Daisy coughs, brushing dirt away from her shirt.
"We need to train," she said. "Not just survive. Not just react. We need to understand what these powers are—what they're made of."
Jane nodded. "We've been using them like tools. But they're more than that. They're… extensions of us."
Yize stepped forward, his sling swaying. "I've studied the fragments. There were notes—resonance isn't just emotional. It's mnemonic. It responds to memory. To depth."
Tracey tilted her head. "So the stronger the memory, the stronger the power?"
"Not just strength," Yize said.
"Clarity. Precision. The Angels Eye cataloged emotions, but it was the context that gave them shape. We need to do the same."
Ray looked at his vines, which now lay dormant around his wrist. "Then we start with what we remember."
Steve nodded. "Let's test it. One by one."
They moved to a clear area, where the earth was cracked and dry. Daisy stood in the center first.
The cracked earth beneath Daisy's shoes pulsed faintly as she exhaled. Her fingers twitched, and from the folds of her jacket, the puppets emerged—small, crude figures stitched from cloth and wire, their button eyes gleaming in the harsh light. They hovered around her, suspended by invisible threads of energy that shimmered like heatwaves.
Daisy's breath came shallow. She raised her hand, and the puppets responded, jerking into motion. One twisted its limbs unnaturally, its head lolling to one side. Another crawled across the ground, its movements erratic, almost desperate. The third stood still, its gaze fixed on the group.
Fear.
It wasn't just a performance. The air thickened, a pressure building in the chest, a whisper of dread curling around the edges of thought. Jane stepped back instinctively, her hand brushing Tracey's arm. Steve narrowed his eyes, watching the puppets with a soldier's caution.
Yize, however, stepped forward.
"Do you feel that?" he asked, voice low. "It's not just fear. It's memory. Daisy's fear—her own—is the anchor. The puppets are conduits."
Daisy's knees buckled slightly, and the puppets faltered. She dropped her hand, and they collapsed like marionettes with cut strings.
"I can't hold it long," she said, wiping sweat from her brow. "It's like… like pulling from a well that's too deep."
Yize crouched beside her, his sling brushing the dust. "That's because you're drawing from raw emotion. But resonance—true resonance—is mnemonic. It responds to memory, yes, but also to how deeply that memory is embedded. You're using fear as a surface emotion. You need to find the moment that shaped it."
Daisy frowned. "You mean… the first time?"
"Or the most vivid," Yize said. "Emotions cataloged, yes, but it was fear that gave you shape. Your puppet, animated by fear, is another thing. A puppet animated by the memory of hiding under a table during a bombing raid—that's another."
Daisy nodded slowly. "I'll try again later."
Yize helped her to her feet. "Ten minutes," he said. "Let the resonance settle."
In the distance, the younger members of the newly formed group gathered near Tracey and Jane, who knelt among them with gentle smiles and open hands. One child, no older than eleven, clutched a torn blanket and stared at Jane with wide eyes.
"We're not just healers," Jane whispered to Tracey. "We're bridges."
Tracey nodded. "They've lost everything. We give them something to hold."
Back in the center, Ray stepped forward.
He knelt, pressing his palms to the dry soil. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the earth responded. Cracks shifted. Dust swirled. From beneath the surface, vines emerged—thin at first, then thickening, coiling around Ray's wrists like old friends.
He closed his eyes, and the vines moved with purpose, weaving patterns in the air, forming loops and spirals. One vine reached toward Daisy, brushing her sleeve gently before retreating.
Ray opened his eyes. "It's not just growth," he said. "It's memory. The earth remembers. Every root, every seed, every death."
Yize stepped forward again. "Exactly. Earth is the most mnemonic of all elements. It stores everything—nutrients, decay, history. When I was at school, I read about loam, clay, and silt. Each soil type holds different properties. Clay binds. Silt flows. Loam balances. You're not just manipulating plants—you're speaking to the archive of the planet."
Ray smiled faintly. "I always felt connected. But I didn't know why."
The vines receded, curling back into the soil. Ray stood, brushing dirt from his hands.
The group murmured among themselves, the younger ones watching with awe. Tracey moved among them, her hands glowing faintly as she touched foreheads and shoulders. Jane handed out small pouches of herbs, whispering instructions.
"They're not ready for combat," Jane said. "But they're ready to believe."
Tracey smiled. "That's the first step."
Steve stepped forward next, his stance firm. "We'll rotate. One by one. But we need to document this. Yize, you're our scribe."
"No."
"What?"
Yize's voice rang out, sharper than before. "I said no."
Steve turned, surprised by the force. "Yize, we need someone to—"
"I'm not your scribe," Yize snapped. "I'm not here to write your victories or failures. I came to understand resonance, not to reduce it to ink and paper."
The group fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause, the dry grass stilling around their feet.
Zichen stepped forward, his boots crunching against the cracked earth. "You always do this," he said, voice low. "You run when it gets real."
Yize's eyes narrowed. "Don't."
"No," Zichen said, stepping closer. "You left the shelter when we needed you most. You said you were searching for truth, but the truth is you were scared. Scared of being wrong. Scared of being responsible."
"I left because I couldn't breathe!" Yize shouted. "Every day, people looked at me like I had answers. I didn't. I had fragments. I had theories. I had nothing."
"You had us," Zichen said. "And you threw that away."
Yize's hands trembled. "I didn't throw anything away. I chose survival. I choose not to abandon the younger people we have left behind, and now we are here."
"No," Zichen said, voice like flint. "You chose yourself."
The words hit like a slap. I felt it in my chest, the sting of truth laid bare. Around me, the others shifted—Tracey's glow dimmed, Jane's herbs forgotten in her hands. Ray's vines twitched, sensing the fracture.
Nobody spoke.