Sunlight never really warms Draig stone—it just glances off the surface, disciplined like everything else in this fortress. The air smelled faintly of ink, steel polish, and the coffee Stacy's aides survived on.
The squad had been dismissed to quarters for medical checks, but morning still felt like the tail end of a mission. Brenda moved first, with Sirone and Chinada close behind, and the others in pairs—silent, uniforms pressed, and posture automatic. We'd been breathing dust for weeks; the clean air felt unnatural.
Stacy waited at the head of the table.
No armor, no cloak—just command blacks, collar sharp, hair bound tight. A holographic log hovered beside her wrist, painting blue light across the table. She didn't look up until the last chair scraped into place.
"Sit," she said.
We obeyed.
Her gaze passed over us like a scalpel—clinical, calm. "You were out of contact for three weeks," she said. "Explain why my operations board read your unit as missing in hostile territory."
Brenda stood, hands behind her back. "Mission parameters changed, ma'am. The Federation perimeter shifted. Communications failed after day two."
"Failed," Stacy repeated. The word sounded like it owed her an apology. "No relay bursts? No coded pings?"
"None," Brenda said evenly. "We prioritized stealth."
A long pause. Then a faint exhale—one that didn't quite qualify as approval. "And that stealth required radio silence to the point of bureaucratic necromancy. You realize missing units cause paperwork?"
A quiet ripple of restrained laughter ran down the table. Stacy didn't join it. "Let's start properly. Report."
Brenda outlined the operation—terrain, engagement, fallback. Her voice stayed steady, almost mechanical. Stacy didn't interrupt, just nodded once to mark each transition. When Brenda reached Ryu's retreat and our extraction, Stacy closed the console and placed her hands flat on the table.
"Noted," she said. "Formal record waits for telemetry review. Until then, you're debriefed and grounded for forty-eight hours. Olivia, recovery shifts. Sirone, med ward. The rest—stand down."
We stayed still until she added, "Dismissed."
Chairs scraped. Boots moved. The squad filtered out, silent and tired.
"Kitsuna," Stacy said without looking up. "Stay."
I sighed inwardly and sat back down. Guess Mom's running low on patience.
The door clicked shut behind the others.
[Private Debrief]
The quiet had a pulse. Stacy sat across from me, fingers laced on the table, watching like I was another report she hadn't decided to approve yet.
"You," she said finally, "owe me an explanation."
"I expected that," I said.
"Three weeks without a signal," she continued. "No beacon, no ping, no proof of life. Do you know how many reports I had to sign to keep Command from declaring you KIA?"
"Yeah," I said. "All of them."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't be clever."
I looked down at the reflection of the ceiling lights in polished stone. "My mentor locked me down. My veins were unstable. If I'd sent a signal, they could've tracked the mana surge."
"So you chose to vanish."
"I chose not to explode," I said. The words came even, not defensive. "Fran warned me—one pulse through the system and I'd light up every Federation sensor from here to the border."
Her expression didn't soften, but the edge eased. "If you'd had mana, you could've at least sent something."
"I didn't," I said. "And I wasn't going to risk the squad on a maybe."
"You always think survival equals success."
"It doesn't?"
"It's the bare minimum," she said. "Contact keeps people sane."
I leaned back, studying her. "You were worried."
"Command doesn't worry," she replied, too fast. Then, quieter, "A mother does."
I almost smiled. "Worry—paperwork by another name."
That earned a twitch of her mouth, almost human. She recovered quickly. "If you were a regular soldier, I'd court-martial you for breach of communication."
"You won't."
"Why not?"
"Because I came back," I said, shrugging. "And because you'd rather yell at me yourself."
She stared at me long enough that I started counting ceiling tiles. "You think you know me."
"I know you," I said.
Silence stretched. The hum of the vents filled it.
Then, softer: "You almost didn't come back."
"Almost," I admitted.
She turned, lifted her datapad, and pretended to read. "You're not replaceable, Kitsuna. Don't make me practice pretending otherwise."
That hit deeper than any reprimand.
"Understood," I said quietly.
"Good." She exhaled through her nose. "Next time, even a single line—a courier, a coded mark, a wall carving. I don't care how. Just something."
"I'll try. Not planning another trip for a while anyway."
"I mean it."
"I know."
For a moment, the air between us stopped feeling like a command structure.
Then she stood again, all composure and edges. "Go rest. Eat something that doesn't bleed."
"Yes, Mother."
"Tell the squad the same."
"Will do."
She hesitated, then added, "And Kitsuna… good work."
That landed heavier than it should've. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me," she said. "Just do it again, better."
[Corridor—Noon]
Outside, the mansion hummed with normal life again—voices from the mess hall, the faint clatter of dishes, and the sound of tired soldiers remembering how to laugh. The air smelled like polish and fresh bread, warm in a way I'd forgotten existed.
I followed the corridor to the open balcony overlooking the airfield. Fog still clung to the landing bays, wardlights blinking faint blue through the haze. A transport had just landed—sleek, black, and quiet enough to make the world hold its breath.
The engines wound down. The ramp lowered.
Operatives stepped out first—efficient, faceless. And then came she.
Kayda.
The air forgot to move. She came down the ramp like gravity worked for her, not against her. Her braid caught the light; her jacket hung loose, travel-worn, her eyes bright even through fatigue. Around her, the wardlights flickered once as if they recognized her presence.
My feet didn't remember how to function.
Her gaze found me through the fog, parting it without effort. Her lips curved slightly, confident and warm.
"Kitsune."
It wasn't a greeting—it was a homecoming disguised as a name.
She stopped a few steps away, head tilted. "You look worse than I imagined."
"Thanks," I said automatically, then realized I was smiling. "You look… good. Really good. Rawr."
Oh no.
Her smirk deepened instantly. "Rawr?"
"I didn't say that," I said too fast.
"You definitely did."
"Stress reflex," I muttered. "Completely normal. Happens when I see people I like. Rawr."
Her laugh—low and warm—cut right through what was left of my composure. "You still do that? I thought you trained it out."
"I did," I said. "Then you showed up."
She took one step closer, close enough that the scent of steel and rain reached me. "I missed that."
"You missed me, rawr."
Perfect. Self-sabotage continues.
Her eyes softened. "Both."
Every nerve decided to participate in betrayal. "You could've warned me you were coming."
"I wanted to see your face first. You don't hide feelings well."
"I hide them fine. Rawr."
"Sure you do," she said, chuckling. "You hide like a bonfire in a snowstorm."
I laughed. "That's unfair and true. Rawr."
She reached up, fingers brushing a small scar near my jaw. "You always find trouble."
"I don't find it," I murmured. "It finds me… then loses. Rawr."
"Still confident."
"Still correct."
Kayda leaned in until our foreheads almost touched. The warmth that passed between us quieted everything—the hum of words, the ache in my veins, even thought.
"Later," she whispered. "When it's quiet."
"Later," I echoed softly.
Her thumb lingered against my cheek before she stepped back, the chill rushing in to fill her absence.
"Don't disappear again," she said, heading for the mansion door.
"I'll try not to," I said. "You'd only come looking anyway."
"That's a promise," she said, and was gone.
I stood there long enough for the engines to cool and the fog to reclaim the field. The world began breathing again.
She was home. Everything else could wait.
When I finally exhaled, it came out small and shaky.
"Rawr," I muttered, smiling at how stupidly happy it sounded.