[r.] I know you will follow me until kingdom come [18+]

Klara was… one-year-old, exactly. Bronwyn was right; Tivia was right. She was overthinking this simple act of giving a gift and raising her stress to astronomical levels for… what? A little baby who had more interest in things that weren’t toys? Klara wasn’t going to remember the first gift her guardian gave to her on her birthday: but, her father would. Her mother certainly would. She had felt so confident that clothes would be a safe bet, until after she’d had them made and paid for. How many outfits did the little Sorde cherubs already own? Did they really need more when they’d outgrow them in a matter of months? These articles of clothing would ultimately become lost in the fray of everything that was discarded as they outgrew their belongings. It wasn’t as though Vega and Haraldur were going to hold onto useless pieces of clothing for years on end simply because she had given this gift to their children…

“Don’t you get it? Of course it’s for the parents--this is why I fucked up, and should have gotten something else instead!” Sigrid spoke, unleashed her words without thinking. That nervous energy had just managed to find its way out of her, without any regard for Bronwyn’s feelings. The faoladh was only trying to help. She was never even obligated to accompany her in the first place.

Defeated, Sigrid pinched the bridge of her nose and breathed out steadily. “...I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Bronwyn. I still feel like I have so much to make up for, and I have to make up the most of it to Haraldur. I failed him in so many ways when he needed me. I don’t know why I thought I could suddenly make it all right again by blowing him away with some gift for his children… I don’t know what I was thinking.” The blonde warrior lifted the carefully wrapped package of baby clothes, then let her hand drop to her side, limp and helpless. Out of ideas. “I guess I just wasn’t thinking. But everyone else invited to that gathering is going to bring something tangible and meaningful for those one-year-olds. It doesn’t matter who I am; I can’t just show up, present myself and decide that’s enough for their first birthday.”

Strange that Tivia, who confessed she hadn’t been invited, informed them that she would make an appearance for an undisclosed reason, though. What was even more strange was that she asked for Sigrid’s gift. The former Dawn warrior frowned, momentarily uncertain. She hadn’t much of a relationship with Tivia Rigas and didn’t know her well; the star seer was obviously on their side, but was that enough to warrant trust? “...not like I have anything to lose, at this point,” Sigrid finally sighed and handed over the package. True to her word, Tivia only disappeared for a full two minutes, before returning with the package looking perfectly intact. Had she even opened it?

“...you changed the colours? And that’s supposed to help me?” Sigrid groaned softly. So much for saying there was nothing to lose… “Those colours were actually the only thing this gift had going for me. So, now they’re just… what? Ordinary infant clothes, like any other?”

But somehow, Tivia seemed confident that this change was for the better, although in her true, enigmatic fashion, neglected to divulge exactly why. The woman was as strange as the day was long… but, more often than not, she was right. She was right about practically everything for which she had an opinion, thanks to her connection with the stars, and Sigrid had to believe that she would come through for her this time, as well.

“Do you think she’s trying to sabotage me?” She asked Bronwyn after Tivia disappeared in the whisper of her promise to make an appearance later on. The package appeared entirely untampered with, but that meant nothing to a Rigas with immeasurable magic power. “I can’t think of anything I could’ve done to piss her off.  As far as I know--and I don’t really know her well at all--she’s usually pretty intense. Should… we be worried that she plans to make an appearance at an event to which she hasn’t been invited?”

While the former Dawn warrior was not well acquainted with Tivia Rigas, and frankly knew very little about her, Bronwyn’s sight allowed her a glimpse into the mysterious star seer’s life--and what she had to say caused Sigrid to almost trip and fumble the package in her arms as they headed back toward the Night Garden. “She… Haraldur… what?” There was no reason for Bronwyn to lie, but Haraldur and Vega had been very much in love and dedicated to one another for as long as she had known them. As much as she tried to picture the Forbanne Commander and the star seer together… well, she just couldn’t. “When? Wait--no, I don’t want to know. Haraldur probably doesn’t want me to know, either.  Do you think that’s why she wasn’t invited?”

It was all speculation, even with Bronwyn’s Sight. She couldn’t necessarily explain what she saw in someone, but nonetheless… Haraldur and Tivia?! The very thought made her head spin. “Well… if I want to keep my guardianship, I sure as hell am not going to ask him about his involvement with Tivia Rigas. Vega would never let me live it down--literally. I don’t think I’ve ever been more afraid of a single individual than I have of her…” Especially since she had become a mother. If anyone had thought that Vega Sorde before her children couldn’t be fiercer, then they had never been more wrong. “And… I don’t want to fall into hot water with her in particular today. I’m already horribly late; let’s get going.”

Sigrid and Bronwyn returned to the tent atop the hill on the outskirts of the Night Garden with haste, but to the blonde warrior’s dismay, it appeared they were too late. Vega stood outside and well away from the tent, tears streaking down her cheeks, with Haraldur’s arm protectively around her shoulder. Alster and Elespeth were also present, seemingly both consoling the distraught Eyraillian princess. All of the colour drained from Sigrid’s face, and she took a startled step back, accidentally bumping into Bronwyn in the process. “Fuck… is that because of me? Can you see that?” She asked the faoladh, who had far more insight into situations that she did. “Is she really so pissed off that I’m late? Does… does she think I just didn't intend to show up at all? AM I already in trouble?!”

Bronwyn couldn’t see the whole story, but he could see enough to determine that Vega’s distress had nothing to do with the former Dawn Warrior, but rather, with her own family; notably, her brother. 

“...Tivia said she changed the colour of the clothes. Because I had them crafted with Eyraille’s colours…” Sigrid looked down at the package in her hands and realization dawned upon her. “I don’t know what’s happened, but… damn. Maybe she did save my ass…”

So, another knight had lost access to her home; this time, a Skyknight. Elespeth’s heart went out to Vega as her plight touched on old wounds of her own. Wounds that she knew would never fully heal, but that she had learned to live with out of necessity. “Vega… I’m so sorry. I hope you know… I understand. I know that pain.” Alster’s wife put her hand upon Vega’s arm in solidarity. “I still have family in Atvany. But…. Atvany thinks I am dead, because it wanted me dead. And the only person who wanted me alive…” Elespeth’s throat closed. She couldn’t even come to utter her brother’s name. Couldn’t purge her mind of the moment of his death. “...if I want a chance at life, any life, then I know I cannot go back. I know I can’t reach out and contact anyone, not even my younger sister, who might well have been on my side. I think about this all the time. But… then I also think of Alster, and of how much we’ve both had to sacrifice and endure just to be together. And I realize, I think there is nothing I’d have done differently. I also believe the same about you.” She smiled, giving Vega’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “I know what you’ve been through for your own family--for your children. You absolutely did what was best. You don’t deserve to suffer regret for your actions, even if your brother disapproves.”

“Well… at least I’m losing the right to my home around the best possible people.” Vega laughed bitterly, but it wasn’t without appreciation for Elespeth and her words. And for Alster’s, too, for that matter. “Haraldur’s right. Our children have a home, here. That they have a home at all is what matters. I can’t control my brother or his decisions; I can’t even influence them, really. When I left Eyraille in the middle of the night… I chose this family--Haraldur, my children, and all of you--over Caris. Deep down I knew it would be impossible to have both. I realize this, now. He has realized it, too, and that’s why he had made this decision. But I… shouldn’t be mourning over what I’ve lost. I should be happy with what I’ve found. With what I have.”

“Of course you can be happy, Vega. But I hope you know, it’s alright to be sad, too. You can be sad without having regrets.” The former Atvanian knight tried to reassure her friend. “You can still worry for Eyraille, too. Whatever you feel as a result of this, just know that all of your feelings are valid. And that we’re here if you need to talk… I’m so sorry you thought you couldn’t reach out to us in your time of need.”

Vega shook her head and made a dismissive gesture. “It’s fine--despite how I might seem right now, I’m fine. Caris made his decision, and you and Alster deserved time away from other peoples’ drama. Besides, we’re fortunate that we won’t have to sit back and worry about what is happening in Eyraille. Your cousin, Tivia, has offered to travel to Eyraille and keep an eye on my brother and Mollengard’s threat to the kingdom.”

“...Tivia did?” 

Elespeth flashed a confused look at Alster, but her husband seemed just as puzzled as to his cousin’s decision as she did, but they didn’t dwell on the strange occurrence for long. Haraldur looked up just in time to see Sigrid silently contemplate whether or not she should leave, given the situation unfolding before her and Bronwyn. Noticing that she’d been spotted, and that there was no chance to sneak off unseen at this point, Sigrid warily approached with her package clutched in both hands.

“...not only am I late, but it appears I arrived at the worst of times. I’m… sorry, Haraldur.” The blonde warrior dropped her chin to her chest. “I was having second thoughts about my gift to your children… I thought I might find something better, at the last minute, but I didn’t. So now I’m late without a valid excuse, and clearly I’ve… not arrived at a good time. Here.” Sigrid self-consciously stepped forward and put the package in Haraldur’s hands. “If you want,  could stop by some other time to see the twins and acknowledge their first year in this world. Maybe under… better circumstances.”

Sylvie was right. Ari would never celebrate his birthday alone. Something small and intimate wasn’t his style, but if all of the D’Marian settlement was set on it, then he would see the importance of what it meant to still be here. Perhaps he’d lost sight of what he meant to the D’Marians… If she could help him remember, perhaps he would find himself again (or more specifically, find the part of himself that worked magic into his sculptures, to create the golems he needed to find Laz.) 

“Perfect. See, I knew you were the right person to talk to.” Nia snapped her fingers. After Sylvie’s rather rocky attitude toward her the day she sought to save Ari, she hadn’t been entirely confident that Ari’s niece would be interested in helping her at all. But even if the girl still harboured uncertain feelings toward her, she couldn’t deny that they both had Ari’s happiness and well-being at the heart of their intentions. Sometimes a common goal was all it took to win someone over. “So, here’s the thing. I’m still not really in the best standing with the D’Marians or… well, with anyone for that matter. Doesn’t really matter that Queen Lilica has been quietly, gradually lifting the restrictions of my sentence: people are still angry, and they need someone to direct that anger at, and I just happen to fit the bill. But that’s not the case for you. So. Could I depend on you to spread the word while I try to get things ready behind the scenes?”

Sylvie didn’t have a chance to either agree or decline before someone else inserted themself into the conversation. “Lady Canaveris…” Shit. How much did she hear? Was she against conspiring behind her son’s back? Damnit, it had taken a near-death experience to win that woman over in the first place… Could Nia have really blown it all because of one harmless little plan?

On the contrary--Nadira not only approved, but she wanted to be a part of it. “Lady Canaveris, you can bet you were the next person on my list to talk to once I got Sylvie on board.” Nia tried to placate the proud Canaveris matriarch. “Whatever you can do to help--in fact, you’re probably the best person to gather everything we’re going to need. Three people can pull this off in three days, I have the utmost faith. Meanwhile: I’ll take it upon myself to make sure Ari isn’t in the know about any of this. It has to be a complete surprise, otherwise I know he’ll try to shut it all down. He needs to understand how much it means to his people that he’s still here to lead them.”

Amazing. Not only had Sylvie agreed, but the single other most powerful person among the D’Marians was on her side. Nia knew that this was going to go over well, just as Alster and Elespeth’s second wedding had been a success; not because she’d had the idea, but because she knew all the right people to execute it. “Man, Galeyn’s gonna start to get tired of all these celebrations,” she joked, which segued into what Nadira felt was the perfect opportunity to suggest the next celebration following Ari’s birthday. It left Nia speechless for a good half a moment.

“Hey, now, I feel like that would be in pretty bad taste, wouldn’t it? The Queen just got engaged; surely that’s what Galeyn wants to see before the least favourite person ties the knot.” The Master Alchemist mentioned as an excuse to avoid the pressure of her own hypothetical wedding. “Anyways, it’s not as though Ari has even proposed to me. He’s got a lot on his mind and a lot going on right now. Maybe he isn’t someone who even wants to be married. We can’t put that kind of pressure on him right away. One step at a time, right?” 

Nia could feel her face growing hot. Even if he wanted to marry me…  what kind of forever could we have together, when my life is hastening away at least twice as quickly as his? It was something Nia hadn’t thought of in a while. Not since she’d posed that question to Elespeth, many months ago, as to what she would do if the person she loved aged less than half as quickly as she did. But the difference was, Elespeth had access powerful Rigas magic… something neither she nor Ari could rely on. And, short of having an infinite number of controversial alchemist stones to steal the healthy cells from compatible others, there really wasn’t much hope that she could be anything more than a transient fancy in Ari’s long life.

While she didn’t mean to take out her frustrations on the closest available target, Sigrid’s outburst caused Bronwyn to shrink, the human equivalent of drooped ears and tail between her legs. Although she immediately apologized, Bronwyn didn’t feel deserving of it until she redeemed herself by any means necessary. Tivia had already volunteered to modify the gift, and offering to hand over her own or buy another trinket to add to the bundle wouldn’t solve Sigrid’s underlying issues, which ran far deeper than impressing with an amazing cadre of presents. It was her feelings of inadequacy that drove her into borderline panic and fear of letting down her target audience yet again. No manner of sweet words, well-meaning suggestions, or hollow reassurances would suffice in making up for Bronwyn’s blunder…but perhaps the gift of information might, if nothing else, distract Sigrid from her simmering self-loathing. So when Tivia left, Bronwyn whispered the tantalizing and shocking truth into the blonde warrior’s ear, all while trying to justify her own integrity. I will not make a habit of this, she promised herself. I am not a dirty gossip. Nothing we say will travel beyond our radius. I know so, because I trust Sigrid.

However questionable her actions, they seemed to accomplish her goal insofar as it volleyed Sigrid out of her self-made mire, at least for the duration of their walk to the Night Garden. “I get the impression that whatever happened between them wasn’t illicit. That Haraldur and Vega weren’t together at the time. But,” she squinted, trying to grasp the flickers of afterimages that rapidly deteriorated upon Tivia’s departure, “it didn’t end well between them. Tivia and Vega, that is. But like I said, I don’t sense any malice in Tivia Rigas. I don’t know her at all, but given her track record so far—saving me from her father, and reversing the damage at the masquerade ball—someone who aims to sabotage wouldn’t go through such great pains to help people. Then again, it was what she said about Teselin that drove Isidor away. And Hadwin…” she rubbed her arms as if warding off a sudden chill, “maybe he wouldn’t have…” she shook her head, unable to finish the sentence when it was so glaringly obvious what she wanted to say. He wouldn’t have burned down a forest. He wouldn’t have lost his mind. At least, not in this way.

More than a month after Teselin’s disappearance, her brother, while making great strides toward recovery, had a long way to go before the Gardeners and physicians under his care declared him mentally fit enough to be on his own. Perhaps that day would never come to pass, and he’d always struggle to live independently without the assistance of others—a life worse than death for the willful, rebellious faoladh. Currently, Hadwin was at a stable place in his recovery, mostly lucid and responsive, but Bronwyn couldn’t help but wonder if Hadwin’s lucidity was a front. She saw the strain behind his eyes whenever he smiled or laughed. The struggle to cultivate his old self was taxing him, but knowing her brother, he did it for the people who feared and worried he would never be put back to rights. But who could he be honest with, and who would he open up to about his trauma?

And who would even understand if he tried to explain, in his reality-warping way, what was going on in his messed-up head? Not Bronwyn. Not when she couldn’t even figure out the same for herself. Her servile willingness to please Sigrid, to never leave her side and pine during the hours they were separated, because for whatever reason, time spent apart racked her brain with terrible, near-incapacitating headaches, only worsened by the day. She didn’t know what was happening, and it wasn’t like anyone could help her understand the terrifying transition her Sight was undertaking—except for another faoladh.

Hadwin needed to get better. For selfish reasons on her end, because she needed someone to help her navigate this terrifying new period in her Sight’s unwanted development. Has the madness…finally come for me, too?

Losing the thread of the conversation, forgetting what she had even discussed with Sigrid, she lapsed into silence until they reached the outskirts of the Night Garden. But instead of heading straight for the tent on the hill, they took a sudden detour towards the forest, where they heard a familiar woman’s voice crying within the trees. A few steps further revealed the identity of the woman. Vega, accompanied by her husband, and Alster and Elespeth, both of whom must have returned from their sabbatical to attend the twins’ first birthday.

“What? No,” Bronwyn whispered in response to Sigrid’s paranoid ramblings. “This has nothing to do with you. I can’t quite see the details. My Sight is far from as developed as Hadwin’s, but I overheard snippets of their conversation, and it has something to do with Eyraille. Exile? They’ve been exiled from their home? The entire family? And by her brother, no less?”

The moment she conveyed the news to Sigrid, they both shared a similar thought at the same time. “It’s a good thing Tivia changed the colors of your clothes. They…might not have been received all that well.”

Before they could decide what to do next, Haraldur raised his head and noticed them standing, frozen, like two deer in the presence of a hunter. “Sigrid. Bronwyn. It’s no trouble. Hadwin informed us you would be running a little late.” Bronwyn let out a small sigh of relief. So her brother hadn’t run off into the woods somewhere. As if noticing her trepidation, Haraldur jerked his head to the tent. “He’s in there right now. All eyes are on him…seeing as he’s decided to offer his, uh, ‘babysitting’ services for free. Actually,” he chewed on his lip, suddenly nervous, “I should go check in on them. Come with me?” He smiled at Sigrid as he gratefully accepted her gift. “Now’s as good a time as any to see them, Sigrid. Vega is in good hands,” he said, referring to Alster and Elespeth, who elected to stay behind and keep her company while she recuperated.

Kissing his wife farewell, he led Sigrid and Bronwyn to the tent, completely unbothered by Sigrid’s perceived lateness and inner turmoil over the appropriateness of her gift. Considering their heated argument from the last time spent in each other’s company, Haraldur just seemed relieved she was no longer angry with him. “I hope you know that I don’t care what you brought or what you didn’t bring. You’re here. That’s more than enough.” Once inside, he placed Sigrid’s gift, along with Bronwyn’s, among the growing mountain of trussed-up boxes and their shiny wrappings in the corner. “As you can see, we’re at no deficit of gifts. Really, the twins could stand to have a little less. It’ll teach them humility, not to be spoiled rotten at every damn turn.”

“About time you showed up!” That all-too-grating voice chimed in from inside the enclosure where the twins were left to roam free without fear of escape. Only now, they weren’t roaming around, but huddled under Hadwin’s arms, eyes half-closing from whatever high-intensity activity he spurred them into playing. “I tired them out for you so they should be like wee lambs right now.”

“Uhh, thanks, Hadwin.” Haraldur, said, as baffled as everyone else who bore witness to the normally rambunctious faoladh’s crack at domesticity. “We’ll take it from here.”

Carefully transferring the little bundles into Haraldur’s arms, Hadwin strutted out of the enclosure, winking at Sigrid. “They’re all yours.”

“And where do you think you’re going?” Bronwyn yanked Hadwin back by the arm before he could think to escape from the tent. “You’re staying right here with me.”

“From babysitter to babysat, huh?” He groaned and playfully wrestled out of Bronwyn’s grip, but stayed put. “Just say the word and I’ll act the part, too. Shit my pants for good measure.”

On the other side of the enclosure, Haraldur, who had taken Hadwin’s place on the ground, beckoned Sigrid to come close, and before she could change her mind, plopped a sleepy Klara into her arms. “Say hello to your Auntie Sigrid, Klara,” he said in a hushed voice. “She came all this way to see you and your brother. Let’s be on our best behavior.” Despite the several-fold changing of hands, the pint-sized redhead hardly noticed as her green eyes fought to stay awake, to no avail. Her brother fared little better, already asleep in his father’s lap.

“Nonsense. Her majesty and her Rigas advisor do not hold the monopoly on weddings. Other people are allowed to marry.” Nadira tossed her head; a few strands of curled hair escaped from their pins. “The Royal wedding is for Galeyn. Stella D’Mare needs something for itself. Not to compete for attention, mind, and I would not dream of officiating it on the same day. Furthermore,” one sleek eyebrow furrowed into a knot of confusion, “how long have you cloistered yourself within the Canaveris villa, my dear? The majority of the D’Marian community views you as fully redeemed. Of the population loyal to us, anyway, and therefore the only ones whose opinions matter. You saved the life of their leader. Twice. They respect you. And should you have an issue with those who do not, direct me to them and I shall gladly change their mind.”

“As for my hopeless romantic of a son, do leave him to me,” she proclaimed, a stern promise marked by a sly smile. “I shall convince him yet. He is exactly the type who desires marriage. If all goes well, he will be in much higher spirits after we rally his supporters to celebrate his sixty-seventh year of life. We table this conversation for now, but mark my words; I am not finished with the two of you quite yet.” Pulling up her red, ankle-length gown by the hem, she swished around and made her elegant retreat to the tent.

Left alone with Nia once again, Sylvie stared at the ground, tamping her bejeweled slippers into a bare patch of dirt as an excuse not to look her potential aunt in the eye. “Our plan is soundproof and I shall implement the beginning stages with grandmama straight away,” she said, drained of the pep and enthusiasm from before. “We should return to Uncle Ari lest he wonders where we are and suspects foul play.” But before she took Nadira’s route to the tent, she paused, looking over her shoulder at Nia, to whom she had turned her back. “I am sorry, Miss Nia. For how I behaved that evening. I was so worried for Uncle Ari, but that is no excuse to take out my frustrations on you. In truth, I have been quite frustrated with you for a while, but it is best to make amends than carry resentment around like a beast of burden. It is not your fault you do not fancy me, or find me disruptive. Annoying. Not worth your time. So I shall not waste any more of yours.” Not nearly as elegant as her grandmother, Sylvie shuffled away, with faltering steps, to the gathering in the tent.

The trio of Canaveris conspirators rejoined the event in time for the gift-opening ceremony. The twins, utterly spent from all the excitement over the last few hours, retired to bed early with the nanny. Vega, along with Alster and Elespeth, reunited with the small but companionable congregation, and both parents of the honored children took turns unwrapping and unboxing the presents. From Alster and Elespeth, a book of fairytales replete with illuminated illustrations and gilt pages. Kynett’s guardians presented a special pendant for him in addition, imbued with some of Alster’s protective magic, to be used ‘In case his sister gives him a hard time,’ he joked.

From the Canaverises, no expense was spared. Klara and Kynett received a jewel-encrusted music box that seconded as an orrery in miniature. Emerald, sapphire, and ruby planets danced their deliberate revolutions whenever the crank was turned to tingle a sweet-sounding, slippery melody reminiscent of the sea.

Bronwyn gifted two pairs of wool socks she’d darned herself. Chara, a few plush animals crafted from the softest, fleeciest materials and stuffed with eiderdown. When it came around to Sigrid’s gift, Haraldur pulled out a matching pair of outfits, the stitching even and sturdy, the embroidery simple, but needle fine. And the colors—cream and purple. Galeyn’s colors.

“This is perfect for them,” Haraldur remarked, holding them out for all to see. “Thank you, Sigrid. I could think of nothing better for citizens of Galeyn to wear.”

As promised, Tivia Rigas arrived at the intimate celebration just as the majority of revelers spoke their farewells to the hosts and departed for the evening. She wandered into the tent, ignoring the confused stares from some of the remaining guests and bypassing Alster and Elespeth, even when the former tried to get her attention. She knew it had something to do with her impromptu trip to Eyraille, but she couldn’t be bothered trying to explain her rationale to him. Or to anyone.

Nodding her succinct acknowledgments to Vega, she stopped in front of Haraldur. “I would like to speak with you. In private. And you,” she turned to Sigrid, who hadn’t ventured far. “This involves you, too. It won’t take long. Just a few minutes.”

Understandably, both Haraldur and Sigrid shared looks of concern and hesitation. “Whatever it is you need to say, you can tell us right here, in front of our friends and loved ones.”

“I’d rather I didn’t,” she droned, and pointed to the flaps that led outside. “You’re free to tell whoever you’d like after the fact, but I’m giving you the opportunity of discretion. You deserve as much.”

Still hesitant, Haraldur nodded, a tentative agreement, and Sigrid followed suit. “I won’t be long,” he promised Vega as the summoned duo relocated outside, adhering to Tivia’s nebulous instruction. They gathered in the same patch of wood where Alster and Elespeth consoled Vega several hours earlier. Tivia’s hand sparked with yellow etherea, casting a noninvasive light over the faces of her uncomfortable company.

“You must think I deliberately choose the worst possible times to deliver unfortunate or shocking news. In truth, I take great pains to calculate the best possible times, factoring in the position of the stars and the transits of the planets. The windows are small and I don’t always get it perfect, but I do try. With that preamble out of the way, I’ll get straight to the point.”

She angled her hand, and the etherea reflected in her eye like the sun fighting to break free from its imprisonment of gray, stormy clouds. “I was wrong before. The two of you aren’t cousins.”

Haraldur blinked, looking like he took a wind-knocking blow to the chest. “So does that mean…we bear no relation to each other? And this whole time we’ve been fooling ourselves into thinking we were anything more?”

“No, I didn’t say that,” Tivia shook her head. “Please let me finish. You’re not cousins; that much has been made clear to me. You’re more than that. The two of you…are brother and sister. Half-siblings, to be specific. Through your father,” she eyed Haraldur, “and your mother,” the roving eye landed on Sigrid. “I apologize for the mix-up. I didn’t mean any confusion or distress. Only clarity. This time, I’m sure of what I’ve seen.”

“And how…how do you know, how can you be so sure of our—our relations?” Haraldur stumbled, his composure like cracks forming in ice.

Tivia quirked a brow at him. “I don’t need to spell it out. My star seer abilities improve whenever I make a special connection to an individual or group of individuals. This can be by blood, an emotional bond…or a physical bond.” Haraldur suddenly looked away, his neck reddening. “And since I have a better grasp of my magic, the details came easier to me. I saw glimpses of the past. Of your shared history. If you care to know, I’ll tell you of the affair between a grief-stricken man who just lost his wife, and the married woman who aimed to comfort him…beneath the sheets. A tryst that never should have been. A tryst,” again, her all-seeing eye fell on Sigrid, “that conceived you."

Bronwyn had been right all along; damn, she should have listened to her. The moment Haraldur’s eyes settled on Sigrid and her faoladh companion, it was clear as day that he bore no animosity or even disappointment in their late arrival to his children’s first birthday celebration. Vega was visibly upset; perhaps he could only handle and process one negative emotion at a time. The blonde warrior felt the tension drain out of her shoulders upon the realization that she wouldn’t have to sputter any further apologies and beg for her cousin’s forgiveness.

“So… that’s what Hadwin meant when he talked about having a gift for you, afterall.” How very like Bronwyn’s brother to spring the surprise at the last minute. Lucky for him, Haraldur and Vega had accepted it. Say what you want about Hadwin, he did have an uncanny way with children. He could always get a smile out of them. “If he’s been with this all this time, I imagine he’s probably getting exhausted. Maybe now’s a good time to relieve him of his duties.”

Vega, in her teary-eyed fit of sadness, hardly seemed to take note of Sigrid or Bronwyn when they arrived. Sigrid knew better than to take offense; on the contrary, she only felt concern for Haraldur’s wife. Bronwyn had reassured her that it had something to do with Eyraille, and not their tardiness. Exile, she’d said. Their entire family, exiled from Eyraille… by Vega’s own brother. Did she only recently come into this devastating information, or had she been sitting on it for some time? Had she let it fester and finally couldn’t carry it alone anymore? Vega’s fiery disposition had put her at odds with a lot of people, and in some ways, continued to do so; for that reason, Sigrid’s relationship to her had always felt tenuous, at best. But to be exiled by her own brother… The former Dawn Warrior had nothing but deep sympathy for Eyraille’s (now former?) princess. No one deserved to lose their home in such a way, or in any way.

“Haraldur… I know there is likely nothing I can do or say to make things better for you or for Vega,” she offered softly, reaching out to touch Haraldur’s shoulder. “To be honest, I don’t really know the details of what’s going on… But, I hope you know, I’m here for both of you. For all of you. You and Vega and Klara and Kynnet… even if I don’t have that special touch with children that Hadwin so obviously has.”

Sigrid nodded, indicating her case in point as they stepped into the tent, to find the two typically rambunctious babies were fast asleep on Bronywyn’s brother. He had not only kept them entertained, but he’d completely worn them out! “Well, I guess I missed my chance to wish them happy birthday while they were awake.” The blonde sighed, though felt (and did her best to hide) a guilty sense of relief that she didn’t have to put up with either of the loud, fussy babies while they were awake. However, that didn’t let her off the hook. Before she had a chance to protest, or comment that they shouldn’t risk waking either of the twins up because it would only result in a pair of very cranky children, Haraldur hoisted Klara into her arms. Sigrid froze at first, very gently adjusting the sleepy baby in her arms, afraid that the blessed spell of sleep into which Hadwin had lured the babies would be broken. Auntie Sigrid… Whether she wanted it or not, she was already relevant in these children’s lives. Perhaps it would behoove her to be more of a presence to them. So that Klara would grow up recognizing her ‘Auntie Sigrid’, instead of wondering who was this blonde stranger who happened to show her face at unpredictable moments.

“Well, it looks like they won’t be awake to open any of their gifts, unfortunately.” Sigrid pointed out, turning her attention to the table that was pile--piled--with various and sundry packages. She couldn’t recall ever seeing so many gifts for anyone’s birthday, child or adult alike. Even for two children, the first word that came to mind seeing all of these worldly items intended for two one-year-olds was ‘excessive’. Bronwyn really had made a good point: what the hell were babies going to do with all of that, when they found more joy in sucking on their fingers or putting flowers in their mouths? Then again… these gifts really weren’t for the babies. They were for the two adults that had birthed them. And now, at a time when they needed it the most, it was to make the parents feel seen and appreciated. To let them know that it took a village to raise a child, and they weren’t raising them alone.

Vega entered the tent with Alster and Elespeth, and her eyes, puffy from crying, softened to see Klara in Sigrid’s arms. “Looks like it’s time for a couple of children to say hello to their beds.” She declared, and excused herself briefly to send for the twin’s nanny. When the two sleepy children were safely carted back to the palace and their beds, it was high time the Sorde couple opened the generous gifts from their friends and close allies. Word quickly spread of this outside the tent, and those lingering in the outskirts piled inside to be there for the couple as they opened the beyond generous mountain of presents on their childrens’ behalf. 

From Alster and Elespeth, Vega unwrapped a beautifully illustrated book of fairytales, and Haraldur, a small, protective pendant for young Kynnet. Having himself worn a pendant for the better part of his life, Haraldur seemed more than touched by the gesture, but the book also held a special place in their hearts. “I read to the children every day,” Vega said, running her fingers over the embossed cover. “But so few of the stories have pictures. They’re going to love this… thank you both.”

“The fairytales are a rare collection of fables from all over the continent: Atvany, Stella D’Mare… Eyraille.” Elespeth explained softly. “A perfect piece of the world from every corner for the twins.”

Nia joined Ari and the other Canaverises just in time for the Sordes to unwrap the gorgeous music box. Something that was definitely more of a keepsake than a toy, given the ornate jewels and gemstones. “Are those sapphires… real?” She whispered to Ari, who confirmed they were. In an even lower tone, she asked, “Is this… customary? Sapphires for one-year-olds? I mean, they can’t exactly appreciate it…” I wonder if the Canaverises don’t frequent birthday parties for babies… But, it didn’t matter the occasion, or the person, or the age: the proud earth mages would never spare any expense for an event where giving gifts was expected. At the very least, the parents seemed to appreciate it.

Vega turned the knob at the bottom, and the tent filled with a sweet, crystalline lullaby. Well… perhaps Nia had been wrong. This was slightly more appropriate for babies than she’d initially thought. “This may well help the children to sleep when we don’t have Hadwin to wear them out.” The redhead woman smiled, first at her husband and then at the Canaverises. “Thank you: to all of your family. I realize we’re not as well acquainted as we perhaps should be. But this is our home, at this point in time, as it is yours. I hope, in the future, that we can become more familiar.”

Bronwyn’s gift of two hand-darned pairs of little socks was also well received, particularly by Haraldur. The twins had enough fancy, delicate clothes for special events, but these simple socks would hold up to withstand their growing little feet with their study wool. Chara’s gift was perhaps the most appropriate for the two babies, with soft, comforting stuffed animals to keep them company while they slept. Finally, it was time for them to open Sigrid’s gift, and while she knew Tivia’s tampering had likely been for the better (as far as she could assume, at least), she had no idea what Haraldur would find, opening that package. As it turned out, the clothes were exactly as she remembered them, but instead of the Eyraillian silver and blue, they were cream and purple: the colours most associated with Eyraille.

And Haraldur loved them. That was all that mattered. “I know they’re going to outgrow them. They won’t be of any use to you or the twins next year. But… I’ve never bought gifts for children before. My mind blanked. On the bright side,” she nodded at the tiny, darned cream-coloured socks that Bronwyn had crafted for the twins, it matches their socks. Believe it or not, we didn’t even plan that.”

What mattered was that the parents were satisfied, and while part of this occasion had been temporarily interrupted with Vega’s barely-containable despair that had forced its way out despite that she’d tried so hard to keep it together for their children, it seemed to end on a positive note. Just as everyone said their farewells, the sun touching down on the horizon in the west, who would appear at the very last moment but Tivia Rigas. Her arrival earned her quite a few curious looks, particularly from Alster and Elespeth, but the star seer stopped to talk to no one. She had an agenda, had something to say, and her task would not be interrupted.

Vega, for one, did not seem particularly impressed. To her credit, she was at least civil, and let Haraldur speak first before mirroring his sentiment, maintaining her composure and poise as a princess and a knight--even if she was no longer either of those things. “We intended this occasion for us and our children, and our family and friends, Tivia. With all due respect to the importance of the messages you impart, your timing is a bit questionable, under the circumstances.”

“I’m in agreement with both Haraldur and Vega.” Sigrid piped up, mostly in hopes of appeasing Vega’s preferences. Now was not the time to find oneself anywhere out of the Sorde woman’s good graces. “We are happy to hear what you have to say, Tivia. If it is so important… shouldn’t everyone hear it?”

Tivia, of course, begged to differ, and Vega and Haraldur didn’t have much fight left in them after confiding in their friends earlier that afternoon. The former Skyknight sighed and began to gather all of the children’s gifts. “Say what you must. I’m growing accustomed to how little control I have over what happens in my life.”

Feeling bad for Vega, but deciding all the same to follow Haraldur’s lead, Sigrid gave her cousin’s wife a supportive pat on the shoulder before following the star seer out of the tent. “So, what is it that you have to tell us that you couldn’t say in front of Vega?” The blonde warrior asked. “Respectfully, Tivia… she hasn’t had the easiest time, of late. You already know this. What is so confidential that you saw fit to exclude her?”

I was wrong before. The two of you aren’t cousins.

Well… they couldn’t fault her for not getting straight to the point. “...we’re not cousins. You were wrong.” Sigrid parroted back to the star seer. She felt… nothing, really. Nothing at all. “What… what are we supposed to do with that information? What is it that you’re implying?”

If you could count on Tivia for anything, it was that she was not one to hold back. She had no problem admitting she had been wrong; and had no problem declaring, rather bluntly, that they were brother and sister… insofar as they happened to share a father.

“...what do you mean, a tryst?” Sigrid all but hissed the word. Suddenly, she felt very cold. “My mother… she was loyal to my father. She loved him. All I remember of them is how much they loved each other. Are you trying to tell me that the man who risks his life to save mine, who gave me away to give me a chance at life, wasn’t my father at all? That he was just my uncle? Who’s to say you’re not wrong again, Tivia? What… what did you even think to accomplish by saying this much?”

Why was she so bothered by this revelation? Learning she and Haraldur were related… That was something that had brought her comfort. To know not all of her family was long gone. But Sigrid remembered her father--or, the man she’d thought was her father. She remembered how he’d play with her, wouldn’t scold her for getting messy in the mud, wouldn’t fight her to wear a dress like other little girls. She remembered how he’d held her on his lap that night that she’d dropped her off in Braightdath, his arm so tight around her shoulders, because he knew it was probably the last time he would ever hold her. She remembered his words, the tone of his voice, and the sad look in his eyes so well as he’d taken her into the city central, and said: Be brave, and adapt.

And what of the man who had raised Haraldur? She hardly had any memory of him. Had he ever learned her name, or knew much about her existence? Had her mother ever realized that the child she’d had wasn’t her husband’s? There was so little Sigrid had been certain of, regarding her past. The one thing she’d counted on was what little knew of her family. And now, it turned out that everything from which she had derived comfort as a young child… had all been a lie.

“What else could you be wrong about, Tivia? If you only see what the stars show you in snippets, whose to say you’re not wrong about us again? Or about what happened to Teselin? How can we take what you say for fact if those ‘facts’ have been inaccurate in the past? …I’m sorry.” Sigrid scrubbed her hands down her face, feeling simultaneously too hot and too cold. “I need to go.”

Without another word, the former Dawn Warrior hurried away from the copse of trees and back towards the tent, where Bronwyn--bless her--appeared to have been waiting. “Can we just go? Now? Please.” She shook her head, her heart racing. My brother… all this time, Haraldur has been my brother? And my father… was never my father. Sigrid had spent most of her life feeling displaced. Now, just when she’d thought she had a chance of figuring her life out and where she best fit… she just felt lost. 

Tivia knew better than to be affected by everyone’s poor reactions to her news. If she allowed the collective outrage, upset, and confusion to seep into her skin, there would be nothing left of her than a black husk, too dead for even the Night Garden to revive. Barring Isidor and his visceral, whirlwind departure from Galeyn, Tivia learned to compartmentalize the parts of her that cared from the parts that craved self-preservation, lest she drive herself to madness like her predecessors. Not one documented case of a star seer survived the harsh transition and impossible-to-overcome trials.

She intended to be the first.

It came with consequences, mostly impacting her interpersonal relationships, but why did they matter when just a taste of her prescient knowledge shattered any bit of goodwill she’d spent a lifetime to accrue? Forget saving lives or reversing catastrophic damage. If your primary role dispensed harmful truths from nebulous sources, you were not only labeled as untrustworthy, but as unwanted. Fine by her; she would leave Galeyn and spread her unwanted presence all over the continent until even the trees combusted to escape her company. And it wasn’t like she couldn’t attract others to her side, for the times when desperation crept in and loneliness chilled her bed. Pleasures of the flesh bought her silence, but silence meant they would never know her beyond a half-pretty face and a good fuck. To know her was to discard her.

“What do I hope to accomplish? The truth. Integrity. Honesty.” She droned, unswayed by Sigrid’s predictable—even by regular, non-precognitive standards—reply. “I was a fledgling star-seer at the time. I revealed nonsubstantive information based on a glimpse. A shooting star in the night so fleeting it was gone in a blink. What if I said nothing to you, at the time? Would you care about each other as you do now, if you weren’t curious about a potential relation? Whatever you think I should or shouldn’t be doing, it is my responsibility to deliver updated and accurate knowledge. But if you’d like to discredit me based on one mistake, need I remind you that I was ultimately correct in my assessment. You and Haraldur are related. Where I erred was in the details. Now I have the details. You’re completely free to call me a hack and not believe a word I say. You wouldn’t be the first person to do so—or the last.”

Contrary to Sigrid’s bluster, Haraldur fell quiet. While not unusual for the taciturn soldier, his reticence had a depth that could be felt like a subterranean updraft, damp and chilly and wayward. One boot pressed into the ground as if in reminder of terra firma; reality over dream. After Sigrid left in a huff, he finally broke his silence, but barely. Spoken so softly Tivia had to rely on her lip-reading skills to catch, he said, “Honesty is not about picking and choosing what you tell us. The stars must show you a lot, and you hide plenty. So what is your actual reason?”

“Oh, so you think I have an ulterior motive,” Tivia mused. “I’ll say this much, Haraldur. I’m not doing this out of malice. I truly wish you and your family well. Your entire family,” she glanced meaningfully in the direction where Sigrid ran. “The only enemy here is time.”  

“She was better off never knowing!” he roared, a sudden, pained vibration emerging from the pit of his stomach. Everything he had suppressed, had withstood over the last few weeks, awakened a feral creature inside of him—and Tivia, the newest perpetrator of his next spate of wrongs, happened to be in his line of sight. “It’s hard enough getting her to reconcile what’s happened in her life so far. Now I have Vega and Sigrid upset, and you’re here to tell me your ‘cosmic timing’ made now the best possible moment to throw this in our faces?”

Tivia gazed overhead, at the smattering of stars becoming visible as the darkness descended. “Makes you wonder about the worst possible moment.”

“Shut up with your platitudes, will you?” Haraldur ground his teeth, his fingers flexing, as if to grip an imaginary sword to vanquish his opponent. “Go. Just go to Eyraille already. Torture Vega’s brother for all I care. The two of you deserve each other. Leave us alone, can you do that? Leave us the hell alone.”

Instead of making sure she did precisely that, Haraldur turned and stomped off like a bull in search of a target to gore with his horns. Now alone in the emerging night, Tivia slumped against the tree and pulled out a flask from the lining of her overcoat.

“It never gets any easier,” she muttered to the skies as she popped the cap off her flask and drank the gut-rotting swill, eye tearing from the astringent odor.

Survive. Survive. Survive, she chanted in her head as she took the bare, peeling ring finger of her left hand and ripped the skin off until the world blurred and her blood-spotted hands stopped shaking.

Despite Tivia’s explicit instructions, Bronwyn nearly joined Sigrid and Haraldur outside, not out of rebellion or disregard for privacy, but because she’d grown accustomed to trailing Sigrid like her eager shadow. She would have proceeded automatically if not for a hand that grabbed her arm and anchored her in place.

“Much as I’d love to say ‘Fuck it’ and stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, spying’s not really your thing, Bron.” Hadwin tilted his head, feigning curiosity. Smug in his knowledge, his yellow eyes smiled like twin crescents. “So what’s got you so smitten with Siggy that you’re practically inseparable, huh?”

“You tell me since you seem to have it all figured out.” Hissing, she pressed a palm to her forehead, which contracted with waves of pain, intensifying the further Sigrid traveled from the tent. “I don’t know why, but I can’t be around anyone else but her or I suffer these…splitting headaches. Constantly. If you have an answer for me that’s more substantial than snarky banter, I’d be much obliged, Hadwin.”

“I’d say it’s a feature of your Sight. Sort of like how mine fucked me up with headaches after I took in some fears that weren’t my own.” Rowen’s fears, but it was an unnecessary detail that didn’t bear repeating. “You’re unintentionally taking in something that isn’t yours, too. That’s my guess.”

“But if that’s true, what am I ‘taking’ from Sigrid? And how do I give it back?”

Hadwin’s brow crinkled, hesitating in his reply. “I don’t think it’s something you can return, Bron.”

“What—what does that mean?!” she sputtered, staring at Hadwin incredulously. “You were able to do it, so why can’t I? Because of how my Sight works? It’s more receptive so I’m supposed to, what? Soak in everyone’s virtue until it kills me with headaches?”

If Hadwin had an answer, he didn’t get to share it before Sigrid swept back into the tent, filling Bronwyn’s head with immediate physical relief—at the expense of her concern. The blonde warrior looked like she’d outrun a gaggle of ghosts from her past, and they were still on the chase, nipping at her heels. “Sigrid, are you—? Yes, of course we can go. Come on.” Taking Sigrid by the shoulder, Bronwyn led her out of the tent, so distracted by the other woman’s distress that she didn’t notice Hadwin slipping out, alone, taking full advantage of the eyes falling squarely on Tivia Rigas’s latest victim.

Clear of the dying congregation on the hill, Bronwyn followed Sigrid to wherever she wished to go. Nowhere in particular, it seemed, except away from friends, family, society in general. She should have been honored for Sigrid not to count her as ‘other people’ to invite along, but primarily, she was worried for her friend.

“You don’t have to say anything, and we can walk here in silence. Conversely, I’m all ears if you want to talk about…whatever it is she said. Or we could go anywhere, you and I. Just…get lost somewhere a while. In any case,” she sighed, suddenly self-conscious about her needless babbling, “it doesn’t matter what you want or don’t want to do; I’m with you.”

How long had it been since Hadwin carved a moment for himself?

Time lost its meaning. There was only ‘Before’ and ‘After.’ He lived in the ‘After.’ The aftermath after Teselin. After Rowen. After matter stopped mattering and he drifted from one place to another like ashes on the wind, becoming less the more he traveled. The more he dispersed. ‘How long’ was a rhetorical statement, not a measurement determining the exact length of days, weeks, months since ‘Before.’ It had been a while, that was all he needed to know, and his crawl toward freedom sure as hell wouldn’t last. Someone at the party would discover he’d gone missing and organize a search to locate his barmy arse before he actually succeeded in burning down all of Galeyn.

Speaking of fires…

A pungent aroma wafted from the woods and grazed his nostrils. Robust and heady, the pipesmoke hearkened him to the before days when he was allowed liberal puffs of his trusty pipe, now confiscated, along with his tinderbox and the vast strands of herbs he collected and cultivated from the Night Garden and beyond. Salivating, he followed the smoke trail deeper into the Garden to a small clearing by the stream. The owner of the delectable pipe turned at his loud, galumphing arrival, seeming none too surprised at the company. For his part, Hadwin reacted the same, albeit with a dash of curiosity and amusement.

“Tivia Rigas. I never pegged you for a smoker! Or an alcoholic,” he wrinkled his nose, the bilious liquid bleeding from her pores like skunk musk.“Yikes, that shit’s potent. Care if I bum a puff or two off you?”

Doused in darkness, Tivia wouldn’t have understood Hadwin without her face-illuminating light to help read his lips, but he gestured enough at the pipe for her to glean his meaning. At first, she hesitated, but one mute nod later and she passed the smoldering receptacle over to its hungry recipient.

“Much obliged.” He popped the pipe into his mouth and practically sucked the stem of its aromatic heat, feeling instant relief, like saying hello to an old friend after years on the lam. “So I take it your little meeting with Siggy and her brother went sour? Yeah, I caught glimpses of it in her eyes when she came barreling into the tent just before.” By now, Tivia had shined her pale yellow etherea light on him and watched the flapping of his mouth movements carefully. “Siggy is the fucking worst at receiving piss-poor news with grace. Haraldur is only marginally better. It’s a tough gig, though. Telling folks what they don’t want to hear. You either gotta embrace being a callous sack of shit or self-medicate a lot. And it looks like you’ve chosen the latter. I ain’t judging, though.” He took another suctioning puff of the pipe. “I do it cuz I love messing with people. You do it out of a misplaced sense of duty. If it sucks so much, brings you no joy, fulfillment, or recognition, don’t do it. Unless,” his mouth bloomed into a grin, “you secretly derive some sadistic glee in kicking people when they’re down. I can speak to that. I’ve been your punching bag ever since I fucked your mam, which…fair. I ain’t complaining. But you certainly got the last laugh after dropping the ball about Teselin. Fucked me clean over. Well met. I concede.” He handed the pipe back to her. “Let’s call it even.”

Tivia received the smoking implement, but let the smoke putter out without taking any further puffs. She looked beyond Hadwin, into the distance, as if contemplating what to say next, if anything at all. “I really did fuck with you. You’re not wrong,” she said, settling on her words in that deliberate, overenunciated way to compensate for her lack of hearing. “In the woods the night Teselin went missing, I set her on the best path to disappear. I encouraged her, told her this was what she was meant to do. You were on her trail, so I sent illusions to impede your progress and deliberately mess with your head so you would be too addled to give chase and stop her. It wasn’t difficult. You didn’t have far to fall. I,” she shook her head as if in disbelief to admit as much, “might have pushed you too far. If I had done things differently, maybe you wouldn’t be where you are right now.”

“…Nevermind, then. We’re not even. Not in the damn slightest.” He stalked closer to Tivia, buzzing with the hard-to-ignore impulse to wring her smug neck. “So you threw Tes under so you could get your desired outcome. Got what you wanted, then? And what, exactly, did you gain? Because to me it looks like Jack shit.”

“Well, for starters, Nia. Your friend,” she bit back, her surly expression overtaking the distant fugue over her one good eye. “She wouldn’t have made it without Teselin. Believe me, if I wanted the outcome I desired, I wouldn’t have assisted her at all, or I’d have stopped her, knowing how it would set Isidor for…how it…” she trailed off, an angry flush intermingling with the alcoholic flush over her cheeks. 

“Ah, the truth comes out at last,” Hadwin gurgled with laughter. “So you did all this knowing you’d lose everything you care about. Deliberately folding your cards even when you could’ve cheated your way to a winning hand. You’re a fucking tragedy, you know that? And maybe,” he tsked favorably, “you’re more like me than I give you credit for. Because…I would’ve encouraged Tes to take the plunge, too, and hated myself every damn day for it. For how it all went to shit. Probably would’ve been worse off than I am now. I guess I have you to thank, then, taking on the role of scapegoat. Playing messenger to folks too broken to react without losing their goddamn minds and taking it out on you.”

“So what will you do, Hadwin?” Tivia pressed the defunct pipe into her mouth, chewing lightly on the stem. “Are you looking to take it out on me, too?” She approached him, her tone suggestive. Interested. “You know, I’ve been dying to know what my mother saw in you.”

“Well…I wasn’t expecting this when I traipsed into the woods looking for a fix,” he chuckled, but otherwise made no move forward. “You sure you could keep up? You can barely stand on your feet without swaying.”

“And you’re out of your ‘goddamn mind,’ as you say. Name a better pair to get fucked together.” She circled him, intoxicated by desire for a distraction who appeared just as ill-adjusted for the world as she. “You’re not the only one in Galeyn with a way around the carnal arts. I could take you to places you never thought existed. You’ll be seeing stars for days.” She laid a hand on his chest and leaned in, her hot breath tickling his nose. “Besides, it’s you who will have trouble keeping pace. You’re rusty…but I’m not.”

Damn, he thought, helpless to resist how smooth she sounded. That was hot. “…Fuck it.” Conceding defeat, he looped his arms around her waist. “By all means, lead the way to my future.” And he locked lips with the star seer.

When Isidor left Galeyn that day, he did not leave with much to his name. To take everything he had brought from Nairit would require a caravan, the likes of which he had arrived in, and he wasn’t of the mind or mood to request one. The Master Alchemist packed what few essentials from his workshop that he felt he needed, loaded them into saddle bags, and took only a single nightsteed early that evening. He didn’t bother to ask; Galeyn wouldn’t collapse in the absence of a single nightsteed, and he was well aware that if he’d requested permission, he knew he would encounter requests and pleas to stay. But Isidor Kristeva didn’t have the time or patience anymore to hear the pleas of friends and comrades. Something… broke in him, the moment Tivia Rigas declared that his younger sister was scattered across the cosmos, and that there was nothing to be done to bring her back. Just like something else had broken in him all those years ago, driving him to murder Zenech to reclaim control over his life.

Well, once again, with a horse, the clothes on his back, a handful of essentials and a poorly-splinted broken wrist, Isidor was taking control of his life once again, and defying Tivia’s advice to leave well enough alone. He’d made a promise to Teselin; and he refused to believe that it was too late to come through. Nothing was impossible to him--not anymore. He had just assisted in the removal of a man’s curse. He’d restored a woman’s heart and saved her life. No one could tell him he couldn’t put the tiny, invisible pieces of his innocent little sister back together, and give her the life he knew she deserved.

With determination, and a wrist that he knew was slowly healing the wrong way, Isidor rode until he reached Nairit; until he reached the tower he’d once wondered if he would ever see again. But his home-coming wasn’t what he’d thought it would be. The moment he set foot in his tower, a place that had once been his prison, and then his safe haven, everything felt incredibly… foreign. Wrong. It wasn’t just the dust that had collected on the stairs, the shelves, every available surface. It wasn’t the solarium, with its long-dead, shriveled flora to which he’d used to tend loyally. It wasn’t the books missing from his shelves, or anything that he had left behind in Galeyn. Simply, this tower now felt too… small. It wasn’t enough. There wasn’t enough in it for him to be successful, because Teselin’s case was unique, and not one that any Master Alchemist had ever attempted to remedy. He wouldn’t find the solution in any books, and he wouldn’t find what he needed anywhere within Nairit’s forest. If he wanted to have a ghost of a chance to ever see Teselin again, he needed to go somewhere ripe with various and sundry resources, where he could undergo the inevitable trial and error as he slowly discovered what it would take to reverse what Teselin had done to herself. Teselin, in and of herself, had been the very essence of magic: he would need access to infinite magic sources, none of which were present in his tower, or anywhere to be found in Nairit.

However, were he to resume traveling northwest… he may well find everything he needed.

“Teselin.” Isidor leaned out one of the windows of the top floor of his tower, and whispered into the night wind. He was weary, beyond spent, but his determination had not budged. Over the past couple of weeks, he could have sworn he’d felt the presence of his younger sister on the breeze. Like she was reaching out to him. He wanted so badly to be able to reach back. “I’m going to bring you back. And I’m going to find a way to give you the life you’ve always wanted. I will not let you down, again; you have my absolute word.”

Even if that meant turning to West Mollengard, and striking a deal with the continent’s most notorious devils, to secure what he needed.

While the same certainly couldn’t be said for many, a certain other Master Alchemist had been thriving in West Mollengard, and provided with whatever she wanted at any given time. Over the past decade and some years, Celene had developed a positive working relationship with the officials at West Mollengard that had got her exactly what she’d wanted: the materials to undergo her projects, and a place to do it all. It wasn’t difficult, especially considering how promising the results of her work were, and how easy it was to convince them that they would one day benefit from her invaluable projects. The prospects of having multiple functioning Master Alchemists at Mollengard’s beck and call was incredibly attractive, and considering how close she was becoming to developing them without their innate fragility or worrying short life spans, she felt she was easily proving her worth in their time and resources.

However, Celene’s importance was contingent on a single thing: that she, as it stood, was currently the only reliable Master Alchemist that Mollengard had on their hands. Her pale-haired, pale-eyed creations were still learning their limits, and unfortunately, some of those limits led them to a worryingly quick demise; none were anywhere near a threat to her authority, and let it be known, very few Master Alchemists in general could ever measure up to her calibre. Why, then, would the formidable and unparalleled Celene Ardane ever feel the need to worry for her standing when practically every Master Alchemist in Ilandria was dead, and so was Zenech, who’d inhabited that tower in Nairit?

Imagine her surprise then, one afternoon when her new lackey of several months returned with far less of a certain material than he should have, that her skills were no longer exclusively unique to Mollengard. “Did you not understand my instructions? That is not nearly enough clear quartz,” Celene frowned as she inspected the crate that the man named ‘Cas’ had placed on the ground. “And the quality… there are too many imperfections. It’s hardly worth my time to purify these to transparency. This is, dare I say… rather disappointing, I’m afraid.”

While Cas humbly apologized for his subpar job, he did explain that he said the very same to the Mollengardian official in charge of the quartz mine. He said he’s explained that the important miss Celene would not accept these as passable for her work, but that he was told they were all they had that day. A shipment of crystalline-clear quartz was already on its way to someone else, and if Celene wanted rock of that calibre, and at that quantity, she would have to wait another couple of days.

Predictably… Celene did not take this well. At all. “...excuse me.” The Ardane woman took a step back and composed herself with a single breath. This man had let her down, yes, but he was merely the messenger, and if what he said was true, then she could not hold him at fault. “You were told… that I would have to wait? For quality quartz? They expanded that mine for me. It was manned by no more than five people when I arrived. What need does Mollengard suddenly have for large quantities of common, clear quartz? Send for a carriage at once.” When the daylight caught Celene’s eyes, they seemed to flicker dangerously. “We are going to have a conversation with the official who refused you--and refused me--what I need.”

Within the next thirty minutes, Celene and Cas were on their way back to the quartz mine to settle this dilemma as to why, for the first time in over a decade, the Master Alchemist from Ilandria was refused a simple request. Certainly, she could have gone alone and spared Cas another bumpy ride, but in the unlikely (albeit possible) event that he was lying, this would reveal all.

On the bright side, it turned out that she needn’t fear Cas’s dishonesty; not in this case, at least. When the carriage pulled up to the official that Cas pointed out as the one to whom he’d spoken, Celene indeed received the same answer. “Like I already told your lackey, the good stuff was all packed up this morning and shipped off. You don’t like the selection you got? Then you can wait.”

“WIth all due respect, sir, I was the reason the manpower for this mine was expanded at all.” Celene pursed her lips, and despite her slight frame and lacking height compared to the Mollengardian official, looked rather terrifying. It wasn’t in her appearance, but rather, in her presence. “Who else could possibly require that amount of pristine quartz? Isn’t your focus nullium? That’s in the other direction.”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, I don’t have all the answers.” Unfazed by the small, scary woman, the Mollengardian official shrugged. “To my knowledge, the last shipment was intended for a Master Alchemist. Can’t say why that wasn’t you.”

But Celene was not having such an excuse. In a matter of moments, she’d gone from disappointed to barely containing her exasperation. “Then it sounds as though you need to reconsider the employment of whoever took my shipment. Clearly they have no idea what they’re doing. I’m the only Master Alchemist easily within a thousand miles, if not more.”

“Not anymore! What, you don’t know?” Another, older official appeared to have overheard their conversation, and saw fit to butt in. “As of last week, we’ve got not one, but two experienced Master Alchemists on our hands. A guy from Nairit was in negotiations about six days ago. He’s crafting Alchemist stones--which, correct me if I’m wrong, benefits you, as well. So maybe waiting for your precious quartz isn’t such a bad thing.”

“...from Nairit.” Celene went still, silent. Apparently, that meant something to her. “Well. Why didn’t you say as much? Did it not occur to you how valuable collaboration between two Master Alchemists can be? Tell me where he resides. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen one of my own.”

“West of your oh-so-humble abode, Miss Ardane. Though I should warn you, he doesn’t appear to be one for company.”

“None of us are. Gooday to you, now.” With a brief gesture of her hand, Celene hastened Cas back to the carriage. “West of my fortress, please.” She instructed the driver at the front, before settling onto the cushioned seat. Contrary to what she’d said to the officials, however, Celene did not appear all too eager to see ‘one of her own’. Instead, she looked… visibly bothered. Even a little pale, if that was at all possible, with her alabaster complexion. “Zenech’s boy.” She breathed, regardless of whether that name meant anything at all to Cas. “What are the chances…”

“You really think that ‘truth’ and ‘honesty’ are synonymous with ‘integrity’? Even if that means hurting someone? I don’t buy that, Rigas. I don’t believe for a moment you’re that naive.” Sigrid’s heart had leapt into her throat at that point. She could hardly swallow, and colour had drained from the entirety of her face, save for her cheeks, which were flushed a bright red. “Truth can be a weapon if used the right way. It’s a weapon when it doesn’t benefit anyone--and that’s exactly how you use your truth, Tivia Rigas. Your truth is your weapon, because it's the only weapon you have, isn't it? It's your only means of defense. No one will hurt you if you destroy them with the truth, first." The former Dawn warrior clenched her hands into fists. Later, she might regret these words, but for now... If Tivia had no remorse delivering her 'truth' for the sake of 'integrity', then neither did she. "Even if it isn’t your intention to do harm, that is precisely what your truths do. And… you don’t even seem to care who it hurts. That’s the worst of all. I don’t blame Isidor Kristeva for leaving. Only a moron would sit back and continue to put up with your ‘truths’.”

The blonde warrior had said her part, knowing well she had likely made an enemy, but she didn’t care. It didn’t seem to matter what she did or didn’t do, anymore… There was nothing good in store for her. Her past was, evidently, a lie, and her future… a void. Uncertain. Nowhere to belong, no one to belong to… 

But, at least, she wasn’t alone in that. “Now, Bronwyn. I… I need to go now.” Fortunately, Sigrid didn’t have to convince the faoladh woman, and Bronwyn did not ask any questions. Without prying or judgement, she led the distressed warrior away from the tent, and the dwindling gathering of people. Sigrid felt bad for Vega, and for Haraldur. This was supposed to have been about their children; the least she could do is say goodbye… except, she couldn’t. Because she couldn’t guarantee that she was capable of maintaining her composure.

“I don’t know what’s true anymore. Just when I thought I had everything figured out, it turns out I don’t.” At first, she had no intention to unload on Bronwyn. Her family issues were her business alone, but she realized too soon that she needed to talk to someone, or those feelings of helplessness and betrayal (on Tivia’s part; even if she had done nothing to actually betray her) would stay with her, and only encourage her towards self-destructive behaviour. After everything she’d done to try and feel like a whole person again… she couldn’t risk that.

“Haraldur isn’t my cousin. He’s my brother.” She blurted, when they were a safe distance away. “Apparently, we share a father, and neither of us every new. And that shouldn’t matter, at this point. It shouldn’t change anything, considering we had a close relationship anyway, but… but I wish I had never learned this. Because if it’s true, then it means the only good thing about my past--the man who I’d thought had been my father… is all a lie. My past was a lie. So what else about me is a lie? I don’t know my future. And I can’t even rely on my past  as a point of reference, so…” The former Dawn warrior scrubbed a hand down her tear-streaked face. “It makes me wonder, what does the present even matter, anymore. Gods, I’m sorry, Bronwyn.” She turned to the faoladh woman with a look of apology and remorse. “You don’t need this right now, not when you’re fighting your own demons. I thought I could be a point of stability for you… but I don’t know that I can promise that, anymore.”

With the alternative being something much darker, Tivia had to act like Sigrid and Haraldur’s words didn’t faze her. Much as she would love to pretend she had a heart like a hungry tiger, devouring whatever complication crossed her path, she simply had a long way to go before she developed the glib, impervious acumen of someone like Vitali, or even Hadwin for that matter. They didn’t fall apart when faced with harsh opinions denouncing their motivations, because they simply didn’t care about having a stellar reputation. They learned to scrap the concept out the window long ago when it no longer served them.

Tivia, however, was a servant of the stars. Didn’t she have a divine duty to deliver the messages she deemed appropriate to share? In so doing, was she not required to care about how they were received, how they might alter the course of fate if she neglected to consider the timing? How one wrong move could lose influence over her social sphere indefinitely? She feared it was already coming to pass. They would stop listening to her, mark her as an apostate, a spiteful, vengeful, self-serving shrew, for no other reason than that they despised what she had to say.

That makes two of us, she thought bitterly.  

When Sigrid and Haraldur made their volatile exit, both in opposite directions, Tivia tried to hold herself together, but the world unhinged from her tenuous grasp and left her with nothing but its echo rippling beneath her suspended feet—for there was no longer any ground on which to stand. Only she existed; a void, where the barest wisp of a substance would collapse on brushing against her vacuous, all-encompassing vortex. It made sense. She destroyed one world before. Perhaps she was destined to destroy this one, as well. 

She hated relying on the pipe and flask to forcibly anchor her back to earth, and hated even more what she ended up doing next. Truthfully, she would have fucked anyone who came upon her that evening; what dysfunctional providence that it should be Hadwin Kavanagh.

It was what she deserved. Who she deserved. And in quite possibly her most self-destructive move to date, she lay with him on the forest floor, not caring who might hear or stumble upon their deed. Let them come. Let them sneer and judge and call me a ruinous bitch. They wouldn’t be wrong.

But no one came, because no one cared.

“So let me get this straight. In this other world, you married Isidor and took the Canaveris name. I was dead, Tes went off the deep end and became a threat worse than Locque, you were instrumental in bringing her down, and because you did that, it fucked up the world so badly that it basically imploded and Al, who had become a god, got you out of there before the whole thing went caput with you in it?” Leave it to the reality-addled faoladh to accept such a ridiculous premise without trouble. 

“That is the gist of it, yes.”

Hadwin let out a low whistle as he passed the relit pipe back to Tivia. “You need this more than I do.” In the aftermath of their debauched act, they didn’t bother to get dressed, keeping their discarded clothes in a heap on the floor. “This is why you ‘helped’ Tes in our world? Because you believe you owe it to her?”

Tivia nodded. “I wanted to guide her to a brighter future, not one where she ends up walking the same destructive path.” 

“Sure. ‘Brighter,’” his mouth curled. “If she’s not around, she can’t cause trouble, is that right?”

She sighed, taking a long puff of the pipe. “That’s not it, but go on ahead believing something so idiotically simplistic. Did you learn nothing from my history? I destroyed an entire world. I pose more danger than Teselin ever could. This isn’t a nefarious attempt to silence her, but to empower her. To do so, I had to take the proper steps to ensure she would end up on this path. In fact, it’s why I reversed her magic at the masquerade, at great expense to myself. To this world. But Ari would have died if I did nothing. Sylvie, too. Their deaths would have wrecked her such that she never would have recovered.” On a brighter note, she added, “She’ll make it through, Hadwin; you just have to let her. She is where she needs to be right now. That much I truly believe, and I think you do, too.”

There was an uncharacteristic bout of silence from the faoladh as he took in her words. “You’re wrong, you know. About there being nothing we can do to help.” He gazed into the dark, intently staring at something she couldn’t see. “You only said there’s nothing magic can do. But I talk to her every day. Through the wind. All those pieces of her are floating around like dandelion spores. I see them. All I gotta do is reach out and pluck ‘em out of the air, put ‘em somewhere for safe keeping til there’s enough of her to return. I’ll do it for years if I have to. Harvest whatever blows my way until she pops out of a flower, fully formed.”

She was losing him. And that quickly? As if mind-blowing sex with her was as ephemeral as a cloud dispersing after a summer storm. Was she so unmemorable, so fleeting? 

He’s not well. And I contributed to making him worse with all my hard-to-swallow nonsense, no doubt.

“Psh, you didn’t.” When Tivia looked at him with surprise, Hadwin pointed to his temple, lucidity returned. “You’re not the only mind-reader around, you know. Speaking of hard truths, I gotta be the bearer of bad news to Bronwyn about something I’ve kept from her for years. Well…I’ll tell her eventually. You know how it is. It’s time I take responsibility for what I know and shit. What can I say? I guess you inspired me.” Brushing his trousers of their forest detritus, he rolled to his feet and slipped them on, one leg at a time. “You’re better than your mam, by the way. Transported me, indeed. Damn, I’ll never forget that fucking trip.” Before she could stammer in disgust, he winked, threw his jerkin over his bare shoulder, and headed out of the clearing, cackling.

Alone again, she drew her knees against her naked chest, feeling suddenly chilled, vulnerable. Curling into herself, she wept, her fresh tears turning to wrenching sobs.

“Haraldur is your brother?” Bronwyn wasn’t sure how to react. What was safest? She didn’t want to upset or agitate Sigrid by saying the wrong thing when she’d taken the trouble to confide in her. In lieu of speaking, she decided to listen until Sigrid was finished. She laid a firm hand on the distraught warrior’s shoulder, and the proximity alerted her to the salt of tears. Sigrid, who seldom broke down, was crying, and Bronwyn would have suffered a week’s worth of nonstop headaches to remove her pain, take it into herself.

“But…if this is all true, the man who raised you, he’s still your father,” she began tentatively, in fear she’d cause offense. “The one who brought you up, loved and cared for you…he did it, not your biological father. All he did was sire you. He can’t take credit for the person you grew up to become. The love that was given to you, surely that can’t be a lie? And even if your past can’t be relied upon now, it doesn’t negate the present, or the future. You can’t do anything about what happened, but you…you have a brother now, and he’s here, and there’s no doubt he loves you too, as your family did, regardless of blood.” In a bold move, she pressed her forehead against Sigrid’s. “I think the point is to celebrate what you gained, not lament what you lost. Because what’s lost is lost, but not him. Not your brother. He’s within your reach. You should talk to him. It doesn’t have to be now, of course. Right now, use this time for yourself. A time to mourn, to process, to weep and rage and fume at the lie, at the truth, the revelation. It’s fine to do that, too. And like I said, I’m here.” She tilted a shy smile as she pulled away. “I really don’t mind whatever version of you I get. I keep telling you that, Sigrid. Please don’t feel like you have to hide your messier aspects around me. I’m just happy to be here for you. Would you let me return the favor for all the times you stood by me?”

“I don’t have a future either,” she admitted, looking at the soles of her boots in the dark. “I have no prospects. A wolf without a pack. My Sight will turn against me, as it does to all lone faoladh, and I will go the way of my mother. My sister. My brother. Either dead or mad. My headaches are worsening. I don’t know how to stop them. I say this not to alarm you, or take away from what you’re suffering. I only want you to know where I’m coming from. That…I truly cherish the time we spend together. It’s my only reprieve, my greatest happiness, when all else is bleak and uncertain. Could this not be what keeps us grounded in the present? Just…being here? Standing together, as we are?” In another bold move, she brushed a stray tear from Sigrid’s tear-soaked cheek. “Can’t we,” moisture welled beneath her eyes, hot and streaky and unavoidable, “live, for the finite time we have? I want that for us. To just…live. Isn’t that enough?”

“Miss Celene,” Cas said evenly despite the urge to exfoliate her smug face with a sand polisher until she came out with all her orifices smoothed shut like a pond stone, “it bears repeating that I am an earth mage. Not only am I perfectly capable of understanding simple instructions, but ores, minerals, and gemstones are my specialties. You may take up your order with Captain Embri, but I have done my part in securing what is available. Now,” he turned the wrist of his dominant hand inward; the nullium-studded shackle poked out from beneath his sleeve, “I could purify the quartz for you. It would be no trouble for one of my skill-set, and it would save you time and energy instead of rectifying the problem on your own. I merely require the removal of my shackle. An uninhibited flow of magic will solve this mishap in moments, and you could reaffix my shackle when I am done; simple enough.”

If only magic had more sway in Mollengard, perhaps he would not be thrown into the mines, and later, sold off as a slave to an alchemist with the self-importance of the goddamned sun. Alas, Mollengard would rather siphon a mage’s magic and leave them for dead than trust one to contribute to the vast advancements of the conquering nation. Bafflingly, they put more stock in the forbidden alchemical arts than in the arcane, despite the former achieving the same results, often in half the time with a fraction of the cost.

Mollengard seemed to revile earth mages especially, and Cas could not quite place the reason other than their status as rather commonplace among magic-users. Forget his combat prowess, his ease in generating earthquakes, laying down infrastructure, building tunnels, or generating wealth from the ground. Some of his people, like his brother, could even create golems, a much hardier and more intelligent alternative to the pale-white children whose mayfly lives Celene could not maintain for longer than a fortnight. Why, then, were Master Alchemists so desirable and earth mages, disposable? All you need do is unshackle me and I’ll bury this entire gods forsaken nation in minutes.

Perhaps he had his answer, then. Magic was dangerous in its wild unpredictability, resisting the harness and bucking when leashed, whereas alchemy, while also dangerous, thrived from structure and could be regulated, consigned to a workshop far from the prying eyes of society. A quiet, refined, and controllable livelihood, so long as those involved maintained its secrecy.

At any rate, Celene Ardane showed no acknowledgement that she heard his bid for a reprieve from his magic-dampening shackle, too slighted to register anything that didn’t directly affect her. With an inward sigh, he gave her what she wanted; the information to adequately fuel her rage.

“We are at a dearth of resources at the moment, considering this other person requesting the materials is also ordering them in bulk. From what I understand, they have special notarization from West Commander Andrei to partake in your share of the mine. The officer in charge refused to elucidate any further on the identity of this person of interest. At least, not with me, a lowly servant in your employ.”

Cas should have known Celene would drag him to the site of the incident, probably to see if she would catch him in a lie. He might be dishonest by nature, but if it didn’t benefit him to lie, he saw no need to do so. In fact, he was glad not to have minced his words, finding the trip well worth it to watch Celene get so worked up on discovering she was no longer West Mollengard’s most valuable asset. She looked about ready to pop a blood vessel. A second official joined the conversation and dropped the news. Apparently, another Master Alchemist recently joined Mollengard’s ranks. A man from Nairit?

Certainly not Zenech. The miserable old codger had died, last he heard. But his protege? The ragged, rangy boy who Nadira had seen at the tower two decades ago and seemed to form a special attachment?

He is going to save Ari when he is older, I just know it, she told Cas upon her return. We shall keep an eye on him. Isidor Kristeva.

Not if he defected to Mollengard he wouldn't.

He couldn’t be any worse than Celene Ardane, at the very least. And if he truly were Mollengard’s next Golden Boy, perhaps he was in need of an assistant…

Judging by Celene’s tense expression on the carriage ride to the new Master Alchemist’s residence, she was thinking along the same lines. Another Master Alchemist meant competition, and competition meant she was no longer a shoo-in for the vaunted top spot, a spot easy to defend when she had been running unopposed the entire time.

Whatever happened between the two Master Alchemists, Casimiro was eager to watch the drama unfold. Best case scenario, maybe they would kill each other, leaving him free to escape this dead, barren expanse of a place. Worst case scenario, Celene would come crashing back down to earth in a spectacular fashion. Either way, a win.  

Zenech’s boy… It had to be. Master Alchemists were so few and far between, and with both her mother and Zenech long dead (the last Celene had heard, at least), who was even left to train new Master Alchemists? Certainly there must be a handful elsewhere on the continent, but not from the rural forests of Nairit. Those others who continued to exist out of sight of Ilandria’s ever watchful eye wouldn’t dare be so bold as to train neophytes. But of all the places any Master Alchemist would want to be right now… why Mollengard?

Simple: because he has an agenda. Just like I do. And if his plans in any way contradicted or compromised hers… then there would be some problems. As it stood, there already were.

Celene said nothing, sitting in stone-cold silence the entirety of the ride, her eyes sharp and observant on the horizon that passed through the windows of the carriage. While she didn’t know the specifics of this Master Alchemist’s location, it wasn’t hard to know what to look for. All of Mollengard’s fortresses, whether occupied or not, all appeared inhabited, with guards at every door. This sent the message that there wasn’t a moment that they weren’t prepared to fight, and discouraged any strays from holing up in the vacant lots. However, a Master Alchemist--someone who valued and requested the utmost privacy--refused to have anyone standing at their door, even if it meant putting their safety at risk. There were no permanent guards in her fortress, and in fact, it looked the most vacant of the livable buildings in her area. A Master Alchemist didn’t want to make their presence known, and if someone was stupid enough to break in under the assumption that no one was occupying that space, well… their bad luck was entirely on them. She wouldn’t hesitate to make them regret their terminal decision.

And, just as she’d suspected… “To the right. Let us out over there.” The Ardane alchemist instructed the driver, who wordlessly obliged and directed the horse-drawn carriage over to the unguarded entrance of yet another indistinct stone edifice. Celene pushed open the door and stepped out, neither telling Cas to stay put nor instructing him to follow suit. No guard at the door; just like her dwelling, although contrary to her own preferences, when she peered around the back, the small stable with enough space for a couple of horses was not uninhabited. A single ebony steed stood, tethered and grazing on a fresh bale of hay. The vacant fortresses also had a tendency to keep a horse here and there to further the illusion of occupancy; frankly, she could have kept her own means of transportation, herself, but had opted instead to demolish the stables in favor of expanding space for her workshop. No guard, one horse… It’s possible she was mistaken, and this was as empty as every other stone structure in this vicinity. There was only one way to find out.

Stepping up to the heavy wooden door, Celene lifted the wrought-iron knocker and slammed it several times to alert the presence of whomever dwelled in this particular fortress. Regardless of the whereabouts of the occupant, she knew from experience in her own dwelling that the sound would echo obnoxiously through the building, so she let the knocker fall back into position and proceeded to wait patiently for someone to answer. Contrary to popular belief, Celene Ardane could be a patient person. After all, she had patiently bided her time under her mother’s thumb, up until she found the perfect opportunity to disappear and lead her life by her own standards. Patience was, after all, a virtue, and it had done her well.

However… just because she could oblige patience did not mean it particularly appealed to her. When moment after moment passed, and no one answered the door, Celene lifted the knocker again, this time slamming it several more times than before. She refused to believe he was not present; like her, he wouldn’t have much reason to leave his fortress, especially not if he was having materials personally delivered. If he did not answer… then he was simply ignoring her. And Celen Ardane would not be ignored when she wished to be the center of someone’s attention.

Still no answer, moments later. The Master Alchemist had half a mind to force her way inside, but it would be seen as an affront (and a threat) to Mollengard, considering this new ‘asset’ was in one way or another directly benefiting the conquering nation. It wasn’t worth compromising her high standing amongst Mollengardians… she’d come back again. And again, and again, and again, until she knew precisely who was this new threat to her precious resources. “Not a good time, it seems.” She said to no one in particular, despite that Cas had left the carriage followed her, in case he could be of service. Celene didn’t often think to speak to him as he registered as little more than a useful tool, in her eyes. “Another time, then.”

“I’m not expecting anyone. Is there something I can do for you?”

Just as she turned away, ready to give up, the heavy door opened. Celene turned back to find a tall man with straight, ink-black hair past his shoulders, and equally dark eyes sizing her up. Zenech’s boy… isn’t  much of a boy, anymore. This alchemist’s words were neither an invitation nor a question; they were a subtle demand to know why she was disturbing his peace. Celene couldn’t blame him: any unexpected or uninvited guests would receive the exact same reception from her.

“...ah. I wondered if you might be absent.” The Ilandrian woman pasted a smile onto her face and clasped her hands in front of her, bowing her head in greeting. “Please forgive me. It has been a good ten years, at least, since I had the pleasure of speaking to one of my own. I had to see you for myself.”

“And now you have.” The stranger did not crack a smile to mimic Celene’s staged friendliness. However, his dark eyes did shift to Cas, where they lingered perhaps a second too long, before focusing on Celene again. “I’ll ask again: is there something I can do for you?” He kept one hand on the door, a blatant signal that he would rather close it and shut Celene away from his view. His other hand hung at his side, and something was slightly off about the angle of his wrist. Like it had been broken, and hadn’t been given the time or cared for enough to heal properly.

 “Right: understood, of course. You weren’t expecting me. And I know all too well how aggravating it is to step away from your work.” Celene unclasped her hands and took a respectful step back. “I hope we might be able to speak at a more convenient time. I hear you hail from Nairit: did you happen to study under the infamous Master Zenech? I can only imagine how capable a Master Alchemist you must be. I often wondered if and when I would meet you. But that can wait for another day. You can call me Celene.” She once again nodded her head in greeting. 

Zenech’s disciple did not reciprocate. Neither did he deny nor confirm her suspicions about his origins, or under whom he had trained as a Master Alchemist. Without missing a beat, he simply added what she had omitted: “Ardane.” There was no mistaking the recognition that flickered in his coal-dark eyes. Chances are, if you were a Master Alchemist, your name happened to get passed around as frequently as the common cold. 

But since Zenech’s student was not yet willing to open up, Celene wasn’t willing to reciprocate. “Another time, then? I think it would be in both of our best interests to be on good terms. I’ve been the only one of my kind here amongst Mollengard’s ranks for over a decade. I could put you in the know of a thing or two that will undoubtedly make your life easier. Well,” she gestured to the carriage that awaited her. “Let’s talk soon, student of Zenech. Apologies for interrupting your day.”

The other Master Alchemist disappeared back inside his fortress before Celene and Cas stepped back inside the carriage. The Ardane woman’s mood hadn’t improved, but rather, shifted from incredulous to dangerously focused. She still didn’t know who she was dealing with; didn’t know much at all about the man who had trained under Zenech. But now she had an idea as to how she would find out. “You’ll take us back to my workshop, now.” Celene informed the driver. “But we will return here soon enough. I’m not going to wait for a proper invitation.”

Of course, Bronwyn had a rational perspective for something that made Sigrid so irrationally upset. The man who raised her was her father: the man who gave her a name, showed her she mattered, and told her what it would take to survive, he was her father. The man who’d impregnated her mother probably hadn’t any clue that he’d sired her. Her own parents (or at least, the man who had raised her) certainly hadn’t any clue that the blonde haired, blue-eyed child they’d brought into the world belonged in part to a grief-stricken man who was supposed to have been her uncle. So why, then, did it hurt so much? Why did it affect her on such a deep, visceral level?

Especially when it led her to realize… she had actually been closer to her family than she’d known. For quite some time, now. And perhaps that was what made her so angry: not that everything she’d believed about her past had been slightly skewed, but rather, that she’d had no real reason to feel alone since she had become acquainted with Haraldur. Had she known he was her brother… would she have made such an effort to distance herself, when she’d become convinced Gaolithe would one day absorb her life? Would she have wandered away after Naimah had been murdered, only to become enthralled by a witch? She would never know the answer to this. But there might have been a chance, however slim, that had she been aware she not only had a brother, and that he was within reach… Perhaps things would have turned out differently.

“...part of me wishes I hadn’t found out at all. But the other part of me wishes… that I’d known sooner.” Sigrid spoke after a long period of contemplation. “I can’t help but wonder if things would have been different, Bronwyn. Like, maybe… maybe I wouldn’t have run away, if I’d known Haraldur was my brother and not just my cousin. I wouldn’t have become Locque’s thrall. Maybe I’d have been… able to be around for you. Fuck…” Sigrid curled her fingers into a fist and pressed it against her forehead. “...I lashed out at Tivia. I shouldn’t have said what I did to her. This isn’t her fault. But what she told us just made me feel even guiltier than before, and I am so, so tired of feeling guilty. At least, before this suffocating information, I had been using the assumption that it had all been beyond my control as a crutch. She’s just made me realize I’ve had more agency all along that I’d wanted to admit… and now, here we are. I’ve probably upset Haraldur, too. And you’re right: I should go talk to him.”

The blonde warrior scanned turned to the hill from which she had so quickly fled to see if her cous--no, if her brother was anywhere in sight. Nowhere that her eyes could reach, but maybe, that was for the better. He and Vega and their little family were currently going through so much right now. He didn’t need this unnecessary drama on top of it, and she undoubtedly made him feel awful, the way she spat on Tivia’s revelations and so quickly took off, instead of staying to process this with Haraldur. She shouldn’t have left, but… she couldn’t go and find him, now. Not when she didn’t yet have the words for him.

As Bronwyn pointed out: life was finite. Time was finite. Hadn’t she wasted enough of that finite time despairing? “There was a time, before I met you, that I used to think that I was confined to a similar fate, you know.” Sigrid turned back to the sheepish faoladh, who was trying so desperately hard to convince her to look on the bright side of things (or at least, not to dwell so much on the dark side.) It wasn’t her responsibility to make her feel better… But, here she was. The least Sigrid could do was try to offer her own perspective of potential hope. “When I learned I was chosen by Gaolithe to wield it… I discovered soon after that the sword, while it has won battles and wars, takes the souls of all its chosen wielders. So I chose to withdraw. From your brother, from Alter Rigas, from… Naimah. Because I really thought I had no future. But the people who cared for me convinced me otherwise. And even when I gave Gaolithe the opportunity to take my soul…” her hand drifted to her abdomen, where she had, in a brief moment of lucidity, impaled herself on the blade so as to avoid harming Haraldur. “Somehow… I’m still here. I don’t know it happened, but I cheated a curse, Bronwyn. Who’s to say you can’t cheat one as well? Hey, Bronwyn… ”

Noticing that Hadwin’s sister was well on the verge of tears, muscle memory that Sigrid hadn’t engaged in over a year suddenly kicked in. Muscle memory from times when Naimah would begin to cry, and the only thing the blonde warrior knew to do was to pull her close until her tears subsided. And so, before she knew what she was doing, she wrapped her arms around the faoladh woman and pulled her close--then froze, when she realized what she’d done.

“...I-I’m sorry! I…” What was she supposed to do? Let go and push Bronwyn away, crying, all because of her own mistake? “...the last time someone cried in front of me… this is all I knew to do. This is still all I know to do. I’m…” She loosened her hands on Bronwyn’s arms, but didn’t coldly withdraw; she simply gave her the option to pull away if she wanted to. “I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. But I can’t help but feel like I’m the reason you’re crying, and… and I want to make it better. If I can.”

Cas was used to being a fly on the wall during Celene’s many escapades. Barely tolerated at best, a pesky nuisance at worst. The rest of the time? Conveniently forgotten. For a Canaveris lord accustomed to receiving near-constant attention, it was both an aggravation and a novelty too intriguing to flat-out hate. Unless he made an error in one of the endless assignments heaped in his arms, or when he dared speak about any subject not directly related to her, Cas usually preferred not to attract Celene’s heartless gaze and naturally, her ire. The two were mutually exclusive.

…So he was led to believe, until he caught a new side of the Ardane Master Alchemist. When the door to her rival’s abode finally opened, he marveled to see a rare, performative side from her. How she fawned and smiled and exuded a charm so fake, he was surprised it didn’t tarnish her face, or leave an allergic reaction of bumpy irritations across skin.

The other Master Alchemist, by comparison, treated her as if she had been a beggar at his door asking for scraps and not taking no for an answer, his patience thin as a piece of parchment; an adequate cover, but flimsy and liable to tear. He also didn’t miss the briefest moment where their eyes met, and had Cas detected a spark of…recognition in the man’s obsidian eyes?

He met Nadira as a boy. I suppose I bear a strong resemblance to her, he admitted, grudgingly. Ari took after their father, who bore gentle waves of sleek raven hair, a straight, pointed nose, and a lighter shade of skin the color of ochre. Cas, on the other hand, inherited a head of unruly curls, a hook-shaped nose, and a darker, burnt umber complexion—nothing objectionable in isolation but for the fact it brought him closer to her. Invited scrutiny, careless observations of, “You are the spitting image of your mother! I bet the both of you even think the same.” So-called compliments extolling the bonds between mother and son.

Oh how he often thought about staging a tragic accident for dear old Nadira, and in fact had almost succeeded in implementing one. If only he hadn’t lost his nerve at the last minute.

In response to the Master Alchemist’s quick stare, he nodded in greeting and in recognition, glad the man didn’t reveal his identity to Celene—if he in fact recognized him at all and it was not a figment of Cas’s imagination.

Standing back, he watched the terse, tense exchange between the two Master Alchemists, wondering who seemed ostensibly worse than the other. The man Cas knew as Isidor presented as impassive, chilly, and sullen, but otherwise didn’t appear as objectionable in personality. He looked capable, no airs put upon him, no need to posture and preen and fluff his feathers like the strutting Celene and her pointless clucking. A shame he didn’t seem in want or need of an assistant, but in time, he might endear himself to this other Master Alchemist, and through far less cringeworthy methods than Celene Ardane. She was just embarrassing herself at this point—and he loved every moment of it. For putting the prim, self-important princess in her place, Cas preferred the gloomy Isidor Kristeva.

Since Celene never directly addressed Cas, he found no need to acknowledge or humor her out-loud mutterings. He learned it was better to ignore her unless given a direct order. It expended less of his energy. Not like she appreciated his complimentary gestures or winning company, anyway.

As the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Celene’s miniature fortress of a residence, Cas stepped out the doors and wordlessly followed his captor inside, prepared to assume his tasks mechanically, no better or more personable than a golem, or one of Celene’s grossly pale mayfly children. Before he so much as entered the foyer, however, a crisp, feminine voice traipsed into his mind, all mud and clunking boots. Far too sane to be hearing voices—he spent a year in Mount Simiya painstakingly maintaining his mental faculties—the only other explanation, albeit unlikely, was…

Lazarus? Is that you? …Why do you sound like a woman?

Another muddy series of responses, each harder to detect than the last. Cas—it—me—here—Mollengard—where—find…

He aimed a steely glare at the shackle dangling from his wrist. Curse his magical buffer! Here, help had potentially arrived, and he could do little to direct it to his door!

Where are you, Laz? Can you come for me? Wait, how…are we communicating right now?

He and Laz hadn’t shared a psychic connection in decades, not since the big golem had bonded to Ari and Cas transferred ownership to his brother instead. Why own a golem if its loyalties swayed? If its defective nature plastered not to its master but an equal? Ari, a sentient, partial-stone chimera, called like to like, their similar compositions magnetically compatible. Cas had no choice but to gift the golem to his brother. Not only did it gain him credit among his family and his peers, but the only other option was to decommission the dratted thing and for all his faults, Lazarus still had his uses, however…illicit. 

So why was Laz in Mollengard, searching for him? Why wasn’t he—or she—with the Canaverises? With Ari?

Unless his brother had finally succumbed to his curse and died.

Driven to remove his shackle more than ever, Cas whirled on Celene, ready to broker a deal, any deal, as long as it placed him in direct correspondence with Lazarus.

“What must I do to earn freedom from my shackles, Miss Celene?” He held his breath, preparing to take a huge, reckless risk that at worst, could result in his death. His enormous gamble hinged on correctly inferring Celene’s motivations. He noticed the determined clench of her jaw in the carriage following their ‘audience’ with the disinterested Master Alchemist. No longer running as the unopposed darling of Mollengard, she needed to prove herself now more than ever. Her swollen pride demanded it. And he happened to have the resources to vault her to the top. 

“Will honesty suffice? A name? Quite unfair that I should know who you are, surname and sordid history included, but you’ve only a three-letter nom-de-plume in exchange. Very well. My name,” he hesitated, lingering on the silent beats for a prescribed, affected length of time, “is Lord Casimiro Canaveris of Stella D’Mare, head of the Canaveris household and second-most powerful man of Old Town. We have corresponded in the past, you and I, over a potential cure for my brother. That is how I know who you are. I know too of Isidor Kristeva, Master Zenech’s pupil. My mother bankrolled his research for decades. She is why they thrived in backwater Nairit for so long; they were living on Canaveris handouts—of the highest quality, might I add.”

Here was where he might lose her. If he miscalculated Celene’s wishes and fell far off the mark, she could report him for insubordination, or threaten to return him to the mines. He was banking on her desperation. "If you wish to overtake Master Kristeva and prove your superiority, employ my services to their fullest extent. I needn’t browbeat the matter here, but you are severely underutilizing me and thus impeding your own progress. If you truly wish to shine like the stars, we must work together, magic and alchemy combined. And if that much does not convince you,” he threw down his last wild card, “release my shackle and I shall introduce you to my high-functioning, immortal golem.”

“We have no way of knowing how the past would have unfolded if we had done things differently.” Like Sigrid, Bronwyn held too many regrets to tally. If she’d paid more attention to her siblings instead of dedicating all her focus to winning Chief’s approval, maybe she could have steered Rowen from the darkness, or developed a deeper bond with Hadwin. She prioritized productivity and obedience over free-thinking and independence, and while she gained a reputation as the model of responsibility, it came at the cost of knowing herself. Even now, she had no idea who she was supposed to be, how to act, or what to do. Duty had controlled her life, removed her agency, and convinced her she had no control over her decisions. Follow Chief. Obey Chief. They were her only directives. And when he had abandoned her, she had abandoned herself, spiraling, lost and alone.

Only, she wasn’t alone. She had found Hadwin, but it took months to realize their sibling rivalry was not only fabricated, but unnecessary, a ploy initiated by their father to fight for his favor. 

“I can only speak to my experience, but even knowing about my familial relationships, reuniting with my brother after not seeing him for eight years did absolutely nothing to prevent my spate of horrible decisions. In fact, he launched my life into further chaos—all the while saving me from,” she smiled cheekily, “well, from you, for starters. Who knows? Maybe I’d still be Haraldur’s prisoner if not for Teselin’s plea to locate and rescue Hadwin from his newest spot of trouble.” She tried not to think of Teselin, the one figure who brought Bronwyn and Hadwin together, and yet, through no fault of her own, kept them apart. It took no genius to infer that Hadwin preferred the summoner’s company. If Bronwyn had been the one to disappear, would he have lost his mind and tried burning down a forest in his grief? Such speculations were unfair to Hadwin, who was obviously unwell, but she couldn’t help but wonder all the same.

"My point is, it’s impossible to guess if learning about your sibling connections early on would have prevented these events in your life from transpiring, especially as you were so overcome with grief at the time. So please don’t be so hard on yourself. Easier said than done, I know. I can hardly show myself the same amount of grace, but I’m trying. What matters now is where we are, at this moment. There are chances to make amends. To speak with Tivia and Haraldur and apologize to them. You needn’t do these things alone, either. I’m more than happy to accompany and support you however you see fit. We aren’t meant to isolate ourselves, that much I believe.”

I don’t want to be alone—was what she meant, but feared to say aloud. Better to hide her intent through helpful advice, or conversely, through unhelpful platitudes, depending on how the recipient viewed her unsolicited counsel. Fortunately, Sigrid received her well, but perhaps it was not due to her words, but the catch in her voice and the tears threatening to roll down her cheeks.

Before she knew it, Sigrid enveloped her in a hug, soft, inviting, comforting. But I’m supposed to comfort you! Again, she failed, and yet, she didn’t mind her failure. Didn’t mind the contact, the arms curled around her waist, radiating care. Aside from Hadwin’s chummy pats on the back, had she ever been cradled like this? Like she mattered as a single entity, not as a member of a collective, anonymous and forgotten?

A curious warmth spread over Bronwyn, accompanied by a humming in her ears, low and hypnotic, like a purr. Every part of her skin tingled, wanting more. Any trace of a headache vanished. She’d forgotten what they were supposed to feel like! 

“Don’t apologize,” she whispered, feeling her reciprocating arms reaching around Sigrid. She didn’t dare speak any louder for fear of popping the delicate bubble that glistened around them, ephemeral yet eternal. A moment stretched, timeless. “You’re the reason I’m not crying harder.” Sure enough, the tears ringed her eyes, but hadn’t spilled over, leaving her face relatively dry. “And you are making it better, Sigrid. I can’t emphasize this enough. Just being in your presence…makes it better. Whatever happens, I’ll thwart this curse. There are always workarounds. My family is famous for finding loopholes.”

And just like that, the bubble burst as she remembered something—someone—of vital importance. “…Shit. We left Hadwin behind in the tent, didn’t we?” With extreme hesitation, she withdrew from Sigrid’s hug, crossing her arms over her chest to replicate the sensation, but feeling nothing but an empty chill in the air where before, it swaddled her like a soothing blanket on an infant. “No one was…it was my—dammit, he was under my watch! I have to look for him. Fingers crossed he didn’t get far and he’s still in the tent.”

As luck would have it, they spotted him stumbling out of the Night Garden on their way back to the tent, shirtless, reeking of pipesmoke and…

“Hadwin!” she snapped. “I turn away for less than an hour and not only are you high, but,” she wrinkled her nose, “have you been fucking in the woods? And with,” her nostrils flared when she detected the distinct scent of powerful celestial magic on him, “with—“

“—Moot point,” he interrupted. “If we’re gonna stand here and catalogue every person in Galeyn I fucked, we’re gonna be here all night.,” Hadwin batted the air like swatting a fly. “In fact, Bron, you should be relieved. Fooling around means I’m regaining my stride. On the up and up, y’know. And don’t you want me to get better? Don’t you crave it?”

Bronwyn turned to Sigrid. “Take note. This is what it’s like to have a brother. Insufferable little prats they are.”

Hadwin’s grin could cut ice. “Don’t listen to Bron the killjoy. We’re wonderful to have around, Siggy. Guaranteed to drive you mad in all the best ways.”

She would deal with his impropriety later, but first… She sighed. “Have you happened to spot Haraldur anywhere on your completely unsanctioned sojourn through the Night Garden?”

Hadwin shrugged. “Overheard a few Gardeners saying he came back to the tent and retired early with his wife. Whoever’s still inside, they’re getting ready to head on home.”

“Tomorrow, then.” She touched Sigrid’s arm. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow when he and you have had some much-needed rest.”

Later that night, when the majority of the palace had tucked off to sleep, a knock sounded on the door of about the only person guaranteed to be awake.

“Vitali.” Tivia stepped through the opened bedroom door, but lingered near the exit, not intending to stay long. “Yes, I know,” she said without preamble, rubbing the area under her eyelid where the tear-swollen redness lingered beneath her illusory glamour, “I had a long night and did some questionable things I’m not in the slightest bit proud of. And while I’m sure you know exactly where I’m going, I wanted to give you a formal goodbye.”

She shifted on one foot. “I’m leaving tonight. I have no reason to wait until morning. There’s nothing keeping me here and…I likely won’t return. I don’t know what the future holds for me, so I can’t utter those words with confidence, but,” she sighed, “I can’t be here anymore. You’re probably wondering if there is any point in my saccharine sentimentality. Why I should even bother giving you of all people a proper farewell while the others won’t hear a damn word of my departure. But,” she fiddled with the ends of her coat, “you’re the closest to a friend I have. You understand me, to an extent, and I suppose that means something, so thank you. May we meet again, if it’s written in the stars.”

Stiffly, she turned around, and without another word, drifted down the empty hallways of the palace, and vanished like moonlight flickering behind the clouds.

Celene Ardane wasn’t only seeing red; she was breathing it, too. How dare Zenech’s boy traipse into her territory! Surely there were better places for him to be, other resources he could acquire just as easily as he could here, in West Mollengard. She had been Mollengard’s asset for over a decade, now; no one was going to dethrone her from the position of importance upon which she sat! This new Master Alchemist could posture his own importance all he wanted; she wouldn’t be sharing her resources without a fight. 

Cas was little more than background noise to her on the way back to her dwelling. Even when they stepped out of the carriage and he proceeded to plead his case to her regarding his shackles, his words hardly reached her. There was no getting through to Celene when her mind was racing, plotting to its fullest potential when she found herself faced with an obstacle. She cared little when her enslaved assistant dropped his name. As if who he once was mattered to who he had become… how foolish and self-centered. No, it wasn’t until he dropped another name that Lord Casimiro Canaveris finally managed to secure Celene’s full, unadulterated attention.

“...Isidor Kristeva.” Great; she had a name. Now if only she could pin some significance to it, just as Isidor and Casimiro had done with hers. Finally, the stiff-postured Master Alchemist turned to the pleading man behind her. “He was involved with your family, then? Or are you only familiar with him through his name and affiliation with Zenech? I will say this much, Casimiro Canaveris.”

Celene glanced at the shackles that cinched her assistant’s wrists. Obviously, they must have been burdensome to him for quite some time, now. Yet something had encouraged him to suddenly grovel at her feet just now, and suddenly, he couldn’t be rid of the nullium shackles fast enough. “I haven’t found a reason to be disappointed in you thus far. You’ve been reliable. But, understand… that reliable doesn’t make you trustworthy.”

Her fingertips grazed one of the shackles. Nullium always had such an aversive feel; both empty and charged at the same time. She wasn’t a magic user and could hardly stand the feeling of it in passing. How Casimiro could tolerate it for as long as he had was beyond her. Perhaps one simply became accustomed to the misery; or, he hadn’t, and was finally cracking from it. “I was advised not to remove these. Seems as though Mollengard was purposefully underutilizing you, because they deemed the risk of your magic outweighed the benefits… that is not something I can take lightly. But, neither must I take their word for it.”

The Master Alchemist dropped her hand to her side and twisted her mouth pensively to the side. “Just how much can you tell me about Isidor Kristeva? It is concerning to me that someone else is now able to access my precious resources at will. I did not intend to be in competition with another Master Alchemist. The sooner I can solve my problem… perhaps the sooner I can help you with yours.”

As it turned out, there wasn’t a great deal that Casimiro could divulge with regard to the mysterious new Master Alchemist’s identity.  Isidor Kristeva had studied under Master Zenech since he was a young boy, and when the old man died, had inherited his dwelling and materials (which had been largely subsidized by Canaveris money, evidently.) What he was doing here, away from Nairit and seeking to set up shop in Moillengard… well, that was anyone's guess. But Celene Ardane could not rest easy with such information beyond her reach.

One evening just days later, the Ardane alchemist ordered a carriage, and informed Casimiro that he would be making the excursion with her to pay another visit to Isidor Kristeva. With the possibility of having his shackles removed should he prove trustworthy, the earth mage easily complied, knowing well that he would first have to find himself in excellent standing with Celene before his desires would come to fruition. Likely much to his frustration, she had not appeared to have invested much interest in the prospect of his sentient golem; when she had her mind set on something (or someone--in this case, Isidor Kristeva), until that matter was settled, she was loath to allocate any attention elsewhere. So it was probably in Casimiro’s best interests to let her do what she needed to do so that Isidor was no longer the primary obstacle on her mind.

She and Casimiro were not the only ones in the carriage. If he was confused enough as to why she had seen fit to include him in this trip, what was more confusing was the pale-haired, pale-skinned boy who accompanied them. One of the many ghostly children seen around her dwelling who seldom spoke or made any noise. Celene didn’t see fit to explain and remained silent for the entire ride, not even saying a word when they pulled up to the fortress and stepped out of the carriage. Just like before, she rapped on the heavy door, and waited. Like before, no one answered for a solid moment, but this time, she refused to be turned away. She would wait for as long as it took.

At last, Isidor Kristeva threw open the door, and eyed Celene with a sort of impassive annoyance. It didn’t matter to the Ardane woman; she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Master Kristeva. I was hoping you could spare a moment to talk. As two Master Alchemists sharing this land’s resources, would it not benefit us both to understand the nature of one another’s work? Besides,” she tilted her head ever so slightly to the side. “I have something that I believe would be of great use to you.”

Isidor said nothing. He quietly weighed the benefits of indulging this woman and her bizarre entourage. Whether due to something she said, or curiosity on his part (or perhaps he understood the faster he indulged her, the faster he could get rid of her), the tall man opened the door wider and allowed the trio entry. Celene was the first to step across the threshold and into the chilly, utilitarian room, which lacked furniture, decor, and heat, despite the warm weather. Casimiro followed suit, and then the silent young boy. Isidor studied them wordlessly, and Celene offered an explanation. “Don’t mind them. He is my assistant,” she gestured vaguely to Casimiro. “And this one… is yours. Should you choose to accept him.”

All eyes fell on the pale, quiet boy, who looked to be no more than ten years old. “He is one of my earliest successes to date. Although, due to the nature of my work, he has also been grossly underutilized. Depending on the nature of your work, I wondered if, perhaps, he might be more useful here, under your orders.”

Isidor’s cool eyes settled on the boy. His arms were folded, but beneath the cuff of his jacket, one of his wrists appeared to be bandaged, and the bones jutted differently compared to the other. “My work.” He repeated tonelessly and twisted the corner of his mouth to the side. “This is why you’re here.”

“You needn’t divulge any details if you are not comfortable doing so. I, for one, have nothing to hide here in Mollengard. You see,” Celene took one of the boy’s small hands and turned his palm upright. Though it was difficult to see against the alabaster of his skin, the lines of a fine, silver rune glimmered delicately in the low light. “I create Master Alchemists. Not in the same way that you and I painstakingly earned our skills, mind you; they, like this one, are born to develop the skills naturally. I am still working out issues with fragility and longevity among these batches, but this is precisely what I intend my subjects for: assisting other Master Alchemists, or authority figures of other sorts.”

Isidor didn’t respond right away. It was difficult to read his expression: did he buy into the offer or not? Was he even remotely impressed by this seemingly impossible feat that a fellow Master Alchemist had achieved? Light from the wall sconces played upon the shadows of his face and form. Finally, he asked, “Why give him to me? Sounds like an asset.”

“For what I am doing, I haven’t found a use for him with regard to my particular projects. It’s too complex. Depending on the nature of your work, though, I wondered if perhaps he would come in handy. Besides, this would be the perfect trial to determine just how useful creations such as him can be.” Celene patted the boy affectionately on the shoulder. “But it is merely an offer, Master Kristeva. You are under no obligation to accept.”

“If you’ve failed to give this living creation of yours adequate meaning for his very existence thus far, I hesitate to believe he will be of any use to me.” The tall, dark-haired Master Alchemist commented. “But I’m willing to entertain your trial, so long as he does not prove to be a burden. Does he have a name?”

A micro-expression flickered across Celene’s face that suggested he found it downright absurd. “Of course not. It wouldn’t serve me to name and grow attached to an experiment. You are free to call him what you will, should you choose. And, should you feel he is more of a burden than a benefit, you are free to return him at any time.”

“Very well.” Isidor offered a single nod, before turning the topic of conversation in another, surprising direction. “I am under the impression you won’t easily been seen out unless I reciprocate and confide in you the reason I am here in Mollengard. Rest assured, Celene Ardane, you might be more willing to share Mollengard’s resources with me when you understand that my purpose here is to create alchemist stones. For my own usage, as well as Mollengards--which extends to you, as well, considering you are also contracted to them.”

Little to nothing surprised Celene Ardane. But there was no mistaking the way her eyes widened ever so slightly: in surprise, as well as desire. “Alchemist stones. Plural. You are, in fact, capable of this?”

“Are you suggesting I am a liar?”

“Forgive me. That wasn’t my intent. Considering the rarity of these stones, I was simply under the impression they were not so easily manufactured, as to be produced in plural quantities… if that is what you are suggesting, Master Kristeva.”

“Stones, ores, and metals of the earth happen to be my specialized field, Miss Ardane. Just as living organisms appear to be yours.” He gestured to the quiet, emotionless boy, who had hardly moved an inch since coming inside. “But if you’re skeptical… here.”

Isidor reached into the pocket of his coat with his left hand. It didn’t appear he did too much with his other hand, either out of pain or lack of vital functions. To Celene, he held out a smooth, palm-sized stone, and dropped it into her accepting hand. “This one was finished just this morning. Like all alchemist stones, it only has a single use. Hence the necessity to produce more.”

Celene was… speechless. Not for long, but this exchange had definitely shed light on the fact that she had grossly underestimated her competition. “Are you giving this to me?”

“Consider it a trade of good faith, since you’ve given me the boy. You’ve implied you have more where he comes from. Likewise, I have more where that stone came from.”

“Then I gratefully accept.” Celene pocketed the stone greedily. It was already clear she needed no convincing to keep what was verily a most useful tool for any alchemist. “Pardon me for prying, but your right hand… is it well?”

Isidor shrugged. “Was broken; didn’t quite heal correctly. I’m slowly regaining use of it. It has not hindered my work, if that is what you are wondering.”

“That never crossed my mind. Do let me know if you’d like some help setting it straight again. Humanoid bodies are my specialty, after all. But we won’t waste any more of your time.” With a respectful nod, Celene ventured back toward the door and gestured for Casimiro to follow. “I hope you will find the boy useful to you. Please, do not hesitate to contact me with any questions or concerns. I look forward to the both of us peacefully going about our work in the same vicinity. After all, our kind is rare; it would benefit us more to be friends than enemies.”

The only acknowledgement Celene received was a final: “Good evening, Miss Ardane,” before she saw herself and Casimiro out. The two headed back to the carriage and departed the reclusive man’s fortress. When they were well out of sight and earshot, she heaved a heavy sigh. “What a miserable man. So similar to Zenech… I don’t know what I was expecting. Not that it matters.” She rolled her shoulders back and rested her head against the seat cushions. “He shouldn’t pose a problem for me for long.”

If Isidor’s disappearance had had any impact on Vitali, the necromancer did not show it. Or if he did, it was nowhere anyone might bear witness to whatever regrets he might have felt for the last way he treated his younger brother. The going consensus was that he cared little to nothing for perhaps being the ultimate catalyst that drove Isidor away, but no one dared (or cared to) knock on the door to his chamber and let him have a piece of their mind. Half the time he wasn’t present, anyway, and only the wind knew where the necromancer found himself these days or what he was up to, and no one had a mind to chase him down. Either they feared what he was capable of, or they sought to hang onto the peace left in Locque’s stead when she died. Nothing was worth stirring the pot when a highly powerful and unpredictable magic user was involved; so as per his wishes, despite how they might have felt about him, Galeyn left Vitali alone.

But the wind that knew his whereabouts inevitably spoke to the stars, and there was one who happened to receive regular messages from the celestial balls of fire that burned millions of miles away. He couldn’t hide from Tivia Rigas, even if he wanted to; fortunately, she was one of the few whose company he didn’t mind. 

“A night of regrets, I assume?” The necromancer needn’t turn around to see her tear-swollen face. He heard it in her voice; and he knew what she was going to say before she said it. “What is life but regrets, though? Without them, you wouldn’t know when you made a good decision. And sometimes what you regret shortly after the moment passes, you come to realize was necessary much further down the road.”

Vitali stood from where he was seated at his desk and wandered to meet Tivia where she stood in the doorway, looking as though she might flee at any moment. “Well, I hope where you’re going is not after my brother, and somewhere far more positive. Contrary to what you might believe, you do drive your own destiny. And… you’ve come far. So, so far from the naive young girl who barely knew what she was capable of. And for that,” the necromancer laid his hands upon her shoulders, “I mean it when I say I wish you the best. And I have no doubt that our paths will cross again. The future is more predictable than you might think. Do what you must and what you feel is best. I appreciate that you thought of me enough to say farewell.”

He released her, and while she left with what he felt was a heavy heart, Vitali couldn’t help but smile. Oh, how both she and his brother had grown through their experiences. It wasn’t the last time they would see each other; of that, he was certain.

Expertly hiding his frustration (and murderous thoughts) Cas set off yet again with Celene in the carriage the following day, shackled hands untouched. As long as Isidor Kristeva dominated her attention, his earnest request for succor would fall on disinterested ears. No matter what Cas offered—for he seldom asked for favors if he had nothing to bargain in return—his captor made it quite clear what she thought of his proposal. Other more pressing concerns were afoot than the provisional freedoms of her gentleman slave.

To Celene’s rare credit, she didn’t reject his offer outright, but instead promised to revisit it at a later date. While he had bided his time for the last six months, performing tirelessly as her reliable “assistant” who neither complained nor made any major errors, she still hadn’t trusted him to keep his word. A fair point, he conceded. What slave would willingly stick around once presented with the key to their escape? His spirit hadn’t become so broken that he wouldn’t take full advantage of a slave master’s hand of leniency and run for the open door. Yet…he would be daft to summon his magic the second she reprieved him of his nullium fasteners. 

He had been disconnected from his magic’s comforting pulse for over a year. In the mines, it was easier to ignore the feeling of gradual suffocation when the demands of his physical body screamed louder, but as he was now adequately fed, well-rested, and clean, Cas began to notice the wisps of sickness and ague that gathered around his head, his heart, and his gut like clouds of ever-present miasma. Breathing felt tight and constrained and he couldn’t expand his chest to its original capacity—unless that was an unfortunate circumstance of inhaling pulverized stone and soot underground for so long. His lungs were likely as black as the inside of a kitchen hearth. It hurt his eyes to read for long periods; concentrating on the tiny scrawl under the glaring bite of lantern light invited blurry vision and sharp headaches. The mere act of walking up and down the stairs triggered heart palpitations. His feet were swollen and he always had to force them into the beaten, second-hand pair of shoes Celene had provided. He struggled to keep down the food he ate and would lay in bed, head spinning and throat burning after he emptied the contents of his supper. But most annoying of all, his wrists constantly pricked and itched. Most of the time, it felt as mild as thorns’ serrated edges brushing over his skin. But sometimes, the pain would send waves of convulsions which rendered his hands into spasmodic jolts, twisted nerves pinching so tightly it felt as though they would lose circulation and simply fall off. With the constant ring of malfunctions, even if Celene unshackled him by tomorrow, he didn’t believe his magic could crush a pebble, let alone demolish an entire fortress in one fell swoop. Not for a long, long time, he surmised. His magic was too weakened by the oppressive nullium shackles burning brands into his flesh to be of immediate use.

But that was not what he wanted, nice and affirming and satisfying to level the accursed place to the ground, captor in tow. All he wanted was to establish contact with Laz. A plan was formulating in his head. Long-term, plodding, excruciatingly time-consuming, but if he reined in his baser urges, behaved, and exercised the right amount of patience, he would get what he desired. Including his revenge.

Not that he had any say in the matter, but he found himself yet again a passive spectator to the ridiculous rivalry between the two Master Alchemists. Rather, it was more Celene who acted as the main instigator and sweet talker. Isidor, who had all the personality of a moldy slab of cheese abandoned in a chilly cellar, received Ardane’s affected pleasantries if only to herd her out of his residence as fast as possible so he could return to decomposing alone in his catacomb. Already, he looked slated for a premature coffin; skin so papery thin and pale it exposed the dendritic mapping of his veins and a wrist jutting at an angle ready for rigor mortis. Does there exist a Master Alchemist that doesn’t want to make me round them all up and bury them alive? I’d be doing the world a favor just to rid of their insufferable attitude. 

Their inane back and forth almost bored him enough to cease paying attention altogether; the novelty of Celene’s fear of irrelevance over the threat of Isidor Kristeva had since rubbed the lacquer off and he was ready for them to move on to more proactive endeavors—such as having his shackles removed.

Glad at last for their departure, Cas turned away from Isidor Kristeva; the man served little use to him in his grand plans. For the time being, at least. As he stood, he was too disinterested to register as a proper threat or an ally. No sooner than Cas wrote him off a dud, a dead-end, than Celene seemed to imply something of the sort would happen to him. Imminently.

Cas shot an intrigued eyebrow at her as they settled into the carriage outside the aforementioned Master Alchemist’s estate. Or whatever passed for an estate in this wretched nation. “The boy.” He leaned against the window, looking out at the barren, dusty landscape the horses trotted past. “I take it he is not just an offering of good faith, then?”

Growing up as a successor to Nadira’s cutthroat empire, he’d become desensitized to underhanded politics. Grabs for power, schemes to undermine and silence, assassination attempts—nothing fazed him. Not when he’d employed such tactics, himself. “That will be enough to take him out? Very good, then.” Somehow he doubted the likes of Zenech’s pupil, Nadira’s once pride and hope, would succumb to a half-formed homunculus abomination so easily, but he wasn’t going to trample on Celene’s dreams if her satisfaction meant her focus would finally shift to him, and what he could do for her.

That evening, shortly after supper, Laz attempted to contact him again.

“Cas—close—where—“

“Laz.” Cas shot up in bed. “Can you hear me? Wait.” He closed his eyes, folded into a meditative stance. Their psychic connection was considered passive magic, something he believed the nullium couldn’t prevent entirely. Were that the case, he wouldn’t have received any telepathic correspondence from the golem. If Cas concentrated, coaxed their connection to the surface, perhaps he could override the restrictions of the nullium.

His wrists burned, the shackles overheating from the effort. He ignored the pain and focused on the faint tether linking him with his outside contact. “Laz. Where are you? Can you get help?”

The words came in a little clearer, but only incrementally. “Too far—can’t—border—West Mollengard. No contact with—Canaverises—Ari.”

Cas almost vaulted out of his meditative state. “Ari is alive? Why are you not still connected to him?”

“—cured. —Alchemist—Ardane.”

“Wait—he’s cured?! And did you just say Ardane? As in—”

“Ane—nia,” the golem continued. “—Nia Ardane. She’s—“

This time, Cas could no longer maintain their connection. Gasping awake, he looked immediately at his hands, blown up to three times their size, the shackles steadily burning ring-shaped holes into his wrists. Flinching, he shot to his feet and rushed to Celene’s quarters.

He had enough leverage to convince her that this accident hadn’t been a deliberate attempt to force his shackles off prematurely. The situation was far from ideal, far from what he planned—but he could make this work. Worst case scenario, he lost the use of his hands and hence, his usefulness. Worst case scenario, she discarded him and harvested his lifeless body for parts.

With nothing left to lose, he knocked on her locked door and kept knocking until she finally deigned to answer, her expression murderous. He raised his hands, redirecting her gaze to the crux of the emergency and why he bothered to disturb her at all. 

“My golem spoke to me telepathically. That is why I want my shackles removed.” he hurried on despite the excruciating pain of his hands about to explode from the enormous built-up pressure. “Does the name Ane…nia mean anything to you? Nia Ardane? My golem has reason to believe she cured my brother. I assume she’s related to you, but I can only know the full story for certain if you,” he sucked in a breath. “Help me and I will help you. On my honor as a Canaveris. I so swear it.”

Meanwhile, Casimiro Canaveris’ younger brother, unburdened by his stone malady, woke up to the morning sun and opened the windows to his chambers to enjoy the fresh, early autumn breeze. He washed up at the water basin, dressed in one of his signature long coats, and breakfasted on scones with clotted cream and apple jam. To the casual observer, he was the picture of health, burnished skin aglow and glossy raven hair catching the light in blue-green iridescence. The charming Lord of Stella D’Mare possessed many nicknames, and most recently, people began referring to him as the Lord of Fortune, sure as the eponymous bird he depicted during the masquerade ball: the mythological huma, multi-hued avian of many blessings.

Far be it for Aristide Canaveris to correct the majority’s assessment of his many lucky breaks, because he was in ready agreement. He had been lucky, and endlessly grateful for the people he loved that made his second lease of life possible. Except…some of those people were no longer around to celebrate his blessings. His beloved brother, Casimiro, had been dead two years, almost exactly to the day. Isidor Kristeva, a critical member of the party responsible for lifting his curse and who had gradually been filling the vacant role as a brother-like figure, was gone. Lazuli, his oldest, most loyal companion, wandered off, with no indication of returning. A dark shroud fell over his eyes, coloring everything wonderful in gauzy overcast, and he couldn’t see past the haze for the vibrancy of autumnal glory that awaited him beyond. Even the color he sported for today reflected his mourning; a charcoal gray, nearly black frock coat, a shade unheard of in his vividly arrayed wardrobe.

An attendant hailed him while he sauntered down the empty hallways of his villa. “Ari, good morning to you,” he bowed, a customary greeting. “I hate to alarm you, but there is a…situation occurring in the town square. The settlement is in a furor. A protest of sorts, I’ve heard. Against you.”

“The town square?” His brow folded in suspicion. “Is that why I cannot locate anyone this morning?” Apart from Nia, who was strangely absent from his bedside despite being a constant, everyday fixture, he hadn’t seen his mother, Sylvie, Nico, or anyone aside from the serving staff. It was as if everyone had eerily evacuated the settlement and failed to inform him about it. “…What is today’s date?”

The attendant shuffled from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “I couldn’t say, but all I do know is that your presence is not only requested, but required.”

“It’s getting rowdy out there.” A guard rounded the corner, saluting Ari. “The other D’Marians have taken it upon themselves to stage some sort of demonstration. I would exercise caution out there, in case it gets violent.”

Ari vacillated between suspicion and concern. Ultimately, the latter won out. He sighed, nodding to the guard. “I shall go with you. We will make our approach from the undercity, sight unseen, and enter from the west as a precaution as they will be expecting us to arrive east. Let’s go.”

Taking the more circuitous route through the undercity to enter the town square from a different location was unnecessary, but prudent. Better to be safe, he figured, and the longer journey gave him time to mentally prepare for the likeliest reason behind the D’Marian settlement’s sudden, unexplainable furor in the streets. Over the last few days, he hadn’t missed the conspiratorial glances between Sylvie and Nadira, nor Nia’s presence, more boisterous than usual, constantly suggesting they go for an impromptu ride to the borderlands, or wade around in the underground bathhouse. Or…spend an inordinate time in bed experimenting on petrifying an organ no longer afflicted…at least, in the literal sense. But he hadn’t felt comfortable, or confident, to give his unburdened body a go. For some reason, partaking in pleasure of any sort, considering the somber time of the year and the losses they incurred had felt…wrong.

He knew perfectly well the date. And he knew perfectly well what to expect when he rounded the corner and entered the town square under the pretense of quelling a potential “rebellion.”

And yet…he didn’t expect how he would respond to what he found there.

Practically the entire town of D’Marians wedged themselves on the cobbles, waiting…for him. When he swept into the fray, the crowd parted, revealing an expanse of space at the square’s center, occupied by his conspirators–his most cherished loved ones. Nadira, Sylvie, Nico, his nephews. Nia. They gathered around him as the crowd swarmed in and collectively released a cheer. Sparks of multi-colored etherea rained over their heads at the cue–no doubt the handiwork of Alster Rigas. Buntings and banners unfurled from the roofs of nearby buildings. The square’s centerpiece fountain glistened lights that transformed the water into a spectacle of reds, greens, and blues. Peopled donned laurels and crowns of chrysanthemum, aster, and morning glory. They passed along crystal goblets filled with a sparkling purple substance. Mal, his favorite tailor, came around and draped a proper coat over him; vestments weaved in gold thread and embroidered with images of the sun and bee–the Canaveris house sigil. He ran his fingers over the fine embroidery; Sylvie’s work.

Mahra, his chef, rolled in a five-tiered brandy-soaked cake dolloped with cream and covered in assorted fruits of peach and blueberries. Nadira placed one of the flower crowns on his head and handed him a goblet of the mysterious purple drink. She landed a kiss on his cheek and laughed at his dazed expression. “Come now, Ari. Did you believe we would not celebrate your thirty-fourth birthday despite your fervent wish to abstain?”

“I…why, yes,” he said, but he couldn’t summon an ounce of affront, much as he wanted to give a petulant response, or act in righteous anger. You defied my explicit instruction. My one birthday request…and you deliberately ignored it! “This…this is not,” but he could not finish his diatribe. Whatever vestiges of offense he aimed to sputter was whisked away by the wind. The town, the entire dratted town showed up for him! How could he be cross when all those faces looked his way, smiling expectantly? And for what reason were they in attendance? For the excuse to celebrate? To lend their support for such a frivolous occasion? Are they truly that relieved to see you alive? This turnout cannot possibly be for just a birthday. Either way, does this not prove that, perhaps…they see you worthy of celebrating? That you needn’t shutter the window and draw the curtains in fear of the light?

This light is for you. You are allowed to breathe without choking, to walk without freezing, to feel without hiding. You are free, finally free, to live. Do not squander your gift.

Ari turned to Nia, wrestling with his composure. “I assume you had something to do with this? I’ve no doubt you recruited several accomplices. One in particular stands out.” He shifted his gaze to Sylvie beside her, whose devil-may-care smile spoke multitudes of her scheming nature. “I shall deal with you later. But first,” he tapped one of his rings against his goblet and the clinking sound lulled the crowd to silence. He raised his voice to be heard over the din. “I cannot begin to express my gratitude for this unprecedented gathering. As the majority of you must know, today marks the day when our family was informed of my brother, Casimiro’s untimely demise. Since then, I have always reserved today for him, and his memory. It no longer belongs to me–nor should it. However, I think it is high time I share it with a wider audience, and invite expressions beyond that of grief and bereavement.” He glanced at the ring he used to clink the glass goblet; a lapis lazuli set into a band of silver, nestled in a permanent place on his right middle finger.

“I…very nearly died, last month, and would have, if not for the woman you see right here,” he gestured to Nia, “and her team of remarkable people; Lord Alster Rigas and Master Isidor Kristeva chief among them. A tragedy was averted, a life spared. Despite their efforts and the enormous risk to their own health and mortality, I have been so self-absorbed as to not recognize my horrendous error. I’ve been focusing on the wrong thing. On loss, and not its inverse. Until today.” He raised his lilac purple substance, and bade others to do the same. “So let us toast; to life. To abundance. To the company we keep, and the love we bear for one another. To second chances and to aging gracefully–which I sincerely hope to be doing.” A little chuckle rose from the crowd. “Most importantly, I toast to everyone in attendance, and those who are not. To the ones who were unable to be here, for circumstances beyond their control. I thank you all. This humbled lord stands before you, head bowed. You are wonderful, simply wonderful. This is for you.” He brought the drink to his lips and the crowd followed in his echo. An eruption of cheers and applause ensued as Ari strode up to Nia, eyes overbright, cheeks glistening with moisture.

“Nia Ardane, I will have my revenge, and I shall collect it this very second.” Heedless of the crowd’s watchful gaze, he took her into his arms and planted a kiss on her lips, too long and sensual to register as anything but romantic. 

Celene saw no reason to either confirm or deny any of what Casimiro deduced from her impromptu visit (and gift for) Isidor Kristeva. Not because she thought he would do ill with that information (there wasn’t much ill he could conduct, shackled as he was in a state of stifled magic), but simply because he was not a part of this plan, and he didn’t matter. “Cas” was a means to an end, and the Master Alchemist had never spared a thought to consider that he might be anything more than a go-between to do the dirty work that otherwise wasted her precious time.

That is… until she heard her sister’s name pass his lips.

Late that night, the proud Ardane woman was awoken by incessant rapping at her door. The homunculi knew better than to disturb her unless there was some dire emergency… which was never the case. Celene ran a tight ship. She knew what went on in every crevice of her fortress. There was no room for emergencies in the perfect flow and routine of her life, because she simply didn’t allow space for them.

No sooner did she open the door, her face steely with displeasure, that her assistant thrust his arms inches from her face. She didn’t need to touch him to know that he was suffering an adverse reaction from the shackles; but why now, so conveniently? They hadn’t seemed to bother him much before; at least not to the extent where he was begging for their removal.

Celene was tired, and with being tired also came being less friendly than usual. And had it not been for but a few choice words uttered on Cas’s part… she might have slammed the door in his face. But this was not the case. What he had to say not only made the Master Alchemist pause before leaving him to whatever fate those shackles had in store for him; it almost shook her. Almost. But most certainly, it had hit a nerve.

Rolling up one of the sleeves of her nightgown, the Ardane woman placed her hand over the shackles for only a handful of seconds before they shattered, crumbling to dust on the floor. But relief was not in store for Casimiro--not yet. In place of the shackles, her long fingers coiled around one of his wrists. A silent threat that those shackles were not the only thing that could cause him pain, should he misstep.

“Explain.” She was calm--or seemed calm, at least, but that was precisely what made her so… frightening. If he had come to learn anything in the time that he had served under the roof of her fortress, it was that Celene Ardane was arguably at her most dangerous moments after her ‘calm’. The fact that the homunculi she’d been seen with around the time she gave them a similar look were never seen again after the fact. “How does your golem know that name? And what makes you think this person cured your brother? I don’t take too kindly to those who leave me with more questions than answers, Casimiro Canaveris.”

The day of the Sorde twins’ birthday, Nia knew she had to put something in motion for Ari’s birthday; she just didn’t know what, or how, but she had to think of something. The Lord of Stella D’Mare was putting one foot in front of another, going through the motions of his role and position, without thinking about what he wanted or even what would make him feel human again. Because that was the problem: he was human. He was whole again, flesh and blood and bone without any trace of stone, and she wasn’t yet convinced that he fully felt the extent of his transformation. Certainly, his attitude would not evolve overnight, and she couldn’t expect him to dive into every crevice of normal existence that he had missed over the years, walking on eggshells for fear that anything might make him turn to stone. No, she wasn’t that deluded into believing that life would change for them all at once.

But seeing how little regard he had for the fact he was alive and well for yet another year of his life set off alarm bells inside Nia’s head that she couldn’t ignore. And all she could think was thank the gods Sylvie and Nadira had stepped in to assist. Canaverises, bona fide hosts and party-goers by blood, were never at a loss for ideas and schemes when it came to celebrating. That evening, after they returned to the D’Marian settlement following the Sorde twin’s impromptu birthday celebration, Nadira had already decided to take the task into her own hands and coordinate the staff at the Canaveris estate to orchestrate a proper celebration for Stella D’Mare’s leader… completely under his nose. Sylvie, meanwhile, would spread word throughout the village, knowing full well there would be few (if any) who wouldn’t be ecstatic at the idea of acknowledging Ari’s thirty-fourth solar return. She had both the charisma and the connections to get the public excited and have them do their part to make it both meaningful and memorable for Ari.

As for Nia? Well, despite that her mind and will had spawned the idea in the first place, her role was relegated to… ‘distraction’. She could have been offended, and demanded a more crucial place in this formulation of this event, but if everyone was playing to what they were good at, then Nia Ardane couldn’t rightly deny that she was damn good at distracting people--Ari, in particular. Considering how long she managed to keep him from fully realizing she’d been avoiding sleep, back when she was still in recovery (physically and emotionally), keeping him busy for three days shouldn’t be much of a trial. In any case, the Master Alchemist was learning new things about the Canaverises and their traditions every day, and if there were steadfast traditions associated with birthdays of which she was unaware, it was best to leave it to the experts and let them formulate what they deemed appropriate.

Besides… she happened to like being a distraction.

As it turned out, it was more difficult than she had bargained for, when Nia’s usual no-fail plans to occupy Ari’s time inevitably failed. Coaxing him to early nights’ retirement to bed or later mornings “sleeping in” didn’t have the desired effect. Alas, something still held him back… but it wasn’t his curse. He didn’t abstain from sex for fear of triggering a flare up that would turn part of his body to stone. He feared something else; something that the Ardane woman understood on a detached level, but understood nonetheless. For years she’d felt she didn’t deserve to experience and enjoy life in the absence of her sisters, whose lives had expired far sooner than they should have. Why did she deserve a second chance at life in the absence of Celine and Palla? Perhaps that was the difference between her and Ari: finally, after over a decade, she had finally made peace with her sisters’ death, and accepted that they’d have wanted her to survive. But the Lord of Stella D’Mare had not yet come to that same realization, and it was not a perspective that could be forced upon him. He would have to come to see it on his own: and that was entirely the reason behind this secret, surprise celebration.

Even taking a less direct approach to distractions wasn’t working like it should. Ari turned down spending time in the bathhouse, taking walks outside the settlement, and, hells, he even turned down a quick jaunt to the borderlands by horse--something he had personally mentioned wanting to tackle now that he was no longer burdened with the fear of repercussions from his curse. Ari was preoccupied with other things, either spoken or unspoken, but… the important thing was he was preoccupied. And if he found her more-frequent-than-usual absences suspicious… Well, he didn’t let on.

The day of Ari’s birthday, Nia rose far earlier than she would have liked, blindly grabbed the first clean outfit she could find in the wardrobe before the sun rose, and hurried outside where she had promised to meet Nadira and Sylvie at the town square. Sure enough, everything was being put into motion: the decorations, the gathering crowd, and Lady Canaveris at the heart of it all, expertly directing traffic. And, as usual, the Master Alchemist realized too late that she was entirely under-dressed, compared to everyone else, in a muted tunic tucked into a pair of brown trousers.

“...I got dressed in the dark.” She confessed guiltily, brushing her perceived negligence off as a gesture. “I guess I’m kind of lost without Lazuli… but that’s not important. Ari’s still asleep, but probably not for long. What’s left before the grand reveal?”

Putting Nadria in charge was ultimately the best decision she could have made. Everything was well in place before Ari stepped into the town square later that morning. The look on his face didn’t characterize surprise, but… something more. Something of far greater importance. He didn’t balk or shy away from the cheering and attention, didn’t duck away when Nadira placed a crown of flowers upon his head. Perhaps he wanted to, but the fight was completely taken out of him, seeing how much he meant to the hundreds of people who had gathered at the town square to celebrate him. His birthday. His life.

Whether it was anger or joy, or a mixture of both, Nia didn’t miss the fact Ari had only a thin grasp of his composure when he turned his accusations on her. But all she could do was smile. “What are you talking about? I’m no mastermind. Just a Master Alchemist.” She said innocently. “Although… I happen to be well-acquainted with some masterminds.”

He wasn’t buying her excuses; no should he. Before Nia had a chance to react, she was swept into his kiss, on clear display before not only all of his family, but all of Stella D’Mare to see. It was without question the most public display of affection he had ever ventured, and he had done so with purpose. To make a point, not only to his people, but to her. “Revenge is yours to have.” She murmured against his lips, and something in that moment felt so… familiar. Like they had shared a similar moment before--in another world. Another time… that had not belonged to her.

The morning blossomed into an afternoon full of delicious food, wine, lighthearted banter, and good will. It was as if, for that afternoon, the D’Marian settlement hadn’t suffered at the hands of a witch not long ago. They were too preoccupied in celebrating the life--or the second chance at life--of a person who was more important to them than he had realized. Ari and his family indulged in cake and cocktails, and as much as Nia wanted nothing more than to monopolize Ari’s time and attention, it was so important that he interacted with everyone else. He already knew he was important to her and to his family; but the whole reason for this surprise party was to help him understand how much he meant to those with whom he might not even have been acquainted. Otherwise, all of this careful organization would be for nothing. So for the duration of that afternoon, the Master Alchemist kept herself at arm’s length to allow Ari the experience he needed. It wasn’t until afternoon waxed into evening, and revelers returned to their daily lives, that she finally took a step forward again and reclaimed her sought-after spot next to Ari, linking her fingers between his own.

“I have a small confession. I know this will be hard to believe, but… I initiated for this to be organized completely behind your back.” She couldn’t hold back a smile and subsequent laughter for more than a handful of seconds. Everyone knew full well that such was hardly a confession… “Okay… you got me. That’s not my confession. The truth is… I didn’t really have time to get you a present. I mean, nothing real and tangible. Time wasn’t really on my side, and if I’m being honest… there’s nothing you want that you don’t already have. Even with my skills, I don’t think there’s anything I could craft that isn’t something you could easily obtain through other means. So for now… I guess all I can offer is a promise. An I-owe-you, if you will. You can collect whatever you want at a later date. You have my word.”

Nia placed her free hand over her heart, and her smile softened as she noticed the way the golden early-evening light played upon Ari’s rich skin. “You know… all of this is kind of scary for me. I mean, the fact you’re alright. Because the last time I saw you so healthy and full of life…” The last time… it wasn’t for me. It wasn’t a moment that belonged to me. Not the me that you know… “...the last time was a dream. And I woke up from it, wondering if it would ever not be a dream. It still almost doesn’t feel real to me, even though you feel so real. So… whole, and light, and no longer weighed down with stone. I need to be done with fearing I’m going to lose you. And you,” she playfully jabbed his chest with her index finger. “You need to be done with being afraid to live. Summer is almost over… now’s the time to get comfortable riding a horse. Or swimming in a clear-water lake. In terms of the latter… clothes are only optional, if that makes it any more enticing to you.”

If Casimiro weren’t in excruciating pain, he would have responded to Celene’s threatening aura with the delicacy it deserved. As it stood, his most immediate concern resided in his hands. If only his infernal jailer would release the pressure on his shackles before his fingers inflated beyond reckoning and he lost all sense and recognition. Once his senses faltered, any hope of bargaining his way into a better position went with the dozens of homunculus children who’d fallen during the long months of his captivity.

His reckless strategy bore some fruit, at least. The source of his vising agony corroded into flakes of rust and flurried to the floor in a useless pile. The effects were immediate, the deep-sea ear-rending split inside his brain lessening to a manageable level. But manageable did not equate to a cure. His hands were in a state; still swelled to twice their normal size, wrists gouged into gulleys, critically close to cutting off all circulation--or worse. He only had moments before the damage was irreparable. Only moments to prove to his only savior that he was worth keeping around, not only as an assistant, but as an accomplice.

Normally he would insist on more time to provide Celene a detailed explanation, after first receiving emergency aid and a full night’s rest, but he didn’t have the luxury of a fair negotiation. Through willowy breath and shaky limbs, contractions that sent his hands into involuntary spasms, he’d have to deliver. Deliver now, or never again. This was his only window.

“Grant me…one minute, while I reconnect with my golem,” he wheezed, the one concession he required and which Celene would have to fulfill if she wanted the information she desired. Whether or not she complied, he lowered to the floor, taking care not to bump his afflicted hands against any surfaces, too tender to survive even the faintest prick or touch. Closing his eyes, he reached into the space originally the size of a pinhole now broadened to a crawlspace, thanks to the removal of his magic-eliminating shackles. He called to his golem, and Laz responded, still muddy and far away, but no longer choppy and half-heard. He asked clarifying questions concerning this other Ardane and dictated Laz’s responses to Celene.

“Anetania Ardane. She goes by Nia. She speaks often of her sisters, and fondly of them. Palla. Celene.” He tilted his ear in the latter’s direction. “She lives now in…I have not heard of such a place,” he wrinkled his nose at the foreign name, but did not speak it aloud. He knew better than to surrender all of his leverage. “She was once in service to a powerful witch but has since shifted her alliances and is now loyal to my brother Aristide, Lord of Stella D’Mare.” Not like Celene cared a lick about titles or prestige aside from her specific niche, but Cas figured he’d add its weight now that her sister was actively involved in the lives of greater nobility. “My brother had a malady that petrifies his limbs to stone during times of high stress and duress. Previously thought impossible to cure. It has already taken the life of one Master Alchemist in the process, but this Nia Ardane…she succeeded in curing the impossible. With the help of—” he hesitated. Now was where the story truly took a turn for the impossible.

“This cannot be true, Laz,” he argued with the golem transmitting the message in his head. “How many coincidences will you send my way? I’ve never taken you for the humorous sort.”

“It is all true, Lord Casimiro,” Laz avowed, voice steadfast and unwavering.

One of the two names would mean nothing to Celene Ardane, but it turned Cas’s stomach with so much rancor, bile formed in his mouth and the pain of his hands temporarily receded. Alster Rigas. Ari had allowed Alster Rigas, trusted Alster Rigas in the same room to help perform a life-saving procedure alongside this…Nia Ardane personage?

“A powerful mage,” he muttered, dampening out the annoyance, the confusion, the rage, as he pressed on. “Nia Ardane had the help of a powerful mage. And another Master Alchemist. But you needn’t worry about him anymore, surely.” Despite everything, his chapped lips grew into an amused smirk. Nadira got her wish granted. Isidor Kristeva came in use to their family, in the end. He wondered why he left Ari's employ and defected to Mollengard, but now wasn't the time for quiet speculation. "If this explanation has sufficed, may I please ask again for your merciful hand?” He cracked open his light-sensitive eyes and looked up at her. As he was, kneeling on the floor by her feet, he looked like a supplicant waiting for benefaction. The thought sickened him worse than Alster Rigas meddling in the affairs of the Canaverises. “You will learn a great deal more should you invite my golem into your home. Not only will you hear the same news repeated verbatim, but you’ll gain a new asset to do with what you will.” While he’d been dutiful in relaying Laz’s replies like a good little messenger, one juicy piece of information he kept to himself. For now. Ari and Nia are involved…romantically.

As if the barrage of surprises couldn’t get more farfetched, Ari had fallen in love. With the sister of Cas’s cruel, insufferable captor. May she be more tolerable than this frigid bitch or gods help us; we are enslaved, all of us, by the mercurial auspices of House Ardane.

The crowd reacted to Ari’s uncalculated and very public display of affection in the expected number of ways. Some D’Marians gasped; others stood with mouths agape or turned away as if witnessing something not for their eyes. The majority, however, erupted into raucous cheers, hooting, whooping, and applauding in unison.

Only barely realizing what he had done, Ari pulled away from his impromptu kiss, a light russet forming on his cheeks. “That…was rather uncouth and wholly unprofessional on my end, revenge be damned. I am afraid I might have placed a target on your back.” As if to prove his point, he jerked his head at the few faces in the audience who cast looks of disapproval and borderline hostility at the recipient of Ari’s love.

“You might have laid it on a little thick; I agree.” Nadira inserted herself into the tender moment between her son and inamorata, more bemused than cross. “I had hoped we would address this with more delicacy, when the time came.”

“The time has come.” In a bout of uncharacteristic coolness, Ari shrugged off his missteps of protocol and took another swig of the purple drink. “Better today than tomorrow. I am given certain allowances on this day, wouldn’t you agree?”

He was not wrong, as evidenced by how the rest of his impromptu celebration unfolded. For the next handful of hours, Ari went around, chatting gaily to his fellow countrymen and citizens, accepting the small gifts they handed to him; cakes and sweet drinks, paper flowers, little carvings hewn from hunks of limestone–all trinkets he didn’t need, but never rejected. The community was giving back, and he would insult their pride by turning away their heartfelt offerings. For someone who always gave and seldom received, it felt almost…refreshing to switch positions. So often he had watched the world from his bedroom window, doomed to observe as a passive spectator and never an active participant. Too much involvement meant venturing out of his comfort zone, where it was almost certain he would exacerbate his stress levels and induce a flare-up before the eyes of his peers. Far too much was at risk to indulge his childish desires for friendship and belonging when one sour encounter, just one, would reap catastrophic circumstances.

He had always played on the safe side, always stepped lightly, dodging cracks and overcorrecting his stance to a balanced, untroubled gait. For decades, he wore caution like a fashion statement, donning himself in layer upon layer of silken, brocaded fineries and expertly concealing his vulnerabilities with art. Now that he no longer needed to worry about his insidious curse, why not overstep? Stomp, instead of tiptoe? Thrust headlong into an adoring crowd, and love recklessly before a wide-open door? What more had he to hide? He was done with the entire dreaded premise. It served him well, but it was no longer a necessity. It was time to move on.

Ari reconnected with Nia just as the celebration began to wane and the revelers retired to their homes. He would have insisted on inviting them to his villa for an aperitif, but Nadira not-so-gently reminded him that for once, they would dote on him, and any attempt at donning his host’s mantle would invite untold consequences, which she would invoke without mercy. Ari learned not to test his mother’s finite patience, and did not press for an after-party.

“Oh? That is quite the confession indeed. And how will you atone for your horrendous betrayal of trust?” Ari threaded his fingers through Nia's, strolling alongside her on a leisurely return walk to the villa. They treaded blithely through a thinning crowd, paying no heed to whoever questioned their union as it was so blatantly advertised. “I wonder why you felt so compelled to secrecy. I am by no means the obstinate sort who would call for an immediate cease and desist the moment I caught wind of such heinous plans. That is not like me at all,” he said, but with a playful wink.

“In all seriousness, you needn’t concern yourself with a gift when you’ve already handed me the greatest gift imaginable. You saved my life, Nia. Not only did you save it, but you restored what I thought lost forever. You revived me–and here I have been endlessly ungrateful, bogged down by circumstances I cannot change and believing I should not–I cannot–have this. That I have defied death, and swiped a life from someone far more deserving when it seems,” he gestured to the celebratory buntings still hanging from the rooftops, “nothing could be further from the truth. Today was a reminder that perhaps I am deserving. At least, according to my family, the majority of the D’Marians—and you.” He leaned in and planted a quick but tender kiss on her lips. “So I shall admit defeat by ceasing to believe I am defeated. If that statement made any sense; I have imbibed one too many of those purple drinks,” he laughed and it tingled like the bubbles that sparked the surface of the aforementioned beverage.

“I think it is high time for me to finally partake in all the activities we’ve discussed. To cease being afraid to live. Though, if I may be frank, since you were with me,” his voice dropped to a tinny whisper, afraid that speaking such thoughts aloud would allow them to come true, “I too have a fear. I preface my fear by saying I do not discredit your thorough work at all, yet I often wonder if I might…regress, or the curse will,” he hesitated, “re-emerge and it will be as before, as though nothing has changed. So if I were to live with reckless abandon as has always been my far-flung wish, only to lose my gains and revert to my former self, it would sting all the more, to taste freedom and have to forfeit the meal, despite its tantalizing first bite. It would drive me mad to have the memory of its flavor forever branded on my tongue, never to relive it again. I do not think I could handle a second recurrence. I haven’t the force of will. For that reason, I suppose it is easier to not engage, and live as I’ve been living, for it is what I know. Yet, that is no solution either, and not fair to you, to Alster, Isidor, Laz, my mother, and everyone who most ardently wished me well. You will have to excuse my cowardice, my failure to…rise to the occasion.” He plucked the flower crown from his head, the petals already drooping and detaching from their receptacles. He stroked the loose bits, inducing a fragrant, multi-colored rainstorm to shower their feet.

“Even if that day should come to pass, heavens forbid, I will live with far fewer regrets knowing I walked through every open door and refused to hunker down in the corner, close my eyes, and deafen my ears. I can hardly remove your anxieties, Nia, or mine, but we shall face what is frightening together, one unladen step at a time. My feet are light and nimble…nimbler,” he corrected, a little sheepish, “so I should be able to match your pace. On that note, let us ride to the countryside tomorrow morning. There are a number of lakes ideal for swimming, and the weather is supposed to be fair. Perhaps we might even find a stout tree to climb, or a field ideal for running. Yes, this all sounds enticing. I am ready for our next adventure, Nia. But first,” he stroked her cheek as he leaned into her ear, tone purposeful, needful, “our adventure needn’t wait until tomorrow, or take place out of doors. I am more than willing to start tonight…if you are.” 

It came with solitary territory, and always relying on oneself, that Celene was always aware of the possibility of intentional dishonesty. He could be lying. The thought circulated through her mind over and over again with each word the desperate man spoke, and it while interrupted, it did not entirely cease when this man uttered the name of her long-lost younger sister. Pain and desperation to the degree to which Casimiro was experiencing was a double-edged sword, and one of the very reasons that Celene Ardane, for all her utter lack of empathy for other people and living things, did not believe in torture as a method of control. Sometimes it would get you the information you sought; but more often, the tortured would say anything and everything to remove themself from the situation. Anything it would take to end the pain, be it the truth or not. Pain and fear were not an avenue to the truth, especially if the person in question did not have the sought-after information to begin with, and while shocking it was to hear her sister’s name pass Casimiro’s lips… he already knew who she was. He already knew of the Ardanes, knew about her family, their significance, and their capabilities. It went without saying that if he knew about her prior to their official introduction, he would also know about Nia. And if he knew, then he knew to lie.

But… that didn’t explain Palla, who hadn’t lived long enough to make an impression on anyone. Felyse Ardane had been so fiercely protective of the final child who was supposed to bring luck back to their family after she had it in her head that Anetania would be the family’s undoing. She kept her largely sheltered from the world, barely allowing her to entertain the public eye, waiting for the day she would finally rise as a capable Master Alchemist. Yet that day never came, and in true Ardane fashion, when Palla succumbed to the rigorous training, Felyse didn’t mourn, let alone alert the public. In true Ardane fashion, her plan was to look past the tragedy and move on to better things. In Palla Ardane’s short, tragic life, it had almost been as if she'd never existed. And in all the experience Celene had had with the public, never once had she heard discussion surrounding the life of her youngest sister. Casimiro Canaveris should not know about Palla. That information, especially today, years after her death, was not free-floating. Nia? She was still alive, at least insofar as Celene could deduce. She was still appearing in peoples’ lives. But not Palla. And that was what confirmed the truth for her.

Drawing a deep breath, the Ardane woman rolled her shoulders back and took Casimiro’s forearm. A woman of her narrow bone-structure was hardly strong enough to lift him from his supplicating position on the ground, but it sent the message that he was to stand. As soon as he was on his feet, she led him out of her bedroom, down the hall, another hall, and then up and down several flights of stairs. Finally, Celene pushed over a heavy door leading to a room full of glass vials (some empty, and some full of unidentifiable substances), instruments with indiscernible purposes, boxes whose contents were obscured by the wood that contained them, and very, very little light. 

Without a word of preamble, the slight woman reached a vial of clear liquid on a shelf over her head, and with her free hand, punctured one of Casimior’s fingertips with a sharp instrument to draw a few drops of blood, which she dripped directly into the vial. The translucent liquid immediately shifted colours, from pink to green to orange, finally settling on deep violet after recycling every colour of the rainbow, completely out of order. Celene opened a drawer at one of the room’s many work counters and withdrew two clean pieces of gauze, which she dipped into the violet solution until it was saturated. When every drop of the solution was absorbed, she withdrew the gauze from the now empty vial, and wrapped it around Casimiro’s swollen hands and wrists. The inflammation disappeared almost immediately, so fast that it was like watching air deflate from lungs. When Celene removed the gauze a second later, it was as if his appendages had never suffered trauma.

With the source of pain nullified, anything Casimiro said from that point forward should be with a clear mind. Not under the pressure of fear and pain… but that no more guaranteed the truth than when the future of his hands were at risk. “When Ilandria bathed itself in blood in its attempt to destroy or incapacitate all of its Master Alchemists, those who managed to plead for their life lost their hands. Both of them. But I’m sure that is not news to you.” Celene spoke calmly, matter-of-factly. “I have a deep understanding of the consequences of losing one’s hands. Records and anecdotes dictate my parents lost them before they were massacred at the Ardane estate. No one survived, there.” If the Ardane woman felt any emotion at all regarding that tragedy--the loss of her family, her home, her “people”--then she had already processed it and let it all go long ago. All that remained now were the facts. 

“I’m not an expert when it comes to earth mages. But it is my understanding that any magic user, or any user of alchemy, is quite useless to their craft without their hands. This is why you came to me tonight, in exchange for the information you have imparted so far. YOur threat has passed,” she gestured to his newly-healed hands, “but all I have from you in exchange is vague information and a promise for more. I know Anetanis is alive; I have known for some time. That you have heard her name over space and time is not impossible. But… you seem to know more than anyone outside of my immediate family should. Understandably, I am both curious and confused. And also rather suspicious, particularly where you tell me that if I want to know more about Anetania’s whereabouts and her current endeavours, you need your…” Celene paused, and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Your golem here, at this location. Clearly, your golem is already acting of its own accord. Should I agree to allow your golem access to this location, to my very important and delicate projects… you understand how I risk putting myself in jeopardy. Because regardless of what you or it might be able to tell me about my own family… Don’t misunderstand, but Casimiro, while you have certainly proven yourself useful to me these past months, I have yet to know your true intentions. Or what you might do, or what you might be capable of when you have this being within your reach again. So, before we move forward, I must ask…”

Celene folded her arms, cupping each of her elbows. A shift of the body which, in other people, might have indicated a protective stance. But not when it came to this Master Alchemist. It was a gesture of pure authority. The way she held herself--how she always held herself--was a subtle reminder that while was Mollengard’s prisoner and her assistant within these walls that any misstep at this point in time was highly inadvisable. Were this a ruse to gain control, then he would be sorry.

Yet, still… he had information (or at least, access to information) that she didn’t. And more than it was a true concern to her, it resonated painfully on her pride. “What control can you assert over this… golem, to ensure it acts in accordance with what I permit behind these walls? Your shackles are gone, Casimiro. Contrary to what I was cautioned not to do by your former captors. Not only have I saved your hands, I have given you access to your magic again, for the first time in what I imagine what must be a very long time. Not only does that make you indentured to me…” Celene took a step forward and dropped her arms to her sides. “You are indebted to me. So please explain how my sister’s involvement with your brother benefits me in any way. I also have my doubts that she achieved what you claimed: reversing this ‘petrification’ disease your brother suffers, or suffered. Even with the help of powerful magic, Master Alchemy isn’t often successful when it comes to reversing persistent illnesses. Short of hearing it from my sister and your brother, in the flesh, I’m sure you can understand why such a feat is not one that I can simply take as fact. Be that all as it may… I am listening, Casimiro. And I am open to reason and explanation.”

Celene searched his features carefully, but there was little to read in Casimiro’s visage at the moment aside from the vestiges of relief from the pain he had previously suffered. “Your golem likely already knows where you are; they may come here regardless of my wishes, I realize. I simply wish for reassurance that the risk I accept in allowing their presence behind these walls is worth the payoff. Because, if you can convince me it is…” What little light that glowed eerily from the wall sconces caught a flicker in Celene’s icy brown eyes. “Then I may be interested.”

Everything Ari had been holding back, for fear of relapse or simply because he did not believe he deserved good things, came forward in a deluge on the eve of his birthday, well after the surprise festivities when the sun went down. Neither he nor Nia held back, exploring one another’s bodies in ways that surpassed even their previous most adventurous intimate encounters. And it wasn’t just one and done: it was again, and again, into the secret hours of morning, at which point they were too exhausted to keep their eyes open. Yet even that pure rush of bliss that one only felt in the closest proximity to the person most valuable to them did not keep away the dreams.

While lesser than before, and not nearly as frequent, the nightmares for Nia hadn’t stopped. Her mother; her previous home. She continued to relive the night that her entire life changed, and sometimes, upon waking up, her hands still sometimes trembled. Nia woke just before dawn, a sheen of sweat coating her face, and one of those trembling hands immediately shot towards her neck if she awoke with a start. This time, it hadn’t been her mother’s death she had witnessed: this time, contrary to events as they had truly unfolded that fateful, horrible night… Celene had been trapped in the house with her. And she had watched her die, wearing that same ugly, jagged star necklace that her older sister had crafted for her before disappearing forever. But the necklace into which Nia’s fingers came into contact wasn’t that sharp-pointed star pendant. It was smaller, more delicate; the tiny cherry blossom atop a leaf that Ari had lovingly crafted into a pendant as a gift. She’d scarcely taken it off ever since tossing away that star pendant. She’d felt naked and exposed without something resting against her collarbone, and even now, despite that it was the only item adorning her otherwise naked body, the reassurance it brought was immeasurable and couldn’t be put into words. It was a reminder, gentle yet firm, that… Celene was dead. She was gone, even if she hadn’t passed as violently as she had in her dream. But Ari was very, very much alive. She’d finally chosen to live for the living, and not for the dead.

But that didn’t make the dream any less unsettling… or sit with her with any less prominence, moments upon moment after she had awoken.

“...just a dream. Didn’t mean to wake you…” The Master Alchemist, in her abrupt and violent awakening, must have also pulled Ari out of his slumber. Her hand dropped from her necklace and she wove her fingers between Ari’s. The way the first rays of sunlight hit his warm, golden skin, colouring him the picture of health that he was made the whispers of her nightmare fade all the more quickly. As Celene’s face faded, Ari’s grew brighter, and she was quickly reminded why she had a reason to be happy.

“Or… maybe I did. It’s still early… you’re not needed anywhere right away.” Be that as it may, however transient those nightmares were, they still startled Ari, and caused him undue concern. Nia only knew one way to divert his attention from it… and, her attention, as well.. Shifting her weight, she crawled atop the rich-skinned Canaveris lord, pressing her hands on either sides of his shoulders. “Indulge me one more time… and I promise I’ll leave you to all your important post-birthday responsibilities.”

More than just a distraction for him, a way to mitigate the fact she still had nightmares… this, Ari, was her connection to the world of the living. A way to keep her grounded and living for those she had sworn to live for. Because it was only through these connections--physical, emotional, companionate, romantic--that she would ever find a way to tuck Celene Ardane into a compartment of her mind where she no longer snuck into the forefront. Only then would she know she would fully be ready to acknowledge her sister’s passing, and say goodbye.

“Your Majesty, forgive my forward speaking, but I think it would well be worth your time to at least consider what this woman has to say. She’s offering her services in a time of, well…”

“In a time of what?” Caris stared down one of his many assistants from where he sat within his council chambers. A room which had been concerningly emptier and emptier, in Vega’s absence… and Haraldur’s. He hated this room, for so many reasons, but namely because he was obligated to sit in there and make himself available to be talked at. It was an annoyance on a good day, but in the past few days, a single person--not even one of his own people--had been vying for his attention. A woman--a mage--from Galeyn, of all places. But when he refused her the first time, she’d changed her story, and explained that she was originally from Stella D’Mare. Then, when that did not grant her an audience with him, she amended her skills. Not just a mage, a Star Seer, as if that word was supposed to mean something to him. He wanted to say he didn’t understand her persistence, but he did. After all, it was not a coincidence that she sought him out shortly after he had made his sister’s exile official. Certainly not the most popular decision he had made, but… well, that was among the many unpopular decisions he had made since becoming king. Someone had to make them. “In a time of what? Finish your sentence.”

“Un…certainty. I know you’ve felt the uneasy silence since the departure of your sister. Your majesty…” The man, who was probably around Vega’s age, used his words carefully. That was something that Caris had taken note of long ago; how carefully everyone spoke to him. People seldom spoke their mind, and while it came as something of a relief, it was also highly annoying. 

“Then tell me what she wants. This star seer from Galeyn. No, from Stella D’Mare. What vested interest does she have in Eyraille’s future?” Caris leaned forward and exhaled heavily. “Any why is she only now interested? Now that Vega and Haraldur will not be returning?”

The assistant sighed and rubbed the side of his face. “I have asked her. She wants to speak to you, specifically. I don’t believe she is dangerous, or else she would have acted at some point in these past three days that you have denied her an audience, Your Majesty. The sooner you hear her out, whether or not you accept her help or concern, the sooner she will go away. Or, at least, grant you a moment’s peace.”

“...fine. Consider me broken.” The young king slammed his hands down flat upon the table. He already had a headache; late nights of little sleep, and no reprieve during the day would do that to someone. “Send her in. She has a quarter of an hour, and no more, to say what she has to say, or otherwise convince me of whatever scheme she had been sitting on that involves my kingdom. Fifteen minutes and no more. That is my offer.”

It occurred to Cas that Celene wasn’t planning on healing his hands, and was in reality injecting it with some type of agitator to accelerate the inflammation or, in a diabolical reversal, cure the condition, but poison him by some other means. Slowly. He wouldn’t put it past her to annihilate another troublesome ant in her midst, just as she had done—had attempted to do—with Isidor Kristeva. Perhaps his risky maneuver failed him, and Celene was preparing to flush him out of her fortress workshop for good.

After silently watching the Master Alchemist’s diligent process—the prick of his finger, the reverse spectrum order of color emanating from the vial where his blood entered, the soaking of the bandages and the instant relief on his hands once they made contact—he had to admit, Celene had come through on her word. Moving around a few fingers experimentally, he was pleased by the ease with which he regained his dexterity. The pain, too, had retreated, leaving behind not a prickle as a memento. It was as if the last hour of panic and vise-boring pain hadn’t occurred at all. If he needed to say one nice thing about his captor, it was that she was efficient, and knew her craft well.

Basking in the aftermath of barely averted disaster, he massaged his palms while he listened to Celene go off about massacres and amputations. He nodded along, no stranger to the punishments doled out to any hapless captive who plied their trade with their hands. He perked up, however, when the subject inevitably circled back around to Cas and his nebulous intentions.

“Well, allow me to clear the air for you, Miss Celene. As you know, my golem and I share a psychic bond, but it is strengthened through proximity. The closer I am to them, the clearer the message received. This will be especially useful if we need to draw out a map for pinpointing the location of your sister and my brother. My golem is loyal to me, and if I am loyal to you, then you gain an additional asset to your team. An able bodyguard, should you need one, or better yet, a test subject. I would lend them to your cause in a gesture of goodwill. It is not as if my golem is an autonomous being. They are made to obey orders without question and cannot feel pain.” He rolled his wrist a few revolutions. Funny how his mental faculties had sharpened moments after the pain disappeared, as if they’d already forgotten the ordeal from earlier. Content to lounge, he had to take care not to get comfortable and too accommodating, lest he lose whatever edge he gained.

“You wish to know my intentions, so I will be transparent with you. It should come as no surprise that I want my freedom. A freedom legally granted by Mollengard, mind you, as it would mean nothing if I were to make a daring escape and end up a wanted criminal by the largest, most powerful nation on the continent. I intend to earn my freedom through honest means, so you can rest assured I’m not looking to deceive you. That fundamentally goes against what I’m trying to build for myself. I am willing to pay my indenture, and all the better if whatever information I provide serves you well. So allow me to sweeten the pot so that I may get what I want, faster, which in turn will get you what you want at the same accelerated pace. You wish to raise ranks in Mollengard? To become the brightest star, the premier Master Alchemist, wanting for nothing and gaining whatever you desire? Through my connections, I can make it easier for Mollengard to acquire the lands they so seek. I am, after all, a nobleman of high esteem, with a pushover of a brother who is currently in charge of an entire nation. Even better; that pushover of a brother is in love. With your sister.” He had meant to hold on to that tidbit of information a little longer, but in his post-recovery high, he couldn’t resist. 

“And for you, Miss Celene, I am happy to yield most of the credit—just as long as I am granted my freedom.”

Many times did Tivia yearn to barge into the council room unannounced. Despite her elongated years and the discretionary nature of her work, she was not a patient person and didn’t take well to being holed away in Eyraille’s nearby inn for several days like a problematic candle flame waiting to be snuffed. She could have, at any moment, circumnavigated protocol and appeared in front of his Majesty whenever she desired just to prove that walls and locks would not hold her at bay. For pure spectacle, she was tempted to show up on the third day, regardless of permission, as a means to show she didn’t need permission granted in order to snag an audience with the king, and that her previous days of waiting had been a courtesy.

Alas, she knew making a statement wouldn’t buy her the king’s trust or even an appointment in his court. The boy-king of Eyraille was too gloomy a personality to laugh off a breach in his defenses to listen to the one who breached discuss the necessity of reinforcing the kingdom’s borders. He would accuse Tivia of mocking his council with illusory hijinks and turn her away before she even compiled her opening argument. Much as she hated the alternative, Tivia begrudgingly and obediently bade her time until she was summoned. 

There was no certainty he would accept her request; in fact, he’d denied her twice over, and no manner of clarification could make her case seem more appealing. Galeyn, Stella D’Mare, Rigas, Star Seer—empty qualifiers, merely there to bolster her importance as a personage worthy of meeting. At least, minimally worth meeting. She wasn’t fool to believe King Caris would consider her prestige as impressive, let alone notable. She only had to sell herself as notable enough, persistent enough, for an initial audience. Once there, she would have his ear.

By the third day, her persistence finally bore fruit, when a guard came to her chambers at the inn and escorted her to the palace councilroom, where the king had allotted her fifteen minutes to speak.

How generous, she thought with a tilted smirk. I will need only five.

On entering the chambers, she swept into a bow as the herald announced her name and title and, as per the king’s prior instruction, wasted little time dallying.

“Thank you for receiving me, your Majesty. I realize you would rather this meeting didn’t happen, so I will spare you a host of pleasantries and non-sequiturs. I’ll be frank. Extremely frank.” She spread her arms wide, a stance of openness and transparency. “Yes, Vega and Haraldur know I am here, but I have not come at their behest. Not at all. They’ve rather a few good reasons to despise my existence. You see, I fucked her husband back when they had a falling out, and when she found out about it, beat me to within an inch of my life.” Some of the guards and advisors stood a little more alert at her blunt, shameless statement. Perfect; she had their undivided attention. “I haven’t come to beg for their reinstatement, especially as we have absolutely no love for each other. My reasons have nothing to do with them, in fact.” As she spoke, she eased closer to where Caris was seated at the head of the table; incremental steps, barely counted as such. Her soles glided against the floor as she neared, never straying far from the watchful eyes of the kingsguard and Caris’s many advisors.

“I’m a star seer. That might not mean much to you, but in short, I have regular access to important information that has not yet come to pass, but will. Imminently. I’ve come to Eyraille because the stars have shown me its fate. Eyraille will fall by Mollengard’s hands. But you needn’t take my word for it. I invite you to see for yourself.” With her arms still spread, the room grew dark before the eyes of the room’s affected occupants, and visions assailed their view, unavoidable even if they closed their eyes. For each person, the vision unraveled the same. Mollengardian forces attacked from within, from above, electrocuting rocs from the sky and watching their broken bodies fall over the cliff sides below to join other broken, bloody bodies. The imposing gates of the outer walls were battened aside, punched through, as thousands of boots marched into the city, torching houses and yanking screaming women and children out of their now-burning homes. Rivulets of blood entered the water supply. Heads of important officials appeared on pikes outside the palace walls, a reminder to the people of the conquered. Caris’s head was among the number impaled on a pike, dead eyes averted from the carnage ongoing at the once impregnable mountain fortress nation. The Eyraillian blue and silver was torn off the high tower and left in the gutter to soak in mud and refuse, replaced by the red and black standard of Mollengard. Ravens feasted on bloated corpses in the lakes, growing fat from the glut of bounty. As soon as the vision appeared, it faded, receding in the background like floaters in one's eyes, until it was gone, and the scene returned to normal. 

“The stars tell me this path is an inevitability, that it will happen no matter what we do, but if I believed them, I wouldn’t be here. We can avert this fate. Allow me to enter your court, your Majesty, and work towards preventing this disaster. I am not only a star seer aimed with prescient knowledge, but a capable mage and warrior. I’ve fought in wars and seen the ugliest side of them.” Gently, she cupped the side of her ruined face, branded by fire, despite the pains she had taken over the years to minimize the damage. “Together we will influence a better outcome. One of victory and triumph.”

Do I seriously believe a word I am saying? Why was she even in Eyraille, brokering deals and making propositions? As a last-ditch effort to prove the unerring stars wrong? To exploit a loophole by involving herself in the proceedings? She could not interpret her own fate; either the stars forbade it, or she had no predetermined path mapped out for her at birth. She was unstuck, a wandering satellite free of her planet’s gravity, spiraling out of orbit, further into the abyss. If her calculations were correct, this made her a wildcard, not accounted for by the universe. Worst case scenario, her involvement wouldn’t change anything. Best case—

Well, she would have to see for herself, if possible. The closer she insinuated herself into the daily minutiae of life, the vaguer, less reliable her interpretations. As it stood, this was the only other way to save Eyraille. So she hoped.

Haraldur brought the flask to his lips. Just a little pick-me-up, he reasoned, but try justifying himself to Vega, who wouldn’t stay silent if he partook in her presence. In fact, he feared she would want to join him, and while he’d welcome their brief but much-needed moment of catharsis, having both parents too drunk to function would signal to the palace attendants their irresponsibility and lack of control. Better to sneak in a few sips before his shift and avoid judgement altogether.

It had been a week since the twins’ birthday. A week since Tivia Rigas swooped in and dumped another steaming pile of unavoidable news at his feet. Hadn’t it been enough to learn about the king’s excommunication order? Now he had to grapple with the fact that he had another sister, one he was sure wanted little to do with him even when they had fronted as cousins.

The saddest part of the revelation was; Haraldur believed it. He believed Tivia’s claim, because he knew his father well. His mother’s death had devastated him, to the point where he never recovered from the loss. According to his father’s barest recollections of that horrific time, Haraldur’s mother had fallen gravely ill during her pregnancy. For months she lay bedridden, more unconscious than awake, and the premature grief must have sent his father into a frenzy. Desperate for relief, he sought Sigrid’s mother, and they had an illicit affair. Either his father must not have known she was with child until after she had given birth, or she hid the truth so expertly from everyone, including her new husband, that even he assumed infant Sigrid was a product of a legitimate union. It helped that the infant took after her mother, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, than her rusty-haired, dead-faced sire with the drinking problem. In this specific scenario, parentage didn’t mean a thing. Her father had no hand in her upbringing, nor did try to stake a claim in young Sigrid’s life. For that, Haraldur was bottomlessly thankful.

What did it matter, then, to recognize their blood relations and go by brother and sister? Why had it mattered at all to refer to each other as cousins over the past two years? Perhaps he should finally go the way of Sigrid…and stop caring.

It doesn’t matter. None of this matters…

Fate, however, must have answered to Tivia Rigas and her sadistic machinations, for Haraldur had taken five steps towards the Forbanne barracks on the hill outside the palace…

and practically collided with Sigrid.

“Sigrid,” he exclaimed, strangely out of breath despite trekking up the same gentle hill multiple times a day. The blonde warrior was accompanied by Bronwyn Kavanagh, as usual, and the latter greeted him with a smile and bow of her head. “Are you off to the barracks this morning, Haraldur?” she said conversationally.

“Ah, yes.” He coughed into his sleeve. Could Bronwyn smell the whiskey on his breath? “Just a regular shift. My soldiers are still figuring out what to call me besides ‘Commander Sorde,’ and I haven’t come up with an alternative, myself. Something shorter than Haraldur, at least.”

“I see. Well, I can’t help you there,” Bronwyn smiled guiltily. “I’m terrible with names. My brother’s great at them, but I take it you don’t want whatever he comes up with.”

“Definitely not,” he said, with an amused smile. “One time he called me ‘Morning Wood.’ So no, I’m good.”

"He’s always had choice names for me, too, but, well that’s what brothers do.” An awkward beat of silence passed as Bronwyn nudged Sigrid at her emphasized mention of ‘brother.’

“Well, it looks like you’re busy, so I’ll be heading out. Take care, you two.” Haraldur blurted and rushed away from them before Sigrid gathered up the nerve to speak. If she would speak. 

The fact that Casimiro ultimately sought his freedom was no surprise to Felyse. Was there anyone in Mollengard--officials not excluded--who didn’t wish to break ties with this tyrannical empire? Of course he wanted to walk and talk and breathe without permission. What troubled her was what he was willing to do, and how far he was willing to go to get what he wanted. He knew that cooperating with her would be far more beneficial and less perilous than plotting an escape; he also knew that appealing to her in whatever way he could, big or small, would facilitate his journey toward his ultimate goal. The trouble was that just because he was willing to work with her didn’t mean he was a friend; it hardly meant he was an ally.

This would be far from the Ardane alchemist’s first business transaction. After all, her entire relationship with Mollengard, and the reason for her being here at all was purely transactional. Mollengard provided her with ample supplies and the space she needed to progress Master Alchemy to heights it had never known. Ultimately they would benefit from her research and progress, so it was within their best interests to keep her happy. Casimiro was no different: he would benefit by finding himself in good standing with her, and she would benefit from his privileged knowledge and… curious golem companion, whom he was more than willing to hand over to meet his own means.

Fortunately for Casimiro, Celene had never required “friends” or “allies” to get ahead. Which meant his standing was no different than that of Mollengard… and, given what he already revealed, his ‘connections’, as he put it, may be too valuable to pass up.

“So, to be clear… you are willing to hand over your precious golem, further Mollengard’s conquests and put my name towards those victories… all in hopes that you will reach such good standing as to convince Mollengard to release you?” The poor fool. Did he truly believe there was any means of escaping Mollengard? So many died trying. Many others were exterminated when they no longer showed promise for being useful, or having outlasted their use. And the ones who remained useful…

Well… why would Mollengard set free their assets? But that wasn’t for Celene to bring to light. If Casimiro was naive enough to nurture such a dream, far be it from her to snuff it out. Let him believe whatever he wanted, if it would keep him compliant, and always motivated to do his best.

After all, should events not pan out as he expected, then in the end, he would only have himself to blame for chasing those futile dreams. “You’re an intelligent man, Casimiro. I wouldn’t have chosen you as an assistant had I ever thought otherwise.” Celene folded her arms, demurely cupping each of her elbows in her palms. “Surely you know that nothing in life is ever guaranteed. Even I cannot assure you that Mollengard will see fit to release you for your efforts to further their cause. However, as someone who has spent years earning their respect and whom they hold in high regard… you are right to think I am capable of skewing those odds in your favour. Consider me interested. Especially since you, of all people, seem to have insight into the only remaining member of my family.”

That was the part which didn’t quite sit well with Celene. She had long since been aware that her younger sister--aside from herself--was one of the last surviving members of the prestigious Ardane family. And that was all she had ever needed to know about Anetania’s fate to remain content. She was a survivor, and would continue to survive, and what was the point of investigating beyond that? Anetania was free of their mother, free of Ilandria, free of everyone and everything that had once tied her down. What she was doing with that freedom was neither here nor there, and remained entirely her choice. Celene wouldn’t have cared to know that her sister was, of all things, in love… but now that she knew, it felt almost invasive, on her part. That a stranger who had never known Anetania suddenly had more details regarding her existence than her own sister rubbed her the wrong way. However much concerning herself with her little sister would be an unwanted distraction from her hard work, Celene and this man who cradled his hands before her were suddenly inextricably connected through the romantic relations of their siblings. And she could not be the only one in the dark with regard to that affair.

“I think I will take the chance to invest in you, Casimiro. Bring your golem here, and I will grant you the freedom you need to work your magic--more figuratively than literally. Though I trust you understand the repercussions of stepping out of line.” With a gesture, Celene beckoned him to follow her out of the dark room, and closed the door behind her. A resonating “clunk” suggested that it locked as soon as it was vacant, although there was no obvious mechanism to be seen. “I am particularly interested how exactly my sister has become entangled in your brother’s life. What you said she’s done is alchemically impossible as far as I understand. It’s something I would need to see to believe.”

Well, she looked the part of a star seer. Not that Caris had ever seen one (or heard tell of one until recently), but the pointed ears and partially concealed face certainly could only have belonged to a magic user. He couldn’t deny his sister and her husband had made powerful connections during their travels. Although, if this Tivia Rigas was to be believed, she had not come here as favour to Vega or Haraldur. On the contrary, she did not present herself as a friend to them at all, or as someone who was even on particularly good terms with the exiled prince and princess of Eyraille. The young king certainly never would have guessed the reasons why this woman, Tivia Rigas, found herself in good standing with either of them.

“I am inclined to believe you, Rigas. Because it wouldn’t be the first time my sister’s Sorde blood has boiled to the surface and burned another. Did she happen to be drinking at the time?” Caris leaned back in his seat, already knowing the answer. “A habit I suppose she has yet to bury. Although, under such circumstances, perhaps her fury was warranted. But this only leaves me with more questions than answers. Regardless of your standing with my sister, I find it difficult to believe it purely coincidental that you should happen to come here shortly after they received word of their exile--which, I might add, was not a decision I made lightly, contrary to what I’m sure you, they, and others believe. As much as Vega wants to decry that Eyraille turned their back on her for the carelessness that led to her pre-marital pregnancy, she was very much the most beloved figurehead in this kingdom.” Because Eyraille can’t love me. It had never wanted to.

But if this woman presented herself to him as one who did not partake in everyone’s propensity to fall for his older sister’s charm, he was curious, and inclined to believe her. Not to say there was no possibility she had carefully planned her narrative beforehand, and her disposition could well be a ruse, but her demeanor did not lend the impression that she cared for Vega much at all. “So then you present yourself as a fortune teller. And suddenly, the tragic fate of my kingdom is imminent… now that I have exiled my sister.” Damn… and he’d been so hopeful that this wasn’t some ruse to reinstate Vega and Haraldur. Did this Tivia Rigas really take him as a fool? That he couldn’t put two-and-two together from her words alone? Caris shook his head and straightened his posture in his seat. “I’m sorry, Miss Rigas, but you have lost my interest. You may show yourself ou--”

His words went unfinished when the room before him suddenly disappeared, and Caris suddenly found himself looking upon what was clearly the bloody remains of his home. And… the bloody remains of himself. Eyraille was no more, yet another piece of carnage in Mollengard’s wake in its ongoing quest for domination. And he… well, the implication was clear: that he had let it happen. He, Eyraille’s king, had not heard the pleas of his people and the words of his closest advisors. He, Eyraille’s king, had brushed off warning signs and words of caution. He, Eyraille’s king, had turned a blind eye to the fact that his home, his family, and everything he and Vega had worked towards in reforming this kingdom after the passing of their tyrannical father, was at risk and crumbling before his feet.

And then it was gone, in a matter of seconds. The carnage and blood had disappeared, and the dark, wooden walls of the council chamber had returned. Tivia Rigas once again stood before him, a knowing expression on her face, likely with regard to the impact she was sure she had made.

And an impact it was--but, perhaps, not at all what she had hoped for. “You… dare to put visions in my head? Me? In Eyraille, of all places? Are you even vaguely aware of this kingdom’s relationship with magic?!”

The irate king stood quickly from his seat and slammed his hands down hard upon his desk. Papers fell and scattered, ink spilled and quills lost their nibs, immediately putting the guards on the edge and forcing his advisors to scramble back. The young king made no effort to tame his boiling Sorde blood, and saw no reason to, but it was possible that the room’s other occupants couldn’t decide whether the vision was more horrifying, or the king’s reaction. “And you have the gall to then ask to become a part of my court?! I daresay you are lucky, Tivia Rigas, that the vision you have just decided to project remains within the confines of this room, and within context. Because magic users in this kingdom have historically met terrible fates for much lesser transgressions. You have chosen a bold move, assuming you are aware of this kingdom’s history!”

One of the king’s assistants on standby, a woman a few years Vega’s senior, turned her face toward the wall to hide tears. One of the guards now held his spear in trembling hands. If Tivia had sought to make an impact, however fictitious the vision might be, then she had certainly succeeded.

“You have demonstrated a fraction of your power, Tivia Rigas, to this entire room. You presented yourself as a powerful mage, and I believe you. No doubt, we all do. But what guarantee do we have that this vision is genuine? How are we to know that you haven’t fabricated it, for the sake of frightening me--and this entire kingdom--into accepting you into this court?” The young king frowned and narrowed his eyes. “What reassurance have we that your intent isn’t to infiltrate the Eyraillian court for your own gains?”

“..I’ve had nightmares, your majesty. I’m not the only one.” Caris’s assistant turned her face away from the wall and spoke quietly. Desperately, with fear in her eyes. “We’re afraid. So many of us are afraid of losing our home. This mage has spoken to no one. She would have had no preconceived notion of our fears. I don’t believe her intent here is malicious--do any of you? Anyone?” She then addressed the rest of the room: the advisors and guards. No one said a word. No one called her out on her fears or suspicions. Their silence was their agreement.

Caris’ eyes darted from one person to the next, none who chose to meet his calculating gaze. Certainly, he was rattled; no one could be shown such a jarring vision and remain unaffected. But they were afraid. If the Sorde legacy had proven anything, it was that fear was the quickest path to compliance. “So you’ve spoken, then, on behalf of the people? Is this what I am hearing? Well, then. I suppose we have our answer. Welcome to Eyraille’s court, Tivia Rigas.”

The young king crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, pushing past the guards until he reached the door. “Let it be known, then, that should this foreigner in our court lead us to downfall, you-” he gestured to the room at large with one hand “--may all bear witness as to the catalyst of this decision. That this woman has been admitted to this court upon your request--against my better judgement.”

As if it wasn’t already clear that this conversation was over, Caris took his leave, and accented the discussion’s conclusion with the heavy slamming of the door behind him.

None of this was Haraldur’s fault. He had not asked Tivia ro reveal this information, and Sigrid had no reason to hold any ill will against him. But that didn’t make being around him any easier. The blonde warrior had traversed so many different roles and identities since meeting the man who happened to be her brother that she didn’t know what to think anymore. Life had been so much simpler when she was merely a Dawn Warrior and existed only relative to her brothers and sisters within the Dawn Guard. But then, things had grown more complicated when she’s fallen in love, became Gaolithe’s wielder, lost the love of her life… and then lost control of her life. She’d become a witch’s slave, the unwilling killer of children and families, and from there, Sigrid still didn’t know where to go. Since then she had been drifting through the fog of uncertainty alongside Bronwyn Kavanagh, who drifted through her own uncertainty, and what kept her grounded were the few tiny certainties that she did have. 

It just so happened that Haraldur had been one of those certainties--until recently. Why Tivia’s news had shaken then, Sigrid couldn’t explain. He was still the same man, with the same values, and the same care for her. He’d saved her life when she hadn’t deserved it, and in return… she’d turned from him. Run from him. He didn’t deserve this, and she knew it. But what she didn’t know was how to digest all of this information. All of this rapid change that left her uncertain of what was real every moment of every day she was awake. What would happen next? What earth-shaking revelation would she have to endure, causing her to rethink everything she thought she knew?

This wasn’t about Haraldur. It wasn’t even about Tivia. It was purely Sigrid, and her inability to adapt to change and settle on a new identity that fit her. Because nothing seemed to ‘fit’ anymore, and just when she thought she had settled, she was forced to acknowledge new changes. 

Your father is still your father. You had no relationship with the man who sired you: why should anything feel different? This news doesn’t change anything. Poor Bronwyn had been reminding her of this for days, in hopes that eventually, the logic would still. Bless the faoladh woman for her patience and everything she put up with. The former Dawn warrior was well aware she was far from easy to be around amidst this confusion, and she was lucky that Bronwyn was willingly choosing to remain a constant, and a non-judgmental one at that. Without her reassuring presence… Sigrid wasn’t sure where she would be.

Bronwyn, however, also knew when it was best that she be absent when the situation called for it--and this afternoon, as they just so happened to run into Haraldur, was one of them. Not because Sigrid demanded or even wanted her to leave her alone with her cous--well, her brother, but she had to face Haraldur sooner than later. 

“Are the twins approaching that inconsolable stage of toddlerhood following their birthday? Or have I driven you to drink?” While she wasn’t close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, this overly jovial behaviour was classic of Haraldur when he felt he had to hide the fact he’d imbibed. But Sigrid attempted the questions not out of malice, and even offered a sliver of a smile as she brushed her hair from her face. It hung in unkempt waves down her shoulders and back; failing to weave it into a braid was always a sign the young woman was struggling in one way or another. “Because, if it’s me, then I have to apologize. And none of this… it obviously isn’t your fault. It’s no one’s. You’re not to blame anymore than Tivia is. Reality doesn’t care about feelings. Facts don’t care about emotions and what you want to hold dear. This is on me, Haraldur. It’s just another constant reminder that I have yet to find a role and a place suited for me in this world. Perhaps…” She heaved a deflated sigh and looked off into the distance, toward where the Dawn Guard was station. “Perhaps I never should have left the Dawn Guard. And for all of this spiraling… I have no one but myself to blame.”

Contrary to what Celene believed, Casimiro was no fool. He understood his untenable situation and in spite of his abysmal odds, strove to reach the best possible outcome for himself. If siding with Celene would get him there the fastest, then he would put his lots in with her…until a better deal came along. He saw the discerning look in Celene’s dark eyes; she thought as much about his character. No longer willing to hide his intentions behind a servile, ready-to-please countenance, Cas laid the ugliest part of himself on the table for dissection. For all the years wasted as Canaveris Head, only a small handful of people were privy to what lurked under his charming facade and sweet but hollow words. Unfortunately, one of those people was also his eldest son, Nicodemo. The other, Nadira. Ari no doubt witnessed his ruthless machinations on occasion, but he always justified them as a necessary step towards maintaining the peace and status quo. The former two, on the other hand, despised his true self.

No matter, he thought, because to climb the ranks of Mollengard, he needed everyone to think him morally depraved enough that he would obey any order without question, however heinous. They valued soldiers to further the cause, people unafraid to soil their hands. Sure, they would either discard him whenever he fulfilled his use, or tighten the lead on his leash and choke every ounce of life from him until he turned blue, but even they couldn’t balk at his value if he did something that monumentally tipped the scales in their favor. At the very least, he and Celene would live it up in cushy accommodations in Felstrond, East Mollengard’s most opulent city rife with the rich and elite. Surely he could foster connections there, and when all was said and done, abscond in the middle of the night on a ship set for the Far Continent, alone and finally free of his unrelenting past.

Whether Celene considered him idealistic or laughably naive, Cas was nothing if not a pioneer. And pioneers thought big, took even bigger risks, and if they survived, reaped the reward. Considering all he’d been through, Cas was due for a reward. By the heavens, he deserved one.

“Something like that, yes,” he said, agreeing with Celene’s summary of his desires. “Except I thought you only chose me for your assistant because my competition amounted to a crock of dullards who could hardly read their own names. Hard to choose the cream of the crop when resources are scarce. Not to downplay my intelligence, of course. In fact, I’d argue it was rather fortuitous that our paths crossed, considering the curious connection forged between our siblings. Laz will regale you with the details, I’m sure. And yes, if you find it useful, I am willing to contribute my golem to your cause. As is, I’ve had Laz on loan to my brother for some decades now. It’s time I collect what is mine, now that Ari has your adoring sister at his service to help him design a replacement golem or two.”

Pleased to hear their negotiations had reached a satisfying conclusion, Cas bowed his head in lieu of offering his hand to shake. Not out of disrespect; Ari’s abhorrence to touch prompted Cas to adopt a different custom in an attempt to normalize contactless transactions, and he supposed the gesture persisted, several years later. Speaking of Ari’s touch aversion, how did he engage with Celene’s sister? Was theirs a chaste, non-physical relationship, or was Nia akin to the abusive Chara Rigas forcing her love on him, regardless of his wishes?

If that were the case, then gods save Ari. Did he ever learn to keep away from toxic individuals?

“It is a pleasure to do business with you, Miss Celene,” he said, rising from his seat to follow her out the door. “Our goals are the same; there will be no stepping out of line if we are queuing together for the same place in it. As far as my brother and his miraculous recovery…” He fell silent a moment, surprising even himself when he eventually admitted, “I, too, would like to see this for myself.”

There existed a brief moment where Tivia might have earned a modicum of respect within Vega and Haraldur’s family. Once, they invited her into their home, allowed her contact with their children, and seemed ready to move on from their fraught and complicated history. Perhaps their uneasy truce would have persisted, if not for Tivia’s compulsion to offer updated information regarding Haraldur and Sigrid’s blood relations. While she wouldn’t call them her enemies—their interests were aligned, after all—if Caris thought they despised each other, and if that stance would earn her his favor, she didn’t feel the need to correct him. Even so, he seemed convinced she had come to beg for Vega and Haraldur’s reinstatement. She might not have reliable access to the stars in her elevated position of involvement, but she wasn’t daft enough to believe using that angle would change the stubborn boy-king’s mind.

Her next move was risky, and detrimental to her success if it backfired, but simply telling Caris and his court the certainty of Mollengardian occupation paled to seeing it unfurl in their mind’s eye like a bloody tapestry of war. She heard the gasps resound from the room—and inevitably, Caris’s cry of outrage and resulting tantrum.

Tivia remained calm and stately during his unseemly tirade. Someone needed to. Nadira Canaveris, her mother-in-law in another world, taught her how to gird against entitled politicians and spoiled brats. Usually, the two were one and the same. We don’t bow our heads to those who can’t keep theirs, came her oft-dispensed advice. However, a twinge of doubt shivered through Tivia, her fingers curling and uncurling. Had she made the right move, or dashed her chances of reaching Eyraille for good?

Did I fuck up again?

“Yes, I am aware of this kingdom’s history,” she said coolly, electing to remain unruffled, even when she was tempted to slap the king out of his frenzy. “I merely thought we had moved past it, considering your recent stance on magic. Your kingdom opened its doors to my Rigas brethren. In fact, you allowed Alster Rigas to perform an invasive magical procedure to save your sister’s babies in utero. They would not have survived, otherwise. Your former royal physicians, Daphni and Elias, use magic in their practice. You came to the aid of Stella D’Mare, a city rife with magic users, and gave us a chance to flee before Mollengard gained a foothold within our borders and closed off our escape. We haven’t forgotten the debt we owe you. Whether or not you still consider Stella D’Mare your ally, I have come to resolve our debt. Decry my intentions however you like. I have nothing to gain from this appointment, but everything to lose. As you do. All of you.” 

Midway through her appeal, she realized it was wasted on Eyraille’s king. Instead, she opened her arms wide and turned to the guards and advisors, still shaken and alarmed from the vision she forced upon them.

“You are right to respond to my arrival with suspicion, but I am not the first Rigas to cross these hallowed borders. If it’s endorsements you need, I can provide them. If you require insurance, I’m sure there are any number of places you can imprison me until I earn your trust. And if you think I'm a spy…well, I wouldn’t be a very good one, seeing how I’m deaf and only have one eye. I couldn’t do any reconnaissance further than ten feet away and only if I’m in full line of sight. A simple closed door would thwart me.” That much was true. But they didn’t need to know about her tendency to vanish out of sight, rendered untraceable. 

Just when she thought she lost the argument, she prepared for the guards to escort her from the councilroom, until a woman spoke up on her behalf. To properly “hear” her, she tilted her head at a severe angle, favoring her good eye, and read the affirmation on her lips. And just like that, she was accepted into Eyraille’s court, winning her position through fear. Oh, wouldn’t the mongrel be so proud? After all, she took a page from his book and tailored her illusory magic as a projection tool, the same method Hadwin Kavanagh used to drive her father insane. …The father she ran through with a spear of blinding yellow etherea, a technique he taught her in a hasty bid to bolster her relevancy in the Rigas hierarchy as a dispensable soldier. If he couldn’t marry her off as an accessory to another man, at least she could fight and die a hero for a cause. 

I am nothing but a multitude of imitations taken from the men in my life.

As the wrathful king unsurprisingly stormed off in a huff, Tivia stood in his aftermath, an awkward, unwanted set piece left behind for others to deal with. She glanced again at the woman who advocated for her, and bowed her head as if to say, You deserve my respect.

“I realize I’m not a welcome or eager addition to your court, but thank you all the same. For peace of mind, you’re free to lodge me somewhere out of sight. I understand my presence may be off-putting and I’m better off hidden away in the shadows of the public.”

There is still hope, she convinced herself. Hope for Eyraille. My interference mitigated several horrible fates before. Alster, stuck forever in the realm of the night beasts. The masquerade ball disaster. Nia, trapped in the mirror world. I stepped in and changed the results, even when the stars showed me an unchangeable fate. 

I can change them again. I can rework the stars…and get the result I want.

Except…she couldn’t ignore the final words uttered by Caris before he absconded from the room with a door slam indicative of a moody teenage boy mad at his parents for some slight or another. Should this foreigner in our court lead us to downfall…

Downfall.

He wasn’t wrong. Tivia did lead people to their downfall. An entire world she couldn’t save, for she was the one to light the match, unwittingly, and incinerate the place until nothing remained, not even cinders.

Just ghosts of memories she was doomed to carry until they, too, faded to nothing.

Her nail dug into the bare spot where a ring once rested around her finger.

Haraldur was ready to excuse himself and resume his trek to the barracks, but Bronwyn beat him to it.

“I just realized I forgot something back at the palace. I’ll see you two later!” And she hurried off, leaving the two alone, in their forced company.

He was under no obligation to stay, yet something stayed his feet, arresting his movements. A compulsion, maybe. A far-flung hope for… His mind blanked. For what? He’d already resolved to move on. Sigrid made her stance clear. She wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship, especially one that hinged on an illicit, forgotten history to which neither was privy until decades later, when learning about it no longer seemed relevant. They were raised in two entirely different households, separated by secrets, grief, death, war, and forced emigration. If Tivia had never made mention of it at all, how would their relationship have evolved? As strangers united under Galeyn’s banner? Mere acquaintances, connected by friends and allies? Perhaps they would have been better off developing the what-if organically, not through some auspicious inkling foretold by the stars. Either way, they were nothing, because they chose to be nothing to each other.

This time, Haraldur found the strength to unfreeze his feet. He was about to say farewell to Sigrid, but she began to speak, and he couldn’t well walk away from her now!

“I’m not—it’s not,” he shifted uncomfortably, straightening the buckle on his belt, “it’s a combination of things,” he finally admitted with a sigh. “It’s everything. Everything closing together, all at once, and I just need things to slow down. In about a year’s time I went from a Prince, to a commander, to a corpse, a father, a Gardener, to something not quite human, back to a nobody, and now to a—“ he clamped on his tongue, hesitant to speak his new title aloud. A brother. “Don’t worry. You’re not the only reason I’m drinking. Just…don’t tell Vega. I don’t want to encourage her. Or concern her.”

She had more to say, and he let her continue. He perked up at her apology, the hope daring to spring out of him, but he tamped down the sensation. He knew better than to read too much into it.

“Klara—not my daughter, but my sister—she loved you dearly. That much I remember. When you would leave for the day after your play sessions, she’d always ask, ‘When is sissy coming back?’ Maybe she knew something we didn’t, at the time. She was always more intuitive than me.” He looked down at his belt, fiddling with the sword buckled into its scabbard. “I can’t tell you what your role is. Even I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. If I didn’t have my kids, I’d be more lost than I am now, trying to figure out why I’m being pulled in so many different directions, but ultimately going nowhere. All I know is that my family needs me.” He paused, trying to conceal the knots of pain that suddenly twisted at his brow. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Sigrid. You’re in good company, at least. Among others with nowhere else to go. We’re all lost, aren’t we?”

Nodding his goodbye, he turned around, away from Sigrid, and continued up the hill to the Forbanne barracks, all while wishing he brought more with him to drink.   

“Then I will hold you to your promise, Casimiro Canaveris. I look forward to meeting your golem… Do summon it quickly. You have no reason not to, being a relatively free man.”

The conversation concluded there, that evening, with Casimiro gaining something he had desperately sought for months (access to his magic again), and Celene gaining a promise of something that greatly interested her: namely, her sister’s radically coincidental involvement in her assistant’s family. Right away, her impression of the situation was not favourable; why would her sister waste her time and potential on--had she heard correctly--a romantic relationship? But if what Casimiro said was true, if she had somehow managed to permanently reverse a curse… Celene needed to know how she did it. How her little sister, who hadn’t even completed her training as a Master Alchemist before they were all maimed and massacred in Ilandria, had somehow achieved the impossible.

The following day, Casimiro would notice that his schedule and routine would drastically change from what he had grown accustomed to since his employment in Celene’s not so humble abode. There was no rude or abrupt awakening the next morning; no ghostly children waking him with a cold breakfast and heaps of tedious tasks to complete before sundown. After he dressed and wandered into the hallway, bewildered and uncertain as to what to expect, one of the Ardane alchemist’s pale and fragile child-things spoke up from around the corner, startling the D’Marian aristocract.

“It’s in the dining hall,” was all the small girl with hair so white it rivaled the hue of snow, and skin so pale it looked as though exposure to the sun would burn her up and turn her to ash, should she step outside for more than a minute. Without further preamble, she disappeared around the corner, wordlessly expecting Casimiro to follow. Since all of his meals had been delivered to his room since his arrival, he had yet to even see the inside of the dining hall, let alone eat there. Following the pale homunculus child, several stairwells and corridors later, he arrived at a dining area that paled in terms of what he was probably used to in Stella D’Mare. A small, plain table and a handful of chairs, none of which were occupied, although two meals of bread, jam, soft cheese, some fruit, and a small cup of tea. Much more substantial than what the ghostly children served to him upon cold, pewter plates. Upon closer inspection, Casimiro would also notice that not only did the meal appear far fresher than what he was normally served, but the bread was actually warm.

“You’re to see her in the east wing when you finish.” The ghostly girl explained in her lifeless monotone. Upon Casimiro’s confusion, seeing the plate of identical food straight across the table from him, yet no one else around to claim it, she added, “She won’t be coming. She doesn’t eat before engaging in hard work.”

That was all the explanation she offered before disappearing and leaving Casimiro to eat his meal. When he finished, there was no guide to the east wing, assuming that the dark-haired man had a basic sense of direction. The assumption was correct, and when he finished everything on his plate and headed eastward, Casimiro found Celene in what looked to be a large storage closet. Some of the materials were familiar to him, including the unpurified quartz that he had brought her the other day, much to her disappointment. There were other rocks, ores, and soils that the earth mage could likely identify, among piles upon piles of wooden crates packed with various and sundry materials of the earth. It was probably dangerous, on the Master Alchemist’s part, to allow someone so deeply connected to the earth to stand in a room with materials that he could use to his advantage, possibly against her. Either she suddenly trusted Casimiro more than she had previously, and this change had occurred overnight, or she thought his magic was yet too weak to cause her any trouble, considering he had been so disconnected from it for so long. Or, of course, there was always the possibility that she was prepared for a sudden coup, if he was foolish enough to go that route. 

“Are you feeling up to a different task, today?” The pale, thin woman asked Casimiro without looking at him. She held two murky, grey quartz geodes in her hands, scrutinizing them with dissatisfaction. “These are useless to me, but it will be over a week before I’ll have any more deliveries from the mine. You said you can purify them. Do you think that’s within your ability at this time? Now that you’re not longer shackled and at risk of losing your hands?”

The Master alchemist finally turned to him, the smoky quartz in her hands, now outstretched. “I don’t expect you to purify the entire crate. A good quarter or so will do for a few days. And when you’ve finished, do let me know if you have managed to make more contact with that golem of yours. I haven’t forgotten your promise, Canaveris.” Closing the distance between them, Celene placed the quartz geodes into Casimiro’s hands. “I look forward to its fulfillment. I, too, am of my word, and you did say that you were being underutilized. The more valuable you prove to be, the more comfortable I can assure you will be.”

“And what proof do we have that she hasn’t been sent by Mollengard? That she isn’t some spy sent to infiltrate?” Caris should have been asleep--but he wasn’t, and that meant his advisors weren’t, either. The shocking vision that this Tivia Rigas had put into this head, into the heads of everyone who had been standing in this room several hours ago, had burned itself behind his eyelids. Just because he hadn’t collapsed in a puddle of his own tears like some of the others did not mean he had been any less affected. He was the king: he couldn’t show weakness when his people needed strength. But what he’d seen had made his blood run cold, and it was, perhaps, the first time that Caris Sorde had felt truly afraid in a very long time.

And fear was simply not sustainable. 

“We don’t know that she is even truly affiliated with my sister. Or that she was ever on her side. Look at the extent of her magic. If she can put such an image in the minds of everyone in this room, imagine what else she is capable of. I’m not denying the possibility that everyone she has said and showed us is true. But as this kingdom’s leader, it is also my responsibility to consider the alternative… that being that she is not here in our best interests.”

The two advisors (who looked as though they wished to have been in bed hours ago) didn’t have answers. At least none that they knew would mean anything to their stubborn king at this hour. “Your concerns are valid, your Majesty. I don’t believe that anyone has handed over their full faith in this star seer. We will not fall victim to our own ignorance or naivete so soon, and we know better than to take her word at face value without doing some investigating on our own.”

“Do we have surveillance on her? Do we know her whereabouts?”

“She is under as much surveillance as we are capable of without making her a prisoner, your Majesty. We don’t take this lightly. Please… let us resume this tomorrow.” The woman who had broken down pleaded with the king, bowing her head. “When we are rested and our minds are sharp. We can reconvene in the morning.”

“...you’re dismissed.” Caris gestured with his hand without looking up. How anyone could sleep after visions such that they had seen was beyond him, but if their minds were tired, they weren’t working to their full potential. With murmured thanks, his advisors quietly took their leave, and the king was alone again.

With or without them, I’m alone. They’re consumed by their own fear.

Had he been his sister, Caris might have turned to a bottle of wine to quiet his mind and calm his nerves. But he was not Vega: he had not abandoned Eyraille in some flight of fancy in the middle of the night. And he liked to think he had a slightly stronger grasp of his impulses than his disgraced sister. So while everyone else retired, shocked and spent, Eyraille’s king left his chamber of business and headed outside into the night air. 

Since his conversation partner at that pub on Eyraille’s outskirts had left for Ilandria, severing his single tie to what felt like ordinary life, Caris hadn’t taken to flight upon a roc. Why get away from the city central for a few hours in the dead of night when he had to return in the end? It was no longer an escape, so he no longer wanted to escape. Instead, he roamed the palace grounds, sometimes wandering into the sleeping city square, where no one was awake to bother him. The guards and advisors had stopped trying to beg him to reconsider, fearing for his safety in the darkness of the streets, since his only response was to reassure him that he never left unarmed, with a shortsort at his hip and a couple of daggers hidden in his belt. He wasn’t so clumsy at close combat like Vega; he could hold his own.

No one bothered him on his nightly excursions, either because they were too tired to care, or had learned to give the rash young king. Palace staff had learned; and his people simply didn’t know how to approach him.

But newcomers had yet to understand it was best not to cross paths with Eyraille’s youngest king. And that included the kingdom’s newest, and most controversial newcomer.

Surveillance… my ass.

“Do star seers not sleep? Or do you have a reason for being awake at this hour?” Whether Tivia Rigas had hoped to be noticed was unclear, but she stood so clear in his path that there was no ignoring the only person in his path. Her pale hair against the darkness stood out like the stars that shouted at her. 

“Wait…! Wait, please. Don’t… don’t go.”

Haraldur’s memory was so much clearer than her own. That he remembered his dear younger sister, who used to play with a little blonde-haired girl, and she could hardly remember a time before she was taken to Galeyn, never to see her parents again… Haraldur as her link. Her connection to what she had lost, and a reminder that she hadn’t truly lost much at all. Her family was never gone: not when he had been in front of her all this time.

“...if that’s really true, if we’re all truly lost, then we must be in the right place, aren’t we? If lost people come together, maybe they aren’t lost anymore. And it’s just a matter of redefining yourself on your own terms. Do you think… that’s at all possible? For someone like me?” Her eyes traveled to the weapon at his side, and the commander’s attire in which he was clad. She couldn’t call herself a warrior anymore, not after she had killed innocents. But Haraldur, however dark his own past had been, had long since atoned. If only she could say the same…

The blonde former warrior pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Even if I wanted to go back to the way things were before… I can’t. I can’t unlearn what I’ve learned, unknow what I now know, and I can’t… I can’t forget Naimah. Or what Gaolithe put me through. I don’t know what I’d give to have the options that you do, even if it’s too much and overwhelming. You’re a soldier and a husband and a father and a Gardener… I think you’ve found your place. Where you belong, and the people you belong to. But every time I think I’ve found my own place, something changes. And what I thought I knew… it turns out I’m wrong. I guess…”

Sigrid exhaled and ran a hand through her blonde locks. Her knuckles were white. “I’ve been wishing and hoping for some consistency--in any form. And it turns out… it was you, all along. I’m sorry I didn’t see it before. I’m sorry I kept my distance from you and your family. You never gave up on me, even when I was at my worst… although I don’t think I deserve your patience. But I’m a selfish person, and…” Her shoulders drooped. Sigrid couldn’t look him in the eye. “...I don’t want to lose you, or your family. I just… need to figure out where I am supposed to go from here. What my role is supposed to be. But that doesn’t change that I still want to be part of your life.”

Cas went to bed that evening feeling lighter than he had in years. At last, the fickle winds controlling his life had changed direction, pushing him in a favorable route to the shore. Though uplifted and buoyed by his future prospects, he didn’t forget his present situation, nor his prior commitment to the rigors of his daily schedule. Considering how far he’d come, he’d be a blasted fool to become complacent a mere day after making a verbal contract with his slaver-turned-associate. 

He woke an hour before dawn as usual, accustomed to getting an edge ahead of the disturbing wake-up call he’d receive from one of the corpse-risen homunculus children who haunted the halls of the drafty, dungeon abode. Finishing his morning routine, he looked to the door, anticipating one of the ghostly children to slip through and stand by his bedside to fix him with a penetrating, unblinking stare too doleful to block behind closed eyelids. If he ever succeeded in denying the disturbing visual, their rusty-nail whispers always chiseled a pathway into his ears, all but assuring his grumpy compliance.

This time, no one came for him. Had there been a mistake? Celene wasn’t the type to make careless mistakes. Creaking open the door, Cas peered into the hallway and tiptoed down the stairs…

Where he was inevitably startled by one of the corpse children. 

“There you are,” he sighed under his breath, more to himself than to the child. He never spoke directly to them. What would be the point? If they were anything like golems, they didn’t possess a will or purpose beyond their master.

What the brainless puppet minion said next, however, almost caused Cas to violate this rule by asking it for clarification. Did it just say the “Dining room?”

Too intrigued to defy the order, Cas obediently walked into a space he’d only ever seen in passing but never entered alone. Two place settings were arrayed on the table, the plates and bowls heaped with an assortment of cheeses, fresh fruit, and bread. When he approached one of the settings, he touched the bread to find it was warm. Warm bread! How long had it been since Cas indulged in a meal of this magnitude? Years—not since his old life in Stella D’Mare. While the spreads served in the Canaveris estate were far more opulent and paled in comparison to the presentation laid before him, if Cas had learned anything from his years in captivity as both soldier and a slave, it was that he would never again complain about the quality of his food.

He savored every bite of breakfast, pulling out fluffy innards of the bread and spreading smooth butter into its nooks and crannies. He sipped his tea like a gentleman, remembering the not so long gone days entertaining guests in the parlor at home. It turned out, he hadn’t lost his gentile nature. It simply lay dormant, awaiting the opportunity to spread its cramped wings and take flight.

As instructed, he met Celene in the storage closet after breakfast, watching her amid the crates of flawed, impure quartz she received in lieu of the quality crystals she’d come to expect. Like her, it also crossed Cas’s mind to consider the abundance of raw materials ripe for his magic to manipulate as he desired, but he’d already decided in favor of the long game. For now.

Not like his magic possessed its natural robust capabilities at its stunted and malnourished stage. It was all he could do to maintain an open connection with Laz. Evenso, he put on an easy smile and pressed his palms together, testing for any lingering pain or swelling from last night’s swollen hand incident. No sign of discomfort complained out of his arched fingers.

“You’re in luck,” he said, appraising the crate with a discerning eye. “I have had a hearty breakfast, the surefire quickest method to grounding an earth mage. Many thanks, Miss Celene.” He accepted a hunk of quartz from her and turned it around in his hands, examining it. “Unlike Master Alchemy and the more incorporeal arts, our practice encourages hedonism over fasting and sacrifice—to an extent. Winter is our fallow period, especially in upper latitudes when the land hibernates, and we must, too.” He held the stone to the lantern hanging from the ceiling, its crystalline structure too fogged to create a prism, the light trapped inside like a prisoner. “Purifying minerals is one of the first and most fundamental skills a Canaveris learns. Even my brother is no slouch when it comes to this work, and he does not have much in the way of magical inheritance. Rest assured, I will be able to restructure the quartz to quality standards. Nor have I forgotten my other commitments. I’ve contacted my golem and we have arranged a rendezvous point at the border. You need only inform the guards at Fort Yowai that you’re expecting a visitor in three days’ time. It is unfortunately the only way my golem can pass into Mollengard without trouble.”

Within the appointed time frame, Celene and Cas were set to retrieve Laz from the fort after receiving notice from the guards on her arrival. Since then, Cas had kept busy purifying the flawed quartz crystals for Celene, which took him longer than it would if his magic were at full strength. Despite his limitations, he managed to transform half the crate’s supply by the time they departed for the fort on the third day. As promised, the more Cas proved himself reliable, the more privileges he earned; chiefly, better food options at mealtimes and heated water for bathing. Not even a week went by and Cas felt more in control of his life, and less a victim of it. Less of one, he reminded himself, but still a victim, nonetheless.

When the carriage pulled into the fort’s dusty courtyard, two guards approached, walking on either side of a woman who boasted an impressive height—among other impressive feats. With platinum-silver hair plaited to one side, eyes the color of amethysts, and skin as smooth and colored as terracotta, she no doubt caught the eye of her escorts. Much though they struggled to cast their attention elsewhere, their wandering gaze kept stealing glimpses of the masterful sculpture come to life.  

Cas, too, was agape at what he saw, but for entirely different reasons. “Laz?!” he exclaimed, looking her up and down in disappointment…and mild disgust. “What did my brother do to you?”

Immediately, Laz swept into a respectful bow. “My lord,” she lowered her impossibly long eyelashes. Cas’s lips pursed. “What a relief to have found you, alive. We all thought you had died, but I was able to sense you from afar. You have my deepest apologies for taking so long in my search. Your life force was incredibly weak and I thought the worst. Allow me to introduce and reintroduce myself. My name is still Laz, and you may call me Lazarus if you like, but I prefer Lazuli. It better reflects my new form.”

“‘It better reflects’—what are you saying, Laz?” He pinched his brow. “You are a golem, not one of Ari’s art projects. I’ve indulged his creative pursuits where you are concerned, but he took it too far this time. Well,” he tsked, “that will have to change. You are too conspicuous in that fanciful guise. Case in point.” He cleared his throat at the two guards, who, caught staring at the golem’s perfectly-proportioned assets, immediately snapped their heads forward, overcorrecting their stance in obvious embarrassment. “She is a statue, my good sirs. You are ogling a statue.” 

“No. I do not desire a change. This was my choice. Ari fulfilled my request,” she said, squeezing into the carriage after Celene finalized the paperwork and received the all-clear to leave from the commander-in-charge. “I live to serve you and the Canaverises. That will never change, but I ask for this specific matter to remain non-negotiable.” Laz turned away from Cas’s shocked expression and appraised the other personage in the carriage. “Celene Ardane. Your sister mentions you often, and fondly. She is quite insufferable, but she saved Ari’s life and I cannot hate her. She will be overjoyed to know you’re alive. We must send notice to Ari and Nia immediately.”

If sleep weren’t a necessity, Tivia would dispense with the dreadful experience altogether. While her status as star seer marked her as other, even among her Rigas peers, the limitations of her still-mortal body demanded that she spend at least one-third of her day paralyzed and vulnerable as the cosmos inundated her with an endless, unfiltered deluge. Lately, the stars saw fit to remind her of her most expensive blunder to date, the one that ended a world. She had meddled where she didn’t belong, disturbing the delicate balance of lives not meant to end in an apocalyptic rending apart of the land as it imploded and folded into a black-hole abyss. Everything she loved fell down that hole, and she could not follow, was not allowed to follow, because the place that housed her as a stowaway for twenty-five years could not adopt her as theirs. She did not belong there, that much was evident, but did she belong in her home world, truly?

No one who possessed prescient knowledge could ever claim they belonged, because belonging implied a deep connection to life, whether through purpose, people, spirituality, success, or any of the above. Knowing too much removed her bid to sail downstream upon the river’s wide mouth with the others. It either made her an impartial bystander, cursed to observe and never participate, or it made her a cheater who ignored the order of nature as she created her own rules and callously discarded whatever displeased her. She was displeased by her father’s meddling, so she killed him. She was displeased by Teselin’s destruction of the masquerade ball, so she reversed the damage. Nia’s foray into another world prompted her heavy involvement because the alternative—doing nothing—sickened her. And now, she didn’t like where Eyraille was headed, so she swooped in on her cheater’s wings to throw enough rocks to change the river’s course.

Why did she care? Eyraille was not her kingdom. Its citizens would never accept her. If Mollengard succeeded in its campaign of conquest, despite her efforts to avert almost-certain disaster, they would cast her out, sell her to Mollengard, call for her death. She would have only herself to blame, for choosing involvement over impartiality. For choosing a palace over a tower. Absolution over isolation.

Tivia kicked the sheets off her bed and pulled a long traveler's cloak over her night clothes. Fuck sleep. If she could fuck with fate, then surely she could fuck with the so-called “needs” of her physical body.

Eyraille had her under surveillance, but she wished them the best of luck keeping track of her movements. Perhaps as a side-effect of disappearing into another world, Tivia didn’t command a strong presence on the material plane. Sometimes, existence simply forgot she took up space. Without making a concerted effort, she could slip through the cracks like a spider. This evening, she decided to take a walk around the city, knowing few denizens would be milling about at such an untenable hour.

Whipping out her pipe, she snapped a spark of etherea into her fingers and lit the bowl alight, savoring the aromatic flavors of her herb of choice. Contrary to what potential witnesses might claim, she did not follow the young king on his after-hours jaunt. Even a star seer could be taken by surprise.

When she looked up from the pipe, there he was, sharing her path, and looking directly at her. She saw his lips move and in anticipation, brightened her aura of etherea so she could better read his lips from their broadened distance. “I suppose the same rings true for kings, or anyone, for that matter, who feels the weight of the world on their shoulders.” She took an experimental puff and streamed out a thin cloud of smoke. “But to answer your question honestly, I, as Tivia Rigas, can’t sleep. I, as a star seer, am encouraged to sleep. It’s how the heavens are best able to alert me; when I’m helpless and can’t resist their message. They struck me effectively deaf to make it easier to palate their otherworldly chatter, so I suppose I should be thanking them for the more humane method.”

“Do you believe in coincidence, your Majesty?” She took a few smoke-trailing steps toward him, for ease of communication. To show her goodwill, she kept her arms outstretched and stopped an arms-length distance from where he stood. Not like it really mattered. If she wanted him dead, she only had to cast her spear of etherea and run him through. “For it’s coincidence we’re standing together, on this night, at this hour. At least, the stars didn’t inform me they’d be arranging this impromptu meeting. Perhaps there really isn’t such a thing as coincidence, after all.”

“You may find this laughable—well, only if you are a king prone to good humor, and something tells me you are not—but if I can do nothing else to save your kingdom, I will ensure that you survive. Consider it a favor I owe your sister, for indirectly causing the death of her beloved roc…and creating havoc in her love life. I don’t do this for clout or forgiveness. I doubt there is anything anyone can give me that I’ll find satisfactory. I simply…if you had the power to overturn a grisly outcome, even if the odds were stacked terribly against you, would you do it? Or would you count the loss and surrender because why fight fate? Why strangle the shadows when you know the shadows cannot yield?” 

She let the question hang in the air like smoke for a moment, not expecting a reply. “Well,” she hooked the pipe around one corner of her mouth, “I’ll leave you to your devices. But for the record, I fight because fate has a variety of interpretations, and I don’t have to interpret what I showed you as the one and only path to the end.” Isn’t that what I did to Isidor? she thought dismally. Accidentally encouraged him down a darker iteration of his fate? “One more thing,” she added in afterthought: “Mollengard won’t attack in winter. We’ll have time to plan and stage our counterattack in the coming months. Use this precious time to prepare your Skyknights and accumulate allies. I believe that is all I have to say. Only time will tell if I am a fool who never learns from past mistakes. Enjoy your evening stroll, your Majesty.”

Just as she appeared, Tivia Rigas melded into shadow and smoke, her yellow light of etherea guttering out, like dark clouds chasing her star from its anchor in the vast, milky sea.

For the second time, Haraldur stopped. Why couldn’t he ignore Sigrid’s desperate pleas and make a clean break, like she wanted? It would be easier for them if he ceased indulging her requests and kept his sights ahead, instead of over his shoulder. But he refused to heed his own advice. Because he was weak. Because he continued to deny and reject their dissolution, however wise a thing to do. He wanted to respect her wishes, but wasn’t hearing her out also part of it?

So he stayed. Listened. The more she conveyed, the more he goggled at her, confused. Again, hope dared to flutter down from above and perch on his chest. This time, her words were impossible to misinterpret. They spoke, screamed for what he was all too eager to grant her. A family. Shelter for the lost. Somewhere to call home.

“Sigrid, if I didn’t believe redefining yourself was possible, I wouldn’t be where I am now. Hell, I wouldn’t be commander of the Forbanne, because I’d view them as nothing more than irredeemable monsters. Do you…would you like to join them? My army? Would you like to help me command them, at least until you figure out what you want to do?”

Before he took their conversation in a different direction and entirely missed the point of what she struggled so hard to confess, Haraldur gripped her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. “You’ll always be family to me, Sigrid,” he managed a smile. “Wherever the roads take us, that much won’t change. I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I haven’t been the best role model for you. I’m sorry if I’ve only ever made things worse, or chased you away because I lacked understanding, or patience, or the proper words. I realize I’m not very good at, well, this,” he chuckled weakly, in spite of himself. “Most of all, I’m sorry for trying to walk away. For giving up, when here you praise me for doing the dead opposite. I really don’t deserve the credit you give me. I could have done more. So much more. I guess that’s why we’re lost, right? Because we’re hopeless sods who don’t have a clue what we’re doing?”

Before he realized what he was doing, Haraldur swept Sigrid into a tight hug. “Blame this on the booze,” he said with a breathy laugh. “Whatever you need, I’ll support you. Even if what you need is for me to back off. Call it the curse of a first-time father. We’re overprotective of our own, and paranoid to let go. That said…I don’t want to lose you, either,” he admitted as he broke free of his vise-like grip. “Whoever we are to each other, blood or no blood, siblings or cousins, you’re part of my family. Whether you like it or not, Sigrid, you’re stuck with me.”

“Join… them? The Forbanne?” Sigrid couldn’t help but be taken aback by the words in her hasty understanding. Was that how Haraldur saw her? As nothing left of a person but someone who was only capable of being mindlessly led among the lost? Perhaps he isn’t wrong. How am I any different from the Forbanne? I’ve been a follower all my life. It wouldn’t be so different from my life in the Dawn Guard…

But that wasn’t what Haraldur was implying. He wasn’t suggesting he take her on as yet another follower; quite the contrary, actually. “Wait. You… you want me to command? With you? I’ve never been much of a leader, Haraldur… After everything I’ve done, do you really think I could earn any respect from them? Would they really follow me, even on your orders? I…”

Before she could finish her thought, let alone her sentence, the drunk, muscular man--her brother--pulled her into a sudden embrace. It took her off guard, when she had been so sure that he was resigned to push her away, or settle for allowing her to join the ranks of otherwise directionless soldiers (because, really, how was she any different than they were?), he was accepting her--fully--as one of his own. Despite every single time she had walked away from him when he’d begged for her connection, he wouldn’t do the same to her. She was the one who had turned away from him during times of great need, but he… he wouldn’t do the same. As much as she deserved it, he remained firm and steadfast. 

Just as family did: always remaining in place, seen or unseen. To think, her connection to family had always been in reach, from when he was little more than a friend, and then assumedly a cousin. Now, he was a protective older brother who would not let his remaining younger sister suffer alone. Sigrid had never felt the need to be protected before, but now… in this moment, it was reassuring. That there was someone there for her to prevent her from falling.

“No. I thought I wanted distance from you. I thought that would make things easier, but it only made things worse. Now that I met you, Haraldur, now that I know I have… I have a brother, I can’t walk away from that. And I don’t want to.” The blonde warrior pulled back and gripped his arms, and her gaze dropped to one of his hands for a moment. Her azure-blue eyes widened and sparkled. “Look… how the fuck didn’t we notice this?”  Sigrid turned Haraldur’s left hand over, palm facing down, then positioned her own left hand next to it. The tips of both of their thumbs turns outward in a peculiar way, and their tendons protruded slightly almost all the way to their wrists. Far too similar to be a mere coincidence. “I guess the bastard who sired both of us still managed to leave his mark in a small way… I don’t have my mother’s fingers. They were far more delicate. Adept at sewing and needlepoint…”

The crook of her mouth twitched into a grin. “I’ve never been a leader. I don’t know that I’d make half as good a commander as you. But if recent events have told me anything… I think my time as a follower is over. If you think the Forbanne would even entertain the idea of looking to me as a leader, I’d like to learn from you.”

Caris paused, uncertain as to how to respond to the star seer’s question. He’d anticipated something far more snarky as a response. In his fatigue (to which, mentally, he wasn’t able to succumb just yet), he hesitated. “I don’t know what I believe in anymore, star seer. I’m starting to consider that it is both easier and wiser not to believe in anything at all. Every time I so much as considering entertaining hope, I am struck with the hindsight of how foolish I was to ever consider it in the first place. It isn’t a coincidence that you’re here, in my kingdom. Contrary to what you might believe, I want to think you’re here with the best intentions. But… well, it is as I said. About hope.”

Tivia Rigas spoke again of Vega, and a debt she felt she owed to her. There was no reason not to believe the story; it all sounded entirely plausible, and the way she spoke of Vega did strongly suggest familiarity with the hot-headed former Eyraillian princess. If the young king were bold enough to trust his gut, he would admit that he agreed with his advisors in the room earlier. But he was king, and his decision was final… so what if that decision to trust this foreign woman with wild magic was what led their kingdom to its demise?

“If I had the power to circumvent a terrible fate, even if odds were not in my favour… if it is my kingdom on the line, do you truly think I wouldn’t do everything in my power to help? I am this kingdom, Tivia Rigas. I am nothing but an extension of Eyraille, and its fate is my fate. So if you are only here on my sister’s wish to protect me, then understand, I cannot accept that.” Caris’ hand slid from the hilt of the sword at his side. No longer feeling threatened, it didn’t make sense to be on the offense. He still didn’t trust Tivia Rigas; not fully. But neither did he truly believe any longer that she was the key to Eyraille’s downfall. At least, he was not convinced that such a goal was connected to her intentions. 

He would have been happy to leave her on her way at that point, and resume his own aimless wandering until his aching feet demanded he return to get what little sleep he could. But just then, Tivia mentioned a detail that he couldn’t ignore. And it suddenly made the autumn breeze seem so much colder. “...hold on.” It wasn’t a suggestion; a king did not make suggestions, he made commands. But Tivia was not one of his people, and the moment he realized his folly, he backpedaled immediately and adjusted his tone. There wasn’t any sense in antagonizing the woman, regardless if she was an enemy or a friend. “So you are certain, then. That Mollengard is sure to attack Eyraille in the spring.” This wouldn’t have happened under his tyrannical father’s rule. Mollengard was bold because it didn’t believe in Eyraille’s king. It saw him as a child, and nowhere near an obstacle preventing them from conquering yet another territory.

At first, Caris’ Sorde blood boiled at the thought. That they would think him nothing more than a weakling, in the absence of his more experienced older sister’s guidance. The gall of those bastards! But perhaps it was something in the autumn air that cooled his blood from boiling to simmering, long enough for him to see something through that anger. Let them think me weak. Let Mollengard think they will conquer Eyraille seamlessly. They won’t see what is coming… “...then we have time to ensure they will not be victorious. Let them think they are in for an easy take-over. And we will destroy them when they least expect it.”

Celene listened patiently as Casimiro sung his own praises, promising himself an invaluable asset to her in exchange for warm, hearty meals, and overall better living conditions than he had previously been offered. It wasn’t clear if any of his self-praise made a difference or not, but the Master Alchemist at least seemed pleased to take him at his word--for now. “Then with a good meal and ample rest, I expect nothing but the best of you, Casimiro. I will send word to the guards, and I look forward to the arrival of your golem in three days’ time.”

Casimiro kept his word--to a certain extent. Celene was not displeased with how he purified the stones and put himself to work just as she had hoped. In exchange, he was awarded with warm meals that he was free to take in the dining hall,and (somehow) longer periods of rest, not forcibly rousing him at the very crack of dawn. In three days’ time, she did receive word from the guards that her anticipated guest had arrived, and she was to retrieve him from the fort. So with her assistant in accompaniment, they set off to meet the guard in the colourless courtyard of monochromatic gray. Sure enough, the guards were there to meet them, and they were not alone, but… their company was not what she had expected. Nor what Casimiro had expected, either, by his wide-eyed, agape reaction.

“I don’t recall you ever using masculine or feminine pronouns to refer to your… creation, Casimiro.” The Master Alchemist mused and titled her head to the side curiously. “Although the way you spoke of it… I assumed something very, very different than what is standing in front of us.”

Clearly, Casimiro had no explanation for what had happened, and frantically left Celene’s side to demand answers of the outlandishly tall and aesthetically chiseled woman form. So this was the golem he’d spoken of, just not in the same form he had left it. It made no difference to Celene; a golem was a golem, regardless of the shape, so she patiently sat back and let the earth mage demand answers of his loyal creation. After the two of them exchanged a few words, Casimiro dismissed the guards, and headed back to the carriage with their new asset (for she wasn’t about to refer to this thing as a guest.) 

“And here I thought you claimed your brother and my sister are romantically involved, Casimiro.” Celene tucked a tress of wavy brown hair behind her ear and took in Laz’s tall and perfect form up close. “If your artistic brother indeed changed this golem’s form to be so… distinctly feminine, then perhaps you misunderstood. Or that relationship is a thing of the past.” All for the better, she thought with a modicum of relief. Whatever Nia’s relations are or was with this man’s family… she is far better off without him. Ardane’s haven’t the time to entertain romance if they wish to pursue greatness. 

However, according to the golem, that was not the case--not insofar as it was aware at the time it had taken its leave of its former master to reconnect with its creator. Something about the way this thing spoke of her sister was immediately off-putting. Not because it referred to Anetania as insufferable, but because it dared to insinuate familiarity with her bloodline. As if it had gotten to know Anetania well enough, had spent enough time around her to have come to the opinion that she was insufferable. “You act as if you know my sister quite well.” Celene’s words were not judgment, but rather a simple comment based on her keen observations and what Laz’s words insinuated. Laz did not deny this, and in fact, however insufferable she found Anetania, seemed determined to reconnect the two remaining Ardanes. A desire that the elder of the two sisters had to quash sooner than later.

“I suppose I owe it to you, along with Casimiro’s brother, for looking out for my sister. If what Casimiro has relayed about what Anetania has been up to is true, then it sounds as though she couldn’t have gotten through employment to a terrorist witch without help and support. However,” the Master Alchemist crossed her legs and straightened her shoulders. “Allow me to make it very clear right now that I will be the only one deciding who will be notified of my status and whereabouts. Ilandria has thought me dead for over a decade, now; should any information contrary to that belief fall into the wrong hands, understand that I would be compromised, and all of the work I have been doing for the past decade will be for nought. So, I must ask you to excuse my terseness, but as you are tied to your master, and your master currently works for me, I’m afraid that no one residing inside my fortress will be contacting anyone on the outside without my explicit permission or direction. Am I quite clear?”

Uneasy silence followed Celene’s order, but ultimately, Casimiro agreed. Of course he would; he knew far better than to cross her now. Not with all of the freedom and comfort she had agreed to give him, should he hold himself to his promises.

“Excellent. I’m overjoyed that we are all on the same page. Now: Laz, is it? Lazuli? However you decide to address yourself… I have allowed you entry into my fortress and reconnection with your master on the condition that you recount what you know to me. About the condition and the whereabouts of my sister, and how, exactly, she managed to save my assistant’s brother. Please correct me if I’ve understood wrong, but… Casimiro says that Anetania managed to remove his brother’s curse, with the help of skilled mages. This is not something that has ever been recorded in Master Alchemy, so I can only assume that I have heard wrong, or my assistant has otherwise misinterpreted what you relayed to him through your connection.”

Celene was so sure of herself, so determined that Casimiro had only said as much to lay bait in order to persuade her to allow him to reconnect with his golem, that she expected Lazuli to respond with confusion. It wasn’t difficult to believe that Anetania had saved a life, but removed a curse? Such a feat, even with the help of a powerful mage, was imposs--

It was true. Lazuli didn’t bat a single, thick eyelash. She had not misinterpreted, and if Casimiro and his golem were expertly lying, the details came together too concisely to come across as some tall tale. Casimiro’s brother--Aristide Canaveris--had been afflicted by a basilisk-type monster as a child, and had since been afflicted with the curse of turning to stone bit by bit on certain occasions. His family had sought the help of Master Alchemists in the past, but it had only ended in their demise--and had very nearly ended in Nia’s. It likely would have, were not for the help of yet another Master Alchemist, who had been present during the delicate procedure to monitor her own vital signs.

My sister… My little sister did this? My untrained little sister did this… and with the help of yet another Master Alchemist? “Hn. And here I thought my kind was a dead or dying breed. It seems the world is still abundant with Master Alchemists.” The carriage pulled to a halt when it stopped in front of her fortress. “And who was this additional Master Alchemist? It seems Casimiro’s brother has a way of making it into the good graces of people with such a rare skill set.”

Celene set her hand on the handle of the carriage door, prepared to exit… until Lazuli answered her question, and her body stiffened like the stone that had once consumed Casimiro’s younger brother.

“...what did you say?” No, she did not mishear. A furious wave of nausea roiled in the Master Alchemist’s stomach. “You may see yourselves inside.” She murmured, trying not to make it too obvious as she clutched her midriff and took her leave.

No wonder Isidor Kristeva had looked upon her with such familiarity. He knew more than she did; and he was well aware of it. And nothing sickened her more than a rival with a hidden ace.

Celene’s flippant implication that Ari’s radical restructuring of Laz was done for illicit reasons nearly caused Cas to lose his composure and snap at her. Instead, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Under Nadira’s forcible suggestion, Cas had presented Laz to Ari as a gift. “First and foremost, Laz is bound to me,” he explained to his bewildered brother. “He will listen to you because I have instructed him to obey your commands. However, never forget to whom he truly belongs. One day, I will need him back, Ari, so do me a favor and take good care of him, as you would a precious gem.” 

Ari nodded his understanding, and the following years went by without incident. Until Cas felt an inexplicable shift in his connection to Laz, as if the golem’s entire internal makeup had changed in a day to a signature closely resembling…another human. Laz’s thought patterns became more complex, no longer a receptacle for following orders, but a self-propelling vehicle, needing no horses to propel him forward on the road. 

“What happened, Ari?” He confronted his brother, who seemed just as confused by Laz’s sudden push toward autonomy. “Why is Laz acting so strangely?”

“I do not know,” Ari confessed. “Laz, I think, wanted to breathe. So I helped him. I gave him breath, and I gave him my wish.”

This explanation galvanized Cas. If what Ari said was true, he possessed the power to awaken stone and foster artificial life in extant golems. Such an ability was not only rare, but practically unheard of. If Laz truly behaved like Ari’s mirror, capable of forming long-term memory and expressing emotions, then Cas could no longer do with the golem as he pleased, fearing Laz would tell Ari what happened at night when his wife slept soundly in their loveless bed, empty of her husband. 

After the golem’s “awakening” incident, Laz belonged to Cas only in name. For decades, Ari and his new “friend” remained inseparable. During that time, the golem underwent several aesthetic changes, but they all met Cas’s approval. Laz never lost the shark-fin nose or the angular chisel of his sharp cheekbones, the prominent brow, or his beastly form covered in rippling muscles. Ari respected the frame, the groundwork as laid-down centuries ago by Laz’s original creators.

Now, as Cas glared at the ridiculous thing sitting opposite him, he could tell that Ari’s respect for tradition and his brother’s memory was well and truly dead in the water. Not like he would have cared, had his original plan to fake his own death and abscond on a ship sailing to the far side of the world succeeded, but presently, he was forced to contend with his brother’s pet project. While useful to him, the golem remained an eyesore, an insult, an embarrassment, and oh had he wanted to make his abject distaste known, but he remembered his audience, and knew he could not afford to lose whatever clout he had so far earned from Celene.

“They are romantically involved,” Laz clarified, seemingly unruffled by Celene’s off-color comment.

“Though I would not put it past my brother to fuck a statue,” Cas muttered.

Laz frowned at Cas’s contribution to the off-color conversation and moved to speak in Ari’s defense. “Ari and Nia are quite in love,” her perfect brow twitched. “Believe me, I warned him a multitude of times not to get involved, but he did not listen. I suppose I can no longer complain, though, after seeing the lengths Nia has gone to ensure Ari’s life, safety, and well-being. I say she is insufferable, but she has been kind, and extended her offers of help to me, as well. Though I am baffled as to why.”

“What has she offered to do for you?” Cas leaned in his carriage seat as the horses outside whinnied and clomped off into the dusty, windswept landscape.

“To make me human, insofar as she will create human organs and fit them inside of me.” 

Cas stared at Laz, wondering if he heard correctly. This statue given the barest simulacrum of life wanted to stuff organs inside itself and call it “human”? The abominable image was too much for him to bear. He scoffed, then laughed. “And they say golems are incapable of humor. That is a good one, Laz.”

It looked like the golem wanted to say more on the subject, but Celene spoke through the tension, steering Laz’s attention to a different point about which “she” seemed invested.

“You do not want your sister to know your whereabouts?” Laz’s brow furrowed for the second time. “Not even to inform her that you are alive? She keeps you close, always. In fact, she used to wear this strange neckpiece. I believe it was supposed to resemble a star? She wore it for years because you gifted it to her, and never took it off. Well,” she clicked her tongue in apparent thought, “until recently, that is. Ari gave her a new necklace to wear. They are trying to move forward, which is all well and good, but the two of you are not dead, so I don’t understand.”

“Of course you would not understand, Laz,” Cas said, spreading out his hands as if appealing to a willful toddler who thought themself an adult. “You lack the capacity to understand. That is not an indictment on you or your intelligence; it is merely the truth. So cease your wonderings and leave the unrealistic aspirations to us humans. Shall we stick to the facts?”

Laz would not act affronted or insulted. Such emotions were beyond her artificial ken to manufacture. As instructed, she proceeded to explain Ari’s procedure and Nia’s hand in lifting the curse, with the help of a certain mage he despised and a second Master Alchemist to whom Cas had made his brief acquaintance.

“Hm. Isidor Kristeva. The coincidences continue to pile ever upward into quite the unstable tower,” Cas mused as they exited the carriage and headed up the stairs to Celene’s not-so-cozy abode. He didn’t bother to introduce the place to Laz, or grant her a tour like she was some honored guest. No doubt Ari would have, but the fool used to throw tea parties for imaginary friends, so he was accomplished at giving honors to frivolities of little matter.

“Why do you say that? Is he staying in Mollengard?” Laz scanned both Cas and Celene’s expressions as they stood on the threshold before the locked front door. While Cas remained undisturbed by the news, his casual response a clear indication of his indifference, Celene hadn’t taken it too well. At Cas’s affirmation, Laz frowned, her confusion deepening. “That doesn’t make any sense. When I left, Isidor was by Ari’s bedside. It came on rather suddenly, but the two had become fast friends. Almost like—“ she paused, the unsaid comparison hanging in the air. Brothers.

Cas hid his irritation under an air of breezy gentility, like a nobleman at a garden party nursing a goblet of wine. “I meant to ask, actually. Why did you leave? What brought you so far afield, looking for me all of a sudden?”

“Prior to the procedure, Ari deteriorated beyond his ability to remain conscious.” Laz flipped the plaited braid of silvery hair over her shoulder. “He fell comatose, and at a certain point, almost succumbed to a state of near-death. Through no fault of his own, our bond weakened, allowing me to rediscover that my original bond to you remained intact, which could only mean you were still among the living. I suddenly felt a surge, a compulsion impossible to ignore. Overtaking every other faculty in my body, it commanded me to find you. So I did. Ari does not know I am here. Nobody does. I left before I could say anything.” Cas perked up at that point. So Laz, however evolved she became, could not defy her main purpose; that she belonged to him above all. The rest of her nonsense he’d smother out of her over time, including Ari’s damnable breath-giving technique. In a matter of months, Laz would revert to her original setting, and he’d finally have back his toy as intended.   

“As a matter of fact,” Laz turned to Celene, continuing her tale, “I left before confirming Nia’s condition. The procedure left her in a bad way, unconscious and cold to the touch. Perhaps Isidor would know what became of her. If he is indeed among us, which is still difficult to fathom, it is a small matter to inquire on the details.”

Either Celene thought this a terrible idea, or hadn’t the time for humoring such trifles. Excusing herself, she wandered off, arms stretched across her stomach as if stifling a bout of nausea. Shrugging, Cas opened the door and waved Laz inside. “If Celene has her way, Isidor Kristeva will not live to see the next sunrise.”

Laz paused in the foyer, her flawless face sporting cracks around the eyes and mouth. The twisted expression of horror startled Cas for how much it didn’t complement her statuesque aesthetic. Not when it suited a human far better. “We must warn Isidor before that happens. Come,” she grabbed Cas’s arm, her urgency unprecedented. “Tell me where to look—“

Cas wrenched away her arm and made no further indication to move. “Laz, who do you serve? Do you serve me, or Ari?”

Laz gaped at him, stunned. “I serve both—“

“—Me, or Ari?” Cas rumbled, his uncompromising tone an ultimatum.

“…You, my lord,” Laz said with a flinch, as if every word pained her.

“Then listen to your lord, Laz. We will do nothing. You will do nothing unless it comes from my explicit orders. If I find you have disobeyed, I will destroy this farce of yours,” he indicated her feminine shell, “and send Ari your beautiful, ruined remains. Do you understand?”

Laz nodded, but she wrung her hands behind her back to keep them from shivering in rage.

“Hope isn’t for the faint of heart,” Tivia agreed, her one eye assessing the shriveled, underdeveloped whelp of a king before her. Yet somehow, deep inside thrived a spirit she resonated with, for how it thrashed against its cage and snarled for release. “But I find it useful sometimes.” Like in you, she thought. You are not as hopeless as I was once led to believe. “If nothing else, hope is a strong motivator.”

“But…you misunderstand me.” She almost smirked when he released the grip on his sword. No longer a boogeyman to you, am I? “I am here for Eyraille. But if it so happens I am able to spare your life, then why not do so and call it a favor? Otherwise, people will doubt my sincerity and think me suspicious. They are less apt to praise a foreigner as a savior, especially one appearing under mysterious circumstances. Better they view me as indebted to your kingdom and your cause. Or, as just an ally, concerned with the welfare of Mollengard’s next target. We mustn’t think too hard about the details of why I am here. Between you and me, this is purely transactional.” Her real reason for setting foot on Eyrailian soil was even more pathetic, an anticlimactic letdown. She needed to escape Galeyn. She refused to be there, among familiar faces who could not fathom her sudden change and continued to treat her like the same heartbroken Tivia Rigas barely able to stand on her own. If she thought harder about it, she could devise a deeper reason, a noble one, but in short, she really was the same person, selfishly running away to play at a cause greater than herself. What resided in the core of her restless heart was nothing but a desperate search for meaning, even when the stars proved, time and again, the inherent meaninglessness of life.

We are all just biding our time before we die. Some people stay at home and become farmers; others wage war and break the world.

“We’ll speak more in the morning, with your counsel,” she promised, parting words with the purpose of funneling his blood-boiling energy into a productive channel. “I am all for besting Mollengard with petty trickery, but we must also take stock of our alliances and who we can rally to Eyraille’s cause. Stella D’Mare will aid you, I am sure. While magic will not play much of an offensive role against a magic-resistant army of Forbanne, it is not without its uses. Ideally, we fight fire with fire. While Haraldur’s Forbanne army would be a boon,” she shrugged, knowing that any appeals to the former prince and princess of Eyraille were unacceptable, “there are other avenues we can take. Have you ever thought of enlisting Ilandria’s help?”

While Haraldur wasn’t known for grandiose gestures of affection, he considered this moment a rare exception to the rule. Fueled by the flask and therefore free of his inhibitions, he’d thrown Sigrid into a hug and told her exactly what he’d been thinking. Later, when he’d have time and sobriety to look back on their encounter, he would blanch a bit with embarrassment, but aside from the clumsy way he handled things, every sentiment he shared was genuine. Since losing his youngest sister, Klara, Haraldur pined for the chance to repeat his disappointingly short days with her, or even for one day, just one, to tell her he loved her. Instead, she had died before he was able to say anything, and he buried her in a shallow grave, the frozen soil too hardened and slushy to dig deeper. He hadn’t the time to mourn her properly, a few short weeks, before Mollengard raided the island, killed his father, and took him captive. Sigrid was long gone by then, having escaped with her proper family. Although he lost another sister for decades, it relieved him to no end that she’d been spared Mollengardian enslavement. I could not protect you, Sigrid, and maybe I’ve forever lost that chance, but at least there were others who were looking out for you. At least, for a while, you were safe.

As they pulled away from each other, Sigrid grabbed his hand and positioned it next to her own. Confused at first, he compared the two together. They were both gnarled and knobby, the hands of a warrior or a laborer, but the thumbs and the curious way their tendons bulged gave away more than a surface-level similarity. “Huh. I never noticed this before, either. You’re right, that can’t be mere coincidence. I didn’t inherit much from my father, who was blond, blue-eyed and outrageously tall. I got the last part from him, but my mother was also tall. Willowy, too. You know, like a tree. Well,” he sighed at the ground, “not like a tree. I can’t pretend to understand the intricacies of what I am. Of all the inexplicable, maddening mysteries surrounding my birth and family ties, this,” he indicated the two of them with the flick of his crooked thumb, the thumb they both shared, “is by far the most pleasant surprise of them all. To have another sister. To be able to start over…it’s not too late, is it? To explore this relationship?”

Resting his hand atop hers, Haraldur jerked his head to the barracks on the hill. “You can come with me now and see for yourself if Forbanne command is best suited for you. We’ll find out what you’re made of. But I don’t think you’ll have much trouble,” he mirrored her grin; even their mouths bore similarities! “They already respect you. Remember when you helped me relocate them from Stella D’Mare to Braighdath? You played something of a commander role then. Not only that, but you’ve been where we’ve all been; under thrall. Whether through decades of indoctrination or through dominion over the mind, it’s something we have in common. Let’s see how it goes, together.” I’ll need all the help I can get, he thought, not forgetting one of his most pertinent commitments as a commander. There’s an invasion on the horizon. Even if Eyraille doesn’t want our help, we’ll find a way to infiltrate. …Somehow.