The load of her realization held to her like the rain—heavy, cold, impossible to outrun.

  War or no war, consequences be damned, she pushed forward. There was only one fact she could cling to now: Mimi was out here somewhere, and Ellia would tear through the night alone before she let the world take another child from Delos.

  The rain sustained its assault, casting a spectral sheen upon the village—a million shattering droplets fusing with city lights to form an ethereal aura that seemed to lift the town from its own ruin. Within this aqueous bubble, Mimi was lost. Alone. Or worse, caught in the maze-like grip of the concrete jungle—hunted by the damn Triarchs that patrolled its arteries.

  Determination hardened in the captain’s chest as she clenched her fists and quickened her pace, a dark figure cutting clean through the misty veil. The rain became her cloak, masking her steps in its unceasing pour. Only the occasional splash betrayed her passage as she glided over puddles slick with oil and runoff.

  She wove among cobbled side streets, the path instinctive, her destination clear: the temple of Apollo. Perched atop the village like a watchful sentinel, its belfry offered a vantage point to survey the entire town. From there, she could scan the brothels—the ones she suspected Triarch troops had infested for the night, indulging their appetites now that their boots had found dry land. If Mimi wasn’t among them, the search would expand—first to the four local inns, then to their safe houses hidden in the bones of the village, and lastly, back to the docks to pry loose secrets from military blabber.

  The climb toward the temple steepened. Rain pouring in sheets, soaking her to the bone, rendering every step into a battle against waterlogged cobblestone and gravity itself. The streets had become rivers. Water gushed through the alleys, pooling in potholes and whirling around her boots.

  She passed packs of Triarch soldiers, clustered beneath ledges, their presence indicated by the glowing tips of cigarettes and lewd jokes muttered about the night’s quarry. Like scavengers eyeing a carcass. To avoid them, she veered into side passages and ducked through abandoned homes—places that once carried the aroma of food, family, and firelight. Not anymore.

  This village had raised her. But it wasn’t home. Not anymore.

  When the Triarchy came under the pretense of liberation, blood followed. Families were ripped apart. Children orphaned. Others simply vanished—devoured by the dark without so much as a peep. With them came crime, corruption, a governing system wrapped in red tape and chains, and taxes so steep even the sky bowed.

  Before the Triarchy, Delos had prospered as a sovereign harbor-city under the Pax Aegea Accord, ruled by a council of elders and sea-bound guilds. But the Triarchs saw only what could be taken: a gateway to the Rift-locked South and the ancestral vaults entombed beneath the hills. Under the guise of protection, they rewrote every law, claimed every dock, and redrew every border. Resistance was brief—and bloody. Foreigners flooded in while the native Delian voice was submerged under waves of bureaucracy and silence.

  Yet none of it was recorded. Not in any archive, not in the Oracle Net’s curated memory-streams, not in the Triarchy’s sterilized databanks. Search Delos, and you’d find pretty pictures of temples and sea markets—nothing of the dead, the stolen, or the betrayed.

  But she remembered.

  They all did—those who refused to let their history be covered beneath the victors’ polished boots. Her father had been right about one thing: history isn’t written by the brave. It’s written by the victors.

  As the captain neared the front steps of the temple, her steps slowed. Rain collected at the base of the columns. Soldiers huddled under the archway, thick in smoke and smug talk, their laughter reverberating through the drenched night like taunts. She passed without pause. Just before stepping through the side entrance, she lifted her mask and spat. A thick, wet snap of contempt.

  Then, turning her sight upward toward the statue of Apollo, she spat again.

  "Far-shooting Apollo," she said, quiet but not soft, voice keen as the storm around her. "Where were you when your people cried out? Hiding while your father took what he wanted? You’re no better. Cowering in his shadow."

  A fire lit behind her eyes—not wrathful, but strong-willed.

  "Don’t worry. We’ll handle what you couldn’t. We, the Forgotten Children, will end his reign. We will atone for the dead. And when the time comes… We’ll set you free."

  With nothing more to say, she slid in through the side entrance, her fingers gliding along the stone columns the size of tree trunks, anchoring herself in the familiar. Despite the years and the bitterness lodged in her chest, the temple still took her breath. The dome opened above her like a painted sky—gods in mosaic, lounging on golden thrones over a paradise they never earned. In the center, a radiant sun extended twelve rays, each touching one of the Olympians. Apollo, smug in gold, presided from above the marble altar.

  She didn’t stop for long. Reverence had long since rotted into resolve.

  Hand to the wall, she ascended the spiral staircase into the dark, each turn taking her nearer to the belfry—and the watchtower’s view she needed.

  Through the storm’s curtain, the captain’s gaze swept across the occupied parts of the town, their presence illuminated like submerged lanterns in a roiling tide—clusters of artificial light diffused through mist and rainfall. The Triarchy had clogged the main strip of Delos, a street that once ran like a clean artery through the heart of the village, now pumping with foreign rule.

  She spun the dial along her mask’s side, and the world shifted. The haze bled away into gradients of heat and motion—red, gold, and pulsing white. Troops clustered in doorways, rifles slung loose. Clockwork sentinels prowling the alleys, their bodies shining dimly where heat met rain—beasts forged of necessity and obedience. Even amid the downpour, the rain-beads on her mask’s visor flickered with thermal reflections, each particle a mirror of flame.

  She tapped the center of the dial. The lenses contracted with a soft mechanical click, the world tightening in focus. She zoomed in on the harbor. Three brothels glowed like traps for moths: Hearth’s Embrace, Aphrodite’s Blessing, and Akolouthise—“follow me” in Greek Common.

  Once, these places possessed rules. No souls under eighteen. No coercion. They were voluntary sanctuaries for those who chose that life. Now, under Triarchy control, those lines had eroded. Girls began work as young as fourteen, and choice had become a myth. The captain knew this truth intimately.

  She had lived it.

  At fourteen, freshly orphaned by the so-called liberation, she’d been placed in one of those establishments. Not sold outright—not yet. But close enough to witness the cruel mechanics of what passed for pleasure. The older woman tried to protect her, keeping her from clients, teaching her how to survive instead. She saw enough to know what waited if she stayed.

  The day she came of age, finally called to earn her keep, was the same day she made her escape. Bloodied, bruised, reeking of smoke, but free. That was the day the Raven was born—not just a mask, but a vow. A black-winged oath: no child under her watch would suffer the same fate.

  Her eyes narrowed. Above the brothels lay the market district, uncharacteristically still under the hammering rain. The harbor beyond murmured secrets through waves and gullies—a perfect cover for smugglers and soldiers alike. She clocked the density of patrols, the military dogs sheltered in shadow, restless as wolves scenting prey. Then higher up, the residential district climbed toward the hill’s crown, where the hospital and the temple of Apollo loomed, pretending to bless what had long since been cursed.

  The dim silhouette of the old bell appeared just overhead, its bronze face still engraved with Apollo’s likeness. A familiar knot wound in her stomach. Once, its toll had summoned the faithful; now, it echoed only in memories steeped in blood, smoke, and silence. She had long since stopped praying.

  Peering over the belfry’s edge, she spotted four guards below. Quietly, methodically, she worked her dagger below a loose stone in the floor. The rock came free with a dull groan of protest. She flung it toward the far end of the plaza—over the temple’s peaked roof—and listened. Glass shattered. Yells followed. All four guards scrambled toward the source, their legs wobbling with drink and disuse.

  “Fucking drunks,” Ellia muttered, ascending onto the belfry wall.

  With one hand braced against the column beneath the belfry’s spire, the captain steadied herself. Just next to her, a taut cable angled sharply into the misty dark, vanishing into the veil of rain below. She wrapped her arm around the stone for balance and reached to undo her belt—only to curse softly as the buckle resisted, slick with rain and grit.

  As she released her hold to adjust, her boot slid.

  "Shit, shit, shiiiiiit!" The cry ripped from her throat as gravity took over, the wind ripping her words away. Her body whipped forward, and instinct seized control—hands snapping to the cable as she plunged into open air, three stories above the slick, unforgiving stone.

  The line hissed beneath her palms. Leather gloves saved her skin, but not from the heat that bloomed between pressure and speed. She bit down a scream as the friction slowed her enough to control the landing.

  Below, the dull outline of a shelter flickered into view. One of their safe-houses waited across the plaza. The captain modified her angle mid-flight, the storm spitting needles against her mask. Her timing would have to be perfect.

  She’d only get one shot.

  The captain blinked furiously as rain sluiced from her mitts into her eyes, the downpour needling her vision. She knew the building’s window was close—seconds away. But whether it was open or shut, she couldn’t tell amid the haze.

  No time to hesitate.

  She gritted her teeth, legs lifting as she poised to break through if needed. The moment of contact came not with a crash, but a wet whoosh. Relief surged. The window had been left open. She loosed the cable and twisted midair, body coiling through the opening like a dart spun off course.

  She hit hard against a pile of mattresses stacked as discarded furniture, bouncing to her hands and knees atop another bed below. Dust mushroomed outward, mixing with the moisture trailing off her soaked form.

  No time to check for bruises.

  She sped to the window, peered through the rain. Soldiers’ flashlights cut jagged beams over the plaza like searchlights. None pointed up. Her chest loosened slightly—undetected.

  So she thought.

  “Who goes there?” rasped a voice, not loud, but close—too close.

  She turned, bolting for the door. But the creak of steps rooted her. She glided into the shadow of the corner just as the knob twisted.

  The door cracked open, pinning her behind it.

  A heavy stench of cigarette smoke and stale liquor rolled in before the intruder did. The footsteps paused. Her wet footprints led straight to where she stood, cornered, exposed.

  No choice.

  She threw her weight into the door, slamming it outward like a battering ram.

  The forceful shove elicited a startled yelp, followed by a cascade of thuds and a hollow groan. The captain claimed the moment. Dagger drawn, her posture was low, tense, ears attuned for the slightest shift in air. Nothing followed—only the rain’s rhythmic percussion against the roof, constant as a battle drum.

  She eased the door open and descended the stairs, each step intentional. Rounding the bend, she found the source of the groan: a shirtless man slumped headfirst against the wall, head bloodied, eyes rolled back, mouth slack. His trousers sagged around his knees, exposing a pale, pathetic backside.

  She sneered. “Serves you right.” Lifting her mask just enough, she spat in contempt, then moved on.

  At the first landing, she halted at an open door, debating caution, but since no one checked the commotion she had caused, she figured it was safe. Inside, the odor hit her first—musty sweat, damp bedding, the cloying trace of cheap perfume hardly masking something fouler. A girl was collapsed on a sunken couch, half-covered by a tangle of threadbare sheets. Her breasts were bare, her knees drawn up toward her chest in a feeble attempt at modesty.

  The captain entered silently, her mask now off, hood still raised. Her boots squelched subtly against the bent floorboards. She moved slowly, careful not to startle the girl. A spark of movement—eyes opening, not due to fear, but with a hollow, exhausted acceptance.

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  Just like Karya, she thought. Too quiet, too calm, as if she'd already disappeared inside herself.

  The memory stung. Another girl. Another night. Another room just like this.

  She crouched by the pile of clothes, now damp with the room’s chill and stained by dust and mildew. She gathered them gently, like relics, hands gliding against lace and fraying seams. There was no dignity here, not for the girl, not for what this place demanded of her.

  These hideouts used to be safe. Now they’re just stops along the same road. And Delos lets it happen—because they’ve forgotten who they are. Or they’ve chosen to forget.

  She glanced at the girl again, something hardening behind her eyes.

  No more forgetting.

  Tears shimmered in the girl’s eyes, her chest hitching as she struggled to speak. A stuttering breath slipped free—then the dam broke. Sobs overtook her. The captain’s stare sharpened, her expression tightening into something between unease and resolve.

  “There, there, sweetheart,” she uttered gently, her voice low but steady. “You’re safe now. You’re not alone.”

  The girl’s gasps reverberated quietly through the room, tangled in sorrow. She tried to speak again—once, twice—but the words failed her. The pressure she carried was too much, her pain too sharp to name.

  Without a word, the captain knelt beside her, careful not to touch. Instead, she drew a slow breath through her nose, then exhaled through parted lips. Once. Twice. A quiet ritual of control. The girl followed, reluctantly at first, then with more focus. Her shoulders settled, just slightly.

  “There you go,” the captain whispered. “Just like that.”

  But the calm didn’t last.

  “Nothing will be alright,” the girl snapped, voice laden with grief and venom. “Nothing.”

  The captain nodded, not in agreement, but in comprehension. She stood, eyes hardening as she turned toward the door.

  “If you say so,” she said. Her utterance was not cruel nor cold—just certain. “That’s your choice.”

  She passed the threshold, her soles thudding softly on the timeworn wood, but paused at the top of the stairs.

  “Wait,” the girl called, her voice faltering.

  The captain froze, profile carved against the gloom. Rain crackled outside, like white noise filling the silence.

  “That’s it?” the girl asked, the disbelief in her inflection sharper than before. “You’re just gonna leave?”

  Still facing the stairwell, the captain spoke.

  “If you believe nothing will ever change, then it won’t. You’ll remain a victim—because you’ve chosen to be one. But if you want something different... then act differently. Start believing it’s possible.”

  She grasped for her mask.

  “WAIT—where do I start?” the girl cried, desperation raw now, cracked wide open.

  The captain paused midway down the stairs. “Home. Go home,” she instructed, her voice subdued though firm.

  “They took that too,” the girl breathed, her voice thinning into the dense air similar to smoke from a dying fire.

  Fingers clutching around the wooden railing, the captain stood statue-like. A recognizable weight wound in her chest. Memories burst—screams buried under rubble, ash in her mouth, the stillness after. Her breath stuttered, but she pushed it down. The past was immovable. The future, however, still held shape.

  She turned, retracing her steps to the landing.

  “If you want out,” she said, voice honed by conviction, “then listen closely.”

  She fixed her eyes on the girl, but silence answered. Her tone hardened.

  “Do you want out or not?”

  The girl flinched. “Y-yes.”

  “Good.” The captain’s voice stiffened again, all mission now. “Then listen carefully.”

  She walked closer, her shadow spreading across the floor.

  “From this moment, you speak only when spoken to. The old temple of Apollo — just outside the village proper. You know it?”

  “Yes.” The girl’s reply came quick, automatic—already different.

  Behind her mask, the captain smiled. A trace of something came alive. Grit. Will. Maybe even fire.

  “Be there at dusk. 7:15. Use the back gate—it’s narrow, but it’s the cleanest route. Straight through the arches into the courtyard. One of my people will be waiting. If you’re followed, we’ll know. And you’ll lose your shot. Understood?”

  She turned, descending again.

  “Umm…”

  The captain stopped. A breath. Then, calmly, she climbed back up, gaze fixing on the girl.

  “Quit stammering. Speak, or stay quiet.”

  She lowered her beaked mask barely enough to reveal her eyes—clear and hard as ice.

  “7:15 is too early,” the girl said at last, voice more steady now. “I can’t get out then.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed. She watched the girl bite the inside of her cheek, then, slowly, almost fearfully, the girl tugged down the waistband of her underwear—only enough to reveal a tattooed barcode etched into her skin.

  No words passed between them.

  The captain’s breath deepened. Not from shock, or pity—but out of something far more volatile. Recognition. Rage. She’d seen too many brands like that. She carried one herself. The captain didn’t blink. Her eyes, unmasked, burned—not with sympathy, but promise.

  These were not the eyes of a savior.

  They were the eyes of someone who had clawed her way out of hell—and was ready to drag others behind her, kicking and screaming if need be.

  And the girl saw it. Saw something that wasn’t purely survival, but defiance. Power.

  Maybe even a way out.

  The captain bit her lip, tempering her response. Then:

  “What time do you finish your shift?”

  “Three in the morning. That’s the best time to slip away.”

  Ellia nodded once. “Then my people will be at the temple at 3:30 sharp. Don’t be late. And don’t expect us to wait if you’re followed.”

  The girl’s shoulders tightened at the warning. Ellia felt it too—the hesitation, the fear, the quiet load of a thousand unspoken doubts. With a sigh laced with weariness and resolve, she reached up, pulling her mask down fully and drawing back her hood.

  The girl blinked at the face now fully revealed—not just a stranger’s, but someone eerily familiar. Young, but aged by fire. The kind of face mentioned by those who’d lived through the worst of it.

  “I am like you,” Ellia said, voice muted and certain. “We are all like you.”

  “That’s supposed to make me trust you?” the girl asked, voice cracking under the pressure of too many broken promises. “What proof do I have that life with you will be any better? If I’m caught—”

  Before she was able to unravel into a string of uncertainties, Ellia stepped in.

  “Because we are cut from the same cloth,” she said. “Raised by the same village. Marked by the same hands.”

  She grasped for her belt buckle and pulled it aside just enough to expose the faint barcode inked just below her hipbone—old, though unmistakable.

  The girl’s eyes widened. Her breath faltered. “Y-you’re Ellia…”

  The girl hesitated—then pursed her lips and gave a soft, two-note whistle.

  A tone so small it might’ve been a draft passing through the rafters.

  Ellia froze.

  That call…

  No civilian should’ve known it.

  “Where did you learn that?” Ellia asked, her voice sharpening despite her effort to stay composed.

  The girl swallowed. “Nobody taught me. It’s just… whispered. Passed along between people like me.”

  Her eyes lifted, fragile yet fierce.

  “Hope travels fast in places like this.”

  Ellia held her gaze for a beat, the whistle sinking like a stone in her chest.

  “We’ll talk more once you’re free of the Triarchy’s reach,” she said quietly. “Right now, focus on getting out. Nothing else.”

  The girl nodded.

  Ellia tugged her mask back down, the Raven returning.

  She turned toward the stairs.

  “WAIT!”

  Ellia paused on the first step, half-glancing back.

  “My brother,” the girl said, the words rushing out. “He works at the docks. I… I can’t just leave him.”

  Ellia met her eyes, the mask hiding nothing of her seriousness.

  “Noted,” she replied. “Tonight, we get you out. Tomorrow, we talk about him. But don’t tell him anything yet. Secrets shared too early end dreams too fast. You want this to work—come alone.”

  Then, without waiting for a response, Ellia disappeared into the stairwell.

  Tonight, the flock would grow—assuming she found her little bird.

  Peering down the cobbled main avenue, Ellia watched as the buildings evaporated into the downpour. Neon lights and the glow of cigarettes lit up the taverns and houses of pleasure like beacons in the dark, their reflections shimmering across the wet stone like roaming ghosts. Determined, she quickened her pace along the slick sidewalk, heading toward the main strip.

  But before she arrived at her destination, a familiar figure surfaced from the wash of mist and motion—Papou, seated on the battered bench at the enclosed bus stop, his feet resting atop a short stool of his own making. Ellia approached him, retrieving a small, glowing red crystal no larger than a thimble from within her pocket. She placed it gently on the old man’s bent knee and sat beside him.

  The elder sat statuesque, his hands folded atop a carved walking stick—the handle shaped into a rearing horse’s head. His chin rested there, unmoving, eyes hidden behind massive, weather-faded sunglasses. Without so much as a glance her way, he spoke.

  “No birds have passed for some time. The last one I saw was headed uphill—about two hours ago.”

  Ellia's knee stiffened. She turned slightly, giving him her full attention as he continued.

  “She was being followed. Turned left at the top of the road. So if she made it, she’s back in the nest.”

  “What was she wearing?” Ellia’s words rushed out in a single breath.

  Papou didn’t answer. Instead, he tapped his index finger twice against the knuckles of the hand cradling the cane’s head. She drew a breath, slower this time, centering herself.

  “What. Was. She. Wearing?”

  “Blue and black,” he replied. His tone was low but certain—like an oracle reciting a truth no one else could see.

  At that moment, the temple bell overhead tolled once—loud and solemn—its midnight cry parting through the curtain of rain. The sound rang across the village like an omen, one only Ellia seemed to feel deep in her marrow.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, performing a slight bow. Then, like a falcon loosed from the glove, she slipped into the street and took off up the road—past the grand temple-belfry she’d just descended to the older ruin on the town’s outskirts. The forgotten temple of Apollo. Overgrown. Half-collapsed. And perfect for the kind of meetings that demanded secrecy and shadows.

  Just over a half-mile to the temple, and from there another mile to headquarters. If Mimi had been followed, her pursuers would’ve had all that distance to act.

  Ellia’s fist clenched tight as her boots struck the flooded earth. Rain-soaked roads held to her heels, shifting from packed grit to sucking mud with every step. She didn’t slow. She didn’t blink. She had a little bird to find—and whoever tried to clip her wings would soon wish they hadn’t.

  As Ellia entered the farmlands that fringed the village, her eyes fastened on an unlatched gate swinging quietly in the wind. Mud inside the threshold shared a different story—deep, uneven footprints, one set dragging. Something—or someone—had been hauled through here.

  Her heart quickened.

  She followed the trail, keeping her steps light. The footprints curved sharply left along the inside of a stone wall. A smear of red shone beneath lamplight—not a spray, not a pool, but a streak. A scuffle, not a slaughter.

  Good. Good.

  A sound came to her then—wet, guttural, and… rhythmic?

  A snore?

  Ellia froze.

  Another sound followed—wet, guttural, and wrong. Not an animal. Not quite human. A rasping inhale, then a congested exhale like someone struggling for breath.

  She rounded a hay bale with her blade drawn.

  Two indistinct shapes lay in a semi-collapsed heap.

  One of the mounds moved, and Ellia immediately spun the exposure dial on the side of her mask —a Triarch sailor, massive even while unconscious. His lip was split, his nose bent at an angle that suggested a very enthusiastic head-butt. Rain glazed his throat as he lay on his back, one boot half off, fingers frozen in an outstretched reach toward the small leather coin pouch lying between them.

  Ellia’s pulse jumped.

  She advanced closer, blade raised—

  And froze.

  Curled near him, as if she’d merely fallen asleep in a warm patch of morning sun…

  “Mimi,” Ellia whispered.

  The girl’s raven-dark strands were clumped with rain and straw, her cheek pressed upon a bed of hay. One hand was snug beneath her face, the other loosely gripping a shattered communicator—cracked clean in half as though someone had stomped it. Dirt caked her entire body, her dress torn from shin to thigh on one side, and a bruise shadowed her cheek.

  Ellia tensed at the sight— But her chest ascended and fell.

  Steady. Alive.

  Relief hit Ellia so hard her knees nearly buckled, releasing a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

  The sailor groaned mid-snore, sputtering as if choking on his own tongue. Then coughed up some water before drawing a choking breath.

  Ellia pressed two fingers to Mimi’s neck—even pulse.

  She checked her limbs—no swelling, no bad angles, no obvious trauma. Just exhaustion, bruises, and a communicator shattered enough to explain everything.

  “Little bird,” Ellia whispered softly, gently brushing a loose wisp of hair from the girl's forehead, “what on earth did you steal this time?”

  Mimi stirred at the touch, blinking up in a foggy haze. “Captain…?” she rasped.

  “Easy,” Ellia murmured. “You’re safe.”

  Mimi squinted at the sailor beside her, then blinked again. “He—uh… he chased me.”

  A yawn forced its way .

  “And then I… stopped him from chasing me.”

  “That you did,” Ellia said dryly, eyeing the man’s twisted boot.

  Mimi sat up slowly, pressing her temples. “I was gonna call in but… uh…” She lifted the two halves of her communicator. “…he stepped on it.”

  Ellia pinched the bridge of her nose. Relief, frustration, and odd paternal fondness fused into one complicated exhale.

  “Come here,” Ellia said, pulling Mimi gently into a seated position. “No lectures tonight. You did what you had to do.”

  Mimi yawned, leaning instinctively into Ellia’s side—unguarded, trusting. “Did we… at least finish the heist?”

  Ellia smiled. “We did. And tomorrow, you tell the council your version.”

  Mimi nodded, already fading. “Okay. But… can I sleep now?”

  “Yes, little bird.” Ellia hoisted the girl onto her back, Mimi’s arms slipping loosely around her neck. “You’ve earned it.”

  As Ellia carried her across the fields toward the hidden path home, she cast one final look at the unconscious sailor and mentally marked the location.

  “One more mess to clean,” she grumbled.

  But Mimi breathed softly against her shoulder—peaceful, warm, alive—and the burden of the night eased.

  Whatever storm this heist had summoned, they would meet it together.

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