7. The Secret of the Hive

  Everyone is candid in the dark.

  The walk to the Nexus was a silent procession. Elodie and Alex walked shoulder-to-shoulder, a wall of anxious parental solidarity, whereas Anne moved with her usual preternatural calm, a steady beacon in the humming, sterile corridor. Beside her, Sofiya’s hand was a small, cold knot clenched in hers, her eyes wide and wary, scanning the environment of unseen threats. I followed, my muscles coiled so tight they ached, each echo of our footsteps was punctuated by the ghost of Sofiya’s flat, deadly voice in my mind—a voice that had already carved a permanent channel there.

  Lira was waiting, of course. But this time she was flanked by the hulking, grim-faced form of Commander Jordan, head of security, and Isaac, Lira’s assistant, who clutched his tablet like a shield against the palpable tension in the room. The door's lament attracted everyone’s eyes to us as I opened it. The assistant jumped slightly at her glare and cleared his throat. He addressed Sofiya with a strained attempt at warmth.

  “Welcome back, everyone.” He began.

  “Miss Volkova. I… we… owe you an apology. The story you were given by the Fracassi family… it was a necessary construct for a safe extraction.” Sofiya didn’t respond; she just stared, her grip tightening on Anne’s hand. “My name is Isaac. This is Commander Jordan, and this is Leader Lira,” he continued, gesturing weakly. “Your new family’s name is Maris. Alessandro, Elodie, and Anne. We are part of an organisation called The Legacy. Protectors of endangered knowledge.” He painted a noble lie with a trembling brush.

  “The people who are targeting us,” Isaac went on, “are more or less a rival organisation who believe the knowledge we protect should be used to control the masses, not used to better everyone’s life. They are the reason for the lies, the secrecy, this entire… place.” He spread his hands, indicating the Mountain.

  Sofiya’s eyes flicked to Anne, who gave a tiny, confirming nod.

  This part, at least, is true.

  It was Jordan who broke the moment, his voice a gravelly rumble.

  “Apologies are a luxury. I’ve read your file, girl. You do not meet the expected standards.” He turned his flinty eyes to Anne, completely ignoring her parents. “And you, bypassing vetted, stable candidates for her? Justify this choice immediately.”

  Anne regarded him with the cool focus of a scientist observing an aggressive but simple organism.

  “My decision was based on optimal probability, because the resulting specialisation beneath the trauma should be the one considered.” She took a small step forward, pulling the whole room’s attention onto her. “You see, dissociative episodes are a cognitive partitioning system that allows for threat analysis without emotional compromise—a function this facility lacks. Her loyalty is structural, built on mutual function. She’s…100% fit for the role of right hand.”

  “Ideals get people killed. I see a problem that needs constant monitoring.” Jordan replied unconvinced, crossing his massive arms.

  The words were a trigger for the girl of interest.

  Sofiya let go of Anne’s hand, and the fear in her eyes was snuffed out, replaced by a cold, flat void. She didn’t look at Jordan, but at Lira, and her voice was a quiet, deadly thing that lowered the temperature in the room.

  Shadow.

  “You hide in a mountain,” she stated, “behind screens and someone else’s work. You hide behind kids you have exploited before me or Anne or Iris.” Her hand went to the small, worn Victorian doll tucked into her waistband. She held it up.

  “My safety is not an illusion. Irina’s head contains a 3ml glass of dimethylmercury. An odourless and colourless neurotoxin that once gets in contact with the human skin. Two drops on the skin have a fatal effect, not today, not tomorrow, but in 3 months...” She finally turned her chilling gaze to Jordan. “By the time your hands shake too much to hold your gun, no one will trace it back to the water glass you drank from that table.” Her eyes slid back to Lira.

  “Or the pen you tap against your leg, or even the plastic cup of coffee in the common area. The possibilities are infinite.”

  The blood drained from Isac’s face just as mine. Jordan’s bluster vanished, replaced by pure, cold dread. Lira’s hand, which had been absently tapping Aris’s pen, stilled completely. For the first time, genuine shock—and a flicker of fascination—showed in her eyes.

  “You want to contain me,” Sofiya continued, her tone utterly matter-of-fact. “I have already chosen my container.” She nodded toward Anne. “It is her. You can be a part of that system, or you can be a problem that quietly corrects itself.”

  The silence was so absolute that Lira had to take in some deep breaths through her nose.

  “Point made, Miss Volkova,” she said, her voice admirably steady. “The asset’s justification is… validated. You are both dismissed for the moment.”

  Jordan wanted to say more, but a quick shake of the head from Lira, and he held his protest in. He turned and left for another room adjacent, his posture deflated. Isaac scurried after him. Elodie let out a shaky breath, putting a protective arm around Anne. Alex looked pale but proud. He placed a hand on Sofiya’s shoulder, and for the first time, he felt the terrible tension leave her small frame.

  The cosy transformed atmosphere of the family’s quarters rescued us from the Nexus’s suffocating ambience. Elodie went to the kitchenette, the ritual of making tea a lifeline to normalcy, while Alex’s face was a canvas of pride, horror, and a weary need to make things right.

  “Right,” he said, his voice forcing a warmth that almost sounded real. “Sofiya, let’s get you settled. You’ll be staying here with Anne.”

  He led them to a side door, revealing a small, neat room with two beds and a window simulating a starry night. Sofiya hovered on the threshold, her defiance gone, replaced by a shell-shocked expression. She clutched the Victorian doll like a holy relic.

  “This one’s yours,” Alex said gently, pointing to the empty bed.

  Elodie came over with fresh plain linens. Together, they began the simple, profound act of making a bed for their new daughter. Elodie smoothed the sheets with a tenderness she usually reserved for Anne, and Alex fluffed the pillow with a soft, helpless smile. Sofiya watched, unmoving. Then, hesitantly, she reached out and touched the clean, crisp cotton of the pillowcase, bringing her fingers to her nose for a fleeting second to smell the scent of them.

  I stood by the main door, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. The echo of Sofiya’s threat—“a problem that quietly corrects itself”—reverberated in my mind. I looked at her own hands.

  How many threats had they served to protect themselves?

  Lira would always call it professionalism, duty, but hearing that same cold calculus from a child felt like a slap across the face. As Alex and Elodie focused on Sofiya, asking about the doll, I seized the moment. Anne stood slightly apart, observing the ritual. I pushed off the wall and moved to her side.

  “Anne,” I whispered. She turned her heterochromatic gaze to me.

  I nodded toward Sofiya.

  “The threat.” I took a breath, asking the real question eating me from the inside. “Is that what it takes to survive this? To become someone who… who goes that far, that fast?”

  I wanted to know more about the chillingly defiant monsters they both might have to become in the future. Anne was silent for a moment, her eyes losing focus as she accessed a deep, personal secret.

  “It is not a function of intelligence,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “It is the final logical decision of a system that has exhausted all other resolutions. When dialogue is proven illogical, and escape is impossible, the only remaining function is to make the threat itself the environment. It is not a first resort; it is the last one left.”

  She looked at Sofiya, and there was no judgment in her gaze, only a stark, chilling recognition.

  “She had no other resort. I have had to learn it.”

  Her eyes met mine again, and the message was clear. You too had to. The truth landed in my gut like a stone. They weren’t savants resorting to superficial judgment of their abilities; they were survivors who had learned that a well-placed threat was the only language some people understood.

  It was my language, and now it was theirs.

  I followed her gaze, landing again on Sofiya, who was now sitting on the edge of her bed, her small hand patting the blanket as if to confirm it was real. The cornered animal had been offered a safe corner, yet the threat was a tool, laid down for now.

  I wished they had never felt the need to use it. But I knew it would happen again.

  Later, in the humming silence of my room, I sat on the edge of the cot. The day’s events pressed down on me, and the metallic taste of dread was still on my tongue. I fell back onto the stiff, sterile sheets, bracing for the nightmares, but sleep arrived as a gentle thief.

  It took me to the heath on a breezy afternoon.

  The air sweet charm, the fuzzy grass beneath my palms, and the sunlight soaking into my skin. It was a blessing. I could hear the busy bees diving into the sunflowers around me. Sunrays reflected on the skyscrapers of the city in the distance, but on the horizon, a stain was spreading. A wall of cloud, bruise-purple and boiling, devouring the blue sky. Lightning flickered within its heart—a silent, ominous pulse of everything I dreaded in the real world.

  And yet a profound, eerie calm settled over me. I was not fearful. This was the storm I had chosen.

  Let it come.

  A voice enveloped me.

  In the trees, in the wind, and in the grass, it vibrated in the space around my heart, at a frequency my soul had never forgotten.

  “Not yet.”

  Mark.

  It was unmistakably his; patient as always. As I remembered before the betrayal, when things were still inconsequential. The one who had read bedtime stories through the door to a restless George and soothed my anxious swirling thoughts in the darkest time. When he spoke, the words felt as if a hand was pulling me back from the precipice.

  And the storm… hesitated.

  The colossal darkness slowed its advance, hitting an invisible wall. The silent lightning faded. The clouds didn’t vanish, but they softened, their angry edges blurring, retreating as if the world itself had taken a deep breath and decided to wait. The relief was so absolute it was a pain all its own.

  A sob built in my chest of a loss so acute it felt like a physical wound reopening.

  “I don’t deserve…you,” I uttered, hiding myself away from the sunrays, from him. Wherever he was. “Not anymore, my love.”

  The words shattered the dream.

  I woke with a gasp that was half a cry, tears already hot on my temples, soaking into the thin pillow. The grey, featureless ceiling offered no comfort. I curled on my side, my fist pressed against my mouth, choking on the echo of a voice I had sacrificed everything to silence.

  Not yet.

  The words hung in the windless air. The storm was still coming, but Mark had asked for more time.

  For me.

  The emotion that finally broke through was something rawer, more devastating than hope. It was the terrifying, fragile conviction that maybe my penance wasn’t just about bearing the weight of the future. Maybe it was about earning the grace of that single, merciful “yet.”

  Still, I knew I didn’t deserve it.

  A few hours later in the night, a sound tore through the quiet of the corridor outside my quarters—a raw, sleep-fogged scream for a mother who would never come. I was at their bedroom door in an instant, my own heart hammering, panic spiking as I frantically feared something awful had happened in my restless sleep. I saw the cause, but that didn’t console me one bit.

  Sofiya.

  A small, terrified child lost in a bed too big for her body, crumpled by a fear so absolute it seemed to steal the air from the room. She was manic—thrashing, wailing, calling for her mother. Her real, dead mother.

  “Where are you? I’m scared, please!” She wail retreating to a corner of the room. “Please don’t leave! Shadow won’t stop talking! He’s everywhere! Please!”

  The scene unsettled me. Its similarities to my dream were so uncanny that I involuntarily checked the ceiling for shadows, even though the lights were on. Not quite helpful. Unlike the Maris, who rushed past me and did their best to soothe her. When she calmed down a little, I watched as the infirmary staff followed, working with calm efficiency—a stark contrast to the chaos inside the room. I could do nothing but stand there, a useless sentinel, as they murmured soft reassurances and administered a sedative. The sight of her finally going limp, the terror smoothed from her features, was a relief that felt too much like failure.

  The next morning, I trailed behind Anne and a pale, withdrawn Sofiya as we navigated the corridors to the infirmary for a scheduled check-in. As we walked, I actually looked at the base around us. I saw technicians with their toolkits, the easy nods exchanged with a passing cook, the low murmur of conversations. I’d been down these corridors a dozen times; however, for the first time, I saw a community.

  A hive I’d been living alongside, not within.

  The infirmary was brighter. A nurse with auburn hair and a spray of freckles—Emma, her tag read—finished checking Sofiya’s vitals.

  “All good, honey,” she said warmly. “Just a bit of shock to the system. Your heart rate’s settling nicely.”

  A man in his late thirties, with short, ruffled dark-blond hair and a fit build, his expression curious, made his entrance. A hint of excitement lurked beneath an otherwise unfazed exterior. He carried no clipboard, only a simple tablet. His manner resembled a weary, kind-hearted uncle rather than a clinician. I’ve seen him before, in the files, never in person until now.

  Dr. Laurence. The psychologist.

  He was just beginning his examination when the door slid open, and Lira stepped inside, her presence instantly tightening the air. Her gaze swept over Sofiya, then Anne, and finally landed on me—a silent question in her eyes.

  “Lira,” Dr Laurence said, not looking up from his tablet.

  “I’ve come to be briefed on the situation,” she said, “and to determine whether there’s anything serious we need to take notice of.”

  “No problem,” he replied, offering her a quick, fugitive smile. “Take a seat.”

  She did—near the family chairs, away from me.

  Dr Laurence glanced up at the parents gathered near his desk before turning his attention back to Sofiya. He didn’t begin right away. Instead, he leaned back slightly and addressed the rest of us.

  “Before we do anything,” he said gently, “I want to be very clear about what’s happening and why.”

  Elodie and Alex stood close together, their hands clasped, worry and exhaustion etched into their faces. They nodded once, sharply, bracing themselves.

  “Sofiya isn’t in trouble,” he continued. “And nothing she experienced last night is uncommon for children who’ve endured acute trauma—especially loss, displacement, and sudden environmental change.” He offered a small, reassuring smile. “Night terrors, waking hallucinations, confusion between memory and imagination—it’s all part of a nervous system trying to protect itself.”

  Alex let out a breath that trembled on the way out.

  “What I’m going to do,” Dr Laurence said, “is ask her a few questions about what she remembers and what she felt. Not to interrogate—” his eyes flicked briefly to Sofiya, then back “—but to understand how her mind is processing things. The same goes for Anne.”

  Lira’s posture stiffened slightly. “Both of them?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied easily. “Children talk to each other. Their fears bleed together. If there’s a shared narrative forming—real or imagined—I need to know where it began and how it’s spreading.”

  I noticed Anne’s eyes narrow slightly at the word spreading.

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked quietly.

  Dr Laurence shook his head at once. “Nothing inherently dangerous. But left unexamined, fear has a way of becoming its own reality. We want to get ahead of it.” His tone softened further. “The questions will be simple. We stop the moment either of you shows distress.”

  Elodie glanced down at Sofiya, who sat hunched on the edge of the bed, her fingers twisted into the hem of her sleeve. The girl didn’t look up, but she leaned—just barely—closer to Anne’s side.

  “That’s okay,” Elodie said at last, resting a hand on Sofiya’s shoulder. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

  Sofiya nodded faintly, eyes fixed on the floor.

  Dr Laurence waited a moment, giving the silence room to settle, then pulled up a stool—not in front of Sofiya, but across from Anne, so they were at eye level. Only then did he activate his tablet.

  “All right,” he said softly. “Let’s take this slow. I’ll start with you.”

  “Can you describe what anxiety feels like in your body? Not the definition—the physical sensation.”

  “It is an increase in systemic awareness,” Anne replied, her voice calm as a still lake. “When I tighten, my chest lacks oxygen. My skin’s sensitivity increases, making the texture of clothing irritating. It is all very… overwhelming.”

  “And when that alert state is triggered,” Dr Laurence followed gently, “what is one thing that helps lower the volume?”

  Anne was silent for a moment.

  “Order,” she said. “A predictable pattern reduces anxiety and tension.” She paused, then added more quietly, “Looking through mother’s kaleidoscope, or smelling the scent of Lapsang Souchong tea from my father’s cup.”

  Dr Laurence nodded in approval, making a note. “Thank you, Anne. That was very clear—and very helpful.”

  He turned to Sofiya next, his posture softening even further.

  “Sofiya,” he said gently. “I have a different question for you. When Shadow takes over, like he did yesterday, where does Sunny go? Is she still there, watching? Or is it like a light switching off?”

  Sofiya’s shoulders hunched. She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, her gaze fixed somewhere near his knees, but never quite reaching his eyes.

  “She’s… in the quiet room,” she mumbled. “She can hear, but it’s muffled. Like through a thick door.”

  She paused, fingers tightening in the fabric.

  “She’s safe there. Shadow locks her in so the bad things can’t get to her. But… sometimes she draws on the walls.” A beat. “So I know she’s still there.”

  Dr Laurence didn’t react with alarm or pity. His expression held only a steady, genuine respect.

  “That’s a very good system,” he said. “It’s kept you safe for a long time.” He leaned back slightly, giving her space rather than closing it. “My job now is to see if we can make the door between that room and the rest of the world a little less heavy—so Sunny doesn’t have to be alone in there all the time. How does that sound?”

  Sofiya gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug. But she hadn’t withdrawn. If anything, she seemed to be listening more closely than before.

  It was then that Lira interjected.

  “The psychological analysis is noted,” she said coolly. “However, the operational schedule—”

  “—can wait, Lira,” Dr Laurence finished for her. His tone wasn’t unkind, but it was firm enough to brook no argument. He looked up from Sofiya and met Lira’s gaze directly. In that moment, it was clear he wasn’t merely a colleague offering an opinion.

  “The best medicine for this one,” he continued, nodding toward Sofiya, “isn’t going to come in a bottle.” He let that sit for a moment. “It’s a map. Her brain—and frankly, the rest of this group—needs help learning that this place isn’t just rooms and rules.” His voice softened again as he looked back at Sofiya. “It’s safe for people, too. I mean, we can’t have her interpreting someone outside her circle knocking on her door as a threat every.”

  Lira’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful. Her gaze shifted from the doctor’s resolute expression to Sofiya’s small, anxious face. A long, silent moment stretched between them. Then she gave a single, curt nod.

  “I will admit, the logic is sound,” she said. “A malfunctioning asset is a liability. However, I want reassurance that the security office is notified of their movements.”

  Her gaze flicked to me.

  “Sharp. You will be their guide.”

  It was an order—but not entirely hers. The decision had been made before she spoke. She had merely approved it.

  As she turned to leave, Dr Laurence added, almost casually,

  “And tell Danny, his Queen’s Gambit was a disgraceful blunder. He’s buying the drinks next time.” A muscle in Lira’s jaw twitched. It was the closest thing I’d ever seen to a smirk.

  “I’ll relay the message,” she said. “He’s been insufferable since our last match.”

  Then she was gone.

  Nurse Emma took the opportunity to approach me.

  “You’re Iris, right?” she asked. “Sharp? I’m friends with Danny.”

  Danny again. I noted.

  He must be the friendliest guy around the base. The memory of our awkward encounter surfaced at once, still uncomfortably fresh—tinged with my own regret.

  “Daniel and I are acquainted,” I replied. The formality felt like a flimsy shield even as I raised it.

  She smiled, undeterred.

  “He mentioned you’ve been glued to the VIP wing. Look, I get it—big mission, high stakes.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping into something more conspiratorial. “Between you and me, a lot of folks around here are a lot chattier than you think, and they’ve been yapping about you being a bit… well.” She hesitated, then nodded toward the door Lira had just exited through. “A little like her. A real Lira-in-the-making.”

  I must have made a face, because she rushed on, waving a hand.

  “Not in a bad way! It’s just—we never see you around the canteen, never at the weekly flick, always busy, always somewhere else. It's hard to catch you for a chat.” She smiled again, softer this time. “But Danny? He’s always defended you. ‘She’s not stuck-up,’ he says. ‘She just has a lot on her plate.’”

  The words landed heavier than I expected.

  A Lira-in-the-making. The label snagged in my thoughts like a burr. They saw Lira as distant. Inhuman. Robotic. Was that how they saw me, too? Was that why I’d been folded into Dr Laurence’s intervention as well? My spine straightened defensively, the movement automatic, ingrained. The isolation I wore as armour—they read it as arrogance.

  “I… my schedule is unpredictable,” I said at last. The excuse sounded hollow even to my own ears.

  “Isn’t everyone’s?” Emma chuckled. “Still, the offer stands if you want it.”

  She tilted her head, brightening.

  “There’s a group of us who play cards on Tuesday nights. Mechanics, cooks, and even a few off-duty security guards. You should come—prove the rumours wrong.” Then, with a grin, she added, “Danny’s usually there. When he’s not losing chess matches to the doc.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I offered awkwardly.

  With a final friendly nod, she was gone.

  I stood there, reeling.

  Lira’s order, the doctor’s diagnosis, the nurse’s invitation—they all pressed against the vow I’d made to stay apart from it all. But now that Anne and Sofiya were here, how could I?

  I have to protect them, a voice inside me insisted, but another, quieter one followed. By doing what? Standing apart? Becoming a hermit? Nothing will change or improve if you don’t make the first step.

  And then there was Daniel.

  She’s not stuck-up, he’d said. She’s just carrying weight the rest of us can’t see. The memory hit like a lifeline tossed into my self-imposed isolation. He’d known me before I joined the Legacy—before I became just another operative. A flicker of my old self stirred. The woman who used to charm children and adults alike through empathetic communication developed while working as a social worker. The one who understood people, not just threats.

  Me, stuck-up? The thought bristled me with indignation.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  My eyes found Sofiya. She was pointing at a junction on the map, her small finger tracing a route, her expression a portrait of innocence compared to when she’d arrived. The sight of the girls—one a raw nerve, the other a polished diamond, both trying to navigate a world that had never been kind—crystallised everything. A true protector couldn’t stand apart. To guide them, I had to know the community—or at the very least, understand it. I had to show Sofiya that walls could have doors, and that not every face in a crowd was a threat. And for the most disconnected child I’d ever met—Anne—I had to show that efficiency could coexist with connection. Preferably, a connection that didn’t involve Lira.

  After the psychologist stepped out to give us a moment of privacy, I turned to Elodie and Alex, lowering my voice and drawing them slightly aside.

  “Look,” I began in earnest. “I don’t know the history between those two, but what just happened is rare. As we all know, the fact that Dr Laurence can speak to her like that—override a tactical briefing with a prescription for social immersion—” I let the weight of it sink in. “That’s an opportunity we cannot waste. It’s time we show her that your way—our way—of caring for the children’s mental and physical health is the best alternative.”

  Lira’s will was the Legacy, and Aris’s will. Yet in a few quiet words, Dr Laurence had overridden that strict protocol. The shock wasn’t that he’d done it; it was that the system allowed it.

  What did he know about Lira—or the limits of her power—that I didn’t?

  I looked from Elodie to Alex.

  “This ‘field study’ isn’t a distraction from the mission,” I said firmly. “As of right now, it is the mission.”

  Understanding dawned in their eyes. The weight of the opportunity settled on them. Alex gave a firm nod, and Elodie, usually defensive, softened with a sliver of grim hope. Satisfied, I turned back to the girls. I pushed off the doorframe, shifting from rigid observer to engaged participant.

  “Alright, girls,” I said, my voice warmer and firmer than it had been in weeks. They both turned to me. “You heard the doctor. Orders are orders.”

  “It’s time to dive into the Hive, and our first stop will be the main canteen. I hear the chocolate pudding on Tuesdays is a must-try.” I met Sofiya’s anxious gaze and gave a single, firm nod—a promise not just of protection, but of partnership.

  “Chocolate pudding possesses a high sucrose content, which provides a rapid caloric boost. However, its strategic value is fairly subjective,” Anne interjected, testing my take. Her gaze locked on mine, analysing the subtle shift in my expression—the slight, almost imperceptible smile. “However,” she added, voice tentative, uncertain of the new situation, “its value as a motivational tool for group connection has been proven to work. The recon objective… is okay.”

  She tried a simpler tone, and it felt strangely heartwarming. My face softened further.

  “We’re good then.” I turned to Sofiya.

  Before I could even speak, her reaction was immediate. A tiny, real smile—a Sunny-smile—touched her lips, fleeting as a sunbeam breaking through storm clouds.

  “I like chocolate pudding,” she said timidly, excited.

  But Shadow lurked close behind. The smile vanished almost instantly, replaced by sharp, calculating suspicion. She glanced at Anne for reassurance, and when she saw Anne’s clinical acceptance, her shoulders relaxed. A small, hesitant nod followed, and her eyes dropped back to the map, as if embarrassed by her own moment of hope.

  One minute I was a weapon, a shield; the next, I was a… tour guide.

  Elodie and Alex were gently steered into the psychologist’s office for a “caregiver debrief,” leaving me alone in the humming corridor with the two most important children on the planet. No pressure.

  I looked down at them. Anne was a steady statue, while Sofiya was a live wire of nervous energy, with her hand clamped around Anne’s.

  “Right,” I said, my voice echoing too loudly in the sterile silence. “The mission is… acclimation. Starting with the canteen.”

  “Will it be… loud in there?” Sofiya asked, her voice small.

  “Decibel levels typically range from 60 to 75 during peak meal hours,” Anne reported mechanically. “Approximately equivalent to—”

  “Maybe we’ll just see when we get there,” I cut in, softer. I was trying to unlearn my own sharpness. “We can always leave if it’s too much,” I reassured them.

  We walked slowly, a mismatched procession. I fought every instinct to scan for threats, to keep my back to the wall. Sofiya pointed to a child’s drawing taped to a bulkhead—a lopsided rabbit with three ears.

  “Look. A rabbit with three ears.”

  “Might have been sketched by someone bored.” I offered as an explanation, feeling strange in my mouth. “Or maybe the artist knows something we don’t.”

  Anne studied it with intense focus.

  “Anatomically improbable but creatively optimal.”

  As we neared the canteen, the muffled roar of conversation and clattering trays grew. Sofiya’s steps faltered. I paused at the doors, placing a hand on her slender shoulder.

  “Okay, deep breath. Remember, these are just people. Most of them are probably thinking about what’s for dessert, not you.”

  “Pudding,” Anne stated, a definitive fact. “Chef Marco prepares butterscotch pudding on Tuesdays. Today is Tuesday.”

  Sofiya managed a tiny, fragile smile. “I like butterscotch.”

  “Then let’s go get some,” I said, and pushed the door open.

  The wave of warm, garlic-scented air tempted us sweetly, a stark contrast to the averse sterile corridor. The spacious, high-ceilinged hall of the canteen was occupied by long, thin tables, currently about half-full, and food displayed near the kitchens. The constant hum I always found oppressive now sounded different—less like a machine and more like a forgettable background noise. However, not even the mindless chatter could prevent what happened next. A dead silence fell upon us without warning. It wasn't just the silence of it all; it was the shameless stares, too. And it was all of them. Forks hovered mid-air, eyebrows touched the sky, and even breathing ceased for a three-second period that felt like an eternity. Then, gradually, everyone pretended to resume their lunch, but whispers took over instead. Every single head was turned in some capacity towards us, although they weren't just looking at me, the elusive Agent Shar,p who never ate in public, I knew all eyes were glued on the girls.

  The only two children in the mountain.

  One was the legendary prodigy most had only heard rumours about—the reason we were all buried here. The other was a traumatised girl from an orphanage, the subject of a dozen new, perplexed chatters. I felt Sofiya press closer to my side, her small hand finding mine. They were cold. Anne, in contrast, remained perfectly still, her analytical gaze sweeping the room as if cataloguing each face, each reaction, filing them away as data points. My boots, usually silent, felt like they were crunching on glass with every step I took. I heard a hissed whisper from a few tables while passing by, reaching us.

  “That's her. The Maris girl.” A woman’s voice said.

  A man’s reply was: “Yeah, and the other one... You know, with the doll and all.”

  I hurried my steps to protect them from any further insensible gossip. My posture instinctively straightened, becoming a shield, as I understood that the “acclimation” Dr Laurence ordered wasn't just for the girls. It was for everyone else, too. They needed to see that the assets they were protecting were real, children.

  Chef Marco had his back to us, at the food display, arguing with Sabrina, his sous chef, in a low, grumbling tone.

  “...told them the shipment was short on cream. But do they listen? Of course not. Now I'm expected to make béchamel with water and wishes.”

  Sabrina noticed us then, before she could reply to him. Her eyes, sharp and perpetually unimpressed, narrowed slightly. She nudged Marco with an elbow. He turned, his expression still clouded with frustration.

  “What? Orders are closed for the lunch rush, you know the—” His eyes landed on me, and then dropped to the girls. He stopped short, wiping a beefy hand on his apron. “Agent Sharp.”

  “Marco. Sabrina,” I said, my voice neutral. “We're here for the tour.”

  “Tour?” Sabrina repeated, puzzled. She checked us up and down. “It's a canteen, not a museum. We're busy.” She gestured vaguely at the near-empty steam trays. The main food service was over, but the pudding/dessert station was still available.

  Didn’t Lira tell them about our mission?

  “Oh, sorry, I must have misheard Lira’s order.” I apologised, but I was still mentally disoriented.cSofiya’s eyes instantly locked on the glass display case. Her hopeful expression dimmed as there were only three bowls of the golden, wobbly pudding left.

  “You know what?” I tried to use another tactic to get both the girls and the chefs to meet halfway. “There might not be much pudding left,” I said, feigning a sad smile.

  “No way?!” The genuine distress in her voice was piercing. “But what about those?”

  Marco crossed his arms, “Pudding's for the cleaning crew's. Special order.” It was a transparent lie; the pudding was always available, but I felt relieved when he played along with my plan.

  “Besides, it's very rich with sugar.” Sabrina joined. “It’s probably not good for your bodies to consume either way.” Her gaze flicked to Anne, referencing the rumours of her food likes and dislikes.

  Sofiya's lower lip stuck out, trembling; the raw disappointment and sadness on her face made her look heartbreakingly younger than she already was. Add to that Anne sticking her nose on the glass, almost touching it, with her eyes wide with a quiet, devastating longing, I knew it was a done deal. Marco's act crumbled so fast you would think he was another person entirely for a moment.

  He let out a sigh that was more of a delight.

  “Ah, for God's sake. Look at them, Sabrina.”

  Sabrina's severe expression softened, a reluctant warmth breaking through like the sun through clouds. “Oh, alright, alright. Don't look at me like that. You'll give me a complex.” She shook her head, but a smile tugged at her lips. Marco was already reaching for the bowls.

  “My grandmother's recipe, God rest her soul,” he said, his voice now warm and booming again, the pettiness completely gone. He slid two portions toward them. “For my toughest critics.”

  Anne looked from the pudding to Marco's face, processing the sudden shift. She tilted her head, perhaps accessing a new script.

  “Thank you very much. It looks... super yummy.”

  Sabrina laughed, a real, unexpected sound. “ 'Super yummy,' she says! You hear that, Marco? We've passed inspection.”

  As Sofiya clutched her bowl, beaming, Sabrina's eyes shifted to me. The kindness in them is fading slightly.

  “And you,” she said, her voice dropping. “Stop being such a stranger to this lot. I see you, always marching past like you're on Lira's personal clock, her little shadow.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “The common room, Thursday nights. A few of us are meeting to play cards. We laugh, eat snacks, and actually talk to each other about things unrelated to work, so forget about Lira for an hour and come join us. The world won’t end, I promise. It never does, no matter how much she acts as if it will.”

  The directness was like a splash of cold water. It was an invitation, but it felt like a warning for future interactions with them. Lira’s personal clock. The words echoed in my head, and I felt personally attacked again. I could only manage a stiff nod, my throat suddenly tight.

  I’m not her.

  Sofiya, oblivious to the subtext, added cheerfully, “Yeah, you should go!” I nodded again without saying a word.

  As we turned to find a table, Sabrina called after us, her voice now genuinely kind, “And you two come back tomorrow, you hear? We're making chocolate cake. I'll save you some.” I nodded absently.

  I headed to a table nearby to let the girls finish their dessert. A woman approached our table then, her movement not stealthy but purposeful and calm. She was dressed in practical, green-stained fatigues, and she carried the faint, clean scent of damp earth and chlorophyll. Her name tag read ‘Faith,’ and her smile was sunshine. I had never seen her before, but she looked very approachable.

  “Mind if I join you for a moment?” she asked, her voice a low, pleasant alto.

  Her eyes, a warm brown, crinkled at the corners. She didn’t wait for an answer, smoothly pulling out a chair and sitting, her focus immediately on the girls, bypassing me entirely in a way that felt disarmingly natural.

  “You must be Anne,” she said, then turned to Sofiya. “And you’re Sofiya. I’m Faith. Faith Gupwell. I run the gardens.”

  Sofiya eyed her warily, but Anne nodded politely.

  “The hydroponic and aeroponic bays on Sub-level 5. Your yield efficiency has increased by 18.3% since the new LED spectrum was installed.”

  A genuine laugh escaped Faith.

  “You’ve been reading my reports! I’m impressed. And a little terrified.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Most people down here think their salad just magically appears on the plate. They don’t think about the fact that we’re growing tomatoes under a million tons of rock.”

  She gestured with a hand that was smoother-looking than what I expected of a gardener.

  “I saw you three from across the hall. You look like you could use a bit of green. Staring at grey walls all day is no good for the soul, or for the appetite.” Her gaze settled on Sofiya’s neglected plate. “Everything tastes better when you know where it comes from.”

  Sofiya finally looked up, a flicker of interest breaking through her guarded expression. “Do you grow strawberries there?”

  “Alpine varieties,” Faith confirmed. “Small, but incredibly sweet. They’re fruiting right now. We also have melons the size of your head, and chillies that could make a grown man cry.” She looked from Sofiya to Anne, and then included me in her invitation. “Why don’t you all come down for a tour? See it for yourselves. It’s the one place in this base that doesn’t smell like ozone and anxiety.”

  Tour? I blinked, surprised. Was I supposed to approach her instead of the chefs?

  “An assessment of the primary food production source would provide valuable logistical data.” Anne agreed.

  Sofiya, however, was looking at Faith with a new, hesitant curiosity. “Could we… see the strawberries?” She asked, her voice small.

  “Of course!” Faith's delight was palpable. “That’ll be our first stop,” Faith said, standing up. “Come on. It’s a much better show than this.” She waved a hand at the fugitive glances from the personnel still ‘eating’ at the tables.

  I stood automatically, my operative’s mind settling back. We followed Faith out of the canteen and down a service lift. When the doors opened on Sub-level 5, the air changed instantly. It was warmer, heavier, and vibrantly alive. The hum of the mountain was replaced by the gentle whir of circulation pumps and the soft hiss of misters. The light was different, too—a brilliant, shifting spectrum of purples that painted our skin in otherworldly hues. Before us stretched a breathtaking vista of life. Vertical towers of lush green foliage climbed towards the high ceiling, studded with red tomatoes and yellow peppers. Long channels of floating lettuce formed emerald rafts under the glow of the lights. The air was thick with the scent of basil, mint, and rich, wet earth.

  Sofiya stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes wide. The defensive hunch of her shoulders melted away, replaced by pure, unguarded wonder. She reached out a tentative finger to brush the leaf of a nearby basil plant, inhaling its scent deeply.

  “This is… the opposite of a tomb,” I murmured, the thought escaping before I could cage it. Faith heard me and chuckled.

  “That was my goal.” She stated. “That was the goal. No matter how complicated the world upstairs gets, down here, the rules are simple. Light, water, nutrients.” She led us down a central aisle, pointing out different sections. “The chefs come down here themselves to pick what they need for the day. Makes a difference, you know? A connection.”

  I understood exactly what she meant.

  We reached the strawberry patch. The plants were arranged in vertical columns, each one dripping with tiny, perfect red fruits, like living jewellery. Faith plucked a few and handed them to the girls. Anne examined hers with scientific curiosity before taking a bite. Sofiya held hers for a moment, just looking at it, before popping it into her mouth. A real, spontaneous smile—a true Sunny smile—bloomed on her face.

  “It’s super sweet,” she said, amazed.

  “Told you,” Faith winked. She looked at me then, her expression softening. “You should bring them down here more often, Iris. Everyone needs a place to just… breathe. Even you.”

  Her gaze was still warm, but knowing, of meaningful secrets.

  “You’ve been here a little while now.” She said, leaving me time to refute her claim. I didn’t. “I thought a green space like this one would be a priority to visit for someone who spends most of their time…outside, breathing real air. I’m surprised it took you this long to find your way down here.” The observation was disarming in its accuracy. She saw past the operative to the person who might miss the sky. I gave the practised, deflecting answer.

  “The map I was given was tactical. Exits, armouries. This sector was marked ‘non-critical’.” I shrugged, hoping it looked casual. “My mistake.”

  Faith nodded slowly, but her eyes held mine, seeing right through the deflection. She didn’t push, though. Instead, she gently changed the topic.

  “I find most people who are new to the Hive—that’s what the long-timers call it—they either cling to the common areas for the noise, or they retreat to their quarters for the silence. Both get old after some time.” She paused, her voice dropping to a more confidential tone, though the girls were distracted by a column of flickering fire-rain chillies. “The common areas… There are a lot of eyes, and a lot of well-meaning questions that can feel like an interrogation.”

  Her aura of authority was the absolute opposite of Lira's top-down, tactical command. Lira built walls to keep everyone safe, but she ignored the people inside the walls, which Faith was more attuned to

  “Here is different. It’s just me and the plants, although we’re not much for gossip, but we’re excellent listeners. Even when the conversation is just you thinking quietly.” She met my eyes again, her offer clear and unpressured. “If the grey ever starts to feel a bit too heavy, the door’s always open. No need for a schedule or an audience.”

  It was a subtle invitation, but the single fact that such a place needed to exist, unofficially, was a damning indictment of the official one's failure to assist its inhabitants. My unwavering resistance and tired eyes were noticeable, and yet she was still trying her hardest to provide a solution without judging my abilities as someone we both knew. The words thank you felt inadequate, lodged in a throat that had forgotten how to form them for anything beyond operational necessity.

  “I’ll… keep that in mind,” I managed, the words rough but sincere.

  She then led us to a quieter corner, where strawberries grew in vertical columns, and the leaves of melon plants created a canopy of green. She’d given the girls a small basket.

  “You can eat as many as you want only if you pick them without squashing them.” She instructed them in a soft whispering voice.

  Sofiya shook her head enthusiastically, eager to start. Anne nodded absently as it looked like she was more captivated by the irrigation system. And when Sofiya skipped towards the strawberries, she followed along while tracing the water arches with the tips of her fingers.

  I stood near a workbench, my posture still unconsciously rigid.

  “You can relax here,” Faith gently insisted while repotting a young basil seedling, her movements fluid. “The most dangerous thing in this sector is an overripe tomato falling on your head.”

  I managed a faint, tight smile. “Habits.”

  “I know.” She didn’t look up from the soil, instead she gently firm it around the roots. “But habits can be pruned back, like any other growth. If they’re not serving the whole plant.” She finally glanced up. searching for me, “Just breathe in and tell me what you smell.”

  It was such a simple, nonsensical request. Yet, coming from her, it felt like an instruction. I complied, taking a slow breath. “Basil. Wet earth. Something… sweet.”

  “Good," she said, satisfied. “Now, what do you hear?”

  “The water pumps. The misters.” I paused, listening deeper. “Sofiya… humming.” A tiny, tuneless melody was coming from between the strawberry columns.

  “That’s the reality of this room. Not the mission, not the Mountain. Just that.” She gestured with a soil-streaked hand toward the source of the sound. “It’s a good anchor point when the rest of it gets too loud.”

  She picked up the newly potted basil and placed it on a shelf with dozens of others.

  “I had an agent down here once,” she revealed. “He was a lot like you, to be honest. He couldn’t stand the quiet. His hands were always shaking. I put him to work thinning seedlings.” She chuckled softly at the memory. “It’s finicky work. You have to choose which tiny, perfect life to sacrifice so the others can grow stronger. He hated it. Said it was pointless, but after a week, his hands were steady. He told me it was the first time he’d had to make a decision that was about life, instead of death.”

  She looked at me, her gaze trying to decipher my thoughts

  “This place reminds you that the world is mostly just… things growing. The other stuff—the noise, the fear—that’s the exception, not the rule.”

  In the background, Anne was a teacher to her sister now. “Sofiya, if you compress the fruit, you accelerate enzymatic breakdown and compromise the cellular structure.”

  “But it’s so squishy,” Sofiya replied, her voice full of delight.

  Faith’s smile widened. “See? They’re getting the hang of it.” She picked up another empty pot and scooped rich, dark soil into it.

  “You don’t have to talk about anything serious, Iris. Just… be here and turn off your mind.” She said as she offered me the pot and a handful of tiny seeds. “Here. Thinning seedlings is a good place to start. Or, just hold the dirt. It’s harder to feel the weight of the world when you’re holding a piece of it in your hands.”

  Her metaphors were getting to me, and I couldn’t help roll my eyes, slightly amused. They were a bit cringey, but I would have chosen cringe any day over Lira’s or even Commander Vance's zealous comments about my ‘emotionally driven choices’. I looked from her peaceful face to the simple terracotta pot. It was the most absurd, peaceful order I’d ever been given. I didn’t know what to do or say. For a long moment, I just held it, feeling the cool, gritty weight of the soil. The metallic taste of dread that seemed perpetually on my tongue began to subside, replaced by the clean, honest scent of earth. Faith’s invitation still hung in the air because anything that was an unconditional offer always felt like a trap to me.

  “It's difficult to open up when even the walls have ears.” I bluntly blurred out in a whisper. Faith didn’t miss a beat as her trowel stilled in the soil.

  “Do they now?” She replied with a challenging tone, while I zoomed out into the distance. I knew she wasn’t being serious, but I still failed to see the light. Deflecting was pointless anyway.

  “Yes.” I nodded and chuckled, a hollow, tired sound. I gestured vaguely upward, toward the million tons of rock and the imagined sky beyond. “The sky has eyes, too. Didn’t you know?”

  This was the core of it all. It wasn’t just this mountain. It was the whole damned world. The Foundation, the Legacy, the endless, silent wars where every glance could be an assessment and every kindness a potential gambit.

  Faith looked up. I felt her comprehensive eyes on me, eager to hear more. “Since when?” she asked.

  The question wasn’t one of fact, but one of history.

  Since when did you, Iris, start believing that was a good enough reason to be alone? Or let their eyes stop you from seeing anything else?

  She was calling my bluff. The “sky” hadn't always had eyes. There was a time before joining the legacy, where my life was natural, loving, passionate even, yet I had no answer as to pinpoint when I started to feel this way about the world.

  “I don't know.” The confession left my lips thin and brittle.

  I had nothing.

  The person who existed before that chain of events felt like a ghost I’d read about in a file, not someone I had ever been. My gaze drifted from Faith’s patient face to where Anne stood, a small, calm figure in the dappled light. She was gently guiding Sofiya’s hand away from a thorny cucumber vine. Just a child, I had been entrusted with, the one I had failed so many others to protect.

  “I have nobody left...” I whispered. It was the heart-wrenching truth of my existence on this mountain. No family to write to, no friends to mourn my absence, no home to return to. Just Mark’s serene voice haunting me with promises of unconditional, undeserving patient love. And the crushing weight of a penance that would never be enough.

  I felt tears building, and I immediately sealed them away with a long blink. When I opened them again, Faith’s eyes were on me, so I concluded with the words firming around the only certainty I had left.

  “…but this mission.”

  Anne was the mission. The mission was Anne. She was the vessel for the future, the reason for the walls, the justification for every hard choice and every lonely night. She was my purpose, my burden, and my only remaining tether to something resembling humanity. To open up, to connect, felt like a betrayal of that singular focus. If I let other people in, if I formed attachments, I would inevitably allow love back in my life. And the only person I wanted to give it to was not here.

  “I have become nothing,” I stated.

  The words didn’t feel dramatic or self-pitying. They felt like a simple, clinical report. The person—the woman with opinions and laughs and a life beyond the mission—had been systematically erased, piece by piece, until only the operative remained.

  Faith didn’t say anything at first.

  She didn’t offer automatic empty consolation. She simply watched me, her head tilted, her eyes holding a deep, unwavering calm. She placed her trowel down slowly, giving the statement the space it demanded.

  “Why?” she asked.

  A bitter, hollow sound that was almost a laugh escaped me.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I rhetorically replied. “It’s a required upgrade for the job description. You don’t get to be the last line of defence and remain a whole person.” I gestured vaguely toward the command levels, toward Lira. “They hollow you out. They take everything soft, everything that could ache or hesitate, and they scrape it away. What’s left is sharper. Lighter. More efficient.”

  I looked down at my own hands, seeing not flesh and blood, but tools. “I became nothing so that I could be a perfect shield. It was the only way to still have something to offer Aris.”

  The anxiety-induced confession gripped my heart after accepting one single invitation, still it felt like I had opened myself up to be harmed. But faith did not aim.

  Her gaze drifted over to the girls. Anne was now showing Sofiya how to pollinate a tomato flower with a small brush.

  “A shield,” She repeated, her voice thoughtful. She looked back at me, her eyes now holding a profound sadness. “Iris, look at them.”

  I did. I actually focused on them for once. I saw Sofiya’s wide-eyed wonder, the way she imitated Anne’s serious expression with heartbreaking sincerity.

  Faith leaned forward slightly, her voice gaining a gentle, undeniable confidence. “Is that why you think Aris appointed you as their protector? Because you were 'nothing'?”

  The question, with Aris's name at its centre, was a heresy against his memory. My instinct was to defend him, to defend the choice I’d built my entire penance upon.

  “No,” I said, defensive. “He wouldn’t…I don’t-.”

  “He didn’t,” Faith interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. She held my gaze, and for the first time, I saw a deep, personal knowledge there that went beyond me. It was the look of someone who had kept a secret until the right moment. “I knew Aris. Not like you did, but well enough to hear him talk about you, before he… before he left.”

  The world narrowed to the space between us. The hum of the garden faded into a distant buzz.

  He talked about you.

  “He used to come here almost every day toward the end,” she continued, her eyes misting with the memory. “He’d watch the seedlings break the soil. He said it was the only thing that gave him hope.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “He knew the weight he was leaving you, and he agonised over it. Lira wanted a guardian with no history, no attachments, a pure instrument.”

  That was exactly the path I had accepted for myself in the end, after Lira's revelation in the nexus.

  “But Lira said…” I began, my voice hollow, the words feeling like someone else’s. “Sacrifices are necessary for the success of the mission, and even I agree with that. I do…”

  I trailed off, my gaze drifting to Anne, who was now patiently showing Sofiya how to brush pollen onto a tomato flower. The sight was aching in my chest.

  “It’s just…” I tried again, the words clotting in my throat.

  How can I possibly explain? How could I articulate the monstrous equation that had become my reality?

  “To protect someone that valuable, I can’t be distracted. I need to stay focused at all times. Anything else, sentimental or not, is a risk I can’t afford. Not anymore.” I justified myself. “After everything I already lost, it was the only logical move.”

  The confession was a quiet devastation. I was agreeing to my own erasure, and the worst part was the chilling certainty that it was the correct strategic decision.

  “I know, I know”, she said, her voice so soft it was almost part of the garden’s whisper. “I know that feeling. The cold comfort of the equation. The relief of surrendering your messy, painful self to a clean, simple purpose. It feels like sanity, doesn’t it? After the world has broken you, becoming a tool feels like finally being useful again.”

  She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her calloused hands clasped together.

  “But that’s the most insidious lie the war tells us,” she continued, her gaze steady and unwavering. “To be strong, we must become less human. That logic requires the sacrifice of our own hearts.” She gestured subtly toward the girls. “Look at her, Iris. Anne’s entire being is logic. It is her native language. And yet, she is here, in the dirt, learning the name of a fruit not from a database, but from its taste. She is reaching for Sofiya’s hand. Her logic is leading her toward connection, not away from it. Because on a fundamental level, she understands that the most complex, resilient systems are not made of solitary, perfect instruments. They are networks and ecosystems.”

  Faith’s eyes held a fierce, gentle light.

  “You think your erasure is the logical choice. But what is the mission’s ultimate goal? To create a perfect, lonely weapon? Or to ensure that a child—a whole, complex, feeling child—has a future? You cannot protect a future you have willingly amputated yourself from. The ‘correct strategic decision’ is the one that preserves life, in all its beautiful, illogical variety. Not the one that grinds it down to a single, sterile function.”

  She paused, letting her words take root. “Lira’s logic is the logic of the scalpel. It is brilliant for cutting out cancer, but it is useless for making things grow. Aris knew that, and that’s why he chose you”

  Her words caress me with unperturbable hope. The weight of my own confession—the acceptance of my erasure—hung in the air like a poison still. After a long moment, she gestured to a thick, flowering vine heavy with purple blossoms.

  “Can you help me with this? It’s getting unruly,” she asked.

  It was a clear pretext. I moved closer, my back to the camera, and I knew it was mounted near the service lift. As we both pretended to tend to the vine, our heads close together, Faith’s voice dropped to a whisper so faint it was little more than a breath against my ear, camouflaged by the rustle of leaves.

  “Aris chose you for a reason you haven’t considered,” she breathed. “No matter what she might have told you or shown…He wanted someone to counterweight her practical logic. He knew, as a Savant himself, that Anne would look to her guardian as a model of what it means to be human. He was terrified she would only have Lira.”

  I froze, my fingers stiffening on a tendril. The implication was staggering. I pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her, my eyes asking the main question: How could you possibly know that?

  Faith understood. She leaned in again, her whisper even more urgent.

  “She’s not really the intellectual she fronts. It’s a performance; she rehearses every morning before every meeting. She’s mimicking his words, and she’s doing a convincing job.” She paused, letting the seismic truth settle. “But she was never the real person in charge. Not even when she took his chair.” My shocked expression couldn’t have been more apparent. She giggled at the sight.

  “Who is in charge then?” I made sure to keep my voice down, but this new information felt like water in the desert of my isolation. It was the first crack in Lira’s absolute authority I needed to know.

  Faith didn't answer with words.

  Instead, she straightened up, her face shifting back to its warm, open demeanour. She called out to the girls, her voice echoing gently in the verdant garden.

  “Anne, Sofiya!” She walked over to a basin and quickly assembled a bowl of fresh berries from the day's harvest. She presented it to Sofiya. “A favour. My friend Sebastian, down in the deep archives, gets so lost in his work that he forgets to eat. Would you take this to him? The walk will do you good.”

  Sofiya took the bowl, eager to descend into the belly of the mountain. Not me. I was still waiting for Faith’s answer.

  As the girls turned to leave, Faith finally caught my eye then. She motioned, a mere perceptible nod towards the departing figures, her message clear:

  Your answers are down the hole.

  “Come on, let’s go.” She invited me once more, and I took her offer with no hesitation. I moved eagerly too, at her side, behind the girls.

  She guided us down, with the cheerful click-clack of her gardening clogs a stark contrast to the deep, resonant hum of the lower levels. The air grew cooler, the lighting more functional. We passed a few people, and one of them gave Faith a respectful nod. I was perplexed. How high in rank is she? I had to find out. Finally, we stopped before a heavy, sound-dampened door marked only with a simple Greek letter: Γ-7.

  “This is it,” Faith announced.

  She placed her hand on a panel plastered on the door, and it slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing a sliver of a vast, dim space beyond, lit by the cool blue glow of server racks.

  “He's in there. Just follow the main path straight back.” She gave me an encouraging smile but made no move to enter. “I need to get back to my wilting spinach. He'll be glad to see you.”

  With a final, knowing look, she turned and walked back, leaving us alone at the threshold. Leaving me with more questions, but they had to wait for now.

  Whoever was inside this room was awaiting us to feed our curiosity.

  We stepped inside.

  The archives were an immense cathedral of knowledge. The air was still and dry, carrying the faint, clean scent of ozone and old paper. Endless rows of servers hummed a low, monolithic chord. In the distance, we could see the climate-controlled vaults of physical artefacts. We followed the central path, our footsteps silent on the sound-absorbing floor. At the very heart of the room was a large, circular desk, its surface a chaos of open books, scattered datapads, and a large holographic display showing a complex star chart.

  A man with mid-length dark brown hair, a subtle moustache, consumed glasses and semi-casual attire was bent over an ancient, leather-bound tome, his back to us, completely absorbed. A discreet, advanced hearing aid was visible on one of his ears. He was so still he seemed a part of the archive itself. We stopped a few feet from the desk. Sofiya, about to speak, stopped by a subtle gesture from Anne, who took a deliberate step to the side, into his peripheral vision on his better-hearing side.

  Sebastian, the keeper of the archives.

  He did not look as I had imagined at all. His gaunt cheeks made him seem older, yet there was a steadiness in his broad shoulders and his left hand as he wrote on the paper that assured me of his age. Probably around 38 years of age. Sebastian’s head rose, slow, and at a deliberate speed, as if surfacing from deep thought. He turned in his chair, his hand coming up to subtly adjust his hearing aid with a practised touch. A small indicator light glowed green.

  He gazed at us at last.

  His eyes, deep green, intelligent, registered no surprise, only a quiet acknowledgement. He looked from Anne to Sofiya and back again. Then, he smiled, a small, gentle smile that reached his eyes. He did not speak. Instead, he raised his hands in graceful and precise movements to use sign language.

  [SIGNING]: “You found me.”

  [SIGNING]: “Faith guided us. She said you forgot to eat.” Anne’s hands moved in immediate, fluent reply. She gestured to the berry bowl Sofiya held.

  [SIGNING]: “The berries are fresh. Unlike the air in the council chamber.” Sofiya, not to be outdone, signed with a sharp, efficient grace.

  Sebastian’s smile widened. He used his voice this time.

  “The chamber is for noise; this place is only for introverted characters such as myself.” His words came slowly, not from hesitation but from care. The calm in his voice suggested he’d learned which things were worth saying—and which weren’t. The blue light of the servers glinted in his eyes.

  He made one final sign, a complex, specific gesture that was clearly a question meant only for Anne, but it looked at me as he spoke.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Anne delivered the bare secret I’ve been waiting to hear leave Faith’s lips.

  “Aris’s right hand.”