The whistle jolted Bistrena from her sleep. Once, it would have startled her awake, heart racing and disoriented. Now, the suddenness had become so routine that she could almost drift back to sleep—if not for the autonomous early morning ritual drilled into her. Hooves hit the floor, the cold biting through her coat. Around her, the barracks stirred, a low murmur of rustling sheets and quiet movements.

Underneath the opposite bunk, the barracks’ resident rat—a creature as large as a small dog—circled on patrol. Its beady eyes gleamed in the dim light before it slunk into a hole beneath the floorboards, vanishing back into anonymity.

She made the bed. Tugging the blanket tight, smoothing the sheets, and aligning the pillow. One task at a time. Her mind felt blank, almost hollow, as if the previous day's events hadn’t happened—or couldn’t have. She thought she’d be angry, maybe shaking or falling apart, but nothing happened. Just a dull ache somewhere deep she didn’t want to look at.

Dusklight glanced her way. “You okay?”

Bistrena didn’t answer at first. The bed was nearly perfect. A wrinkle at the edge of the blanket caught her attention. She fixed it, then looked at Dusklight. “Fine.”

Dusklight hesitated, then nodded. Across the room, Ribbonweave muttered something under her breath, probably about how cold it was. Aurelia triple-checked her boots like usual. The routine kept them moving, just like it did Bistrena.

The door swung open, and Corporal Jetstream strode in, flanked by Slate. Jetstream’s eyes swept over the recruits as he stepped into the middle of the room.

“Listen up,” he called, his voice sharp but not raised. “Week two starts today. You’re moving to another barracks.”

Bistrena blinked, momentarily thrown. A transfer wasn’t something she’d expected, and judging by the looks around her, the others hadn’t either.

“Strip your bunks, pack your gear, and be outside in fifteen minutes,” Jetstream continued. “Keep it tight. Slate’s watching the clock.”

Slate remained silent, her gaze passing over the recruits like a blade.

The recruits didn’t need to be told twice. Around the room, blankets were pulled free, and hooves worked quickly to pack gear. Ribbonweave cursed under her breath, muttering something about having just made her bed, while Dusklight worked quietly.

Bistrena focused on rolling her blanket. Her hooves moved automatically, but her mind wandered. Lockstep wasn’t there. The absence felt strange, like a chair missing one leg. She wasn’t sure what to make of it—was it related to yesterday?

Jetstream’s voice pulled her back to the present. “Fifteen minutes. Get to it, ladies!”

He turned and left, Slate following wordlessly. The door clicked shut behind them, and the room settled into focused movement.

Bistrena tightened the straps on her pack, while Dusklight worked to help her buckle her armour, and took a steadying breath. She shoved aside her thoughts about Lockstep. Whatever awaited them at the new barracks, there was no point in worrying about it now.

The cold hit hard as they stepped outside. Frost crunched under their boots as they marched to the field. Snow clung to their coats, their breath steaming in the air.

The company formed up by platoon, in files as straight as they could manage. At the front, Captain Wheatstone and Staff Sergeant Barnside stood on a crate, watching as the recruits settled into place. Wheatstone cleared his throat, his voice cutting cleanly through the crisp morning air.

“We’ll be marching to a training town on the other side of the lake,” he began. “It’s about two hours away at a solid hoof. You’ll be carrying everything—full armour, kit bags, all of it, so don’t leave anything behind.”

He scanned the lines briefly. “When we arrive, we’ll eat as a unit. You’ll learn how to handle field rations, foraging, and basic camp-making skills. Once that’s done, the platoons will split. First, Second, and Third Platoons will muster for Riot Control training under Staff Sergeant Barnside. Fourth and Fifth will head to the Fire Training College, while Sixth and Eighth stay back at camp for First Aid. These rotations will last two days per unit. The seventh day will be rest—you’ll have earned it by then.”

Wheatstone nodded once and stepped aside. “Barnside, they’re yours.”

Barnside didn’t waste a second, her voice sharp and direct.

“This week’s going to push you. You’ll be dragged through every kind of scenario we can throw at you—some of our simulations will feel real, but they're not. This is where you get to screw up. You’ll have specialists on stand-by to show you the right way, and you’ll keep doing it until you get it right. That’s the point of training: learning here, so you don’t kill yourself—or another poor bastard—out there.”

She paused, letting her gaze rake across the rows of recruits. “Take it seriously. Learn everything you can. And don’t waste my time pretending you’ve got it figured out when you don’t. Now get ready to move. It’s a long march, and we're burning daylight.”

The company fell into motion, their boots crunching in rhythm as they prepared to head toward the training town.

As 3rd Platoon fell into their column, an officer in black approached Wheatstone. He handed over a scroll sealed with the insignia of the Military Police.

Wheatstone read it quickly, his frown deepening. When he finished, his gaze moved across the battalion, finally landing on Bistrena.

Dusklight noticed. “What’s he looking at?” she whispered.

Bistrena’s stomach twisted. Wheatstone spoke quietly with the officer, then nodded. The officer walked toward them.

“Recruit Bistrena,” the officer said when he reached their line. “You’re to come with me for questioning.”

Dusklight’s eyes widened. “What’s this about?” she asked, stepping closer to Bistrena.

“Platoon, stand fast!” Jetsream’s voice cut through the growing whispers. “Recruit, move out.”

Bistrena swallowed hard, stepping out of line. Her mind was spinning now, but her body moved on its own. She followed the officer, her steps stiff, her back straight. Behind her, she could feel the eyes of her platoon, the questions they weren’t asking out loud.

The MP led her through the camp, heading towards the regional fort. A tall central keep with six semi-circular bastions. A dry moat stretched beneath the drawbridge, and a stone gatehouse stood proudly on the other side, flanked by two tall flagpoles.

The fort’s drawbridge creaked under Bistrena’s hooves as she followed the MP inside. The old stone keep loomed above, its weathered walls almost foreboding against the morning light. Inside, the air was damp and musty, the cold sinking into her bones.

At first, it seemed like any old castle she’d read about in school—arched ceilings, crumbling tapestries, and sconces that still held remnants of burnt-out torches. But as they walked deeper, things began to feel… off.

Thin metal wires snaked along the walls, and strange glowing panels replaced where torches might have been. There were machines here—large, blocky things with blinking lights and faint hums that made her ears twitch. She couldn’t begin to guess their purpose.

She caught sight of a smooth black device resting on a pedestal, its glass surface flickering with images and strange markings. It looked like some sort of enchanted mirror, but the symbols weren’t runes. They were too angular, too alien.

The MP said nothing, his steps steady as he led Bistrena down a narrow stairwell. The stone steps were slick, and Bistrena leaned on the cold wall for balance. At the bottom, a heavy steel door came into view, its surface too clean, too precise to belong in a place like this.

The MP tapped a series of buttons on a small panel embedded in the wall. With a low hiss, the door slid open, revealing a sterile room that couldn’t have been more different from the old fort above.

The stone walls were bare, save for a single strange device mounted on the far side—a black box with a flickering green light. Wires trailed from it like vines, vanishing into the ceiling. A metal table sat in the centre, flanked by two simple chairs.

And then there was him.

The unicorn stallion waiting inside looked as out of place as the machines. His storm-grey coat and neatly combed black mane were unremarkable at first glance, but something about him made her uneasy. His eyes, silver and unblinking, seemed to cut straight through her.

Then she noticed his foreleg.

At first, she thought it was armour—a polished metal gauntlet that gleamed under the harsh lights. But as he moved, the joints flexed unnaturally, the plates shifting like living metal. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just armour.

“Recruit Bistrena,” he said, his voice low and even. “Sit.”

She hesitated but obeyed, her hooves scuffing the spotless floor as she slid into the chair.

The MP nodded to the stallion and left without a word. The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Bistrena alone with the metal-legged stranger.

“I’m Agent Silverhoof, Domestic Security Agency,” he said, gesturing to a small device on the table. It was about the size of a book, with glowing symbols she didn’t recognize. He pressed a button, and a soft hum filled the room.

“This device ensures privacy,” he said, his tone clinical. “No sound leaves this room while it’s active.”

So, this was what they looked like? The DSA - shadowy Crown Agents who fought Equestria's hidden enemies? Not what I was expecting. Bistrena’s ears flicked, her unease growing. Privacy spells weren’t unheard of, but this didn’t feel magical. Or legal, her mind chirped.

He started taking snaking wires from another machine, it looked like a thin black typewriter, but there were only a few buttons. "This is a lie detector machine," he said, attaching the clips to her foreleg, and a sticky pad behind one of her ears with delicate movements. “Otherwise known as a biometric analyzer. It measures your body’s responses to determine truthfulness. Do you understand?”

Bistrena swallowed hard, sweat beading on the back of her neck. The pad was cold and itchy, she fought the desire to twitch her ear. “I think so.”

“Good. Let’s begin.”

The machine hummed softly, its needles twitching across the paper. Silverhoof asked her simple questions at first—her name, her rank, the date. She answered automatically, her gaze flicking between him and the machine.

But then, his tone shifted.

“Tell me about yesterday.”

Her chest tightened. She recounted the events in short, halting sentences—the guard’s advances, his hooves on her, her desperate struggle, Lockstep's arrival. Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to keep going.

Silverhoof didn’t interrupt, and his expression didn't change. When she finished, he leaned back slightly, his metallic foreleg resting on the table.

“Did you feel threatened?”

“Yes.”

“Did you believe your life was in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Did you intend to kill him?”

Her heart pounded. She shook her head. “No. I just wanted him to stop.”

The needles jumped sharply, and she flinched, though Silverhoof did not indicate what it meant. He leaned forward, his silver eyes narrowing.

“Do you regret it?”

Bistrena’s ears flattened, anger bubbling to the surface. “Regret what, exactly?” she shot back. “Do I regret cleaning the bathroom? Or being assaulted?”

Silverhoof’s tone remained cold. “Do you regret his death?”

The question struck her silent. She stared at him, her mind racing. Did she? The guard’s face flashed in her memory, twisted with drunken lust and then shock. She hadn’t meant for him to die. But regret?

Her eyes flicked to the machine. If it worked, lying wouldn’t help.

She took a deep breath. “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t regret it. I didn’t expect it—any of it. But when it happened, it felt like…” She hesitated, searching for the right words, remembering what Lockstep had told her. “Like the world just proved how rotten it is.”

For the first time, Silverhoof’s expression shifted—just a flicker of something unreadable. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his forelegs, the machine’s rhythmic hum the only sound. His silver eyes remained fixed on Bistrena, watching, evaluating.

“Let’s move on,” he said. “The war. What do you believe it’s about?”

Bistrena blinked. The question caught her off guard, as did the casual tone in which it was asked. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

Silverhoof tilted his head slightly as if studying her from a new angle. “This war's been going on for more than two years now, and you’ve been training to fight it. Surely you have an opinion.”

She shifted in her chair, her mind racing. “I used to think it was about patriotism. Defending Equestria from invaders. Doing my part for the homeland.” Her tone hardened. “But now? I think it’s just... happening. Ponies like me don’t get to decide why or how. It’s just there. If I have to fight to protect my family, my home, I will. That’s all.”

Silverhoof nodded slowly, his expression flat, like this was something mundane for him, like just another interview. “And what if protecting your home meant fighting against ponies you thought were your allies?”

Bistrena stiffened. The question dug deeper than she liked, scratching at fresh wounds. She thought of Blackguard and Lockstep, of the blood on the tiles. “I defended myself when I had to,” she said carefully. “I’ll do it again if I need to.”

His horn flickered with electric-blue light, and the air seemed to hum. His silver eyes dulled momentarily, replaced by faint blue, and she swore she saw tiny lines of writing scroll across them. His expression turned distant, almost vacant, as though reading something only he could see.

“Cinereus,” he said, suddenly robotic, his voice deepening. “Your brother. He’s with the 90th Shock Battery, correct? Been in the thick of it for a few years now. Few commendations. By all accounts, a hero.”

Bistrena’s heart skipped. “Y-Yes. I’m proud of him. Always have been. He’s the reason I joined. I wanted to follow him, but… family kept me here.”

Silverhoof’s gaze snapped back to her, sharp and probing. “What if Cinereus came home one day… and turned out to be a changeling infiltrator? Could you kill an enemy that wore your brother’s face?”

Her breath caught. “What kind of question is that?!”

“Just answer it.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

The machine spiked, its needles jumping erratically. Silverhoof’s eyes returned to their silver sheen, and he glanced at the readout, his expression neutral."These questions ensure the safety and survival of Equestria, recruit."

He leaned forward, his voice harsher now. “I'll ask you again. What if Cinereus came home, but he wasn’t really him anymore? What would you do?”

Bistrena clenched her jaw. Anger burned inside her, hot and visceral. Who was this stallion? What gave him the right to twist her thoughts like this?

“If Cinereus came home, I’d be ecstatic to see him,” she said slowly, measuring her words. “But if he turned into… some kind of monster, I can’t imagine it.”

Silverhoof pressed further. “I'll paint you a picture; Imagine he was like the guard who attacked you. Pinning you down. Hurting you. What would you do then?”

"My brother would never hurt me," she said defiantly. Stalling for an answer she didn't wish to provide.

The Agent frowned, "It's a Changeling. The enemy. Not your brother. Imagine you're talking with him, and he turns into a monster, he attacks you and pins you down. Imagine it went like yesterday."

A low growl escaped her throat. “I’d defend myself.”

Silverhoof’s face remained impassive. “And if the changeling infiltrator threatened your parents? Or the young foals next door?” He listed their names, each one landing like a hammer blow. Bistrena felt a chill creep up her spine.

Her voice trembled. “How do you know so much about me? I thought this was about an unprovoked attack, and now you’re…” She struggled for the words. “… messing with my head!”

Silverhoof’s metallic hoof slammed onto the table, the sharp clang reverberating through the room. Bistrena flinched, pressing back against her chair.

“Would you or would you not kill an enemy of Equestria, be it a changeling, a pony, or something in between?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Her heart pounded. Every instinct told her to choose her words carefully. “I…” She hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “If my brother came home and turned out to be… not himself, or if he tried to hurt my family or my neighbours, and it was obvious he wasn’t himself, or I couldn't save him... then yes.”

Silverhoof exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. His silver eyes flicked between hers, and she noticed for the first time the faint indent his artificial foreleg had left in the table.

Satisfied, he leaned back and began analyzing the machine’s printouts, which had grown into an unwieldy pile. He made a few notes in a slim file, his pen scratching against the paper.

Bistrena sat in stunned silence, her heart racing as she tried to process what had just happened. Blood and adrenalin coursed through her body, and she yearned for the open air, the fresh outdoors. Not to be trapped in this stifling little box.

Finally, without another word, Silverhoof stopped the machine, placing it and the sheet of readouts in a bag, he disconnected the wires from her silently and walked to the door. He paused for a moment, glancing back at her with a cold, unreadable expression before leaving. The door clicked shut, and the room fell into an uneasy silence.

Bistrena sat, the lack of sound very prominent, staring at the blank walls, her mind circling back to the questions Silverhoof had asked. What if Cinereus came home and wasn’t himself? The thought made her stomach churn, and her blood pressure rise, and she forced herself to look away, to just breathe and calm down, focusing instead on the sterile room around her.

Out of boredom, her eyes travelled to the corner of the room, where a strange object was mounted on a bracket. It was cylindrical, with a small glass lens at its centre. Curious, she stood and approached it cautiously, noting the faint mechanical whir as it shifted to follow her movements.

“What in Equestria…” she muttered, stepping to one side. The device rotated smoothly, keeping its lens trained on her. Her ears twitched at the faint sound of servos inside it. She tilted her head, half-expecting it to do the same, but it remained fixed.

The quiet hum of the room was interrupted by the muffled sound of a door opening down the hallway. Her ears swivelled instinctively, catching the sharp echo of hoofsteps growing closer. She quickly moved back to the chair, sinking into it just as the door to her room opened.

She expected to see Silverhoof again, but the figure that entered was unfamiliar. At first, she thought it was another stallion, tall and broad-shouldered with a storm-grey coat and a black mane tied back in a no-nonsense braid. Their eyes were a deep, almost-black brown, giving them an intense, piercing gaze.

The figure carried a thick file under one foreleg, which they dropped onto the table with a dull thud before taking a seat opposite her. They sat with deliberate heaviness, as though displaying their physical power.

Bistrena studied them openly, trying to get a read on this new interrogator. When their head cocked slightly to one side, it seemed either curious or unused to being scrutinized.

She glanced away quickly, hoping to seem casual, but something about their presence made it hard to relax. It wasn’t until they spoke that she realized she’d been wrong.

The voice was low but undeniably feminine, smooth and controlled, with a quality that could make train announcements sound comforting.

“Recruit Bistrena, I'm Agent Ashveil,” the mare introduced herself simply.

Bistrena blinked, caught off guard by the contrast between the agent’s imposing build and her measured voice.

The agent adjusted her coat, the fabric straining slightly across her barrel as she shifted, revealing forelegs so muscular that Bistrena’s jaw almost dropped.

"You've already met my colleague," the agent said in a voice smooth as velvet but carrying an undeniable edge.

Bistrena couldn’t take her eyes off her forelimbs. They were like solid tree trunks, the sinew and muscle visible as the Agent rolled her tailored coat's sleeves to quarter-length. This mare, as a unicorn, was supposed to be dainty, even delicate. Bistrena herself was an average earth pony mare, and would normally have a few kilos on the other races - even the males. Yet this unicorn could put the biggest stallions she’d ever seen to shame. Her chest was broad, her neck thick like the hydraulic arm of some machine, straining the seams of her dress shirt.

Yet, for all that raw power, her face remained strikingly feminine—jawline soft but defined, eyes that glimmered with sharp intelligence. Bistrena couldn’t help but think, damn, she’d look good on a billboard. Maybe for some Canterlot high-society de-ageing serum or luxury soda ad.

Realizing she hadn’t said anything for an awkward stretch of time, Bistrena forced herself to answer. “Yes,” she choked out before clearing her throat. “We just met,” she sighed at length, "I'd sure like to sock that asshole in the mouth, the shit he asked me."

The agent tilted her head slightly, opening the folder she’d carried in. Her eyes flicked up, and for a brief moment, there was an almost playful glint in them.

“Yes,” the agent said, clicking a pen and scribbling a note. “He can have that effect on ponies.”

Her tone shifted, serious now. “Bistrena,” she said, her pen poised, “do you have any significant others? Or are you part of a herd?”

The question caught Bistrena off guard. “A herd?” she echoed, laughing involuntarily. The agent frowned, clearly unamused.

Right, Bistrena thought. Herds. The age-old solution to Equestria’s lopsided birth ratios. Something about magic-infused pregnancies favouring mares, or maybe it’s just how things are. Everypony has their theories. She let her inner monologue pause, and then Current’s face flashed in her mind.

His soft smile, the way his ears twitched when he was nervous. Her heart did a small leap, and she mentally cursed herself. Calm down, Bi. You’re just feeling vulnerable. Your brain thinks cuddling will make all the monsters go away. If he’s even still alive.

She hesitated, realizing there was no lie detector this time. But honesty seemed the better option, especially since these ponies probably already knew everything. Or at least they wanted her to think they did.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I’ve got somepony special I’m waiting for.”

The agent scribbled another note without looking up, then slid an envelope across the table. It was plain, rectangular, and covered with the stamps of the Royal Army Postal Service. Her name was scrawled neatly on the front.

Bistrena froze as her eyes drifted to the return address: Camp Amberbrook.

Her breath caught. It was familiar—so familiar it took her a moment to realize why. That’s where Cinereus’s letters had come from two years ago when he’d first left.

Her pulse quickened, but she frowned. It wasn’t her brother’s hoofwriting. She’d memorized every curl of his script over the years.

Then who…

The agent said nothing, just watched silently as Bistrena tore the envelope open. Inside was a brief letter:

Dear Bi,

I’m almost done with basic training. They say in a few days, we’ll ship out. I can’t say where—not supposed to—but I’ll be on the front soon. I guess there's no risk of me drowning in a latrine, right? Ha.

I hope you’re doing okay. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Wanted to send you this to let you know I’m alright. Hope to hear from you soon. Mail my unit through the Royal Army Postal Service, 809th Infantry Division, 12th Battalion, 4th Company.

Take care of yourself,

Current

Alongside the letter was a small photo, the kind used for identification. In it, Current’s mane was shaved close, his face more angular, with lines of worry etched into his expression. Around him stood a group of other stallions, all grinning as though on holiday at the beach.

Bistrena stared at the image, her chest tightening. Barely recognise him.

The agent interrupted her study. “Something wrong?”

Bistrena shook her head, folding the letter and photo back into the envelope, and stuffing it into her coat. “No,” she said, though her voice sounded far away.

The agent tilted her head again, observing her. “Good,” she said, closing the folder in front of her. “Then let’s move on.”

The room felt colder now, though Bistrena wasn’t sure if it was her nerves or the agent’s words chilling the air. Another dammed interrogation. I'm the wronged party here! Her mind protested.

Ashveil flipped a page in her file, her pen scratching briskly. “Recruit Bistrena, the next part of this process is going to be... difficult. Possibly traumatic for you.”

Bistrena frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ashveil looked up, her expression neutral but her dark eyes gleaming with a quiet intensity. “We’ll be using a mnemonic spell to review the events surrounding the assault. That means I’ll be in your head. I’ll see what you saw, hear what you heard, feel what you—” She hesitated deliberately, letting the weight of the sentence hang. “Felt.”

Bistrena stiffened, her wariness spiking. “You’ll… be in my head?”

“Yes,” Ashveil confirmed, voice even. “And I’ll need you to guide me through it. Shepherd my focus, direct me to the important moments. All while supplementary spells analyze the memories to ensure they’re genuine.”

“Genuine?” Bistrena echoed, her voice rising. “Why wouldn’t they be genuine? Why would I lie about something like this?

Ashveil placed the pen down carefully, folding her hooves over the file. “There are plenty of reasons why ponies fabricate details, even in cases like this.” Her voice turned clinical like she was listing mundane trivia. “To cover up something worse, to gain leverage over someone, to avoid blackmail, failed bribery, personal grievances. Perhaps you simply didn’t like him.”

Bistrena’s jaw dropped. “Didn’t like him?” Her voice cracked with disbelief. “Are you serious right now? I didn’t like him because he tried to—” She stopped, her chest heaving.

Ashveil raised an eyebrow but didn’t flinch. “Emotions run high in cases like these. That’s why we rely on spells and impartial investigators to cut through subjective recollections and find the truth.”

Bistrena jerked her hoof on the table. “The truth? The truth is I didn’t kill him! Corporal Lockstep did, and she did it to save me!”

Ashveil tilted her head, jotting something down. “Yes, we have her statement here. Do you blame Corporal Lockstep for what happened?”

“How could I?” Bistrena snapped. “Thanks to her, Blackguard didn't have his way with me."

Agent Ashveil tapped her pen against the file. “Yet, Lockstep’s report indicates she had prior knowledge of Blackguard’s behaviour but failed to act.”

Bistrena felt her stomach churn with anger. “Funny,” she shot back, her tone biting. “As far as I know, Lockstep reported it, but the bonehead who used to run this place just sat on his hooves. How many mares do you think paid the price for that lack of action? Do you even care?”

Ashveil’s composure didn’t falter, but her pen paused mid-scribble. “I’m the one asking the questions here, Recruit.”

Bistrena leaned forward, her voice trembling with both fury and challenge. “Fine. Let me ask you something, Agent Ashveil. Do you have anyone you care about? Kids, maybe? Family?”

Ashveil’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s your point?”

“What if Blackguard had pinned one of them down? Tried to hurt them, violate them. Would you kill him?”

Ashveil’s answer was immediate and sharp. “In a heartbeat.”

Bistrena blinked, startled by the agent’s unhesitating reply.

Ashveil leaned back, folding her hooves again. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about you. So let’s refocus. Corporal Lockstep. Did you know she had prior knowledge of Blackguard’s behaviour?”

Bistrena ground her teeth. “No. Not until after. But even then, how could I blame her for any of it?”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Then what are you asking?” Bistrena snapped. “Because we’re going around in circles. If you want to poke around in my head, be my guest. Just be careful you don’t see something you won’t like.”

Ashveil’s calm mask flickered for just a moment before she picked up the pen again. “Noted.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bistrena sat back, forelegs crossed, her breathing heavy. Ashveil made a few more notes before finally looking up. “We’ll begin the mnemonic spell shortly. Take a moment to compose yourself.”

“I don’t need to compose myself," Bistrena scowled, her eyes narrowing. "Let's just get this over with."

Author's Note

Hello viewers,

We're finally Introduced to the DSA. They'll crop up again here and there, as secret agents tend to do. If you'd like more information on them and some other aspects of the lore, you can read a few CODEX entries: here.

Please like and comment, anything, just a "I like this," will suffice. I'm down on my knees, pleading, crying and shi-

Until next time - Paleface