Hanging from the side of a building is surprisingly meditative.
Once the initial, heart-stopping terror subsides, a strange calm settles over Caelan. The shouts from the rooftop above fade as the guards disperse, assuming he has fallen or performed some impossible vanishing act. He is alone, suspended between the indifferent sky and the uncaring ground, with only the rough texture of brick under his fingertips and the ghost of a defiant carrot on his tongue.
The boon of resilience is a powerful, quiet thing. It isn't a superpower. It is a perfect, unwavering clarity. It stills his trembling muscles. It sharpens his senses. He can hear the rustle of leaves in the arboretum, a hundred yards away. He can smell the faint, loamy scent of the tunnel entrance opening. He knows, with an absolute certainty, that his friends are safe.
His mission is complete. Now, he just has to survive.
Slowly, carefully, he begins to move. It's not a climb; it's a desperate, sideways traverse, his fingers finding impossibly small holds in the ancient brickwork. He is not a climber. He is just a boy who refuses to fall.
He makes his way to a thick, gnarled drainpipe, a rusty, vertical line of hope. He wraps his arms and legs around it, and begins a slow, grueling descent. Every inch is a victory against gravity and exhaustion. The boon is not infinite; he can feel his muscles starting to scream, the calm clarity beginning to fray at the edges.
He is halfway down when a soft, familiar voice drifts up from the shadows below.
"You know, for a boy who just wanted a quiet life, you have a remarkable flair for the dramatic."
Caelan looks down. Leaning against the wall at the base of the drainpipe, her arms crossed, is Nyra. Her face is smudged with dirt, her hair is a mess, but her ember eyes are glowing with a mixture of profound relief and unrestrained exasperation.
A wave of warmth so potent it almost makes him lose his grip washes over him.
"I thought you were supposed to be escaping," he manages, his voice a ragged whisper.
"We did," she replies, her voice soft. "Then we realized we forgot something."
As he reaches the last ten feet, he doesn't have the strength to climb down. He just lets go, landing in a clumsy, jarring heap at her feet. For a moment, he just lies there, his body a single, unified ache.
He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looks up. Lucien is there, offering a hand to pull him up. Behind him, Talia and Mira watch with quiet, steady concern. Milo is there too, his camera off for once, his face etched with genuine worry.
They didn't just escape. They came back for him. His league. His family.
"Is it safe?" Caelan asks, taking Lucien's hand and staggering to his feet.
Lucien shakes his head. "The campus is locked down tight. We can't get out through the main gates. We're fugitives in our own school. But the tunnels… they lead all over the old campus. We have a new headquarters, for now."
"But first," Talia says, a small, triumphant smile on her face. She reaches into a rustic canvas bag she is carrying and pulls out a single, large, lumpy potato and a small, wicked-looking knife.
"Our escape route took us past the kitchens of the Faculty Club," she explains. "Their pantry is… extensive."
They retreat into the mouth of the tunnel, into the damp, comforting darkness. By the light of Mira's datapad, Talia expertly peels the stolen potato. But she doesn't slice it. She grates it. She catches the starchy, milky pulp in a small bowl. She lets it settle, then carefully pours off the clear liquid that rises to the top, leaving a thick, white starch at the bottom.
She adds a tiny, pin-point scrape of culture from the Relic, which Lucien is cradling like a newborn. Just a single drop of the Golden Spore.
Then, she sets the bowl down in a warm, sheltered nook of the tunnel.
"My grandmother used to make this," she whispers, a note of reverence in her voice. "Farmhouse recipe. Illegal in three countries. When you have nothing but a cellar full of potatoes to get you through the winter, you learn to get… creative."
She taps the bowl. "Potato starch, wild yeast, and a little bit of magic. In a few hours, the Golden Spore will have converted all that starch into sugar, and the sugar into alcohol." A feral, joyful grin spreads across her face.
"We are making potato wine."
They huddle together in the darkness of the service tunnel, fugitives in their own home, hunted by a corporate empire. They have no beds, no clean clothes, no idea what tomorrow will bring.
But they have a jar of living magic, a stolen potato, and a recipe for moonshine.
Nyra finds an old, dusty crate for them to sit on. Their shoulders press together in the tight space. It is cramped, and cold, and the most comforting place in the world.
"To The Leftover League," Lucien says, raising an imaginary glass, his voice a low, happy murmur in the dark.
"To stealing ourselves," Nyra adds, a small, genuine laugh escaping her.
Caelan looks at the faces of his friends, illuminated by the gentle, pulsing glow of the Relic. Their crazy, dysfunctional, beautiful family.
"To a new beginning," he says. And as they sit together in the heart of the earth, listening to the quiet, secret work of fermentation, he realizes with a startling clarity that his quest for a normal life is over.
He has found something infinitely better. He has found a home.