The distance between the wagon and the Titan’s Arch felt like a mile of shifting meat and wood. I ran, my tactical heels clicking against the Imperial cobbles with a frantic, rhythmic precision. I was hyper-aware of the fact that I was unarmed; my weapons were tucked away in the shimmering safety of Eren’s dimension storage, leaving me with nothing but my own physical presence to navigate the sea of humanity.

  But what a presence it was. As I moved through the foot traffic, I felt the air around me change. I was a head taller than almost every man in the queue, a vision of platinum hair and black latex. The sea of ragged travelers and dusty merchants didn't just move; they parted. It was as if a dark, lustrous goddess had descended from the mountains to walk among the refuse.

  Necks craned, conversations died mid-sentence, and a collective, indrawn breath followed my wake. My muscular, curvaceous form, accentuated by the skin-tight material, was a gravitational force that turned the chaos into a silent, staring corridor.

  I didn't care about the awe. I only cared about the heat signature fading in the garden.

  I reached the flowerbed near the mouth of the Arch. The bluebells were crushed and the marigolds were stained with the grey dust of the road. I knelt down, the latex of my suit creaking softly as my knees hit the damp earth. There, lying motionless amidst the vibrant petals and the cold mud, was the child. Its face was pale, half-buried in the leaves, eyes closed in a terrifyingly peaceful stillness.

  I reached out, my fingers trembling as I scooped the small, bundle of rags into my arms.

  The moment the child’s weight hit my chest, something in my biology, something deeper than the game snapped into place. The baby was a velvet-soft, milk-scented little universe, curled in a perfect, sleepy knot against me. I felt its tiny, rhythmic heartbeat drumming against my sternum, a fragile, frantic pulse that seemed to be fighting against the very air it breathed. A fierce, motherly instinct surged through me, a localized heat that made my vision blur for a second.

  I let out a long, ragged sigh of relief. It was still breathing.

  But as I pulled the bundle closer, my internal assessment kicked in. I didn't need a HUD to see the signs. The baby’s breath was a shallow, wet rattle. I felt its skin, it was burning, a localized fever that seemed to radiate from its chest. I scanned the physical markers: an abnormally high blood pressure was evident in the visible pulse at its neck; its nails and the thin skin of its lips were a faint, ghostly shade of blue. It coughed once, a weak, wet sound that brought up a thick string of phlegm.

  "You there! Suspicious hot lady! Hands where we can see them! Follow us!"

  The sound of metal boots clanking against the stone came closer, a sharp, authoritative rhythm that cut through the silence of the garden. I looked up. A squad of Imperial guards was pushing through the throngs of people, their spears held horizontally to clear a path. They didn't look like they were preparing for a fight; their amber visors were tilted, their body language projecting a mix of professional duty and wide-eyed, youthful excitement.

  They weren't looking at the baby. They were looking at me, at the statuesque, obsidian-clad lady holding a child in the middle of a flowerbed.

  Above us, the Sentinel orb buzzed in readiness, its glass eye glowing with a faint, warning amber. I looked back toward the wagons. I couldn't see the group, but I knew they were watching. Joshua would be in a state of near-catastrophic panic; Eren would be ready with the portals. Alan…Im not sure if Alan was still himself. I had no choice. I couldn't fight my way through a Titan’s Arch with a sick baby in my arms and my weapons miles behind me.

  "I’ll follow," I said, my voice a sexy purr that made the lead guard’s spear dip an inch.

  The guards didn't lead me to a dungeon. They pushed through a side door in the massive stone guard building, an annex of the Titan’s Arch that smelled of wet stone, oil, and old parchment. The interior was cool and clinical, a grey military environment where squads of men passed each other with casual salutes and the rhythmic clack-clack of boots on stone.

  But as we moved deeper, the architecture shifted. We passed through a set of heavy mahogany doors into a room that felt entirely separated from the barracks. It was a VIP lounge, a space of luxury and order. The floors were covered in plush crimson rugs, and the walls were adorned with massive, oil-painted portraits.

  I sat on a velvet couch, the obsidian material of my suit feeling like a dark stain against the rich red fabric. I looked at the portraits. One was of an elderly man with a face like carved granite, draped in royal robes, the Old Emperor. Beside him was a younger man, perhaps in his twenties, with sharp, handsome features and a gaze that seemed to follow me across the room. The Young Prince.

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  The baby cooed in my hands, a small, pained sound that made my heart race. I rocked the child gently, my frame feeling out of place in the opulent room. What was I doing? I was detained in the heart of the Empire’s security, holding a dying refugee child, while my friends were stuck in a queue.

  The door opened again. A man walked in, older, his face etched with the experienced wisdom of a thousand long shifts at the gate. He wore a high-collared blue tunic with gold embroidery, indicating a rank far above the common legionnaires. He didn't reach for a sword. He just sat in a chair opposite me and sighed.

  He eyed the white-gold 'Mark of the Sanctuary' on my wrist, and I saw his entire body relax. The tension in his shoulders vanished, replaced by a weary, professional curiosity.

  "Sorry, ma'am," the commander said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone. "But my men reported a strange, super-tall obsidian-clad lady running through the crowd like a phantom and diving into the flowerbeds. Them being young boys, they didn't run to tell me if you were dangerous. They ran to tell me how... well, how 'hot' you are."

  He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on the statuesque lines of my body and the platinum waves of my hair. "Now that I’ve verified you’re with the Church... I have to ask. How dangerous of a person are you, really?"

  His eyes had a glint of genuine, sharp intelligence. He was staring into my soul, looking for the "intent" that the Arch was supposed to screen.

  "No," I replied, my voice a soft, smoky rasp. "I'm just a woman who didn't want a child to die in the mud."

  The commander relaxed even further. He stood up and paced the room, his eyes scanning my form. He saw no weapons. No blades. Just a woman in a skin tight suit holding a sick baby. He walked to the door and knocked on it twice.

  "You can come in, you idiots," he barked.

  The door swung open, and I saw at least a dozen young imperial guards peeking through. They stumbled into the room, their faces flushed, their whispers a chaotic hum of admiration.

  "Woah... you were right. She’s... she’s incredible." "Is she even real? Look at the hair." "So damn beautiful."

  The atmosphere in the room shifted from military detention to a strange, friendly gathering. The guards, realizing I wasn't a threat, became almost pathologically helpful. They circled the couch, their eyes darting between me and the baby, their earlier stoicism replaced by a gruff, smitten friendliness.

  "Don't suppose you’re here to cheer on our strongest guard member at the gladiator ring tomorrow?" one of them asked, a grin stretching across his face. He pointed to a regular-looking guy standing in the corner who was currently trying to look invisible. "This is Mr. Cliff. He’s the handsomest guy in the barracks, or so he tells us. He’s going to win that 1,000 gold prize at the tourney. They judge based on 'Martial Handsomeness' too, you know! We could get you a front-row seat to cheer him on!"

  I forced a smile, the "motherly" warmth in my chest competing with the tactical realization that these men were just people. But the number stuck in my head. 1,000 gold. It was exactly what we needed to hit our first milestone.

  I looked at the commander, who had stepped out into the hallway for a moment. Through the open door, I heard him speaking to another officer. His voice was low, filled with a bitter, genuine anger.

  "That damn Imperial Sentinel system killed another one today," the commander whispered. "Why did the High Court have to install those damn inhuman things? A woman with a child... and the orb 'screened' her as a threat because she was panicked. It’s a disgrace to the uniform."

  I absorbed the info like a sponge. The system wasn't perfect; it was a flawed, mechanical cruelty that even its own masters hated.

  I turned back to the young guards, realizing I needed to leave. The baby’s temperature was rising; I could feel the heat through the latex of my suit. It was time to use my "feminine woes" to expedite our release.

  I leaned forward, the jiggle of the suit shifting slightly, and fixed the nearest guard with a wide, amber-eyed gaze that was calculated to melt iron. "I appreciate the offer, gentlemen. Truly. But this child... its breath is failing. I need to find medicine before the night takes it."

  I looked at the commander as he re-entered the room. "Where is the nearest apothecary? Please."

  "Oh, it's right around the corner in Tier 2," one of the guards said, stepping forward. "Just past the main plaza. But I think they’re closing soon. We can escort you if, "

  "No," the commander interrupted, waving his hand. "Let her go. She’s Church-vetted and clearly has her hands full. You can leave, ma'am. We’ll flag your group's wagons for priority transit."

  "Thank you," I said, my voice full of a genuine, relieved warmth.

  I stood up, the statuesque grace of my 6'1" frame drawing one last, collective sigh from the boys, and hurried out of the room.

  I walked out of the guard building and through the inner gate of the Titan’s Arch. The transition was staggering. I stepped out into the Outer Ward, and for a second, I forgot about the rot of the valley.

  This was a world of order and mid-density beauty. Stone terrace houses lined the wide, paved boulevards, their windows glowing with the warm, amber light of domesticity. The air was clean, it smelled of ozone and fresh laundry. But I didn't stop to admire the view.

  I hurried down the street, the baby’s weight a frantic, rhythmic pressure against my chest. I saw it, a large, wooden sign hanging over a sturdy stone building: APOTHECARY & RESTORATIONS.

  The windows were dimming, the lanterns being lowered for the night. I burst through the door, the bell jingling a frantic warning.

  I looked down at the child. Its lips were a darker blue now, its breathing a series of short, rattling gasps. I didn't know how I had ended up in this thinking pattern, I was a player in a game, a character built for war, and yet here I was, praying to a world I didn't understand that a child I didn't know would survive the night.