Tyvan Valorum checked Yan Xue’s condition a second time, confirming her mana flow was stable.

  That was good. But it was also... peculiar.

  She was so fretful in her sleep, tossing and turning. Her expression was... vaguely negative. When he first took her hand in his to examine her, she stilled. Calm. Restful.

  When he let go, however... her difficulties returned.

  Was she playing a trick on him? According to her scent, heart rate, and... eerily stable mana flow, she was certainly asleep.

  Hm.

  Her room was uncomfortably bare. Low bookshelves, mostly empty. A single plush toy, a reward for a game at the West-Meadow video arcade. An open textbook on her desk and, next to it, a cassette player and a pair of cheap headphones.

  Her bed had five pillows. Why? One seemed logical. Two had aesthetical value.

  Tyvan had tasked Yeonha with ensuring Shay’s bedding and general area were clean and sanitised. Yeonha further tasked herself with changing her into sleeping attire.

  She insisted.

  She... said it was common practice for regular humans.

  Tyvan was unfamiliar with that particular notion. However, he trusted Yeonha’s judgement. She’d been a regular human for at least nine years-- long enough to be considered an expert on human practices.

  Shay had earned her rest.

  She’d completed her mission, recovering information relevant to the security of ?The Kingdom?.

  She brought her team back battered and worn, but alive.

  Rider needed a new snake pin. The loss was sustainable, considering the alternative was to schedule an appointment to inform the bereaved.

  According to Briar Rose, the gala was notoriously absent of abject murder. That... might not have been so, had he been there. Tyvan tried his best to not murder civilians, but accidents were not impossible-- even for him.

  It was best that he chose to remain at Elysium. Also, the recently installed anti-bird emplacements did much to ease his latent concerns.

  But concerning Shay...

  Did she have talent as a team leader?

  ...and could that talent be nurtured? --preferably in an environment with less risk? --or... risk of mild-to-moderate physical harm?

  Tyvan made a mental note of it. Another project to cultivate, toward peace of mind. Another failsafe to protect his frustratingly fragile way of life.

  He was but one predator in an ocean of veritable monsters. Perceived weakness invited hostility, even when none was shown prior. Secrecy begat hostility, stemming from jealous fears. Then, hostility bred more hostility, with certain parties uncomfortably willing to battle to their final breaths.

  It was a backward form of protection: ‘Fight me and I am willing to die. But I will not die alone.’

  As a representative of ?The Kingdom?, Tyvan had acted carefully, civilly, and with reason and fairness. And his justice, in all its forms, was reinforced by indisputable strength and the promise of non-mercy.

  ‘Tread on me and I will destroy everything you have ever loved.’

  That was the most ideal way of engaging his predator peers... if it came to that.

  It would. It was an inevitability.

  For it, Tyvan had prepared multiple layers of defenses-- as well as multiple exit strategies.

  ?Doma? oversaw the various active ?Sigilla?. Over half of Elysium’s temporary tenants and nearly all of its residents could serve as militia. He’d requisitioned additional forces from across the gods-damned nation. One of which was borne from the frozen wastelands of Canadia. If the legends were true, they’d survived bipedal vampire moose proliferating in the forsaken woods since ages past.

  Then... he’d overseen the installation of hundreds of metres of bird spikes-- death traps, cruel and merciless by design.

  The fortress that was the Elysian Heights could weather nigh any storm.

  --but only because Tyvan's predictions were finite.

  Beyond that...

  So. much. could. go. wrong.

  No matter the planning, no matter the perceived certainty, the chaos of the battlefield was ever-changing, ever-evolving. The fates smiled on no one forever. The only truism of all empires in all worlds was their eventual fall.

  Or perhaps, all things aside... he was merely a fool. The redundant nature of planning served to compensate for his lack of mental acuity.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  --not that he’d ever admit it. As a leader, he needed a certain degree of credibility for obeisance.

  So many relied on his guidance. His composure. His questionably sagacious perspective.

  And, unfortunately... there was no one better.

  Not yet.

  “Is she well, Lord Protector?”

  Bastion stood outside the open door, looking in-- an impressive figure of a knight in practical steel armour. His height and width prevented him from entering Shay’s room, but that was by personal choice. He preferred traditional defensive equipment rather than the modern suits threaded by ?The Kingdom?’s armourer.

  Tyvan looked down. He’d been holding onto Shay’s hand overlong. Over the course of his brooding, her fingers had interlaced with his.

  Her mana remained stable. In that moment, it was more stable than his.

  “She is... healthy and hale-- merely exhausted by the events of the sun.”

  Perhaps influenced by her peaceful sleep, Tyvan felt an incoming yawn.

  He refrained. Yawning was rude.

  Still, he reached for Shay’s desk chair. (It had wheels-- a curious, but useful modification.) He positioned it by her bedside and sat down-- whereupon he was immediately reminded of Shay’s... slighter height.

  He was certain he looked ridiculous.

  ...He spun his chair to face the knight too overlarge to enter a door conjured to international building codes.

  “You look ridiculous.”

  “Tis not so absurd, with purpose fulfilled,” Bastion replied. “Even the barest strap of leather can preserve a life.”

  Tyvan took a breath, exhaling through his nostrils. Conversing with... that person tended to be rather... odious.

  “You... seem to be implying that you yet live.”

  Bastion placed a hand on his chestplate, mimicking the sound and movements of laughter. “Hahhh. ‘Twas a figurative statement, milord. But to carry forward with thy pardon, we live every day.”

  “And we die but once,” Tyvan mused. “You’ve my gratitude, Bastion, for safely recovering Miss Yan.”

  “The honor is mine,” Bastion said with a polite bow. “And worry not, Lord Protector. I wouldst never dare covet the apple of thine eye.”

  Tyvan narrowed his eyes. Was there an apple in-- no... What could that possibly mean? Bah. Considering the speaker, it was probably nonsense and safe to ignore. Also, apples were a delicious fruit, so it was likely not an insult.

  “Anyroad,” he said, “how is your physical form, old friend?”

  “Ah.” Bastion undid the straps underneath his helmet, removing it and holding it apologetically in both hands. “I admit, with great shame, that I was not involved in the melee.”

  While Bastion was not the oldest soul in Tyvan’s employ, his physical age far surpassed his peers. His ivory skull had developed a distinguished, brown-yellow patina. Five or more of his teeth were replaced by mastercraft silver replicas. And... black marker ‘eyebrows’ had been applied to just above his empty eye sockets. They seemed to suggest an angry or displeased expression.

  Was he aware?

  Would it be rude to call attention to the fact?

  Tyvan gestured to his own brow.

  In response, Bastion snapped to attention and rendered a wonderfully crisp salute.

  “My apologies, Lord Protector. Good evening.”

  “...Yes, good evening. Carry on.”

  Bastion was potentially the most loyal and stalwart member of their organisation. Also, his existence was free of orthodox concerns and ethical complications, as he’d achieved sentience naturally and some two hundred years prior.

  Despite that, he had difficulty finding gainful employment until they’d met. Why that was so... was up to speculation. But just as he served as a bastion for ?The Kingdom?, so too was ?The Kingdom? his bastion of security and acceptance.

  “The three had taken injury when I reinforced their number,” Bastion explained, “Lady Latorre, in particular, sustained quite a beating. I daresay if she were still human, her insides would have been akin to a rich, savoury paté.”

  Tyvan nodded thoughtfully. He saw Briar Rose earlier when she reported her findings. In that time, he administered an advanced healing spell and, afterward, assigned her to bedrest.

  “A droll notion, is it not?” he said. “Of all our companions, ‘tis Miss Latorre most agonised over her perceived inhumanity.”

  Bastion crossed his arms, the nostalgic clink of metal surprisingly satisfying. “Hahh... Most lugubrious, indeed.”

  “...Is that a real word?”

  “It is, my lord. Shall I regale thee with the dictionary definition popularised by both Merriam and Webster?”

  “No, your chosen voice is rather grating to the ear.” Tyvan attempted a dismissive wave, but his main hand was still entrapped. Thus, he conveyed his displeasure via intentful stare.

  “You... wound me, my lord,” Bastion replied, mildly monotone.

  “Take that as proof that you yet live, Brother-Bastion.”

  “Aha.” Bastion righted his posture. Perhaps if he had a face, he’d have been smiling. “Very good, Brother-Tyvan. Thy levity heartens me so, greatly and truly. I pray ‘tis not bold of me to assume the provenance of thy melioration rests peacefully beside thee.”

  Tyvan immediately regretted being polite.

  So... Bastion was... referring to Shay. Assumedly. No-- he must have been. He was suggesting the young woman he once tried to murder had changed him, somehow. Or rather-- she had... meliorated him.

  “Bastion? Explain.”

  “You see, the word provenance originates from French provenir, and--”

  “Disregard,” Tyvan interjected. “Cease. Immediately. I no longer care. Thank you for your report, Bastion, but we're done here."

  “Oh. Very... well.” Bastion returned his full helmet atop his skull and saluted once more. “Good evening, Lord Protector. By your leave.”

  Yeonha - “How. ‘bout. now? Let’s. do a crime.”

  Bastion - “Oh, my.”

  Tyvan - “Dismissed. Both of you.”

  Yeonha (whispering) - “no. witnesses.”

  ...

  Bastion: A gentleman skeleton who prefers to wear heavy full plate instead of a less inconspicuous suit. Yeonha has markered his skull with angry eyebrows.