The light gave way to a cirrostratus cloud of memories, and I dug my heels into the astral realm I'd come to know, boots skidding across nothingness.

Okay, Kingsley.

Here we go again.

I relaxed my soul's mental muscles, and the memories sailed in my direction like streamers of iridescent gossamer. Delivering nutrients to my bloodstream, fuel to my consciousness.

The first memory that pulled me in was a precious moment between Sol and me at the border of camp, this time recalled from the 26-year-old's perspective. Compared to some of the older memories floating by, these images were vibrant and detailed, Sol's thoughts and feelings easily accessible.

A canvas stood on an easel several feet away, covered in yellow, green, and brown paint to capture the autumn riverscape. Gripping a paintbrush in one hand and a palette in the other, Sol stepped back to assess the piece he'd created.

Not bad, he thought. But also...not great.

His comrades used to tease him for his "feminine" love of the arts, but then he'd gifted them each a personal painting, and the jokes withered pretty quickly after that.  Because what was there to degrade when a family portrait sat at the end of your cot, reminding you why you were there in the first place, risking your life?

A long-haired Alex Kingsley sat nearby, throwing rocks into the stream for Richard. The dog bounded after them in joyful, silly leaps, submerging his entire head beneath the surface to retrieve the sunken stones.

The young soldier had abandoned her own canvas well over an hour ago, and Sol smiled as his eyes roamed over the horrendous splatter of colors.

"...and you know how Tom can be," my younger self complained, clambering to her feet. She dusted off her knees and glanced at Sol. "What about you? Any siblings to look after? A wife and kids?"

Sol dunked his paintbrush in a mug of river water, chuckling. "God blessed my two older sisters with wealthy husbands, so they're doing just fine. And like Tom and Rove, I've delayed my marriage contract by insisting I know too much about our enemy for reintegration. Not sure how much longer we'll get away with that one, but I'd rather avoid marriage altogether if it means subjecting my girl to a lifetime of worry." He wiped the brush clean on his pants. "Sadly, Dad broke his hip in the military, so he's not able to work the fields anymore. And Mom serves as a midwife, but it doesn't pay well. They were the reason I joined the military in the first place. Without my salary...I'm not sure what they'd do."

Younger-Alex mused over his response for a few heartbeats, and then she said, "You're a good son, you know that, Sol?"

"I do my best."

"Well, your best is much better than mine," she replied, lips twitching with a self-deprecating smile.  "All I ever did was kill things and make trouble for my dad. Constantly."

Sol shook his head, frowning at my response, and as an older, more merciful version of myself, I felt like doing the same. "That's not true."

"It is, though. Like...I try to be good, you know? But I always end up making a mess of things." Her gaze dropped to her gloves. "I've always been a mess-maker. I think that's just who I am."

A tenderness blossomed in Sol's chest, and the feeling was not unlike my love for Fudge. "You're right, Kingsley. You do fail...a lot, honestly." Younger-Alex gaped at him, and he snickered. "But the commendable piece is that you still try. You don't let the fear of making a mistake get in your way." He shrugged. "I say it's better to be a mess-maker than an un-maker. By a long shot."

"That...is not as inspirational as it sounds," she murmured.

Sol observed her for a moment, considering the best avenue to deliver his advice.  Then he smiled.  "Hey, with the right vision, a mess can turn into a work of art. It's just a matter of perspective." He motioned for her to bring him the discarded canvas, and she did so—reluctantly. Placing the ugly work on his easel, he dipped his brush into a splotch of paint and began building off of the dried catastrophe I'd forsaken. He added highlights to bushes. Shadows to leaves. Gentle strokes of creative genius. And suddenly, miraculously, he brought the amateur painting to life. "There. See?"

The other me stared at the art in amazement, then at my mystical mentor.

"An artist can sit around all day, too afraid to touch a blank canvas. But you don't hesitate to dip the brush. You don't fear bringing a little chaos to the frame. Without you, Kingsley, there would be no picture."

Younger-Alex drew away from him, blowing a puff of air between her teeth to hide the impact of his words. "You sound like an old man, Sol."

He gave a startled laugh. "And you sound like your brother!"

"I'll take that as a compliment."

He reached out and splashed her cheek with watery green paint, thoroughly enjoying her spastic reaction. "As you should."

The memory peeled away, plopping me back in a realm of white ether.

My heart throbbed at the reemergence of Sol's warm, calming presence. His sarcasm and maternal instincts. I'd pushed thoughts of him away for so long, I'd forgotten how kind he'd been to me, how accepting. He and Rover had taken me in with open arms, ignoring their subordinates' skepticism and the looming threat of the Gender Clause.  Not only had they allowed me to sit among them and learn from their experiences, but they'd actually welcomed me into their inner circle. They'd treated me like family.

And although our friendship was brief, Sol's turning had left me raw and wounded. When he'd vanished in that wave of demons, it felt like the Interior Company had lost its lighthouse.

Determined to revive the painter, I proceeded to absorb Sol's life experiences—searching, digging, sorting, ingesting. Memories of his cohort's Tournament. The day he'd met Rover, then Tom. Fighting at the Rim and kissing his cross with a prayer on his lips, begging for a savior.

But what I really needed to do was identify the keystone memory anchoring this demon to our dimension. Only then could I save the human it possessed.

It took a few minutes—hours, milliseconds, days—to draw the vile creature out of its hiding place. But as soon as I felt those dark claws extending toward the back of my head, I snatched the demon's wrist in my bare hand, a few centimeters from my nape.

Bingo.

My power sank its teeth into his veins.

Bursts of light.  Crimson fire. Endless carnage. 

Pans and civilians and frozen tundra, demon crows and evil spirits, a battlefield of sleeping soldiers.  And an angry, human presence in my mind, dictating my behavior from miles away.

I swallowed the memories without tasting them—I knew better than to study the images too long. In fact, I planned on sending them straight to the deepest, darkest crevices of my mind, where they'd remain buried until forgotten.

After the demon's memories had emotionally destroyed Will and nearly dissuaded his spirit from returning to his body, I decided Sol didn't need to remember the details of his possession. I couldn't undo what happened to him, but I could at least spare him four months of prison.

Four months of torture.

Eventually, I found what I was looking for: a glowing memory tucked between the folds of the demon's blackest curtains.

Will's corporeal existence had been tied to his first connection with me—a stranger seeking to make a foreign world less lonely. But Sol's keystone dated back to his childhood.

The demon's emergency reserve placed us at the edge of a weathered road, directly under the sun's golden rays. Cottonwood trees surrounded me, shedding seeds that blanketed the landscape in snowy fiber. And despite the old, fuzzy quality of the memory, the colors appeared more saturated and vibrant than present day. Full of life and warmth and potential.

Sol stood beside a beautiful woman, barely reaching her waist in height. She had the same  radiant skin tone as her son, and her orange, floral dress billowed around her ankles like fish fins.

Funny, the details children remember.

The duo faced the remnants of an ancient church outside the walls of Breckshire. Its foundation had all but crumpled since the Crash, leaving a half-standing structure made of bricks and rusted steel, the steeple held upright by the tree growing through its lantern. Even with the overgrown weeds and shrubs inhabiting the area, though, Sol knew this space was sacred. He still recognized that this tomb of worship demanded his respect.

"What is this place?" the boy asked, squeezing his Bible to his chest.

"One of the few ruins our country didn't dismantle for construction supplies and resources," his mother answered. "This was once a place of worship, Solomon."

We studied the ruins for a couple seconds before uttering a quiet, "Why'd we come here?"

Mrs. Argur glanced at us, brown eyes intelligent, perceptive, unwavering. "You asked me once if our society fell because the Ancients lost their faith. And the truth is, we don't know." Her gaze slid to the church steeple with that faraway look in her eyes. The one she always wore when she spoke of religion. "But I don't think they turned their backs on the Book, hon. I believe people twisted God's teachings to justify their bad behavior. They forgot to be kind, and compassionate, and accepting. They used belief as a weapon, so God abandoned them to the self-consuming fires they created." Her voice dropped off, snatched by the wind. "That's what I think."

Sol shuddered. He'd only met one other family in Breckshire who subscribed to the Old Faith. Everyone else seemed to have given up on God over the centuries. Or maybe his mother was right; perhaps it was God who'd given up on His creation.

"So, let this crumbling church serve as a reminder," his mother whispered, reaching for his hand. Her palm swallowed ours whole, and even though her touch was warm and protective, Sol felt a foreboding chill in his bones. "A reminder to live your life through a lens of understanding, not presumption. For taking the Lord's name in vain will only lead us to a godless, unforgiving world."

I kept my eyes shut as the demon shrieked and hissed and spat behind me, refusing to perceive the hideous breed of monster I'd encountered once before. When its bony wrist finally burst into ashes, I turned around to a realm expunged of sin incarnate.

Eviscerated.

Erased.

Thrilled with my performance, I focused on returning Sol's memories to his weakened spirit, watching the ethereal plane erode to patches of black and strips of oblivion.

My palms stung, and the pressure in my temple told me I didn't have much longer in this dimension. Last time, the plane had grown unstable immediately after I'd restored Will's consciousness, and I'd nearly fallen through the cracks before I could save him.

Right now, I needed to pick a memory I could sacrifice before I ran out of time—a memory that would convince Sol to return to a world of bloodshed.

With Will, it had been an easy choice. We'd both lost our parents, and the advice my mother left me contained the very reassurances he'd needed. But when it came to Sol, I wasn't so sure. The young man's hopeful outlook was unmatched. His faith made him embrace the idea of the afterlife and acknowledge death as a bridge to his happy ending, not inexistence.

With a belief system like that, what information would be enough to keep him here? What experience of mine would persuade him? 

I'd consulted with Rover and the others before the trial, and we'd arrived at a consensus: the only memories capable of such a thing would involve Sol's loved ones. Specifically, the loved ones who didn't share his faith, and who would not, consequently, share his afterlife.

I hadn't decided on a specific memory before now, but as I watched our mental union erode and tremble beneath me, the perfect situation sprang to the forefront of my mind.

It was the best solution I had to offer—and a solution worth mourning over.

It was the last night we all shared together.

The weather had plummeted toward the end of the month, so we'd moved our nightly gatherings indoors, and I'd quickly discovered that Jaden's pub always promised an eventful evening. If Grismond wasn't starting a fight, then Beckett was holding a competitive backgammon tournament. Bets were made. Skits were lost. Tears were shed. And men poisoned themselves with alcohol to numb their pain.

Tonight was...different.

A handful of federates had brought their instruments to the tavern, forming a band of drums, harmonicas, guitars, fiddles, and terrible, intoxicated singing voices. Sol, always the artistically-inclined individual, played the out-of-tune piano in the corner with a harmonica hanging around his neck, beaming joyfully at his peers.

The men moved the chairs and tables to the edge of the pub to make room for the musicians, and after a few drinks, Rover pulled Jaden into the circle for a dance.  As the soldiers played their favorite tunes together, the couple skipped around the pub and twirled in circles, Jaden's dress and aprons twirling around her small form, her orange bandana keeping the wild bangs out of her face. She gasped for air between bouts of laughter, skin flushed and glowing, and Rover gazed at her like she was his everything.

My heart snapped in half at the sight of him so happy. 

"Eh! Share the love a little, Wright!" a soldier teased from the edge of the circle. "We all want a turn with the lady."

"He's right," Claus added with a wide, taunting smile. "I'm next in line. Unless you're willing to admit she's taken, Lieutenant."

The men whooped and whistled, giggling at their superior's annoyed glower.  Everyone in the company knew the pair was in love, and they never hesitated to call them out on it. Especially in a setting like this.

Rover kindly flipped them off, but it was Jaden who pulled away with a knowing smile. "No, no, Claus is right. You've stolen enough of my attention. And you're sweaty!"

Leaving Rover to his pouting, Jaden approached Claus in a coy manner. She winked at the man, a good seven inches taller than him, and then she curtseyed at the cadet to his right. "Care to dance, Price?"

Mason's ears turned scarlet, but before he could refuse—or faint—Jaden snatched his hand and yanked him into the circle. Claus spat out his drink, and Fudge doubled over, wheezing at Mason's helpless expression. Even Will and Beckett seemed to enjoy the boy's awkward swing dance, grinning behind their mugs.

Meanwhile, Rover walked over to the piano bench and plopped himself down next to Sol, watching the love of his life dance to her heart's content. 

Unjealous, amused, and completely infatuated.

Gritz. I wished I could travel back in time and prevent his life-shattering heartbreak. More than anything.

Tom, wearing loose, casual attire for the first time in weeks, joined me at the bar. The crisp memory of him—his honey eyes, his scar tissue, his crooked smile—almost had me changing my mind and stashing this memory away for safekeeping. But Sol's mental state depended on me shedding this precious moment, and if I saved them both by the end of this war, we'd have plenty of new memories to cherish.

"They're something else, aren't they?" my brother sighed, his gaze traveling over his subordinates.

"I like them. Rover and Sol especially. They crack me up."

"They're good men. Ridiculous too," Tom agreed. We watched them for a moment, chuckling at their antics. Sol was attempting to make Rover useful by showing him how to play three keys over and over again, but the blond had already butchered the tempo. "I may hold a higher rank than them, but only because I'm standing on their shoulders."

"You guys sure make an interesting trio," I offered, thinking back to Plan Z and the work they'd done to execute my brother's vision. They'd taken pure chaos and funneled it into something remarkable.

If they'd known each other as children, they'd have been separated in every class, lest they burn down the building.

Tom grinned, leaning closer to me so I could hear him over the music. "I mean, you've got Wright, first of all. His instincts are brilliant, and I've never met a man so loyal. But it's his persona that makes him the asset he is. The guy can rally a crowd in minutes, even when he secretly thinks my ideas are crazy, simply because the other men trust him so much. He's just got that kind of personality, you know?" I nodded. I'd sensed that quality in the lieutenant the moment I'd met him. "Sol, on the other hand, he's the steady voice of reason in every situation. He brings Rove and me back to the ground when it matters, and everyone respects him for his patience. You can see that quiet deliberation in his work at the armory. His attention to detail, his skill. That translates to everything he does." Tom took a sip of his beer, raising his eyebrows. "He's also one hell of a mediator..."

I gazed at my brother as he spoke, awed by his blatant love for his comrades. It pained me at first, seeing him with this new family, loved by strangers when I'd grieved his company for seven years. But after six months with the military, I understood where he was coming from, and present me empathized with him on an entirely new level.

This was a brotherhood forged of survival, not blood, not duty, and only now did I see why he'd chosen this world over Belgate. Only now did I see that this was, for all intents and purposes, Tom's home.

"I value all my men, even Gris—the ugly brute. But those two...they're something special," Tom said. "Sometimes, it feels like I've known them multiple lifetimes."

I bumped his shoulder with mine.  "Well, maybe you have."

Tom hummed, bumping me back, and he handed me his beer for a meager sip.

It was then that Sol turned to me, laughing at Rover's ineptitude. He latched onto my gaze as he played a few more chords. But after a couple seconds, something changed in his eyes, and his expression sobered.

The memory blurred around us, the crowd's movements growing slower and slower, leaving only Sol and me in focus. The soldier's eyes widened as he continued staring at me, haunted by whatever it was he'd discovered.

He looked terrified. He looked...

Conscious.

"Alex...?" he mouthed, wary.

I lowered my drink in shock. "S—"

Immediately, the lights shut off, engulfing me in total darkness and cutting off my reply. Only this time, I welcomed the abyss, sensing the blistering heat wane in my palms, the blood trail halting above my upper lip.

Sol was waking up; it was time to go.

I closed my eyes, accepting the tug of reality. I couldn't wait to see my friend's human face again, a room full of shocked and emotional civilians. Hell, if this worked, the Court's offensive strategy would completely flop, belly-side up.

Everything would change.

However, when I peeled an eye open, the realm of shadows hadn't gone away.

I was still here.

Confused, I spun around in the dark, expecting something to happen at any moment, waiting for my human body to demand my conscious attention.  But as the seconds passed by, an anxious knot formed in my gut.

Wait...

I hadn't just...

I'm not dead, right?

No. There's no way.

It was too early for me. I had more to do, more to accomplish. Nova had said so...

Right?

"Death is lapping at your feet..." came the woman's withered voice. It bounced off the walls of my mental arena, my immaterial skin. Dry, lifeless, and cold. "It's a dark path...I am afraid for you..."

I shivered at the warning I'd attempted to forget.

"Soon," Fudge whispered in my ear, and I whirled around, trembling at the void.  "See you again soon, Alex."

A sea of death...

Some will drown...

I staggered backward, trying to escape the words of the deceased and the destinies they spoke of.  But I couldn't get away.

From the darkness, a hand extended toward me—five tan, slender fingers reaching outward, mindless and ghost-like—and my horrified gaze fell to the fourth digit.

The one bearing a silver ring.

"Mija," she called.

Then all sense of awareness evaporated.

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HEY YA'LL. Thanks for reading! Sorry for the delay this week. I always have a hard time navigating Al's mental landscape T_T.

Really excited to write the next few chapters, though! <3