Kegara pushed through the wooden door, letting it crash against the adjacent stone wall. The guardhouse was warm from the artifact of flame and logs in the hearth, tenderly curling around her frigid and blood-stained skin.

Her body ached and trembled, kept intact after several days of fighting in those rancid caves by the power of a singular item hung around her neck: an artifact of vitality, shining a vibrant red. The second and third layer of the hive beneath was culled with fewer than ten casualties over the course of the campaign; a magnificent accomplishment befitting of a Grand Paladin. She deserved her rest and a fine feast.

And yet, here she was, her wishes held back by a vexing interruption.

Matters of personnel should be below her, yet the inquisition insisted otherwise. She ignored the shocked militiawomen around the fire and marched across the stone floor toward a metal grate doorway, ducking by the waist to fit under the tiny frame meant for the average female. Such architecture was both pitiful and uncomfortable.

There was a long cobble staircase beyond, lit by a series of dim lanterns. The sole guard at the bottom saluted as she approached, bowing her snout. "Greetings, Grand Paladin. The four returning deserters are—"

"I am aware," Kegara gruffly asserted, pushing the banished whelp out of the way and shoving the final door open.

The dungeon was dark, the few wall-bound lights failing to illuminate even half of the hallway beyond. At least the ceiling was tall enough for her to stand up. Her armored boots clacked against the stone, echoing through each metal cell on her way to the very end.

Most chambers were empty. Some had abhorrent for further studies. One had a laborless female with no legs, while another had a male who became crazed after the death of his mates.

Kegara paid none of them any mind. Her eyes were locked with the black-hooded inquisitor at the far end. The acolyte rested her back against the back wall, slowly sharpening a long sword of ice with a chunk of iron.

She had nothing to say at Kegara's entrance, simply looking toward the cell with the four deserters. The Grand Paladin hesitantly took her eyes off the silent one, taking a step toward the cell. Three females and a singular male stood behind the bars.

All four waited patiently, staring at the white-skinned leader. None of them sat on the benches or laid on the floor, simply standing as if they were to be released at any moment. Their tails were on the ground, lifeless, with no effort kept in holding them above the grime—a product of shame, most assuredly.

Kegara squinted, taking in their ragged forms and torn garments. The once-scouts had long since been stripped of their spears and armor. A subtle billowing of particulates left their nostrils with each breath, reminiscent of smoke… The dungeon was not so dusty.

"Two failures and two deserters," the scarred warrior growled deeply, glaring down at them.

The pitiful creatures took a moment to tense, the mated female subtly hiding the male with her finned tail.

Kegara crossed her upper arms and held her armored third by her side. "What have you to say for yourselves?"

She faintly recalled one of the females, the green-skinned guard. That one swallowed and bowed by her waist, speaking quickly and obediently. "We were captured and forced into labor under the oppressive Star—"

The paladin slammed her pavise shield into the metal bar, making it bend and silencing the fool's frills. "I know where you come from; the inquisition and I have already heard your stories. Convince me why I need such feeble hands in my settlement. Tell me why you should not be sent to the forges."

"W-We risked life and limb to return from the cruel grips of the star-sent's heathenous ways!" the guardswoman pleaded, hands held out. "Our repentance is in your guidance. I-If that is not enough, we have knowledge of their settlement—their weapons!"

Kegara glared back at the hooded figure. The acolyte stopped sharpening her weapon, the faintest glow in her eyes. Her disinterested tone matched how quiet her intent was. "Their thoughts have yet to be explored."

So there was use left of these cowardly whelps. The paladin leaned down toward the bars and stared into the only one to speak of the four. Her skin was bruised and sore, yet far cleaner than one would expect… And her scent, it was of blood. Not simply of copper and iron, but lined with something altogether different.

It was a putrid aroma that pervaded the caves behind the great stone wall and throughout the vast underground complex of the precursors… No, that stench was cold and dead, rotted through, while this was something warm and stale. It was almost sterile. Fresh, like unspoiled meat. But not fish, not poultry, and not beast.

…Warm. Why was it warm? She had no flame artifact on her person.

She inhaled again, feeling a thick waft of heat flow through her nostrils. The cell's air was not cold like the rest of the dungeon. It was not such a noticeable difference, but it was present.

Kegara stepped forward once more, a faint aura of hot air suffusing into her blood-stained skin for a moment before the four deserters cautiously ducked back. Their eyes were wide, watching her every move in unison.

"Guardswoman. Come here," the Grand Paladin ordered sharply.

The ragged female froze, stalling with her words. "I-I assure you, my loyalty to the Mountain Lord is sound. My soul is in your keeping, Grand Paladin, and it desires repentance!"

"Come to the bars."

The deserter continued to hesitate. Kegara snarled, slowly pulling her massive Abhorrent Breaker from her back. The four were still, frozen in their stares at her.

A growl reverberated from her throat. "If none of you will cooperate, then you were never destined to see his palace at the Mountain's peak. Your pitiful blood is better suited for the soil than his grace… Know that your grounded soul will bring me no joy."

The male took a nervous step forward, his mate reaching a hand out to pull him back. Yet, he had already moved to just behind the bars, looking up at the Grand Paladin with terror in his… dilated eyes… Kegara reached out and snatched his wrist, yanking his body against the metal rods with a dull 'donk.'

His skin was… moist, squishy like fat. It moved underneath her grasp, almost limp. But it was not hot. Nor was it cold as it should be.

"You are warm," Kegara stated firmly.

His cadence was uneasy and nervous. "…T-The artifacts of heat are warm."

She stared at him suspiciously and fully brought her thick sword out from its sheath. The male squirmed in her grasp, but it was futile. She gripped her blessed purifier with two hands and brought it closer to his hand.

His arm flailed, the muscle beneath spasming. A growl from the orange-skinned female behind was turned into a whimper with a singular glare. None should interfere.

Kegara brought the sword down into his palm, slicing a shallow laceration. He winced, but she held his wrist tight as thick red blood dripped down onto the ground… It reacted with the air quickly, hardly showing any blue within. The spilled contents trickled over the mortar between the stones on the floor. The pastel ichor was thick, spreading slowly.

But he bled nonetheless.

She let go of him, scarcely satisfied with the results. The male scrambled back into the embrace of his mate while Kegara looked upon her palm, moist with the remnants of his skin… Thank the Mountain Lord for making deserters of his guidance as repulsive physically as they were mentally.

She stepped away and placed her wet palm against the hot metal of a lantern. A short squeal of seared liquid pierced the silent dungeon, putting a disgusted scowl onto her visage.

…Repulsive indeed.

The acolyte appeared from behind her the second she turned around. The inquisitor was silent, only blackness underneath her hood.

"These ones are strange," Kegara commended, her snout scrunched in disgust. "They will be given harsh labor or the pyre… You are free to search their thoughts."

"Stranger than the stars. What were once scars will reveal more than the eye can see," responded the quiet female.

The paladin stared at her uncertainly. "…Indeed."

That was all. With her suspicion and menial task assigned for a later time, she was allotted freedom. May the Mountain Lord stay her hand, were there any more disruptions to her rest.

= = = = =

Harrison couldn't help his frown as he approached Tracy. The towering cyclops behind him was nearly complete, yet his nerdy lover was falling apart at the keyboard. An error message repeated itself in the command window while she rolled her head over crossed arms atop the desk. Clenched teeth barely covered her low groan.

Any talks about the maritime drones and upcoming blood-moon suddenly weren't so important. He calmly approached, quietly calling out as soon as he was beside her. "Trace?"

She perked up for a second, but the brief glimpse of her screen prevented any smile from forming. Her tired eyes wordlessly begged him to end her suffering. She didn't say anything. There was a profound sadness behind her irises, yet her rage against the machine was unyielding.

Luckily, he knew just what to do…

The engineer suppressed a smile, grabbing her hand and throwing his other arm out wide in grand overexaggeration. His old-timey, posh voice echoed into the cacophony of the workshop. "Oh mine dearest mistress, hath this evil machinery spoilt thine mood?"

She looked at him incredulously, a playful curiosity cracking the corners of her lips into the faintest smile.

His movements only became more excessive. He leaned over her toward the monitor, putting his face a few inches from the screen and using his hand as a search visor. "Oh great heavens! I see! What a terrible fate! An error upon thine blessed code! Nay, this cannot be… My dearest lover mustn't be tainted by such horrible things!"

He stood straight up again and rotated her chair toward him, bringing the back of her palm to his lips and giving it a peck. "This evil must not persist, my dear… Doth thou need an escape to set thine mind once more?"

Tracy stared into him, absolutely cracking at the seams. She kicked his shins and batted his face with the same palm. "You cannot be real."

"Ah, but I am! Can you not feel-eth my heart pounding for you?" he touted with an ever more dramatized voice, leaning forward until they were eye-to-eye.

"Stahhhpppp," she whined through giggles.

She tried in vain to dodge his kisses, only leading to a few dozen smooches all over her cheeks, nose, and forehead. "My dear, are you denying my love? Do you care not for a—" his voice pulled back into a greasy hovercar salesman's for a few seconds. "—full-body massage! Free for beautiful black-haired women! Free for genius women! Double free for genius, pretty, black-haired sweethearts!"

Tracy stopped absolutely everything, staring into him so intently he could've sworn Akula's hard-ass possessed her. "Massage?"

He chuckled, his voice returning to normal, if not still a bit teasing. "A massage. I don't know about a full full-body massage, though… You still keep that sleeping bag in your corner, right?"

She nodded her head vigorously. "Mmhmm!"

"So how about a quick break?"

"Fucking. Deal."

His adorable grease bunny saved her work and scrambled out of her chair. She tore into one of the boxes beneath her largest tool rack, ripping the roll of pre-made bed out from within. He offered to help her, but she playfully flipped him off and went ahead by herself. She got down onto her hands and knees to pat down the inconsistencies, revealing a glorious sight.

One perfectly peach-shaped behind outlined in mechanic's overalls, just tight enough to show everything. The curves, the thickness, and the allure… They were too much. He knew then that his entire life's purpose had led up to this point. He could feel it in his heart.

He stared into the most pristine landing pad for his palm, ripe for the slapping. His vision narrowed, his footsteps echoing into the ether as nothing else existed at that moment. Just his hand and its goal.

He raised his arm high into the air, its potential magnified to the limits of reality. The final approach vector narrowed, his palm held still at the precipice of greatness. He calculated the distance, measured the wind, pondered if mercury was in retrograde, knew how fast he needed to slap a chicken to cook it, and—

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Fuck it. This was too good.

One last step and he kneeled. Momentum transformed into ideal angular acceleration. All the energy held in the sky whipped his arm down.

'SMACK!'

A flawless inelastic collision made a perfect impact. His fingers dug into an obscene amount of fat and muscle that quickly tensed. He felt the sublime mix of firmness and jiggle though every square inch of his palm… And it was glorious.

Tracy whipped her head around, face beet red. Her lips quivered and bared teeth, wholly indecisive between growling and smiling.

"You mother—" She screamed into clenched teeth, completely faltering at his smirk. "THERE WAS NO NEED TO SLAP MY ASS THAT HARD! Do it softer next time, asshole!"

He smugly raised a brow, squeezing the plump cheek he held. "Next time?"

"Don't let it go to your head," she pouted, glaring at him. "You can repay your debt with the massage now."

Harrison reluctantly removed his hand from her posterior and sat down on the makeshift bed with his legs crossed. He only needed to pat his lap once before she dove into it, laying her chin on one thigh and her chest on the other. She craned her neck, looking up at him with pleading eyes and the cutest smile.

He knew how to fix her.

Take one hand to scratch her back and another to knead her arms and shoulders… And Voilà! He had one melted technician humming in pleasure with each circle of his fingers. Though, she did bite his hand once under the so-called 'reparations' for slapping her ass.

"So, did you talk with Max today?" he asked absently, sparking up a conversation.

Tracy rested her temple on his thigh, closing her eyes as she spoke. "Mmm… yeah. He's excited for the cyclops. We also confirmed it was electric signals that block or allow the intent-based radiation between the radio-absorbant and psycho-generative artifacts. I think it has something to do with some material acting like a conductor or something like that… I don't know. We wrote down what he said, but I've spent so much of today trying to work with the cyclops sensors that it's all a blur."

The engineer squeezed her side in what form of a hug he could give, continuing to massage out the stress from her muscles and scratch whatever part of her back she requested.

"How about you? How's the port coming along?"

Harrison shrugged. "About as fast as you'd expect it to go. The foundations should be shaped by tomorrow morning. The pre-fab blocks are setting slowly too."

"Mycelial-concrete's a whiny bitch that won't set," Tracy commiserated.

"Sure hate's doing its job… Anyway, Akula came to talk to me again today."

She nuzzled her head into him. "Mmm—oh, yeah, right there, behind the shoulder—what'd she have to say?"

"Some cool stuff about how they build coral houses with their intent, but…" He sighed, staring into the ceiling. "Tell me, how many sea Malkrin do you think there are?"

The technician shook her head, stretching her arms out like a dog. "I dunno… You said they lived kinda tribally, so like a hundred thousand or so? Why do you ask? Are there more or what?"

"Less, actually. Around seven thousand," he stated soberly.

Tracy's head shot up, eyes wide and disbelieving. "Wait. Only seven thousand!?"

"Only seven thousand five hundred, I think," he confirmed with a nod, putting his held-in thoughts out loud. "Feels… wrong, doesn't it? I mean, I'm sure the land kingdom has more people, but it doesn't really make me confident. There should be more, right? Maybe it's their religion's 'Cycle' that prevents them from growing, or maybe there are other Malkrin across the planet. Maybe they haven't explored very far? These people have evolved and lived for much more than a few hundred years, so they should have proliferated elsewhere, right? I mean, Shar's people have metal and boats and proper farming techniques that humans didn't invent for hundreds of thousands of years. It's possible. But, with the inventions, there should be more."

She thought about it, resting her forearm on him. "Well, what about the other star-sent?"

"What do you…" His voice trailed off as he recalled Shar and Oliver's words about the previous star-sent, depth-sent, and Ershan-sent. He'd almost forgot about it, how there were outside forces to the Malkrin other than him and Trace.

Harrison ran a hand through his hair. He didn't have all the pieces together in his head just yet. "What are you implying about the others?"

"The Malkrin kinda talk about the deity-sents, us and whatever else is out there, like forces of change—good, bad, observant or whatever. Rei was literally just talking to me earlier today about 'The Slayer of Leviathan,' a big 'ol fucker made of metal who killed some giant serpent for the sea people a long time ago. She thought it was like the cyclops we're making for Max, so…" She raised her brows at him.

"You think the colonists taught the Malkrin?"

"I was—" Tracy cut herself off with a realization, staring into him. "I was just gonna say that maybe someone else taught the Malkrin, yeah, but a colony uplift theory definitely makes sense. Do we know how and when they overlapped? Like, years-wise?"

"Sebas estimated it was around five hundred or so years since the colony fell. There aren't any surface structures, and the decomposition of metals and concrete adds up. Though, I think it might be a little less. So, let's just say the colony existed up until around four hundred years ago—Ershan years, so like four-fifths of a standard Earth-Sol year… And for the Malkrin, well, there's at least a few hundred years plus however-long it took to evolve, so it's definitely possible."

Harrison scratched his chin, softly running his other hand through Tracy's hair. "Though I don't know how much that adds up with the local timeline. I haven't heard them talk about anything over a few hundred years ago either. Just vague 'a few generations ago' or something like that… For all we know, other automatons like Max could've interacted with the locals after the colony fell. I feel like we could learn a lot from the Malkrin's elders. Or, at least from their leaders."

The technician laid her head down again, pleased with how he played with her hair. "…So you're going along with Akula's idea? You're willing to go to the sea kingdom?"

"Probably." He drew in a long breath, mulling over all the repercussions—on the mainland front and for the other Cycle worshipers. "I still want to boat up to the cargo bay and really understand her people first. Then, after we're comfortable in our defenses and our goal, we can start planning out our approach and the logistics of supporting up to three hundred extra Malkrin."

She hummed and nodded, melting into him. "Fair points. Guess I won't be doing anything different soon."

"Different projects, same job," he added, scratching her back while he admired her prone form. "I'll admit, you've taken nicely to being our professional drone girl. I remember when you were suffering through target acquisition and cross-referencing. Now you print out and control a new army every week on top of working on the builder bots, sensors, turrets, AI training, mechs…"

Tracy hid her face in his thigh, whining into it. "Duuuuuuude, stahhhppp iiiit."

"Can't a man be proud of his beautiful, lovely, and talented woman?" he teased.

She continued to dig her face into him, but it barely covered the red creeping along her ears and cheeks… Like throwing a brick in a washing machine.

His smirk tempered down into a softer smile as he recalled how underappreciated she was back in Sol. "I think you should be proud. I know it sounds out of nowhere, but I figure you should know I'm grateful for everything you do. You're amazing, and I love you."

A singular eye peeked back at him through a curtain of silken black hair. "…Mean it?"

"I'd be a husk of a man and this entire settlement wouldn't exist without you. Of course I mean it." Harrison hoped Tracy would've gathered a bit more confidence in the last few days, but if it gave him a reason to be genuine with the nerdy mechanic, he'd take it.

"You mean it enough to continue massaging?" she mumbled into his leg.

He chuffed in amusement, sighing sarcastically. "The monkey paw curls."

His hand smacked into her ass, massaging it through her squeal. But she didn't complain. She hummed with gratification as he continued to squeeze and knead out the 'stress' in her butt and thighs. Harrison made no mistake in where he chose to lead his fingers, keeping his lover between relaxation and excitement.

She lifted her head to stare back at him, eyes lidded and lips curled into a sly smirk. "You're playing with fire, man. You know where this goes."

He cupped the inside of her thigh, bringing his fingers ever closer… "Oh? It definitely feels like it's getting hot in here."

"Fuck you," she breathed.

"Alright, when?" he countered.

"Now, dumbass."

= = = = =

"There are two… Seven hundred meters… Both females and both cloaked… I presume inquisition," Vodny stated, tracking the invaders through her scope.

Cera, prone in the grass beside her, nodded ever-so-briefly, almost as if the breeze merely grazed her red-brush ghillie suit. But the shadow knew her intent was acknowledged. She continued to watch the foolish invaders creeping between the treeline, lining up her crosshairs to account for the railgun's velocity.

But she could not take the shot. Not yet.

One must watch the watcher.

Her hand was that of the Creators. There was only observation to be had until the rules of engagement are changed or hostility is shown.

The acolytes moved as if they were prey in water, darting between cover and concealment. There were moments they stopped just long enough for a bullet to crack their pitiful skulls. Anticipation spiked in her nerves every time.

Vodny wanted to kill. She knew these fiends sought only to take the last vestiges of her mates' wishes.

She hated the truth-keepers of her own faith. How ignorant they were. How malicious they were to the only true salvation in these wretched lands.

It felt almost ridiculous that an entire order of the sect could be the antithesis of labor, community, and prosperity. Did they not see the working tools of her chief? Were the acolytes truly willing to disregard the camaraderie and spirit of the Sharkrin? Most certainly, they could not ignore the grand abundance of the fortress city!

The shadow would have spat on the ground if she were willing to forego her concealment… Even the water-worshiping bottom-feeders would have gathered enough know-how to see whose hands held a future of prosperity, and those coral-lickers have never even seen the foot of the Mountain, much less attempt to climb it!

…Steady breaths.

She took mental notes of the inquisitors' movements and their armaments. They would pose no threat to the Sharkrin.

Vodny would make sure of it.

- - - - -

Vodny stopped at the entrance of the room and felt her stomach sink. It was illuminated by warm lighting, revealing all the contours and shadows of a bed she felt sickeningly familiar with.

It was only one night, but the comfort of the inhabitants still struck her. She could almost feel the soft embrace of her male and the assurance of her blood-sister's presence… Those fabrics were empty and meaningless without them.

"Is there a problem?" Oliver asked from behind her.

The shadow clenched her teeth and shook her head, hiding her wet eyes from the male. "Not at all."

She entered and stood by the door, letting the male into his room. After all, it was not her mates' living quarters anymore. It was Cera's and Oliver's as of recently.

A small part of Vodny resented it. It was hers and meant for her mates. How dare anyone else invade her space?

But… it was not her space. She no longer had what made the large bed necessary in the first place.

They were gone.

She sucked in air, blowing it out in a pitiful attempt to push against the tightness in her chest. There was still work yet to do… Dreams still unfulfilled… Hope still in her heart.

What kind of failure would she be if she was not strong enough to carry on and bring forth their last wishes?

Oliver stopped in front of her, bowing his head kindly. "May I provide anything while you wait? I understand it is still quite late."

Vodny held her arms by her sides. "I shall be present for all of Cera's summons. And no, I do not need anything. Thank you."

The craftsman nodded and walked past her toward a desk nearby. He flipped a small lamp on, donned his circle-framed glasses, and began to work on his data pad, referencing a thick book as he worked. Pages flipped, and his pen tapped along the screen for some time.

His motions were nothing interesting to her, but it was… difficult to take in the rest of the room. So, she crossed her arms, rested her back to the doorframe, and watched. The way he worked was almost rhythmic. He flipped a page, read it, jotted scripts onto the screen, and repeated the sequence.

There was nothing recognizable in the book that she could make out. It was mostly black scribbles on a shiny white background. Though every once in a while, there would be a small drawing. Odd shapes and arrows made up some, while walls and machines made up others. The craftsman would replicate some of them, but add to the pictures with his own arrows, markings, and star-sent script numbers.

And there were a lot of scripts.

He was quite deft with their creation, sliding the polymer pen to and fro with ease. He was well practiced. It was clear he was educated… knowledgeable in many fields.

Vodny lowered her snout, having lost the energy to keep it held level. She only ever got to see the Great College of the Golden City once. It was when she had been imprisoned for the first time, charged with taking the life of a guard—there was no arguing her guilt in the action. She remembered scowling at the scholars in their robes, haughtily chittering over arithmetic or the patterns of the moons. Who were they to be so joyous in being born to a wealthy, intelligent life, while she was in chains?

How many of them still had living mothers and fathers? They never knew the pangs of hunger or the long, sleepless nights in the winter's cold. And yet, for her, it was theft or starvation. She had no choice. She never wanted to be caught by the guard. She never wanted to kill! She never wanted it to end this… way…

Oliver's hand movements slowly came to a stop, but he did not flip the page… Why?

Her eyes locked with his, and she blinked away the blurring liquid forming over her lids. He placed his pen down and rotated his chair to face her, a tender worry in his expression and intent.

"Vodny?"

A small flicker of realization struck her. "Forgive me. I had not meant to stare at you. I was… thinking…"

He softly smiled, readjusting his circular glasses. "You are alright, my friend. What is on your mind? There would appear to be much hiding behind your eyes."

Friend? "I was simply pondering your labor. You are quite talented for a m—" Vodny cut herself off, turning toward him fully. She raised her brows with forced intrigue. "Did you ever study in the Great College of the Golden City?"

He chittered, shaking his head. "No, I did not. In fact, I rarely even lived in the capital. A few have asked me the same question. I learned carpentry and woodworking under my mother. Later on, with a foot in the door from her and many days of proving my skills, the trade guild taught me metalworking and irrigation techniques."

"Talented indeed," the shadow complimented quietly… and morosely. "Cera is quite lucky to have you. But, I suppose it is like her to have one to match her skills."

"My beloved often joked that the two of us could construct a house and furnish it."

Vodny paused, her thoughts swimming in circles until she recalled that Cera, the deadly markswoman, shadow, and factory manager, was once a mere ceramist and glass-maker. "It is certainly humorous that your talents align in such a way. But, I was more thinking of how skilled she was in being a shadow, just as much as you are with carpentry. Both of you seem to be quite proficient in using star-sent blessings of tools and trade."

The shadow's intent fell to a whisper, as if she were treading on unstable grounds. "I have always been curious. I hope you do not mind the query, but… how has your mate come to be so fluent in the ways of concealment?"

"We spent many days in the wilderness after our time under Kegara," Oliver deflected, casually flipping a page in his book.

Certainly one could not be so skilled from merely being in the wilderness… Vodny raised a brow steeped in suspicion. "What of the stillness of her limbs? How does she steady her railgun so easily? Her blade is as deft as her strength is stable."

He continued to write scripts onto the data pad, but these were drawn out and purposeless. It was as if he wished to ignore the conversation altogether. He shrugged his shoulders. "All a matter of her profession. Ceramics and glass are difficult materials to master. You would be surprised to see how firm one must be with their digits and musculature to be as skilled as my dearest Cera is."

A flicker of irritation sparked Vodny's firm words. "Your mate held her ground against an artifact-using inquisitor."

"Why must you pester me so?" Oliver snapped, tearing off his glasses to glare at her in a sudden burst of energy. "I do not know! All I know of my mate is her love and dedication. I do not examine her talents, for it is her sweet and tender care that gives me life! Why should I question having a mate that can offer me everything I could want and more? She is perfect! Ideal even! Rarely do I see such a powerful side of her, save for mating—and I enjoy it! So, forgive me for not knowing or questioning why my dearest, thoughtful Cera is capable of such wet work skills."

The shadow stood still, taking in his words as he continued.

"Forgive me… I meant not to shout. It is unlike me. But, I can see that you appreciate my mate's skills and presence as I do. It is quite hard not to, she is one of a kind and will certainly teach you well. However, I truly believe there is no necessity in questioning one who fosters greatness in those around them."

The door creaked open, startling the gray-skinned female. Cera walked through the entrance with a paper-filled factory binder in one hand, and a bumpy bag in the other three. She smiled and nodded to the two inhabitants of the room.

Vodny swallowed the immediate anxiety in her chest and straightened her back. "I have arrived for training. How am I to be tempered this evening?"

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