Chapter 19 / Summer break

June 15th, 15.005

La Paz, Ashveil Desert [Vampire Continent]

The Academy Tower’s resting kitchen was quiet except for the click of the coffee machine and the hum of the vents. Sukira stood by the counter in full uniform — white shirt, black vest, short skirt cut sharp, tie straight like she was born with it — hands cupped around a slightly crooked mug that read “best mom [my mom]” in red, hand-painted letters. A gift from Risha from back when he took a pottery class, some time ago.

Jeda pushed the door with his shoulder, mid-rounds, eyes finding her like they always did. He smiled at the mug. “Are you off already?”

She didn’t look up. “Half the cadets are with Elon for magic lessons. A few are stuck with Axis for strategy. The rest are in the gym with Ryn.” She sipped. “I’m on a break.”

He leaned on the opposite counter. “Perfect. Then let me ruin it.” A beat. “Come on a real date with me.”

She lifted one brow. “A date?”

“No missions. No committee. No golden prince third wheeling. Just you and me.”

She looked at him in silence. She ran the usual audit: time first — Risha asked for her help with some summer break homework, Axis’s strategy memo half-written, two patrol slots tonight with her initials, but she could ask Ryn to cover those for her, Sami was waiting for her to test a bullet-proof something. Then impact — Elon would take it like a bruise; she told herself she didn’t care. And finally, the risks — none, not really. Jeda already knew the worst: her mission against Elexi, the facility and what it carved out of her, the night she disappeared and the bodies she stopped counting. There was nothing to hide from him, nothing to preface or soften, and that, dangerously, made the choice easy.

“C’mon. We’ll be way dead before we even notice if we keep waiting.” Jeda said playfully, moving slowly like he was coming into the enemy's territory. 

She tried to add more — the way nights still smelled like blood, the old superstition that anything she touched ended up marked. But he already was. She already marked him. Quite literally. None of the excuses held. He wasn’t asking for a future; he knew she wasn’t able to provide one. He didn’t try to fix her, didn’t flinch at her edges, didn’t demand a version of her she couldn’t give. In the end, the only reason left to say ‘no’ was fear, and that wasn’t a reason she respected.

That earned it — a short, unguarded laugh she tried to swallow. She put the mug down. “Fine.”

“Really…? That was easier than I thought”. He was genuinely surprised. “I had a list of lines prepared to convince you.” Eyes wide opened as he spread an imaginary roll of paper. 

“You convinced me with the dead part”.

“Perfect. I’ll leave before you change your mind. Tonight. At seven.” He kissed her forehead with such clumsiness and excitement that it almost made her spill the coffee. 

He slipped out before he ruined it with more words.

♥︎

Evening dropped a softer heat over La Paz. The newly finished Command Tower threw long lines across the courtyard — all concrete and steel, the heart of the elite now that the Civil Wing’s temporary rooms were relinquished back to families. Months ago it had been scaffolding and dust; now it was lived in: lit windows, steady patrols, the constant throb of wards under the floors.

Jeda waited at the base of the steps, not in uniform for once, a red rose with spines in his hand. Baggy jean pants and a white cotton t-shirt with a clean and simple cut, length that let a bit of his hips’ skin be seen. Simple but somehow stylish, letting all of his tattoos out to the sight. A small silver chain was messy over his neck. His hair was messier than his usual, clean-slicked back look.  

Sukira crossed the last stretch of shadow toward him. She’d changed: a black, qipao-cut mini dress—mandarin collar, cap sleeves, red piping like a thin blade at every edge. Braided frog knots stepped diagonally from the collar to carve a narrow keyhole at the upper part of her chest; another ladder of knots cinched a high slit along her thigh. The fit was clean, unforgiving. She grounded it with the same heavy boots she wore to missions, softened with frilly black stockings, the wrong choice on purpose. Lipstick matched the dress’s red; hair cropped to almost a buzz showed the line of her neck. Her ears were a scatter of small silver earrings, anchored by a single heavy pendant —the one Elon gave her and the only thing she would never take off. Jeda didn’t know the story; he only clocked how they always wore their halves like a quiet pact.

He stared and scanned her quickly, already wanting to kiss her, but instead, he calmed and asked a simple question, trying to cool down his emotions. “You cut all of your hair after the lab mission. Why? You were trying to let it grow, right?”

“Hair holds memories.” While replying, she adjusted Jeda’s necklace that was getting tangled, he was a few steps below her and that made them the same height. “I wanted to wipe them off. I keep trying to let it grow since I’ve remembered but… shit keeps happening!" Her face was anything but gloomy, a smirk and a light tone in her voice perfectly placed. 

Jeda took a breath like he’d been kicked in the chest and hid it with a crooked grin. 

“What’s that?” She nodded at the flower.

“A crime.” He offered it in a dramatic way. “Stole it from Eloise’s greenhouse. Yes, the Medical Wing has a greenhouse now. Very fancy. She’ll kill me.”

Sukira accepted it, thumb brushing a spine. “I’ll help her.”

“Romantic.” He held out his arm. “Walk with me.”

They drifted west, past the Command Tower and into streets that hadn’t existed a year ago—new lamps, laundry lines, kids on bikes trying to outrun the heat, the Civil Quarter loud and bright with its new teeth. Her boots thudded a steady beat; the red piping at her thigh flashed when she stepped. The pendant knocked the side of her neck from now and then.

Sunshine’s not here. Don’t think of it. Keep moving.

Jeda slowed at the next corner, pretending to read a street name he already knew. Then another corner. Another “shortcut.” He was telegraphing—shoulders a shade too square, grin a touch too rehearsed, thumb worrying the edge of his watch.

She saw it all. She also let it be. If this is a trick, it’s the kind that costs me a laugh and nothing I can’t take back.

“This isn’t a restaurant,” she said, dry.

“It’s… on the way.” He winced at himself. Two blocks. Turn left. Don’t blow it. “Five minutes. Then dinner.”

She tipped her head. “You’re too smug for five minutes.”

“Okay. Guilty,” he said, trying for light and landing somewhere softer. “You’ve seen my chaos at work—time to meet the ones who built it.”

Sukira frowned, half amused, half wary. “Oh, this is a filthy trap indeed,” she muttered — almost a whisper, but he caught it. "Even for you".

They stopped at a narrow door tucked between a weld shop and a fruit cart. Smell of metal and stew, a soft laughter behind it—home compressed into a hinge. He glanced at her. “We can bail. Say the word, Commander.”

She stood a fraction straighter, counted the beating hearts coming from the inside, looked at his puppy eyes, and exhaled. “Open it.”

Really? Jeda was more than ready for her to vanish, to call it off, to hear “this was not part of the agreement, Capitan”, but he wasn’t ready for her to be okay with it, not this smoothly. Why? Because she trusts me? Do I deserve this? Shit, my pulse sped up again, why isn’t he teasing me about it??

The door swung wide without them even noticing. She froze on the threshold as warmth and noise spilled out to meet them.

The man with the hard hands and the woman with the sharp laugh — time hadn’t erased them like it had erased everything else she knew from before. 

Sukira went very still. The memory dropped easily: a younger her dragging a medium-sized Calamity off the man’s shadow, boots slick with blood and dark traces; a pregnant woman too amused by a vampire trying to wipe her hands before touching anything. Twin pistols laid on the table as repayment — the ones Sukira still carried like a habit she couldn’t break.

“You haven’t aged a day,” Jeda’s father said, blinking once before grinning, like the years had only been a long night. “How are you, girl? You kept them?”

“Oh, I aged — and so did you.” Sukira lifted both hands. Void shimmered; the pistols appeared, sliding into her palms like old memories. “Of course I kept them.”

“Saints.” He took one, weighed it, turned it over. “You kept them well.”

Jeda’s mother stepped close, wiping her hands on a towel, squinting at the little charms tied near the trigger. “And these? Magic enhancements?”

“No, no magic. Just a reminder of why I keep going,” Sukira said quietly. “From my kid.”

A crash from the stairs near the door interrupted her — two boys stumbled in, talking over each other. They froze when they saw her.

“Renji,” Jeda said, snagging the lanky one by the collar. “Riku,” he added, catching the broader one by the neck. “Hands off the guest.”

“Guest?” Riku (sixteen, clever eyes, faster mouth, big shoulders) scoffed. “She’s the scary Commander; we see her every day.” He rolled his eyes.

“Every day? You see these tiny bastards more than you see me??” Jeda’s voice cut in in amusement, but not in a good way. 

“Are we in trouble? Worse — are we on duty??” Riku stepped in again. 

“Night, Commander.” Renji (eighteen, charming voice, uncomplicated grin) bowed low after seeing her in that black tiny dress, smirk wide. “I think I could have a chance. You don’t mind, do you, brother?” He looked at Jeda without minding a single thing. 

“Watch it, cadet,” Sukira said, smirking just enough to make Jeda choke back a laugh.

“Figures.” Renji folded his arms but kept pushing, as he might’ve learned from Jeda, “Commander, picture me as a better version of my older brother. Just think about it—”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Riku shot back. “You nearly blew your hand off last week.”

“At least I didn’t fall asleep during drills—”

“Boys.” Their mother’s voice sliced clean through the noise. “Commander, how are you not tired of them?”

Sukira’s eyes flicked toward Jeda. “I’ve been training hard with the worst of them,” she said, deadpan. “After that, these two are manageable.”

The father laughed first. Then everyone else did.

The chaos settled into comfort. Talk rolled easy: smithy permit approved, orders already lining up, the boys talking about her training; Jeda’s mother inviting Sukira to stay for dinner (“You’re too thin, look at you”); Jeda’s father offering, careful, “If you ever want new metal—”

“I don’t,” Sukira said, surprising herself with how sure it sounded. “They fit.”

They fit — and for a rare minute, she did too.

Jeda cleared his throat, half-smile returning. “Dinner. Before my mother starts telling embarrassing stories from my youth."

“Oh, please, Sukira, stay!” his mother said without missing a beat. The woman clearly was the sharpest of them all. 

Jeda sighed, pretending defeat, and Sukira just shook her head — but her eyes were soft when she followed him back into the desert light.

♥︎

The restaurant sat on a corner busy enough to pass for a city. Strung little lights. Steam and garlic and a cook shouting orders no one obeyed fast enough. They squeezed into a table against the window; outside, the quarter kept pulsing — some cadets off-duty sharing a cigarette, teenagers eating ice-cream, a couple walking a dog, even.

Jeda talked nonsense because if he didn’t he’d say the one thing he wasn’t allowed: I love you I love you I love you. She let him. She ate. She hid two soft smiles and didn’t try very hard to hide the third.

Across the street, a door cracked. Elon stepped out of a grocery store with Risha and Reno, bags hanging from each hand. Cloud waited near a post, acting offended about it. He wasn’t allowed to enter everywhere as he used to. 

Risha spotted them first. “SUuuUkI!”

Sukira lifted a hand and waved at them from afar. Reno elbowed him. “Commander Suki on a date,” he sing-songed, delighted with his own cruelty. They both looked at Elon in unison. 

Elon didn’t say anything. He watched the way she leaned closer to hear Jeda over the noise; the thorny flower in her hand; the way her shoulders had finally dropped, like she wasn’t braced for impact for once. He also saw the pendant and how she played with it without noticing. 

Sadness first. Then acceptance, clean and cold. Jealousy, quick and mean, gone as fast as it came. All of that went through Elon’s body in a matter of seconds. 

He shifted the bags, found a smile for the boys. “Come on, or Cloud eats before we do.”

Reno made a face. Risha waved again like he could make her stay with the force of it.

Inside, Sukira sniffed at the rose and held it as a precious thing.

“You okay?” Jeda asked, too casual.

“I am,” she said, setting the flower down. Then, with a small tilt of her head, “Are you nervous?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I can hear your beating, you know that. I can smell your emotions.” She leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming. “I’ve seen you slather a demon in half, trick a whole table of politicians, talk your way out of a firing squad. And yet—” she gestured toward him with her eyes, “—you can’t stop fidgeting.”

Jeda’s grin faltered for the first time that night. “Maybe demons and politicians don’t knock me off balance the way you do.”

That earned a quiet laugh. “You’re terrible at hiding it.”

“Not trying to,” he said, and the honesty in it softened the air between them.

Sukira looked down at her drink, then back up, her voice lowering. “Your family… They're beautiful. And impertinent.” She smiled faintly. “Those two—Renji and Riku—have your arrogance perfectly polished.”

He chuckled. “My poor mother.”

She nodded, eyes still on the rose lying beside her plate. “I’ll protect them with everything I have.”

The words landed heavier than she intended, and Jeda didn’t speak right away. The street outside buzzed with laughter, distant music. Inside, the space between them felt smaller — not because of the table, but because for once, neither of them was pretending to be untouchable.

♥︎

June 28th, 15.005

La Paz — From the Academy Wing to the Civil Frontier Gate, Ashveil Desert, Umbra [Vampire Continent]

The classroom next to the library smelled like paper and chalk and the faint citrus of the cleaning spell Elon always used. Morning ran slow here in summer; light fell in rectangles across the tables. Elon wrote lecture notes with his neat, spare hand while Lola set out a row of rune plates, tapping each with a fingernail until they hummed. Rex stumbled across the table, catching the sunlight before it got too hot.

Risha burst in with Cloud on his heels; the first thing he noticed was the absence of someone. “Nima’s late.”

Elon didn’t look up. “I think you’re just early… for a change.”

Lola slid him a look over the plates. He says her name ten times a day, she thought, not unkindly. “Maybe she’s hiding from you, Rish.”

Risha ignored both of them and scanned the corners like Nima might be behind a bookcase. “Where is she?”

Elon finally lifted his eyes—calm, steady. He burns too fast. Every feeling is a flame before it’s a thought. “What if you check before you assume the world ended?”

“I can call her”, Lola added with her cellphone in hand already. 

Risha ignored them both, again, and his mouth thinned. “Cloud—track.” He was already moving. The hound’s ears pricked; he sniffed once, twice, then padded out, tail low, head intent.

Elon set his pen down and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go, then,” he sighed toward the already empty doorway. “Just don’t run through walls.”

“Umh… classes are happening anyway?” Lola asked, the only student left in the room, body spread on the table.

“Do as you please.” I can’t handle all of these teenagers, Elon thought as he heard Risha shouting Nima’s name across the entry hall of the main Academy building like there was no tomorrow.

Lola rolled her eyes but decided to stay.

♥︎

They cut through the Academy corridors at a jog that turned into a run. Cloud trotted, turned a corner, then stretched into a purposeful lope. Risha kept pace, breath quick and hot.

The Civil Wing was another rhythm entirely. The closer they got to the frontier, the more the noise shifted: stalls and small businesses opening their doors, crates thumping, the crisp call-and-response of security checks here and there. 

They ran straight to the Luunel’s apartment. The door was partly open, no lock. Their things were gone; the place looked like nobody lived there—now or ever. The rooms were clean, stripped of any sign of life. No trace of Nima or Zevran.

“You think she’s leaving?” he asked the dog, absurdly, because that’s how he’d learned to think—out loud, mimicking his mother’s way with Cloud. “No—no way. Right?”

Cloud didn’t answer (obviously). He only flicked his tail and veered toward the open sun.

They kept running until the hound stopped, nose high. The exit posts stood under shade awnings, guards with slates in hand, the shimmer of wards tracing the boundary lines. Risha slid behind a pillar and looked.

A truck sat with its back open. Boxes stacked tight. A tall man in a dark light coat—Dr. Luunel, the kids’ father—checked a list with a guard and signed. Nima stood near him, head tipped down, fingers twisting at the hem of her summer skirt.

Risha’s chest cinched. She’s leaving. The thought hit hard and stupid. She’s leaving, she’s leaving— Tears were already burning down his cheeks.

He took a step.

“Don’t eavesdrop. That’s rude.”

The voice dropped from above, flat as a warning bell. Zevran landed from a low wall like he’d stepped off a thought, boots soft on the concrete with scattered sand. Arms crossed. Eyes the same cool shade as his father’s.

Risha bristled. “She’s—”

“Our father is.” Zevran’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not her.” He rolled his eyes with a small pout. “And me neither, if you care...”

The Luunels had always been a family of the mind more than the heart. Dr. Luunel had once taught at the Silver Circle University in Elaris — a place of quiet stone halls and long debates, where knowledge mattered more than politics. There, he met his wife, a half-human-elf professor of medical enchantments whose lectures had shaped an entire generation of healers. He was a mentor to both Ailin and Aaron, and she was of Eloise. 

When the Prowar movement started getting more and more political power years ago, Ailin and Aaron persuaded Dr. Luunel to join the Elite, offering him a way to keep his and his wife’s ideals alive at La Paz. Unfortunately, his wife never lived to see it. She died years ago, survivor of a racial riot in which Nima’s untamed telepathic magic lashed out by accident — a single surge meant to defend, one that struck too true, a victim of what that hit left behind. Since then, the doctor had lived as a man of facts and silence, carrying the guilt of a broken world that tore his family apart. He wasn’t cruel to his children; only distant, as if affection required a language he had forgotten.

Risha blinked. The panic didn’t know where to go, tears kept flashing over his cheeks without even noticing. “Then why—”

“Check the news for once.” Zevran tilted his chin toward the truck. “Concordia is a mess, Umbra’s government’s fall, beasts attacking everywhere—choose a problem. My father’s more useful in Eloria right now. That’s it.” His tone could have sliced fruit.

The truth was bigger than the kids could grasp, bigger than what the newspapers told. Aaron had asked for help months ago — someone he trusted to hold the front while he kept the appearances expected of him in Elaris. With the fall of the Velarics, the rise of the Prowar council, and the uncovering of the other hidden facilities still under Concordian control, the Elite were stretched to breaking. 

Dr. Luunel was the natural choice: one of the few elves who could move between academies and military councils without drawing suspicion, and one of the last who still believed knowledge could hold the world together.

Risha exhaled like he’d been underwater. The sound came out broken. “So she—she’s not—”

“Ugh. No… She’s not.” He rolled his eyes. "How annoying". Zevran’s mouth twitched; not a smile, exactly. He was about to run into military clearance with a dog and no reason, he thought, dry and faintly amused. This is the Commander’s kid—loud heart, no brakes. “You were assuming the worst, weren’t you?”

“I wasn’t—” Risha started, then heard himself and stopped, tears still slipping. “Okay. I was. A little.”

“I always find your raw honesty a very nice trait, Rish.” Zevran’s eyes cut past him to where Nima stood with their father. The two spoke quietly; the guard pretended not to hear. Dr. Luunel bent, pressed his hand to her head for a second too long, then straightened and passed a file to security.

“We’re moving to the Civil Main Tower,” Zevran said, businesslike again. “By the small gardens. Next to Haru’s room.”

Risha scrubbed his face with both hands, laugh coming out messy. “Haru’s going to make you study all summer.”

“Fun…” Zev’s tone didn’t change. “We’re taking the Vexmere rooms. Reno already moved with Axis and Ryn to the Elite floor, in the new Command Tower.”

A horn tapped twice. Dr. Luunel clasped the driver’s shoulder, then crossed to Zevran in three long strides. His hand was brief and firm on his son’s neck—the only softness he allowed in public—then he stepped back, eyes flicking once to Risha. A short nod, nothing more, and he turned away.

Nima didn’t speak; Risha couldn’t hear her even if she had. She hugged her father, quick and tight. He squeezed back, then climbed into the truck. The gate shimmered as the wards acknowledged clearance; the vehicle rolled through and dwindled toward the white line of the horizon.

“See? Nothing to worry about,” Zevran said with a tender tone—then ruined it with a cold, “Stop whining.”

Risha watched Nima lift her hand in a small wave at the empty road, braid loosening in the breeze. The knot inside him uncoiled, slow and sweet. He didn’t say anything, but Cloud thumped his tail like he’d heard it spoken aloud: She’s staying.

Zevran’s hand landed on Risha’s shoulder—brief pressure, almost clinical, that shifted into a one-armed pull. The hug lasted exactly one heartbeat longer than necessary.

“You feel too loud,” Zevran muttered, letting him go. “Train that. It’ll save you some pain.”

Risha sniffed, then grinned without meaning to. “I don’t understand why you’re saying that.”

They stood there a moment, shoulder to shoulder, the frontier buzz filling the quiet between them. Nima turned; for a second her eyes found Risha’s across the distance. He lifted a hand. She didn’t smile—she never smiled easily—but her chin lifted the tiniest bit in answer, and that was more than enough.

She needed this, Risha thought. To make peace with her father, and with what happened. He looked at his friend, right with the corner of his eye. Maybe Zev needed it too, to stop carrying the whole world like it’s his alone to protect.

“Come on,” Zevran said, already moving. “Help me carry a bag, or tell Cloud to do it for you.”

Cloud sneezed like he agreed. The guards stamped a final slate; the wardlines went still. Summer heat rolled back in, and the three of them—boy, brother, hound—walked away from the gate.

♥︎

July 1st, 15.005

Conference Hall, Command Tower, La Paz, Umbra [Vampire Continent]

The meeting room was the kind of clean that whispered newness. Concrete walls glowed under the desert light filtered through wide crystal panels. A screen stretched across one side, maps and progress charts alive with motion; transparent panels floated above the table, showing statistics that pulsed in slow rhythm with the city’s power wards. The hum of magic and machinery blended into a low, steady heartbeat.

Dominique entered first—uniform sharp, tablet tucked under her arm. For once, her steps were quiet instead of dramatic. She paused at the threshold, taking in the sight: La Paz finally looked like a real city headquarters, not a field base patched together by dreamers.

At the table waited the Triad.

Helena Veylor, representative of the human citizens, had already filled half her corner with files and a steaming mug of tea. The woman’s hair was pulled back with a pencil, the screen before her divided between population charts and resource logs.

Sakura, serene as ever, sat with both hands folded on his lap, a projection hovering beside him—a schematic of the new school with class lists written in a clean script.

Lucius Drask leaned back in his chair, forearms dusted in dry plaster, his own cracked tablet showing construction schedules. Vampire head to toes, a good and honest representation of their people. 

“Morning,” Dominique greeted, dropping her notes onto the table. “Let’s begin, we have a lot to catch up”.

♥︎

The first graphs flared to life as Helena swiped a hand across the central screen. Numbers rearranged into glowing lines—population increase, material flow, housing expansion.

“Housing capacity up by twenty-three percent,” she reported, efficient but pleased. “The new composite Tech developed passed its resistance tests. We’ll finish the west block next week.”

Lucius chuckled. “And I can finally stop bribing my crew with coffee to keep them upright.”

Dominique scrolled through her tablet. “You’re managing supplies?”

Helena nodded. “For the first time, easily. Since Umbra’s borders opened, material transport is fluid—steel, grain, paper. No more guards demanding permits. It’s—” she paused, smiling, “—like someone finally opened the windows.”

“Good to know”. Dominique’s eyes softened. “Freedom of movement means freedom to build. That’s exactly what we were fighting for.”

Lucius tilted his tablet toward the projection. “You can thank the new trade routes. The caravans from Eloria are constant now. We even have a bakery in the Civil Quarter. A real one.”

Dominique’s grin was small but genuine. “If we’ve reached the point of arguing over bread recipes, I’d say the revolution’s working.”

Sakura’s voice flowed in next, gentle as the sound of pages turning. “Education report,” he said, expanding his projection. On the screen, the school layout unfolded—sun-lit classrooms, courtyards, dormitories under construction. “Teachers from Umbra, Concordia, and Eloria confirmed. Curriculum finalized. School preparations start next month, classes the month after.”

The screen shifted to show a trilingual schedule: History of the Three Nations, Comparative Magic Theory, Shared Literature.

“The first generation to learn one truth,” Dominique murmured, almost to herself. “You’ve done extraordinary work, Sakura.”

He inclined his head. “It’s the children who will decide if La Paz lasts. We must show them how to live together before the world remembers how to hate.”

Lucius leaned forward, pointing at the map. “And we’ll give them walls that won’t crumble. My crews are already raising the outer halls. A new park in the making, even. My wife keeps saying our kid can’t wait to see it finished.”

Dominique smiled at that—at the word wife, at the quiet pride behind it. “Tell her the Elite is personally grateful for her patience, we will transfer her here soon. Oh! And tell her husband’s paperwork is terrible.”

Lucius barked a laugh. “She’ll love that.”

Helena brought up another set of charts—security patrols, citizen registry, guard rotations. “We’ve started mixed-unit patrols—humans, elves, vampires together. So far, no incidents.”

Dominique nodded, tracing one glowing line with her finger. “Good. Keep the uniforms simple. People should see safety, not authority. If we turn this place into another fortress, we’ll lose what makes it different.”

Helena sipped her tea. “Some citizens still worry the soldiers answer only to the Committee.”

“Then we keep talking to them,” Dominique said firmly. “Forums, open reports, direct contact. The people need to see faces, not towers.”

“And speaking of faces,” Helena continued, eyes brightening, “we’d like to propose a summer fair. Two years since La Paz was founded. A little celebration might help morale.”

Lucius’s grin widened. “And we already have the market stalls for it.”

Dominique folded her hands, thinking. “A fair could work. But if we’re doing it, we do it right. Not one culture parading beside another—one celebration for all of them. Every race, every mix, equal space. Food, art, stories. If someone walks in and feels like a guest instead of a host, we’ve failed.”

Sakura’s eyes softened. “Then the children can prepare exhibitions—songs, crafts, poems from all three nations. They already share everything in class.”

“Perfect,” Dominique said. “And Helena—budget whatever you need. La Paz can afford generosity now.”

Helena nodded, almost in disbelief at how easily those words came to pass.

The meeting wound down with quiet satisfaction. Reports closed, screens dimmed. Dominique stood, tablet in hand, her posture easing for the first time in hours.

“This city breathes because of you,” she said, genuine pride threading through her voice. “Keep-up meetings will be every Monday, at the same hour. And please, eat something that isn’t paperwork.”

Lucius saluted her with his cracked tablet. “Can’t promise.”

“Try,” she said, smiling, and stepped into the corridor.

♥︎

The Command Tower’s halls were quieter here, filled with the hum of cooling wards. Dominique walked slowly, absorbing the rhythm of voices and footsteps that had replaced the echo of construction. She stopped when she saw the familiar silhouette leaning against the wall near the stairwell.

Ryn.

Same sharp profile, black hair framing her face, eyes unreadable. She wore her uniform half-unbuttoned, hands tucked into her pockets.

“You sounded like a real politician in there,” Ryn said, voice cool as ever. Maybe the first time in years that she talked more than 3 words in a row. 

Dominique laughed under her breath. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Ryn just looked at her. 

“I kept waiting for you to talk to me. Years passed, Ryn.”

Ryn looked away. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Then say that.” Dominique’s voice cracked. “You were my only friend for years. And when I came here, I thought we’d pick up where we left off. You barely look at me.” She exploded almost instantly.

"You are so loud, Dom". Ryn exhaled slowly, shoulders tight. “When we finished school, everything was going to shit. Our parents were dead—because of your family. Axis and I—” She stopped, jaw working. “I ended it because being your girlfriend felt impossible. You asked too much of me, and I–I needed to be present for Reno. I didn’t want to lose you completely, but I couldn’t keep up.”

Dominique’s throat tightened. “You could have told me that.”

“Talking is not my forte.” Ryn’s mouth curved in something not quite a smile. 

They stood there for a moment, the weight of old silence stretching between them until Dominique let out a shaky laugh. “Being a vampire teenager was a disaster.”

“But it was fun,” Ryn said. Then, after a beat, she nudged Dominique’s shoulder. “Don’t make this weirder than it is.”

“Too late! You avoided me for years just because you weren’t strong enough to properly break up with me”, Dominique smiled, real this time. 

They started walking down the corridor together, steps almost in sync. Outside, the desert shimmered beyond the glass, the city alive beneath them—proof that even broken things could build something whole again.

♥︎

August 17th, 15.005

Command Chamber, Command Tower, La Paz, Umbra [Vampire Continent]

The Command Chamber had changed since the early days. What had once been a bare, concrete-walled room now thrummed with quiet intelligence — hovering displays mapped the continent in translucent color; faint lines tracked merchant routes and weather fronts; encrypted windows pulsed with traffic reports and intercepted transmissions. The air wards kept the heat at bay, leaving only the low hum of the room’s heart.

At the long table, the same as always, sat Ailin, posture sharp, blonde hair caught in the shimmer of the screens; Axis, restless fingers flicking through a set of reports; and Jeda, sprawled with deliberate ease, cigarette tucked behind his ear. A few seconds later, Aaron’s holographic projection stabilized in the empty chair — pale blue, clear despite the static from Elaris’s poor signal.

Dominique and Tech weren’t there this time. She was still at the Checkpoint Village overseeing one of the Civil Wing projects while Tech and Sami had locked themselves in the South Wing for weeks, saints knew doing what.

Axis’s voice broke the quiet first, flat but precise.

“Concordia’s Prowar party is closing the loop. They’ve seized every broadcast line, purging any mention of what they call The Peace Project. Now they’re twisting the Velaric massacre into a cautionary tale—painting vampires as a wild, unstable race and insisting humanity must stay clear of their politics. They clean their hands and they are using it to convince people to separate governments completely.”

“Typical,” Ailin murmured, eyes on the feed. “When they rewrite history fast enough, no one remembers there was another version.”

Jeda stretched, cracking his neck. “And still, half their ministers keep buying Umbrian wine from our smugglers. We’re feeding their officials while they swear this continent doesn't exist.”

Ailin shot him a look; he grinned.

Aaron’s hologram flickered alive from Elaris, faint static around his shoulders. “Better than the alternative. The smuggling routes are our best way to move messages and pull rumors. They think it’s contraband; we use it for intel. Everyone wins.”

Ailin swiped her tablet, bringing up new figures—luminous blue text spinning above the table. “Trade routes are stabilized. Border control has loosened since the Velaric collapse, and Umbra’s lower clans are leaning neutral. We’re moving people and materials faster than ever. Tech’s team deletes every trace—nothing links the shipments to us." She looked at his brother's image. “Aaron, your end?”

The hologram adjusted his coat, dark rings shadowing his eyes. “I’m covering the transfers as casualties from beast attacks—destroyed caravans, missing bodies. The public loves tragedy; it keeps them busy. As long as Axis keeps those beasts dead under Sukira’s guns, no one asks where the survivors go, if any.” He winked. 

Axis grunted, faintly proud. “You’re welcome.”

“Keep it that way,” Ailin said. “Our greatest asset is staying forgotten.”

Jeda didn’t reply. His eyes stayed on his communicator, fingers drumming once, twice—waiting.

The lights dimmed without warning. A soft pulse of static rolled across the table, and every display went dark except one.

A distorted silhouette flickered into the air above the holo-emitter—no shape, no face, just a shifting shimmer that carried weight.

The voice came low and layered, several tones speaking at once. “Report acknowledged.”

The room stilled. Only Jeda’s expression changed—the faint, involuntary lift of someone hearing an old ghost.

“I couldn’t locate the facilities yet,” the voice crackled, “but I found the number. There are seven. One is down—assuming that’s the one the sorcerer burned. And one is about to start running. You’re doing well. But stability means nothing without vigilance. Do not expose yourselves. Keep moving, but stay in the shadows. The world will forget us before it believes in our vision.”

The sound faded, and with it the figure. Silence.

Axis leaned back, arms crossed. “Every time, that voice sounds less like a politician and more like a haunting.”

Jeda’s cigarette found its place between his fingers, unlit. “The President’s the reason any of this exists,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “Without that call years ago, La Paz would’ve stayed a dream buried under sand. The President pulled us together. Don’t forget that.”

“Next steps,” Ailin said, breaking the stillness.

“Concordia first,” Jeda replied, already tapping his communicator. “I’ve got two special cadets infiltrating to The Barricade. We need more than rumors. Are they really trading with Calamities? Have they found any yet? If we can pull field data from inside their camps, we’ll finally know what they’re actually doing there.”

“Dangerous,” Aaron said, but his tone carried respect. “Dr. Luunel arrived a few days ago,” Aaron added. “I can’t juggle Elaris’ political façade and La Paz’s reports alone. He’ll manage most of the logistics from my side.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll finally sleep, Ari, my boy—you look like hell.” Jeda laughed softly at his old friend.

“Well, I had three siblings and they all disappeared from the map. All of a sudden, I’m the favourite child, what should I do?” Aaron laughed back at Jeda’s words, tiredness written all over his face and voice. 

Axis flipped through a small holographic map. “Umbra’s fleets are secured. Southern routes are clear; we can keep trading under civilian banners.”

He glanced up. “No names, no marks, no patterns. Every route changes weekly, thanks to Sami’s abilities. I’ve got Sukira very occupied, but we’re managing fine. Summer break gave us time to send her on a few side missions. More than usual. She’s been quite an asset lately.”

“Maybe we should have hired mercenaries way before, am I right?" Jeda said lightly. “Those two are a good combo when dealing with things anyone should know about”. 

Aaron’s image flickered as encrypted tablets slid from a concealed slot in the table—one for each of them. “Directives from the President. Read them in isolation; keyed to your fingerprints.”

Ailin distributed them carefully.

The meeting ended without ceremony. Screens dimmed, the map dissolving into static blue. Ailin stood first, tucking the tablet under her arm. “See you all tomorrow.”

Axis adjusted his coat and left with a brisk nod. Aaron’s projection flickered once more and collapsed.

Jeda lingered. He lit his cigarette—the ember small and defiant in the sterile air—and moved to the viewport.

Ailin’s voice came like a ghost. “You’re going to smoke inside now?”

He turned slightly, half-smiling, lifting both hands to show he was a single step outside the doorframe.

♥︎

August 20th, 15.005

Ground Floor Labs, Research Wing, La Paz, Umbra [Vampire Continent]

The Research Wing had been the first structure to rise in La Paz. What began as a single hall now reached three full floors, each pulsing with different kinds of invention. The first held the laboratories—noise, heat, and the constant smell of metal. The second was devoted to archives and comms. The third, closed to nearly everyone, the testing chambers and the quiet rooms where ideas either lived or died. 

At the core of it all, on the ground floor, sprawled Tech’s domain—controlled chaos arranged with the precision of someone who mistrusted perfection. Crystalline panels propped at odd angles, half-dismantled security drones, racks of cooling weapon cores, and coffee cups in a variety of tragic endings. A narrow service door hid the small room where he sometimes slept—everyone knew, no one mentioned it. The assistants who worked here followed his rules like scripture. Rule One: Jeda is forbidden to set foot inside the building.

The main door hissed open. Sami shouldered her way in, the smell of ozone curling around her. She stepped over a nest of cabling like she’d been born there and dropped a mesh bag of tools beside a gutted drone.

“You know,” she said, “if one of these wires takes me out, I’m suing you.”

Tech didn’t glance up from the floating schematic. “On what grounds?”

“Negligence. I’m the one keeping your toys from exploding in people’s hands.”

“That happened once.”

“Twice.”

He flicked his fingers, rotating the projection. “What do you want, Velmore? I’m busy.”

She raised a brow, not quite following him. “What do you mean…? I’m clocking in—have you slept at all??”

His eyes flicked to the wall clock, then back to the diagram. “Your coolant valves are whining.”

“You could add oil and be done with it.”

“That’s dirty work.”

“It’s mechanics.” She stripped off her jacket and stepped into the maze, driver between her teeth, a bottle of oil in hand. She was already wrist-deep in a core assembly. They worked like people who’d spent their lives inside machines—two different dialects of the same language.

“When were you going to tell me we had visitors?” she asked after a moment.

Tech’s jaw tightened but didn’t answer.

“Security logs say the raccoons have gotten smarter,” she went on, prying a panel loose. “Raccoons who leave neat stacks of notes and wipe their fingerprints with medical alcohol.”

“Sounds like talented raccoons.” He added, fast, too fast. 

Her gaze drifted toward the corner shelf, where a slim notebook lay under a coil of wire. She didn’t need to open it to know what it was. Haru’s equations. Tech’s corrections. Weeks of quiet conversation no one was supposed to notice.

“I don’t care if he sneaks in,” Tech said to the soldering iron. “As long as he doesn’t touch anything.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “As long as he doesn’t touch the tiny notebook that moves three centimeters every morning.”

Tech decided to ignore the comment. 

Sami’s mess was a hurricane she could navigate blind—parts spread wide, three projects open at once, a sandwich sacrificed to the cause on a napkin. Tech’s was a museum of precision mid-eruption—every tool where he’d last needed it, nothing where it belonged, yet somehow he always found the right piece by instinct.

“You ever think about the first thing you built?” she asked, voice soft beneath the hum.

“Do you?”

Demons. Always answering with another question. “I grew up three alleys behind the Broken Bell.” She tightened a bolt. “Velmore City—the filthiest hole on the whole continent. Couldn’t buy parts, so I stole them. Dismantled my first bike to build a generator.” She paused. “Loved that bike but needed the copper.”

“Why a generator?” His tone was almost reproach. Why would someone, a kid, give up on a precious thing just to build a generator? 

“We didn’t have power, your majesty. The gangs of my quarter were siphoning energy from our block to keep their freezers running. My mom worked double shifts. I needed to help somehow.”

For a moment, the lab was nothing but the hiss of cooling metal.

She kept her eyes on the circuitry. “Down there, light came from cables we stripped bare and wired wrong on purpose. Everything hissed. Everything burned. But I learned quickly: fix or die. Every machine had blood on it—sometimes yours, sometimes someone else’s.”

“I see. So you learned the nasty way. It shows in your messy work,” Tech’s hands didn’t stop moving, but his tone shifted, quieter. 

“Sharp words coming from a nepo-baby.” Sami’s words weren’t meant to hurt, but they might. “So, first thing you built. C’mon”.

“In my house, nothing ever broke. Servants fixed things before I could even touch them. I took machines apart just to hear the sound of failure. Failure means knowledge.” A faint spark jumped as he adjusted a connector. “The silence was unbearable. Every corridor polished, every mistake erased before morning. You’d think perfection was comfort. It’s not. It’s a vacuum.”

“Nice to hear that the genius values error”. Sami leaned against the bench, oil glinting on her fingers. 

He almost smiled. “Anyway, I don’t remember the first thing I built,” he added, “but I remember when it finally mattered. My parents gave Dominique a lake house when we graduated. They gave me a piece of desert. A joke, probably. A way of letting me know they expected nothing from me. But I built this city on it instead.” He said it as if it was nothing. 

She opened her eyes wide, and the words came out with more excitement than expected. “So that’s why La Paz ended up in the middle of nowhere. It was you!”

“Who else?” Tech’s voice came out with arrogance, but he didn’t even mean it; his mind and hands were all over something else completely. 

Sami nodded slowly. “So... I started building because no one gave me anything. You built because they gave you everything but meaning. Guess we both crawled out of holes. Yours smelled nicer.”

“Keep that crappy poetry away from my lab.”

“Hand me the ten-millimeter.”

He did.

The drone purred to life, a soft green glow washing over their faces. For a while, there was only the work—the clean silence of two people who understood chaos too well to fear it.

Sami wiped her hands. “You going to mentor Haru?”

“Haru?” Tech frowned. “That’s the kid’s name? No. He can keep sneaking in if he wants. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” She stretched, cracking her back. “If you’re going to keep writing in that notebook, try not to smudge the ink. The kid will think you’re sloppy.”

He froze. “How did you—”

“You are so absorbed into your own world, you forget others are even around”.

“But no one is around”, he spun in his chair, gesturing at the empty lab.

“You’re horrible,” she laughed, dry. 

“Well, I’m aware of it, but I would like clarification of why you are bringing that up now”. 

“I’m around, Tech. I’ve been around all this time. For more than a year”. She pointed out the obvious, mimicking his spin on the chair.  

That made him falter. Just a breath, just enough.

Then she grabbed her jacket, slung it over her shoulder, and left without waiting for a reply.

♥︎

The lab felt larger when she was gone, then smaller. Tech cleaned nothing, rearranged three tools, and set the core to cool. He crossed to the corner shelf and pulled the slim notebook free, thumbing to the last page where a pencil hovered like a breath.

Haru had drawn an energy graph wrong on purpose, then corrected it in the margin with a small arrow and a note: I knew you’d say it.

Tech’s mouth did something unfamiliar—almost a smile, almost not. He picked up a mechanical pencil, wrote a single line beneath the equation, and closed the notebook.

“Not terrible,” he said to the empty room.

The cooling fans answered like distant rain. Outside, La Paz kept building itself—one corridor, one classroom, one stubborn heart at a time.

Later that week

By the time the upper lights dimmed, the Research Wing had gone silent. No assistants. No noise of conversations. Just the low pulse of machines cooling down, the steady glow of monitors running tests that didn’t need to sleep.

Tech stayed behind. He always did.

He’d turned off the holo-screens, but the reflections still moved faintly over the metal — thin ripples like water under moonlight. He liked that illusion: that something here was alive, even if it wasn’t.

The notebook lay open beside a tray of cooling cores. The last message still waited there, Haru’s handwriting angled and impatient.

“You’d say the flux ratio’s wrong, but it works anyway.”

He’d planned to ignore it. Instead, he wrote under it:

“If it works, prove why.”

He paused, pencil hovering. Then — smaller, almost invisible beneath the margin — another line:

“Good instinct.”

He closed the notebook before he could think better of it and set it back where the boy would find it. The faintest smile crossed his mouth — gone before it could reach his eyes.

Across the lab, one of Sami’s tools still lay where she’d forgotten it: a worn ratchet, its grip wrapped with black tape. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand. He could still smell the tang of the oil she always used — the cheaper one, rougher, the kind that burned if you handled it wrong.

He set it on his own workbench instead of returning it to her pile.

Let her find it tomorrow. She’d notice, she’d complain to him. He liked it when she scolded him, invading his personal space. He liked the way she smelled, perfume mixed with that shitty oil. It's been a while since he’s been placing tiny discomfort situations for her to approach him.

You are so pitiful.

Then he straightened a row of cooling cores that didn’t need straightening, switched off the lights, and sat in the half-dark for a moment longer, listening to the heartbeat of the machines.

Outside, the desert wind pressed against the glass — soft, steady, endless. In its rhythm, he almost heard another kind of hum: the city still building itself, corridor by corridor, just like him.

♥︎

September 1st, 15.005 Elon & Risha’s apartment — Upper Civil Tower, La Paz, Umbra [Vampire Continent]

The morning light came soft and gold, filtering through the thin curtains of Elon’s kitchen. Outside, the city was alive—the first school bells of the year faint across the rooftops, the whirr of patrol drones, the smell of bread from the not-that-new-anymore bakery three floors below. Inside, the table was half set, plates forgotten, steam curling from a pot of coffee.

Sukira sat at one end, sleeves rolled up, posture perfect even in stillness. Elon stood by the counter, stirring milk into his cup as if precision could fix something broken time ago. Neither spoke.

From the corridor came Risha’s voice, distant and frantic. “I’m not late, I swear!”

Elon smiled to himself. “He’s running late.”

“Obviously.” Sukira’s tone was neutral, but her lips betrayed the smallest curve.

She’d shown up early, as she always did. Breakfast on the first day of the new term had become a quiet tradition—the Commander, the sorcerer, and the boy who kept them both human. It had started two years ago, the morning they signed Risha’s adoption papers.

The kitchen looked alive: books stacked near the window, a uniform jacket thrown over a chair, Cloud half asleep under the table. Home, somehow.

Elon poured her coffee without asking. The gesture had become muscle memory.

“You came straight from a mission, didn’t you?”

“Last night.” She took the cup, fingers brushing his. “Aaron wanted someone to clear a nest of poison ants near the Elunthar Woods capital.”

He watched the faint tremor in her hand before she steadied it. Of course, and you said yes.

“You look tired,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

He almost smiled. You always say that. You’d come home bleeding before and still say the same thing. He wondered when he had started calling this home.

Risha’s voice came and went like a background melody. Shouting things like ‘Where did I leave my calculator?? Oh, it's in my hand. Nevermind!’ They ignored it.

Sukira reached into her void and placed something wrapped in cloth on the table. “I found this during the mission.”

Elon raised a brow. “A poisonous souvenir?”

“An old book. For you. From before the border wars. The title’s half-erased, but I think it reads The Birth of Shadow: On the Spirits of the Old Woods.”

He blinked once, then again, stunned despite himself. “You brought this back?”

Her voice softened. “It was lying in the roots of an altar. I thought you might want it. You collect that sort of thing.”

She thought of me. Out there, surrounded by danger, she thought of me. The thought hurt more than it should have.

Elon unwrapped the book, careful as if handling a relic. Dust and pine sap clung to the pages. He murmured something, smiling despite himself.

“You’re welcome.”

He reached across the table, fingers brushing her knuckles—a small, grounding contact. She didn’t pull away. He felt the faint coldness of her pulse, quick and steady beneath all that discipline.

Inside, her heart ran a little faster than her training allowed. This is ridiculous, she told herself. It’s just a book, don’t get that excited about it. 

“Thank you,” he said.

Elon turned a page. The runes traced across it in ancient symmetry. “You realize this could rewrite half of what we know about shadow phenomena.”

“That’s your part.” She leaned back, tone casual but proud. “I only find things.”

He looked up, catching her expression—the calm surface, the small flicker beneath it. “You’re extraordinary at that.”

Her eyes lifted. “At what?”

“Finding things.” Elon was probably referring to the way she had found him years ago in the Elunthar Woods, just like she’d found this book now.

She looked away, voice clipped. “Don’t start.”

Risha’s voice interrupted again: “I can’t find my ID card!”

“Check your other jacket’s pocket,” Elon called.

A pause. Then: “Oh.” A laugh.

Sukira hid a smile behind her cup.

When quiet returned, she set the mug down. “Elon. About Lola.”

His tone shifted, alert. “The cat.”

“The Calamity,” she corrected. “Minor fragment. Instinct, not malice. It feeds on affection. If she stays stable, it stays harmless. If not—”

“—problems.”

“Exactly. Keep an eye on her. I’ll figure out a long-term fix.”

He nodded, though her words tugged at something deeper. “Yes, Commander”. 

But it wasn’t just about Lola. This was the children’s last “ordinary” school year before the Elite’s branches opened to them—combat, medicine, research. The moment childhood ended and purpose began. Sukira had seen it happen before: bright eyes dulled by duty, laughter replaced by obedience. She wasn’t ready to see it happen to Risha. Neither was Elon, though his worry took quieter forms. The Calamity was small now, but it was also a reminder: every gift in this world, every power, demanded balance. And if left unchecked, love itself could become a kind of curse.

Elon studied her. “Still amazes me,” he said. “How you can read traces without using magic.”

She shrugged lightly. “It’s instinct.”

“No. It’s more than that,” he said. “You’re impressive.”

The words startled her; her hand froze for half a second before she recovered.

He meant it. And he also meant I missed you — but that stayed where it belonged, unspoken.

Risha burst in, hair wild, collar half-buttoned. “I’m ready! Breakfast?”

“Cold,” Sukira said, leaning closer to fix his collar.

“Too bad,” Elon added with a soft smile on his face, warming Risha’s cup with a flick of subtle magic. The spell glowed briefly gold.

Risha grinned. “Last boring year. Next one I’m joining training. Magic and medical, too...”

He was waiting to be scolded, to be told it was too much. 

Sukira chuckled. “A nice mix.”

“Finish this one first. That’s your mission.” Elon added, “We will see how we deal with it all when the time comes”. 

He darted off, shouting farewells. They watched him from the balcony as he joined the other kids below, Cloud bounding after him.

Sukira’s voice was almost a whisper. “It’s louder every year.”

“The kid or the city?”

“Both.” She smiled faintly.

“Let’s hope they grow wiser too,” Elon said, eyes still on the street. Then, after a pause:

“We’re on good terms, right?”

She met his gaze, calm and certain. “Yes. We are.”

He nodded, smile small but real. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He didn’t tell her how much he wanted to believe it.

♥︎