Akiko floated in a sea of golden light.

  Weightless. Untethered. The warmth was the first thing she noticed—soft and familiar, like sunlight breaking through a forest canopy. Peaceful. Comforting.

  Then came the voices.

  Distant at first. Like wind in the trees.

  “Come on, little fox. You can’t always rely on luck to get you out of trouble.”

  Her ears twitched. She turned toward the voice.

  Valric’s laughter danced at the edge of her awareness. He was seated by a fire, cross-legged, polishing his sword. Brom grumbled nearby about the ashes ruining his stew, and everything was right.

  She smiled and reached toward them—

  But her hand never connected.

  The campfire dissolved into mist. Shadows pressed in.

  “Focus, Akiko!”

  Kaede’s voice, sharp and urgent. Akiko blinked.

  Suddenly she was mid-battle, guardians looming around her, massive stone fists crashing down like hammers. Kaede stood to the side, weaving light through her hands, her voice raised in command.

  Akiko's heart pounded. She ran for her sister, daggers flashing—

  But the scene shattered like glass.

  “Akiko…”

  This time it was barely a whisper. She turned again.

  Kaede sat cross-legged in a sunlit field, spellbook open in her lap. The warmth returned—softer now, like a memory fading in reverse. Her expression was calm, teasing.

  “You never think about what comes next,” she said. “You just leap. You’re going to get yourself into trouble one day, and I won’t always be there to pull you out.”

  Akiko opened her mouth to respond, to fire back with a grin like she always did—

  But the words caught in her throat.

  The colors around her smeared like wet paint.

  The dream was unraveling.

  “Akiko!”

  Kaede’s voice again—urgent now. Too loud. Akiko turned—

  Gone.

  Back in the vault. The relic in her hands pulsed with golden light, its runes alive, shifting. Kaede was just beyond reach, her eyes wide with panic.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Don’t—don’t say it! Akiko, stop!”

  Her breath caught. The guardians closed in. Kaede’s hand reached forward, too late.

  The relic flared.

  White light.

  Silence.

  “Akiko…”

  The whisper faded into darkness.

  She woke with a gasp.

  Her crawlspace was cold, dark, and barely wider than her body. The ship’s hum thrummed beneath her skin, distant and constant.

  “…Kaede,” she whispered, voice barely audible.

  Her tail curled tightly around her legs. The echo of that dream—the warmth of family, the weight of her mistake—lingered like smoke.

  Akiko didn’t move at first.

  Her body ached from the awkward angle she’d slept in, every muscle tight from too many hours curled in steel. But the weight in her chest wasn’t physical. The dream clung to her—Kaede’s voice, the flicker of firelight, Valric’s laugh fading like smoke.

  She could’ve stayed there. Let the guilt settle. Let the next dream swallow her whole, maybe softer this time.

  But Kaede wouldn’t forgive that. Not the giving up.

  Akiko exhaled slowly. “No use feeling sorry for myself.”

  The words helped. Not much—but enough.

  She stretched her legs, tail flicking against the cramped walls, then froze at the sound of a soft whir. Her ears twitched toward it instinctively.

  Down the crawlspace, a small cleaning bot emerged—round, stubby, persistent. Its sweeper spun in lazy circles as it bumped gently off the wall, corrected course, and continued forward.

  It was pushing something.

  Akiko leaned closer, squinting. A dull rectangle slid across the floor, catching faint glints of light.

  The bot reached her foot and paused. Its panel blinked—soft, deliberate. Then it chirped, the sound high-pitched and oddly cheerful.

  Akiko stared at it, thrown. Her tail curled tighter.

  “…Are you my alarm clock now?” she muttered.

  The bot chirped again, nudging the object forward.

  She plucked it off the floor. A security card. Scuffed, but intact—the same kind she’d seen back in the mess hall. The embedded chip shimmered faintly.

  Akiko turned it over in her hands. “Was this you?”

  Another chirp. The bot spun in a quick circle, sweeper flicking dust aside like punctuation, then reversed course and trundled away.

  A slow smile crept across her face. “Well… I guess I owe you one.”

  She slipped the card into her pocket. It wasn’t much—but it was a start. A tool. Maybe even a disguise.

  She shifted her weight, wincing as the uniform tugged against her tail again. Kaede’s voice echoed faintly in the back of her mind:

  You just leap. One day, that’s going to get you killed.

  Akiko snorted. “Guess I’m already there.”

  The bot chirped one last time before vanishing into the crawlspace. Its light blinked once, then went dark.

  Akiko pushed herself upright, bracing against the wall. The card pressed warm against her palm.

  “Guess I’ve got a guide,” she murmured.

  She crawled forward, following the path the bot had taken, until the narrow passage opened into a small maintenance hub.

  Dim overhead lights flickered. Charging ports lined the walls, each cradling a sleeping bot like a nest. Others moved in erratic zigzags, sweeping dust from corners and recalibrating systems she didn’t recognize.

  The hum of activity filled the space. Mechanical. Rhythmic. Alive.

  Akiko lingered in the doorway, heart hammering until she was sure—no people. Just machines.

  She stepped inside.

  A soft glow spilled from the central console, a quiet island of light amid the hum of the maintenance hub.

  Akiko drifted closer, her boots landing with a muted tap on the floor. The borrowed uniform hung loose around her waist, sleeves knotted at her hips. Her tail swished freely behind her, brushing metal with each step.

  The screen displayed a grid—movement paths, cleaning bot patterns, system diagnostics. Numbers shifted in real time.

  She tilted her head, studying it.

  Then the screen flickered.

  The data warped—lines collapsing into static, then reforming in a jagged cascade of corrupted code. Akiko froze. The light from the console pulsed, white and sharp.

  When it cleared, her image stared back at her.

  Grainy. Shadowed. Pulled from a security feed. The crawlspace, maybe. Or one of the narrow halls she’d slipped through.

  Her breath caught. “What the—”

  The console blinked again. Slow. Measured.

  She stepped closer, tail flicking low. Her fingers hovered just shy of the display.

  Another pulse. The screen flared bright.

  She flinched.

  When the image returned, it had changed.

  No longer a grainy snapshot—now a portrait. Clean. Professional. Her features sharpened. Her expression neutral. Her hair tied neatly, her eyes calm.

  Her face. But curated. Rewritten.

  Beneath it, a name blinked into existence: Kim Tsukihara.

  Akiko stared.

  The rest followed—designation, clearance level, dietary tags. A full crew profile, building itself line by line.

  Everything looked official.

  None of it was real.

  She swallowed, gaze darting to the blinking indicator light. “Is this… you?” she asked softly. Not sure who she was addressing. Not sure she wanted to know.

  The light pulsed once. Familiar. Almost... affirming.

  A dry laugh slipped out. “I guess I’m on the roster now.”

  Her fingers brushed the screen. The console was cool to the touch.

  This was a lifeline. A mask. One she hadn’t asked for—but needed.

  Her eyes lingered on the name. Kim Tsukihara. It stared back like a challenge.

  “Let’s see how long I can wear it.”