One more week passed.

Marisol lay on her stretcher, her body jostling slightly as the Guards and Imperators carried her across the gangplank onto the docks. The morning air was thick with the mingling scents of salt, rotting fish, and the tang of burning oil somewhere close by. Voices crowded the harbour, overlapping shouts and hurried footsteps ringing against the damp wooden planks. The entire city was restless, unsettled—like a wild beast just before a storm.

The Harbour City.

It was the largest stronghold in the Deepwater Legion Front, a massive port city built into the rocky western coastline of the mainland continent. Layered buildings stacked along the shore in rising tiers, their terracotta roofs glowing dully beneath the fierce morning sun. White stone walls, aged and chipped by the ocean winds, stretched across the cliffs, enclosing the city like a fortress. The streets were narrow and winding, built to confuse invading bugs. Wooden balconies jutted from every level, strung with drying clothes, tangled ropes, and the occasional hanging lantern.

And the lighthouses, too. They were impossible to miss. Massive steel and stone towers loomed at the edges of the port, each one mounted with ten colossal autocannons. Their oversized barrels glinted in the light, permanently trained toward the great blue. No matter how pretty the city was, no matter how the sunrise brushed soft colors against the waves, the lighthouses made it clear: this was a city built for war.

Of course, Marisol had been here before.

She'd rode onto these docks nearly a year ago on the back of a giant ant, when she'd boarded Antonio's ship and sailed towards the Whirlpool City. Back then, she'd barely felt the pulse of the place—the two of them were in a hurry to board the away fleet, so she didn't really get a good look at the city—but even then, she could vaguely remember the energy. The movement. The vitality of merchants and traders and sailors and fishermen living their safe, normal lives.

Now, it felt different.

The war had drained the energy.

Warships clogged the harbour, hulls creaking, sails furling. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. The entire horizon was thick with them. These were the ships that'd fled the Whirlpool City nearly two months ago, and though most of them had arrived days and weeks before the giant horseshoe crab island, there were still people who were only now being let off the ships, allowed to enter the city. Supplies were being moved, refugees were being herded into chaotic groups, the dead and wounded were being unloaded, and smoke curled from makeshift medical tents further inland, where white-cloaked healers moved between rows of cots. But though the docks alone must be crowded with at least twenty thousand working men right this moment, it didn't feel like it.

There was no sense of triumph here.

The people weren't celebrating.

They weren't cheering.

They simply watched as the giant horseshoe crab island docked against the outer piers and the soldiers hopped off in groups, one of them being Marisol's team of medics carrying her stretcher.

As Andres and the other Lighthouse Imperators coordinated the disembarkment, she turned her head slightly, neck aching, and looked towards the far western horizon.

The Whitewhale Marauders were gone.

They'd left yesterday with their Whitewhales. Slipped into the water, vanishing northwards before the Harbour City could get a good look at them. No one had stopped them. The Imperators hadn't even bothered trying. After all, even if they had helped pull the Imperators and Guards to the east, they were all going to be persecuted the moment they stepped foot into the Harbour City. Andres had given them a one-day head start to run as far away as they could, and so the rest of the soldiers turned a blind eye to the Marauders' disappearance. They'd fight again soon enough on the great blue, but not today.

The Marauders were allowed to leave safely for now.

But they'd be hunted down later.

Marisol's stretcher jerked slightly as the medics adjusted their grips, moving her further onto the dock. She barely registered it. Her fingers twitched against the stiff fabric beneath her as she inhaled slowly, trying to steady herself.

She turned her head even more and looked at the docks behind her.

The giant horseshoe crab island was swimming away, its colossal legs carving slowly but steadily beneath the waves. The crab children and the Damselfly Oracles stood on the black sand beach, waving their temporary farewells at all of them. After all, there were still warships waiting to dock, and the island was taking up too much space. No doubt the giant horseshoe crab would linger around the edges of the Harbour City for the time being—it'd do so as long as the black tide was still a threat and the humans weren't—but Marisol had half a mind to tell all the crab children to get off the island and join them in the city. It was safer here. There were soldiers here.

But then her eyes locked onto the crab children's, and Kuku suddenly led a silent, solemn bow.

The rest of the crab children and the Damselfly Oracles bowed as well.

…

She clenched her jaw and forced her fingers still. Forced herself to breathe, to ignore the weight pressing against her chest, that… that phantom feeling of lightning still buzzing under her skin.

She was still shaking.

Hadn't stopped shaking for an entire week.

And it didn't seem like it'd stop anytime soon.

By afternoon, the Harbour City had settled into an uneasy quiet.

Not peace. Not even close.

Just the kind of silence that happened after the worst of a storm—when the wind finally died but the wreckage still remained.

Marisol sat at the end of a long table, hands curled around a small glass vial. The room was identical to the one in Lighthouse Seven back in the Whirlpool City: glass walls, glass ceiling, an open view of the entire city. She could see everything from up here. The city sprawled outward in a tangled web of stone and iron, its tightly packed streets lined with warehouses, barracks, and towering foundries that spewed trails of white smoke into the salty air. Even in the distance, the deepwater harbours churned with movement, soldiers and dockworkers hauling supplies, fortifying barricades, loading ammunition into the autocannons that lined the city's seawalls.

But Marisol didn't care about any of that.

The Lighthouse Imperators were all here. Every last one of them who'd made it out alive. Maria, Reina, Claudia—scarred and silent, their bodies wrapped in bandages, their eyes dark with exhaustion. Andres himself sat at the head of the table, his chitined fingers laced together, his expression carved from stone. Along the walls, two dozen more Imperators stood guard, each one battered, broken, and barely supporting their own weight as they leaned against the glass. Helena was among them, her gaze locked on the floor.

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No one spoke.

No one moved.

And Marisol's hands wouldn't stop shaking.

She clenched them in her lap, trying to still the tremors, but it was useless. Her breath felt tight in her chest. Her glaives felt numb. The silence stretched, suffocating. Even as the city below groaned with the weight of war—crates slamming shut, cannons shifting in place, waves breaking against the harbour—the room remained dead.

Then, finally, Andres spoke.

"The reports are in." His voice was even and measured. Fitting for the One-Eyed Lord of the Whirlpool City. "Now that the evacuation is complete, we have the current headcount from the dockmasters. At least eighty percent of the civilians from the Whirlpool City have successfully made it here."

No one reacted.

Marisol swallowed hard, her fingers curling against the fabric of her skirt. Eighty percent. That was a victory, wasn't it? A miracle, even, considering how hard and how fast Kalakos had burst out of the whirlpool nearly two months ago.

It should've felt like relief, but it didn't.

Andres continued. "The black tide has stopped for now. Kalakos, the E-Rank Remipede God, is dead. They've ceased their advance for a week, but we can't rely on that lasting forever." Then he exhaled slowly, leaned forward, and rested his bloody and cracked forearms against the table. "Lighthouse Six is still at sea, and Matheo is still sending in reports from the near western currents. According to him, Rhizocapala, the E-Rank Barnacle God, has taken full command of the black tide. In one week, he'll be here with a full army."

A ripple of tension passed through the room.

Claudia was the first to speak. "And reinforcements? What about 'em?"

Andres shook his head. "We've been calling for them ever since we decided to evacuate the city three weeks ago. No one's coming from the north—the Plagueplain Front has no standing army. You know how they are up there. Fifteen Carpenter Ant Battalions from the Attini Empire Front are marching upwards from the south, each battalion numbering three thousand strong, but they won't make it in time. Neither will the extra anti-chitin artillery from the Rampaging Hinterland Front, nor the Beetle Dancers from the Hellfire Caldera Front. When Rhizocapala arrives, we will be alone."

"And the Worm God? Ain't he sendin' a clone over?"

"Eight of them are rooted in place, and the ninth is currently fighting an Insect God in the far east. We won't see a new clone for the Deepwater Legion Front for another year at least."

Maria shifted in her seat, but she didn't say anything.

Reina didn't even blink.

"... That being said, it's not all lost." Andres straightened. His voice cut through the silence, steady and firm. "The Harbour City is built to withstand sieges as the second and final bastion of the Deepwater Legion Front should the Whirlpool City ever fall. The autocannons stationed here match those on the far western front. We have taller walls, more artillery, and stronger warships. Eurypteria is dead. Kalakos is dead. The black tide will come, but without Corpsetaker and Marculata backing it—with just Rhizocapala leading the charge—the Swarm will not break us here. We've held the western front for years. We'll hold the east now."

His words should've brought relief.

They didn't.

Marisol's hands were still shaking. The vial in her fingers clinked against the little gold chains on her skirt, a sound so quiet it should've gone unnoticed.

But in the silence, it might as well have been cannon fire.

She hadn't meant to speak. She really hadn't.

But the words slipped out anyway.

"It should've been me."

The silence deepened.

Andres turned to her. His gaze was steady. "Marisol. He was a brave man. A good bug-slayer. I'd known him for decades, and—"

"It should've been me," she whispered again. The vial trembled harder in her grip. "He had this. He had this damned vial in his hands, and he… he gave it to me instead." Her breath hitched. She finally looked up, locking eyes with Andres, and her voice broke. "Why? Why give it to me? Why hide his class from me all this time?"

The room was quiet again, filled with the presence of too many people who'd seen too much. Every Imperator stood still, their faces grim, their eyes dark with understanding she wasn't ready to acknowledge. They knew. They saw the way her body trembled, the way her hands curled into fists as if she could fight against the truth of it.

She had nothing left to give.

Then, a weak touch settled on her shoulder. Warm. Barely there.

Reina.

The pretty lady was shaking too. Her lips quivered, her breath came uneven, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. Her uncle was dead, and she was holding it together by the thinnest of threads.

Still, Reina forced herself to speak.

"We… still have a week left," she whispered. "Rhizocapala isn't here yet. We can prepare, we can shore up the defenses. We'll hold the Harbour City." Then she took a sharp breath, swallowing whatever grief was clawing at her throat. "But for now… you need to rest, Marisol."

Rest.

Marisol barely registered the word. She'd done nothing but rest the past week. All of them Imperators had. She'd thought the aching in her bones and the uncontrollable shaking of her muscles would calm down after a night of good sleep, but the sleep wasn't good, and even just closing her eyes brought forth memories of that lightning—that bluish-golden arc cutting through the air.

She couldn't sleep.

Maria, quiet until now, nodded to herself and wrote something in her notebook. Her expression was as neutral as ever, but her eyes flicked toward Marisol with something close to sympathy.

'From the beginning,' she wrote, 'your only goal was to get a vial of healing seawater for your mother. That was all. This was never your fight.'

And then there was a sudden shift in the room.

Every Imperator present—initiates, adepts, veterans, Lighthouse Imperators—bowed.

Even Andres.

Marisol's breath caught in her throat as the Imperatrix lowered his head, the tension in his broad shoulders finally breaking.

"I was forceful with you," he admitted. "We all were. We pushed you to keep fighting and to make decisions. That wasn't fair to a civilian, and while I don't regret what I did, I don't think the old man would like me holding you any longer than you have to be."

A pause.

"From here on out, we've got this. The city will hold. The Deepwater Legion Front will fight." He lifted his gaze, solemn and unwavering. "We don't need to rely on you anymore. The burden of this war is no longer on you."

The words slammed into Marisol like a punch to the chest.

They didn't need her.

The war wasn't hers to fight anymore.

All of the Imperators straightened, and Andres' expression was softer than she'd ever seen it.

"Thank you, Marisol Vellamira, for your eleven months of service to the Deepwater Legion Front," he said quietly. "If the old man were here, he'd tell you to go home, too."

The silence deepened.

They all remained bowed.

… That's right.

From the beginning, she never wanted this. She never wanted to fight. She was just some desert girl—an airheaded bumpkin who danced in the sand for her little village. She wasn't a soldier. She wasn't a trained bug-slayer. She had no vendetta, no burning hatred for the Swarm like most of the Imperators here did. She didn't care about vengeance or war or strategy or saving the world.

All she'd wanted was one thing.

One tiny thing.

A vial of healing seawater.

Ten years she'd chased after it, scraping, begging, dancing on the edge of her life to get her hands on one. And now, finally—after all the blood, the battles, the agony—she had it.

The old man had one all along.

She won.

She had what she came all the way out here for.

Wasn't that right?

…

A sharp tremor ran through her, and suddenly, her vision blurred. Her lips parted, but no words came out—only a ragged, uneven breath. Her chest clenched, tight and aching, like something had cracked wide open.

Then, a tear.

A single drop, hot against her raw skin, sliding down her cheek. Then another. Then another.

She didn't sob. Didn't wail. She simply sat there, silent, as her face twisted and the tears kept falling.

She didn't even know why she was crying.

Reina watched her for a long moment, then exhaled slowly, her grief momentarily pushed aside for something gentler. The Lighthouse Imperator wiped her own eyes, steeled herself, then said, "I'll arrange a carriage to take you home. The fastest there is in the Harbour City. You can come visit after all of this blows over, and I'd be glad to keep you company, but... you need to be home right now, don't you? You still have someone you came all the way here to tend to, don't you?"

Home.

Her boring desert village.

Her mama.

Reina straightened further, crossing an arm over her chest in the Imperator's salute. "It was good fighting with you, Marisol," she said. "But from now on… let the professional soldiers handle this."

Marisol swallowed hard, but her throat was too tight to speak. She nodded. Just nodded, jerking her chin down once—struggling, failing, unable to get a single word out past the thick knot in her chest.

She was still shaking.

But she knew she needed to get back to her mama.

She needed to know all of this hadn't been for nothing.

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