So they’ve all made it. The major tuts, disappointed that xe doesn’t get to make a scene. Doesn’t get to prove the General’s wild gamble wrong. “Fine. Enough time wasted here. Moving on.”

The pilots clutch their helmets with a tightness that’s almost tender as they are shepherded into yet another room. The Lady Alodia Lightning stays deliberately ahead of the pack, not looking at or talking to anyone. Misery badly wants to know what’s marching through the princess’s mind, is she embarrassed, does she hate herself? She speeds up so they’re side by side and casually puts fingers on her arm.

Alodia Lightning reacts with the speed and ferocity of a wounded animal. For half a second she looks almost vulnerable, eyes dark with fear and apprehension. Then anger snaps across her features. “What is wrong with you?”

“Never been tapped on the arm before?”

“I don’t appreciate being ambushed.”

“Wasn’t an ambush. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Her eyes narrow. “So you think you can shower me with pity now that you’ve proven you’re better than me?”

Ah, that bitterness. Misery could bottle it and drink it. “There’s no pity. I just wanted to make sure you’re doing all right. I don’t think I’m better than you. I just have the Demiurge’s blessing, don’t I?”

The remark doesn’t go down well. The princess’s expression sours and she surges away from Misery, boots striking the floor with more force than needed. Misery watches her go and feels inexplicably pleased, like the universe has proven her right about something.

Now that they’ve passed calibration and learned to work the system, it’s time to meet the training units: pilot cockpits salvaged from broken seraphim, just functional enough to train fresh fodder to face the teeth of war. The room they’re brought to is a dark prayer filled with the hum of holystone. Boulders of holy labradorite punctuate a wide, cool chamber underlit by holy opal.