My seals are staging a heist again.

  I can feel it in the bay—that particular ripple of intent that means Rocco has found something valuable and decided it now belongs to him. The water shifts with purpose. The colony moves with coordination that would make military planners jealous. And somewhere on the docks, Carson is about to have a very bad morning.

  I should probably stop them.

  I don’t.

  Instead, I let myself drift to the surface of awareness and watch the gas giant turn overhead. It never stops being beautiful—vast bands of crimson and gold sliding across its face like rivers of molten glass, slow enough to feel eternal. The Great Spot swirls at the edge, a storm larger than Earth, dark rust bleeding into burnt orange. Its rings scatter light across the sky in fractured arcs, painting the horizon in colors that don’t have names yet.

  It’s never quite day here. Never quite night. Just this endless dusk, warm and patient, like the world is holding its breath before something wonderful happens.

  I could stand here forever.

  I won’t—Yuna would absolutely get on my case—but I could.

  A splash pulls my attention back to the bay. Rocco has hauled himself halfway onto a maintenance crate, dripping seawater, a wrench balanced on his chest like a trophy. His whiskers twitch. His dark eyes gleam with satisfaction. Around him, the rest of the colony floats in loose formation—casual, innocent, absolutely complicit.

  One of Carson’s crew spots the wrench and reaches for it.

  Rocco barks once—soft, pleading, heartbreaking.

  The crewman hesitates.

  Another seal surfaces beside the crate, tilting its head with that devastating “we’re starving and you’re our only hope” expression they’ve perfected.

  The crewman’s hand drops.

  I feel Rocco’s satisfaction ripple through the bay like a warm current.

  They’re not just intelligent anymore. They’re tactical.

  What started as ten cautious harbor seals a year ago has grown into a colony of fifty, and they’ve learned something I didn’t teach them: humans are easy to manipulate if you look sad enough. They’ve turned begging into an art form, theft into a game, and ransoming tools into a thriving side business.

  Carson hates it.

  I think it’s hilarious.

  My love, Yuna says through our bond, her voice cutting in with that particular mix of amusement and exasperation she reserves for my questionable parenting choices. Your seals are holding the dock crew hostage again.

  “I know,” I reply, not bothering to hide my grin.

  Are you going to do something about it?

  “Probably not.”

  I feel her laugh—warm and bright, threading through the connection between us like sunlight through water. It’s the kind of laugh that makes my chest ache in the best way, the kind that reminds me she’s real, she’s here, she’s alive.

  We don’t talk about why that matters so much.

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  Not yet.

  Not until Jackson asks the right questions.

  You’re impossible, she says, but there’s no bite in it. Just affection. Just us.

  “You love it,” I reply.

  I love you. The words come quick, easy, the way they always do—like she needs to say them, like she’s reminding both of us that we’re still here. Even when you’re enabling seal crime.

  “I love you too,” I answer, and mean it with everything I am.

  The bond settles into comfortable quiet again, and I let my awareness drift wider across the realm.

  The Nursery—Tasogare-jima—breathes steadily beneath me. The air filtration systems hum in their careful rhythm. The bay holds its temperature. The docks creak with morning work. Everything is stable. Everything is right.

  I built this.

  Not alone—never alone—but I built it, and it’s real, and people are laughing on those docks even while my seals commit larceny in broad daylight.

  That’s worth something.

  That’s worth everything.

  Movement catches my attention on Dinosaur Island—Kyoryu-jima—and I let myself settle there for a moment, just to watch.

  A herd of Maiasaura grazes near one of the controlled clearings, their massive heads lowering to crop at vegetation with surprising delicacy. A ranger stands nearby with a small group of visitors. He’s speaking softly, carefully, holding a branch of their preferred browse.

  A little girl—maybe six years old—takes the branch with both hands. She’s nervous. Her parents hover behind her, tense and amazed in equal measure.

  The nearest Maiasaura lowers its head, slow and gentle, and takes the branch from her fingers with lips that barely touch her skin.

  The girl bursts into laughter—pure, delighted, fearless.

  Her parents look like they might cry.

  I smile and pull back, letting the moment belong to them.

  Farther into the island, the atmosphere shifts. The herbivores know something is wrong before I do. A herd of Ouranosaurus tightens into a defensive knot, heads low, tails lashing. They’re protecting their young. They’re reading the terrain.

  They’re right to be afraid.

  The first Allosaurus steps from the tree line.

  Magnificent. Lean and powerful, every movement controlled, economical. Teeth like blades. Eyes sharp with focus.

  This one’s the decoy.

  I resist the urge to cheat—to see through the terrain, to spot the others before the hunt reveals them. Instead, I read the land the way a predator would: slopes, brush density, blind angles. Five more are hidden in the trees, positioned to break the herd and drive them into a kill corridor.

  The decoy advances.

  The herd reacts exactly as evolution taught them, retreating toward what looks like safety—straight into the trap.

  Another Allosaurus explodes from cover, snapping at the flank. Panic erupts. The herd scatters along the path the predators shaped for them, funneled by terrain and pressure and millions of years of instinct compressed into seconds.

  One by one, the hunters harry them—never overcommitting, never wasting energy.

  Until the matriarch strikes.

  An older Ouranosaurus stumbles. Falls.

  The kill is swift. Brutal. Efficient.

  The pack closes in.

  I don’t look away.

  It’s not cruelty. It’s not evil.

  It’s balance.

  It’s the world working the way it’s supposed to.

  And when it’s over, when the feeding begins and the survivors drift away into the forest, I let myself pull back with something close to satisfaction.

  I built this too. Not just the beauty—the function. The honesty. The parts of nature that don’t apologize.

  My love, Yuna says, returning with purpose in her tone. The historian just checked in. His earlier appointment canceled, and he’s free now. If you’re ready, they’d like to begin.

  I blink back into something closer to human awareness, pulling myself together from the edges of my realm.

  “That’s fine,” I reply. “I’m on my way.”

  Good. I feel her satisfaction, her quiet pride in me that she doesn’t say out loud but always makes sure I feel. He’s waiting at the hotel.

  And sweetheart?

  “Yeah?”

  The aquarium harbor system is still fighting you. We could pivot.

  “I disagree,” I answer immediately. “Let me try a few more options. I think I can make it work.”

  There’s a pause.

  Then a sigh—heavier this time. I feel the edge of annoyance and disappointment bleed through our connection, restrained but present.

  Fine, she says. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  The bond settles, and I turn my attention inward, preparing to meet Jackson.

  There’s work to do. History to tell. A realm that won’t build itself.

  But first—an interview.