The deep medical lab at the Blackthorn Academy smells of antiseptic, crushed pine, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone. It is a smell I have come to associate with survival.
It has been forty-eight hours since the Artemis VII touched down on the Academy tarmac. Forty-eight hours since we locked the Formless inside the Third Anchor on the Moon. Forty-eight hours since the cosmic war officially ended.
But peace, I am learning, is not a destination. It is a daily, grueling maintenance.
I sit in a stiff, vinyl chair beside the central examination table, my heavily bandaged hands resting on my knees. My ribs ache with every shallow breath, the heavy tape shifting against my bruised skin, but the physical pain is entirely eclipsed by the quiet, profound exhaustion in my marrow.
On the tabl
