The Aviary hummed with waking life.
Luma trailed after Nyra through the glass corridors, the scent of morning pollen and honey steamed into the air. Lanterns dimmed as sunlight climbed, the Aviary itself shifting tone—alive, attentive.

Nyra was all flutter and warmth, trying to ease the tension.
“So… this is where you’ll pick up your daily itinerary.”
She tapped the kiosk, wings flicking. “Assignments, meal times, patrol limits— it’s all logged here.”

Luma stared at the glowing screen. Her name pulsed at the top, gilded in gold text:

LUMA NOVA — REGISTERED GUEST

Below it, her schedule appeared in elegant columns, every hour marked with purpose.
Except… most of them were blank.

She frowned. “Registered?”

Nyra flushed, fumbling with her own data tab. “It’s… just a formality. Everyone here is registered under a House or guild until their contract renews.”

Luma’s jaw tightened. “And mine?”

Nyra hesitated, her antennae trembling. “House Swan.”

Luma’s stomach turned. She looked away, her glow dimming. “Of course it is.”

Nyra rushed to fill the silence.

 “Hey—look, it’s not forever. Just until your trial period ends. Then you can apply for—”

“Freedom?” Luma asked softly.

Nyra froze, her mouth open, but no words came.

A chime broke the tension. The kiosk blinked, displaying a new message:

Festival of Gilded Harvest — Confirmed. All Residents Required.

Nyra exhaled shakily and tried to smile.
“But no worries, Im sure Swan can fix it though, let's see if we can catch him before the Dawn truly starts..yes?”

Luma managed a small sigh and then smile. “Right...”
But her eyes lingered on the message longer than she meant to.

The elevator hummed as it ascended, golden light running like veins through the glass.
Luma clutched her data tab close, trying to still the tremor in her claws. Nyra stood beside her, trying to sound confident.

“He’s actually… not that bad in the mornings,” Nyra lied.

The doors opened.
Feathered curtains shimmered under the light of the upper deck. Swan sat behind his crystalline desk, feathers immaculate, smile sharp as a blade sheathed in velvet.

“Ah,” he crooned, “my brightest performer and her charming little shadow.”

Nyra bowed low. “My lord—”

Swan silenced her with a flick of his wing. His gaze slid straight to Luma.
“No schedule?” he asked smoothly, as though he’d been waiting for the question.
“How careless of me.”

He rose, plucking a stylus from the air and gliding toward her.
The movement was too graceful to be real—every tilt rehearsed, every smile calculated.

Luma’s throat tightened. “I just...." pausing before she spoke again, "The kiosk said—”

“House Swan,” he interrupted softly. “Yes. As of this morning.”

Her claws curled at her sides. “I didn’t agree to—”

“You did,” he purred, “when you signed the entry oath at reception. But don’t fret, my dear. It’s an honor, not a prison.”
He gestured to the vast window overlooking the Aviary below, sunlight cascading through its glass veins. “And perhaps… it comes with privilege.”

Luma’s voice trembled. “Privilege?”

“The Festival of Gilded Harvest,” Swan said, stepping closer. “A performance worthy of the gods. I’ve secured you a place among the upper delegation; guests from Aerthos, Ky’Rynia, Amnosia... You’ll be radiant.”
He paused, smile deepening. “But of course, that requires a finalized contract.”

Nyra’s antennae flicked nervously. “My lord, she hasn’t even—”

“Shh.” Swan’s gaze never left Luma. “You want to see the sky, don’t you, little bat? To feel it beyond these walls?”

Luma hesitated, the weight of the word freedom catching in her throat.
Then...slowly...she signed.

Swan’s smile widened, pleased. “Perfect. House Swan welcomes you... officially.”

He turned to Nyra, voice smooth as silk.
“Well done, my sweet. You’ve earned your bonus.”

Nyra flushed crimson, folding her wings tight. “Yes, my lord.”

The elevator doors closed behind them. Luma didn’t speak the whole way down.

Far above the district, Silk Trigger’s comm bay stirred blue with holo-light.

“Ping,” Prism sang, slouching into her chair. “Summit logistics finalize today, and—oh, look at that—festival groupings attached. Let’s see who we’re babysitting.”

Her claws skimmed the air. Columns rearranged. Names slotted into itineraries across six worlds.

Amaya stepped in silently with tea. “Do not editorialize,” she said, though the corner of her mouth flicked at Prism’s grin.

Prism stopped. Magnified one line. Whistled low. “Well damn."

Luma Nova — Registered: House Swan.

Delegation: TBN Trade & Cultural Exchange, Group Three.

She swiveled her chair toward the empty doorway like the Commander might already be standing there. Prism muttered. “Swan’s gonna parade her at a summit...sheeesh”

The doorway stayed empty. For now.

The target assignment had been routine. A feeder hub in outer orbit—small, dirty, forgettable. Hit it, pull data, leave it limping enough to talk.

Rue launched anyway, quiet as a blade leaving its sheath.

She broke the outer shield on the first pass. Walked through smoke and shouting without raising her voice. Doors opened. Men ran. The air buckled beneath her presence.

She didn’t check her strikes for softness today.

By the time Prism’s gleeful commentary shifted to concern, the command deck had fallen silent. Black-box halo ripped out. Walls humming with ruin.

Back aboard, Rue dropped the scorched ring on the console. “There’s your intel.”

Prism’s grin wobbled. “Boss… that was a feeder under Swan’s sigil. Do you want the Agency to—”

Amaya stood, eyes steady. “Commander. With me.”

They walked in silence.

Containment was left at the first junction. Rue noted it. She said nothing.

Amaya led her deeper along the Spine. No windows here—only the soft pulse of the station’s psionic veins, the faint scent of ozone.

Finally, a lift. A violet band circled its threshold like a whispered warning.

Rue didn’t look at Amaya when the doors shut. “Containment is two decks up.”

“We’re not going to Containment,” Amaya said. “Council’s order.”

Rue’s jaw flexed once. “The Pit.”

Amaya’s silence was answer enough.

The lift sank. The hum changed. Somewhere beneath, the station’s Resonance Core breathed like a sleeping animal.

“You botched a mission over a bat,” Amaya said at last—quiet, factual. “Who is she to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Like hell. You’ve seen worse than Swan. You’ve let worse breathe because it served the op.” A pause of concern. “Don’t tell me this is about disrespect. This is personal.”

Rue’s eyes stayed on the door. “Not the point.”

Amaya glanced at the readout on her wrist. “Data says you haven’t fed in a week.”

“I’m fine.”

“The lies one tells,” Amaya said, voice still even. “You’re starving and trying to live off resonance bleed from a girl who didn’t even consent to feed you.” A silent breath. “The Council will have repercussions.”

Rue huffed a laugh without warmth. “The Council.”

“They’re the reason we function at all,” Amaya said, and for the first time there was heat under the steel. “They will strip you of everything if you keep improvising war in their name. Or have you forgotten—”

Rue turned her head at last. A look that would have sent most men to their knees. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Amaya met it. “Forget the vow we made fifteen years ago? What we built? What they allowed us to keep?”

The lift slowed. The band of violet brightened.

Rue’s hands stayed loose at her sides. When she spoke, her voice was low, even....dark. “I can hear her.”

Amaya’s composure nearly cracked. “What?”

“Not the feed,” Rue said. “Through the noise. Through walls. Like… a thread.” A pause, almost unguarded. “It’s not madness. Prism ran the scan.”

The lift opened.

The Pit was circular, quiet, ringed with wards that drank sound and light. Not a prison. A penance. A place for monsters to stand still and admit they were hungry.

Amaya walked to the threshold and keyed the seal, but didn’t look at Rue when she said, “If you are going to behave like an animal, this is how you atone. The Council’s phrasing, not mine.”

Rue regarded the room. Then Amaya. “And you agree.”

“I think you’re two steps from burning our work down,” Amaya said, honesty clean and cruel. “I also think you’ll choose mission over impulse once you can hear yourself again.”

A pause...

“You do need to be sated,” she added, softer. “I’m sorry.”

Rue held her gaze a long time. Something like gratitude flickered and died before it could be named.

She stepped inside.

The wards took her weight, her breath, her rage; folded it back into her bones until the room stopped humming.

Amaya sealed the door.

On her comm, Prism’s voice came low for once. “Uh… heads-up. Summit itinerary finalized. List of planet delegations and hosts, grouped routes, all the fancy nonsense. You’re going to want to see this.”

“Send it,” Amaya said.

The holo blinked awake in her palm: Aerthos, Solnyra, Amnosia, Ky’Rynia, Zophos, TBN. Delegations, escorts, demonstrations, schedules.

Her eyes caught on a gold-lined entry and stilled.

Aviary Demonstration Liaison — Luma Nova, Registered to House Swan.

Prism whistled on the line. “They’re going to walk her right under every Council lens on the rings. Guess little bat signed her own death warrant.”

Amaya didn’t answer.

She looked through the glass—past the wards, past the hush—at the still figure inside the Pit.

Rue stood with her hands at her sides, head slightly bowed, as if listening for a drum no one else could hear.

Amaya keyed the intercom. “Commander.”

Those violet eyes lifted.

“Festival groups go live in twenty-four hours,” Amaya said. “Swan will take her into the sky—into the Chamber’s shadow—where we have reach. You have twelve hours to be a commander again.”

Silence. Then Rue’s nod—small, precise.

The old cadence returned to her voice. “We plan at dawn.”

Amaya exhaled for the first time in hours. “Good.”

She turned away, the itinerary’s light gilding her knuckles as she closed her fist around it.

Outside, the Aviary lit new banners for the Festival of Gilded Harvest.

Inside the Pit, Rue closed her eyes and listened—to the core, to the station, to a thin thread tugging her toward a girl she refused to name.

The door’s ward burned once, violet and soft, and held.

The comm bay hummed low, violet light crawling across the glass walls.

Prism sat half-slouched at her console, tail flicking, eyes glazed in the glow. Data shimmered around her like restless ghosts.

 “Okay, so—boss wrecks a supply hub,” she muttered, voice lazy, “and the Council drops a lockdown order from the Core itself? That’s a little dramatic, even for her.”

No one laughed.

Amaya didn’t look up from the data slate in her hands. Her profile was carved from steel, the faint light catching on her jaw.

“They don’t issue Core orders unless something shakes the foundations.”

Prism snorted, still scrolling through encrypted files.

“Yeah, right. Shaken by what? Some dancer with a glow problem? Bet she’s just another one of Swan’s mods. Half his stable’s barely organic anymore.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable.

Amaya’s thumb stilled. The light of her screen flickered against her face.

“Then why were her records scrubbed,” she said quietly, “before her contract even activated?”

Prism’s grin slipped.

She leaned forward, tapping the holoscreen until the registry flickered open.

 “Wait—what?”

“No birth file,” Amaya murmured. “No House signature. No trace before the Aviary.”

She turned the slate slightly, the glow catching on a line of corrupted code.

“And the bio-sig Rue picked up during that broadcast? It doesn’t match anything. Not the Council. Not the Vault. Nothing.”

The hum of the room deepened.

Prism sat back slowly, tail curling around her leg.

“…So she’s off the books.”

 “Not off.” Amaya’s eyes lifted toward the glass wall — toward the faint violet pulse far below, where Rue’s silhouette stood inside the containment pit.

“Erased.”

Prism’s mouth opened, shut.

She watched the pulse flicker once, steady again.

“And the Council’s only now realizing it?”

Amaya folded the slate closed, the motion clean, final.

“Maybe they didn’t think there was anyone left to realize what they’d erased.”

That quiet landed heavy.

Prism’s voice lowered.

“You’re saying this isn’t about Swan.”

Amaya didn’t answer right away.

The pit lights dimmed, and her reflection blinked back at her — sharp, tired, knowing.

“Whatever that girl is,” she said softly, “she wasn’t meant to survive. And if the Commander’s tied to her…”

Prism finished the thought, whispering it like a secret.

“…then we’re standing on something the Council buried alive.”

The hum in the walls deepened.

Somewhere below, the violet pulse inside the pit flared once — like something answering.