A Viridescent Intensity
T halassi’s forces were housed in the rear of the giant cavern, set apart from the rest of the grotto with frosted shields.
Samira touched her palm to a gel pack on the wall.
The energy barrier dropped, creating an opening enough for her to step through.
She raised a chin and a hand to the guards just inside the threshold, and they saluted back at her.
She strode on with a wry, almost shy smile. She was still uncomfortable with her role as their general and unused to the title she had inherited from her now-deceased husband.
She straightened her back, keen to look the part as she stalked through the garrison.
It pulsed with constant activity, a testament to the unyielding resilience of the Vaelorian resistance.
It was carved deep into the subterranean stone, creating a sanctuary and a fortress.
The bioluminescent algae that lit much of the cavern city was subdued here, replaced by the sharper, utilitarian glow of industrial lanterns hanging from the ceiling.
The garrison’s principal entrance was well guarded, with makeshift barricades and security drones positioned to repel surprise attacks.
Soldiers in streamlined armor patrolled the perimeter, their faces tense and on mission.
The central hall served as the heart of the garrison.
Long tables lined the space, crowded with military personnel cleaning weapons, repairing gear, and eating meals of dried fish, roots, and nutrient-packed rations.
The mess was filled with the murmur of voices, the clatter of cutlery, and the occasional bark of laughter.
Beyond, the core situ room was ringed with walls where maps and charts were pinned.
A holo flickered, displaying a rotating three-dimensional map of the cavern system and the contested surface above.
Soldiers stood before the displays, gesturing as they discussed strategies and troop movements.
Past the armory was an expansive chamber repurposed as a training ground.
Stone targets lined one wall, etched with scorch marks from countless practice sessions.
Troops drilled while squad leaders hovered, monitoring their progress, shouting to keep them on their toes.
In one corner, recruits sparred with wooden staffs, their strikes precise as they honed their hand-to-hand combat skills.
The barracks were modest but functional.
Rows of cots, each with a simple trunk at the foot for personal belongings, lined the walls. The scent of sweat and damp fabric lingered in the atmosphere.
Soldiers sat on their beds, some sharpening blades or mending gear, others writing letters or staring at holo-pictures of loved ones.
Despite the harsh conditions, there was an air of camaraderie, a silent strength that bound them together, the ambiance infused with an undercurrent of hope and defiance.
The Vaelorii shared quiet jokes, their laughter spreading to card tables and game boards and their voices rising in playful banter.
In another corner, a young recruit strummed a makeshift stringed instrument.
His haunting melody carried through the cavern.
Reminding them the garrison wasn’t just a base but a testament to the Vaelorii’s moxie.
Deep under the surface, they forged their resolve, preparing for the battles ahead.
Samira entered the engineering lab and arsenal depot, a sprawling space carved from the rock. Its walls were lined with improvised workstations and salvaged cyborg parts.
The armory was a hive of precision and purpose.
Rows of racks held sleek laser rifles and modified blasters designed to amplify the Vaelorian’s fluid kinetics.
Soldiers queued up to check out equipment, their voices blending with the sharp metallic clicks of weapons being calibrated.
Samira approached a long-haired, elfin female.
The woman wore a utility jumpsuit and sturdy boots, and her skin was covered in stunning aqueous ink. She examined a device under a microscope beside a pile of wires and metallic components.
Sharin was the army’s head engineer. Constantly on the move, she barked orders as her team worked on creating new prototypes.
Disassembled firearms were spread across her workbenches, their intricate parts exposed.
Samira locked gazes with her close friend and smiled.
‘How’s it going?’ Samira murmured, hoping for a breakthrough.
Sharin scowled, her face smudged with soot, her narrowed eyes betraying her frustration. ‘ Fokk , Sam, not well. The mask is beyond me. Whatever kinetic tech it’s built on, it’s like nothing I’ve seen before. It’s dormant, but every time I try to wake it, it resists.’
Samira’s shoulders sagged.
The Rider’s artifact had been her last desperation—an artifact of immense potency that could play havoc with the control software binding the cyborgs to Marius’s will.
‘What about the prototype disruptor?’
Sharin brightened. ‘That’s different. We’ve been working on a component that mimics dynamic energy. It’s crude, but it might be enough to scramble their signals. We’ll test it tomorrow.’
Her commander nodded, placing a hand on Sharin’s shoulder. ‘ Sante . Rest if you can. We need you sharp.’
Sharin gave her a small smile. ‘I could say the same to you.’
‘Keep trying with the mask,’ Samira called as she strode away. ‘Until we get a breakthrough.’
There was little other option.
Samira exited the garrison and continued deeper into the caverns, the air growing cooler and more still.
At the end of a winding tunnel, she reached a door carved into the rock, its surface smooth and polished.
She used her wrist comm to unlock the door, which clicked and creaked open as she pushed it in.
Stepping into a humble living room, she found a woman sitting on a divan, reading a holographic book projected before her hands, which were busy sewing.
A set of spectacles sat perched on her nose.
The tall, regal middle-aged female sliced eyes at her. ‘How are you, love?’
‘Well enough, Aunt Misandra,’ Samira murmured.
‘Hmm,’ the woman huffed, her presence radiating calm.
‘How are they?’ Samira whispered, using her aunt’s nickname.
‘Sleeping,’ the older woman smiled, waving towards the back of the room. ‘They had tests today at school, then a swimming race. So they were exhausted and picked at their food before I tucked them in.’
Samira moved to an inner corridor that led to several doorways.
She pushed one that was half open.
Beyond, two of the most beautiful souls lay curled on makeshift beds, their small forms rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep.
Her heart ached with a love so poignant that tears flooded her eyes.
She wandered back to the living area. ‘ Sante , aunt, don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘ De nada ,’ the woman smiled. ‘They have become my world, and I am grateful.’
Misandra’s name was once whispered with admiration across the vibrant markets of Orilia XIV.
Her nimble fingers, which created intricate embroidery and flowing garments that adorned the wealthiest of Vaelorian society, had trembled the day she buried her husband and son.
The Corilians had taken them, like they had stripped them all of so much else—leaving behind only the hollow shell of a life, a reflection of her former self, her former-bright eyes dulled by grief.
The laughter of Samira’s children began to thread her tattered heart back together when she moved in with them.
Their boundless energy and innocent joy formed an antidote to the sorrow that had settled deep in her bones.
Now, Misandra was the steadfast anchor of their household, a bastion of calm and order amid chaos.
She kept the home running, ensuring Malik and Liora were cared for while their mother fought an almost unwinnable war.
Her mornings were spent tending to the garden pools that provided the family with sustenance as she coaxed life from the soil and water.
She prepared meals with the same care she once poured into her designs, each dish an act of love and defiance against the despair that sought to creep in.
She was there to dry Liora’s tears when nightmares woke her at night and to guide Malik as he carved small wooden animals, encouraging his creativity.
Her presence was a quiet but unyielding strength, a reminder to everyone in the household that no matter how dark the days became, their little world would not fall apart.
Misandra also evolved into a confidante for Samira, a source of wisdom and comfort.
On the rare nights Samira returned to her residence exhausted and battle-worn, Misandra brewed her a soothing tea, sat with her in silence, and offered her the solace of understanding without judgment.
Though her grief lingered, Misandra channeled it into purpose.
She would never forget her husband and son, but their memory now fueled her dedication to protect the family she had found in Samira’s home.
She was no longer the seamstress whose creations turned heads at galas, but she was something far more vital—a cornerstone in a world desperately needing rebuilding.
Misandra’s voice broke the silence. ‘You hungry?’
Samira turned, nodding, ‘Starving.’
Her aunt guided her to a dining table and handed her a bowl of fragrant stew.
In an instant, the aroma of herbs and root vegetables soothed Samira.
She ate, taking her time, savoring the simple flavors of a hot meal after a day spent patrolling wet caves and tunnels.
‘What of the mask?’ Misandra asked, sitting and facing her, setting her needlework down.
Samira sighed, setting the vessel down. ‘No progress. Sharin’s trying, but it doesn’t want to wake. She’s testing a disruptor tomorrow. Maybe it’ll work.’
Her aunt reached across, her hand snug and steady as it clasped Samira’s. ‘You’ve done everything you can, child. Rest now. You won’t win this war in a day.’
The kitchen was lit by the glow of bioluminescent moss, casting a pleasant purple hue over the stone walls.
Samira rose and moved to the sink, her sleeves rolled up. Her hands were submerged in the warm water, which trickled from a natural spring through a handmade spout.
She scrubbed the last plate clean, running her fingers over its smooth, uneven ceramic surface, and then set it aside to dry on a wooden rack.
Misandra bustled behind her, folding linens with practiced efficiency. ‘You’ve been on your feet all day,’ the older woman said, chiding and concerned. ‘Sleep, love. Let me finish.’
‘I’m fine,’ Samira replied, though the weariness in her voice betrayed her. She picked up a cloth, dried her hands, and turned to her kinswoman. ‘I’m done now, anyway.’
Her aunt sighed, brushing back a strand of gray-streaked hair. ‘Kiss me good night before you disappear into your room.’
Samira leaned in, pressing her lips to Misandra’s weathered cheek. ‘Good night and Sante —for everything.’
The older woman patted her arm. ‘Go on, then. Get some rest. You’re no good to anyone if you wear yourself down.’
Samira slipped into the alcove—a makeshift bathroom carved into the rock.
A small fountain bubbled up from the stone, its crystal-clear water flowing into a basin chiseled from a boulder. The space was simple and functional, with shelves holding soap made from wild herbs and folded linen hanging from a peg.
She cupped her hands under the spring, letting the flow run over her fingers before splashing it onto her face.
The shock brought a fleeting clarity, washing away the day’s grime. She ran a hand through her hair, loosening the braid that had kept it out of her face during the long hours in the cavern.
The water trailed down her neck, cool on her flushed skin.
She dried with the towel, the fabric caressing her cheeks. For a moment, she lingered, savoring the simple act of cleaning, of doing something just for herself.
The compact room she retreated to was tucked into the far cranny of the subterranean home.
Inside, the space was spare but neatly arranged.
A woven mat covered the stone floor, its faded colors a remnant of brighter days.
Her bed was in one corner, layered with soft blankets and a pillow stitched by Misandra’s steady hands.
The air was packed with florals and moss, a calming scent she had come to associate with this tiny sanctuary.
A side table stood by her pallet, its surface scratched but polished. It held a single lamp and a holographic photo.
A carved wooden chest sat at the foot of the bedding, its contents sparse—extra clothes, a few keepsakes, and a battered journal.
Samira sank onto her mattress, the ache in her body reminding her of the day’s work.
Reaching for a petite tin on the table, she opened it to reveal a natural lotion made from herbs and oils.
In a ritual she’d never let go of since before the war, she rubbed it into her palms, the scent of wildflowers filling the room then massaged it into her skin. The action was a nightly tradition that soothed her frayed nerves.
Her fingers paused as her gaze flicked to the virtual photo on a stand.
The image showed a younger version of herself, her face glowing with happiness.
She stood beside a man in a general’s uniform, his arm around her waist, his expression warm and confident. Between them, two children beamed at the camera—a boy with her dark hair and a girl with his light eyes.
Her throat tightened as she reached out and brushed the edge of the holo frame. ‘Ryen,’ she whispered, her voice breaking on the name.
The sadness of his memory pressed against her chest, the image of that life—her life before the battle—lingering in her mind.
Designer gowns, glittering balls, the hum of music and laughter in grand halls. It all appeared like another world, a dream she could just about recall.
She felt a familiar wave of guilt about her long-gone husband. He had been compassionate, gentle, and generous—her childhood sweetheart.
Over the years, as they’d matured, their love had shifted to a kind, considerate, sometimes placid partnership, with little excitement but plenty of nurturing.
When the fighting began, he took charge of Thalassa’s forces.
She’d fought by his side, their kindred hearts united for the sake of their people and children.
Until she’d lost him in a Corilian rail gun attack.
With a sigh, she turned off the lamp, plunging the room into the soft blue light of the bioluminescence that seeped through the cracks in the stone.
She lay down, pulling the blankets over her, her body heavy with exhaustion.
The cavern was silent except for the distant drip of water, which was soothing but not enough to quiet Samira’s mind. She stared at the arched ceiling above, the glow of the algae casting shifting shadows across the rock.
Sleep evaded her, and her thoughts were unable to find peace.
Instead, it conjured images of Eden II—of Kisan.
Fokk , the way his hands had gripped her arms, firm and searching.
Then, he’d glided his lean fingers over her skin as though trying to memorize her.
She remembered the intensity in his viridescent eyes, the glow that appeared to pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat. She twisted in her bed, heart burning with the ache of her betrayal, the knowledge that she had used him.
Yet, beneath the guilt, a spark of something else remained—a longing, a wild need for him that glided over her skin and left her throbbing and aching between her thighs.
He intoned her name in her fantasy, and she whispered it back to the night. They made passionate love, their bodies slick against each other, the heat of his breath in her ear as he groaned.
Damn. She flipped to a new position, willing him from her mind, to no avail.
When her eyes fluttered shut from exhaustion, her dreams carried her back to Eden II.
To the one man who’d awakened feelings so wild, so passionate she’d never believed them possible.
When she woke, his ghost lingered, leaving her breathless and unsettled.
As the cool air of the cavern brushed against her skin, she stared at the ceiling again; her soul was a tangle of guilt and yearning.
The next few hours would bring more struggles, more burdens, but for now, she lay in the quiet and remembered.
The sounds of her people waking to a new day sounded in the distance.
She sat up, her soul yearning for relief, her spirit heavy with the millstone of her inescapable reality and the battles yet to come.