The Hiftox rushed at Zoe with its brutal axe raised high. Zoe twisted left, the axe blade missing her by inches—she felt the displaced air against her cheek—and drove her knee into the creature's ribs. The impact with the light construct felt solid and the simulated opponent grunted appropriately, staggering sideways. Through her grip on Gale, her soul-bound Paladin weapon, Zoe's Air Sense picked up the creature's recovery even though she wasn’t looking at it, the subtle shift of pressure as it planted its feet and prepared to counter.

  Not enough to put it down.

  It was hard not to think of the Hiftox as a classic fantasy orc. According to Delta, the Hiftox were one of the most widely spread species in the galaxy. Or at least they had been back when Delta went dormant around the time the dinosaurs went extinct. Still, Delta strongly believed that when they finally established contact with Paladin Command or at least the broader galactic community, the chances were high that Earth’s Paladins would have to interact—and possibly even fight—with the Hiftox at some point.

  This particular holographic construct stood nearly seven feet tall, powerfully built with shoulders broader than any human's. Mottled green-gray skin stretched over corded muscle, and its face was dominated by a protruding jaw studded with tusks that curved upward like ivory daggers. Small, intelligent eyes glared at her from beneath a heavy brow ridge, and pointed ears lay flat against its skull. The creature's armor was crude but effective—scarred plates of dark metal strapped over vital areas with a leather harness. Its weapon, a double-bladed axe with a haft as thick as Zoe's forearm, swung in a downward arc meant to split her skull.

  Zoe was already moving, pivoting on her back foot to get inside the space-orc’s effective reach and generate torque as she brought Gale around in a tight horizontal sweep. The curved blade—longer than a knife but shorter than a sword—slashed the Hiftox across its throat with a meaty hiss. The construct flickered, destabilized, then reformed a dozen paces away, axe still in hand but now wary. The Hiftox circled her, beady eyes narrowed in appraisal, and Zoe could feel the subtle atmospheric changes as it moved, even when it was at the edge of her peripheral vision.

  "Yeah. You better watch yourself," Zoe muttered, breathing hard.

  Around her, the training chamber adjacent to Delta's command garden hummed with barely audible power. The space itself was stark: metallic walls, a raised circular platform, and a vaulted ceiling that glowed with ambient light. It had been four months since the conflict at Middle Velma Lake. Four months of training sessions like this one, five days a week, for the newly initialized Paladins of Power. Sometimes a lot more for Zoe, when she couldn't sleep.

  Two more constructs flickered into existence at opposite ends of the platform.

  The first was a Keltarian, tall and willowy, perhaps six and a half feet, with elongated limbs that gave it an almost fragile appearance. Its skin had a faint green tint, like sunlight through leaves, and elaborate patterns in darker emerald traced along its forearms and up its neck in what might be ritual scarring or natural pigmentation. The face was angular and sharp-featured with high cheekbones and large almond-shaped eyes that glowed with an amber luminescence. Pointed ears swept back from its skull, decorated with thin metallic rings. It wore flowing robes of silvered fabric that seemed to shift color in the light, and delicate gauntlets of advanced design covered its hands. Between its palms, a sphere of crackling energy began to form—not purely technological or aetheric magic, but something that blended the two.

  The second construct was a Gremvarin. The alien dwarf-analog was short and powerfully built, maybe four and a half feet tall but nearly as wide at the shoulders. Its skin was a ruddy bronze color, weathered and scarred like worked leather, with a wild mane of coarse dark hair bound back in warrior's braids. The face was all hard angles—a prominent nose, heavy brow, and a jaw that jutted forward with determination. Unlike the fantasy dwarves Zoe had seen in movies, this one was clean-shaven, revealing ritual tattoos that covered its cheeks and chin in geometric patterns. It wore masterwork armor of interlocking plates that moved like liquid metal. The warhammer it carried was a brutal thing, its head etched with runes that pulsed with a faint blue light. As it charged, its movements were precise and controlled—this was no berserker, but a trained warrior who knew exactly how to use that hammer to devastating effect.

  Zoe's mind split the problem into parts through the lens of recent hard-earned experience. Gremvarin is a close-range fighter, an immediate threat. Keltarian's prepping a ranged attack—two seconds until release. Hiftox is recovering, will re-engage in three. Through Gale, her Air Sense confirmed what her eyes told her, painting a three-dimensional mental picture of the battlefield through subtle variations in air pressure and movement.

  Four months ago, she would have reacted on instinct, trusting the battle skills that had been downloaded into her brain while unlocking her Paladin powers. Now, she saw the tactical landscape clearly, and she understood why each move worked, how to chain attacks, when to press, and when to retreat. The thousands of hours of practice—both in Delta's training chamber and in the real world with the team—had transformed downloaded skills into genuine knowledge.

  Her sports bra and tank top offered plenty of mobility but no protection, leaving her arms and midriff vulnerable in a way her armor never would. But that was the point, Delta insisted they train without relying on their Paladin gear. Zoe's athletic shorts allowed full range of motion as she dropped into her fighting stance.

  The Gremvarin closed the distance with surprising speed, its hammer already in motion. Zoe dropped low, slashing Gale in a wide arc at ankle height. Her form was clean, economical—the result of drilling the same movements until muscle memory took over. The curved blade forced the Gremvarin to hop back or lose its footing. In that instant of disruption, Zoe used the momentum to launch herself into the air with a focused burst of wind beneath her boots that propelled her upward in a controlled leap. The burst of wind propelled all five-foot-six of her upward, her toned legs coiling and extending with practiced precision. Four months of constant training had transformed her naturally curvy figure into something leaner, harder; muscle definition showing in her arms and shoulders where softness used to be.

  The Keltarian released its energy sphere—a crackling orb that writhed with what looked like concentrated plasma wrapped in thorny vines of pure energy. Mid-air, Zoe twisted, extending her free hand, and created a Suffocating Bubble—a sphere of airless vacuum—directly in the projectile's path. The energy sphere entered the vacuum and lost cohesion, unraveling into harmless sparks before reaching her.

  She landed hard, shoulder rolling to dissipate the momentum—another technique that had taken weeks to master without jamming her joints—and came up in a sprint toward the Keltarian. The tall alien conjured a second sphere, but Zoe extended her left hand again and formed a second Suffocating Bubble at the Keltarian's head. The construct's eyes widened as the airless sphere enveloped its face. It clawed at the invisible barrier, trying to draw breath, its second energy sphere flickering and dying as its concentration broke.

  Five seconds until it adapts or dispels the bubble. Make it count.

  With the wind shoving against her back, Zoe closed the distance in three strides and drove Gale's pommel into the Keltarian's solar plexus. The strike was assisted by a slender jet of air against her arm. The construct doubled over, and she followed with a rising slash that opened its throat. The Keltarian flickered and vanished, her Suffocating Bubble dispersing with it.

  One down.

  Behind her, the Hiftox roared—a deep, guttural sound that resonated in her chest. Through Gale's Air Sense, she felt the creature's charge before she heard it—the displacement of air, the heavy vibration of boots on the platform, the whistle of its axe cutting a path toward her spine. Zoe didn't turn. She extended her free hand, palm flat, and pushed with focused intent. A compressed gust—more controlled and powerful than anything she could have managed four months ago—slammed into the Hiftox's chest, arresting its charge and sending all seven feet of muscled alien skidding backward across the smooth floor.

  The Gremvarin had repositioned during the exchange, using the distraction to flank her from the right. Through Air Sense, Zoe felt the subtle atmospheric pressure as the warhammer rose for an overhead strike. Blurring with the motion, she pivoted just as it swung, the hammer's rune-covered head whistling past her ear close enough to feel the heat radiating from the glowing etchings.

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  Using the opening, Zoe drove the pommel of Gale into the Gremvarin's exposed ribs—the gap between chest plate and pauldron that every armor design seemed to have. The construct grunted, stumbled, and she was already spinning into her follow-up. The hours of practice with Pablo, drilling combinations until they flowed like a breeze, paid off. Gale's curved blade caught the Gremvarin across the back of its neck in a strike that would have severed the spinal column at the base of a real skull.

  The Gremvarin flickered and vanished.

  Two down. One to go.

  The Hiftox charged again, but this time it had learned. It didn't commit to a straight rush but angled its approach, axe held in a defensive guard, eyes intently watching for Zoe's wind attacks. Through Air Sense, she felt the subtle shifts in its stance and recognized the feint for what it was. The real attack would come from a different angle.

  They circled each other for a dozen heartbeats. She swept a loose strand of golden hair from her face—it had escaped her ponytail during the roll—and her light green eyes tracked the Hiftox's movement with predatory focus.

  The Hiftox made its move, feinting left before exploding right with surprising agility for something so massive. But Zoe read the fractional weight shift in the Hiftox's leading foot, the way its right shoulder dropped an inch before the axe committed.

  She met the attack not with Gale but with her forearm, blocking the axe haft before the blade could develop momentum. Zoe gave up more than a foot of height and probably a hundred pounds to the construct, but size started to matter less when you knew where to hit and you had a strange alien system deceptively altering your body. Still, the impact jarred her arm—the Hiftox was strong, even for a hologram—but her enhanced Might score held. Circling her arm, she trapped the weapon against her body with her left arm and drove Gale's pommel into the Hiftox's face. She drove her full weight—hips, core, and shoulders working in concert—behind the pommel strikes that followed. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession. Tusks cracked, and the construct's head snapped back.

  Zoe swept the Hiftox's lead leg—her form perfect, her timing flawless—and the massive alien crashed to the platform with enough force to rattle her teeth. Before it could recover, she brought Gale down in a two-handed overhead strike, the curved blade positioned to drive through the construct's eye. The Hiftox flickered out of existence.

  Silence settled over the training chamber, broken only by Zoe's ragged breathing. Sweat plastered her blonde ponytail to her neck and traced lines down her bare shoulders, soaking through her white tank top and sports bra. Her legs burned beneath her jogging shorts—every muscle singing with the fatigue of another brutal session.

  "Scenario complete," Delta's voice echoed from unseen speakers. The dragon's holographic avatar materialized at the edge of the platform. "Your tactical decision-making has improved significantly, Paladin Zoe. You adapted to the Keltarian's ranged attack mid-combat and prioritized threats efficiently."

  "Thanks," Zoe said, leaning on Gale. "Felt cleaner than yesterday."

  "It was. Your unarmored combat proficiency is approaching acceptable standards for a Rank 2 Paladin."

  "Approaching acceptable. High praise, Delta."

  "Flattery will get you primitive humans killed."

  Zoe snorted, then straightened, rolling her shoulders. The ache in her body was nothing compared to the other kind of ache—the one that sat like a stone in her chest whenever she stopped moving long enough to think. Mark's face flashed through her mind, unbidden. The way he looked in the firelight that first night at the lake. The sound of his laugh. The—

  —She shoved the memory down, hard. Not now. Not ever.

  "Same time tomorrow?" she asked Delta.

  "Affirmative. However, I recommend resting tonight. You have trained six consecutive days without—"

  "I'm fine."

  "Zoe—"

  "I said I'm fine." Her tone was sharper than she intended, and she softened it slightly. "I'll rest when I need to, mother hen."

  Delta's holographic avatar tilted its head, studying her with eyes that somehow managed to convey concern despite being entirely inhuman. "As you wish, Paladin."

  Zoe dismissed Gale to her Inventory with a thought. She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and turned toward Detla’s shimmering avatar.

  "Delta, jump me out of here."

  "Confirmed, Paladin Zoe. Transportation initiated."

  The familiar sensation of Delta's teleportation washed over her as reality folded around her body. Light flared, and suddenly she stood in the concealed chamber they'd carved out upon returning home with Delta in the back of the Jeep.

  The space was cramped compared to Delta's interior, maybe fifteen feet across and ten feet high, with smooth stone walls courtesy of Sasha's earth-shaping. A single LED lantern hung from a hook Pablo had drilled into the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across the uneven floor. The probe itself—Delta's physical body in their layer of reality, a multifaceted crystalline egg roughly the size of a Smart Car—rested on a platform of shaped stone in the chamber's center.

  Zoe grabbed her gym bag from where she'd stashed it near the entrance—a narrow tunnel that Sasha had concealed behind what looked like a natural cave wall. Pablo had fabricated a steel frame door using his metal manipulation, shaping it from salvaged materials and fitting it so precisely into Sasha's stonework that the seams were nearly invisible. The locking mechanism was pure Pablo—a complex arrangement of metal pins and tumblers that responded to a specific magnetic signature. Zoe pulled the small disc from her pocket—one of several Pablo had made for the team—and held it against the disguised lock point.

  She heard the quiet click as the pins retracted, then the faint scrape of metal on stone as the door swung inward on Pablo's carefully balanced hinges. The whole assembly was a masterwork of their combined abilities: Pablo's precision metalcraft hidden within Sasha's shaped stone facade. From the opposite side, it looked like a solid cave wall. Only if you got up close and you knew where to look, could you just barely make out the hairline seam where door met frame.

  Zoe slipped through and pulled the door shut behind her. It closed with a solid thunk, the lock re-engaging automatically. Pablo had been rightly proud of that feature.

  The distinct smell of aging wine and old wood replaced Delta's sterile atmosphere. She emerged into what the family called "Warren’s game room," though that was a wildly humble description. The subterranean chamber was maybe twelve by twelve with sprayed concrete walls. It had been carved out of the hillside almost as an afterthought when Warren's parents—both extremely successful attorneys—had sunk considerable cash into their private Yountville winery. The room had come about after their parents decided Warren needed somewhere to play his "dragon games" without bothering them in the main house.

  A scarred wooden table dominated the center, surrounded by matched office chairs. Shelves lined one wall, packed with rulebooks, dice, miniatures, and the accumulated detritus of over a decade of campaigns. A mini-fridge hummed in the corner, and string lights hung from hooks in the stone ceiling, giving the space a perpetually cozy, slightly dingy atmosphere. Warren had tacked up movie posters—Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, some anime thing Zoe didn't recognize—and had spraypainted "The Fellowship’s Lair" in blocky letters above the tunnel entrance.

  Zoe crossed the space quickly, her athletic sneakers nearly silent on the stone floor. She pushed through the wooden door—actual hinges, actual doorframe, installed by an actual contractor back when the room was set aside—and into the barrel aging caves proper.

  Rows of oak barrels stretched into the darkness, stacked two high along both curved walls. The wine caves ran deep into the hillside, cool and dark and perfect for aging Cabernet. Motion-activated overhead lighting clicked on automatically as Zoe moved. She'd walked this route a hundred times now. Through the aging caves, past the small tasting room entrance—locked at this hour—and up the service stairs to the winery's main level. From there, it was a quick jog across the gravel lot to the main house.

  Warren's parents were in San Francisco for the week—more work as usual—which meant Zoe had the property to herself. Circling the sleek and modern main house and skirting the pool, she headed for the guest house. She'd been crashing there since Mark…since they returned from their ill-fated camping trip. Her old apartment in Napa had felt too empty, too quiet, too full of memories she didn't want to face.

  The guesthouse was small—bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette—but it had a shower with good water pressure and zero questions asked. Entering through the front door, Zoe dropped her gym bag on the floor and made straight for the bathroom. She caught her reflection in the mirror and paused. Sweat-soaked tank top. Flushed cheeks. Her blonde ponytail had come half undone, loose strands plastered to her neck. Her light green eyes looked tired.

  She looked away.

  The shower was scalding hot, exactly how she liked it. Zoe stood under the spray and let it beat against her shoulders, washing away the sweat and the lingering adrenaline from the training session. She didn’t think. Thinking led to remembering, and remembering led to—

  No.

  Exiting the shower, she dried off, pulled on clean clothes—jeans, black t-shirt, leather jacket—and checked her phone; 6:47 PM. The dive bar in Redding was already open. If she flew, she could be there by 7:15, grab a seat before the evening crowd filtered in.

  Perfect.

  But first—habit born of four months as a Paladin—Zoe pulled up her Status Screen with a thought. The familiar blue interface materialized in her vision, translucent and hovering. She scanned the numbers quickly, looking for any changes, any updates, anything that might matter.

  With a satisfied smirk, she noted that her Close Combat skill had finally ticked up another point. Making each advancement through training and not spending Nexus Power Points was a considerable effort on its own. Since defeating Velgrin the NecroMaster, the Paladins hadn’t encountered any additional conflicts with agents of Corruption. While the Nexus recognized the efforts of their training, the innate safety of fighting holograms meant that it was a much slower process than the rewards of genuine combat. So, improving any of their skills or abilities by even a single point was a hard-won achievement.