Pallas opened her eyes, the feel of sweat on her back and of a mess in her hair greeting her as he slowly stretched in place. She squeezed herself, furrowing her brows, tightening her muscles and holding her breath before releasing the tension and letting out the biggest sigh she had so far during the entire journey.

She sat up in her bed, the soft wool-stuffed mattress underneath her bouncing along slightly as she slouched over lazily. Rubbing the dried trail of drool from the corner of her mouth, she ran her hand through her hair and perused her surroundings.

The curtain that had been cast around her at night had been drawn open– presumably by the nurses to help her get some ventilation–, and she could see a handful of other patients quietly slumbering away, entirely unbeknownst to the brilliant noon sky suspended over the infirmary tent house.

The smell of incense was still discernible, the little tingle in the back of her throat it caused still present– though not nearly as strong as it had been earlier that day, when Soleiman woke her up.

She still remembered what he told her. Though, she wished she didn’t.

Back then, in the wee early hours of the morning just before the bulk of the Yusheed disembarked on their journey towards the fringes of the fjords and swamps Al-Muqayad had been imprisoned in, she hadn’t been quite awake enough to understand what was being said. She hadn’t been present enough to realise the gravitas of the situation.

Now, though, with her grogginess shaken well off of her by that monster of a stretch, and without anything or anyone else to distract her, she had no choice but to face the reality of her situation head on.

She was alone in that tent. And it deeply, deeply unsettled her.

She shuffled over to the edge of her bed, pulling her blanket along and folding it up before slipping her feet into her slippers. With the bed more or less made, and with Pallas being entirely unwilling to do any more– at least for time being– she made her way over to the entranceway.

The light of the bright, snowy outside poured in even through the thin, fluttering slit that flowed into and out of existence as the tent flaps swayed to and fro; little gasps of cold wind and snow bursting in as if desperate for any modicum of warmth and comfort.

Sticking a hand through the slit, she pushed aside the flaps slightly, squinting to allow her eyes to adjust before opening the entranceway fully.

Then, the sheer cold of the flat North hit her, her single layer of pyjamas doing little to stymy the intensity of the impact.

Yet, she stood in the entranceway still, breathing in the crisp, cold air as little snowflakes came to rest on her messy black hair.

“Just woke up?”

Pallas turned her head, her eyes meeting Lauka’s as she sat on a stump placed by the entranceway. She held a book in her hands, and the small, curious wings that protruded out of her lower back swayed visibly behind her in the blowing wind.

“Yeah,” Pallas cleared her throat. “What are you doing out here?”

Lauka adjusted the snow-dusted newsboy hat that sat upon her head.

“Waiting for you,” she closed the book, pushing it into a pocket in her coat. “I prefer the air outside more so I decided I might as well wait outside.”

She stood up, dusting the snow off of her clothes.

“Thought you might want to be alone for a while, too.”

Pallas ran a hand through her hair again, an attempt to try and tame the rogue strands that stuck out defiantly in any and all directions.

“Mmh. Thanks,” she retreated back into the infirmary, holding the entranceway open for Lauka.

“Did Soleiman tell you about your condition?” Lauka balanced awkwardly in the entranceway, standing on one foot at a time in an attempt to wrestle her boots off.

Pallas’ eyes fell from Lauka’s face, and she gazed emptily at the nondescript, rug-covered floor.

“...Yes.”

She turned, making her way back to her bed.

“I’m sorry, Pallas.”

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“Mm,” Pallas dragged the chair Soleiman had used to sit on towards the foot of the bed, before sitting down on the soft mattress. “But it’s really over, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

The chair creaked a little as Lauka sat down.

“My life,” Pallas said, folding her legs as she shuffled a little deeper into the bed. “I’m not going to be able to free Minerva in just… two years.”

Lauka’s eyes were fixed earnestly on Pallas, though the latter’s seemed more interested in the menial twirling and tiddling of their fingers.

“I mean, come on,” Pallas coughed. “Look at where I am. In the middle of Siraj’s domain, one thousand kilometres away from my people suffering back at home.”

She looked Lauka dead in the eyes.

“The 1st and 2nd Soteiras,” she said. “They fought day in and day out for Minerva, didn’t they?”

Lauka averted her gaze, her eyes drifting over to the pile of belongings Soleiman had brought for Pallas to use. There were some books, writing materials, squares of origami paper and little satchels of dried leaves containing neatly portioned doses of Qingxi’s many teas.

“...Yes,” she admitted.

Pallas nodded to herself, shifting further up the bed.

“Then I really have failed.”

“You can still do a lot in two years, you know.”

“Like what?”

“It only took the 1st Soteira four years to defeat the Midsommar Alliance,” Lauka said, raising her eyebrows. “Consisting of the Ahsuifat, the Ahd and the Thalassimathes– back when they were still relevant. The time from 1054 to 1058, and the few scattered resources of the Arkalaios, was all he needed.”

Pallas sighed, grabbing a piece of origami off of a bedside table.

“But what if I don’t manage to pull it off?”

“...Then at least you tried,” Lauka said.

Pallas shook her head, creasing the paper into two– perfectly down the paper’s diagonal.

“That’s no consolation, Lauka,” she responded. “Do you know what’s happening to my people back in Minerva? What the Hashashiyyin, what the Gravitas, are doing to them?”

Lauka heard a quiver in her voice, but her fingers remained steady and firm. Each move was measured and calculated, and there was not an ounce of excess or insufficient effort in each of her folds and creases.

She interlocked her hands together, hanging her head in deliberation of what to respond with.

“I’m sorry,” Pallas said. “Would you like some tea?”

Lauka shook her head.

“It’s… alright,” she said, looking around to try and give Pallas a little bit of breathing room.

“You know, Pallas,” Lauka said, drawing Pallas’ attention from the fledgling form of a crane in her hands. “I think you’re different from the other Soteiras.”

“How so?”

“The 1st, he only had himself to rely on when he fought the Midsommar Alliance,” Lauka tilted her head. “And the 2nd, though she did have the backing of the Tea Party and the 4th Spiritguide, didn’t really have much to her name other than her Blessing.”

Pallas’ crimson eyes interlocked with Lauka’s sapphire ones.

“You, on the other hand,” Lauka leaned forward slightly. “Have this.”

She leaned back, gesturing horribly vaguely to the infirmary around them.

“Uhm,” Pallas hummed, her eyes darting about to see if she had missed something important. “What, exactly?”

“Whatever you’re doing out here,” Lauka said. “I know, the argument could be made that you could have been of more use back in Minerva.”

Lauka shuffled in her seat, her eyes drifting over to the tent’s entranceway.

“But,” she dragged. “Based on what Soleiman told me, I think there’s good reason to have faith in what you’re doing right now.”

Pallas fiddled with the half-formed crane in her hands.

“In… helping to defeat Al-Muqayad?” she asked.

Lauka nodded cheerily, the little wings on her head flowing up and down as she did so.

“You’re sowing seeds, Pallas,” she said. “You might not see them bloom now, but soon enough they’ll sprout and blossom into flowers– helping you in ways you might not even be able to comprehend at the moment.”

“...You think so?”

“Mm,” Lauka hummed. “It means a lot to the Sahlbarid, what you’re doing. And, by extension, it means a lot to me.”

Pallas nodded silently, quietly returning to carry out the finishing touches on her craft.

“Just try and live, Pallas,” Lauka said, her eyes still focused on the entranceway, her mind still meandering atop the rolling hills of the North. “You… you don’t have much time left. Don’t spend it worrying about what could’ve been.”

She turned around, looking to see that the little abstract construction Pallas held in her hands had transformed into a rich, green crane.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Something my friend taught me,” Pallas said, shuffling back to the foot of the bed. “I don’t think you got to meet her.”

Lauka watched as Pallas made her way back to the tent’s entranceway, pushing open its flaps to present the verdant bird to the cold, harsh outdoors.

“A crane?”

“No,” Pallas said. “A hope.”

She lifted the bird into the air, letting the winds fill its wings as she held the entranceway open for the both of them to see it flutter away– disappearing into the distance.

To go wherever it wished.