Rhythm

Rhythm has never been musically inclined, she can't even follow the simplest notations on a score. And yet, somehow, she can still play Requiem for the Nameless on her harmonica.

Rhythm Fischer, former Warrant Officer of the Icelake Escort under the 6th Legion. One of the very few soldiers in Hyperborea who genuinely cared about the Charon community.

She was everywhere, tracking down violent offenders, restoring order, handling emergencies, mediating neighbourhood disputes, unblocking sewers, retrieving lost belongings, even restarting the city's emergency power grid. And most of these thankless, back-breaking tasks? No one assigned them. She volunteered.

But even with all that relentless effort, there's only so much one person can do. For the Charon community she tried so hard to help, her work was like pouring handfuls of water into the ocean, noble, yes, but never enough.

Rhythm has an unshakable preference for symmetry.

She arranges her belongings with a meticulous eye: everything neatly aligned, evenly spaced, perfectly ordered. Her outfits follow suit, structured, balanced, never a thread out of place. Which is precisely why one thing has always bothered her: her horns are asymmetrical. Every time she looks in the mirror, she imagines a second one sprouting to match the first.

As a child, she once found a twig curved just like her horn. She wore it proudly for days, delighting in the fleeting illusion of symmetry, until it was caught in a factory press during a shift, ground into dust, and paved into the foundations beneath Icelake's streets.

If the Empire ever develops cosmetic horn enhancements or transplants, Rhythm would almost certainly be first in line.

Rhythm keeps to a regimented daily routine with near clockwork precision. Every morning at six on the dot, she appears on the Escort's training ground to begin her drills, marking the start of a new day. She's so unfailingly punctual, rumour has it that other soldiers set their watches by the moment she arrives.

When Rhythm first awakened her powers, she hadn't yet learned to control them. Just walking down the street could send tiny arcs of current snapping at her boots. A local fisherman once caught sight of her crackling footsteps and invited her to join his trawler crew for electrofishing. She turned him down without a second thought. She wasn't chasing cheers or coins. What she truly longed for was to become a Laurelled Charon, someone who could make life better for ordinary people.

Of course, that same ability still gives her trouble from time to time: she wears gloves when shaking hands, and half her jumpers end up ruined with static fuzz.

"Reserve units are expected to earn their stripes the hard way. And for Charons like you, it's twice as tough. Rhythm Fischer, you've got talent. Keep your head down, work hard, and maybe one day you'll rise to the ranks of the Laurelled Charons. Now, go clean out the sewers near the Security Bureau."

That's what her squad leader told her when she first signed on as a reserve for the Escort.

"Rookies are expected to earn their stripes the hard way. And for Charons like you, it's twice as tough. Rhythm Fischer, you've got talent. Keep your head down, work hard, and maybe one day you'll rise to the ranks of the Laurelled Charons. Now, go take care of that nasty Filthoid."

That was the warrant officer, when she finally made soldier.

"Junior officers are expected to earn their stripes the hard way. And for Charons like you, it's twice as tough. Rhythm Fischer, you've got talent. Keep your head down, work hard, and maybe one day you'll rise to the ranks of the Laurelled Charons. Now, go get that Forsaken fugitive. He's a Daimon. Last squad didn't make it back. I'm counting on your team."

That was the lieutenant, when Rhythm became a Warrant Officer.

She could no longer tell whether they had all said exactly the same thing, or whether the words had simply blurred, worn smooth from repetition. At night, she'd wrap another wound, drop into bed, and steal a few seconds of silence before sleep. The ranks of the Legion were like the limbs of a great tree. And somewhere high in the canopy, glinting like fruit, hung the badge of a Laurelled Charon. It always seemed just a little farther up. Close enough to touch, until she reached, and it floated higher again, like a soap bubble toying with the wind.

Would she ever get there? When would such a day come? She didn't know. But then again... Her meals weren't just stale rye bread anymore. Her rations had turned into juicy canned meat. She had more than one uniform now. And every now and then, on a good day, she might pause at the mirror and fuss with that horn of hers, the one she never liked all that much. Things were getting better. Slowly, but surely. Murmuring to herself, Rhythm pulled the cold, iron-stiff blanket over her shoulders and let sleep take her.

Things would get better, even if only in baby steps. Every drop of sweat she shed laid down another step on the path to becoming a Laurelled Charon. That, she had always believed, wiith all her heart.

Rhythm isn't quiet because she has nothing to say, she's quiet because she finds it hard to speak on things she doesn't fully understand. When the conversation drifts beyond her depth, she'd rather listen, quietly, patiently, than offer half-formed thoughts of her own.

That kind of openness, of course, makes her easy to mislead. But she doesn't mind. To Rhythm, even being fooled is a way of learning. Even mistakes are part of growing.

She only truly opens up when the subject turns to things she knows, her family, or the ideals she's clung to since childhood. But much of her past now feels too fragile, too painful to revisit. These days, she prefers to talk about what's ahead: the next gig, the next quest. Often, she turns up uninvited, lending a hand with whatever's piling up on your end. Always focused. Always busy. And somehow, quietly content. Ask her why, and she'll only smile and say it's just her way of repaying a favour, for that time you stepped in, when she needed it most.

Rhythm can power through just about anything, except driving. No matter how hard she tries, every vehicle she touches breaks down eventually. Systems glitch, circuits fry, something always goes wrong. Maybe it's the current running through her. Maybe it's just fate. Either way, vehicles and Rhythm have never seen eye to eye.

Rhythm could never grow used to the feel of cold steel in her hands. The jarring resistance of a blade meeting flesh. The warmth of blood on her palms, clinging where no amount of scrubbing could wipe it away. That revulsion stayed with her, made her fear the battlefield. It was that fear that led her to favour guns over blades. Because she had to keep fighting. Since childhood, the dream of becoming a Laurelled Charon had driven her forward. A fierce instinct to protect tightened her finger around the trigger. A quiet resolve to spare her enemies unnecessary pain refined her aim as a sniper.

Most of the time, she succeeded, her bullets offering mercy through cold, unflinching steel. But not always. Sometimes, the pain dragged on. And those rare failures, those lingering cries she failed to silence, clung to her skin, crept into her sleep, and stayed. So she made herself a vow, quiet and unshakable: Next time, there will be no drawn-out pain. It'll be fast. Clean. One shot.

Rhythm always says she's nothing special.

She says she only made it through childhood because she and her little brother leaned on each other to survive their boss' beatings at the factory. That she only made it through the army because her squad had her back, every step of the way. And after leaving the Legion, it was the Noctoyagers who helped her find the strength to keep going.

She insists she's not remarkable, just a Charon from the slums who clawed her way up to a low-ranking officer by holding on a little longer than the rest.

She'll even tell you she's selfish, that everything she's ever done was for one reason: to become a Laurelled Charon.

But you know the truth. That girl who gives everything for others, who never wavers from what she believes is worth fighting for. Her will is tempered like steel. That's her strength. That's what makes her exceptional. And in the long, bitter nights of Icelake, the quiet light she carries only burns brighter, no matter how it all began.

Under the weight of survival, Rhythm has grown dulled, to pain, to exhaustion, even to her own limits. And she doesn't even realise it. Once, she worked eight straight hours in a high-heat zone, the kind that would knock an ordinary human unconscious in ten minutes. And when she emerged, unharmed and calm as ever, even those among her comrades who had long harboured prejudice against the Charon found themselves seeing her differently, with a flicker of respect, and a shadow of fear.

Rhythm never managed to recover Blues' remains. Even so, she carved him a headstone, and placed it quietly beside their parents' graves.

That night, her current broke loose, a rare thing for her, and sparks spilt into the dark. They crackled through the night air, untethered, dancing beneath the stars. No words. No tears. Only static, blooming into a soft, electric hush, wrapping around her like a gentle embrace.

After finally becoming a Laurelled Charon, Rhythm did something uncharacteristic: for once, she gave herself a day off. She went alone to the Galea Theatre to watch an opera.

The audience cheered when the leads found each other, and wept when they parted. But none of it ever touched her face.

She just sat there, two tickets clenched loosely in her hand, unmoving, unspeaking, as the curtain fell and the seats around her slowly emptied. Only when a staff member approached to let her know the show had ended did she glance down, and realise she'd bought one too many.

Music has always held a kind of magic, the power to soothe sorrow, to lift people back onto their feet. Whenever Rhythm felt herself faltering, she would play Requiem for the Nameless. The melody never failed to steady her, to fill her with enough strength to carry on.

But lately... no matter how many times she plays it, the sorrow won't lift. If anything, it hurts more. These days, only endless work can dull the ache. She buries herself in tasks, chasing that fleeting moment when the numbness sets in, and the pain slips just out of reach.

To help Vita gather more information on Berenica, Rhythm boarded the train.

The day she left Icelake, the sky cleared for once. She chose a window seat. Just as she turned to look back at the city one last time, sunlight spilt through the glass, so bright it stung her eyes. She raised an arm to shield her face. And in that moment, she realised, neither she nor the city behind her had felt warmth like this in a very, very long time.

She remembered her brother's final words: "Promise me one thing, no matter what happens, be brave and live on."

So many people had told her that. Her family. Vita. Other friends. But no one had ever said what kind of life truly counted as living.

The train's whistle tore through the air, long, low, and mournful. Like Icelake itself crying out in grief. And the train began to move, slow and steady, carrying her away from the frozen land, towards the Imperial Capital, a faraway, unfamiliar place.

Maybe it held golden sunlight. Or maybe it was nothing but endless night. Maybe there were lively boys and girls, dancing and singing. Or maybe it was just more silence. Maybe there were orchards, heavy with fruit. Or maybe the fruit had already rotted through.

She didn't know.

But right now, in this moment, the sunlight dancing gently on her skin was real.