“Hey, Prim?

  You once told me…

  people’s feelings change easily.

  That nothing’s sure.

  That nothing lasts forever.”

  Light seeps through the window, sharp enough to pull me from sleep. Morning reaches my room before the tower fully wakes. I turn onto my side, away from the glare, and lie still, counting the slow rise and fall of my chest—steady, familiar, mine.

  Normal. Remember—normal.

  I get up.

  I still haven’t bought any furniture, so I prop my mirror atop the dresser and lean in close, studying my reflection like it might tell me how today is meant to go. I sigh and begin brushing my hair, then my tail, slow and methodical. The braid comes next—careful fingers, practiced motions. I redo it twice anyway, until everything sits exactly where it should.

  Perfect doesn’t exist.

  Presentable does.

  The stairs are quiet as I make my way down. The silence is almost deafening—so complete that even the rustle of sheets behind locked doors registers, each small sound magnified in the stillness. The tower feels different like this. Stripped of laughter. Stripped of ceremony.

  Honest.

  By the time I reach the lower floors, the smell of food has already begun to spread. Bread, grease, something bitter and herbal I can’t place. A few familiar faces nod at me in passing. Others don’t.

  That’s fine.

  I don’t need to be known.

  I spot Ulric first.

  He’s already seated at one of the tables, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, a ledger open in front of him. Veil sits across from him, quieter than last night, cutting into his food with slow, deliberate movements. Cinna is beside him, posture perfect even now, murmuring something low that makes Veil’s ears twitch.

  For a moment, I hesitate.

  Then I step closer.

  Ulric looks up and smiles—not wide, not performative. Just enough to let me know I’m expected.

  “Morning,” he says. “You eat?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply automatically—then catch myself. “…Captain.”

  He chuckles. “Good. Grab a plate.”

  I do, sliding into the empty space he gestures to. My hands are steady.

  That feels like a small victory.

  The room fills gradually. Chairs scrape. Conversations start and stop. Someone laughs too loud and gets shushed. The tower wakes up around us, piece by piece.

  Then footsteps sound on the stairs.

  Lucius doesn’t announce himself.

  He never does.

  He walks in with the same unhurried pace as the night before, robes uncinched, hair only half-tied back. His eyes sweep the room once—counting, measuring, cataloging. When they land on me, they linger just a second longer than necessary.

  Not judgment.

  Assessment.

  “Eat quickly,” he says, voice carrying without effort. “We’re not celebrating this morning.”

  The low murmur dies instantly.

  Ulric straightens. Veil stills. Cinna’s hands fold neatly in her lap.

  Lucius steps closer to our table and taps the edge of Ulric’s ledger with two fingers.

  “We lost a window overnight,” he continues. “One of the remaining marks made a move we didn’t anticipate. That makes today… complicated.”

  My stomach tightens—not with fear, but with interest.

  Lucius finally looks directly at me.

  “Imone,” he says. “You wanted to make a difference with your own hands.”

  He tilts his head, just slightly.

  “Take a look at these. I want to see what you make of it.”

  He slides the ledger Ulric had been reading across the table. I hesitate, glance at Ulric. He only nods—slow, curious.

  So I read.

  Names, routes, dates. Movements tracked across weeks, rewritten in different inks. Two criminals, always adjacent to trouble but never at its center. It’s meticulous. Intentional.

  My pulse quickens.

  “Foreigners,” I murmur. “Contraband. That tracks.”

  No one interrupts.

  I turn a page. Then another.

  “You’re watching manufacturers,” I say, slower now. “Not suppliers.” I tap the margin once. “That’s unusual.”

  Still silence.

  “If they control the process, they don’t need skilled manufacturers at all,” I continue. “Once materials are secured, production can happen anywhere.”

  I pause, then slide my finger down the page.

  “This is your lead.”

  I point to a stretch of farmland beyond the city walls.

  “Council-owned. Sharecropped. No public yield records.” I look up briefly. “It’s the only place where supply could disappear without scrutiny.”

  I stop talking.

  The silence stretches.

  Heat crawls up my neck. I draw my hands back, suddenly aware of how far I leaned in.

  “…Was that off?” I ask.

  Lucius doesn’t answer me.

  He turns to Ulric instead.

  “Go,” he says. “That entire quadrant is yours. I’ll have the Lancers and the Shield cover the remaining sectors.”

  He’s already moving away as the decision lands.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Hells,” Veil mutters, staring at the ledger like it’s just betrayed him. Then his eyes snap up. “That’s why the bastard was at the market.”

  The pieces click together fast.

  “He wasn’t looking for refiners,” Veil continues, voice sharp now. “He was buying supply. Locking it down.”

  I blink. “So… it made sense?”

  Ulric finally looks at me, studying, then smiles.

  “You did well.”

  The words settle heavier than I expect.

  He reaches out and hooks an arm around Veil’s shoulders, tugging him close.

  “And so did you,” he adds quietly. “I shouldn’t have dismissed your lead like that. I won’t do it again.”

  The look they exchange is soft enough that I have to cover my mouth before I start openly staring.

  “It is not a skill we typically cultivate,” Cinna says gently, rescuing me. She sets her teacup down and glances at the ledger. “Over ten years of my life were spent at the academy, focused on Vire—its flow, its shaping.”

  She looks back up at me, head tilting with a gentle smile.

  “What you just did was… incredibly valuable, Imone.”

  My cheeks burn. Gods, I really want to pat her.

  “Lancers! Heading out!”

  Saria’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade. Her squad rises in unison, chairs scraping as they move for the stairs without hesitation. One figure lingers behind, though—the blonde woman from yesterday, the one who always stays close to Saria.

  Her gaze meets mine.

  She approaches with quiet certainty and takes my hand, enclosing it between both of hers in a firm, reassuring grip.

  “Sorry I didn’t say anything yesterday,” she says warmly. “Welcome to the Valiants.”

  Her smile is calm. Grounding. Motherly, even.

  “Leonie,” she adds. “And… please forgive Saria. She’s very… competitive.” A brief pause, thoughtful. “But her heart’s in the right place. You can count on us.”

  She says the last part to me—but then her gaze shifts to the rest of the table. I follow it, and the looks exchanged there tell me everything I need to know.

  Rivalry. Not resentment.

  “Thank you, Leonie,” I say, meaning it. “I hope Saria doesn’t get mad at you for staying behind like this.”

  Leonie’s expression softens into something quietly mischievous.

  “Saria?” she says, amused. “Mad at me?”

  As if the idea itself is funny.

  She gives us all a small, graceful wave before turning and heading after her squad.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, a smile still lingering.

  “…Speaking of which, where’s—uh.” I purse my lips, suddenly awkward. Maybe they’ll think I’m strange for asking.

  “…Where’s Cattleya?” I ask at last, my voice quieter.

  The question lands strangely.

  Ulric blinks. Veil stiffens. Cinna’s hands still around her teacup.

  “…Right,” Ulric says after a moment. “I didn’t give you time to wake her this morning, did I?” He glances at Veil, who responds with a short, uncomfortable nod.

  Ulric turns back to me. “Room 802.”

  He rises from his chair. “Feel like helping us out once more? I’ll get our gear ready before the Lancers take all the good stuff. If you’ve got your own tools, change into them. If not, we’ll provide something.”

  “…Just wake her up?” I repeat. “That’s… easy enough.”

  Even as I say it, unease coils low in my stomach.

  Waking her up…

  “Thanks, Cove,” Veil adds brightly. “I’ll bake you something tasty later.”

  My eyes widen. “You bake?”

  “He is very skilled,” Cinna confirms serenely, lifting her nearly empty teacup.

  That does it.

  With a grin and a renewed spring in my step, I turn toward the stairs. By the third floor, I pass the Lancers gearing up—black armor being strapped on, weapons checked and slung.

  Swords. Daggers. Bows.

  No lances.

  The thought follows me as I climb the remaining floors, my mind oddly clear, worries momentarily quiet.

  Nothing prepares me for what waits above.

  Door 802 stands before me.

  I stop short.

  …it’s no big deal, right? Just waking someone up. That’s all this is.

  My hand lifts anyway, ready to knock—then freezes, fingers hovering inches from the wood.

  …what if she does something strange?

  The thought barely finishes forming before it slips away, replaced by something quieter. Sharper.

  I don’t remember deciding to move.

  I only notice the sound—my knuckles striking the door, firm and deliberate.

  “Cattleya,” I call once.

  Nothing.

  A beat passes.

  My hand is already on the handle before I realize I’ve reached for it.

  It turns.

  Unlocked.

  Her room is spare—more so than mine. A dresser against the wall, a violin laid carefully atop it, not abandoned so much as placed. The rest of the space feels untouched, unused, as if she only occupies it when absolutely necessary.

  The bed draws my attention last.

  She’s curled on her side, white hair spilled across the pillow she’s clutching. Her tail lies slack behind her, breath slow and even. Deep sleep.

  I step closer.

  “Cattleya,” I say again, softer.

  No response.

  A moment of hesitation.

  My hand lifts—and stops short.

  For a moment, I’m acutely aware of my own breathing. Of the space between us. Of something pressing forward in my chest, impatient, steady, unbothered by doubt.

  I don’t feel my hand move.

  Contact—my fingers settling against her shoulder. A single, controlled shake.

  “Hey, Cat,” I hear myself say. “Wake up. We’ve got work to do.”

  The voice is calm. Certain.

  She moves instantly.

  Not groggy. Not confused.

  Alert.

  Her body snaps into motion, faster than thought. The world lurches as I’m flipped onto my back, breath knocked from my lungs. The mattress dips beneath me as she pins me down, her weight precise, efficient. Her grip closes around my wrists—tight enough to hurt, tighter than necessary.

  Her eyes burn violet in the dim light.

  “Who—” she starts, then stops.

  Her brow furrows.

  “That’s not right.”

  The pressure increases for half a second. Testing. Measuring.

  I try to speak.

  Nothing comes out.

  The certainty that carried me here drains away all at once, leaving only panic and the sharp sting in my wrists. My chest tightens. My breath stutters. Whatever had pushed forward recoils, vanishing as abruptly as it arrived.

  Her grip loosens.

  She stills, head tilting slightly, as if listening for a sound that’s just gone quiet.

  “Oh,” she murmurs. “It’s still you.”

  The tension evaporates.

  She releases me without comment and rises from the bed, turning away as if the last few seconds never happened.

  “I felt something else,” she adds distantly, already dismissing it.

  I lie there, heart pounding, staring up at the ceiling.

  It takes me longer than it should to sit up.

  “We—” My voice cracks. I swallow and try again. “The chariot’s moving out. There was a… discovery.”

  She’s a few steps away now.

  Completely naked.

  Entirely unconcerned.

  Do I even register as a person to her?

  I look away at once, heat rushing to my face.

  “Yeah?” she says casually. “And you’re going out like that?”

  I glance down at myself. Comfortable clothes. Civilian. Wrong.

  “…I should get changed,” I admit.

  “Thanks for waking me up, Imo,” she says lightly. “See you downstairs.”

  I freeze.

  Those three letters again.

  She probably has no idea what they do to me.

  I don’t answer. I just turn and leave, closing the door behind me with care, my heart still racing as I head for the stairs.

  I don’t let myself think about it until the door is closed and the tower’s silence presses back in.

  My armor waits where I left it.

  Old. Reliable. Familiar.

  I strap the metal plates over worn leather, tightening each piece with practiced efficiency. A single shoulder guard. Gauntlets with sharpened fingertips—never my preference, but…

  I chuckle softly.

  “Yeah. I know.”

  The thought escapes me without context.

  Finally, I take up my sword. Light. Long. Precise. Strength was never my advantage—but this? This I know.

  I give it a few test swings. The weight settles into my hand like memory made solid. Like something I’ve carried for years—longer, even.

  Yeah.

  I slide it back into its scabbard with a clean motion.

  “I won’t give them any reason to get rid of me,” I say quietly.

  Then I turn and head for the stairs, gear ready, resolve set.

  Toward the others waiting below.