Thetourbeganinthe meditation pavilions, and Riot hated them immediately.
Not because they were ugly. They were exquisite, which was the problem. Open-air structures with living walls of cascading fern and jasmine, curved wooden benches arranged in concentric circles, water channels cut into the stone floor that carried a constant, gentle murmur designed to make his nervous system believe it was somewhere safe. Robed figures sat in smallclusters or alone, eyes closed, faces smoothed into expressions of such deliberate peace that they looked carved from the same marble as the floors. Nobody flinched when Riot walked past, which meant either their meditation was genuinely effective or they’d been trained to suppress fear responses in the presence of authority.
Brother Matthias moved through the space like a curator through a gallery—proprietary, pleased, watching Riot’s face for the correct reactions the way a child watches someone unwrap a gift.
“We hold guided harmonization three times daily,” Matthias explained, gesturing to the central pavilion where a woman in silver-trimmed robes led a group through synchronized breathing. “Morning alignment, midday centering, and evening reflection. As a seeker, you’ll begin with the morning sessions and progress as your spiritual receptivity develops.”
Guard rotations disguised as meditation schedules, Riot thought, noting the positions of every robed figure with a gold pin he suspected was a communication device.
The gardens were worse.
Springfield Gardens had been built on fertile Illinois farmland, and whoever had designed the landscaping understood something fundamental about psychological manipulation: beauty creates obligation. The grounds were staggering—curated beds of flowering plants arranged by color theory, herb spirals, and a rose garden whose scent hit Riot from forty yards away, but it seemed hollow to him. Plants weren’t meant to grow in such even, color-coded rows, organized by species. Plants were supposed to do whatever they wanted, including sometimes greet him in the morning by flowering through a wall overnight.
Cass walked beside Riot through the gardens with an expression that made Riot’s chest ache in that inexplicableway—a feeling between pain and warmth that had taken up residence behind his sternum since the cellar and refused to pay rent. Cass’s face was open, unguarded, drinking in the familiar landscape. His hand trailed along the edge of a raised bed, fingers brushing clusters of lavender.
“This is my favorite part,” Cass said quietly, almost to himself. “The gardens. I used to come here during rest periods and just...” He gestured vaguely—a motion that encompassed sitting, breathing, and existing in proximity to growing things. “It’s where everything makes sense.”
Riot said nothing and kept walking. Forcing his face to remain arranged in the expression of someone experiencing awe rather than mounting fury.
“Oh, Brother Matthias, I saw an incredible thing in the Static Zone,” Cass said, looking at his mentor with excitement. “I saw a monarch butterfly—”
“A butterfly?” Brother Matthias mused “I think you must be mistaken, Brother Cassiopeia. Butterflies have been extinct for quite some time. You probably saw a large moth—the sphinx moth has similar coloring, and they’re common in this area.”
Cass blinked. The wonder drained from his face like water from a cracked vessel and he began playing with one of the clay beads in his hair as his gaze dropped. “Oh. Yes. Of course. A moth. I probably wasn’t looking carefully enough.”
It was a butterfly. It was orange and black and its wings moved like a butterfly’s wings move, not like a moth, and you knew that, Cass. He took that from you in three sentences.
Riot bit his tongue and tried to ignore the pressure building behind his eyes.
The “enrichment areas” were next—a cluster of low buildings that housed weaving rooms, pottery studios, a small library of approved texts, and a music room where someone was playing a stringed instrument Riot was certain was just a modifiedkoto. Matthias narrated each space like a real estate agent who believed, with religious conviction, in the property he was selling.
“Enrichment is essential to spiritual development,” he explained as they passed a room where three young people were painting with watercolors in complete silence. “Creative expression, when properly guided, allows the spirit to process experiences that words cannot contain.”
“Do the artists choose their own subjects?” Riot asked, keeping his voice mild.
“They choose within the parameters of their spiritual curriculum,” Matthias replied smoothly. “We’ve found that too much creative freedom can actually impede transcendence. The mind becomes scattered. Discipline creates the container for genuine expression.”
All three painters were working on variations of the same landscape—a sunrise over Springfield Gardens. Riot noted this and said nothing.
They stopped at the commissary for water and what Matthias called “nourishment.” The commissary was a long, airy space with wooden tables and benches, and a serving counter where food was distributed in portioned trays.
Cass collected water and a plate of sliced fruit with crackers, moving through the space like a current through a familiar channel—knowing without looking where the cups were kept, which bench wobbled, where the light was best.
Other robed figures noticed them, or more accurately, noticed Riot. The reactions, but Riot caught the way conversations dimmed as he passed, the way bodies angled away without conscious decision, those micro-expressions of fear quicklysuppressed behind smiles. A young woman carrying a tray pressed herself against the wall as he walked by, her knuckles white around the ceramic edges.
Nobody said a word. Brother Matthias was with them, and Brother Matthias’s presence apparently created a zone of compliance that overrode even the instinct to flee from a man who was clearly, visibly, and architecturally built for violence.
“People are staring,” Riot murmured to Cass as they sat.
“They’re not staring,” Cass replied. “They’re observing with spiritual interest.”
The response was so perfectly Elysian—so fluent in the language of reframing discomfort as a growth opportunity—that Riot almost laughed. Almost. Then he registered that Cass meant it, and the laughter died somewhere in his throat.
They ate quickly. Cass’s appetite was poor—he picked at the fruit, ate two crackers, drank most of the water. His hand trembled slightly, though whether from exhaustion, pain, or the particular vibration of being home in a place that was slowly ironing him flat, Riot couldn’t tell.
Matthias didn’t eat. He only watched Cass.
After the commissary, Matthias led them through a connecting corridor.
