The conference chamber was dominated by the stark, opposing presences of the mission's agents. Jaune Arc, cloaked and silent, stood with the weight of a man who no longer needed Armor to be terrifying. Neo small and outwardly composed, sat perched on the edge of a chair, her stillness a thin shield over a raging, internal panic.
Professor Theodore, flanked by Winter and the shimmering image of Ozpin, hammered home the non-negotiable rules.
"The mission is surgical containment," Theodore stated, his voice a low, steady command. "The Crown needs chaos to rise. Our counter-measure must be discretion. You are not engaging armies; you are hunting rumours and dismantling social infrastructure. The keyword is stealth."
Winter's gaze was fixed on Jaune, her eyes assessing every line of his face. "We have established secure communication protocols. You will rely purely on reconnaissance. No unauthorized public displays of force. Understood, Jaune? The Knave is a symbol of fear. If that fear is unleashed prematurely, it will turn Vacuo against us. Discipline is mandatory."
Theodore leaned forward, hands clasped. "The stakes are absolute. If The Crown succeeds in fracturing the city, we lose the last major stronghold before Salem arrives. The fallout from a single, high-profile incident would make Ironwood's end look like a skirmish. We require precision and control above all else."
Jaune gave a curt, almost mechanical nod. Stealth and Discretion.
Ozpin's projection flickered, and his voice, gentle but firm, filled the room. "Ms. Neo, your expertise in the shadows is vital. You know the criminal communication networks and the flow of contraband. Your security clearance is contingent on your continuous, direct compliance."
He paused, letting his gaze settle on Jaune. "Mr. Arc, your command over Ms. Neo is absolute. We have given her every assurance that cooperation is her safest option. However, if circumstances arise where the mission is compromised by Ms. Neo's actions, we grant you full authority to neutralize the threat as you see fit."
The air thickened as the Council members momentarily retreated from the scene, leaving Jaune and Neo alone at the long table, the full weight of their desperate arrangement settling between them.
Jaune pushed the mission scroll toward Neo, then slowly withdrew the Vorpal Blade from its scabbard, laying the massive crystal sword flat on the table between them. The green, cracked glow of the crystal illuminated the surface, casting their faces in an eerie, sickly light.
Neo's breath hitched a silent, sharp movement in her chest. Her eyes widened, instantly locking onto the blade, her usual mocking smirk replaced by naked, visceral dread.
Jaune did not speak. He didn't need to. His actions were the conversation. He looked her straight in the eyes and the girl felt like bolting there and then. Yes when he was wearing his helmet he was scary in this faceless dread way.
But with his eyes now boring into hers she knew she just got a new flavour of nightmares to dream about.
Neo's shoulders stiffened, her hands clenching into fists on her lap. Swallowing, she slowly nodded, her eyes frantically absorbing the mission details on the scroll. She grabbed a stylus and began tapping out a message on the scroll's interface, her hands trembling: Stealth. My expertise. I comply. But you break the rules, you draw the target.
Jaune didn't acknowledge the message. He simply returned the Vorpal Blade to its scabbard with a sharp, metallic hiss. He picked up his cloak, his eyes still dull and cold.
"We move now," he stated, his voice flat and final.
Neo stood, her posture instantly regaining its guarded rigidity, yet her internal fear was screaming. She followed him out, two monsters marching into the desert, bound by the Knave's terrifying efficiency.
.........…
The office Winter had commandeered at Shade Academy was spartan and sterile, cluttered with holographic projections of city maps and casualty reports. It was late the desert night pressed against the reinforced windows but Winter was far from rest, standing rigidly over a light table, reviewing security protocols.
A sharp click of heels announced Weiss's entrance. She didn't bother with a greeting, closing the door with a controlled firmness that spoke volumes.
"You can't be serious," Weiss began, her voice low and dangerously steady. "Jaune and Neo. Together. Alone. You put the two most volatile, traumatized people in this building together and send them into a high-risk, zero-accountability environment."
Winter didn't look up immediately. She adjusted a setting on the light table, making a refugee camp projection flicker. "The decision is made, Weiss. They are already establishing their network. I reviewed the parameters with Professor Theodore and Ozpin."
"Parameters?" Weiss finally stepped closer, planting her hands on the table, her eyes flashing with icy blue anger. "Jaune has the Knave in his head! What do you think is running in his mind? Neo is a known criminal whose loyalty extends only as far as self-preservation. And you've given the former absolute authority to execute the latter. Are you truly so desperate for a military win that you are sacrificing his soul for a temporary advantage?"
Winter finally straightened, turning to face her sister. Her posture was weary, but her expression was sharp, cold, and utterly detached.
"Do not lecture me on soul, Weiss. I saw what The Crown did to Mantle and Atlas they choked the city with manufactured despair before the Grimm even breached the walls. What they are attempting here is far more insidious. We are not fighting an army; we are fighting a social collapse."
"And the solution is to use a that duo?! Weiss retorted, her voice rising slightly.
"The solution," Winter countered, matching her sister's intensity, "is to use the tools that work. Jaune or the Knave, as you prefer to call his efficacy is the only person here who understands the calculus of fear required to counter The Crown. He speaks their language. He understands the price of betrayal, and he carries the weight of a legend that strikes terror. He is a consequence, and The Crown must face one."
"And Neo?"
"Neapolitan is the most adept infiltrator and black-market specialist in Vacuo. She knows the shadows, the black market routes, and the faces of every operative Jax Asturias would employ. She also understands the threat. She is afraid of Jaune, and that fear is the only loyalty we can rely on. It is pragmatism, not cruelty." Winter finished, folding her arms. "I chose the mission's success over your comfort, sister."
"It's not my comfort!" Weiss whispered, leaning in closer, tears pricking the corner of her eye a flicker of vulnerability the Knave had tried to extinguish months ago. "It is him. You saw what he became in the council room cold, detached, capable of suggesting the sentencing of an entire world for a for an edge. You are pushing him closer to that edge by forcing him to rely only on the Knave's methods!"
"He survived the Ever After," Winter snapped, hitting back with brutal honesty. "He survived because he adapted and became what was necessary. If he falls, he falls into the arms of the enemy, and we will deal with him. But until then, he is the most vital asset we possess. Unlike you, I cannot afford to see him only as a….friend. I see a weapon that is pointed in the correct direction and I intend to keep it there."
Weiss stared at her sister, her breath escaping in a sharp, painful hiss. "You sound exactly like Father."
The accusation struck Winter like a physical blow. Her composure fractured, her eyes narrowing with fury and pain. "How dare you. I am fighting to save lives. Jacques fought to save his profit. Do not cheapen my choice with that comparison."
"But it is the same calculus!" Weiss insisted, throwing her hands up in frustration. "Choosing the brutal, efficient means over the compassionate one because it serves the greater military objective! You see two people one a tool, one a casualty and deem the loss acceptable!"
Winter pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting exhaustion and rage. "We are at war, Weiss. A war we are losing. We cannot coddle conscience when the fate of Vacuo hangs on a single choice. Jaune is fighting to save his friends. I am fighting to save the world. If that means making an ugly alliance, then so be it. Now, the mission is underway. We have to monitor the initial reports."
Weiss stood her ground for a moment longer, her body trembling with unresolved emotion. She looked at the sterile, unforgiving data on the light table, then at her sister's equally unforgiving face. She knew arguing further was useless.
She finally pushed off the table, her voice dropping back to a cold whisper. "I will monitor the reports. But if this alliance damages him further, Winter... if he breaks because of the choices you've forced him to make, then I will hold you accountable. You may be General, but you are still my sister, and you are still wrong…"
Without waiting for a response, Weiss turned and walked out, leaving Winter alone in the cold silence, staring at the flashing map points and feeling the weight of the ugly, necessary choice settling deep in her bones.
She wished Qrow was here right now…it was about time he got over his existential crisis he got this morning…
........
Qrow surfaced with the slow, agonizing clarity of a man who realizes he has committed a tactical error against his own liver. His head was a cathedral of throbbing pain, and the faint, filtered desert light of the room was a cruel spotlight on his confusion.
He groaned, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye. The linen beneath him was too soft, the pillow too high, and the air smelled faintly of medical-grade cleaning solution and pine—Winter Schnee's signature blend.
Qrow's heart dropped into the abyss of his stomach.
He was in Winter's temporary quarters. His jacket and scythe-sword were propped neatly against the far wall, organized with geometric precision. A half-empty bottle of expensive Vacuan whiskey stood sentinel on the bedside table. He was fully clothed, but his shirt was untucked, and his whole body screamed betrayal.
He turned his head slowly, fear locking up his neck muscles.
Winter was beside him.
She was lying on her back, still dressed in her immaculate Specialist trousers and camisole, but her braids had come undone, her white hair fanned across the pillow, giving her a soft, unguarded look he had never seen before. Her face, usually carved from ice, was smooth and placid in sleep. She looked… profoundly human.
The sight was far more terrifying than if she had woken up and slapped him.
Oh, you bastard, Qrow thought, staring at the ceiling. You absolute, miserable, miserable bastard.
He carefully, painstakingly, slid to the edge of the bed, planting his bare feet on the cool stone floor. He glanced back at Winter, who remained oblivious, deep in a deserved, restorative coma.
Qrow walked to the small desk, located his flask, and stared at the untouched whiskey inside. He had emptied the bottle on the nightstand, but his own cursed flask the one that usually granted him all the comfort of oblivion remained full, mocking him.
He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing the exhaustion and existential dread deep into his stubble.
"Of all the things I could have woken up to," he muttered into the silence, his voice a dry rasp. "Grimm invasion. A tax audit. Salem sitting in the foyer. But no. My bad luck had to engineer this. This."
He looked back at the peacefully sleeping Winter. This wasn't a random lapse with a stranger. This was an intimate, vulnerable moment with the one person in his life who was his philosophical antithesis, the one person he fought with, the one person whose respect he secretly coveted, and the one person who represented the unattainable order he spent his life running from. This entire situation was the ultimate manifestation of his Semblance, Misfortune.
"You damn piece of work," Qrow growled, addressing the very nature of his cursed power. "You couldn't let me just have a simple, quiet hangover. You had to force me into a situation where the consequences aren't a simple headache, they're General Schnee. You absolute, miserable, soul-crushing failure of a Semblance!"
He slammed his fist, gently, against the polished wood of the desk, wincing at the small thump. He didn't dare make noise that would wake her.
Qrow stood there, trapped between the horror of the reality and the impossible calm of the sleeping General. He had to be gone before she woke. He had to reset the status quo, deny the lapse, and pretend the entire, terrifying night had simply been a shared nightmare forced upon them by the sheer weight of their collective stress.
He snatched the canteen of water he saw sitting nearby, grabbed his jacket, and turned towards the door, ready for the swift, silent extraction.
"Leaving so soon?"
The voice was low, rough, and thick with sleep, possessing a husky quality that sent a fresh wave of horror through Qrow. He froze mid-step, his hand already reaching for the doorknob.
He turned back slowly. Winter was propped up on one elbow, her dishevelled white hair cascading over the pillow. Her blue eyes were heavy, but focused entirely on him, a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
"Are you just going to leave," she asked, her voice laced with dry mockery, "and pretend that nothing happened?"
Qrow felt his face cycle through shock, guilt, and utter panic. His eloquence, usually sharp as his blade, vanished.
"I—I, uh… I mean, General. Good morning. General. I was just, ah… conducting tactical surveillance on the… the exit strategy. Yes. And... and procuring hydrological assets." He lifted the canteen uselessly. Very lamely.
Winter raised an eyebrow, the smirk widening. "Hydrological assets. Right. Because a field Huntsman requires Atlas-issue porcelain to achieve maximum efficiency." She gestured to the pristine coffee mugs still sitting on the desk from the previous night.
"No! No, not at all! I was just... checking for structural integrity! Because, you know, my Semblance—the bad luck—it might have, uh, destabilized the structural load-bearing components of the..." He gestured vaguely at the entire wall. "The entire room. So I was preemptively escaping the inevitable structural failure. For you! Professional courtesy! As a... a colleague!"
Winter sighed, running a hand over her face, and dropped back onto the pillow, closing her eyes. "Go. Before you shatter the window with a misplaced syllable. And Qrow?"
He froze again, expecting the inevitable order of detention.
"Next time, don't waste the good stuff on trying to justify your existence. Just go with it."
Qrow stood paralyzed for another second, realizing he had just made a complete fool of himself and somehow survived. He snatched his weapon and bolted, leaving the General of the Atlas Military to her well-deserved, slightly tipsy repose.
.........…
The Sink greeted them with the same welcome it gave everyone: a hot wind full of grit and a street full of eyes that never stayed in one place for long.
Neo moved like she had been born here. Shoulders angled to look smaller. Steps light enough to vanish under the noise of empty cans rattling in the alleys. She drifted ahead of Jaune with the casual confidence of someone who knew every predator's blind spot.
Jaune let her lead. No Armor. No helmet. No Vorpal Blade. Just the weight of an ordinary sword and the heavier weight of trying to look harmless. He kept his hands visible and his gaze soft, letting Neo do the reading.
The Sink was a graveyard of abandoned shacks and hungry people. A broken water tower leaned sideways as if trying to escape the Neighborhood. A woman sat on a crate with a cracked bowl in her lap, eyes hollow. Two teenagers sifted through scrap for anything that could pass as food or trade.
Neo paused at a street corner. Jaune stopped behind her.
Her eyes didn't move, but her attention did. Right. Then left. Then toward the rooftop above them.
Jaune followed her gaze. A silhouette shifted behind a rusted satellite dish. Someone watching. Measuring. Deciding.
Neo walked on.
Down another alley, she brushed her fingers across a wall: three horizontal scratches near a boarded window. A sign. Territory. Not Shade's. Not Vacuo's. Something else.
Jaune recognized the instinctive tension in her shoulders.
The Crown had been here.
They passed an open-front bar that pretended not to be a bar. Five men sat around a barrel fire, pretending not to notice anyone passing. Neo didn't look at them, but she adjusted her scarf, letting a bit of her mismatched eyes flash in the firelight.
Jaune realized it was not a mistake. It was a warning. A language of the streets: I see you. I am not prey.
The men looked away first.
Neo led him down an even narrower path where the sunlight barely reached. The ground here was sand over concrete, the kind that swallowed footsteps. Every sound was muted, which made the small ones louder: a bottle rolling in the dark, a whispered argument behind a door, a faint metallic click from somewhere above.
Neo stopped again.
A child sat in the corner, knees pulled to his chest, watching them with the kind of stillness that belonged to someone who had survived more than one night on these streets. His eyes flicked to a shack three doors down. A tiny, involuntary movement. Fear wrapped around curiosity.
Neo saw it. She crouched not close, just enough to make herself level with him. She slid her hand into her pocket and let him glimpse what she pulled out: a small, wrapped bar of dried fruit. Clean. Unspoiled.
She didn't offer it. She placed it gently on the ground between them and stood.
The kid stared. Then, slowly, he pointed toward the half-buried Dust refinery at the far edge of the Sink. A ruin swallowed halfway by dunes, half metal skeleton, half tomb.
Neo touched her scarf in acknowledgment and walked away without taking back the food.
Jaune followed, his heartbeat steady but heavy.
They reached the edge of the district. The refinery loomed ahead, carved against the dying sun like the ribs of a long-dead beast. Neo stared at it for a moment, silent, calculating.
Then she looked at Jaune.
Not a question. Not a warning. Just a simple assessment:
This is where the Crown breathes.And we are about to walk into their lungs.
Jaune nodded once.
Neo slipped into the shadows first, and he followed her into the bones of the forgotten building, the air turning colder as the desert swallowed their silhouettes.
Inside the ruined refinery, the temperature dropped fast. Metal beams creaked in the wind. Sand slid in thin streams through cracks in the ceiling. The air carried the faint smell of Dust and rot.
Neo signaled Jaune to stay low. She moved ahead without a sound, stepping where the sand was thickest so nothing clanged. Jaune followed, careful but far less graceful. His boots made faint crunches that felt loud enough to wake the dead.
They reached a broken catwalk that overlooked the main floor. Neo froze. Jaune stopped beside her and listened.
Voices. A crowd murmuring. Something heavy being dragged. A door slamming.
Neo slid forward until she could peer through a gap in the rusted railing. Jaune crouched beside her.
Below, at least thirty people had gathered in the wide basin of the factory—families, loners, teenagers with bandanas pulled over their mouths. Most were thin. All were tired.
At the center stood a man in patched armor and a makeshift cloak painted with the stylized crown symbol. He had a crate behind him covered with a tarp. Two more Crown members flanked him, hands on weapons, faces unseen.
The speaker lifted a sack and let it fall open. Food spilled out: sealed packets, dried fruits, cans with intact labels. Real supplies. Real weight.
A ripple moved through the crowd. Hunger had a sound. Jaune felt it hit like a wave.
The man spread his arms.
"No one's starving under us," he said. His voice echoed off the metal walls. Smooth. Practiced. "Nobody lost in the desert. Nobody forgotten."
He kicked at the tarp. It fell away, revealing more crates stacked behind him. Enough to feed the Sink for days.
"You know what the council gives you?" he went on. "Lectures. Curfews. Promises that get sandblasted before they reach us."
People shifted. Heads lowered. Shame mixed with anger.
"And Shade Academy?" He scoffed. "They patrol the rich quarter. They guard caravans for nobles. But us? They say we're the cost of doing business. They call you criminals for trying to survive."
Neo watched the crowd, not the man. Her eyes mapped posture, tension, hesitation. All the invisible tethers that held these people in place.
Jaune watched her watching them.
The man lifted another package and tossed it into the crowd. Someone caught it and clutched it like treasure.
"You help us, we help you," he said. "Food. Water. Dust for heat. Protection from raiders. You give us eyes, ears, hands. That's all. Simple."
A murmur of agreement rolled through the room.
Jaune felt Neo tap his wrist. Twice. Danger.
He shifted his attention. On the far side of the gathering, four men moved with intent. Not starving. Not desperate. Armed and confident. They blended in only if you didn't know what to look for. Neo spotted them instantly.
The recruiters.
They drifted through the crowd, whispering, pointing out names, identifying who could be pushed harder. Who had debts. Who had children. Who could be bought with an extra ration.
Jaune's jaw tightened.
Neo touched his arm again light, insistent. No intervention. Not yet.
One of the recruiters stepped up beside a woman with a child at her hip. He nudged the child's chin with a small ration bar. The kid's eyes lit up. The mother's eyes dimmed.
The recruiter smiled without warmth and slipped the bar into the child's hand.
A message, silent as sand falling: You owe us now.
The speaker clapped his hands, snapping attention back to him.
"Vacuo forgot you," he said. "We didn't."
A cheer rose. Not loud. But real.
The man leaned in, voice dropping just enough to sharpen the edge.
"And when the council comes to take what little you have left, remember who fed you."
Neo slowly exhaled through her nose. Her expression didn't change, but something in her posture did. Recognition. Hatred. A memory from a life spent under the heel of similar men.
Jaune watched the crowd as they surged forward for rations. People pushed. Grabbed. Begged. Then scattered like flies.
When the crates began to empty, the Crown ranks closed in around the leader. He barked quiet orders, and the armed recruiters drifted toward a side passage—organizing, sorting, selecting their newest assets.
Neo motioned back toward the shadows they came from.
Jaune followed.
Neither spoke once they reached the upper corridor. Dust shifted under their boots as they moved deeper into the refinery's dark spine.
Only when they were far enough that even whispers wouldn't echo did Neo pause. She didn't sign. She didn't turn.
But Jaune knew what she was thinking.
This wasn't a gang. It was a hunger-powered army forming under the council's feet.
And the Crown wasn't just feeding the Sink. They were buying it.
They entered the bowels of the sink deeper. The night was still long…
............…
The wind outside Shade Academy hissed against the sandstone walls, carrying grit that rattled across windows like fingernails. Vacuo's nights were always loud, but the dorm felt sealed off from the world, stuffed with a kind of restless quiet that made every breath sound too big.
Their room was dim except for the soft glow of Ruby's scroll and the single lamp Weiss had set to its lowest setting. Shadows gathered in the corners. Blake's ears flicked once at every muffled footstep in the hallway.
Ruby sat cross-legged on her bed, weapon diagrams on her scroll screen, though she hadn't turned a page in half an hour. She kept flicking back to the mission board, as if expecting Jaune's or Neo's name to appear with a status update.
It didn't.
Weiss paced between the beds with sharp, precise steps, the kind that came from trying not to think about worst-case scenarios. Blake was cleaning Gambol Shroud on instinct alone, movements smooth and methodical, her mind clearly elsewhere.
Yang lay on her back, one leg dangling off the mattress, tossing her stress ball toward the ceiling and catching it every time with mechanical confidence.
The tension in the room sat like sand in their teeth.
"Still nothing?" Weiss asked, stopping mid-step.
Ruby shook her head. "Not a ping. No updates. Nothing from Shade command."
Yang caught the stress ball against her palm with a soft slap. "Maybe Jaune killed Neo already."
Blake froze, mid-cleaning stroke. "Yang."
"What? I'm not rooting for it." Yang shrugged. "But those two in the Sink? That's a recipe for somebody ending up missing a limb."
Ruby frowned. "He wouldn't."
Yang tilted her head. "Rubyyyy, he literally tried to shove his sword in her face two days ago..."
Ruby lowered her gaze. "He's trying now. That matters."
Weiss stopped her pacing with a deep breath. "The council would have informed us if something happened."
Blake sheathed her weapon gently. "You're assuming they think we deserve to know."
Weiss opened her mouth. Closed it. "…Fair."
Yang rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin on her hands. "I hate waiting like this. Feels like my brain is chewing on itself."
Ruby pulled her hood up a little tighter. "They'll come back. Both of them."
"Sure," Yang said. "Unless they're… distracted."
Blake looked up. "Distracted how?"
Yang's grin grew slow and wicked. "Like in one of Blake's smutty novels."
Blake's ears went rigid. Ruby nearly folded in half, face turning crimson. Weiss made a strangled noise and actually took a step back as if hit.
Yang lifted a hand like she was explaining a crime scene. "Think about it! Two enemies forced to work together in a dangerous, lawless place. Tension. Danger. Betrayal. High stakes. Shadows everywhere. Classic setup. Tight setup…"
"YANG!" Blake hissed with reddening cheeks.
Ruby tried to sink into her comforter like it could swallow her whole. "Stop. Stop. Stop, please."
Weiss pressed her hand to her chest like she needed to steady her heart. "This is a mission. A dangerous, serious mission!" Weiss muttered, "Unbelievable," like she was filing an official complaint to the universe.
Yang wasn't even pretending to feel guilty. "And? Blake's novels are practically guidebooks to this kind of thing."
"They are not guidebooks!" Blake said sharply, cheeks hot enough to glow.
Yang rolled on her back again, hands behind her head. "Come on. Little chaotic goblin girl with a knife. Tall broody guilt-ridden ex-knight. You cannot tell me that isn't a plot you've read before?"
Blake buried her red face in her hands.
Ruby squeaked into her blanket. "I don't want to imagine ANY of this!"
Weiss muttered, "Indecent" under her breath, already planning to wipe the idea from her memory as soon as possible.
Yang wasn't done.
"I'm just saying," she said, twirling a finger in the air, "if they come back late, sweaty, and refusing to make eye contact…"Her grin widened. "Maybe he's trying to shove his ,,other" sword into her face right now!"
Ruby made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a scream.
"YANG XIAO-LONG!" Weiss snapped. "Have some decorum!" Her face was beet-red right now.
Blake threw a pillow, which Yang caught effortlessly, still smirking.
But when the laughter and protests died down, the room settled into a more honest kind of quiet.
Weiss sat at the edge of her bed, hands clasped together, trying to get images Yang forced into her head out. "Strategically… it makes sense. Neo knows the criminal underworld better than any of us. Jaune can disappear in a crowd without his armor. They cover each other's blind spots."
Blake nodded slowly. "I just don't like not knowing if they're safe."
Yang's smile softened. "Same."
Ruby chewed her lower lip. "Neo has every reason to run. Jaune… has every reason to think he deserves whatever happens to him down there." She sighed. "But they survived the Ever After. Together and apart. That has to count for something."
"It does," Blake murmured.
Weiss looked toward the window, where a thin line of moonlight cut across the floor. "I just hope they aren't walking into something the council isn't telling us about."
Yang pushed herself upright. "If they're not back by midnight, I'm going after them. If Jaune hurt Neo again, I'm punching him. If Neo stabbed Jaune, I'm…" She thought about it. "Okay, I'm not punching her. But I will glare. Very hard."
Ruby snorted weakly. "That's fair."
The stress ball finally rolled to a stop against Yang's boot. She nudged it with her toe, gaze drifting unfocused.
Blake set Gambol Shroud aside and sat next to Ruby. Weiss crossed her arms and leaned against her desk.
Together, they looked like a group holding themselves together with thread and stubbornness.
Outside, the desert wind howled softly.
Somewhere far from Shade's walls, in the skeleton of a ruined refinery, two shadows moved deeper into the Crown's den.
And Team RWBY waited.