The transition from the radioactive chill of the Shadow Border to the cluttered warmth of the apartment in the Raimei-Gai district was jarring enough to induce vertigo. For three days, their reality had been grey scrubland, biting winds, and the metallic taste of fear. Now, the air smelled of roasted garlic, rosemary, and the rich, fermented tang of Luminara wine reducing in a pan.
They had vanished. To the Guild, to Varrick, and to the world, Squad Aurora was dead, buried under tons of water and stone in the Lacus Mortis. But in reality, they were merely hiding in the one place no self-respecting noble would look: a third-floor walk-up in the slums, shared by a disowned aristocrat and a lazy prodigy.
Aurora Aksnes was, true to her nature, horizontal. She lay sprawled across a velvet chaise lounge that looked suspiciously like it had been looted from a palace, her head resting in Roui Mirtout's lap. The apartment was a architectural argument between their personalities: Roui's side was a pristine collection of silk tapestries and polished mahogany; Aurora's side was a chaos of discarded weapons, half-read scrolls, and empty snack bowls.
"You are tense," Roui murmured, his fingers threading through her hair. He had traded his Null-Plate for a silk shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms scarred from years of glaive drills. "The mission is over, mon cheri. We are ghosts. Ghosts are allowed to nap."
"Ghosts don't have back pain," Aurora grumbled, though she leaned into his touch. She cracked one bioluminescent blue eye open, scanning the room. "And ghosts don't have to worry about their squadmates acting weird."
Across the room, near the hearth where a pot of Tauros stew bubbled, Persya and Alyia sat on the rug. It was a scene of quiet, mechanical intimacy. Persya had stripped out of his heavy armor, wearing only a sleeveless tunic that exposed the slate-grey skin of his arms and the fading orange glow of his veins. He was diligently oiling the segments of his Kayaçelik blade, his movements rhythmic and soothing.
Alyia sat entirely too close to him.
The sniper had disassembled her Heafon Wand, the crystal lenses laid out on a cloth like surgical instruments. But she wasn't looking at her weapon. Her amber eyes, usually so clinical, were fixed on Persya's hands.
"Your dexterity has returned to 94% efficiency," Alyia noted, her voice devoid of inflection but softer than usual. She reached out, her fingers hovering over a fresh bruise on Persya's forearm—a souvenir from the Construct's shield bash. "The epidermal tissue is regenerating. But the underlying fascia remains inflamed."
"It's just a bruise, Eyes," Persya grunted, not looking up. He didn't pull away, though. For a man who usually treated personal space like a tactical necessity, he seemed oddly tolerant of her proximity. "I've had worse from Aurora's cooking."
"Incorrect," Alyia stated, adjusting her glasses. She picked up a jar of salve—smelling of menthol and Sea-Kelp—and dabbed a bit onto her finger. Without asking, she began to rub it into the bruise. "Aurora's culinary attempts result in gastrointestinal distress. This is blunt force trauma. The sensation profiles are distinct."
Persya froze for a second, the cloth in his hand stopping mid-polish. He looked at her hand on his arm, his slate-grey brow furrowing in confusion. "You don't have to do that. Isla is the medic."
"Isla is reading," Alyia countered, applying more pressure. "And I am... calibrating. A malfunctioning shield compromises the artillery. I require you to be optimal."
In the corner, curled into a battered armchair with a heavy tome titled The Fall of the Sky-Cities, Isla Hernandez didn't look up, but a small, knowing smile touched her lips. She turned a page, the sound loud in the sudden silence.
On the chaise, Aurora watched the interaction with a hawk's intensity masked by heavy-lidded boredom. She felt Roui's hand pause in her hair.
"She's grooming him," Roui whispered, sounding delighted. "Look at that. She's practically preening his feathers. And the great stone wall doesn't even realize he's being courted."
"He's not a bird, Roui. He's a rock," Aurora sighed, shifting her weight. A sharp, phantom pain spiked in her chest—not physical, but an old ache she kept buried under layers of sarcasm and laziness. "And rocks are notoriously bad at reading social cues."
She sat up, swinging her legs off the couch. The movement drew Persya's eyes instantly. He looked from her to Roui, then down at Alyia's hand on his arm. The orange glow in his neck flared briefly—a spike of guilt? Defensiveness?
"Careful, Alyia," Aurora called out, her voice pitching into a lazy drawl. She walked over to the pot, stealing a spoon to taste the stew. "He's a fixer-upper. High maintenance. The warranty is void if you get him wet or feed him after midnight."
Persya's jaw tightened. "I am sitting right here, Aurora."
"I know," Aurora grinned, pointing the spoon at him. "I spent ten years trying to housebreak you, remember? Basilea Elpidos. You used to bite people who tried to shake your hand."
"I bit one slaver," Persya corrected, the memory making him scowl. "And he deserved it."
"He was the postman, Persya," Aurora laughed, though the sound was brittle. She looked at Roui, flashing him a bright, performance-grade smile. "We were a disaster. Imagine a feral badger dating a flashlight. That was us. I had to dump him for his own safety. He was getting too dependent on my charm."
It was a lie. A smooth, funny lie designed to protect everyone in the room. She hadn't dumped him because he was dependent; they had broken apart because Persya refused to see himself as anything other than her shadow, and it had broken her heart to watch him kneel when she wanted him to stand.
Roui laughed, a rich, genuine sound. He walked over, wrapping an arm around Aurora's waist and kissing her temple. "Well, I thank the Quasars for his ferocity. And for your taste in upgrades."
Persya looked up. He met Aurora's eyes over Roui's shoulder.
He saw it. The microscopic tighten of her jaw. The way her Lumen eyes dimmed by a fraction of a watt. He knew that look. It was the look she wore when she was bleeding but didn't want the squad to lose morale. She was minimizing their history to make it palatable for Roui, to make it safe for the squad.
We weren't a disaster, Persya thought, the orange heat in his veins pulsing a slow, melancholy rhythm. We were survival.
But he said nothing. He simply turned back to his sword, letting Alyia continue to massage the ache out of his arm.
"The postman survived," Persya muttered, the sound of metal scraping metal filling the room. "Statistically, he was fine."
"The stew is ready," Roui announced, oblivious to the silent conversation passing between the two childhood friends. He ladled the thick, fragrant broth into bowls. "Come. Eat. We have defied death, defrauded the Guild, and walked through hell. We deserve a meal that doesn't taste like shoe leather."
Isla closed her book, sliding off the armchair. "It wasn't hell," she said softly, taking a bowl from Roui. "Hell is empty. That place... that place was full."
The mood shifted instantly. The warmth of the domestic scene was pierced by the cold shard of memory. Lacus Mortis. The sarcophagus. The screaming water.
Aurora took her bowl, leaning against the counter. The pouch of Kristal Biru—the illegal fortune that could buy them a new life or get them executed—sat heavy on the table, glowing with a soft, malevolent blue light.
"We need to decide," Aurora said, the humor gone. She looked at her squad—her family. "We have the crystal. We have the intel on Varrick. We can run, use the money to disappear into the Titanwood. Or..."
She trailed off, looking at the glowing salt.
"Or we weaponize it," Persya finished, wiping the oil from his hands. "Varrick thinks we're dead. We have the ultimate element of surprise. But if we stay, we are declaring war on the Guild Intelligence Office."
The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the hearth. They were Orange Tiers. Novices. And they were discussing a coup.