It was a ninety-hour journey from the neon-drenched chaos of Radiant Horizon to the dead, silent coordinates in the Argus system where they were meant to meet Pulse. Ninety hours of training, relaxation, routines, and companionship. Plenty of time to think, too.

  The first day passed in a blur of focused, necessary work. Soren watched as the team, now a finely tuned machine, fell into their new routines. Inelius hung out in the cockpit with Tamiyo, taking an interest in learning to pilot The Cradle of Gravity. Raine set to work as the ship's quartermaster, her quiet efficiency ensuring their newly acquired supplies were inventoried and stowed with a precision that bordered on art. Brolgar and Brana had claimed their respective domains—the galley and anywhere that needed maintenance—filling the ship with comforting sounds of sizzling pans and the soft clinking of tools.

  Soren, for his part, had found his own purpose in the cavernous cargo hold. He continued to practice with the greatsword Hinakané had gifted him, moving through the basic forms Aurania had drilled into him. It still felt a little awkward to wield, but every day—every swing—brought it closer to an extension of his own arm.

  He was halfway through a slow, steady arc, focusing on the coil in his hips, when he heard the soft click of hooves against the cargo hold deck. He paused, turning to see Veolo walking toward him. She wore simple gray robes, and didn’t actually look like she was coming over to talk to him.

  “Time for a workout?” he asked, resuming his practice.

  “Yeah, it’s a big cargo hold. That won’t bother you, will it?”

  “No,” Soren shrugged. “How about a joint exercise?”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What do you have in mind?”

  He let the sword rest against his shoulder for a moment. “Show me how you’re so damn hard to hit in a fight. I can only accomplish that by drawing on a mystical cosmic power. You make it look easy.”

  A slow, surprised grin spread across Veolo’s face. It was the first time he'd asked her for help, and the compliment seemed to catch her completely off guard. "Easy?" She laughed. "Alright, Big Man. You want to learn how to dance? Ditch the sword."

  He hesitated for a beat, then reached a hand out. The sheath sitting on a crate across the room zipped through the air into his hand, and he slid the blade inside.

  “Show off,” Veolo muttered. She began to circle him. "Rule number one. Stop thinking. You're a planner—a strategist. I can see it in the way you stand, you're always calculating three moves ahead. That's why you get hit. You're trying to predict the fight. You need to feel it."

  "Feel it?" He tried mirroring her movement.

  "Yeah. Feel the shift in the air. The change in my weight." She feinted a jab, and he flinched, bracing for an impact that never came. She was already on his other side. "See? You reacted to what you thought was going to happen, not what was actually happening. You're too slow because you're in your head."

  He turned to face her again. "So what's the solution? Just... turn my brain off?"

  "Basically," she shrugged. "Stop trying to be a shield. Stop trying to block everything. Your body is durable as hell, but you're still trying to block or absorb every hit like it's your job. Your job is to not get hit—get out of the way and make them miss."

  For the next hour, she didn't throw a single real punch. It was a frustrating, exhausting dance of feints, dodges, and constant movement. She was a blur, always in his peripheral vision, always forcing him to react, to pivot, to stay light on his feet. It was the opposite of everything Aurania had taught him about being a grounded, immovable force.

  "You're still thinking too much!" she'd call out, tapping him on the shoulder from behind. "Stop watching my hands. Watch my hips. The power comes from the hips."

  By the end, he was panting, drenched in sweat, his muscles aching. "This is harder than it looks."

  "Of course it is." She finally came to a stop in front of him. "You're trying to unlearn being a big, slow target. But you're getting it." She gave him a surprisingly gentle punch on the arm. "You're not as hopeless as you look."

  He just shook his head, a weary but grateful smile on his face. "Thanks, I think. But I wasn’t always this big."

  "Oh yeah,” she gave him a curious look. “Sometimes I forget that since this is the only way I’ve known you. What were you like before?”

  He shrugged, sitting down on a crate with a canister of water. “Well, face was the same but my hair was darker. I was actually a couple inches shorter than you.”

  Veolo snorted. “Really?”

  He smiled. “Yeah. Not quite as fit though. I mean, I was in shape, you’re just kind of on another level. Plus you’re a bit more…” he raised his hands and made an hourglass motion.

  She shifted her weight to one leg. “You calling me curvy?”

  A brief chuckle escaped him. “Only as a friend, V. Merely a surface level observation—I didn’t mean to tease you.”

  She glared at him for a moment, then smirked. “You’re fine. There’s another difference you didn’t mention though.”

  Soren’s brow furrowed, and his eyes dropped to his lap for a split second.

  Veolo laughed. “No, not what I meant.” She sat on a crate facing him and held one leg up, pointing at her hoof. “You have feet, and toes.”

  Soren observed it, then at his own boots. "Yeah. Five on each. Kinda useful for picking things up off the floor when you're lazy."

  Veolo snorted, her curiosity overriding her usual swagger. "Seriously? What's that like?"

  He chuckled. "We’ve got these annoying nails we have to clip, just like finger nails. But they're good for balance. Grip." He flexed his own foot inside his boot. "What about you? I've always wondered. Is it just... a solid block? Or is there more to it?"

  Veolo's smirk softened into something more curious. She pushed off her crate and sat down next to him. "Here." She raised one hoof and set it on the opposite knee, giving him a better view. "See for yourself."

  Completely fascinated, Soren leaned forward and reached out, then hesitated. When she told him to go ahead, he gently tapped the hard outer shell with his knuckles. The sound was a dull, solid thunk, like rapping on polished stone.

  "It's not a block," she said with a hint of pride in her voice. She traced the line where the material met the skin of her ankle. "The outer shell is a bioceramic composite. Our bodies weave silicate minerals into the keratin as it grows. It's harder than stone, but it's alive. It's constantly flaking away at a microscopic level and regrowing.”

  “So you don’t need to trim them,” Soren noted.

  “Nope.”

  "It's like natural, self-repairing armor," he murmured, his eyes tracing the faint grain of the material. He quickly removed his boot and sock, then mirrored her by setting it on his knee. The contrast was stark—his pale, soft-skinned foot next to her hard, dark hoof.

  "Exactly." Her gaze flicked down to his foot. "But inside..." She tapped the underside of her hoof near the V-shaped cleft. "This part is different, it’s a sensory pad. It's how we feel things."

  Soren's brow furrowed. "Feel things how?”

  "Vibrations. Changes in pressure. I can tell the difference between a metal deck plate and packed earth just by walking on it—it’s almost like seeing without my eyes. On a mission, I can sometimes feel someone's footsteps on the other side of a wall if the structure is right."

  He stared at her hoof, a new level of respect dawning in his eyes. It was more than a foot, it was a sensory organ. "That's... incredible. So that pad... it's a weak point, then?"

  A flicker of a pride passed through her expression. "I don’t know if I would call it a weak point, but it’s a target, yeah. It's why our stances are low and why you'll never see a trained lacravida kick in a way that exposes the back of their hoof."

  “Hm, hm…” His hand went to his chin as his gaze shifted between the two different leg appendages, analyzing them. “Now that we know what we know from The Cradle, I wonder why you guys were designed like that. I see why you don’t call it a weak spot, but it could still be framed that way.”

  Veolo looked down at his foot, then back to her hoof. “I think you’re just imagining it wrong.” She grabbed his hand. “Make a fist.”

  When he did, she tapped her own knuckles against his. “Think of the hoof like your knuckles.” She gently pushed his hand open and poked his palm with the tip of one finger. “And the pad like this.”

  She formed a tight fist. “You can beat the shit out of someone with your knuckles. But a well-placed pinpoint strike to the palm will send a jolt of pain all the way up your arm.” She tapped her hoof again. “Same thing.”

  “Oooohh,” Soren said. “Okay, cool, that makes a lot more sense.” He looked from his foot to her hoof, a curious thought sparking in his mind. “Oh, wait, I have one more question!”

  She chuckled. “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Okay, so—for feet, it can feel really good if someone gives you a foot rub, applying pressure the right way to the muscles. Do hoof rubs feel good?”

  Veolo’s whole body went rigid. She snatched her leg back, her face turned red, and she jumped up, putting immediate distance between them.

  "Uh…" she started, avoiding his gaze for the first time all day. "Yeah. Yes. Yep, feels good."

  Soren stared up at her, mouth agape, still sitting on the crate with one boot off. "Is that... a weird question?"

  "No!" she said a little too quickly. "It's just... it's… very sensitive." She crossed her arms defensively. "The sensory pad has... a lot of nerve endings."

  “Ooh,” Soren picked up on her meaning. At least he thought he did. Lacravida were very open about sex, but he and Veolo had a delicate friendship on account of her frustratingly high attraction toward him.

  She must have picked up on what he was thinking. “It’s not like a clit!”

  Soren couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

  Veolo groaned loudly as she tried to compose herself.

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  As if forcing herself back into her usual persona, she let out a short, sharp breath and finally met his eyes. The blush was still there, but her expression was more controlled. "Look—it's an act of trust. A big one. You're letting someone touch a weapon and a vulnerability at the same time. It's not explicitly sexual, but it is… intimate."

  The word hung heavy in the air between them. He understood now. This wasn't a casual question for her. It was a line he had unknowingly stepped right up to. He slowly nodded, calming himself from his unexpected outburst. "Okay. I get it."

  Veolo seemed to take that as her cue to leave, but she paused after a few steps and turned back, not quite meeting his eyes.

  “Yes?” Soren’s brow raised.

  She let out a small sigh. “I’m telling you this, because we are friends.”

  He just waited.

  “It is not explicitly sexual,” she said once more, then turned her back to him. “But it does make really good foreplay.”

  She walked away, leaving him there alone. He waited until she was halfway up the staircase before he finally yelled across the cargo hold, “Thank you, Veolo! You’re a good friend!”

  The second day of their journey brought a new, collective frustration. Apparently everyone had quietly asked the ship to upgrade their showers into the luxurious tubs they'd seen in Riza's old room. And the ship, in its silent wisdom, responded by doing nothing at all.

  So as they all sat relaxing in the common room, Brana said, “We have to choose. One tub at a time—I think the ship can only evolve so fast. The question is, who's first?"

  A predatory silence fell over the room as Aurania, Violet, Veolo, Amalia, Raine, and Tamiyo all sized each other up.

  "I'm the one who asked first!" Amalia shot out.

  "You already asked the ship for a dildo!" Violet pointed at her sister.

  “Rock, paper, scissors?” Veolo suggested.

  Inelius leaned back with a slow grin spreading across his face. "Sounds like we need a tournament."

  And so, "Ricochet" was born.

  Brolgar, acting as the grumpy but impartial referee, set six heavy-bottomed mugs on a low table in the center of the room. They were also accompanied by an unrelated but delicious looking platter of spicy meat wraps, cut into handheld portions.

  "Alright, listen up," he growled. "One shot. Has t'bounce. No hands for interference. First puck in a cup wins th'magic water hole."

  The six competitors looked at each other, all standing in a circle like they were holding each other at gunpoint.

  “Who goes first?” Soren asked from a nearby floor cushion.

  “The one that drains their mug first,” Brolgar answered, a mischievous glint in his eye. He filled each mug with a dark, foaming d'moria ale.

  Amalia didn't even wait for him to finish pouring the last one. She lunged, grabbed her mug, and threw her head back. The others scrambled to follow, but between her early start and an uncanny ability to relax her throat, Amalia was the clear victor.

  She slammed the empty mug down with a triumphant roar, beer and foam dripping from her chin. She beamed, wiped her face with the back of her wrist, and grabbed the dense rubber puck, eyeing a path:

  The ceiling, the back of the couch, then into a cup.

  She wound up, and just as she threw, Aurania casually leaned over to rest her elbow on top of Amalia’s head, knocking her off balance. The puck hit the ceiling, veered wildly off course, bounced off Brolgar's head ("Oi!"), and skittered under the couch.

  "Sabotage!" Amalia shrieked, chaotically slapping Aurania’s elbow away.

  Violet was next. She clinically calculated the angles, her eyes tracing a path from the far wall to the edge of the table. The puck zipped through the air, hit the wall exactly where she intended—and bounced directly into Inelius's chest as he "accidentally" leaned into its path.

  "My mistake," he grumbled, not looking sorry at all.

  The game descended into glorious chaos. Veolo tried a low, aggressive shot off the floor, but Brana, sitting on the ground, simply stuck her leg out, sending the puck flying into the galley. The contest was temporarily paused while Raine and Tamiyo held an impromptu chugging contest to see who would shoot next.

  As they were both three-quarters of the way through their mugs, Brana called out, “Aren’t you two our pilots?”

  Raine slammed her empty mug down a fraction of a second before Tamiyo. “CIPHERss can’t actchilly git drunk.” She swayed a little in place as she continued to slur. “We git… buzzzed. But our ssysstemss won’t let uss black out.”

  Everyone stared at her and Brana just said, “Uh huh, sure.”

  Raine then attempted a ridiculously complex shot involving a light fixture, which ended with the puck getting stuck in her own hair.

  It was finally Aurania's turn. She stood, silent and focused, every bit the War-Chieftess. She lined up her shot—a clean bank off the bulkhead behind Soren—and drew her arm back.

  But right before she threw, Soren said, "Aurania, my ears are cold. Can I use your thighs as earmuffs?”

  Her concentration shattered, and she threw way too hard. The puck went wide, smacking into the wall with a loud thwack a full meter from her target.

  Aurania glared at him with a dangerous fire building in her eyes. "That was a cheap trick. I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, Little Boy."

  He just grinned back. “Long as you use your thighs to do it.”

  Finally, it was Tamiyo's turn. The others had all failed, their attempts foiled by distractions and body blocks. She stood there for a long moment, the small puck in her hand, her antennae twitching as she processed the variables. The room was a mess of potential obstacles.

  Then, she looked not at the walls or the ceiling, but at Veolo’s chest. “Holy shit, V. Those things are really coming in nice.”

  Every eye in the room, including Veolo's, snapped to her chest.

  Tamiyo threw the puck without even looking.

  It soared toward Soren, bounced off his temple, sailed over the table, and dropped into one of the mugs with a satisfying clink.

  A stunned silence fell over the room.

  “Hahahahaaah!” Tamiyo’s face broke into a dastardly grin worthy of an evil genius. “Bow down, mortals!”

  Brolgar slammed a fist on the table. "Winner! The first magic bath goes to the wee fairy-bot!”

  “Who you calling ‘wee!’” Tamiyo roared, pointing an unsteady finger at Brolgar. “I’m taller than you!”

  “Good lord, Tamiyo’s drunk,” Violet muttered under her breath.

  More laughter and chaos ensued. The argument over Tamiyo's victory somehow devolved into a wrestling match between Aurania and Veolo. Aurania almost had her pinned in a headlock when she suddenly screamed. “Ow! What the fuck!”

  She let Veolo go, staggering back and clutching her chest. “She bit my boob!”

  Veolo just maliciously cackled from the floor.

  Soren’s voice rose above the din. “You’re right, Tamiyo. That injury does need to be inspected closer.” He moved toward Aurania, a look of mock-seriousness on his face. Before she could protest, he bent over, put his shoulder into her hips, and lifted her up, striding toward the door. Tamiyo just looked around with a mask of pure innocence, her mouth shoved full of spicy meat wrap.

  She hadn’t said a word.

  “Put me down!” Aurania squirmed, the nearly six hundred pound muscled lacravida not used to being manhandled. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

  “Letting you try to kill me,” Soren said, and he carried her out of the common room.

  The team’s laughter followed them out into the corridor. Aurania, for all her strength, was surprisingly light on his shoulder, now that he was used to his own massive frame. She continued to squirm, a mix of genuine protest and, he suspected, a good deal of performative anger.

  "Soren, I swear to every god, if you don't put me down right now—"

  "You'll what?" he asked, shifting her weight and opening the door to his quarters. "Hit me with your axe again?"

  He carried her inside and didn't so much set her down as deposit her on the edge of his bed. She landed with a soft “oomph,” the oversized mattress barely dipping under her weight. She immediately scrambled up, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and… something else—something he was beginning to recognize.

  "Okay, you've had your fun," she growled. "But you know we can't do anything, so stop teasing me—it’s cruel."

  "Not true." His voice dropped, losing its teasing edge and taking on a quiet confidence. He moved to a table at the side of the room and quietly started brewing tea. Once he was done, he turned to look at her. Her face was a mix of confusion and curiosity.

  "What we know is that I can't get too worked up.” He took a slow step toward her. “But you're a sexual creature, Aurania. I think you’ve denied yourself long enough on my account.”

  He moved closer, his presence filling the room. His body language was relaxed, but his gaze was intense, unwavering, and deeply flirtatious. “The last time we tried, you comforted me when I would have expected anyone to run away. Hell, I told you to leave and you flat out refused.” He couldn’t keep the small smile off his face.

  “Yeah, so?” Her voice was starting to shake, but it had a good deal of her natural fire in it.

  “I wish to return the favor.” Soren stepped back, then began slowly pacing around the room. “Now, the key to any good relationship is communication, so we have some things to discuss first.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she took a step as well. Without meaning to, they began circling each other like two predators preparing to fight.

  “Last time,” Soren said carefully, “you had to use the safe word on me because the pheromones made it hard for me to maintain control. Luckily, Violet is far from inexperienced and had some great insight on how to… navigate our delicate situation.”

  Aurania laughed, short but genuine, then stopped pacing. "Okay, I don't think you'll be able to resist but if you want to try I'm not going to say no."

  “Good!” His tone went excited for a moment, but he reined himself back in. “Now, resisting the pheromones is only half of the solution.” He kept pacing even though she had stopped.

  "So what's the other half?"

  Soren smirked. "I need to make sure you don't become ravenous like you did before. You used the safe word on me last time, but don't forget that I had to use it on you first."

  "I remember.” She took a deep breath. “So what do you propose?"

  "Just like we discussed,” Soren said simply. “You'll have to trust me and surrender control—completely. Do you think you can do that?"

  After a moment of consideration, she firmly nodded like she was accepting a mission objective. “Very well.”

  Soren stepped close behind her, his lips only an inch from her ear. “I’m going to tie you up.”

  Her whole body went rigid, a flush instantly creeping up her neck. He stepped back, intentionally creating distance to give her a moment to think. When she finally spoke, she said, “How do you plan to keep yourself in check?”

  Soren’s eyes dropped for a moment. He could visibly see through her robes how aroused she was, and he was already beginning to feel the effects of the pheromones. He forced his eyes back up to her face. “Well Violet discussed three possible solutions with me—three anchor possibilities.”

  Her gaze moved an inch towards skepticism. “Go on.”

  “The first,” Soren said, “was using pain to focus. Something simple, like pressing a thumbnail into my knuckle or something like that. But not only do I think that wouldn’t be enough, we know that too much pain just triggers the Aether Dust, so that’s a non-starter.”

  Aurania crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes.

  Soren stepped closer. “The second would be trying to use our mental link—having you try to keep me in check the whole time. But, I have a problem with that.” He pushed her back, forcing her to sit on the bed. “Our mental state is a part of it, I want to make sure you feel safe. But I also want you to be able to relax and just focus on enjoying the experience without needing to think about anything else.”

  Her entire face went red.

  “So the last anchor,” Soren said, “is one of pure willpower. Do you remember what I thought of you the first time I saw you?”

  Aurania let out a sharp, loud laugh. Then a longer one. She finally rolled her eyes and said, "I believe it was something to do with a 'Fertility Goddess.'" She was trying to sound hostile, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

  “Correct,” Soren said, standing dangerously close to her. “Through an act of sheer willpower,” he looked down at her over the bridge of his nose. “I intend to worship.”

  Another laugh almost escaped her, but something broke in her expression and she bit her bottom lip. “Soren, you’re underestimating how powerful the pheromones are. You’re not going to be able to just ‘will’ yourself to ignore them.” She no longer sounded like she was fighting against his plan—she sounded like she was trying to help him find the answer.

  “You’re right.” Soren stepped back. He moved to the tea, poured a single cup, and began steeping it.

  Her focus drew in on it. "That smells familiar—what is that? That’s not just any old tea."

  Soren smiled. "It's not. Tamiyo really is a great caretaker—she asked Serava about the pheromones. Specifically, how to resist them. It’s not easy, but apparently there’s a rare herb native to Lacravi called—"

  "Silphium Root." Aurania’s eyes went wide.

  He nodded. "Now, obviously we haven’t been to Lacravi. But your sister was kind enough to provide Tamiyo with a small supply." He stared Aurania in the eyes, swirling the dark liquid in the cup.

  The air was thick with her pheromones. If he waited much longer, he’d start losing control. He downed the tea in a single, quick gulp—the bitterness immediate and overwhelming. It was a harsh, medicinal taste that coated his tongue, but he didn't let so much as a flicker of discomfort show on his face. He just set the empty cup down and turned back to her.

  She was staring at him, stunned. She looked at the empty cup, her mind clearly racing to process everything. "You've put a lot of thought into this." Her voice was trembling.

  He closed the distance between them, his gaze heavy and focused. "Do you trust me?"

  Aurania looked from his eyes to his lips, then back again. The playful fire was gone, replaced by a deep, aching vulnerability. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she swallowed the lump in her throat, and with a slow, shaky breath, she said:

  "I trust you."