Kita lay sideways on the velvety couch, her head propped against a folded arm, her broken leg stretched out stiffly before her.

Sunlight streamed through the broad window of Uncle Yiru's office, warming her cheek, bathing her in resplendence. Outside, the city sprawled—a mass of industry and resilience, its skyline bristling with smokestacks, its streets teeming with soldiers and workers and merchants, and its factories thrumming with the relentless noise of hammer on metal, the rhythmic hisses of steam valves releasing pressure

She let out a slow breath and closed her eyes.

The northwest had survived. The wounds left in the derailed train's wake had already begun to heal. She'd seen the repairs firsthand.

The fractured rooftops and shattered windows near the station were all sealed and reforged in the matter of two days. The central train station itself still gaped open, its skeleton exposed, but in another three weeks or so, she imagined the tracks would be cleared. The steel reinforcements would be bolted into place, and the trains would once again carve paths across the northwest, reuniting cities, villages, and families long stranded.

More importantly, the Swarm had receded.

Over the past week, the reports had trickled into Uncle Yiru's office day by day, each one a proud message: there were fewer broods sighted, fewer convoys lost, and fewer desperate last stands against chittering hordes of ants. Trade routes were reopening. Families were returning home. The factories had been running for two months straight, having obtained new materials from the abundance of bugs they'd been slaughtering, so soldiers across the northwest were starting to receive crates of new Swarmsteel weapons and armour as well. Even the dozen or so Mutant-Classes that'd nearly killed her aboard the midnight train weren't wasted. Every inch of their grotesque bodies had been carved down and repurposed into something useful.

Right now, the northwest would survive without the Thousand Tongue.

She turned her head, glancing into the room tiredly.

Zora sat up straight on the opposite couch, head tilted slightly forward, staff still gripped in one hand, his breathing slow and steady in deep, undisturbed sleep. On another couch between them, the Worm Mage sprawled flat on his back and wrapped in a blanket. A precaution, really. Nobody wanted to look at his body for too long. The biometallic sheen of his skin, the unnatural way his limbs folded, and the way the air seemed to warp around his body… he was an eerie boy with an even eerier past.

He hadn't stirred since that day. Not once. It'd been one week since he'd raised his hands and bent the laws of nature, summoning a vast maw of wormholes to swallow the sky itself.

His wormholes had swallowed fire and steel.

She'd heard the stories before. The whispered rumors of the 'Worm Mage'. Before Zora had even set foot in the northeast, the Worm Mage had already been in the northwest—erasing broods, dismantling nests, slaughtering Mutant-Classes, waging silent war against both the Swarm and the Forward Armies of the empire. The people he saved? He gave them the points and parts of his slaughter and took next to nothing himself. He left nothing behind but the carcasses of those who'd threatened the empire, and for some reason, that included the Forward Armies the Capital had sent to deal with him.

Even in the past two months—while she and Zora had been traversing the northwest, erecting the colossal star-shaped effigies that now safeguarded the region—she'd heard the occasional report that the Worm Mage had been in their shadow. Fighting. Killing. Tearing through the remains of the Swarm Zora couldn't kill with a ruthless efficiency that almost left their efforts paling in comparison.

She curled her fingers into a fist, nails pressing against her palm.

In comparison, what had she done?

On the train, while Zora and the Worm Mage clashed with a dozen Mutant-Classes, she'd struggled against a single one. One. And even then, she hadn't been able to finish it off alone. Zora had helped. The Worm Mage had helped.

Her jaw clenched, a bitter taste settling at the back of her throat.

She'd come here to fight. She'd come here to prove herself—to wield the name of her house with honour and to carve her own victories into the history of this war.

Instead, she'd spent the last week lying on a couch, recovering from wounds that she should very well have walked away from without so much as a scratch.

"... You did well enough for your first foray against a Mutant-Class. Only the Great Makers know how much I struggled against my first."

She barely noticed when Zora stirred, his breath shifting from the slow, steady rhythm of sleep to something more conscious. He didn't move much—just a slight tilt of the head, a small shift in posture—but he was awake now.

So, she stiffened. She'd been expecting silence, maybe another hour of it, but instead, she got… this.

A hollow platitude, lazily tossed in her direction like a bone to a dog.

"Those weren't normal ants," Zora continued, yawning. "It didn't feel like it, but Decima might've been augmenting them with adrenaline-boosting spells. That could explain—"

"Oh, stop it." Her voice came out sharper than she intended, edged with something brittle. "You don't mean that. A teacher like you shouldn't say things you don't mean."

Zora went quiet. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers tapped idly against the armrest, like he was thinking—and then there was a pause in the room. A beat too long.

Then, finally, she exhaled, forcing herself to sit up straighter and smoothing her ruffled composure like pressing wrinkles from silk.

"... I'm sorry," she said, quieter now. "It's just… I told you I could handle myself. I really thought I could." She traced the pattern of her bandages absentmindedly, nails pressing lightly against her skin. "But in the end, I still needed your help."

Then her gaze flicked across the room, settling on the unconscious boy lying on the other couch.

Kita's jaw tightened.

"And then there's him."

Zora shifted slightly, angling his head toward the boy. "You know, I thought it was just a rumour too," he murmured, "but he really is just a child. What does he look like to you? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"Younger than me. Maybe fourteen or so." Her voice was hollow. She pressed her nails harder into her palms. "And yet he fought those Mutant-Classes and protected the entire city like it was nothing."

The silence between them stretched.

Kita exhaled, forcing herself to push past the bitter knot in her throat. "I've heard about him," she said. "People say he used to be one of the empire's child soldiers. One of ours, trained to fight on the frontlines against the Swarm and die on the frontlines against the Swarm. But, three years ago, his army left him behind during a failed campaign to destroy a brood nest up north. He was to be bait while he covered the rest of the army's retreat."

"So I've heard," Zora said. "The Hagi'Shar Blackrock Mountains were the empire's desired conquest, were they not? That mountain range is spectacularly close to Amadeus Academy. A skip and a hop over and you'd see just why southern people don't go there. Despite being in the centre of the continent, the land's marred with snow like it's the far northeast."

"And he should've died in the snow three years ago," she said. "Instead, he disappeared for months, and when he showed his face in front of the army again, he had the 'White Worm Class', capable of letting him create wormholes," she paused for a moment, studying Zora's face to see if he knew anything about this. "The army tried to do something to him. Capture him, kill him—the records aren't clear—but it ended with him slaughtering everyone. All three thousand soldiers dead and buried in the wintry north."

"And so I've heard."

Kita nodded, gaze flicking back at the Worm Mage. "Since then, he's been moving south, wiping out bugs and broods just like you. People compare the two of you a lot, you know?" she said. "But from the rumors, you'd seemed nothing alike to me."

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Zora's brow quirked slightly. "How so?"

Kita gestured vaguely toward the unconscious boy. "People say he's less talkative. Less diplomatic. A lot more violent."

"Hah."

"Nobody really knows what he wants, either, while you wear your objective clear on your sleeve." She exhaled, rubbing her temple. "It's like he doesn't care about anything other than wiping out the Swarm. He doesn't talk to the regional lords like you do. He doesn't talk to any locals like you do. He makes it a point to actively avoid human interaction, and… he's still younger than me?"

Then Kita went quiet, the weight of her own words settling over her like a leaden shroud.

She shouldn't have said that. Shouldn't have let her thoughts spill out so carelessly. She turned her gaze away, fixing it on the floor, but the moment stretched too long, tugging her mind back to a place she didn't want to go.

That night.

The cold stone beneath her palms as she crawled through the dark. The thick, metallic scent of blood hanging in the air. Her sister's body over hers, shielding her from the assassins' blade meant to end her life. Her mother's voice, sharp and final, telling her to live.

And she had. She'd lived.

But if she'd been stronger that night—if she'd fought the assassins—would things have been different?

Would her sister still be alive?

Would her mother?

"... You're trying too hard."

Zora's words cut through her thoughts, low and measured, making her snap her head up.

"I am the top of my class in the Royal Military Academy," she said. "I am the eldest daughter of the Salaqa Household. I will be the heiress. I have to—"

"Do you think you can fool a teacher with something like that?"

She froze.

And more silence stretched between them, taut and unyielding.

Zora exhaled, tilting his head back. "I don't know who the Worm Mage really is," he said plainly. "I don't know what drives him, what he's trying to accomplish, or if he even cares about anything beyond exterminating the Swarm, but I do know this."

He turned slightly toward her.

"It's pitiful," he said, "that children are the ones fighting this war. We adults train boys to die on the frontlines before they've even grown. We raise noble daughters to bear the weight of entire households as if it's their duty to shoulder the failures of generations past. We teach you all to fight, to sacrifice, and to break yourselves against an enemy too vast to ever be defeated by a single man." He let out a slow breath. "And it does nobody any good. Children should just be children, but, well—it's too late for you, isn't it?"

Then his voice softened, just slightly.

"You're already in too deep."

Kita stared at him, her grip tightening against the fabric of her sleeve.

Zora tilted his head slightly again. "It's partly my fault," he said. "I should've sent you home after that fight on our first train."

With that, he rose from his sofa, brushing off his sleeves and collar as he picked up his staff. The air in the office felt heavier with his movement—as though the space itself knew he was about to leave—and with a simple "rise and follow", his sound wave stirred through the room, lifting the sleeping Worm Mage from the couch like a marionette suspended by invisible strings.

The boy's body floated in midair, limp, his expression blank and empty even in slumber.

"I'll be taking my leave, Miss Salaqa," Zora said casually, stepping towards the open window. "I'll be returning to the manor with this guy. There are things I want to know about him, and if he were to awaken in the middle of Nohoch Ik'Balam, I fear he will be spooked by the abundance of civilization around him and leave immediately. The two of us will take the low road and stay covert."

Kita's stomach twisted.

"Feel free to stay here a bit longer, though," he continued. "You're still on your school break, aren't you? Enjoy it as much as you can. Rest your wounds. You don't want your classmates and teachers asking questions about your injuries once you get back, do you?"

Rest.

As if she could possibly rest after everything.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of the sofa. Every part of her body ached, from the bruises on her arms to the dull, throbbing pain deep in her ribs. Her strength hadn't returned yet. Her movements were sluggish, heavy. But as Zora continued moving towards the window with the Worm Mage floating behind him, something inside her snapped.

She reached out, fumbling blindly, and seized the hilt of her sawtooth blade sitting next to her sofa. The weapon was heavy in her weakened grip, but she forced herself upright, throwing one leg over the side of the couch. Her breath came shallow and sharp as she raised the blade and pointed it at his back.

"Stop."

The Thousand Tongue stilled. His back remained to her, his figure framed against the open window, the grey sky beyond casting his silhouette into shadow.

A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, he turned his head. His sealed eyelids locked onto her—not truly seeing, yet somehow cutting through her as if they did.

Kita's grip tightened around the hilt of her blade. Her arms trembled, but she forced her voice steady. "In the end, you never told me what you thought about The Earthen Princess."

Another pause.

After a moment, he sighed.

"It's a good parable," he admitted. "It's hopeful. It's inspiring for children. The idea that everyone can fight for themselves is something I can respect."

"... But—"

"But the idea that a child who'd been bullied and shunned her entire life can just stand before a flood, stare it in the eyes, and build a wall with her bare hands without faltering at all…" He shook his head slightly. "It's a little unrealistic, don't you think?"

Kita's throat went dry.

"Children who read that story think they need to be unwavering in the face of overwhelming monsters," he continued. "That, in order to 'win' and become the Earthen Princess they so dream to be, they must be 'like the earth', which, in the predominant southern Tavacuyan tongue, is a cognate phrase that shares the same meaning as the word 'courage'. Children believe they must be courageous no matter what. They believe they must not flinch in the face of overwhelming odds, because if they do—if they hesitate, if they cry—then they have failed."

His voice lowered.

"But that is never the case," he murmured. "I've seen it. I've seen a little girl stand before a monster she could not possibly defeat and still refuse to back down. But she wasn't stoic as she stood. She was shaking. She was crying. She was terrified."

Kita felt her chest tighten.

"Courage isn't pretty. It isn't clean or effortless. It's teary. It's sweaty. It's bloody. It's a struggle through and through, and that book…" He let out a breath, tilting his head. "Well, it's a children's parable. There is such a thing as reading too much into it, but I don't like it anyway. It tells children that if they're not always smiling—if they're not always strong, always unwavering—then they aren't courageous. That they can't be heroes."

Then he sent her a small smile, dipping his head slightly.

"But that couldn't be farther from the truth, no?"

And though he didn't say it outright, the weight of his thought pressed against her chest.

"You're one of those children who took the wrong message from that book."

…

Just as quickly, though, Zora shrugged and turned back around to face the window.

"Well, there are other parables featuring other heroes that I enjoy reading to my students," he said, "so if I had to rank The Earthen Princess against them, I'd rank it pretty low. It wouldn't be the first story I'd choose to tell."

Kita went completely silent, taking in his words.

Then—

The front door swung open behind her with a loud creak.

She startled, whipping around just as Uncle Yiru strode into the office, grinning. "We should be celebrating, shouldn't we?" he said, his voice booming with good cheer. "The northwest is secure! My factories are running again! Where the hell's the Thousand Tongue and the Worm Mage?"

But in that instant—her attention wrenched away, her gaze torn from the window—she made a mistake.

By the time she whirled back around, Zora and the Worm Mage were already gone.

Uncle Yiru blinked, glancing around as Machi also entered quietly. "I swear they didn't leave through the front door. Where'd they—"

"Zora was asked by my father to help the northwest," she muttered, lowering her blade and setting it down by the armrest. "Now that the northwest has been helped, and now that he's gotten stronger… he's most likely returning to the Salaqa Manor to receive his next mission from father."

Uncle Yiru raised a brow. "The two of them did so much for the northwest, though. Especially the Worm Mage. He's the only reason the northwest hasn't fallen in the past three years before the Thousand Tongue even showed, but…" He sighed, rubbing his neck. "I suppose it's just like the two greatest wandering warlords of the decade to disappear like that. I'll have to thank them the next time we meet."

Then his gaze settled back on her, thoughtful.

"And why'd they leave you behind?"

Kita didn't answer right away. She stared at the floor, fingers curling slightly.

Then, at last, she said, "The royal military academy starts again in three weeks. I can't travel with them. I can't be spotted with them." Her voice lowered. "They'll take their own path back to the Salaqa Region. I'll take the high road."

Uncle Yiru whistled under his breath. "The Thousand Tongue is a prudent man. I'm sure the two of them would be fine."

Kita turned away, rolling slightly to face the window.

"He'll be fine," she whispered.

And she was… just a child, after all.

So when Uncle Yiru stretched his neck and exhaled loudly, telling Machi to follow him back downstairs, he beckoned her to come with him.

"Well, we're celebrating downstairs with the factory workers," he said. "You coming?"

Kita let out a slow breath.

"Okay."

Bracing her leg, she pushed herself up and hobbled toward the door.

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