“Captain?”

  “Captain Ellia.”

  The voices reached her like echoes drifting down a long, waterlogged tunnel. Muffled. Warped. Wrong.

  Why was her skull pounding like someone had driven a spike behind her eyes? And who in the nine rifts thought shouting her title was the right solution?

  “ELLIA!”

  That one hit like a slap. Her eyelids jerked—had they been closed this whole time? Or had she just forced them open?

  Light scorched her vision. Shapes hovered over her, blurred silhouettes pressing too close for comfort.

  “She’s coming around. Give her room. Back away!”

  A familiar baritone—commanding even through distortion. Dante. Of course it was Dante.

  Her senses snapped in uneven bursts. The smell of damp earth. The metallic tang of morning air. Pressure beneath her palms—

  Grass.

  Her fingers curled, tearing tufts from the ground as she lurched upright. Her back collided with stone. Cold. Solid. Ancient.

  The temple.

  Memory slammed into place piece by piece: the eclipse-glow, the agony, Mimi’s scream, the voice on the wind—

  Her forearms.

  Ellia’s breath hitched as she looked down.

  The marks were still there. Silver lines etched into living flesh—one sun, one moon. Not scars. Not wounds. Declarations.

  A whisper rose in her throat, unbidden, the echo of the wind’s proclamation:

  “In darkness and light, the twins guide your flight.”

  The words tasted like reverence and danger.

  As her vision steadied, faces came into focus from the blurry swarm.

  Dante stood closest—tall, awkward in his too-tight shirt, forever outgrowing his clothes faster than the smugglers on Delos could replace them. His posture was squared, protective, the way he always positioned himself when Ellia was down.

  To his right stood Lexi, sun hitting her bare midriff, skin warm bronze beneath the cascade of hair tumbling in a thick braid. The two forward pigtails usually forming a halo around her head were down for once framing her face and bobbing with restless energy, even now.

  And on Dante’s left—

  Zeph. A new recruit of only three months. Shorter, rounder frame, curls like a windstorm had taken personal offense. His grin was missing for once, replaced by wide-eyed worry.

  Recognition sharpened Ellia’s senses.

  Then panic swept everything else aside.

  “Mimi?” Her voice cracked. “Where’s Mimi?”

  Dante, Lexi, and Zeph shifted aside—and there she was.

  Mimi lay curled on her side, lashes vibrating against her eye slits, the faintest flicker moving beneath closed lids. Alive. Dreaming. Fighting her way back.

  Ellia’s breath left her in a shaky exhale, relief loosening her shoulders for all of half a heartbeat—

  —then memory struck.

  The screams.

  The pain.

  The divine weight that had crushed them.

  Every muscle in Ellia’s frame tightened again. A different energy rolled off her now—low, feral, protective. The kind of instinct that made trained fighters step back before they even knew why.

  Someone had hurt her flock.

  Someone had hurt her little bird.

  “What happened this morning?” Her voice was steel dipped in fire. “Who attacked us?”

  The question cracked through the air like a whip. Lexi flinched. Zeph swallowed hard.

  Dante—ever the buffer, ever the anchor—stepped forward. He knew exactly when Ellia the friend had vanished and the Captain had taken her place.

  “No attack,” he said calmly. “No casualties. No injuries.”

  The words hit her like a hand on the reins, halting the surge of protective rage.

  Ellia exhaled, shoulders easing inch by inch. The spark in her eyes dimmed to a simmer. Her fists unclenched, drifting to her hips—classic Captain stance, weight shifted, foot tapping a barely audible rhythm against the earth.

  Dante’s brow twitched upward. He knew that posture. She was listening now—but still one breath away from action.

  Ellia’s gaze sharpened. “You’re holding something back. What aren’t you telling me? What happened this morning?”

  Dante’s eyes flicked toward the horizon, jaw flexing as though the words resisted him.

  “Dante.”

  Her tone left no room for contemplation.

  “Spill it.”

  He swallowed. Hard.

  “No one knows what happened,” he admitted. “At first we thought it was an allergic reaction to the sacraments—or that one of the casks of ale fermented wrong. But the pain everyone felt…” He shook his head, voice thinning. “It wasn’t physical. Not like that. It was like—our very souls were under attack.”

  For Dante—stoic, unflappable, the quiet pillar of the flock—to let fear breach his voice…

  Ellia felt the chill of it run through her.

  “What did you feel?” she pressed. “And did everyone collapse? And Galia—where is she?”

  Dante straightened, meeting her stare with one of rare vulnerability.

  “It felt like being torn apart from the inside,” he said quietly. His hand drifted to his abdomen, as though remembering the phantom agony. “Like every strand of me was being unwound and rewound. Most of us blacked out, but only for a few minutes. You and Mimi were out the longest.”

  His eyes softened as he glanced at Mimi. “Are out,” he corrected.

  “And Galia?”

  “She’s with the others. Helping stabilize everyone. Honestly… she’s shaken the least out of any of us. Already collecting testimonies, trying to make sense of it. But so far—” he hesitated, then committed—“everyone describes something similar.”

  Ellia nodded once, a sharp movement. Her mind was racing faster than his explanations.

  She needed answers. She needed them now.

  “The experience being?” Ellia pressed, heat threading through her words. Dante had answered everything except the one thing she needed.

  Dante’s usually unbreakable composure faltered—just enough for Ellia to see it. That alone spoke volumes. Something had shaken him to his core. He swallowed, opened his mouth, closed it, searched for language that didn’t exist yet. When he finally spoke, his voice was a rough blend of truth and tremor.

  “I felt… trapped.”

  A beat.

  “At first it was just minor twitches, but it escalated fast. Like thousands of fire ants crawling under my skin—and then suddenly, my blood turned to lava. Burning. Boiling. Everywhere. It overwhelmed me until everything went black.”

  Ellia’s eyes narrowed, searching him—really searching.

  “Did you hear anything? Feel anything? Was there an emotion tied to it?”

  Before Dante could respond, another voice—thin, dry, fragile—cut through the tense air.

  “Were you… branded?”

  The semi-circle of flock members parted. Mimi pushed herself up on shaky elbows, squinting against the sunlight like it personally offended her. Ellia’s face softened for a breath—just a breath—before the captain settled back in.

  “Did any of you receive the brand?” she echoed.

  One by one, forearms lifted.

  Dante and Zeph bore shimmering silver suns—bright, crisp, radiant.

  Lexi revealed a lustrous silver moon—curved, cold, beautiful.

  Different marks. Different blessings.

  But unmistakably a pattern.

  “So we all underwent the same transformation,” Ellia murmured, stepping into command as naturally as breath. “That’s good to know—”

  Lexi cut in immediately, waving her moon-marked arm.

  “Well, not exactly the same. Dante felt like his blood turned to lava? Mine froze solid. Burned like freezer burn, not sunburn.”

  She flipped her braid with a grin. “Guess that’s the moon for you.”

  A few quiet laughs rippled through the group, but Ellia’s mind was already mapping the implications.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Shift of her weight. Narrowing of her eyes.

  Connective realization.

  Male—sun.

  Female—moon.

  Except—

  Ellia turned her own forearms upward.

  Gasps followed.

  On her right: the blazing sigil of Apollo.

  On her left: Artemis’s crescent, etched in silver and frost.

  Twin blessings.

  Twin forces.

  Balanced in one body.

  Lexi let out a low whistle.

  “Captain, you got both tats? No way. That’s—like—myth-level sick. So you know what’s up, then?”

  Ellia’s eyes flicked to Mimi, then back to Lexi. Her voice was steady, deliberate.

  “Yes.”

  The word cracked the dam.

  Three voices—Dante, Lexi, Zeph—collapsed into frantic overlap, pressing questions into the air like a hailstorm. Ellia clapped once, sharp and commanding.

  Silence.

  “These marks,” she said, voice anchoring the moment, “are more than symbols. They are blessings. Apollo of the sun and Artemis of the moon heard our prayers. They have chosen to guide our flight through darkness and light.”

  The flock leaned in, pulled toward something larger than themselves.

  “The pain wasn’t sickness,” Ellia continued. “It was growth. Change. Our bodies adapting to new potential. We are chosen—not just to walk with destiny, but to reshape it.”

  A ripple moved through them—hope, awe, rising purpose.

  Ellia recognized it. She felt it herself.

  Blessed to have a family.

  Blessed to have meaning.

  Blessed to rise beyond what the Triarchy tried to make them.

  “Our brands differ,” Zeph said, lifting his sun-mark again. “Yours looks complete—like you having both blessings makes a difference for the individual blessing. My sun’s swirling beams aren’t as long as yours.”

  Before Ellia could answer, Mimi lurched upright like a zombie resurrected by pure chaos and shoved both forearms into the circle.

  Right arm: sun.

  Left arm: moon.

  Identical to Ellia.

  Zeph’s jaw dropped.

  Lexi whispered, “Ohhhh, damn.”

  Dante just stared, recalibrating everything he thought he understood.

  Two of them carried both.

  Two of them stood between day and night.

  Two of them bore the twins’ full attention.

  Zeph’s gaze snapped to Mimi, and a wild storm of emotions rolled across his face in the span of a heartbeat. First—raw disbelief, jaw slack. Then—scrutiny, as if his brain needed to rerun the entire universe to account for this new detail. Finally—acceptance, fast and uncomplicated, Zeph-style. The puzzlement evaporated.

  He stepped forward and delivered a thunderous clap to Mimi’s back.

  The impact made her stumble three whole steps, wincing as her still-tender spine protested.

  “No way—you got both too? Can we still get the other one? And is it gonna hurt like this one?” Zeph blurted, equal parts admiration and existential panic.

  “Yes,” Ellia said.

  Zeph blinked. “Yes what? Yes we can get the other one? Yes it’ll hurt? Yes I’m doomed? Give me something.”

  “Now isn’t the time,” Ellia replied, slipping fully into captain mode.

  “She's right,” Dante cut in, voice crisp and grounding. “Scouts spotted a small Triarch contingent entering the valley. If they keep their speed, they’ll reach the woods in forty-five minutes.”

  He checked his communicator, jaw tightening. “And transport is en route to the beach. T-minus ten minutes.”

  Ellia’s jaw ticked, thoughts racing behind her eyes. “Why today of all days?”

  “We intercepted a transmission,” Dante replied. “They’re investigating a purple flare reported at dawn.”

  Ellia cursed under her breath. “That damned obelisk. If the Triarchs seize the temple, they’ll drag whatever truth it holds straight to Zeus. We need to understand it before they do.”

  Before Ellia could issue an order, Mimi—standing near the cliffside—pivoted sharply.

  “Leave it to me.”

  Her words carried a confidence that was almost… not Mimi-like. Or maybe exactly her—when the moment demanded it.

  She stepped forward, framed by the vast sweep of sky and sea. Closing her eyes, she angled her palms toward the heavens, whispering a chant under her breath. Lexi snorted; Zeph chuckled; Dante smirked behind his hand.

  Ellia only watched—careful, proud, unreadable.

  Then the wind changed.

  A sudden ocean gale roared up the cliff, ripping through the grass and sending shockwaves through the clearing. Mimi’s raven-black hair whipped forward—then blew back like a curtain unveiling something impossible.

  A vast, dark shape rose behind her. Shooting into the air above them all.

  Wings unfurled.

  The raven—her raven—ascended from the cliff’s edge, silent and commanding.

  Zeph shrieked in a pitch that betrayed entire lifetimes of masculinity and tripped backward, dragging Lexi down with him. Dante took three very dignified steps away.

  Ellia didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  Reverence softened her features, the grin she wore the night before tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  “H-h-how did you do that?” Zeph sputtered.

  Mimi shrugged. “Uhhh… soul-bonded, remember?”

  “Yeah, but we all have soul bonds, and I can’t do that,” Dante said, the sting of jealousy slipping between his words. “Pretty sure none of us can.”

  “Sure you can,” Mimi said confidently. “I’ll show you.”

  “REALLY?” all three of them blurted at once—hopeful, desperate, unfiltered.

  The group’s chatter cut off as a piercing screech split the air.

  Heads snapped upward.

  The raven dove—hard—a streak of shadow against the brightening sky. Ten yards above the hilltop it snapped its wings open, the sudden drag kicking up a gale that hammered the flock. Grass flattened. Cloaks whipped. Knees buckled under the force of the downwash.

  The bird hovered—massive, commanding, every beat of its wings heavy with intention.

  A hush fell.

  Mimi closed her eyes and exhaled. Slowly. Purposefully.

  The raven responded.

  Its sleek black plumage shimmered—first a tremor of light, then a full cascade—until the feathers brightened into a pristine white, radiant against the morning sun. The transformation washed over the creature like pale fire.

  Lexi was the first to break the spell.

  “W-o-o-o-o-w…” she breathed, voice thinned by awe.

  Zeph’s mouth hung open. Even Dante—unshakable, pragmatic Dante—looked undone.

  Mimi opened her eyes, dark irises twinkling with pride.

  Ellia’s lips curled, the same subtle grin she wore whenever Mimi surprised her—which was often these days. Then the captain’s attention slid toward the temple. The flock was beginning to gather, drawn by the noise.

  Mimi’s voice softened into something almost melodic.

  “Anyone have an Isor Prax shard—or better—to spare?”

  The hilltop became a flurry of pocket-patting.

  Zeph flipped his pockets inside out with dramatic despair, revealing a lone rubber band and an impressive amount of dirt.

  Lexi produced two tiny red crystals—chaos-charged, sparking faintly.

  But Dante lifted three petite amethyst shards, gleaming with quiet, balanced energy.

  Mimi’s eyes brightened. “Anything larger?”

  Dante’s regret was immediate in the slow shake of his head.

  Ellia’s voice cut sharp across the moment.

  “My bag. Someone get my bag.”

  A raspy cough answered—Dante again.

  Ellia turned, glare loaded—but Dante already had her familiar satchel slung over his shoulder. He flipped it to her with practiced ease.

  Ellia unzipped the front pouch, fingers rummaging deep before closing around a smooth, glowing sphere—an amethyst orb the size of a child’s toy ball, thrumming with Isor Prax.

  She tossed it to Mimi without hesitation.

  Mimi caught it delicately, as though the sphere itself had a heartbeat. Cradling it between her palms, she whispered soft incantations—nothing formal, nothing learned, just instinct. Wind curled around her ankles, tugging gently at the hem of her tunic.

  Then, with startling decisiveness, she hurled the crystal over the cliff.

  A collective gasp rose—everyone except Ellia, who stood still and steady, a pillar of trust. Whatever bond had forged between them the night before, it ran deeper than logic.

  Above them, the raven arched its wings, exposing its white underbelly, then folded in tight and dove.

  The cliff swallowed bird and crystal alike.

  Seconds stretched—they felt like minutes. Breath caught. Muscles tensed. Even the wind seemed to hold itself still.

  Then—

  The raven burst upward in a sweeping spiral, talons glowing bright purple—energy surging but contained, thrumming. A triumphant screech ripped from its throat as it soared toward the forest’s edge.

  Cheers erupted behind Mimi. Lexi whooped. Zeph pumped a fist. Dante allowed a single, dignified nod.

  Ellia didn’t cheer.

  She watched Mimi instead—really watched her—something fierce and proud kindling behind her eyes.

  Mimi sensed it and spoke before Ellia could.

  “I’ve directed the raven to the old lookout tower,” she said, steady, focused. “It’ll perch the amethyst at the top and fly high above before absorbing the Prax. If everything works, the energy trail should mimic the temple’s purple flare. The Triarchy patrol will follow the false signal instead of doubling back here.”

  Ellia’s nod was thoughtful, her teeth catching lightly on her lower lip. She had a dozen questions—about the bond, the raven, what Mimi had become—but before any of them could form, Dante stepped into the silence, voicing the very fears Ellia hadn’t yet said aloud.

  “And then what happens?” he demanded.

  His gaze dropped to his communicator.

  “The transports are closing in—four minutes out. If the Triarch troops don’t find what they’re looking for, what stops them from widening their search? What guarantees the temple stays hidden?”

  The tension in him was unmistakable—shoulders tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes burning with a skepticism born of responsibility, not doubt.

  Mimi met his stare without blinking.

  “They’ll be dealt with,” she said softly, almost serenely.

  Dante’s patience snapped.

  “How, Mimi?”

  She didn’t flinch.

  “They’ll radio in when they detect the signature, and again when they reach the old tower. After that…” Her tone didn’t waver. “I’ve given the raven permission to engage. It will consume their Prax and end their lives. Any tech or gear it finds useful I’ve told it to return to the temple.”

  Dante’s eyebrows lifted—genuine approval flickering beneath the ever-present frown. It vanished quickly, replaced by that familiar tightness in his jaw. He hated being cut out of decisions, even when those decisions were good ones. Only Ellia—and occasionally Galia—ever got a free pass.

  Ellia felt a pulse of reassurance at Mimi’s confidence… but also a coil of unease.

  Mimi had bonded with the legendary bird last night. How did she already command it with such certainty? Ellia herself had forged that bond nearly a decade ago, and even now she struggled to articulate its depths.

  Her gaze drifted to the marks glowing faintly on their forearms.

  Is that where her clarity is coming from?

  It wasn’t a question she could afford to explore—not yet.

  Footsteps crunched behind them, crisp and deliberate. Ellia didn’t need to turn.

  “Galia?”

  “Yes, captain?”

  “Is everyone accounted for?”

  “Everyone except the scouts. The flock is assembled.”

  “Good.” Ellia pivoted back toward Dante. “You and your squad stay here. Wait for the raven’s return. Keep the scouts with you and report the moment you have confirmation. Ears on the radio—we need to know what the Triarchy does next.”

  Dante, Lexi, and Zeph straightened as one, heels together, right fists striking the center of their chests.

  Then they broke away.

  “Galia,” Ellia ordered, “get everyone to the cliff passage. We move now.”

  The falcon dipped her head sharply, mirroring the same gesture of respect, then turned to her communicator, barking orders with clinical precision.

  “Move your asses! You heard the captain! Passage route—double time!”

  The flock surged into motion.

  With the threat—temporarily—handled, Ellia approached Mimi. The girl stood at the cliff’s edge, framed by sea and sky, her hair nudged by the breeze.

  “Little bird,” Ellia murmured. Warm. Proud. “You were impressive. We’ll talk later. For now—just breathe.”

  Mimi’s grin was bright but short-lived; she winced, hand flying to her lower back.

  Ellia rolled her shoulders with a sympathetic groan. “Trust me, I feel it too.”

  Mimi snorted. “Is this what Papou feels like… all the time?”

  A small laugh escaped Ellia.

  “Most likely.”

  They both turned toward the coastline below, where the flock’s distant footsteps echoed along the narrow cliff path—pebbles tumbling, whispers carried by the wind.

  Mimi’s head suddenly tilted.

  “What’s that?” She pointed toward a cluster of shapes bobbing among the rocks in the shallow bay.

  Ellia squinted. The shapes were too far—blurred by distance and shimmering light. Irritation pricked her. She swung her bag around, dug into a side pocket, and snapped open her spyglass.

  She adjusted the focus.

  “…It’s a barrel.”

  A shift of the lens revealed more.

  “And a chest?”

  Another adjustment. Her breath hitched.

  A body sprawled across a broken beam.

  Then another.

  And a third.

  Her stomach dropped.

  “It’s a wreck,” she whispered.

  The weight of it hit her all at once. Supplies. Survivors. Delays. Decisions.

  Ellia exhaled, shoulders sagging.

  “This isn’t going to be a quick extraction.”