palm. “Up close. No paperwork.”

  “Let’s get ready, then,” Veil adds, already moving.

  We flow back into the stairwell with the others. As we climb, the group thins—Ulric and Veil peel off first, then Cinna.

  I reach the seventh floor and turn toward my room without a word.

  I feel her gaze before I see her.

  I stop. Look back.

  Cattleya offers a small smile—gentle, unreadable—and continues upward without a word.

  Focus.

  I shake my head and head for my door.

  Armor on. Sword sheathed.

  My fist taps against my chestplate without me telling it to—checking, confirming. Sometimes I don’t know if the habit is mine—or hers.

  I meet my reflection. Hold my gaze. Linger on the green eye.

  I nod.

  I’m ready.

  The stairs rumble as everyone descends at once. I feel eyes on my back again—I don’t need to turn to know whose they are.

  The line spills out of the tower. Near the entrance, crates sit open, their contents already being broken down by a coordinated squad—rations, bandages, emergency kits assembled with practiced speed.

  So that’s the Mantle. Logistics. The backbone.

  We move forward in turn, each handed a kit. I take mine and secure it around my waist, tucking it beneath my chestplate. Behind me, I hear a soft sniff.

  I don’t look back.

  Ulric is easy to find—standing head and shoulders above the crowd. Veil and Cinna are already at his side, their smiles warm but tight with tension.

  “Ready, Captain,” I say as I step in.

  “Five minutes,” Ulric replies, scanning the gathering force. “Lucius will be on time.”

  The Black Lancers aren’t far. Saria stands rigid among them, jaw set. The losses hit her hard—I can see it.

  There are more bodies than usual. Allies—mercenaries from other companies—being folded into our formation.

  Lucius steps out of the tower. No signal, no announcement.

  We fall in behind him, the streets blurring into a march that ends at a forgotten stairway yawning open into the city’s underbelly, the sewer access left open for us.

  The corridors twist and narrow before opening into a vast chamber, darkness swallowing the ceiling.

  Lucius nods once.

  “Base camp,” he says. “Mantle—supplies, triage, surface link. This is our anchor. Fall back here if you bleed.”

  Movement stirs deeper in the tunnels. They already know we’re here.

  Lucius raises his voice, letting it carry.

  “Lancers. You’re the point. Break them. Push them back.”

  Saria’s grin is sharp as steel. She strides into the main passage.

  “You hear that?” she calls into the dark. “I’m coming for you.”

  Leonie casts her a worried glance—but follows, weapons drawn.

  “Chariot,” Lucius says, eyes on Ulric. “Stay mobile. Flank. Get behind their lines. Never linger.”

  “Understood,” Ulric replies, already turning us toward a side tunnel.

  “In place of the Shield,” Lucius adds, “Steel Wolves will hold perimeter and reinforce the camp as we advance.”

  The allies fan out. The Mantle is already erecting tents, laying cots, running lines back to the surface.

  “No more losses,” Lucius finishes. “If you’re injured, you fall back. That’s an order.”

  He looks once at the Lancers.

  “Go.”

  “Black Lancers!” The cheer is feral as they surge forward, torches flaring. Shadows scatter before them.

  Steel rings out moments later.

  We move into our tunnel, the space narrowing until we’re forced to crouch.

  “Hells, coves,” Veil mutters. “Right under the city… how long d’you reckon this’s been goin’ on, then?”

  The tunnel swallows his voice as we press deeper.

  “Too long,” Ulric mutters, low enough that it feels meant for the stone itself.

  My tail brushes a thin stream of water at my feet. I flinch instinctively, curling it tight—cold, slick, unpleasant.

  The tunnel widens into a proper chamber. I straighten with a quiet breath of relief. Veil unfolds a map, studies it once, then taps a finger against the parchment.

  “This is it,” he says. “Where the illegal tunnels tie into the sewers.”

  We move as one, close and careful.

  Cinna’s light spell barely pushes the dark back.

  Then I hear it.

  That hum.

  Uneven, wandering—something in me settles before I can choose otherwise. My shoulders loosen with a soft exhale.

  Ulric stops before a stone wall. He tests it once. Loose, but stubborn.

  He tilts his head toward us. We retreat without a word.

  Ulric draws back and drives his shoulder forward.

  Stone bursts apart under the impact, bricks tumbling into darkness. Beyond them—a dirt tunnel.

  And movement.

  They heard that.

  Ulric grins as he brings his shield and axe up, the look over his shoulder saying everything.

  Then he roars.

  The charge is thunderous. He barrels through the breach, crashing into whatever waited beyond.

  Veil is right behind him, daggers flashing, sticking to Ulric’s shadow.

  Cinna steps aside, already weaving a spell, lips moving in silent precision.

  I move to follow—

  —and someone passes me.

  A small smile. Calm. Almost fond—like the danger itself is familiar to her.

  Cattleya draws her massive blade with effortless grace—not tension, not restraint, but unmistakable joy—and surges forward after Ulric.

  “…gods,” I breathe, and fall in behind her, hand settling on my hilt.

  Not my choice.

  But it doesn’t feel wrong—it never does.

  The Chariot strikes.