What little tolerance Alabaster had shown Flint’s perfectly reasonable security precautions in the rougher areas of Bermuda seemed not to extend to any disembarkings around the Crux.

He had attempted to explain to his employer that any chance, no matter how small, was too much of a risk. Sadly his perfectly reasonable points about security, the line of sight provided by Bermuda’s buildings and the fact that death rarely came when expected were entirely ignored.

The brief, heated debate had ended with her ordering him not to shoot anyone without her express permission, then climbing out of the carriage before he could get out another word. That may have been quite fortunate, for had she actually heard the particular word he had chosen to respond with, Flint would likely have found himself out of a job.

As he followed his employer out, Flint allowed himself some sense of relief at the fact that, if nothing else, the distance between their carriage and the main entrance was quite small. She would be exposed for no more than a few seconds.

Even in the dark that was more than enough time for a skilled sniper to line up a kill shot, of course, but there was little Flint could do about that, save cross his fingers and hope one of the Kin would block any incoming projectiles.

Alabaster’s gait seemed to have a haste that hadn’t been there before, and Flint found himself almost jogging to catch up with the woman.

“Any particular reason for the sudden hurry,” he grunted at the back of her head. She didn’t look back as she answered.

“Because I suddenly realised I need to.”

Realising he would get no more explanation than that, Flint saved himself the trouble of asking for one. Much to his surprise, however, Alabaster spoke once more a few moments later.

“You remember the resonance message I went to send before we left to meet with Danielz?” She asked.

“Yeah?”

“It never went out. Bermuda’s relay was destroyed in Tamaias’ battle. In other words, I’m stuck with whatever resources and assistance I already have here.”

Flint was nowhere near wealthy enough to have ever owned a resonance stone, in fact even most of the officers he’d met had fallen far short of that particular requirement. Nonetheless, he knew the value in them. Even when weighing it against the necessity to transport the relays.

A boulder-sized chunk of crystal was a tedious thing to transport when marching thousands of men entire leagues through Gol, and yet there wasn’t a general alive who’d go without a handful.

Armies had lived or died on their ability to communicate, after all. The notion that Bermuda had been entirely cut off was one that he found equal parts disturbing and confusing.

“Hold on,” he asked. “There was only one relay here?”

Alabaster sounded irritable as she replied.

“Yes. Apparently there were once a dozen, all spread out and defended across the city. All but one were removed and repurposed elsewhere after the Faction War’s end. One was more than enough to provide coverage to Bermuda, and a significant portion of the Gangorah Princedom for that matter.”

“Isn’t that kind of asking for trouble?”

She paused, reaching and beginning to ascend the main staircase before answering.

“Without the conflict, there was no reason to assume the remaining relay would ever be destroyed. It was kept guarded anyway, but really I can see why the decision was made. Relays of that size are shockingly rare and difficult to produce, placing so many in one city was only ever worth it when a single one may have been destroyed.”

Flint pondered that for a moment, having no further questions. It occurred to him that the people of Unix had quite different lives compared to those of Wrath, or Gol as a whole. He’d never met a single Wrathman who’d be happy to leave their city with such a glaring weakness, no matter how many stars it saved the rest of their nation.

It wasn’t until they came to the floor of Alabaster’s quarters that he began to consider the implications of her failed message.

“Hold on, what does it mean that you weren’t able to contact whoever you were trying to?”

“It means we don’t have any outside aid.”

Flint swore under his breath.

“And here I was hoping you had a few platoons on route.”

She didn’t sigh, but her tone of voice almost convinced Flint that she had.

“Not every problem is solved with the marching of troops and the firing of muskets, soldier.”

“Obviously not,” Flint answered. “Sometimes the enemy’s dug in, no point trying to shoot through a foot of sand and dirt.”

Alabaster didn’t respond to that, and Flint felt a smug grin sprouting across his face. They turned a corner, then walked down the corridor to her room in silence. He considered that a small victory.

As the princess seized the door handle, she glanced at Flint.

“You should come in this time.”

She disappeared into the room before he could so much as think of a question to ask, and with only the briefest hesitation he followed her inside.

The quarters of an Olympian princess, Flint quickly realised, were unfathomably luxurious. The room seemed to be split into two parts, one thickly carpeted and furniture-filled social area on the right, and an overhanging walkway leading to several closed doors on the left.

Elevated some six paces above, it was connected to the living room by a staircase. The walls were wood in place of stone, and seemed almost supernaturally smooth. Several rescesses had been carved into them, each holding a thrumming arclight crystal and flooding the surrounding area with unnaturally stable arcane light.

Alabaster walked into the centre of the chamber of excess without so much as glancing around, something which surprised Flint even in spite of his knowing the domicile was standard for her.

“Pyrhic?” She called, voice cast across every inch of the space around. It wasn’t even five seconds until a set of footsteps came from the second level, followed shortly by the opening of a door and the appearance of a brown-haired woman.

“Yes, lady Alabaster?”

She began to make her way down the stairs, bringing her full body into view for Flint.

Karma Alabaster was tall, and though her every gesticulation practically screamed “noble”, there was likely no soldier in the world who would fail to recognise her as a fighter. The flesh visible through her clothing was pressed from within by the faint outline of lean muscle, and she strolled with the self surety of one who did not expect their demands to be met with anything other than compliance.

Pyrhic, on the other hand, seemed almost the opposite. Where Alabaster was lean, she was slender. There were at least eight inches between the two womens’ heights, and Flint had no doubt that, were she so inclined, his employer could hoist the servant over her head without magic.

His stomach sank as he realised that he was staring at the only thing in the world more irritating and difficult to protect than an officer. A civilian.

“I have a task for you,” Alabaster said. Flint wasn’t sure if he was just imagining the hint of reluctance in her voice. “One which is different from your typical duties, and… riskier.”

She spoke quickly and clearly, conveying the crux of the issue, the key priorities of Pyrhic’s investigation of Danielz and, much to Flint’s approval, the reasoning behind why such a thing was required of her.

For her part, Pyrhic only nodded and asked the occasional question for clarification. She didn’t seem even remotely fazed by the concept of asking questions to the scariest people in the city, with the closest thing to a major reaction she gave being in response to finding out Flint would be accompanying her.

The arched eyebrow with which she answered that revelation was something he decided not to begrudge her.

Flint found himself losing focus as the explanation dragged on, though he forced himself to remain attentive. For all his hours spent on watch, he found it much harder to remain alert and attentive to speech than he did for sudden movement.

Thankfully he was able to hold himself in place and keep his eyes front long enough to take in everything, and even managed to avoid audibly sighing with relief as the run-down ended.

“Are there any questions?” Alabaster finished, her tone making it clear to Flint that she was asking him as well as Pyrhic. He shook his head, and so did she.

“Excellent. Then the two of you can depart in four hours. Pyrhic, go and retrieve some spending money from my room. I think five hundred stars should be sufficient.”

The serving woman nodded and turned on her heel, making her way back up the stairs and disappearing into one of the doors. She didn’t walk with any particular hesitance, nor had she seemed surprised by the order. It was as if five hundred stars, enough money to hire and arm a hundred musketmen, were nothing more than pocket change to her.

With a dull shock, he realised it probably was.

The moment the servant was gone, Alabaster turned to Flint.

“You’ll be alone. You realise that, right soldier?”

Flint nodded, then, realising she expected more than a non-verbal answer, spoke.

“I’ve fought alone a few times, sir. It’s nothing new for me.”

“Have you fought mystics alone?”

He hesitated, before shaking his head slightly.

“No,” he admitted. “But I’ve fought things as tough as them.”

Alabaster sighed, then began chewing a lip absent-mindedly.

“Yes, well I’m afraid seasoned cutthroat mystics are probably worse still… That’s why I ordered the delay.”

Flint found himself frowning. He’d noticed the time lag, and it had taken him by surprise. Four hours was a long time to wait for an urgent mission.

“Four hours,” Alabaster began, as though reading his mind, “should be enough time for me to procure some larger, more filled arcstock crystals for your use. Bermuda is, as you said, filled with potential sources for you, but having a more reliable one you can carry around should help all the same.”

Though his first, instinctive response was an electrical discharge of excitement at the thought of being given such a security blanket, Flint quickly found his mind running back through the paranoid motions that became necessary for all of Wrath’s trench men.

Karma Alabaster was not the sort of woman to waste resources, if she gave him something, it was because she thought he’d need it.

***

Astra had been quite surprised to find the Crux fully equipped with a gym. She probably shouldn’t have been, next to the price of arclight crystals and gold a few sandbags and weights wouldn’t have even measured.

Still, it came as a surprise. And an undoubtedly pleasant one.

She wasn’t a particularly angry person, and yet every so often something or someone would just… get to her. The Gemini had, as much as she hated to admit it, been the most recent one. The girl’s selfishness and self pity had been one thing, but she’d had the gall to be right as well.

Her knuckles smacked against leather, wrappings around her wrists absorbing enough of the impact to keep it from being painful. She still felt it though. That intense, satisfying jolt which came from striking something with every ounce of strength she could muster.

The bag was a heavy one, holding half again as much weight as the one she’d used back at Selsis, and it barely shifted as she punched it. That annoyed Astra, gave her something else to think about.

A few moments later, she began timing her strikes to land when the mass of sand was already swinging away. Cheating though it may have been, the sight of the bag retreating from her was nonetheless satisfying.

It was hard to tell how long she spent there. Astra rarely exercised for more than an hour at once, but she also rarely exercised as a means of venting frustration.

The ache in her arms served as some measurement. Growing hotter and deeper, creeping up as it sank further into her every muscle fibre like worms burrowing into dirt. It was a good pain. A refreshing pain.

And yet it was pain all the same. Astra found herself able to bear it for only so long before her screaming limbs became more than a match for her will. Her arms seemed lead instead of flesh as she lowered them, allowing a deep, satisfied sigh to escape her at the sudden relief from a persisting strain.

She changed quickly, having stripped herself down to undergarments and chest wrappings, seeing sweat-reeked clothing as by far the more embarrassing option when measured against immodesty.

None had walked in during her exercise, anyway.

Astra had managed to pull her apparel back on by the time the throbbing of her arms became too much to bear. It was a near thing, though, and the throbbing of her joints had grown to the point of rendering them useless only a minute or two after.

It mattered little, leaving her arms to dangle limply by her sides in their exhaustion was always oddly relaxing, too.

***

Unity wasn’t sure whether it was simply because he was addled by alcohol, but Xeno Warper seemed far more steadfast than she’d been previously.

The girl’s tiny frame had seemed a dozen feet tall as she’d berated him, and despite his head being positively chocked full of verbally devastating ripostes, something about the admonishment had kept him from sharing any.

It occurred to him that he could, if he really wanted, stand and leave. He had nothing of real interest in his room, and the thought of walking any great distance made his head throb with nausea, but the silence in his own quarters would surely be better than sitting where he was.

Gemini Menza glancing up from her book at him from the corner of her eye every few moments, likely with completely reasonable suspicion he’d do something Unity-esque. Crow practically sprawled back over the couch, sulking to himself silently.

And then Xeno.

Xeno, who had apparently taken it upon herself to glare at him everytime he did anything besides lie around in silent, drunken misery.

As he lay back to the gloomy atmosphere, near-silence broken only by the shuffling of books and the clearing of throats, he realised something quite peculiar. Unity was actually looking forward to Astra Tempora returning.

At least then he could hear whatever it was Crow had been about to announce. That small entertainment would surely be worth a mere one more person rightly looking at him like the scum he was.

***

Alabaster left shortly after Pyrhic returned, staying only long enough to leave the standing order of “don’t let the Wrathman shoot anything.”

Flint thought that had been quite presumptuous of her. He’d had no intention of so much as drawing his gun, not when her quarters were such a naturally well-defended position. It wasn’t like he was being asked to wait in an open field.

After a few minutes he’d strolled over to one of the several incredibly bizarre pieces of furniture that were positioned on the right side of the room, plopping himself down in a long one. He almost yelped as he sank into it, the lack of resistance coming as such a surprise that it sent him to his feet, and made one of his pistols leap into his grip.

Pyrhic had stared at him at that, and he’d felt quite embarrassed, mumbling an apology as he retook a seat in the unnaturally soft surface. They’d spent quite some time in silence.

At first that had been fine by Flint, he wasn’t sure what he could talk to the woman about. Eventually, however, the monotony of staring around the same exact room with nothing else to capture his attention grew too much.

Turning to the servant, he spoke.

“So, I’ll be watching over you while you’re investigating things. Is there anything you think I should know beforehand?”

He needed to crane his neck to see her due to her position behind his seat, and the distraction of doing so made it hard to catch little things. All the same, Flint could’ve sworn he saw a flash of something pass across her face before she responded.

“Did lady Alabaster not ask us to address any of our questions before she left?”

Now that he had nothing else to focus on, Flint could fully take in her accent. It was as far from Alabaster’s as his own, though in an entirely different direction. Heightening vowels in place of shortening them, and fully articulating phonemes he would stop at.

There was something strange about hearing such common Olympian speech from one who seemed to pronounce each individual syllable as clearly as possible. As though she had learned the dialect in a classroom.

“She did,” Flint answered. “But I’m asking you, not her. I’m supposed to be protecting you while you go and do things that might well annoy some very dangerous people, it’d be good to know as much as possible.”

The woman’s face shifted fractionally, just enough to let Flint know she was annoyed.

“In that case there is nothing of note. I will do as lady Alabaster instructed, and you can do your own duty.”

Flint turned back around and said nothing more.