A hand touches my shoulder. I let out a sharp scream, expecting to see Chiara or Janus, but it’s a woman with striking cobalt hair and stars inked into her skin—Isolde.
“You were dreaming,” she says.
I take a deep, shaky breath to dispel the lingering tendrils of the nightmare and clear my hazy mind. Sitting up, I push the blankets aside with trembling hands.
“It was all a dream?” I whisper, my voice hoarse and uncertain. I struggle to reconcile the vividness of the experience with reality.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, planting my feet on the cool floor to ground myself. After taking a moment to compose my breathing, my heart still racing, I stand. Each step toward the bathroom is unsteady, and I am desperate to outrun the haunting images that cling to me.
“Are you okay?” Isolde’s concern-laced voice breaks through my turmoil.
“I’m—” I start to assure her, but the words falter on my lips. Glancing down, I notice the state of my feet—grass-stained and dirty, bizarrely mirroring the dream’s outdoor landscape. I choke on a breath.
“Your Majesty?”
I muster a shaky smile. She can’t know what happened to me, not when I grapple with the uncertainty. “Isolde, I’m fine. It was just a dream, like you said. You can go. Thanks for checking on me.”
Isolde frowns, perhaps hoping for a more profound confession, a glimpse into the depths of my nightmare. But I’m not ready to share, not when the echoes of that dream stir real fears about my sanity. The suspicions about Janus’s intentions and the unsettling reality of my dirt-caked feet will remain my burden.
Once alone, I call out, “Aradia?” Desperate for answers and some explanation of my bizarre experience.
But I’m met with a chilling silence that only amplifies my unease. With no response from Aradia, I think of Ravi, hopinghe can shed light on the truth. Yet, a nagging doubt lingers in my mind. Will he manipulate the facts to serve his agenda?
The power stationcontrol room lies in ruins after the fire. Smoke and charred electronics permeate the air while blackened control panels stand like grotesque sculptures, their components fused together. Cracked monitors and occasional sparks from severed wires complete the chilling scene.
I look up at the soot-stained ceiling, which is marred by gaping holes that expose the skeletal framework beneath. The silence is unnerving, broken only by the occasional creak of settling metal and the distant drip from the failed sprinkler system.
Brigid places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s haunting, isn’t it?”
I nod but turn to face Dimitri, the plant manager, a Cosmic Witch engineer. He holds a clipboard while glaring at me beneath his hard hat. Dimitri isn’t the person I wanted to meet; I asked Brigid to ask Eddo to arrange a meeting with Michael Bersa, the plant owner. However, Eddo insisted Dimitri be present, considering he represents the Nebula plant workers whose strike led to the blaze.
During breakfast this morning, Brigid and Eddo announced that Brigid would accompany me to the station to oversee the conversation about plant repairs. Brigid claims to know Dimitri and his crew because they are regulars at Furies and ardent supporters of Stellan’s cause.
But I think Eddo just wants Brigid to babysit me. He probably thinks I’m here to strike a deal with Michael Bersa, given my supposed obsession with Epsilons. But that’s not why I’m here.
Dimitri and his Nebula friends—inspired by Stellan’s rhetoric—want higher pay and respect from their Epsilon employers. I understand this; theydeservebetter wages. But their strike tactics, meant to challenge the establishment, have created an ongoing blackout that hurts their own families most. Both EpsilonandNebula businesses are losing money daily, but while wealthy Epsilon citizens have backup generators, it’s the Nebula who suffer most from this outage. Power restoration shouldn’t be political, yet here we are.
“Is Michael on his way?” I ask Dimitri.
The stout engineer shrugs. “The Bersas answer to no one but themselves.”
“Michael likes to make an entrance. Or have you forgotten?” Brigid’s gaze lingers, and I return to assessing the charred mess.
I had the dubious honor of encountering the Bersa family on my first day in Aurora last year when Eddo assigned Brigid and me to investigate a robbery of priceless heirlooms at their manor. The case twisted when Brigid became the prime suspect due to her relationship with their son, Bryant. While Brigid’s taste in men was questionable, she was no thief. As Blades, we adhere to a code of honor. I proved her innocence by exposing how Bryant had framed her to cover up his gambling debts, believing no one would question his word over a Nebula’s. His arrogance was his undoing.
Michael’s likely late today because he recognized mine and Brigid’s name and is trying to put us in our places. If that’s the case, I’d rather deal with this situation by the time he arrives. All Michael needs to do is sign the check.
I lock eyes with Dimitri. “If you started repairs today, how quickly could you finish them?”
He chews on the eraser of his pencil. “I could have them done by next week if I had the funds and my crew.”
“That’s promising.”
Dimitri frowns. “But Bersa needs to agree to our stipulations before we return to work. He may shovel money into this place, but we are the backbone of this business. He must pay us what we are worth and then some, or this place will never run properly again.”
I slip my hands into the pocket of my fatigues and study Dimitri carefully. He’d let people suffer without power to prove a point. I’ve seen where he comes from, but extorting Michael isn’t the answer. “How long have you worked here, Dimitri?”
“Fifteen years,” he replies, raising his chin in pride.
