"King Fisher and Swallow squads accounted for."

  "Sparrow and Dove inbound. Swallow spotted them cresting the western hill. ETA—ninety seconds."

  Each man and woman paused, heads bowed in silent deference, before adding their loot to the growing sack sprawled at her feet. She sat above them, leg crossed over knee, eyes fastened on the iron-laced abyss of the corridor ahead.

  Stillness incarnate. A figure carved in command.

  The only betrayal of movement was the slow, methodical bob of her foot, the leather of her knee-high boots whining in protest—a quiet metronome ticking down to something only she seemed to feel.

  Below her, the crew assembled—a living phalanx clad in sleek, black jumpsuits, their faces and hair cloaked by masks. Some wore the garb of civilians: merchants, beggars, whores, elders. The roles they’d played tonight. The masks they donned. But now, they were hers again.

  A whistle resounded down the corridor. The last squads had arrived. Her foot quickened, thumb now drumming lightly against her other hand. Agitated energy, but not yet doubt. Not yet.

  Her teams were gathered on the metal catwalk below, clustered along the platform that overhung the desalination plant’s main canal—while she sat on the upper level, waiting for the last of them to filter through.

  Her posture remained flawless—shoulders relaxed, back straight, head held high with the kind of tilt that caused the world to feel below her gaze. Composed. Controlled. She was their constant, their compass in the storm.

  Even as Galia, her lancer, fed her the lie, Ellia held her stillness.

  “All squads accounted for, Captain," Galia called, a little too easy. "Extraction vehicle inbound—T-minus two minutes."

  The captain’s jaw tensed, but her eyes never left the corridor.

  "Shall we open the sea gate?"

  A pause.

  "Captain? Captain. Ellia!”

  Her head turned—slow, deliberate. Sight fastened on Galia, hard as flint. Even the buzz of machinery seemed to catch its breath, the space between them drawn razor-thin. Her hands clenched tighter in her lap, the fire that always smoldered within her veins suddenly fanned.

  Crack.

  One knuckle snapped like a gunshot, loud enough to still the nearest breath.

  She rose, smooth and sudden.

  No spectacle. Just motion, sharp and clean.

  Her leather-gloved fingers unfastened the mask, lifting it free with a single, practiced motion. The black beak curved downward, sleek and sharp, its feathered edges catching no light, lacquered in a muted shadow. For a moment, it rested in her grasp—more symbol than armor—before she cast it aside. The hood slid back, and with it, a cascade of damp golden curls spilled free—wild, untamed, just as she needed to be now. She shook her head once, sharp and deliberate, casting the strands aside like the weight of reservation.

  The air followed.

  Some of her hair lashed across Galia’s cheek, a tacit reminder of command.

  The lancer flinched, more from the meaning than the motion.

  Inches apart, they stood, breath suspended between them.

  The captain’s gray-blue eyes, storm-hardened and cold, locked on Galia’s. The time for stillness was over.

  She knew what they saw in her: the sharp lines of control, the steel behind the softness. Her lips—a line drawn tight now, though they had learned to charm when needed. The freckles, a map of her past she didn’t erase, and wouldn’t. Let them see her. Let them remember who led them.

  Her voice cleaved through the charged stillness, low and precise. “Where’s our little bird?”

  A flood of panic pierced Galia’s composure as she and the captain pivoted in unison, gazes locking on the railing that overlooked the assembled squads below. The soft churn of murmurs swirled upward, akin to smoke—uneasy whispers, questioning glances, tension.

  Everyone was there. Lined up along the canal’s edge in tight formation, masked heads slightly bowed, waiting for extraction to the eastern HQ. Every squad accounted for.

  Except one individual.

  Their eyes scanned the sea of black uniforms, sweeping left to right, back again, then slower—more deliberate. They searched for a flash of powder-blue fabric. A shadow of abyssal black curls. The girl in semi-ragged gypsy garb.

  Nothing.

  Galia’s breath faltered as comprehension hit.

  “Mimi…” she uttered—the name hardly audible, more prayer than sound.

  She turned to the captain, eyes attentive, searching for confirmation—or denial.

  None came.

  Merely the faint stilling of the captain’s gloved fingers, mid-tap upon the railing—a habit so small most wouldn’t notice. Ellia’s other hand squeezed around the metal bar, the leather of her glove creaking with the strain.

  The captain’s gaze stayed forward, iron-steady… except for a flash that betrayed her, quick as a pulse. Her eyes swept the crowd again. Once. Twice. A third time.

  Still no sign.

  Mimi, their little bird, hadn’t returned with the flock.

  Galia’s eyes tracked the captain’s movements—back and forth, subtle, but telling. Ellia clutched the railing. Released it. Gripped it again. The rhythm mirrored the rising tension in every chest below.

  Sensing their squad's restlessness, Galia moved forward, taking the rail in hand.

  Her shout snapped through the chamber like a whip.

  “LINES!”

  Immediately, the four squads of three sprang into motion, forming clean rows with skilled ease. They aligned by rank and role, movements sharp, though burdened by their masked visages and heist-specific garb. Identical suits masked identities, but the energy—the restless glances, the small fidgets—revealed much.

  “Anyone see Mimi during or after the mission?” Galia barked, her words strung together in a rush, tension trickling into her cadence.

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  A stream of voices spread like dropped ink through water. Crewmates leaned on each other, reviewing memories, exchanging snippets.

  Then, from the second row, a hand ascended—Team Leader Swallow. The captain turned, extending her open hand toward him in wordless command.

  Swallow moved forward. “Last we saw her, she was shadowing her target by the market, just off Dock F. She was tight on him, tracking clean. But right after she made contact, she was gone. Just—poof.”

  The quiet that followed was thick and brittle. Around them, the other squads exhaled, some softly, others sharp with worry.

  Ellia leaned on the railing, forearms braced, cupping one gloved fist in the other. Her fingers worked a steady rhythm, smoothing the leather across her knuckles as she calculated. Her eyes blinked fast—absorbing, cross-referencing, re-framing.

  Then another hand was raised—Dove Leader. She pointed.

  “Constantine says he saw Mimi on Dock F. She crossed over, for sure, but—”

  “Obviously, she made it past the docks and onto the ship,” a voice interposed from King Fisher squad. “If she hadn’t crossed, the gate would still be locked. We wouldn’t be here. And we wouldn’t have the targeted goods.”

  A fresh burst of chatter erupted.

  Galia and the captain stood shoulder to shoulder at the upper railing, their eyes scanning the floor below, ears tuned to the voices rising like steam from a boiling pot. The desalination plant, once quiet save for the leaking of rusted pipes, now thrummed with nervous energy. Rumblings of worry, slivers of promise, and sharp-edged speculation wove into a fractured symphony—every tone another thread in the growing tension.

  “Or that’s where she got clipped—dumbass.”

  “Nah, she’s probably cuffed to a pipe somewhere, getting grilled.”

  “She’s smart. She could be hiding, waiting it out.”

  "Thirty seconds left—she'll run in just in time. Always does."

  “Yeah, classic Mimi. Little gremlin’s probably counting down to the second.”

  “Hope she ain't scared shitless somewhere…”

  "The position was too much for a girl her age..."

  As the captain’s hands found the wheel which governed the sea gate, the room slipped into breathless silence—conversations vanishing like mist under a rising sun. Metal grated against metal with an ear-piercing shriek, the mechanism’s groan rumbling through the hollow plant. Ripples fractured the canal’s surface in shifting, almost geometric spirals, only to be splintered a breath later by a crashing wave from the bay. In its wake, the channel no longer seemed like containment—it had become a window.

  Out in the onyx night, the extraction vehicle bounded across the dark water, its white outline flickering like a star refusing to drown. The captain, guided by the gauge embedded in the rusted wall, adjusted the clearance with methodical precision. A final twist locked the sea gate in place.

  Over her shoulder, she slung the metallic cylinder—their nest’s crown jewel, the most valuable prize the Flock had ever claimed. Her eyes met Galia’s, and in that glance passed the burden of trust and importance. Then, her eyes dipped to the sack of stolen goods. Galia moved without needing words, closing her hand around the bundle with quiet finality and stepping into pace next to her captain, ready for whatever followed next.

  Descending the stairs, the captain set the metallic cylinder gently at the canal's edge, treating it with the reverence of an artifact. Then she turned to face her crew. They stood without moving, a wall of masked silence, every eye trained on her. Without a word, she pivoted and began climbing the stairs again.

  "Where are you going?" someone asked, quiet but brave, the tremble in their voice betraying both curiosity and worry.

  "Galia is in charge," the captain answered without slowing. Her voice cleaved clean, commanding. "You are all to remain at headquarters. No matter how long I'm gone. No questions. No buts, umms, or ifs. Understood?"

  The force of her words fell hard. A beat of stillness passed.

  A softer voice followed, hesitant but hopeful. "Are you... going to find Mimi?"

  The captain stopped at the landing, spine straight. She didn’t turn around.

  "UNDERSTOOD," she said again, this time sharper, every syllable lined with steel.

  In perfect sync, the crew stomped their right foot. The sound split through the chamber like a rifle shot—an oath sworn in silence.

  As the captain bundled her golden curls into a tight bun and secured them beneath her hood, she fastened her mask and cinched her boots with trained urgency. Then, without ceremony, she tossed her communicator to Galia.

  "You should keep this," Galia said, catching it without effort. "What if we need to contact you? What if something happens during extraction?"

  A faint, wistful smile curled beneath the captain’s mask—more a note to herself than a message to be seen. “Have faith, Galia. If anything happens, you’re more than capable of handling a few Triarchs. And besides, we covered our asses. Remember?"

  Galia bit her lip, gaze falling to the device in her hand. Her fingers clenched around it as her eyes sharpened with understanding.

  "If I’m caught with that," the captain added, her voice subdued but certain, "it’s game over. For all of us. Don’t worry—I’ll be back. Hold faith. I’ll contact you on Mimi’s communicator once I find her."

  With that, she turned, her shoes hammering down the narrow passage. She became a shadow in motion—engulfed by urgency, powered by purpose. Behind her, the extraction vehicle roared to life like a wild beast unchained, its thunder rumbling on through the ravines and cliffs.

  This night wasn’t chosen by chance.

  They could have hit the mark yesterday.

  Or the day before.

  But she had waited.

  Waited for this exact moment—when two strategic opportunities aligned in the perfect storm.

  Firstly, the Triarchy’s merchant vessel, Kali Tyche, sat anchored in the harbor like a slumbering titan—its clandestine cargo rumored to house a next-generation fuel cell. Tonight, beneath a veil of darkness, it was scheduled to depart, escorted by a military frigate en route to the Libyan coast. Both ships wore Prax-fused steel plating—impervious to rifle fire; only relic-grade blades or properly channeled Prax could scratch armor like that. Rifles still had their place—crowd control, noise—but everyone knew real damage came from weapons that carried will and resonance. Fortunately, they weren’t here to test Prax-steel. This job required stealth, not resonance—and stealth demanded the right conditions.

  Which brought her to the second reason they had waited for tonight: the celestial stage itself had collaborated in their favor. The waxing gibbous moon—normally a glaring sentinel—was choked behind thick nimbus clouds, the earlier downpour leaving the streets lacquered in a black-glass sheen. Everything shimmered with reflections and gloom.

  It was perfect.

  Nature’s camouflage for an audacious crime.

  Drenched in the lingering rain, Ellia moved along the elevated fuel lines linking the desalination plant to the village, the steel canopy offering little shelter. Her soles slapped the slick metal, but her mind refused to find its footing.

  What was I thinking? her thoughts spat, raw and cutting.

  They were right. This is my fault. Mimi wasn’t ready. I pushed her. I forced this on her.

  But another voice rose just as sharply—stubborn, defiant, unwilling to die.

  Mimi is young, yes. But she’s capable. I chose her because she could do this.

  Didn’t I?

  The questions intensified.

  Had she mistaken potential for readiness?

  Had her offer of promotion been a reward—or a trap disguised as opportunity?

  A squall inside the storm.

  Twisting, tightening, turning her certainty into knots.

  She laid a glove-clad hand against her forehead.

  Her breath stumbled, caught halfway between doubt and fury.

  Think. Focus. Where would she go?

  A clipped command to herself—nothing like the raw, unraveling panic raking at her sides, but enough to force her back into motion.

  She forced a breath.

  Steeled her jaw.

  And kept moving.

  But as the rain thickened and thunder crashed across the distant sea, another thought slipped in—quiet, cold, and infinitely heavier.

  Not about Mimi.

  About the object secured beneath Galia’s watch.

  About what they’d actually taken.

  Ellia slowed.

  Her steps faltered.

  A chill washed through her—a different kind of dread.

  The kind that didn’t come from fear of failure…but from realization.

  A stolen purse didn’t start wars.

  A robbed merchant didn’t topple kingdoms.

  But the thing they’d stolen tonight?

  That was the kind of thing wars were born from.

  She hadn’t just robbed a supply ship.

  She might have declared war.

  Against who?

  The Kingdoms?

  The Gods?

  The world?

  Ellia drew her hood tighter, breath wispping in the cold, and walked into the drowning streets of Delos—alone, hunted by her own doubts, and now shouldering the weight of a technological artifact that could set the world ablaze.

  She still had a little bird to find.