"Knock. Aim. Release." The words were my heartbeat, the tiny ritual that undid panic and replaced it with rhythm. Bow in my left hand, arrow in my right, I let the world narrow until only string and shaft and that small, stubborn target existed. Am I a master swordsman? No. A perfect archer? Hardly. An origamist who folds fate into obedient paper? Not even close. None of the things other people brag about are mine. So I practice the things I can claim. I practice until muscle remembers what mind forgets.

Approach the line. Feel the bow's weight. Slide an arrow into the groove. Knock. The feathered tail of the shaft brushes my cheek—familiar friction. Draw. The string bites my fingertips. The odachi at my side is different work, but the same rule applies: commitment of the whole body. Hold the breath as the world tightens. Aim. A tiny micro-twist of my wrist to correct the wind. Release. Let go and become the empty space where the arrow flies through.

Again.

"How many mana arrows is that now?" V asked, tossing a small globule of salt between his fingers, pretending not to stare.

Lumivis answered without turning from his post where he observed, like a sentinel who also kept the score. His voice was calm, dry. "Nine hundred thirty-nine."

My chest did something odd. Half surprise, half a small, secret pride. "Four hundred more than his prior record," Lumivis added, as if reading out a statistical footnote rather than marking a small personal victory.

"That's—" Cordelia's voice carried across the practice yard, a thin ribbon of criticism and affection. "Wow. So when Gin said archery would be the best way for him to condense his mana, he wasn't lying."

"You all can stop pretending we have privacy," I said, lowering my bow for a second and wiping sweat from my brow. "Especially because you're talking to Lumivis."

Wallace grunted, the sound half a laugh. "We like to pretend we have privacy around you," he said, and his tone had the faintest edge of fondness. He was right, of course. There was no pretending with me; my aura hummed and spilled like a poorly capped lantern. Everything leaked.

Basaroiel, tucked safe in the satchel at my hip, chirped softly. The hatchling's breath warmed the cloth against my thigh. He pressed his head against my leg as if to say, keep going. His intent was simple and fierce: stay.

I set another arrow, practiced the same motions until they were almost automatic. Each release was an offering and a restraint at once. I learned to tune the mana that threaded the shaft, not to pour it but to weave it—tight filaments that bound themselves to the wood. Too much and the arrow sang with power, reckless and hungry. Too little and the shot fell short, a promise broken.

Lumivis watched the pattern. "You are leaking more deliberately now," he said, not unkind. "It is less accidental and more strategic."

"What does that mean?" I asked, because there were nights I woke with my chest hollow from giving too much away.

"It means you are learning to let breath out in lines," he answered. "One measure per arrow. Control the cadence and you can shape the field. But beware: maintain your center. Your aura will expand if you tighten and force; it will spill if you get angry. Calm condenses. Fury disperses."

I thought of Morres and the duel, of the court and its knives. Calm condenses. Fury disperses. I let the reminder sit under my ribs.

Fractal bounded up, cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. "Okay, serious question. If you make nine hundred thirty-nine of those, how many of them can actually pierce a suit of reinforced plate? Asking for reasons that are both theatrical and practical."

"Enough to make a point," Cordelia said, dry as always. "And more than enough to make a politician reconsider what they call trade policy."

V flicked the salt globe so it spun on his knuckles. "So how many more until he can carve his initials into a mountain? Because I'd like to place a bet."

"You can bet on my restraint," I muttered, nocking another arrow. The chant in my head shortened: knock, aim, release. It became a metronome, steady and indifferent to wagers and gossip.

Lumivis stepped closer this time. He watched the quiver and then my fingers. "Relax the last knuckle. You hold tension there from drawing for too long. Let it sit. Your release will be cleaner. The mana will stay with the shaft rather than sluicing off your hand."

I tried it. The next arrow left the string with a quieter thunk. The flight was truer. The target shivered exactly where I'd meant. A thin bloom of starlight flickered out from the shaft where it struck—a small, private bloom that made my throat tighten.

Cordelia exhaled slowly, half-satisfied, half-mocking. "You're improving. Don't get distracted by accolades. Keep the rhythm."

Wallace nodded once. "Good. Practice makes field-ready."

Basaroiel ruffled his purple-black feathers; an approving rumble. He pecked at my sleeve, impatient for more, and I smiled for real this time. Tiny victories stacked up like paper boxes. I kept shooting, counting inward with each breath: knock, aim, release. The mantra steadied the bleed. For the first time in days my aura felt tethered, not a river but a channel.

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"Any other suggestions?" I asked, lowering my bow but keeping the string taut enough to remind myself the lesson wasn't over.

The group exchanged glances, most of them answering with a shrug.

V was the first to fill the silence, predictably. He leaned back against a crate, tossing a crystalline shard of salt into the air, letting it dissolve and reform between his fingers. "We aren't archers. In fact, hardly anyone outside the Nomadic Tribes in the South even bothers. Why would they? Guns are cheap, effective, and you can lace them with alchemical tinctures. Slam a cartridge with the right infusion, and you get the same result as mana threading a bowstring—without the fuss." He gave a bored yawn. "The only reason anyone would bother with a bow is if they're stubborn enough to force their mana into the shot in real time." His eyes flicked toward me, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So, congratulations, boss, you're officially a stubborn idiot."

I ignored the jab, though Fractal didn't. She crossed her arms, lips tightening, while Ten cracked her knuckles against her thigh. Both gave V a look sharp enough to remind him he wasn't as untouchable as he liked to think.

V didn't miss a beat. "Besides, look at us. Our only real frontline is Wallace."

That earned him two simultaneous stares—from Ten and Fractal, both of whom looked as if they were considering rearranging his teeth.

He raised his hands defensively, salt dissolving into harmless motes. "I said real frontline. You know, the one who takes the damage."

Wallace let out a low, gravelly grunt, the kind he always did when he was equal parts amused and annoyed. "I create barriers and hold a shield, yes. I carry a javelin, yes. But I am barely considered by most to be a frontline. More a defensive bulwark. Support. The one who keeps everyone else from dying." He turned his gaze on V. "Not the one who goes running headlong into a blade just to see who bleeds first."

Ten snorted. "That's rich, considering I've literally bled first for this group more times than I can count."

"True." Wallace inclined his head in acknowledgement. "But bleeding is not the same as enduring. There's a difference."

"Enduring's overrated." V spun the salt into a thin blade, then snapped it into nothing. "Better to win fast than test how long you can last."

Fractal finally cut in, her voice deceptively light, though her tail flicked with irritation. "And what happens when winning fast isn't an option, genius? You burn out your tricks, and then who's left holding the line? Wallace. Or Ten. Or me, apparently, since I seem to be your definition of 'not real enough' when it comes to fighting."

The air hung heavy for a moment. I could almost see the battlefield lines drawing themselves in the dirt between them—what each of us could give, what each of us refused to give, and the uncomfortable gap in between.

I slung the bow over my shoulder, breaking the tension with a long sigh. "He's not wrong."

That made everyone turn toward me, sharp as knives.

"We're unbalanced. Too many specialists, not enough endurance. Wallace can hold, but only for so long. Ten can soak damage, but not infinitely. Fractal and I aren't built for frontline pressure. Sven and Cordelia are distance casters. V's… well, V's V." I gestured loosely at him, earning an exaggerated bow. "We rely on coordination and quick kills. But if we're dragged into a war of attrition, or gods forbid, something that ignores finesse and just keeps coming…"

"…then we're all in trouble," Cordelia finished for me, her voice clipped and exact.

Nobody argued with that.

***

We did a full dive into my Labyrinth.

Pendell greeted us like it always did—with the stench of rot, disease, carrion, and mold crawling into the lungs. The air clung, damp and heavy, almost alive with the echoes of suffering that had seeped into every stone. The streets twisted like veins through a carcass, sagging under the weight of decay.

"Oh hey. This isn't as bad as that lower layer," V said automatically, wrinkling his nose but flashing his usual grin.

"Comparing terrible to the worst isn't a compliment," Cordelia muttered, rolling her eyes. "It's just flattery by association." She glanced toward me, her tone sharpening. "What's the plan, Alex? You surely had one for dragging us all in here physically."

I nodded, though the weight of Pendell pressed against my chest. "Yeah. I do. Simple, really: why should we fight by their rules? We aren't built for a drawn-out endurance fight—at least, not face-to-face. Charging headlong into attrition battles isn't us."

V's grin widened, eyes glittering. "Oh, I get it. You want us to flip the table. Rely on imprisonment and impoverishment. Strip them of what they think makes them strong—resources, knowledge, terrain, momentum. Take everything."

I let my breath settle and nodded again. "Exactly. Pendell is suffocating, oppressive, vile…but it's mine. It can become a weapon if I shape it right." My voice dropped, almost a growl. "And I'm going to practice something new—[The Ruined World]. Gin said it was the key. That it would mesh with my Labyrinth, and that it's the whole reason I should embrace being a Labyrinthian. Those two cubes alone—this and Pendell—can do what brute strength never could."

Cordelia folded her arms, lips pressed thin. "You're talking about reshaping reality through deprivation. Tearing away safety, comfort, familiarity. Turning the battlefield into another Pendell."

"Yes." I didn't flinch from it. "Because that's what I know. And if our enemies want to drag us into their nightmare of endless endurance, then we'll drag them into mine."

Fractal shivered, though she tried to mask it behind a smirk. "Well, that's comforting. Not."

Wallace rumbled low in his throat, but there was something like approval in his voice. "A battlefield no one else can endure but us. That's… sound."

Sven finally spoke, cleaning dust from his gun's chamber with mechanical precision. "It's dangerous. But it's clever. And if Gin thinks it's the right path, then I suppose that makes two of you who enjoy playing with fire."

"Correction," I said softly, letting Pendell's shadows curl around us like smoke. "I don't play with fire. I play with ruin."

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