THOOOOOOooooommm…

  The familiar blast of NMW firing a round down range slammed through Violet's body, the sound echoing out across the dry landscape in front of them. Amalia had finally been granted permission to practice with Riza's favorite rifle, and she had asked her sister to accompany her out into the desert as escort. Riza obviously couldn't come along on account of the baby, and Amalia wanted some quality time with just the two of them. Protection wasn't an issue, they were more than armed heavily enough.

  “How's your shoulder feel?” Violet asked, glancing down at her sister lying prone.

  Amalia didn't answer right away. Off in the distance, a medium-sized cliff face that had been her target finally collapsed after hesitating several moments with a new hole blown through it.

  “...Ow,” she said finally.

  Violet let out a laugh as Amalia rolled out her shoulder, trying to brush off the pain.

  “How does she fire this thing multiple times?” Amalia whimpered. “I feel like my collarbone almost cracked.”

  “Imagine what it would be like if it didn't have recoil dampers on it.”

  “I don't want to,” Amalia grimaced, rising to her feet. She brushed the dust off of her robes and skin, then turned to start making her way down from their firing position.

  “Want me to carry it back for you?” Violet offered.

  “Hell no!” Amalia answered quickly, then grimaced in pain. “This thing is a badge of honor, you gotta earn the right to touch it.”

  “Fine then,” Violet hopped down the cliff face after her sister. “Don't touch Morgan's Mercy then.”

  “Wasn't planning on it!” Amalia turned back and stuck her tongue out. “I'm no good at flipping handguns around the way you show off with that thing.”

  “Plus…” Amalia added as she took the last hop down to flat ground, “I like handling BIG weapons.” A wide, sultry grin spread across her face.

  “How is Venlin, anyway?” Violet asked casually.

  “As expected. If I enter the room, his four eyes all turn into giant pink hearts and he asks me to stay on this dust bowl forever.”

  Violet chuckled as they set a steady pace back toward Boadicea.

  They made their way back into town under the mid-morning sun, hooves crunching against the dry red grit of Mol’eyne’s cracked terrain. Amalia cradled NMW in both arms like a sacred relic as she peeled off toward the ship to clean it. Violet just smiled and let her go. Her sister had a ritual to maintain. Violet had thoughts to chase.

  She took the long way around.

  Her path led her past the familiar outline of Amaryn’s house. The front porch still creaked in that same uneven rhythm when the wind pushed at it. Someone had swept the steps. A bundle of wildflowers rested by the door. Violet slowed, her gaze lingering on the frame of the building—worn and quiet.

  The town had changed.

  Subtly, but unmistakably. Where once there had been stares, now there were nods. Where whispers had once curdled in the corners of the saloon, people now paused to listen when one of the team spoke. There was still discomfort, sure—but it was quieter. Warier of itself.

  The lacravida had taught them how to grieve—openly, messily, communally. Instead of turning inward, the town had watched the team sit vigil, share stories, pass food, and sing. For three nights, a fire had burned in the town square, and anyone who wished could come add something to it. A memory. A flower. A quiet apology.

  Tarnik even stood silently next to Veolo one evening. He was a changed man—head over heels for the silver-haired lacravida, but no longer so arrogant as to not respect their customs. Violet had even apologized for nearly killing him the night of Amaryn's murder—he had instantly responded that he forgave her, and held no ill will.

  Venlin, for his part, was completely wrapped around her sister's finger. Every time Amalia entered a room, the man’s voice dropped half an octave and his coat somehow got more pressed.

  Violet wasn’t sure if she was amused or concerned.

  But the change was real. It didn't erase what had happened. But it meant something had been absorbed. Heard. Maybe even learned.

  The people of Boadicea had been watching. And for once, they seemed willing to grow.

  Violet looked back at Amaryn’s house and took a deep breath. Then she exhaled, turned, and kept walking.

  The Departure was tonight.

  The streets of Boadicea were half-empty in the midday heat. Most of the townsfolk had taken shelter under awnings or inside their homes, letting the sun burn itself out. But some still lingered—those too stubborn or too restless to sit still. Violet was somewhere in between.

  She passed Brana, who was seated on an overturned barrel outside the general store, chatting animatedly with a pair of d’moria about something too technical and mechanical for Violet to understand. One of them was letting her inspect a battered lever-action with a prideful glint in their eye while they chatted. Brana whistled low and nodded with approval.

  Near the bakery, an old lazarco woman sat on her front step fanning herself. Violet remembered the sharp look she'd given them that first week at their ‘lack’ of clothing. Now, the same woman raised a hand and waved.

  Violet paused, finding herself surprised.

  Then—because the moment felt too fragile to ignore—she raised a hand in return.

  She didn’t smile, but her chest ached a little less.

  The town square was empty. The fire pit at the center had burned low, reduced to a bed of dancing flames less than an inch tall. Only one person tended it.

  Soren knelt near the edge, shirt damp and hair lightly powdered with dust and ash. He shifted a long stick with slow care, coaxing the embers into a neat circle. Sweat glistened on the back of his neck, catching the sun like frost.

  Violet approached quietly and sank to the ground beside him. She leaned over and let her weight fall onto him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. Neither spoke.

  After a minute, Soren draped one arm around her back and pulled her against him.

  The world was silent, save for the occasional pop of wood and the low murmur of wind over stone. Violet closed her eyes and leaned in, breathing in the smoke, the heat, the ache of grief.

  Eventually, she stood.

  Soren didn’t ask anything, he just gave her space. Violet rested a hand on his head as he remained crouched, then let it slide off as she walked away.

  On her way back to the ship, Violet caught Veolo rounding a corner quickly, holding a bundle of dried herbs and looking wild-eyed back in the direction she had ran from.

  Violet cocked an eyebrow at her quietly.

  Glancing at Violet then back towards whatever might be following her, she finally turned fully to Violet and said, “There was a bee.”

  Violet couldn't help but smile.

  “You doing okay?” Veolo asked.

  Violet gave a shrug. “Getting there. I was just heading back to get cleaned up before the Departure.”

  “Perfect,” Veolo grinned. “Come with me instead. My new boy toy has a solid shower setup you can use.”

  Violet arched a brow. “Really?”

  “It’s outside, but yeah,” Veolo smirked. “It’s got good water pressure.”

  Violet was skeptical, but not enough to decline. “Alright, lead the way.”

  By the time the sun began to set, Amaryn’s pyre had already burned.

  The Departure was not overlong, but it had been beautiful. They showed the people of Boadicea the lacravida way of celebrating life over the past several days. No one in town had been super close to Amaryn, but they all knew her in one way or another. A surprising amount of crying occurred—but Violet felt like she had run out of tears days ago.

  The casket was lifted by Amalia, Veolo, Aurania, and Riza—Amaryn’s own kind—and carried through town as incense burned. They set her down next to the pyre that had been burning most of the week. Then Violet strode forward and gave her to the flames.

  Now, she stood with the others as Venlin beckoned them away from the courtyard. He led them around to the statue of Saint Morgan, where something tall and cloth-draped waited beside it. Even before Venlin stopped walking, Violet knew exactly what this was.

  She knew what was under that cloth.

  It stood slightly taller than Morgan’s statue, set in a mirrored pose—one hand at its side, the other held gently forward, as if caught in the act of offering someone comfort.

  Venlin cleared his throat and looked at Violet. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said gently.

  Everyone looked at Violet.

  She wasn’t afraid to see Amaryn’s face again, cast permanently the same way Morgan’s was. She looked around at her friends, before facing the statue and nodding once.

  “I’m ready.”

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  She wasn’t.

  Veolo stepped forward and gave a light tug on the cloth.

  The fabric fell away.

  Violet didn’t cry.

  She didn’t even breathe.

  It wasn't because of how accurately the statue depicted her that Violet was caught off guard. True to scale and placed up on a pedestal, Amaryn towered above all of them, almost two heads taller than her d’moria counterpart. It wasn’t the gown Amaryn wore, simple and lovely, just as she always had dressed. It wasn’t even the face, which had been carved with such uncanny precision that it looked like Amaryn could blink at any moment.

  It was the hair.

  Not the braid Amaryn had always worn.

  But twin ponytails.

  Violet’s ponytails.

  Violet staggered back a step. Her chest seized and her mouth opened soundlessly, and tears welled and fell from her eyes as she stared openly.

  Aurania stepped up behind Violet and placed a hand on each of her shoulders, steadying her. Softly, Aurania said, “She asked me to make sure it was included.”

  Violet turned and looked up at her, confused. “When?”

  Aurania gestured to Soren. “Dream.”

  Soren gave her a warm half-smile and shrugged.

  Violet looked back at the statue, the girl she tried to save, now wearing her hair forever.

  It felt surreal.

  Finally she looked at Venlin. Her voice trembled. “Thank you.”

  He nodded silently.

  After several moments, she heard footsteps and turned to see Inelius approaching, holding something in his arms. “We also thought you should have this.”

  Carefully, Violet reached out and took the bundle from him, unwrapping it to reveal a wide-brimmed hat. It was old, but freshly cleaned and expertly restitched. She looked up at Morgan’s statue—one and the same, just missing the stag antlers.

  “We found it in her house,” Inelius said. “Amaryn had it stored in a trunk, wrapped in cloth like it was sacred. We figured… it should go to you.”

  Violet ran her fingers across the brim like she was handling something alive.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Of course. You deserve it.” His tone was warm, as it always was.

  Inelius hesitated, then added with a small smirk, “Also, Amalia tricked me and said I had to buy you one, so hopefully this gets me out of that.”

  Amalia, standing back by Soren with her hands behind her back, leaned lightly to one side. “It does not.”

  That actually pulled a faint laugh from Violet’s chest.

  Then the smile faded.

  She looked up at Amaryn.

  Violet knew she would not leave this planet the same person that arrived. So much had transpired in so little time, but she felt such an impression from it. Amaryn had given her so much—perspective. Memories. Morgan’s Mercy and an armored skirt to keep her safe.

  It only made sense to leave something behind as well.

  Her hands moved slowly to the base of her twin ponytails.

  She hesitated.

  Her fingers trembled, only for a moment, then:

  She tugged the ties loose.

  Her hair fell in a cascade, swept by the breeze blowing through Boadicea. Then she slid Morgan’s hat onto her head, and it settled like it belonged.

  She stood taller under its shadow. Calmer.

  Her voice was quiet, but clear:

  “Goodbye, Amaryn.”

  And for the first time since that awful night, it didn’t feel like a wound.

  That night, the saloon was lively. For all that had transpired, Violet wanted to make sure she did not depart this place on bad terms. So after the unveiling of the statue, she asked as many people as possible to join her for drinks.

  There was a single caveat to her request—that no one smoke. No one protested, so Riza was also there, seated at one of the long tables with a small glass of something she wished had alcohol and snacking on damn near anything Drolv set in front of her.

  The rest of the crew spread out in their own small knots—Tamiyo perched on a barstool beside Raine, Veolo swapping jokes with Brana and Inelius over something spicy and glowing in their cups. Violet sat near the window, one leg crossed over the other, hat tilted just enough to cast a shadow across her eyes. Amalia had stolen a seat directly beside Venlin and was currently dominating his entire emotional existence with a single leg resting on his thigh.

  Venlin, clearly three drinks in, let out a low chuckle as he looked toward Riza. “You know, it’s funny,” he mused aloud. “I’d always heard of the Ghost of Proxinara. The stories made her out to be... bigger. Wilder. Like she could rip a man’s head off with her teeth.”

  “Oh that’s much less scary than what I’ve actually seen her do,” Amalia said cheerfully, swirling her drink.

  Venlin stared for a moment, then gulped.

  “She’s been staying out of combat lately,” Amalia went on, nudging Riza with her elbow. “On account of the baby. But you haven’t seen her at her best yet. When she is at her best? You don’t even see her.”

  Riza didn’t respond. She just took another sip from her glass and gave Venlin a look that was somehow both amused and terrifying.

  He raised four hands in mock surrender, fingers glinting gold with rings. “Understood.”

  The energy among the crowd remained steady, warm, a stark contrast to what had greeted them less than a month ago.

  When the noise quieted slightly, Tamiyo leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “What’s going to happen to Amaryn’s house?”

  Venlin’s smile faded slightly. He looked around the room, the people he was in charge of all watching for his answer. His gaze dropped to his glass for a moment, then back up.

  Addressing all the people of Boadicea, he said sincerely,“It will be turned into a garden.”

  There was a pause.

  “A garden?” Tamiyo asked. A small smile appeared on her face. “Amaryn said she wasn’t that good of a gardener.”

  “And we weren’t that good at inviting her into the community,” Venlin said, his voice slightly sad. “Maybe that’s why her flowers wouldn’t grow.”

  Amalia let out a loud “Baawww, you big softie!”

  Venlin smiled at the praise. “It’ll be a community garden,” he clarified. “For everyone. Somewhere people can sit together. Grow things. Remember who we’re supposed to be, what this town is meant to be.”

  Venlin looked around as his people with pride again, before finishing by calling it by name.

  “The Garden of Amaryn.”

  The words hung there.

  Simple. Earnest.

  Violet didn’t say anything, she just stared at the mayor until he finally locked eyes with her. Then she nodded to him.

  Yeah, Violet thought. That sounded just right.

  Violet woke with her mouth dry, her spine sore, and her cheek pressed to a wooden tabletop. The saloon was dim—only a sliver of morning light cutting through the window slats. Her hat had fallen off at some point and rested on the floor by her hooves.

  She sat up slowly, groaning. Her whole body protested the motion.

  “Fuck,” she muttered. “How much did I—”

  She looked around at the empty whiskey glasses on her table.

  “Right…”

  Behind the counter, Drolv was polishing glasses like he hadn’t moved since the night before. Brana was draped over the bar like a discarded jacket, one leg twitching every so often in her sleep. Brolgar had claimed a nearby table and passed out face-down on it, snoring loud enough to rattle the bottle next to him.

  Violet stretched her back until it popped, then rolled her neck. “Do you ever leave this place?” she asked Drolv.

  “Rarely,” he said without looking up.

  She blinked blearily. “You seen my sister?”

  Drolv gave a single nod toward the door. “Not since she dragged the mayor out of here a couple hours past midnight. His clothes were half off before they got out the door.”

  Violet smirked and nodded slowly. “Yep. Sounds about right.”

  She scooped up her hat and slapped it onto her head before heading outside into the bright morning light. The town was waking slowly, still quiet from the night before. Warmth soaked into the dirt, already promising another scorcher of a day.

  Down the road, Veolo was lounging in a half-broken chair outside the general store, arms crossed and legs stretched, clearly entertained as Tarnik leaned against the railing nearby and tried—poorly—to flirt.

  Violet chuckled under her breath. Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance. Veolo had him wound around her finger like twine.

  Then, from the direction of the ship, Soren appeared—striding fast with a look that killed Violet’s amusement in a heartbeat. His whole posture was tight, jaw clenched, hands empty but alert.

  She met him halfway. “Is there a bee chasing you?” she asked, glancing briefly toward Veolo.

  “No,” Soren said, eyes flicking toward the horizon. “I just sensed five humans enter Boadicea from the other side of town.”

  Everything in Violet went still.

  As irregular a specimen as he was, Soren was the only known human for several hundred miles in any given direction. Five of them showing up here at once was deliberate.

  She turned and Soren fell in beside her, the two of them moving like one.

  They rounded a corner and found them—five figures standing in the open road like they owned the dust they kicked up. Each was armed, holstered heavy, and wore the smug posture of people who thought they were holding the cards. Their clothing didn’t match—no uniform, just scavenged leathers and sun-bleached jackets. But their eyes were sharp and focused.

  Mercenaries.

  The tallest of the five stepped forward, flicking his coat back to show the twin handguns at his hips.

  “A pretty lady with hooves,” the man said, “and one of the tallest sum’bitches I ever laid eyes on.”

  He glanced to the side at Veolo and Tarnik. “Oh look, another one. Something tells me a couple more of you fine ladies are hanging around here somewhere, probably a couple CIPHERs to boot, no?”

  Violet didn’t blink. Morgan’s Mercy rested in her holster, thumb grazing the grip.

  “What do you want?” Soren asked, voice low.

  “The Conservatory’s got one hell of a bounty out on y’all,” the man said. “Huge payout. Dead or alive.”

  Tarnik shouted out from the porch he and Veolo were on. “What, and you think y’all are gonna be able to come here and collect?”

  He took a few steps toward the bounty hunters. “Over my dead body.”

  Veolo’s voice cut through the air like a whip, cold and commanding. “Tarnik. Get back.”

  He hesitated, then looked back at her.

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion.

  The lead hunter drew, his gun whipped from its holster, aimed at Tarnik’s back—

  Violet was already drawing Morgan’s Mercy, she wouldn’t let another person die here because of them.

  But she wasn’t drawing fast enough—

  A shadow shot from the alley just off to the left—too fast to track, too sudden to brace for. Riza struck like lightning, blade gleaming once before it was already red. The first man, aiming at Tarnik, lost the hand holding his gun. He didn’t even have a chance to scream before the dagger’s tip went through the bottom of his jaw, exiting the top of his skull.

  The second man tried to scream, but she opened his face from ear to ear. The third spun, got a hand halfway to his gun before she carved it off, stabbing his heart a moment later. Four and five died together, throats opened with the same brutal grace.

  Silence fell, thick and stunned.

  Dust floated down. Tarnik was frozen mid-step, eyes locked on the bodies bleeding out in the street.

  Violet’s breath caught. She slowly lowered Morgan’s Mercy from her aim that had been a heartbeat too late.

  Riza stood amid the carnage, dagger in hand, blood dripping from her fingers. She looked at Violet. Then—casually—she tilted her head up.

  Violet turned to follow her gaze and spotted Venlin leaning over the balcony of his third-story office, four eyes the size of dinner plates. Amalia stood next to him, topless with a shit-eating-grin on her face.

  Violet huffed a light laugh out of her nose, spun Morgan’s Mercy back into its holster, then turned to look back at Riza.

  The deadly mother was still staring up at the dumbfounded Venlin with the faintest grin tugging at her lips.

  Then she winked.

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