The heavy oak door of her quarters boomed shut, the sound a final, hollow punctuation mark on the end of her career. The fort, her home, suddenly felt like a stranger's house. Valery Snowdrift moved through the familiar space with the numb gait of a ghost. The diamonds at her throat felt like a hangman’s noose; the pristine white silk of her ball gown, a burial shroud. One by one, she unfastened the clasps, letting the priceless jewels clatter onto the mahogany dresser. The dress pooled at her feet in a whisper of defeated fabric. She stood naked before the mirror, stripped not just of her clothes, but of her title, her purpose, her very identity. Tomorrow, she will resign as the leader of the city’s Defense Force.

  She stepped into the shower stall, a marvel of brass pipes and copper plating. Her hand closed around the pump handle, and she began to work it with a steady, rhythmic motion. The gears hissed, the boiler rumbled to life, and with a final, shuddering sigh, hot water began to spray from the showerhead. Steam filled the small space, fogging the glass, obscuring her reflection. She hadn't cried since the Great Calamity, had believed herself incapable of it. But as the scalding water washed over her, a single, traitorous tear escaped her eye, instantly lost in the deluge, its saltiness indistinguishable from the steam.

  Her greatest regret was the wasteland. She had stood on the Wall a thousand times, staring out at that blighted, forbidden land, and had never once set foot in it. It wasn't a lack of courage, she told herself. It was a surfeit of responsibility. She feared for those who took orders from her, for the lives entrusted to her command. Her latest recruit, Bridget, was strong but still needed training. Robina and Belle were too young, their spirits too bright to be exposed to such unrelenting horror. But were those reasons or just excuses? She should have been with Blaze, searching for Ruby. Her mandate was to protect every citizen, even those who ventured beyond the Wall. She had failed.

  Towel-dried and wrapped in a thick robe, she walked through her rooms, a tourist in her own life. She would miss this. The scent of gun oil and old stone. The distant, comforting sound of the sentries’ changing of the guard. Soon she would have to return to the Snowdrift Manor, a beautiful prison nestled between the mountains and the sea on the far west coast. She would be disconnected, a phantom haunting elegant, empty halls. People would forget her.

  Perhaps Blaze would let her join the Attack Force. No, she hadn’t agreed to search for Ruby so Blaze would sooner execute her than fight alongside her. The arena, then? Could she take out her frustrations on the poor fools who dared challenge her? The thought held a certain brutal appeal, but it was a dead end.

  The night was too hot for silk pajamas. She slid into bed naked, her hair still damp, but sleep refused to come. She had been so focused on her duties, on the clear, unambiguous lines of defense and duty, that she had been utterly blind to the shadow play of politics around her. She hated it. She hated that society rewarded cunning over courage, that the purpose of jobs had been twisted from serving people to a game of using people to get a fancier job, so you could use even more people. Yes she had been offered the Chief of Police role as compensation, but what job used people more than that.

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  Finally, exhaustion won. She drifted into a restless sleep, and the world dissolved into a dream.

  Two divine beings stood before her. One, bathed in a soft, ethereal light, looked like an angel. This is not an end, the angel said, her voice like the chiming of bells. It is a new chapter. You can still make a difference. Accept your fate, and embrace the opportunities that arise.

  The other figure was wreathed in shadow, her form alluring and dangerous, a succubus of ambition. You deserve your role, she hissed, her voice a seductive whisper. Do not give it up without a fight. A leader defends her title. That is what your soldiers expect. Remember your power, your influence. The citizens will rally to you. Do not fall yet, you have made no mistake.

  A loud, thunderous banging on her door ripped her from the dream. BANG. BANG. BANG.

  She scrambled out of bed, just managing to pull on a silk nightie as the door didn't just open, but exploded inward, a shower of splinters and twisted metal flying across the room. A woman stood silhouetted in the ruined doorway, her frame radiating an aura of raw, indomitable power.

  "Alma Reddington," Valery said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. "I haven't seen you in a long time. What do you want?"

  Alma took an intimidating step forward, but Valery did not flinch. "I need you to order your defense team to open the gate," Alma said, her voice a low growl. "I'm going into the wasteland. I'm saving Ruby."

  Valery stood tall, her simple nightie feeling as potent as her armor. The dream, the choice, the opportunity, it all crystalized in this single, perfect moment. "I'm sorry, Alma," she said. "It's not safe to go alone." She paused, letting the words hang in the air, a declaration of intent. "So I'm going to have to go with you."

  For the first time, Alma Reddington smiled. "Well, get dressed," she said. "And who said I'm going in alone?"

  Valery walked past her, onto the balcony overlooking the fort's main bailey. How had Alma even gotten this far? The answer was arrayed below, a war party assembled in the pre-dawn gloom, the stuff of legends. Lori Reddington stood at the front, a newly polished revolver gleaming at her hip. She was flanked by Rita, Tane, Viola, and Tracy, the Reddington sisters, united in a way Blaze had never managed.

  But it was the figure at the center of the formation that stole Valery’s breath away. A colossal war bear, its brown fur the same shade as Alma’s hair, stood placidly in the courtyard. It was clad in articulated plates of iron mechanical armor, steam hissing softly from the pistons on its shoulders. Valery stared, her heart hammering against her ribs, a wild, triumphant hope blooming in her chest.

  Maybe she was still dreaming after all.