Coerthan Traitor

by Cascanora

Summary:

An unwanted daughter, born from an elicit union between Archbishop Thordan VII and a no-named beauty from the brumes, falls into the hands of Garlean dignitaries and their emperor by chance. Through a twist of fate, the shine of the child's soul unmistakable to His Radiance's discerning eyes, she becomes a tribute to solidify a fleeting deal between nations. Elevated from a bastard child to the First Princess of Garlemald, akin to the emperor's daughter, Crow wir Galvus was thrusted into the cruel world of intrigue with only one companion whom she can trust — the brilliant but tacit young prince, Zenos yae Galvus.

Chapter 1

The Holy See of Ishgard was a sprawling fortress in all but name. Its towering battlements pierced the fog laden ranges that formed Abalathia's Spine, visible to those who would tread through the tender green knolls of the Coerthan Highlands. Hamlets dotted along the landscape outside of the Gates of Judgement, most were occupied by families of sheep herders and field hands who served as the bread basket for those who reside within the city. A few of these settlements boasted scores of men and women in arms, a number of whom were knights serving as the first line of defense for their nation against foes most foul.

Along its most outer perimeter, the Holy See employed magicked wards, conjured by powerful practitioners of the mighty Church of Halone, woven in layers to repel their mortal enemies. Their ranks of priests practiced both thaumaturgy and a brand of Astronomy unique to Ishgard, branching off from their sister school in Old Sharlayan. In war time, for the past thousand years, the old nation had faced countless assaults by dragonkind, enduring wave after wave of attacks, intersected by skirmishes both large and small. Never once thus far, however, had the citizenry within the impregnable walls faced true threat from their sworn enemies. Towers would be knocked down and rebuilt by stonemasons, casualties, most from the lower caste who lived at the city's edge, would be recovered and laid to rest. Those who called the Pillars home were the nobility, and thus safe from harm’s way as they were nestled in the city's inner sanctum. Highborns minor and major rubbed elbows and played their part in raising up fine knights, commissioning mass quantities of weapons in support of the nigh unending conflict. Theirs were a burden borne by the shoulders of generations, and such adversity was not endurable without the vast anchor both high and low borns shared.

Faith was a powerful thing, especially to those who have known nothing else but war. It lent hope to the downtrodden, succor to the heartbroken, and most importantly, it was the foundation of the Church's power over the people. Ruling over all those, through prosperity and tragedy, was the current Archbishop Thordan VII. He was often likened to a stern father shepherding his flock, never a stranger to doling out hard but fair laws. He saw the value in discipline and might, unafraid to use suspect methods to achieve what he deemed was for the greater good. To most, he was a great figure, a respectable man with many admirers, and he'd earned the approval of the people by steering their city through the worst of the Dravania incursions. But he was not without flaws, his detractors would claim. 

Some within the lofty highborn circles would not hesitate to dangle the rumored bastard born son of his as criticism. A just Archbishop must be ascetic, pious and celibate as the only woman he should devote himself to was Halone. That was a formality observed by many who held rank under the Church. But men, such as they are, were prone to by-blows within Ishgard. It was a fact of life that chagrined more than its fair share of wives, be they low or highborn. But still, there was a general unspoken acceptance, even encouragement, as Ishgard needed her populace to replenish itself often. Though, that did not mean these children, born outside of wedlock, were often treated with any measure of love nor care. Hypocrisy only stung those who bothered to acknowledge it, and most in Ishgard were happy to remain blind. None were above these unspoken facts of life, even the Archbishop, a handsome man in his prime, was ultimately still only a man. One bastard child would easily be swept under the rug, carted off to be taken care of by some close acquaintances. He could not recall the woman's name, let alone bothered the bastard child with a blessing. But he still had his pride, and those of his get would be raised in comfort and wealth. His detractors soon subsided, nothing a few well arranged arrests would not quell. It was what they deserved for heresy, after all, and his inquisitors were all too happy to oblige.

The boy had been an accident, a product of willful indulgence in a whirlwind of passion. His mother had been fiery but her flame was snuffed out by complications during labor. He had only been a bishop then, his activities not so thoroughly scrutinized by the bodies of the Church. There had been another after his first bastard's mother, a watery eyed beauty, full of desperate faith and fervor. He came across her during a confession, she spilled to him her lurid thoughts, inconceivable to an unmarried woman of faith. She was weak, and clung to his every word, worshiping the ground he walked as though he was Halone's chosen. A broken thing, her hungry flaws beckoned at him, asking to be fixed and mended through obedience and servitude. She did as he'd bade, followed his every whim to the letter like a trained pet. It was inevitable for a man such as him to feel her milky, taut flesh under his fingers, full of youthful vigor, something he'd struggled to regain at the age of fifty. A temptation so fine, bolstering his masculine vanity as she writhed beneath him. He'd still been quite the rakish fox then, raven black hair still stubbornly holding onto its luster. His sharp blue eyes bore through many an opponent who sought to compete against his machinations, his will as steely as the blades of any veteran knight.

Had he been a man of lesser ambition, humbler in his trade and ideals, he would have likely wedded her out of obligation. Perhaps made an honest woman out of her as decreed by their doctrine. As things stood, however, it was not meant to be, as with every success that brought him closer to the magnificent seat of Archbishop, he grew more distant from her. The further they drifted, the harder she clung on, like a tick that would not loosen its mandibles. He was easily irritated by her, frustrated at her lack of comprehension, her inability to understand that things were now finished between them. In the weeks before the ceremony of his appointment as the latest in a long line of Archbishops, she sat at the pews, looking forlorn and withdrawn. Her cheeks somewhat gaunt, slim wrists peeking through the capped sleeves of her dress. She tried to catch his eyes as he performed his duties, but he would not entertain her regardless of her sorry state. day after day, she tried and tried, looking increasingly closer to tears every time he saw her. 

Then, by the Goddess' grace, she disappeared one day, having not showed up to the same pews, and things remained that way for a good long while, her presence banished like a bad memory. His ambition, carefully cultivated through cunning maneuvers and puissant charisma, finally came to fruition. It was a day he would never forget, when he was made a new man from the ashes of his humble beginnings as a son from a lowly statesman family. The impressive cathedral of the Vault, with its high, arching ceilings wrought with murals and intricate carvings, unraveled like a new chapter in his life. He'd been to these grand halls before on many occasions to oversee one administrative duty or another, but its steepled windows and polished altar were now a shining beacon as he knelt before his predecessor. His forehead was anointed with the sacred oils, vows renewed and ceremonial regalia draped over his shoulders. The bells rang that day in joy as he was raised to the zenith of his hopes and dreams, a mere bishop reborn into someone whose name would endure the wear of time. His deeds would be etched into the annals of history to be remembered and revered.

For a year after his ascension, most affairs carried on smoothly. Though in retrospect, things had been far too quiet on the main war front. Skirmishes certainly took place as they were wont to, between the dragons and the distant outposts in Western Coerthas, but they were few and sustained little casualties. The astrologians had assured him that the skies bore no portent of danger, though the accuracy of their readings were dubious at the best of times. His instincts, an absurd thing to rely on for a man so analytically adept, told him otherwise. But his intuition had rarely failed him, he was no soldier but he could feel the gathering pressure to the west. The discomforting quiet of the Dravanians was like the stillness that preceded a terrible storm. He'd readied the guards, doubled the patrols, battlements armed with wyvernslayers and cannons for a fortnight. As with everything he did, as an unproven leader, he had his detractors. Criticisms from the temple knights were leveled his way. Prolonged efforts were for naught, they said, as no signs of draconic activities were spotted from as far out as camp Tailfeather. Even the Azure Dragoon, defiant Alberic, had left to survey the outer hamlets despite his orders to stay put. He'd claimed that a large shadow had been blotting out the sun, reported by the sheep herders and yeoman farmers further out into the mountains.

It was a fateful summer day when the hoard struck, not a day after the fortnight did they descend upon Ishgard's walls. The wyrmking Nidhogg, who had wreaked havoc on the outskirts of Ishgard's territory, was only a distraction to pull the Azure Dragoon away. The city bore the brunt of the assault, the enemy's numbers seemed innumerable as they dove through a crack in the waning wards. It was years until the next wards' renewal, and their city had grown laxed since the last time a dragon had found its way in. He'd only realized the error when it was too late, the gap only widened to admit to the torrent of scalebound monstrosities, maws snapping with vicious vengeance. Civilians were carried off, torn apart with sadistic glee by claws and teeth. The lucky ones were crushed beneath crumbling rubbles, unable to bear witness to the slaughter of their own kin. The city's fountains flowed red that day, cobblestones stained with the blood of soldiers, mothers, children, it made nary a difference to who they were. The highborns cowered in their holds while the lowborns hid below cellars. The air smelled of smoke and iron, the dust of generations jarred from their resting place by the worst attack they'd seen in a hundred years. It could have all been mitigated had Alberic not so brazenly made away, neglecting his primary duty beholden to him by Ishgard. The city was missing her most prized protector and the rest was left to languish.

Then finally, after three days of ceaseless bloodshed, the dreaded black wyrm's cry signaled the end to the carnage. There was no relief, no rejoicing as their harriers retreated, only the silent weariness that accompanied the dead and dying. The haze of battle faded and the foggy eyed soldiers were left with naught but the bodies of their comrades. Many were too far gone, their injuries too grave for even the skills of their best chirurgeons. The cacophony of men wailing in the distance as the shock ran its course, from the pains of missing limbs or with their slain family clutched in arms. They all grieved, in the end, as none were spared of the overflow of despondency in the face of tragedy.

 

Notes:

Back with a rewrite!

Chapter 2

The assault craft purred with radiating heat, the air waves emitted from its hot engine vents sliced through the dried fall grass as the streamline shape made its landing. A construct of lightweight steel and Garlean ingenuity, it cut through the distance between Ilsabard and Coerthas with remarkable ease and expediency. The day was cool as typical to these climes, but far warmer than what any native Garlean was used to. The landscape had turned a bright array of warm orange and reds, speckled with wilting yellow hues, a scene that absolutely bored the retinue stepping from the airship.

Solus zos Galvus descended from the hull, gracing these savage lands with the sole of his boots, lips twitching into a faint frown of derision as he surveyed the stony fort and the Ishgardian escort awaiting them in the cobblestone foyer. A dark haired man who looked to carry not more than thirty five years under his finely wrought belt stood with steady patience. He sported a sharply teased stache and backswept hair, his regal stature was clad in a dull, velvet red tunic embroidered with silver thread, the furred lapel of his overcoat was adorned with a brooch depicting a red unicorn on a field of black. He raised a finely gloved hand to his chest and swept into a flourishing bow before Solus, solemn respect gleaming in his warm blue eyes. The rest of his entourage looked too stunned to follow suit, their mouths hanging by their hinges as was expected. Solus was here on a whim, after all, in place of a common ambassador to facilitate this desperate trade-alliance. His infamy was growing by the day as the campaigns to the East came to its natural conclusion, victory had been all but assured from the very moment he set his sight onto Othard.

One of Solus’ retinue, one Quintus van Cinna, leaned toward him fractionally and whispered in a low tone. “The Fortemps, Your Radiance, the Count Edmond Fortemp is here to–”

Solus cut him off with a leisurely wave as the aforementioned Count made his approach. He was weary from travel, this body was old and its joints creaked with every movement, thus he hadn’t the patience to care for the minutiae of identities and formalities.

“Your Radiance, we welcome you to camp Dragonhead, I trust your trip here was met with fair winds.” The Count, pleasantly eloquent in his greeting, was met with the piercing glower of the infamous dictator.

“Let us proceed before your city crumbles under the weight of its own pretensions.” Solus muttered, though his words were clearly stated for all within earshot.

The means to cross into the city proper was stationed before the Gates of Judgement, the portcullis’s teeth jutting above their heads. Solus wrinkled his nose at the smell of the pack beasts drawing the vehicle, four large black birds whose plumage matched the stagecoach. How long had it been since he’d been forced to set his eyes on these beasts of burdens, he did not know. Garlemald had long since outgrown its uses for them, any industry that had a need for such brute strength now employed mechanized automachinas or man-operated engines.

Solus winced as another bump shook the carriage, the uneven road only served to intensify his detestable headache. Eyes closed and brows pulsing, he ignored the inane nattering of conversation between the Count and van Cinna. Small talk, the infernal byproduct of social propriety, had never failed to gall him. The need to fill empty space with inconsequential noise was ever an enigma to him, and there was none more egregious to this sin than his own grandson. Varis was ever eager to come to him to exult about one achievement or another, so oddly proud to have conquered a kingdom or quelled a rebellion in some insignificant province. It was only after he married that he ceased the incessant bothering, so enamored with his new wife that he’d finally left Solus to his own contented solitude. Carosa fae Cinna was her name, Quintus’ very own niece had snagged his grandson’s attention and, by all accounts, it was a love match. A fruitful one, apparently, as they’d just welcomed their first son into the world within the last three years, though that was not without its complications as Carosa weakened considerably soon after the birth. The women who married into the family had an unhealthy disposition, some would observe, but he personally blamed it on the general flaw inherent to most, if not all, incomplete beings on this star.

Ishgard was insuperably disappointing at first sight, when he said what he’d said, he did not mean it quite this literally. The walls were a feather’s drop away from fully toppling down onto those who lived behind them, the city’s statuesque monuments of their saints and heroes were nearly decimated beyond recognition. Singe marks, blackened and some stained dark oils and blood, were smeared all over the grounds they stood on. The fountain, the main source of the city’s water, was grimy with moss and cloudy with fallen debris mixed into the water. The people huddled under broken eaves, clad in nothing but rags, looking absolutely hollow with hunger. Even the distant steepled tips of the Saint Raymenaud were not spared, some bent and twisted and their raggy battlements hung lamely, caught against broken windows and belfry. The Holy See was less a promised land to those of Halone’s flock and more resembled an animal limping on its last leg, the dilapidated state of its slums had obviously spread into its main districts.

The Pillars, presented to him by the Count with a little more pride, were marginally better than the decaying ruins of stone and wood below. The odd upturned garden, claw marks gouged into a side wall, broken steps and cracked streets, but things were at least functional in their presentation. The seat of the Church’s power was evidently afforded more protection from the Dravanian assault in comparison to the lowborn districts. Stringent patrols lined the streets, knights from each respective noble house stationed at gates to drive away beggars and any of the poors looking for alms or shelter.

“What a quaint neighborhood.” Solus rasped a curt laugh as they began to climb the steps toward the Vault, heels grinding past the Hoplon as he caught a glimpse of the steep drop beneath.

His comment drew no friendly attention, catching the side-eyed glare of the escorting knights. To his amusement, they had the discipline to remain tight lipped, but their eyes told him of their indignance at his scrutiny of their city. At least, if nothing else, they still had their pride, much good that did for them. 

The wuthering spires of the Vault rose up to reach the heavens, the only structure that had survived relatively unscathed save for some cracked windows or a broken buttress. The tallest peak of the cathedral was roughly, to his estimate, nearly three hundred yalms, entwined in steel filigree and carefully worked stones. The structure spanned nearly from one end of the Pillars to the other, wrapping around the main plaza as though shielding the city from the abyss. Flying arches connected the scholasticate to the main governing quarters, elegant in its composition, drawing all eyes to the central architecture. Stained glass windows, small and large, depicted several scenes of Ishgardian founding mythos, and it all ended with the looming statue of the first King Thordan. Quite the sight for something made by primitive hands, he had to admit.

The Emperor was greeted by half a dozen knights, the steel of their armor was dyed in the uniformity of stark white, trimmed with harsh azure, distinguishing them from the rest of their peers. The personal guards of the Archbishop, he deduced, stationed without the council room with three men on either side. They admitted him, pulling back the sternly carved doors to reveal the Archbishop himself, accompanied by three other men of some vaguely discernable importance.

"I present to all, His Radiance, the Emperor of Garlemald and all his territories." Quintus van Cinna announced with brevity, making way to present his entrance.

Against his expectations, the three men stood, save for the one at the head of the rounded table. As they each leveled a respectful nod his way, he thought that things must be dire indeed for these prideful fops to extend such tokens of deference. 

Without further delay, he wanted to quit this city as soon as possible, Solus settled himself down into the seat directly opposite of his only true opponent for today. The Archbishop inclined his head, the gilded staff he held stood at attention. He never understood the need for such paraphernalia, the gaudy symbol of sovereignty was overcompensating, and judging by the state of his domain, it was something he was severely lacking

"Before we begin, I wish to welcome you to fair Ishgard. Your presence, though unexpected, has served to lift her spirit in these trying times." The Archbishop said, voluminous sleeve lifting as he swept grandly across the gathering.

"A jewel in the rough, I'm sure." Solus tapped the lacquered armrest, trailing his eyes across the visage of each nobleman present.

One of them, the oldest one of the four Lords, stiffened at the backhanded compliment, but kept his thoughts to himself. The rest, meanwhile, merely looked unnerved, though the Count, who had led Solus and his entourage through the city, maintained an admirably sedate countenance.

“We’ve prefaced the crux of our proposal through our correspondence, a simple trade between Ishgard and Garlemald.” The same Count began, concluding the tedium of surface pleasantries.

“Weapons exchanged for natural resources, yes. I suppose all that’s left is to determine the nuance of give and take.” Solus said through narrowed eyes, glittering with dark amusement.

The discussion meandered from one topic of what specific ores Garlemald would have to how much from the gross collection were they allowed to skim from. Tarresson Dzemael, the oldest of the four lords, sat simmering in silence as they all prod and scratch at his territory over the large map. He was against the deal in the first place but the Archbishop, Fortemp and cowardly Haillenarte had overruled him on the matter. The only one who even remotely shared his concerns was that of the Count of Durendaire, but his protests were quelled in the face of the fresh failures of his astrologians. Garlemald and their dangerous expansionist policies was a contentious subject in most, if not all, of Eorzea since their recent capture of Ala Mhigo not half a decade ago. None were sad to see the warmongering state fall, especially the forested Gridanians who shared major conflicts with those in Gyr Abania, but King Theodoric and his ilk were the only bulwark standing between the empire and Aldenard. Now they were here, bumping elbows with the grasping devil of Ilsabard himself. The Count Dzemael spared a contemptuous glare to the recently elevated Archbishop, finding himself wondering if his predecessor made the right choice in retiring. They had little recourse now despite his growing doubts, because the previous Archbishop, Thordan VI, passed soon after abdicating from his position, locking them into this path under his successor.

“If that is all you’re willing to part with, I’m afraid I can only spare you our previous generation of warmachina. New territories are unruly and we need all the manpower and weaponry we can muster, I’m sure you understand.” The Emperor smiled from beneath his beard, the lie painfully obvious. Emancipation from Garlemald was a thing entirely unheard of since they began their campaign some ten years ago, swallowing one kingdom after another in the Far East. No country or city-state seemed able to put up any meaningful retaliation once the empire had their sights on them.

“Ishgard will not stoop to being served the empire’s obsolete leftovers, you come for the blood of our land and you wish to pay for it with scraps?” Tarresson could hardly stomach this farce any longer, unable to stopper the boiling outrage.

“I’m afraid I have to concur with Lord Dzemael on this matter, the terms leaves Ishgard too lean, we have numerous quotas to make for the city’s defenses.” Thordan VII intervened smoothly, but it was to hammer home Tarresson’s point much to his shock.

“I may be speaking out of turn,” Quintus van Cinna glanced over to his liege before continuing. “But we’ve little interest in whether your city can weather the next attack from your neighbors. We’re simply here to negotiate a short term trade, nothing more. Any weapons from us would be a boon for you, at any rate, they’ll be better than the artillery that now lay disassembled beneath your bastions.” 

“How dare you!” Lord Dzemael slammed a clenched fist against the long council table, acrimony overflowing as he heard the barefaced indifference of the Garlean party.

“Lord Dzemael, this is no place for an outburst.” The Lord Fortemp, in an attempt to play the evenheaded mediator, gritted out a reprimand.

Ishgard needed this to survive, they had little means of predicting another attack due to the Athenaeum Astrologicum being in disarray. Warding off the Dravanians quickly with little to no bloodshed was their highest priority in order to rebuild. While their stonemasons and artisans can quickly do the latter, the Temple knights’ numbers were thoroughly decimated, leaving them vulnerable to the former issue. 

The Count Dzemael bristled at his peer, scarcely believing that he was being chastised by a man who was one decade his junior. He was on the verge of snapping back until he caught sight of Count Fortemp's hands, the balled fist hidden beneath the table's edge, quivering with stifled anger. With resolute effort, Tarresson Dzemael smoothed back his hair and regained his composure with a stiff lip.

A deep, hard laugh washed through all in the room like a tidal wave, breaking the tension in the atmosphere with its patronizing mirth. None joined in as they leveled hard gazes at the Emperor, grim faces set in stone as they struggled to discern his sudden amusement.

“It seems to me that we are at an impasse, my Lords.” Solus steepled his fingers. “However, I think all of us here are very much aware that you are not in a position to haggle, if you’ll forgive my bluntness.”

“Even so, despite our toils, we will not stand to be insulted by unequal terms.” Thordan VII glowered at his Garlean counterpart, the cast of his face darkening as the skies rumbled.

The Emperor disguised another laugh with a cough, clearing his throat as he scratched at the aged wooden beneath his steely gauntlet, leaving behind grooves in the dry, age-softened mahogany. “Your Eminence, I do not know if you’ve stepped outside from these consecrated halls recently, but from what I can see, your city could barely pick itself up from beneath its rubbles let alone stand.” 

Lightning flashed, the stray bolt flooding the room with sterile white before the growl of thunder followed suit. Solus stood, feeling the aches in his shoulders flare up with the turning weather, no longer in the mood to play diplomat.

Chapter 3

Solus could hear them bicker the moment the entrance slammed shut. Now that the tedious affair was done and over with, he only wished to take in the sights. Through the journey of his exiting, he slowly came to understand the grandeur of Ishgardian orthodoxy. Each corridor bore a sense of openness, with high, groin-vaulted ceilings that echoed the architectural styles of eld. Archways greeted those who passed through with dramatic frescoes inlaid with mother of pearl and marble, a display of lavished devotion reaped from tithes and taxes. Every fierce face, curls of spilled blood on steel was painstakingly rendered by hand, depicting the nigh-unending struggle of men against their draconic nemeses.

“It’s quite beautiful, if one squints.” Van Cinna stepped next to him, hand folded at the cinch of his armor-clad waist.

“It’s gratuitous at best, though perhaps your niece would appreciate a portrait similar, one of her and the boy.” Solus said dryly without turning to his subordinate.

“I’m afraid that girl would rather receive an aegis from these parts than a painting, Your Radiance.” The Legatus of the Ist legion shook his head ruefully. “I might have been too indulgent when she was growing up, but what could one do with a freshly orphaned child.”

“Careful, Quintus, you’re becoming soft.” Solus slid a side-eyed look at the Legatus, a sly smirk pressing against his well groomed beard.

“Perhaps Lord Nerva will finally marry and grant you the joys of a granddaughter, then you’ll feel as I do, dreading the day she is swept off her feet by some dashing cad.” The Legatus offered, giving his liege a wry shrug.

Solus scoffed at the notion. This body would be moldering in its grave long before Arrecina relinquished her claws from her son.

“I have heard of many a tale of a patriarch’s chagrin, when seeing a granddaughter being courted, perhaps Your Radiance will be different.” A new voice added in from some tensteps away.

Solus turned from the garish fresco to see the Archbishop, accompanied by Count Fortemp. The rest must still be squabbling among themselves, he surmised.

"Coming to guide us out as a good host is wont to do?" The Emperor asked, a smug, expectant brow raised.

"As a good host is wont to do." Thordan VII agreed, continuing past him at a leisurely pace.

They strolled past a priest, candle in one hand and lighting stick in the other, illuminating the darkening hall as rain pelted down upon the city outside. These decadent, stony halls, though as pristine as a site of worship can be, bore the austere scent of age. Smoke drifting from hung censors filled the path they walked, as cloying and severe as the faith that favored them.

"It is a pity that a concession still eludes us." Thordan VII folded his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his white robes, his ornate staff left behind elsewhere. "The people ask for little but a full belly and peace of mind, yet some would turn from their plights for negligible details."

"Watch your tongue." Van Cinna hissed behind the Emperor, though his warning was ignored by both his liege and the Archbishop. Count Fortemp spared him a wary glance but said naught in turn.

"Your Eminence, neither of us have ascended to our respective positions through selfless generosity. Furthermore, my subordinate made the point clear previously, but it seems this needs to be said again." Solus said without turning to his counterpart, a sardonic humor creasing the lines of his face. "You and yours have very little leverage in this affair, the resources you are so confident of hold little interest to us. Othard has plenty enough to replenish our already full coffers, and with more lands and mines to draw from than what Dravania possesses."

Solus viewed the Archbishop through slitted eyes as he continued. "We entertained you — are still entertaining you — because I was curious of the cultures and flairs of Ishgard, but all I see is a frail, rusting carcass."

Thordan VII paused before the entry foyer, some ways before reaching the grand doors of the Vault. "There is always a means to create leverage, Your Radiance."

The air shifted with those words, Edmond Fortemp visibly staggered at the utterance. Quintus van Cinna smoldered at the naked threat, the Archbishop and his ilk must be desperate indeed to even hint at such an inflammatory idea. Two of the Archbishop’s guards appeared from surreptitious side halls, closing in and ready to obey should he give them the condemning order to capture both the Legatus and his lord. The Emperor stopped three steps ahead, only snorted rudely and said.

"You'd only be doing my family a service, and truth be told, those vultures will not be as courteous as I." It was comical that they even entertained the notion of keeping him prisoner, these zealots and their nothing of a nation.

Quintus was prepared to give his life to secure a way out of the cathedral for his Lord, the legionaries that had accompanied them would likely be able to take him the rest of the way. The assault craft would be able to land atop the Hoplon but it would take time for them to locate an unfamiliar area. The high gates of the Vault sprang open suddenly, interrupting the Legatus' internal planning, admitting a person clad in a drenched cloak. 

The commotion of the figure's entrance stirred the attention of all in the hall, breaking the taut pressure of the confrontation. The cowl was drawn back as she held a bundle against herself, revealing a young Elezen woman of notable looks. Loose wet strands of dark chestnut hair sprang from her collar and wild hazel eyes flashing, she dashed into the nave. A temple knight darted after her, attempting and failing to coax her from the trespass.

"I must see the Archbishop, please! His daughter, I–I must–"

Strong grips pressed down upon her shoulders and halted her willful charge, the woman was shaking from her efforts and the thrilling fear of being caught. She was met with the frightful stygian frame of armor, eyes roaming upwards to see a fearsome man of middling sixties. His lashes lowered down to her, piercing her with an ungentle glower, tinged with disgust.

"That is a scandalous accusation, madam. Pray continue." Solus solicited with saccharine sweetness, eyes sliding over to Thordan.

She stiffened at his address, his voice deep like the echoing abyss of a well. So stricken like a scared doe, she did not register the burbling cries at her bosom. The noise began as an irritated hiccup, then as with the pouring rain outside, the babe's tears overflowed. Its sharp, unceasing cries were shrill and drew Solus's eyes downward. He winced, momentarily blinded by the brilliance of the child, hot and achingly familiar. Yet, even under the shadows of furrowed his brows, he could not bring himself to look away.

The memories came back like a shaft of sunburst, halcyon days in that now-ruined city, its name lost to all but himself and a few others. The brush of petaled fingers on the back of his hand, those jewel-like eyes of emerald looking up to him. She was a consummate traveler back in those times, full of love and wanderlust, beckoning and teasing him in good humor. A friend, and a love that he hadn't had the chance to tell before everything burned to cinders.

'Hades?' Her voice like nectar, a whisper from the far-flung past caressing his senses.

"No, Please, Your Holiness! This is your daughter, I've been faithful and never strayed from your light!" The woman's pleading had devolved into a blundering sentence of tears and desperation, the bleating noise swatted away the pleasant haze of reminiscence and left him with naught but the raucous prattling of these gray ghosts.

The Archbishop recoiled from her reach, causing her to quail with sorrow, leashed by her shoulder still caught in Solus' grip. He looked thoroughly disturbed by the woman and her child, and then it was swept away by an eruption of fury.

"Arrest her, damnable heretic!" Thordan VII roared, all his previous certitude disintegrating in the face of his rancor.

As ordered, the two personal guards rounded on her, twisting her unoccupied hand behind her back and yanking her away from their Lord. The babe only cried louder, an impressive lung capacity for something barely a full year of age as its mother shook with ragged sobs.

"I have not strayed, I was faithful." She repeated herself, words wound over and over as though it would save her from their condemnations.

Count Fortemp and his present counterpart, Quintus van Cinna could only look on as spectators as the scene unfolded. The former was lockjawed and poleaxed, rendered speechless by her claims. He could scarcely fathom how deep this went when one considered the rumored past of Thordan VII. Quintus, however, could not quite grasp the irreality of the dramatic display. He tensed while gazing at his Emperor with consternation, recognizing the whimsy in the wrinkled amusement of His Radiance's eyes.

"Stop." 

The Emperor’s single command arrested every person's attention in the foyer. He did not raise his voice but nonetheless, the single word reverberated through the bones of all present. Even the Archbishop blanched, his own hysterical loss of composure was indicative of the voracity of the woman's claims.

"I think we can still come to an equitable agreement, Your Eminence, if you are keen to resolve this… arrangement." Solus looked past the woman, and down to the tender glow in her arms.

Chapter 4

Edmond thought he’d misheard when the Emperor of Garlemald demanded that the babe be added as part of the terms. Her mother raised vehement protests through her hysterics, swallowing her tears as she clutched her daughter closer.

"I-I only wish that she was acknowledged by her sire" She sniffed wetly, fingers buried possessively into the rough homespun swaddling cloth. "And be granted the same good life as her half–"

The Archbishop silenced her with a potent glare, slamming his fist down against the table. "If that is all that's required, then you may have it, but know for certain that the child does not have a father."

Edmond finally found his voice. "You'd tear the babe from its mother?"

The acrid glower was then directed at the Count, but Edmond would not be shaken even by His Eminence's acrimony. He frowned and met Thordan's reproachful look with one of his own.

"Regardless of whom the babe was sired, it is not our place to use her as a bargaining chip, 'tis inhumane!" The Count argued.

"Cease your complaints, you sanctimonious lout." Hissed the Archbishop, tone full of venom. "Not all can afford to do as you did with your little by-blow. You are only here as an incidental witness by my permission, so sit and keep your peace."

Edmond's expression was marred with rigid shock, thoroughly lashed by the ire of his nation's figurehead. He sat back with his mouth agape, stricken with disbelief. The Archbishop had all but confirmed the accusation, the babe was indeed his. There were seven in the room who were now privy to that truth, even ser Vellguine and Vaindreau shared a nervous look.

"Now, with our moral outrage sufficiently made known, I wish to make a proposal." The Emperor wound his wrist in a forward motion, looking bored by the whole tete-a-tete between lord and vassal.

"The terms discussed among the councils will be kept, what meager amounts of ore and lumber proposed previously will be accepted. As agreed, you'll have our weapons, some new and some old, accompanied by our engineers to assist in use." Solus droned on, reciting the list while adding on new boons to coax the deal along.

"As for the babe, save your concerns, she will be formally adopted as my personal ward, and granted a royal title and rights appropriate to her station; it shall be no different from if she was my own full-blooded daughter." 

Quintus coughed sharply at the pronouncement, but unlike the Count, he dared not give voice to his concerns. The decision would be sure to cause discourse in the imperial court, but everything unfolding at present was at His Radiance's discretion.

“Then we are of an accord.” The Archbishop motioned at one of his knights to fetch paper and ink to draft out the trade agreement. “This shall last for the next decade unless Garlemald encroaches on Coerthas unprovoked.”

“Done.” Solus clasped his hands together, eyeing the babe and her mother expectantly.

“No, you can’t! Stay your hands, leave my Coeur’beau alone!” The woman cried out, darting for the entrance of the locked chamber.

“Fetch her, Quintus.”

Her resistance reached a crescendo, she screamed as though the Legatus and ser Vaindreau were tearing her limb from limb when they parted her from the child. The noise rankled Solus, caused the Archbishop a headache and made the Count Fortemp clutched his face in despondency as he wallowed in his own impotence. The mother vied for the girl, straining against the locking hold of the Archimandrite, her face drenched with tears and voice hoarse with grief.

“Lock her away, her trespass into the Vault will be dealt with after this is over.” The Archbishop took soothing fingers to his temples as he lifted the inked quill, the final words to the contract laid out in clarity.

He slid the paper to Solus having already left his signature upon the sheet, then wordlessly beckoning ser Vellguine to bring the stamping wax. The emperor briefly read through the document, wishing to be gone as soon as this affair concluded, and similarly signed it in haste. The paper was stamped and the emperor stood, barely paying mind to the yowling woman as she was dragged from the room. Quintus stood by his side, looking put out by the entire ordeal, thoroughly drained as he held the babe. It was strange that she did not cry when taken from her mother, even as the woman made a terrible fuss about their separation. 

“An emissary will be coming back for a copy of the transcription.” The emperor called out to the exiting Archbishop, looking flushed with triumph in contrast to his counterpart’s exhausted form.

The snapping of gauntlet clasps made him look to his Lord, gazing up to see him degloving himself. The emperor handed Quintus his gauntlets and vambraces, even the pair of fine leather gloves came off, leaving his hands exposed to the chilled air. So stunned by the gesture, Quintus was short of fully gawking at his Emperor when he shook the equipment at him.

“Pass her to me before we all die of old age, Quintus.” Solus intoned blandly.

The trek back to the assault craft was the same as when they’d arrived, though their guide was nowhere to be seen and the skies had grown dim and empty. Count Fortemp had slinked out before the contracts were even signed, likely still caught in the throes of his moral quandaries. The carriage was put together posthaste and though the ride was as unpleasant as it was before, His Radiance seemed to glow with ease as he gazed down at the babe in his arms. His arms were clad in fine silk, bore neither steel nor leather to cause her discomfort, as he cradled her most tenderly. In the gloom of the vehicle, Quintus thought he’d been mistaken when saw his Lord’s eyes soften with keen affection. In the decades he’d spent warring and serving the empire, the Legatus had never seen the Emperor in a moment as poignant as this. The stern visionary of the empire, who’d subdued the covetous savages of Locus Amoenus and returned to them their ancestral home, was in turn, tamed by a child of one.

“What did that woman call her?” Solus mulled as he grazed a weathered finger over the child’s dewy face, her bottom lip already graced with a beauty mark. They were upon the assault craft now, legionaries encircling them in a diamond formation as they boarded the airship.

She cooed at him, stubby pink fingers pawing at the wrinkles of his thumb as she directed a curious gaze up at him. Solus scoffed in disbelief. Had he not known any better, he would have thought she capable of discerning his true self, hoping for perhaps a fleeting sense of recognition in those precocious blue eyes.

No, he thought wearily, snuffing that futile hope out before it could play with his heart. If she would ever regain her memories, it would be by his doing. They had tried again and again, slowly with better results each time to return the memories of their fragmented fellows. Fandaniel was considered a success, though a flawed one, his original identity intermixed with his latest incarnation. The Emissary had claimed the potency of his methods to be near perfect, though Solus had severe reservations, especially with the idea of entrusting a soul so precious to one so astecious. Fandaniel was marred by his time amongst the foolish Allagans as Amon, something he, as her guardian, can prevent from happening with her.

“Coeur’beau, Your Radiance. Old Ishgardian, I think.” Quintus raised a brow as the babe entwined her inquisitive fingers into the hanging gray strands of the Emperor’s beard.

“Corbeau, as in the bird?” Solus curled his lips in disdain. He could hardly fathom the choice of naming a child after a carrion bird, but such were the ways of these backwaters, he supposed. Quintus did not have the heart to correct his Lord in the moment, smitten as he was with the child.

The Emperor frowned down at her when she began to tug on his beard, his gnarled fingers sweeping back the persistent cowlick at the crown of her head. Her curls were as black as a raven’s wings, fine-strand and soft to the touch. 

“It suits a child so talkative, like a crow.” He muttered over the babe’s insistent murmurs.

He paused, a smirk of amusement deepened his lined cheeks. Now there was a charming name, easy to remember and as appropriate as any for a child so small.

“Henceforth, by my words and authority, she is Crow wir Galvus, she who shall be loved.” The Emperor announced for all dozen bodies aboard to hear. 

“I present to you, the First Imperial Princess of Garlemald.” Solus announced and sat her up on his knees, allowing all to peer up at her. This impromptu crowning will be made official soon enough once they return to Garlemald proper.

Quintus drew in a sharp breath and saluted, and behind him as one, the legionaries paid their obeisance. The simultaneous shuffle of boots and straightened postures, they said in tandem.

“We welcome Her Grace into the Imperial fold, all hail the First Imperial Princess!”

****

The shuffling of small booted feet traversed the polished tiles, the long hall dimly lit by ceruleum wall lights, each intersecting space lit with a warm glow. His father had been in a rage today, his ire audible even from the young prince's quarters all the way from the Eastern wing of the Imperial Palace. He was acutely provoked by an odd turn of events as he ranted in his shared bedchamber, something had apparently happened after His Radiance's return from Coerthas. Varis yae Galvus, a High Legatus who was a consummate politician as much as he was a military powerhouse, was all but a neglectful father. He was a distant figure in his own son’s life, preferring the company of his ladywife, the Princess Carosa wir Galvus nee Cinna, whenever he would return from one of his long-drawn campaigns. He spared little love for his own progeny, often pinning the boy with a dour look, silently accusing him of something that cannot be helped.

His ladymother had sickened after his birth, or so he’d heard from the whispering maidservants, and still remained bedridden to this day. However, he knew that their gossip was naught but swill, because she always got to her feet and welcomed him herself when he visited. Though she was pale and often seemed somewhat frail, her arms were always warm and she was generous with her affections and kisses. She often kept her sun-silk golden hair bound in a loose braid, tossed over a shoulder as she stirred cream into his tea, hearing his complaints of tedious lessons or the annoying chit of a maid who often chased after him.

He’d thought about visiting her, momentarily sidetracked by idle thoughts, but decided against it. It was late after supper time and she would be dozing, he did not wish to interrupt her rest as she seemed more easily worn of late. Instead, as per his initial intentions, he endeavored to investigate the cause behind the palace’s latest uproar. It was not often that so many feathers were ruffled all at once, from the servants to members of the aristocracy who often came to seek his mother’s favor, they all seemed on edge and gauging one another’s behaviors. 

He meandered from one corner to another, watching the servants and listening to their hushed shuffling, the atmosphere sprinkled with tentative instruction. They beelined to and fro from the West wing, a handful of uniformed maids directed by the Emperor's steward to carry stacks of ivory-laced blouses, velvet swaddle cloths, infant nappies and toys. The quiet bustle soon died down and all the servants soon arranged themselves in twin neat rows, bowing sharply as the Emperor swept in from the wing's entrance. The young prince pressed himself harder into the wall, trying to disappear from view. His dread loomed closer as did his great grandfather's heavy sabaton steps, the bundle he held in his arm was small and seemed to struggle in his grasp as they passed. A hiccup, a sharp drawing of breath and the wailing began like an alarm, it was as though the screeching devil in His Radiance's hold sensed his presence in the dim side corridor. The prince started, his sudden movement caught the attention of his great grandfather.

With a drawn out sigh, the Emperor said. "Come, boy, no use in hiding if you're so poor at it."

He winced and slinked from the shadows, short blonde locks falling against his petulant face. The prince looked to the Emperor as he disappeared into the newly furnished nursery and glanced back at the protrated servants, momentarily contemplating fleeing instead. His curiosity, though, tugged at him and he did not wish to disobey his great grandfather. Giving in, he trailed after the old patriarch, buttoning his coat jacket neatly in preparation for the encounter.

Chapter 5

The young prince's face scrunched into a displeased frown as the babe wailed on. He stood behind the Emperor with his back straight and arms folded behind his waist, the very picture of juvenile discipline. However, he was barely acknowledged by his great grandfather in favor of the bawling devil, laying it down to the decorated crib hung with damask drapery and an overhanging little canopy.

"Zenos." Solus dredged up the name of his youngest issue from memory, and called to him without looking. "Come have a look at the princess."

Zenos was confused by the title, but his legs moved to obey. His mother was a princess, ladywife to his father by marriage, and so was great-aunt Arrecina to great-uncle Titus. He wrinkled his nose down at the girl, the implications did not bode well for him.

"Will I have to marry her, if she's a princess?" Zenos turned to his great grandfather, chagrined by the thought.

Solus paused and wondered what sort of leap of logic went on in the boy's mind. He gave a scoff, but then realized the babe had ceased her cries and was now staring at them. Her deep blue gaze was accompanied by a crooked smile, the expression seemingly experimental to her tender, flushed cheeks. Zenos, in turn, prodded at her belly, his acute disapproval wearing down to a mild curiosity. The girl grasped at his finger, like a kitten batting at a toy. Within two tries, she successfully latched on and issued a mewling giggle, thoroughly entertained by their mere contact.

Solus was perhaps a bit envious when he said. "No, she isn't your betrothed. Think of yourself as her knight, instead."

That did not please Zenos either, but the idea was more palatable. He wanted to become like Noah van Gabranth, the youngest Garlean to have ever ascended to the rank of Legatus. Marriage would hinder that goal, but he supposed knighthood could be another accolade to bolster that dream. He was dragged from his ruminations by another giggle, the princess' burbling was the sound of swirling joy and air. He reluctantly smiled down at her, finger still snagged in her grip. She was not so bad, lighting up at his mere presence like a newly lit bulb.

Zenos thought she could be acceptably endearing, if one favored boisterous things.

The prince lingered on past his bedtime, even after the Emperor had left. He stood by the crib, an arm propped up on its edge as he blinked sleepily down at the babe. Vaguely, he realized he'd never learned her name, drifting off on his feet as he clung against the sturdy wooden bed. It seemed awhile before he heard the rustling of cloth, the rhythmic rise and fall of the little princess' chest being lifted from his touch. Zenos woke with alarm, fingers snapping out to dig into whomever sought to take the babe. His neat nails found their mark, mind bristling as he came to and found a nursemaid on the receiving end of his attack. She stiffened, not daring to pull back lest she dropped the babe or injured the prince. A small sliver of blood welled up and slipped down her wrist.

"Y-Your Grace, it's the princess' feeding time." She pleaded.

Zenos drew back, fully waking as he blinked up at her. Bleary eyed and tired, he felt too hindered to trot all the way back to his chambers at the other end of the Imperial Palace. Instead, he climbed up the lounging couch set nearby and settled in to watch the scene unfold. The nursemaid pressed a bottle to the princess' lips, finding her eager for the meal, she cooed at the babe despite the ache at her scratches. He kept up his watch for as long as he could from his perch, but even with the most hard headed child, sleep soon claimed him under its billowing cloak.

****

Carosa poured another cup of warm tea for His Radiance, smiling primly with patience. She'd dismissed the maidservants, preferring to serve the patriarch of their family herself. Tapered fingers, as pale as moonstones, plopped in one cube of sugar and stirred. The Emperor took his tea without cream and minimal sweetness, according to the servants. The invitation for afternoon repast was unexpected. He rarely sought after the attention of any member of the family, let alone Carosa. In fact, she'd only encountered him a handful of times in the past half decade since she'd married Varis. Now he was here, seeking her advice on what to purchase for a child.

"It's been far too long since I had to oversee an infant's needs, that area typically fell under the late Empress' expertise." The emperor took a sip, glanced down in mild bemusement, then swallowed another.

She'd been privy to recent events, one of the few who'd heard it first in fact. Her beloved husband was severely displeased at the unprecedented adoption, but she saw little harm in the babe. He'd claimed that the girl was nothing short of a misbegotten savage, the dredge of Ishgard's latest Archbishop. Though he'd simmered down when she'd reminded him that she was similarly lowborn before her father's promotion twenty years ago. He'd attempted to argue that her circumstances were different, but she'd seen the absurd envy in his gaze, all directed at a child. She softened with understanding, persuading him to set aside his qualms for now, not wishing to fight over something so negligible. She'd smoothed over the wrinkle on his clothes, stroked the pallid gold of his tresses and laid her head on his shoulder. This sultry charm was her special brand of magick that needed no aether.

"She seems like an easy child compared to Zenos at that age." She laughed with graceful ease. "I could draft up a list of recommendations, if Your Radiance so wished for it to."

"That would be a boon." Solus agreed, leaning back to his seat with relief. "And thank you for lending her Zenos' old clothes, they will serve until she obtains a new wardrobe."

"Speaking of, I've got a gift for our First Princess." Carosa laid a small box between them, wrapped in pink linen and tied with a flowery white ribbon.

The Emperor peeked at her from between his fingers, pausing midway from massaging his temples. Despite her dainty gentility, Varis' wife held a subtle shrewdness in her character. Her generosity often came with favors owed, and always impeccably timed due to her vast reach with intelligence. Behind every great man, indeed, or so went the saying.

He unraveled the wrapping, and found the silver rattler. The faint sunlight of day glinting off the laureled curls encircling its spherical surface. The handle was similarly wrought with entwined leaves, polished by expert hands. It was quite the gift for a young princess. 

"Very well, what shall it be this time?" He said with an amused huff.

Carosa grew uncharacteristically grim, momentarily withdrawing into her thoughts as she set her cup and saucer down. “Your Radiance, I would ask that you keep this conversation between us…but I fear that I’m not long for this world. The favor I would ask from you is not one easily concluded, though I will ask it of you regardless.”

Solus tapped the armrest of his seat, seemingly indifferent by her words. It had been known for some time now that she was ailing, her son’s birth had purportedly would have killed her had it not been for the medical advancements made in recent years. Her weakness had left its mark regardless, sickness evident in her sallow skin and wilting frailty, often leaving her confined to her quarters.

“I know you do not favor any, save for late Prince Lucius,” She began, earning herself a leery frown upon reminding him of his deceased eldest son. “But I ask you to show Zenos a fraction of kindness and love as you do the First Princess once I pass on myself.”

“That is a very presumptuous request, Carosa.” The Emperor locked eyes with her, the cold, lambent gaze made her skin prickle beneath her shawl.

“Yes, but as a mother, I will brave much for my son.” She straightened, hiding the quivering of her hands under the folds of her dress. “Though I love your grandson keenly, I know what he thinks of our child; he blames Zenos for my condition, and I cannot change his heart on that matter. So I look to you, Your Radiance, to raise him and shield him from his father and the court.”

It was she who was demanding repayment for a gift, but she sounded as though she was begging him for a boon instead. In all his years of living on this star, from one life to another, he’d observed countless scenes of tragedy without an onze sympathy to spare. Perhaps it was this body’s lingering humanity that had tainted him, spending far too long with the myriad of ghosts play-acting as their ruler and father, developing an undue affection for these dolls as his family. Had Carosa shed any tears or expressed anything beyond her determined melancholy, he would’ve spurned her without hesitation. Regardless, without a word, he gave his ascent with a shallow nod.

“At any road, Crow will need a companion, and I’d rather not grant any favors to those grasping vultures beneath us.” Solus sighed, setting down his own cup and standing.

“Thank you, Imperial Father.” She called out as his hand reached for the door handle.

The title irked him, brows furrowing as he swung open the door. The tick was back upon hearing that word, tugging at the nerve at his forehead.

“Never call me that again.” He said and slammed it behind him with more force than necessary.

Notes:

I hope you enjoy reading this as much I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter 6

The large bed, layered in fine woolen bedding and covered with a thick blanket, was warm with his mother tucked in it. Zenos climbed in slowly, attempting to not wake her as he did so, but she stirred nonetheless and sleepily gaze down at him. She looked so tired of late, the golden shine in her hair had dulled, the moonstone pallor her complexion turned sickly, though her smile had managed to retain its radiance. She reached out to him with a thinning hand, cradling him against her body even as she winced against the pain. Carosa stroked his gilded crown, shining in the warmly lit room. Her one and only boy, never did she think she'd ever be blessed with a gift as precious as he. She'd never been the most lively specimen in her youth, his birth had only served to hasten her to the inevitable, but not a moment went by would she ever say she regretted bringing him into this world. 

"Zenos, my golden little princeling." She nuzzled against his cheek, drawing out a snort of laughter from the boy.

He smelled of freshly laundered clothes and flowers, he must have been running amok in His Radiance's solarium again, she deduced. Carosa pressed kisses against his cheeks as he curled into the nook of her arms, much to his chagrin. He'd claimed that any respectable princes do not need kisses from their ladymothers, and oh, it made her heart flutter with longing. She was caught between wanting to see him grow up, and wishing that he would remain her little princeling forever. Such were the quandaries of parenthood, but she hadn't the time left to hope for the former.

“Mother.” He whined his complaint, the noise incomparably adorable to her. Carosa hummed softly in response, eyes fluttering shut with a smile.

“Mother, have you seen the new princess?”

“I haven’t yet, darling. What about her?” She asked, dragging up the large quilt over Zenos.

“Do you know her name? His Radiance said I am to be her knight.” He preened at the pronouncement, proud of the future title.

“Oh?” Carosa laughed weakly as a twinge of pain stabbed her belly, she wrapped her arms around him. “How adorable, my gallant boy and his lovely princess.”

“Mother, you still haven’t told me her name.”

Carosa let out a long exhale against the pillows, relishing the tranquil moment as she ran a thumb against her son’s cheek. “Sorry, dear… her name…is Crow.”

“What an odd name, why couldn’t His Radiance name her something as pretty as your name?” Zenos wrinkled his pert nose up at the air, his comment lingering as it went unanswered, his mother dozed lightly with him in her embrace.

“Mmm, I love you, darling… be a good boy…and tell your father that I…” She mouthed her final words through the fog, half lidded eyes peering sightlessly into the dim, catching the last golden gleam of his locks as she fell into a lasting, deep slumber. The pain faded away like dust on a breeze, a gentle drift of summer snow tinged the dream of her beloved husband and son. Her only regret was that she never had the chance to wish Varis farewell, to let him know that he’d made her indescribably happy as a wife and mother.

Alas, such was life, she supposed.

Zenos woke from his nap but instead of the warmth of his mother, all he felt was a chill and an overwhelming loneliness. His eyes snapped open to feel her holding him close but she was so preternaturally still, the subtle movement of breath and the minute twitch of the body was missing. She was limp, arms leaden to his four year-old frame, her face ashen as unmoving blood pooled in her veins. Zenos swallowed, eyes searching in incomprehension as he pushed an arm off him with great effort then sat up.

“Mother, have you had supper?” He nudged at her shoulder, pushing her to lay on her back.

She was unresponsive, her jewel-like eyes sealed shut by heavy lids, mouth parted slightly as her head fell to a wayward angle. His mother was so beautiful even in such a state, but his toddler mind could hardly care for the details of such minutiae when he shook her again. His brows furrowed in confusion as he was once again faced with wilting silence. A crash startled Zenos and he whirled to the source of the commotion, his father stood poleaxed at the archway preceding the bedchamber, his helmet had not even finished its clamorous fall when he rushed over to the bed.

Varis did not speak, had no words in the face of his rising gorge. It choked at him as the spike of cold dread crawled up his spine. He swatted away the boy’s hand from Carosa’s shoulder, cradling her slackened face in a palm as he surveyed the scene. He pressed his palms against her chest pushing in rhythm as though he could still salvage the situation. He could save her, bring her back from the brink as they did years ago. His armor felt far too tight as his heart pounded in his chest, like a hammer slamming against an anvil. His mind pulsed with something that could not be described as pain, it numbed his scalp unpleasantly as he took in the sight below him.

Beneath the quivering of Varis' gloved hands, there was no pulse, and she was as cold as the grave. The boy watched on in shock, his ignorance peeling to give way to grotesque incomprehension as his father seemed to nearly thrashed his mother’s body. She ricocheted against the bed lifelessly under his ministrations, chest nearly caving as he let out a final cry of anguish.

With what scant grasp of reality Varis had left, he gathered the body of his wife into his arms and raised accusing, gilded eyes at his only son. The command, filled with acrid resentment, slid from his father’s lips like a striking viper.

“Get out of my sight.”

Zenos flinched back, the hate, for it could only be described as such, punched at him as well as a physical blow. 

“But mother–” he mumbled, instinctively drawing back from his father. For the first time in his young life, the prince felt the brief touch of fear.

“ Get out! ” Varis roared, unable to stomach another moment looking at the thing that had brought his love to ruin.

****

As far as he could, the young prince ran from the gloom of his parent's shared chambers. The image of his mother's prone visage haunted him as he fled, its phantom grip seemingly inescapable like his father's wrath. His legs carried him from east to west, he collapsed against the corridor's end. He did not care where he was, only that he was as far away from that terrible scene as he could be. His mind was a roiling sea of jumping images, flashing out of order from one awful moment to the next. He could only grasp the tail end of each, mind's eye closing shut on those memories to shield him from their true impact. It was like catching a falling boulder with a flimsy net, the shoving of these flashes to the back of his mind only lessened the broken disintegration of his childhood innocence.

Zenos sat with his back pressed against the marbled wall border, staring into the distance to not think of what had transpired. Slowly, after the sun met the horizon as it bathed the corridor in brilliant orange and shadowed violets, he began to realize where he was in earnest. The gilded door inlaid with curling laurels rose in his periphery, wood and metal worked in tandem to create a gleaming geometric vision that snagged his attention. It was the babe's room, he slowly realized.

He tested it first with a push of his small arms, finding it locked up on first contact. Then, impulsively as one would expect a child of four, delivered a hard kick. It was futile, the looming slabs hardly nudged at his meager strength. He fumed, incomprehensible fear and sadness warping into an ugly anger. His young mind, regardless of its prodigious keenness, still quailed in the face of complex ideas such as death, barely grasping at its permanence. The only thing he knew was that his mother was not coming back. 

Then the clicks of heels against tile came from behind the corner. Sharp, evenly paced and uniformly distributed; the steps of a maidservant, he concluded. She seemed surprised to see him, barely managing a curtsy with the little princess hitched on her hip.

"You Grace, how may I be of service?" She kneeled down despite her formal offer, reading the sullen cast of the royal toddler.

Her narrow face softened, shedding some of its austerity. She was not a great beauty by any means, but the tentative kindness brought a smoothness about her brows, and made her glow with open pleasantness that made him feel less alone.

The girl, Crow, he remembered, chimed in a squeal of delight at the sight of him. Straining against the hold of the maidservant, her tiny hands stretched forward to brush at his gilded locks. The touch was so light, her skin smooth as dew and it reminded him of his mother's delicate caresses. She would sit with his head on her lap, book in hand and a light song humming in her slender, pearled throat. The memory was rose-scented like his mother, and washed over him like snow melting against his face.

The warm drops slid down his cheeks like the advent of a star shower. His tears came to an overflow, though he made not a sound. His lips trembled, holding back all the things he wanted to say to his beloved mother.

"Oh, please dry your tears, Your Grace." the maidservant murmured, her eyes brimming with pity for the sad child though she knew not the reason for his dolor.

With furtive care, she unlocked the princess' room and ushered him in along with Crow. The room was serene, illuminated by wall mounted lights, glowing with warmth. They were in one of the highest points of the imperial palace, the capital city beyond the royal grounds opened before him within the borders of the tall windows. Points of streetlights outlined the grid of a city so distant that it might have been a portal to another world. A crib draped in silk and cotton laid in the center of the chamber, atop the wide woven carpet, a mobile with lazily drifting blue birds hung above the canopied bough. Infant toys were scattered here and there on the ground, wooden blocks and painted figurines of legionaries laid abandoned. A few disemboweled dolls were prone on the ground, missing a leg or an arm, the odd head thoroughly detached from the torso altogether. The maidservant set Crow down among her toys, and laid stuffed cushions around the babe before she went about preparing warm formula for her supper. Zenos was given a book filled with pictures, though he barely registered its content as he watched the princess. She seemed to have a truculent way with her dolls, appearing almost vicious in her play. Her small fingers dug into the finely stemmed rows of hair and shook it like a pugnis on a bone. The doll with its body still attached, seemingly admonished her violence upon its form by bouncing against her forehead. It was not a hard collision, but her lip quivered and her face reddened.

Her incoming cry, however, was interrupted by Zenos's unexpected snort of laughter. The boy doubled over the book at his knees, shoulders shaking hysterically. 

The maidservant heard the commotion and peeked over from the other side of the chamber, the care area sectioned off by a half wall. She saw the prince on the floor with the princess with a limbless doll in his hands. With some effort, he managed to decapitate the doll, pulling its head from the joint of its neck with a sharp pop. This was met with the joyous giggling of the princess as she practically fell backwards in laughter. Her elation was infectious, spreading to the prince as he also smiled down at her. 

It was a touch macabre, she found, but the innocence of children had little care for the black and white facets of morality. As long as they were happy, she could not fault them for it.

"Come, Your Graces, it's time to eat." She brought a warm bottle of milk for the princess and soft biscuits for the prince, there was not much aside from such within the infant supplies, she would have to fetch him a proper meal after she put Her Grace down abed.

Quietly, His Grace sat next to the maidservant as she cradled Crow in her arm, watching as she latched onto the bottle eagerly. A minute in, however, the little princess' eyes drifted to her counterpart's and she began to kick up a fuss. The maidservant tried to mollify her with encouraging coos, but she ignored her efforts entirely. Instead, the princess began to reach for him again, finicky even in her neediness.

The maidservant and Zenos shared a brief glance as he took Crow's little hand in kind. She demurred almost immediately, wiggling her feet in rhythmic contentment as she glanced between him and the bottle.

"Your Grace, I think she's quite taken with you." Laughed the maidservant in disbelief as she grew smittened by the adorable scene.

Zenos was soothed in the moment, his worries and anxiety eased by Crow's blissful simplicity. He could forget about the troubles of his young life when inside this room, its gilded filigrees warding off the heavy dread that sought to drag him down. He would be her knight, he remembered and straightened, legs swinging from the lounging couch he sat on. He would protect and love her as his mother did him. There was a trickle of pride at the thought as he felt himself smile a little, wiping the dried leftovers of his cry from his cheeks and nose.

He paused then, a thought catching up to him. Come to think of it, he'd never even once caught sight of Crow's mother or father. 

"Does Crow have a mother? Or father? How come I've never seen anyone but His Radiance here?"

The maidservant blinked, caught off guard by the question. She knew little of the princess' circumstance, only the scant gossip whispered among the servants, but it wouldn't be right to tell a child those unsavory theories.

"Her Grace's is adopted into the Imperial family, Your Grace. Your great grandfather is her family, as are you."

"Am I her brother then?" Zenos followed up without hesitation.

The maidservant bit the inside of her cheek, chewing on it nervously with a stiff smile at the prince.

"What would you like for supper, my prince?" She stood and carried Crow to her crib, unsubtly moving the conversation along posthaste.

She tucked the princess in and straightened her pristine apron, wiping the nervous sweat from her palms. In curtness, she excused herself to fetch him a proper meal, all the while quietly begrudging the acuity and blunt curiosity of a toddler.

Zenos found himself left alone with Crow in the chamber, arms cushioning his chin as he leaned against her decorated crib. She had a pacifier in her mouth, sleepily gazing up at him with a stuffed hare in her grip. 

"We're your only family, His Radiance and I." He informed her, a sense of kinship growing between them. It seemed that she had no parents to speak of either. He was effectively orphaned judging from that venomous look his father had casted his way. That man certainly did not count.

"I'm going to have all your sweets, tune the radio to my liking and have the first pick of new reading material!" He listed his demands in non-negotiable terms.

"In exchange…" Zenos demurred, dragging the blanket up over her.

"In exchange, I'll never leave you, not even if you're crossed with me." He promised, pale lashes lowered to her, cherubic lips pulling into a determined frown.

****

The funeral was held within a villa in the peaks outside of the city, it was a solemn but lavish affair with many attendees from the aristocracy. Dotted among them were also commoners acquainted with the Cinna family long before their rise. The main thoroughfare was decorated with dusky roses, leading to the main foyer where his mother's coffin lay. The imperial standard was draped over the gilded box as a choir sang a mournful dirge for the departing royal. Zenos sat alone in the arranged pews, his catatonic state directed to the marbled flooring as the noise passed through his person. His father returned to his campaign abroad as soon as he'd finalized the arrangements, refusing to even attend mother's final rites. His only truly benign relative, Quintus van Cinna, was positioned behind him, dourly staring at any who dared to approach the prince. The boy was too young for this, his mind clouded with vulnerable naivete, tender for the hooks of those who would prey upon him to gain influence.

"The ceremony has concluded, Your Grace, shall we depart?" The Legarus leaned forward, murmuring his suggestion.

Zenos shook his head mutely, looking at the box that now contained the remains of his departed mother. Quintus withdrew, sighing in consternation. While he was sympathetic to the prince, he also wished to grieve in private. It was his overgrown sense of duty and obligation, however, that made sure he could not leave the boy undefended.

A young man sat down by the prince, undeterred by Quintus's presence. His sandy blonde hair swept back and braided, silken vest colorfully embroidered despite the grim occasion, slick green eyes traveling from the coffin to the boy. He was one of the very few who had little regard for the Legatus' dyspeptic glowering, practically swaggering as he smiled down at his young cousin.

"Hello, little prince." Nerva yae Galvus greeted Zenos lightly as though they were attending a spring gala instead of his mother's last service.

He frowned when he found the boy unresponsive. It was no fun prodding at a child fourteen years his junior, the boy could barely carry a decent conversation let alone provide entertainment. Alas, his mother had insisted on his attendance here in their stead, and where better to sit than next to family.

"Where is your father?" He smirked down at his little cousin. "Is he too busy to attend?"

Zenos twitched at the question, obviously holding himself back from the verge of childish tears, and Nerva narrowed his eyes, his smile turning wolfish upon managing to provoke a reaction.

"The High Legatus' returned to the campaign in Ala Mhigo yesterday, Your Grace." Quintus cut in, getting up to his feet.

The older prince frowned at the old coot, souring at his attempt to intervene. "I don't believe I was addressing you, van Cinna."

Quintus set his jaw stubbornly, standing his ground before royal authority in spite of the risk. Fortunately, he needn't stare the antagonistic prince down for long as the doors to the main hall opened. 

"His Radiance, the Emperor of Garlemald!" The announcement came and all heads turned to look.

From the aristocracy to the military, and even the lower citizenry, every man and woman straightened and held their gazes low in deference as the founder of their nation entered. The praetors, His Radiance's personal guards, flanked his rear as they marched into the open center. Their steps in synchronized pause as their liege parted from them, approaching the only diminutive figure who still sat in the pews. Even Nerva, the most insouciant one of the lot, stood and paid his respect with a low dip of his torso. All conversation slipped to a thin susurrus, then ceased completely the presence of the august body. His cloak nearly grazed the ground when Solus bent toward his great grandson, a gauntleted hand extended to him.

Zenos glared up at his great grandfather, countenance scrunched in a stern display. Then down to the proffered palm, lips quivering. He resisted the childish tears, but could not hide the flush of grief that adorned his face.

"Come." Solus said, his voice was pitched low but rang with absolute authority.

Quintus locked eyes with his Lord, then bowed his head in gratitude. His niece had pulled one last string for the sake of her child, securing his future in one clever stroke. The Cinna had risen high thanks to all of Quintus's achievements during the territorial expansion, but against foes like Titus and his vicious ilk, only under the Emperor's wings would he be able to thrive.

It was for the best , he told himself.

Zenos glanced over to his mother's uncle, then took the Emperor's grip.

Notes:

Mothers don't exist in Japanese video games.

Chapter 7

He was aimlessly wandering the palace's corridors, the time after his lessons had once been reserved for visits to his mother but now, it was filled with an inane emptiness. He dragged his feet through the rows of tall, darkened windows, finding himself in the West wing without meaning to. The hushed placid atmosphere was pleasant here, few servants tread through the row as it led to a dead end. The only ones he would cross were the four maidservants placed into the First Princess' staff, all of whom seemed like faceless automatons he could not remember. But now, as with the chambers his mother had once occupied, it was devoid of life.

His great grandfather, who had plucked him from that dreaded funeral, seemed even less inclined to affection than even his father. Though, at least, he did not scowl at Zenos, nor did he raise his voice. His indifference was still keenly noted, however, as all his time was purportedly devoted to Crow She was two now, he'd snuck into her room to hide from his tutors and saw the pile of gifts laden upon her by His Radiance. It reminded him that his own nameday would be arriving soon, the first one bereft of his mother.

A scant drift of music snagged his attention, drawing him from his glum thoughts. The deeply hummed tune was from no phonograph nor radio, and became more discernible the deeper he trailed down the wing. The song had a sweet but somber note, something one could dance to. The sound led him closer to the slight crack between the laurel-embossed doors of her nursery. 

His blue eye peered into the crack, pale lashes lowered as he squinted to catch the movements within. The Emperor was within with the babe loosely cradled in his arms, a warm flame crackling in the fireplace. Such things had been rendered obsolete since the advent of ceruleum heaters, but many still kept the means to light their hearths. Several rooms within the Imperial Palace still retained such facilities, even after the installation of heated pipes.

His great grandfather tapped his foot slowly, delaying the waltz into something more gentle and romantic. His throaty timber brought about the minor notes with dulcet ease, seemingly spooling the song from memory. A finger tapping against Crow's little wool-wrapped form as she gazed up at him in infantile wonder. Then suddenly, once again as if she'd sense him watching, the babe piped up and burbled at his great grandfather. His Radiance started when he began to drowse, glancing at the door as though he fully understood her senseless giggling.

"It seems we've an audience again." The Emperor said to the air, smiling fondly down at the babe.

Caught for the second time this month, Zenos nudged the door open with a sullen cast. A most serious frown bringing down his cherubic lips as he stood squarely in the doorway, unapologetically akimbo in his stance. 

"If you're going to linger there, then at least shut the door. You're letting the heat out, boy." 

The door slid shut quietly as Zenos moped by its sealed threshold, his lone figure casted a flicker shadow against the firelight. Crow chirped up at the sight of him, seemingly happy to see him. His great grandfather maintained a placid disposition, almost relaxed in the way he slumped against the snug windsor armchair. Zenos made a tentative approach, the atmosphere inviting him to join them.

"Bring a chair, and have a seat. This old man has a tale to bore you both with."

 

There had been once a magician, he was born with a certain sight that allowed him to see the truth of those around him. Luckily, those around him were brimming with curiosity and without a malicious bone in their bodies. At their fingertips, with varying degrees of mastery, they had a kind of magick that could form anything they wished, so long as they could picture it in their thoughts.

This man was the best at what they did, his capacity was nigh limitless, a veritable ocean of magick waiting to be tapped at whim. Unfortunately, he was plagued with an irritant, a little imp named Hythlodaeus and a charming fairy named Mnemosyne. Despite the imp's awful teasing and the fairy's mischief, they all got along wonderfully, they even saw each other as friends and colleagues, working hand in hand to better their kingdom.

Over time, their world became a sort of utopia where hunger and thirst was unheard of, and diseases were easily cured as they were devoted scholars and pursuers of knowledge. The imp oversaw the catalogs submitted to them by fellow magicians, and the fairy, a spirit blossoming with wanderlust, explored their worlds and surveyed their creations with meticulous care.

The act of creation was an artform, some might even say, the crafting of life was overseen by a council of fourteen magicians, himself and the fairy included. The fellow magicians were creative and bore no ill-intent but without the guidance of the council, their imagination would eventually bring ruin to the world. 

No such great power comes without cost, especially without keen research and stringent rules, you see.

Regardless, over time, the magician came to love the fairy. His affections ranging beyond mere friendship, he'd fallen for her quick wits and kindness. For many years, they'd helped each other with many issues, from mediating conflicts between their fellows to personal research in their academics. The imp, in spite of the vexations he caused the magician, saw the growing infatuation and beckoned to his friend.

'Do not think to hide yourself from me, you and I share the same sights.' Hythlodaeus teased earnestly, grinning from ear to ear. 

'Tell her!' He urged.

'I cannot! What if she does not feel the same as I? Should she spurn me, it would ruin what we have now, and you would be placed in a difficult position.' the magician complained. 'We are too deep in our own works, and she would think me a besotted fool!'

The imp listened patiently, folding his hand and nodding along until the magician finally ran out of reasons to list. In one swift stroke, he batted aside his poorly constructed excuses and told him:

‘We may live long lives, friend, but some of us will likely never find what you hold so close to your heart. If you do not let her know, then you shall live with that regret for a long, long time.'

But the magician did not heed the imp's sage advice for he was not only the most powerful but also the most bullheaded out of all of them. He hid his love, too cowardly to bear his tender feelings for the fairy. 

Until one day, despite their efforts, their world became imperfect. An illness, one that struck the hearts of magicians of all shapes and sizes, manifested from elsewhere unknown. The sickness caused the inflicted to unwillingly create monstrosities in their thoughts, and these all-too-real misbegotten fiends rampaged throughout their kingdom. They burned and destroyed, and feasted on the poor magicians who knew nothing of violence nor bloodshed.

A twisted proposition was made in response, the situation spiraling out of hand too quickly for most to handle. 

Sacrifice half of their kingdom to a god, their souls devoured to fuel the preservation of those who remained. This act had its naysayers, those who loved too dearly and deeply vehemently petitioned against it. Regardless, their selfish sentiments formed a rift between the people. To his heart's ache, the fairy was one of those who were against this act. She and her teacher, a cunning witch, turned her back on the council, never to return, resolved to find their own way about the matter.

But as things were, neither side could quell the shattering of their star. They could have done it as one, but a people so divided could not achieve much in the grand scheme of things. The god still devoured half their remaining people, taking his last dearest friend, the imp, away as well, and he was left bereft of companions. His love never made known, his last friend sundered into a divinity's maw, and his world irreparably broken, the magician was left only with his regret.

So he wandered the fragmented shadows of what was left, seeing naught but emptied husks of people he'd once known. Their light dimmed, their souls ailed in their incompleteness.

****

Zenos looked up from his book, only half paying attention to the tale. He set the tome aside, recrossed his legs and turned back to the Emperor with a bored sigh.

"You've already told us this a dozen times over, Your Radiance." He complained pointedly, sounding rather much like the grouchy magician of the story.

"But Crow likes it!" Her rounded elbow jutted into him and Zenos fell sideways atop the large expanse of the shared ottoman seat, sulking blandly at the dimmed space beyond, lit only by a table lamp.

At the age of four she still referred to herself in the third person, reasoning that if she did not, how would anyone know that she was speaking. Needless to say, he hadn't the heart nor the patience to correct her flawed logic. His Radiance said that she would grow from the habit soon enough, so long as she is privy to exemplary eloquence from Zenos, she would eventually take up proper speech.

Solus leaned back, closing his eyes as the children bicker. "If she wishes it, Zenos."

"Then let her have it — yes, Your Radiance." The prince continued from his prone position on the cushioned seat.

Crow grinned, giggling as she threw herself up on Zenos. He gave a huff, groaning in agitation as little arms wrapped around his body. He'd grown rather astonishingly quick for a child of his age, seven years of age and he was already taller than most, shedding some of his childhood roundness in favor of a lankier build. His hair still kept neatly trimmed to the style just below his chin, and he'd developed a ravenous appetite for books ever since he began his formal education. Crow was not so far behind, though she often whined about his notable vertical advantage. It was as though what little height she could gain went to her hair instead, raven locks often trimmed and braided to for easier management by the four maidservants who chased after her. She was, by all accounts, the daughter the Emperor never had. He treasured her to the extent never seen before, outstripping the sparse morsels of acknowledgement he rarely granted his own blood. With such special care and attention, it was inevitable that she would garner resentment among the aristocracy and royal relatives. Her biggest detractor being Titus and his disapproving ilk. They think her spoiled, though not far from the truth, their impression of her casted a malicious lens upon her image. The savage pet of the imperial household, such a name was whispered outside of the imperial court when without the presence of their revered Emperor. It mattered little what they plotted or planned, however, as Crow and Zenos' upbringing was kept extremely private under his purview, with less than a dozen maids and manservants shared between them. 

The prince's quarters had been moved from the East wing to the West with no objection from Varis, who rarely even showed his face in court. His absence in his son's life lost him little love with the boy, for neither seemed to want to speak to one another since Princess Carosa's death more than two years ago. Their estrangement effectively placed Zenos into the care of the Emperor, as per Carosa's request. 

"Go take your meals, then to bed." Solus bade them, already winded from her boisterous energy. Even in the antediluvian past, she'd always been brimming with a certain vibrancy that few could keep up with. It heartened him to know that, even while in this state, her soul retained its original shine.

Without protestation, both children climbed from their seats, bowed and bid him good rest. The door slid shut, leaving the night was tranquil, snow slowly coming down upon the city as typical of an easy fall. The fire had died, leaving naught but warm, crumbling ashes in the fireplace. The scent of woodsmoke and books struck an organized contrast to the scattering of children's toys on the lush, woven carpet.

Rest , Solus thought of the word the same way some thought about paradise. The weariness of this body weighed him down like shackles, his old bones were heavier and joints stiffer as the years wore on. He did not mind so much, however, being able to see his labor of love slowly come to fruition. What was another decade or so in the face of millennials past, he will wait til the day comes to restore his beloved. In the meantime, he did not mind observing her and his issue grow. Within him, without him knowing, the hope he thought dead came back once more, the same firefly glow he'd once held for his firstborn who was taken too soon from illness. It was tentative, though it provoked a fear in him that he refused to acknowledge, this undue hope. Fear of the unknown, of things outside of his control. It galled him, made him suspicious of those that surrounded her. The only one who could be trusted was the boy who knew little better than she, veiled by the innocence that came naturally to all children. This hope made him feel so untenable, but he would endure its wear on him, so long as she was safe.

Notes:

Grandpa doing grandpa things

Chapter 8

The cold engulfed him mercilessly, from the tips of his extremities to the dreadful chill spreading in his core. He was surrounded by it in the dark, with a weight falling heavy on his shoulders. He wished it gone, but dared not move, instead opening his eyes to the ceiling of the curtained canopy. He heard the rasping sucking next to him, dry as a husk and filled with death. Next to him laid his mother, her lifeless corpse digging its claws into him. It was worse than he remembered, what beauty she'd possessed had withered away, leaving naught by a desiccated mummy. He would rather have the other dream, the one where people screamed and fires rained from the heavens. At least in that one, there was no one he knew or cared for. Their deaths were irrelevant in the narrow scope of his world. In that place, he could wake himself easily and not be paralyzed by unspoken fear. 

He could hear the hollow flow of air scraping from her dead lips now, closing his eyes as he fought to reclaim an ounce of control. This ghost was not real, she'd been burned to ashes and scattered over the Magna Glaciers. A physical impossibility for her to be here at all. The thought made little difference as he felt her inch closer, weakly embracing him as she did in life. Sweat slid down his neck and pooled at the base of his throat, a lump forming as his heart thumped in his ears.

He heard the dislodging of his doors over the drone of her rasping, then in the space between the seconds, the terrible spell was broken. The room lit up with a small lamp, its metallic rattling sounded quietly as Crow set it atop the low night table. Zenos drew in a breath as relief spiked through him, sitting up sluggishly and clearing the sweat from his soaked collar.

"Can Crow sleep with Zenos tonight? The winds are loud." She struggled up the ledge of his bed, little fingers digging into his covers.

Without verbal affirmation, Zenos dragged her up with an easy tug of the thick blanket. She was dressed in her nightclothes, a small blouse embroidered with lilies and dark hair braided into a long rope.

"You'll get in trouble again." He said, though his hands moved to prepare another pillow.

"Not true! His Rariance turns blind to Crow." She retorted smartly.

Despite her lack of mastery over metaphors and idioms, she was extremely keen on picking up the mischiefs she could get away with. Precocious and spoiled, he would often be reluctantly dragged into her misadventures. He supposed if his great grandfather would reprimand him, Zenos could simply refer to the common refrain repeated between the three of them.

Crow wormed her way underneath the covers, looking both pleased with herself and excited at the prospect of a sleepover. The event was not uncommon, taking place once a week at least. However, in spite of their frequency, her love for them never seemed diminished. Zenos reached down to the night table and groped for its switch without looking. With some luck and familiarity in practice, the room grew dim, lit only by the pallid reflection of snow outside. It was dark, but he was no longer cold and alone with his perturbing visions, feeling her sidle up to him in earnest. He could feel the vague shape of her form against his back, sleepily blinking against the gentle auroral lights escaping through the crack between the curtains. She was small and hardly good at anything besides dragging him into trouble, clinging as all tiny toddlers did to anyone that would pay attention. Despite this, he reached back, feeling her little palm pawing at his waist, holding onto her hand like a lifeline. He would never say it aloud nor even acknowledge the sense of safety she helped tethered him to, but he slept better with her there. A dreamless drifting that was warm and filled with nothing, blessing him with restfulness in the relieving oblivion. 

After a long while, he woke slowly, the rise of consciousness bobbing above the waves of sleep, the early grogginess clearing from his eyes. Zenos curled his fingers reflexively, feeling out his limbs in relief, the practice ingrained into him as a measurement of his reality. Faint music drifted from without his chamber doors, she'd neglected to shut them after she left for her lessons. The melodic plinks of the harpsichord in the distant drawing room washed over him, and he rolled over on his chest, face buried in the pillows. He could pick the rare faltering missteps by ear, her hands so small when compared to the slim taper of his fingers. He didn't play an instrument, but rather enjoyed the technical theories behind it, picking apart the tempestuous rhythms of allegro suites and the grand, luxuriating stretch of pavanes. He preferred to explore the language that helped guide cadence, the interest brought him reprieve between the rigorous sessions of his studies. Zenos tracked the beat in his mind, imagining his heart beating to the tempo until it snagged a halting drift.

He frowned, she had a penchant for fanciful waltzes though she could hardly ever keep up the timing. Then a crashing cacophony of keys being bashed upon soured the moment even further, followed by a pitched, frustrated cry.

“It’s too far! Crow can’t reach that key!” She sounded as though she was on the verge of tears.

He was very well-acquainted with that face, all flushed with anger and tears flooding her cornflower-blue eyes, lips jutting in a petulant sulk. And then came…

“Zenos could do it better!” There it was, her high voice dripping with envy and childish anger.

Amused, he climbed from the expansive bed and shrugged on his coat, tying his shoes as he heard the piano’s casing slam down. He started and looked beyond the twin door of his chamber, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden commotion. It was unusual to hear her reach the point of a physical tantrum, more akin to a pup that was all bark and no bite. His step from the bedchamber began as a wary saunter, ears on the listen for other telling signs of her displeasure. The silence was oppressive, faint dust motes lingering in the air then swirled in perturbation as he passed with accelerating alarm. The golden rays of the morning struck contrast to the dark foreboding clouding his mind. Windows lit up by the early morning light, casting his harsh shadow against the dark marble walls, his silhouette bobbed through the corridor in a whirlwind as he saw the hastily slinking figure of her tutor.

The waspish woman spared him a disdainful glance, her rancor made obvious by the way she clutched the stacks of wrinkled music sheets. She clicked her tongue at him and disappeared around the next corner, ignoring the acrid look he pinned her with. Zenos bristled at her open animosity but hadn’t the time to spare her another thought, striding into the drawing room in a rush. There, he found her perched atop the cushioned bench, shiny leather shoes dangling over its edge. A pinched, stubborn expression on her face as she clutched her left hand, fingers had already begun to swell, darkening as the blood vessels beneath bursted. Her teeth bared down at the splintered nail beds, tears flowing from her eyes as she seethed at her injuries.

“Crow hate her, want another teacher.” She looked up at him as the anger in her eyes cracked away, unraveling in genuine pain.

It was well documented that the upper echelon of the empire held her in contempt, but this was by far the worst result of such bitter sentiments. He rummaged in his pocket, grasping at the kerchief stuff haphazardly inside, then gently took her hand. With a tender touch, he dabbed at the pinched skin, a slight smear of blood came off and she winced in turn. Crow sniffed wetly, reddened cheeks shiny with the sheen of a fresh cry. 

“Where’s Lida?” Zenos asked.

Lida was the head maid in charge of her care, a slight woman of thirty who had a humorless, austere face. It was a wonder that she had so little wrinkles with such a solemn demeanor, but she was kind enough after her own odd fashion. Their clothes were never wrinkled, and Crow’s hair always immaculately braided by the woman’s deft, thin hands. Her affections were expressed through the way she cared for Crow, going the extra mile in pinning the princess’ hair with flowers and sneaking her lavished candied fruits on her nameday. Though, Zenos was always the benefactor of the treats as he was inexplicably cursed with a craving for sweet things.

Crow shook her head and shook with a hiccup. “No breakfast yet…”

She was referring to when Lida would come calling for the two of them to break their fast, morning meals were routinely preceded by a bell of early lessons. Zenos frowned and glanced over to the looming clock tower by the room’s mantle piece, a faded painting of late great grandmother Hyppatia wir Galvus. Her owl-like gaze seemed to follow you wherever you go in the room, how Crow thought to admire the piece was beyond him.

“Let’s go find Lida then.” Zenos said after a moment, compacting the smoldering fury into a box and tucking it away. He would have time to think about what he would do, patiently waiting for his ire to harden with pressure and heat. Find out the name of that specific tutor and add it into his slowly growing list of people to meet again.

Crow wiped at her face roughly, drew her hand back and squinted at the glistening scab. It was so red, like a gem, almost pretty in the warm cast of late morning flooding into the room. She did not cry out when the slab of wood came down upon her fingers, she’d drawn back just in time to avoid any grievous damage, but three of her fingers were clipped by the chomping maw of the piano and that was more than enough pain to last her a lifetime. Stubbornly, she did not let that wicked witch hear her pain, face scrunched up in defiance even as she bristled at her tutor. Moments before, she’d sneered down at Crow with stinging critiques, words that were not suited for even veteran musicians leveled against a child of four. Crow had promptly exploded at her, every mistake picked at like rats upon a carcass, right down to the last negligible detail. It was only a matter of time when she would give that nasty woman cause to retaliate, and she did so with frenzied relish as she screamed that the prince could easily outstrip her in intuition and skill. It was then that a grown woman attempted to cripple a child by crunching down upon her limbs, so galled by the insult thrown in her face by a savage, royalty or no. The situation had been perfect, possible deniability through accidental cause and with no witness to boot. But in the end, Crow gave her no satisfaction, biting back the cry as well as a child could with a concoction of admirable restraint and spite fit for royalty.

Zenos pressed the cloth to her nose, letting her blow upon it like a broken trumpet. He slipped her uninjured hand into his and led her from the sun laden room, drawing back to the shadowed alcove of the corridors as the pale summer sun unfurled above the city. Next to him, Crow gave their clasped hands a squeeze, rounded eyes cast upward to him as she muttered her request with reluctance.

“Zenos, could you teach Crow instead?” She did not want to meet with another tutor. They were all the same beady-eyed stranger who stared at her with unadulterated disgust, like this was not where she should be. One of them who had been charged with her arithmetics had taken to referring to her as a stray until Lida had overheard and reported to the Emperor; he was promptly replaced the day after by a nervous, fresh-face graduate from the academy.

He thought about turning her down, his schedule was already so filled to the brim with one faceless teacher or another. 

The prince sighed. “Only if you’ll give up your desserts every supper time.”

Crow looked up at him, mortified at his demand. She was not particularly fond of sugary things, but rather, the thought of him becoming as large as the sous-chef in the palace kitchens sent her near to shock. 

“Zenos is going to grow fat!”

He rolled his eyes, stifling a crooked half-smile.

Notes:

I'm on twitter @cascanor_ if you wanna see some art of these two

Chapter 9

The little blue bird gave a twitch, beak hanging ajar after colliding with one of the solarium's large-paned windows. The thriving garden of the area was accompanied by a fair number of birds not native to the frozen climes of Garlemald. It was warmer than anywhere else in the palace, and filled with colorful flowers and little animals. The structure had a domed ceiling capped by ornate frames of glass and steel, its centerpiece was a drooping wisteria that bloomed late spring to summer. It was her favorite room in the sprawling expanse of the imperial palace, its greeneries and primitive beauty setting it apart from the stern majesty of her home.

Crow eyed it and cocked her head with morbid curiosity, picking it up by the wings with her thumbs and forefingers. It laid limp while pinched in her hold, unconscious and thoroughly dazed by the headlong impact. She'd laid it on a rock and ruminated upon what to do with the thing. 

Lida had asked Zenos to help find Crow; she'd snuck away again after her afternoon lessons, not wishing to face the prospect of a bath after lunch. He was bribed with a biscuit slathered in jam and sent on his way. He could easily guess where she was, Lida only sent him because she knew he was the only one she'd listen to. The Emperor had recently grown busier, dedicating less time to spend with them and heaping the responsibility of her supervision upon him and her caretakers. He did not mind it so much, though, as he enjoyed hearing her play his haphazardly composed songs. She was getting better at playing, making fewer mistakes as her hands grew a little more. There was an unspoken satisfaction he felt when hearing her bring what he wrote to life in bits and pieces, and she seemed similarly pleased as well by her progress.

Artificial lights designed to sustain the garden's flora made him squint as he stepped into the foyer of the solarium. The archways encircling the elongated room ushered in a sense of spaciousness, echoing the style of the rest of the palace. He wandered the paved path, lined with fine grass and feathery moss, neatly trimmed green hedges outlining the border of the manicured growths. A meadow of red and white flowers dotting the roots of the wisteria tree, providing colorful surroundings for when the tree was not in bloom. The garden was a testament of Garlemald's mastery over nature, coaxing life to thrive far from their native soil. 

He found his quarry by the squat Hingan maple tree, branches umbrellaed to provide cover for the small animals that lived in the garden. He knew she sometimes liked to set her little traps there, baiting it with morsels she snuck from teatime. 

Crow was bent over a rock, picking at something he could not quite see. He stepped over a gnarled root then it came into view, the sharp end of a hairpin prodding at the open cavity of the mangled bird, feathers parting in a jagged incision. It was the second one this month he’d caught her with. This grotesque exploration had been carrying on for the last six months, ever since she'd caught a butterfly in her palms. He surmised that the insect likely did not expect to have its wings suddenly absent from its thorax, she'd held the iridescent wing up to the sunlight and gazed in wonder, not an ounce of pity in her guileless, warm blue eyes. 

"You're terribly feline-like with these, where'd you find this one?" He leaned over her, inspecting the glistening entrails.

Crow, without parting from her gruesome exploration, hummed a flat, thoughtful note. "This one knocked with the glass, I think. It wasn't getting up, so I thought to put it to good use."

Zenos could hardly call being split open 'good use', burying and forgetting about it would be more conducive to the garden's poor caretakers' efforts. 

"Lida's looking for you." He intoned, tugging lightly on her braid.

Crow made a dismissive noise and yanked her hair back from his sticky fingers, wrinkling her nose up at him.

"She's always looking for me." Crow fumed, rummaging her dress pocket for something with her free hand.

A peach pit rolled from her palm and into the open cavity of the mangled bird, laying in the steaming flesh like it'd some sort of engorged stamen. Even he, indifferent as he was to her often-inexplicable impulses, had to admit that he'd nary an idea what her intentions were behind this experiment.

"What are you doing?" Zenos squinted down. He was hungry and keeping Lida waiting only meant lunch would be delayed.

"I learned in civil studies that fertilizers are made from dead matter and animal leftovers, and I've been wanting peaches lately." She explained as though it all made perfect, irrefutable sense.

"You're planning to grow a peach tree in the dead of winter?" He deadpanned.

Stone fruits were out of season, even with hot house conditions, they were difficult to grow. The only way one could reliably find fresh fruit in the capital was through imports, otherwise it was canned preserves or dried goods as most of the city was allotted. 

"And you do know it would take years for the tree to grow, right?" He informed her smartly.

"Spoilsport." Crow pouted, lips twisted in a petulant smear.

“I want lunch, come on.” Zenos heaved her up by the waist, carrying her by his side as though he was lugging along a sack of popotoes. Crow reluctantly gave in, her stomach also growling for food. It’d been hours since they broke their morning fast and Lida always made sure to heap extra helpings upon the children.

“I want Napoli tort for dessert!” It was her favorite as well as the emperor’s, served often during namedays and the empire’s anniversary date. Flaky sheets of thin pastry slathered with chocolate and creamy mousseline, up to sixteen delicate layers of divine delectation. Even she, who liked sweets moderately at best, was eager whenever it was served.

“It's golubtsy rolls, and you're certainly not getting any treats after. You still have yet to master the second movement in my overture."

"You're a slave-driver!" Crow protested, slipping from his hold and dashing ahead into their shared dining hall.

"And you rush through things like an ungainly ovibos!" He called after her, matching her name-calling beat for beat.

 Zenos gave his shoulder a good wind up, frowning as he found it sore from carrying her. "Heavy as one as well." He muttered dryly.

"I heard that." Crow peeked from the threshold of the dining hall, gracing him with her fiercest glare.

"You're six now, perhaps it's time I lock my doors and bar you from my room to sleep by yourself." He threatened.

She let out a shocked gasp, childish outrage clear in her wide eyes, lips forming a rounded 'o'. It was an empty threat. The first of its kind, and he was pleased nonetheless to see how much it jarred her. The notion was inconceivable to her, that she would be forbidden from going anywhere she pleased within the inner palace, and of all the places — his room?

"Now, Your Graces, before the food becomes cold – and wash your hands." Lida tutted at the princess, spotting the flecks of dirty between her nails.

"But–" Crow raised her protest but was nudged along as the prince breezed by, her hand snatched up and led to the water basin.

Lunch was delectable as usual, the light crispness of the simmered cabbage leaves complimented the mixture of meat, rice and chopped onions and carrots. The borsch came after, served delightfully cold with a dollop of sour cream. As any healthy, growing boy of his age would, Zenos veritably inhaled the meal, making short work of the buttered rolls that came after as well. Crow lagged behind, though, glumly spooning up another mouthful of stewed beet. The threat seemed to have stayed with her, casting a cloud of worry over her general demeanor. Though only possessing six years to her life, she held a precociousness that was almost on par with the prodigious prince, even if she was somewhat petulant on occasions. 

Lida had left with the cleared dishes and another one of the children's caretaker, a cheerful, willowy maid swept in with two slices of apple cake. Zenos visibly perked up, though he managed to maintain his nonchalant appearance with convincing measure. The secret, Crow had long ago learned, was in the tilt of his shoulders and the darting of his sharp, blue gaze. She liked to decipher his tells, full of little flashes of emotions disguised in smooth transition from one breath to the next. 

Crow pulled her plate away when he reached for the dessert, lips jutted into a sullen pout. 

"If I let you have this, promise me you won't lock your doors at night." 

He took a moment to understand her meaning, the casual threat that had been tossed out there to be forgotten returned to him suddenly. It seemed she took it quite seriously, to his wry amusement.

"Agreed, but you're still going to have to play that beginning bit well after this."

"You're such a villain!" Crow groaned and slid the plate over to him.

****

Her finger danced across the harpsichord keys like an overly enthused cricket, fingers small but nimble pressing each precise key with practiced control. The twanging string being plucked and muted sang from the instrument, arranged in a dulcet melody with a minor undertone. Strings mechanically plucked by a metal plectrum to produce a uniquely brittle and formal sound, its precise nature brought it favor among prominent musicians as it mirrored the philosophy of the empire. Though in recent times, it faced competition with the more sonorous and romantic tunes of a piano. But Crow preferred this almost harsh tone, the instrument was smaller and it had no manual lid to crush her fingers with unlike that snapping lacquered monster she'd been antagonized with. She played this little one with a passion that held Zenos enthralled, and piece after piece he wrote for her. From short, modest etudes made for the ease of a child's hands, to longer, more experimental capriccios.

He does not play himself, however, his role was firmly instructional. Hearing her play made him feel an inexplicable satisfaction, her hands dancing interchangeably one over another over the keys. She always seemed breathless when reaching the end of this one, a fast paced tune he'd thought of one night while finishing up his studies.

"Slow it down here, like so." Zenos plunked his finger down a few notes in demonstration.

Crow tapped out the notes in reply, fingertips mimicking his and then some. She smiled as she heard the change, looking up at him with bright eyes. 

"You know, it sounds like summer rain." She commented suddenly.

Zenos gave a pause as a bemused expression settled over his boyish face. A subtle shift of a brow and a brief glance out the tall, wuthering glass panel windows, the weather outside as dreary and gray as can be, steeples laden heavy with snow.

"We don't get summer rain." 

"I know, I know!" She chimed back, brushing off his deadpanned stare. "But this is what I think summer rain would sound like." 

Crow lightly grazed her fingers over the keys, replaying a particularly delicate section. He'd meant it to sound heavier, envisioning a solemn downpour during a hunt, but she'd laid her own twist over it. Instead of the somber spirits embedded in his composition, signaling the end of a chase, he could almost see the light prancing in her music, fleeing from the sudden onset of a warm, midsummer shower. It was as though she'd set herself in the scene and drew him in with her. He did not think he would like anyone to tamper with his personal works, conjuring the idea of an editor nitpicking over his music, even finding himself a little rankled by the thought. But, in this, he supposed he did not mind it so long as it was her.

"Do you like it?" The question was innocent, posed as casually as a greeting. Nevertheless, it hid a certain tentativeness that came to any creatives. Even as he asked the question, he was stung by a sudden ruefulness at having asked her that at all.

"It's perfectly splendid." Crow grinned, repeating a set of notes forward and backward, pawing at the keys like a kitten at play, and basking in the joy of his incomplete little side project.

He shifted on the bench, half turning his face away to hide the pleased curve tugging at his lips. Such moments between them were like the sun dappled glow under a verdant canopy, with spots of childish teasing lit by shared happiness. These days had seemed like they would go on in sunlit contentment unto eternity, collecting between them like new sprouts in spring. Alas, as children, no matter their canny wits nor rosy upbringing, they were ignorant to the properties of entropy. Especially to concepts as fleeting as happiness, such things so intangible were vulnerable to the ravages of time and inexorable change.

That lesson came to the both of them at different lengths in time, but as with most mishaps that happened within the Imperial Palace, both big and small, it started with the introduction of a new arrival.

Chapter 10

Solus swept into the research facility accompanied by the head scientist who was responsible for much of the research on ancient Allag. The man was droning unceasingly about the recent reports, doling out one excuse or another about the lack of progress made in the cloning department. It was infuriating to know that this corrupted little parasite had been skimming off the allotted budget and forestalling the study to come begging for another handout. He would have let the corruption slide so long as this particular project made headway, but it seemed that this bloodsucker had chosen to derail it on purpose for short term benefits. He was replaceable, they all were, the magitek academy had plenty of ambitious graduates to replenish their ranks. Solus stepped into the chamber where they stored failed specimens for dissection, he waved a dismissive hand to the leech beside him and shut the chamber.

The walls were lined with tall tubes, large enough to house a body. Cylindrical constructs of glass, augmented by steel, designed to artificially sustain biological growth. He stood before one of them, unsurprised to see his own visage drifting within. This one was younger, all of them were aged and frozen in their prime, his prime. But it was deformed, flesh spotted with lesions and half of its face frozen in rigidity by stiffened muscles. They all had varying degrees of imperfection, some not so obvious at a glance. Over the years, they'd been amassing in this storage hall, each shelf displaying the progress made. He stepped up to the latest one, nearly flawless if one ignored the fact that its eye sockets were empty. The jellied orbs had been plucked out for inspection, the anatomists examining the cause of blindness with intense scrutiny. None of them knew the purpose of this project, of course, only a vague notion that he was in pursuit of immortality. Little did they know, they were more like tailors he'd commissioned for a new set of clothes. And he'd found the suit he liked, obtaining another was an inconvenience he did not want to bother with. The rest of his peers were not so particular, snatching up whatever shell left behind by the dredges of this world. He liked to think he had a more refined taste, being the second oldest out of all of them. Lahabrea did not care what skin he wore, he'd given to madness sometime ago and pursued their goals in reckless abandon. Elidibus kept him in check well enough, and Igeyorhm as well, though the old man still strained against his leash on occasions.

Solus chuffed at the thought as he returned to the space of his public office, out of all the skins he'd worn in recent centuries, this one was the oldest by far. Did he really have license to refer to Lahabrea as old when he himself was so prone to geriatric habits? Nodding to sleep in his armchair surrounded by the children, preferring to keep any room he occupied warmer than he would in his younger years, and he'd be damned to go without a pocket full of liquorice even in full royal regalia. 

Regardless, he'd be happy to no longer be plagued by aching joints and the incessant nattering of this body's offspring and their get. But he could not complain of the little joys of recent years, half a decade seemed to pass in a mere blink of an eye. The babe he'd once cradled had inexplicably stretched and bounced into a diminutive little girl, possessing the same determined and flighty spirit of her former self. Her growth had reignited his interest in the visual arts, wishing to take a snapshot of every milestone she passed. 

He'd had one portrait painted of her when she was two, barely able to keep still for the painter to get a sketch down. Then another at the age of five with her and the boy, both rendered in life-like detail by the relatively new royal painter. The tiny portrait of her as a babe was placed directly on his work desk, even when stacked with legislatures and menial operational orders, he never once let the image of her be obscured. The other was hung up in his personal study, and never a day passed without him glancing over it at least once. 

Then the knock came at his office door, a visitor that was expected though not pleasantly so. The shrewd wife of this body's second son, Arrecina, had requested an appointment with him. He would have not agreed to it had it not caught him in one of his duller moments, so bored was he that he'd decided to grant her this boon. Arrecina was nothing like Carosa, being a woman of the previous generation. Where the deceased princess was affable and supple with youth, possessing a charming slyness to call her own, Arrecina was vivacious and irreverent, skirting at the edge of disrespectfulness. Solus found her comparable to a weasel, sharp and opportunistic to a petty degree, her claws dug deeply into her husband and son. Titus had never been as regal or strong as Lucius, and Arrecina saw that as clearly as he. She'd always been a sharp one despite her hedonistic vices and flights of fancy. Nerva, his mother's golden child, often did as she bid with little qualms, taking after her in temperament with a more masculine twist. Their relationship seemed nebulously amiss in nature to him, like a snake with two heads and Titus being the limp tail.

"Your Radiance!" She bursted in as though his office was a grand ball, decked out in a bruised-purple gown that was both loud and glaring.

If he had to pick out one positive trait from Arrecina, it would be her vigor. The woman was some thirty years his junior, managing to always find the energy to make an entrance, positively strutting into the chamber in her heeled boots. It was as though she was a vampire of sorts, siphoning life from the atmosphere to fuel herself. Perhaps that was why he already felt drained after only two words from her.

Was it too late to call his praetors and excuse himself?

"I'm indescribably grateful to be granted an audience with you, our guiding light." She dipped in a low curtsy, her tight bodice nearly bursting with the movement.

Solus brought his fingers to his brows, giving the pulsing ridge a once over before waving aside the pleasantries. " Yes, yes, we all know who we are. Now what is it?"

"You wound me, Your Radiance!" She clutched her handkerchief against her cheek, the scrap of embroidered blue silk produced from the crevice in between her cleavage.

The emperor visibly shriveled in his seat, made nauseous by the theatrics. She was the only woman, nay, person, in all of Garlemald and the world beyond capable of turning him away from dramatic intrigue.

Upon peeking at his lukewarm response through silvery lashes, Arrecina straightened and sighed. "Apologies, my liege, the ride from the mountains have been rather draining."

Solus snorted. "Not enough to deter you from perusing the city's shopping district and dipping into the imperial coffers."

She tittered at his sardonic retort. "A lady knows how to conserve her energies for important things, Your Radiance."

Her eyes lit up suddenly, feigning surprise as though she'd been conveniently reminded of the topic. Her pristinely manicured fingers traced across her lips, exhaling in a startled gasp.

"Speaking of ladies, what of the First Princess, Your Radiance? When shall she make her debut in court?" She looked positively predatory in her excitement.

"She's six, Arrecina." 

"Oh." She curled her lips in vague disgust.

"Well, it's never too late to prepare, Your Radiance, a princess' debut is her crowning moment!" Arrecina preened, suddenly drawn back to the memories of her own official entrance in court. "Why, it seemed only yesterday that I was in my red gown and stepped into Titus' arms! In fact–"

Another series of knocks sounded, to his indescribable relief, and cut into Arrecina's unprompted journey down memory lane.

"Come in." It took every ounce of will the emperor had possessed to keep the desperation from his voice.

By the fates' mercy, Quintus, his savior, shuffled into the room with another stack of reports from the outskirts. Another worker strike, a riot, pipeline sabotage; he would take any mishap over this encounter.

"Apologies, Your Radiance, Your Grace, should I return at a more convenient time?" The Legatus blinked in surprise at the appearance of the princess Arrecina, then a dry hint of amusement rose up as he oscillated his view from his liege to the offensively vibrant woman.

"No, I'm sure it's urgent." Solus said curtly, and Quintus saw the pointed look he sent his way.

"Yes, quite urgent, Your Grace, if you would excuse us." Quintus coughed nervously, beard twitching.

Arrecina scoffed. "Oh you men and your military business, this is why my Titus is retired."

Solus ignored the remark, furrowing his brows as he felt another pulsing ache run through his head; Titus has retired because he was an ineffective leader, incapable of making the right call under high pressure. The legion he was placed in charge of had performed unauthorized acts of indiscriminate slaughter, costing them much resources and political favors in Othard. Everybody with half their wits, from highest seat in the Senate to the lowest private legionnaire, had heard of that spectacular blunder. The massacre of the southern reach had been an unmitigated disaster for the empire's public image, and Varis had aptly denounced the tragedy in a clever shift to improve his standing in the outer territories. Though Solus had remained silent publicly on the matter, Titus' relegation to the sidelines by his hand was swift and exact.

With a petulant pout, she produced a sheaf of rolled up papers kept wrapped by a silver ring. Delicately, she placed it before Solus, her smile was a red smear in his periphery as he unrolled the documents. They were recommendations, each page was a resume of women from the lower aristocracy, vetted for their supposedly impeccable breeding.

"The First Princess will no doubt need a governess to teach her the art of court life, with dear Carosa gone, I fear she lacks a proper lady of prestige to guide her." Arrecina produced a fan from her other pocket and fluttered it with exaggerated grief. "I would volunteer myself but the city air is terrible for my complexion, I'm sure you understand."

Though Carosa had departed years ago, Arrecina's contempt for her was still quite alive and thinly veiled as she slid her narrowed hazel eyes to Quintus. Varis' wife had always been the premiere belladonna of the royal court, the elegant white spider plucking at her web, only tolerating encroachers when it suited her. Arrecina had maintained a one-sided rivalry with Carosa, envious of the sway she'd possessed. There was no doubt that she'd swelled with great satisfaction when news came of Carosa's untimely passing.

"Now, I must away, the dressmaker calls." She grinned and bowed out, leaving in a whirlwind of petticoats and streaking violet silks.

The door shut and the two men were left stunned, Solus looked up to Quintus, unable to place his thoughts about the encounter in succinct words.

"I see." Solus intoned blandly flipping through the papers then tossing them aside, feeling unaccountably tired all of a sudden despite having downed two pots of dark tea merely half a bell before.

"And what do you think?" He raised a brow toward Quintus, dryly gesturing to the sheafs.

The Legatus sniffed, shifting in place on his feet, his coat inexplicably feeling a bit too snug for comfort. "I do not think it's my place to comment, Your Radiance."

Solus scoffed. "Out of the two of us, I'd say you're the veteran in rearing daughters. Now out with it, I'd rather have it from you than that peacock of a woman."

The Legatus scratched his nose, both brows lifting as he tried his best to repress the crack of laughter. The light chuckles slid into an avalanche of guffaws, the absurdity of the appointment had left them baffled. Solus pressed a hand against his forehead and felt his own belly shaking, shoulders trembling as they both shared hearty cachinnations. 

"Fates forfend, I haven't had a laugh like that in a decade." Solus swore, lifting the heavy crown from his head lest it tumbled over from his exertions, and placed it down upon his desk.

"Not since our campaigning days, Your Grace." Quintus agreed.

"A damn skirt-chaser you were, not that you had much success." Solus harrumphed, folding his arms across his broad chest. 

"Bachelorhood was my choice, Your Radiance." Quintus corrected lightly.

"You remained childless save for your niece, yet you've more fatherly instincts in your little finger than I have in my entire body." Solus complained, shaking his head emphatically. "Two sons and what've I to show for it? One nearly three decades in the grave, the other a limp-wristed cad wrapped around his frittering wife's fingers, two rigid grandsons, and the boy."

"Her Grace would have a right tantrum if she ever heard you excluding her, Your Radiance." Quintus huffed a laugh.

"Yes, well, she's yet to disappoint me." Solus drummed his fingers against the lacquered wood and added. "The boy too, I suppose." as an afterthought. 

"I think Princess Arrecina has a point, Your Radiance, the First Princess do need a model to take after, though perhaps not from the list she presented." Quintus said, eyeing the papers with a raised brow.

The emperor leaned back on the imposing back of his chair, sharply exhaling from his beard, and closed his eyes.

"Very well, send for a governess."

Chapter 11

Varis yae Galvus stood before his nine-year-old son, a harsh scowl set into his brows as he glowered down at him. Behind him, half hidden by the boy's taller frame, a diminutive girl peeked out in awe at the sheer stature of the High Legatus. To him, she was the stain to the family name, a savage tucked away in the inner palace, left to grow and fester. This was the first time he'd laid eyes on her, this stray his grandfather had lifted from the backwaters of Coerthas. It was an unprecedented blunder to have taken her in, the ignoble nature of her adoption was made worse by the title she held as 'First Princess'. Creating such an empty mantle for a savage would only stir the rabbles in the city below. However, officially, she was only the emperor's ward despite her lofty title, not attached to the royal line by blood.

As for the boy, Varis narrowed his gaze, his yellow amber eyes filled with disappointment and disdain. Zenos had the golden hue of his mother, the intensity of her eyes and her fine-boned features. It reminded him of his incompleteness without her, the wound ripped open anew when he saw the boy. Varis saw too much of Carosa in him, her softness and charm, unsuitable traits on a male scion of the royal line. The High Legatus swallowed the bitter taste flooding his mouth and smoothed out the wrinkles of a repressed snarl upon his lips.

"Have you begun your military training, boy?" The High Legatus asked sternly.

Zenos shook his head mutely, tightening his hold on Crow's tiny hand. The furtive movement did not go unnoticed, sparking anger in Varis.

"Then it is high time that you do." He suppressed the urge to take the boy by the scruff of his coat and tear him away from the stain.

He turned and strode away, fully expecting the boy to obey without question. But when he did not hear the echoes of his son's boots behind him, he turned to see him kneeling before the savage and uttering some inane drivel to her. 

Small hands clasped together as Zenos kneeled down to her level, her inquisitive gaze flicking from his estranged father then back to him. She felt suddenly ill at ease, the foreboding nervousness stemming from the absent, unoccupied hall. No other crossed their path, and no sound trespassed upon the encounter save for the resounding clicks of the dark figure's sabatons. She did not know who that man was, but even at her young age, she'd recognize him as an unfriendly stranger. 

"Go find Lida and try not to be a nuisance." He bade and poked at her belly, nudging her off in spite of himself. He didn't want to let go just yet, and she hadn't budged either. They were unwilling to part with one another, each somehow knowing it would be some time before they would see one another again.

Crow had wanted to ask Zenos whether he would join her for supper later, her juvenile mind unable to fully grasp the futility of such questions. Before she could muster the words, the dark figure loomed behind her companion like a descending predator. For the first time in her young life, she felt the cold brush of true fright. Zenos turned and placed himself between Crow and his father, straightening as he held his father's contemptuous glare.

The princess had finally learned what it was like for those little animals she'd often trapped, her heart fluttering as she was rooted to where she stood. She would never make the correlation, of course, her undeveloped mind still ignorant to concepts such as empathy or mercy. It was only when Zenos half-shoved her with a backward reach, sending her stumbling back three paces, that she found the wherewithal to heed his previous instruction. Her long braid whipped against her back as she fled, it was not her most graceful moment nor her proudest, but dignity was the least of her concern under such scorn. She ran until she reached her chambers, no longer concerned with finding Lids, locking the door and worming her way under the down-stuffed covers. 

She'd experienced no shortage of discrimination and minor cruel words from her teachers even within the inner palace, but this, this was different. It was as though he could extinguish her with a thought, his scrutiny so blindingly searing that had Zenos not been present, she feared she would have burst into tears right then and there.

 She fell asleep eventually, missing her afternoon lessons and tea time. The knock at her doors came, far away from the warmth of the bed and blankets. Crow curled into herself, unwilling to fully rouse herself, the expansive space of the chamber engulfed in the blue sheen of dusk. She knew the one at her was not him, he would have let himself in after the knocks by now.

"Your Grace, this is very unbecoming, you've missed your tutors and they're very crossed. His Radiance will not be pleased hearing of this." Lida called from behind the door.

Crow sat up at the mention of the emperor, a petulant twist to her lips. She climbed from bed and toddled her way to the entrance, only just being able to reach the gilded handles.

"Has Zenos returned for supper?" She asked her caretaker.

Another woman met Crow's sight, she was a head shorter than Lida and her flinty eyes scanned over the princess with disapproval. Unlike Lida, who was a Landis native with her red hair, hazel-brown skin, and lack of a third-eye, this stranger was a pureblooded Garlean. Her bark-brown hair was swept back into a tight up-do. The burnt ochre of her eyes hardened as she took in the First Princess, from her messy braid to her rumpled clothes, all she saw was a spoiled, undeserving savage through and thorough. But she held her tongue until introductions were made, there would be time for correction, and then some.

"Who's that, Lida? I thought tutors were not supposed to linger after their hours." Crow glanced up at the pureblood warily, the woman backlit by the lambent wall lights mounted at the walls. 

Before the headmaid can reply, the woman stepped in. "My name is Vinia dus Varro, and I am to be your governess, Your Grace."

The First Princess narrowed her eyes and turned to Lida, snubbing the introduction entirely and said. "I want to have supper in my room until Zenos is back." 

The door swung shut in both women's faces, leaving them standing awkwardly in the dim corridor. Lida sighed and muttered an apology to the First Princess' new governess, fingers twisting into her apron."She is easier to handle when His Grace is present, with his absent, we might expect some… difficulties."

The governess tucked her hand primly by the small of her back, walking ahead as she bade the Landis maid to follow. "Tell me more of the First Princess."

"The emperor has decreed that you be her new primary caretaker?" Lida asked, glancing back at the sealed chamber doors. 

"Yes, I am to teach her the proper conduct of a lady, though I see she has yet to even grasp good manners under your supervision."

The headmaid frowned at the criticism but stilled her tongue. Being a Landis native, she was but a second-class citizen in the capital. Though the woman standing before her was a member of the lower aristocracy, she still held a higher rank than her. Even a word from her could have Lida put to the lash should she feel slighted in the least.

"As you've seen, she changes quite drastically in conduct when without Prince Zenos. They're better handled as a pair, both more sedate when in each other's presence. And she's not too fond of sweets, so it is a challenge to find a means to curb her misbehavior when without His Grace." Lida explained, diving into the crux of her charge's habits.

"And what does His Radiance think of this…interdependency?" Vinia asked with a sternly raised brow as they walked down the palace wing.

"I do not want to presume His Radiance's thoughts, but I think he is placated as long as Her Grace is pleased." Lida answered carefully, sneaking a furtive glance at the figure ahead of her.

Vinia was annoyed by the noncommittal answer, seeing that the headmaid no longer felt comfortable disclosing further insight. "Would it be an overstep on my part to defer to you, since you've been with Her Grace for so long?"

Lida blinked, never did she think a pureblood would defer to her over anything. 

"If you would, then I will try to advise you as best I can." The headmaid wrung her hands nervously, keeping her eyes lowered.

Once at the entrance of the wing, Vinia turned and lifted up one of her hands and patted it, a somewhat amiable smile dancing on her sharp lips.

"How did that Landis saying go? —  'It takes a village to raise a child', yes?"

Lida stared wide-eyed at her sudden brightness. "Y-Yes, I think so.” She stuttered, straightening. She looked down at their joined hands, a thought suddenly coming to her.

“Ah, Her Grace will often be found sneaking into prince Zenos’ room at night, so if you do not find her in her bed come morning, please do not be alarmed.” Lida added in, rummaging through her pockets. “And you will be needing this to officialize each report about Her Grace to His Radiance.”

The headmaid produced a small rubber stamp, its wooden handle carved with the swirling motif of a moth. She explained that all weekly reports of the First Princess’ growth and changes in activity were handwritten, stamped and delivered by the eighteenth hour of the last day of the week. In great detail, from who had attended to her need to the food she ate; the progress of her lessons; her physical health; and all her wants and needs were logged and reviewed personally by the emperor himself.

“Much obliged, Dame Lida.” The governess held the stamp up to her eyes, the thing needlessly decorated for something so negligible.

“I hope you will be patient with her, she’s confined to the inner palace, never having once stepped foot outside. She's more bird than child at times, I fear, and we try our best to make this gilded cage comfortable for her.” Lida beseeched her tentatively, smoothing out the wrinkles on her apron then made to curtsy.

“If you would excuse me, my Lady, I need to fetch Her Grace’s supper.” 

Vinia smiled without taking her eyes from the ostentatious seal. “Do not trouble yourself, I will go instead, it’s a good opportunity to acquaint myself with the First Princess.”

****

Crow sat in the darkness of the dressing room, knees folded against her chest as she sulked in silence. She was tucked away in between Zenos' many coats, the scent of clean fabric engulfing her as she hid from her new tyrannical overseer. It'd been a year since that woman had made her initial introduction, and they were at odds with one another from the very start. Crow did not bend to her governess's will, her knuckles often being met with the sharp sting of a switch. In their latest spat, the governess had barged into her room and demanded that she fell in line and quit her recent adoption of delinquency. Crow had fled the room and shut herself inside of Zenos' vacant chambers, locking the door behind her as she herself within.

Never did she ever have a kind word to spare, and lacking the lighthearted exasperation of Lida, Governess Vinia was a vile woman who was more akin to a harsh houndmaster than a caretaker. Ochre-brown eyes leered at the princess in distaste whenever she thought her charge was not looking, but Crow sensed those looks upon the back of her head like sharp pin pricks. However, she had nobody to confide in as before about these nipping nastiness, Lida had been reallocated elsewhere once she ceded her position to that wretched woman. As for Zenos, the thought of him bringing a somber gloom to her already cheerless state, he was simply away. She knew not where, only receiving vague, irritable answers from Vinia whenever she brought up the topic. As far as Crow knew, he was gone indefinitely, seemingly abandoning her to face that woman alone.

A distant click by the door sounded, reeling the princess back from her unhappy thoughts. She stilled all movements, holding her breath as she tracked her personal torturer through the sprawling, book-cluttered chamber. She heard the dragging of the long lounge chair, her searching for Crow beneath the furnishings and behind the long curtains. The wordless shuffle roaming from one end to another, the governess' searching seeming fruitless as Crow heard her slippered feet grow further away. Another resounding click of the door reached her, and the princess peeked from her hiding spot.

Her heart jumped to her throat as she saw her minder looking straight into the dressing room, fury plainly set in her angular jaw.

"There you are!" She hissed, marching toward Crow with a storm brewing just behind her.

The princess tried to slip past the woman but to no avail, being scooped up roughly by her hips. Crow squawked her outrage and struggled blindly, but the governess would not yield. She dragged the girl as she would a particularly difficult piece of furniture, bringing her from the room and growling her reprimand.

"Stop –" Vinia avoided an aimless swipe of the princess' fingers. "Struggling!"

"I hate you!" Crow cried out, her own fury incandescent, lighting her face red with exertion. "I want Zenos and Lida!"

"Not until you behave yourself, you insouciant little –!" The governess tossed Crow into her own bath chambers, nearly falling through the threshold herself.

"You will stay and take your bath, do you hear me?!" Vinia jabbed a manicured nail at the child, dragging the loose hair from her face, amber-brown eyes bulged with indignance.

The three maids that waited for them avert their gaze when Vinia leered over to them, nodding her ascent to take Crow to the claw-footed, porcelain tub. As one, they shuffled over to the princess, cooing for her to rise so they could unbutton her many layers of lace and ruffles. She rose but heeded none of their words as she batted their hands away, her piercing blue eyes met her governess' as she tore away the clothes herself. 

The doors shut and Crow was climbed into the tub, a hateful glare upon her cherubic face. Vinia returned her gaze with one of her own, plucking a small booklet from her skirt pockets. As she was lathered and scrubbed down, her long tresses washed and rinsed first, then braided into a coiled knot then her general form, Vinia began her quizzical recitation.

"When in a public space or with polite company, what is required of a proper lady?"

Crow stewed in silence, then answered. "Spit on a gentleman's shoes and kick him in the shin, then call my fellow ladies stupid hogs."

One of the maids repressed a laugh, disguising it as a prim cough. Vinia's expression twisted, her temper reigniting once more, patience growing thin with every word slipping from the savage princess' mouth.

"What should one do before and after the emperor arrives at court?" The governess asked once more.

"Curtsy, then sit on his knees and tell him of your week." The princess said smugly as she was toweled dry by the maids, their quick hands making short work of the frock and bloomers she'd put on.

Crow and Vinia glared at each other across the distance as the three maids cleaned the vicinity. They darted furtive glances between the princess and her governess, more adversaries than caretaker and charge. In all their years of service, they'd never witness Her Grace so spitefully ruffled by another. She'd always possessed a temperamental streak, but ever since her governess took the reins, she began to act out of line more so than before. Her fire was typically balanced out by the even-mannered prince Zenos, his cool demeanor helped ease the childish, capricious nature of his younger counterpart. Now with him gone from the capital, the princess only grew more fractious.

They shuffled out like a trio of nervous quails, shutting the door behind them as quietly as they could. There needn't be a fly on the wall to know what would be said, the spat between Governess Vinia and the princess would spill out to the rest of the wing, vaguely audible for any who cross into the threshold. 

"If you keep at it, you'll find yourself famished and without supper by bed time." Vinia hissed down at Crow.

Sullen faced, Crow stomped past her governess and climbed up her bed. She sat with her arms crossed, glaring imperiously at the wretched woman.

"Then so be it." The princess said haughtily.

Instead of leaving as she usually would, Vinia crossed the space to loomed over the child. The booklet tight in hand, it took all the governess had to not slap the insolence from her charge.

"You know all these rules, I know you do, you bloody stubborn beast. Why can’t you make it easier for the both of us and recite them as you should?” Vinia was flushed with agitation, the strands of hair she’d swept back before fell again to brush against her cheek. There were several of these, becoming loose from her twisted bun, lending a disheveled edge to her typically polished neatness.

“If you know that I do then why must I recite them to you?” Crow questioned.

The princess could see the vein throbbing at Vinia’s temple. The pest of a woman was nearly insensible with anger, raising a hand up, poised to take a hard swing at the contemptuous child. Crow held back herself from flinching, brazenly defiant in the face of punishment. The shadow of her limb wavered over Crow's bumptious mask as it came down, but halted right before the blow found its mark. A sly, serpentine cruelty glittered in her sudden grin.

"Do you know why Prince Zenos has gone away, Your Grace?" Vinia asked suddenly.

Though she said nothing, her confusion was plain for the governess to see.

"It's because he's ashamed to be seen with a savage like you." She stated in a matter-of-factly way, utterly firm in her venomous conviction. The crack on the princess' face made her swell with pride at having finally, finally , able to discover this chink in her armor.

"What use is there for a stubborn beast like you, unworthy of privilege and acknowledgement? A pureblooded Garlean of the royal line like him has no business with the likes of you — a low-born nothing from the backwaters of some barbaric land." The governess advanced with her verbal needling, a year's worth of frustrations spilling from her lips.

Vinia continued with her assault, spewing with nothing but hateful rhetoric typical to an aristocrat. Even such as her, belonging to a house as unnoteworthy as house Varro, she was deemed above those of not pureblooded descent. She jabbed a pointed finger down to the princess, hissing her prejudices.

"His Radiance and His Grace will abandon you soon enough, so long as you act out like a disobedient animal."

The first tear welled up from Crow's eyes, lips quivering uncontrollably as the angry pinch of her brows turned into something more sorrowful. The child's sadness fed Vinia's satisfaction like a log into flames as she looked down at her charge and reopened the booklet. Judging her to be sufficiently cowed by the verbal lashing, more effective than any other physical blow she'd inflicted in the past year, the governess reiterated her prompts.

"Now, is it pertinent for others to address you first in court?"

Crow, with her tear-stained cheeks, shook her head. She knew that as a princess, others must wait for her acknowledgement before being allowed to speak before her. Often one must present a bow or curtsy to indicate their desire for conversation, then it would be up to her to decide whether to disregard them or inclined her head in greeting.

"Incorrect." Vinia snapped, watching her charge flinch back. "You're no typical princess, you are a savage, lower than the lowest of the pureblooded citizenry, thus, know your place and keep your mouth shut."

"Now, onto the next." The governess demanded.

Such interrogations glazed over Crow again and again, drilled into her by insistent repetition. On top of lectures about decorum, she was forced to practice the proper gait for a lady of court and adjust her mannerism accordingly. These lessons were commonly overseen by Vinia with a heavy-handed switch, her governess' scrutinous gaze finding faults even when there were none to be found. Her knees grew to resemble a scratched post, scored by sore, stinging welts though well hidden behind dark stockings. Crow's formal studies continued as well alongside these practices in propriety. Subjects such as the native Garlean tongue, the common language, social studies, arithmetics and writing were all included in her weekly repertoire. 

Sometimes, there were supervisory officials present in these lessons. Those set in charge to keep an eye on the new hire, though eventually as time went on, even these eagle eyed observers dwindled in frequency of their visits when they found everything to be satisfactory. From twice a week to once a month, then once a year, Crow was often left with indifferent tutors and her harsh caretaker, her bouts of defiance grew fewer by the day as she was subjected to cruel threats of isolation. The governess used Crow's insecurities against her with astounding efficacy, ripping the princess from the sheltered world she'd been previously accustomed to.

To the unknowing observer, all would seem well at a glance. The First Princess was behaving as she should, the rambunctious streak straightened into something more acceptable by standards of the imperial court. She ate modestly, conducted herself primly, but none noticed the simmering discontent just beneath her unsmiling visage. The emperor, too occupied with the empire's foray into Silvertear Lake of Mor Dhona, only gave the sparsest of attention to his young ward's conditions. It did not help that Vinia was the sole author of Crow's reports. With the official seal in hand, her words were treated as a trustworthy source when it came to the First Princess' wellbeing.

The hope of Zenos' return was her only lifeline as her governess' influence grew within the inner palace. Each time Crow saw her wicked caretaker, Vinia's dress only grew more ostentatious, a new ring or necklace glittering on her person as though she was some sharp-beaked magpie. Even as a child, ignorant to the avaricious ways of adults, she knew that her governess' newfound wealth was ill-gotten. She was right, of course. Should any accountant worth their salt try to run the books, they would find all kinds of erroneous entries and numbers that won't add up. Had this been any other sector in the palace, the would-be embezzler would be caught and shipped to the ceruleum tapper far outside the capital. But by the nature of her insular upbringing, all pertinent records were kept private and accessible by very few. All these individual factors amassed to create the perfect hell for the young princess, overseen by one who was supposed to be nurturing her. 

Notes:

A perfectly perfect, happy family

Chapter 12

Past Garlemald, toward the northern reaches of Ilsabard's jagged ranges, laid the imperial province of Tchita. Thanks to the defensive nature of the valley, it was one of the last independent states to bend to the empire within the northern continent. Its people, divided in loosely connected tribes, had once thrived through ovibos rearing and conquests, raiding neighboring settlements of other nations to sustain themselves through the freezing hard winters. Their people, still possessing third eyes and sharing a common ancestry with the typical Garlean, were known to have white hair and produced alabaster beauties, their women were often credited to be fierce and cunning. One such specimen was Varis' mother and Zenos' grandmother, Hyppatia wir Galvus. She was the daughter of one of their more illustrious warlords and she had a talent for foresight, so much so that some thought she was able to predict the future. Thus, naturally, when Garlemald came knocking on the threshold of their northern neighbors, she had convinced her father to parley with Garlemald when the conquest was reaching its zenith. After some losses from both sides through bloody skirmishes, they were able to negotiate with the encroaching legion of one Lucius yae Galvus.

That was how they met, within an ovibos leather tent lit by a tallow lamp, eyeing each other with deadly intrigue. In Tchita, backstabbing was an artform, where survival of the fittest was the philosophy all lived by. It was not so strange that a man may find himself dead with a slit throat or a dagger in his back should he possess something his neighbor coveted. Severe punishment may be doled out by the faction's warlord should the culprit be caught, if they were caught at all. Sometimes, an investigation may be requested should the particular victim's family feel keenly  in need of one, but most knew that it was only a formality. 

As such, it was in her best interest that Hyppatia nudged her father subtly to take arms against their countrymen, reasoning that there was little benefit in resistance seeing how the empire was merciless in its advancement. He was hesitant at first but she'd needled in the fact of their rivals eyeing his position, he would not be at the apex overlong when the true enemies were not the Garleans but their own kin. Many problems had been brewing beneath the prestige of his position, setbacks both minor and major weighed them down like shackles. Their herd had been poisoned by their drinking water, and many of their capable commanders had defected due to her father's increasing stinginess from the long winter.

To her surprise, the prince of the newly minted empire had picked up her ploy and offered him an elevation in status and wealth. And then her father's lieutenant, an avaricious cur she'd bribed with much of her own coffer, jumped and agreed when she glared at him. Her father had wished for a day to deliberate in spite of her insistence, but the Legatus had smiled at her patiently and agreed. Hyppatia had mirrored his smile, playing the role of dutiful daughter and gracious hostess; she'd invited him back to her own abode with the intention of seducing him.

He saw right through her intentions, of course, but she did not bother veiling it in the first place. The heir apparent of Garlemald was a frank sort of man, regal in bearing and noble in attitude, so she took a more open approach. When he'd looked at her with those topaz eyes, knowing and full of feline fascination, she found herself liking him in spite of herself, and he did not flinch when she held the knife at his throat. They bantered despite the encounter being an interrogation, and then Lucius had taken up her hand and kissed it, finger by finger. In a forward manner that would've earned him a blow from her father, he asked her if she'd like to be empress of an empire some day. And as the saying went — the rest was history. The tale of their ardent romance was as heated as the fires of war, built upon the ashes of the Tchitan tribes.

Alas, Hyppatia wir Galvus was left a widow less than a decade after their marriage. Her husband had sickened and passed, leaving her and their son vulnerable to their rivals. Like magma, she'd hardened drastically after their love had cooled. Bereft of a husband and the shelter of his power, she could only cling to the ghostly remnants of the emperor's regard for his dead firstborn. Even that had been meager support for Solus zos Galvus cared little for his own blood, his protection for them diminished greatly as Lucius' living legacy grew. She'd fulfilled her duty as a mother and disciplinarian, pushing her son to greater heights and punishing him when he fell short of her expectations. He'd survived to his majority, and he looked too much like his father for her to bear. This resemblance fostered a resentment in her, one she'd recognized but failed to stifle. Her son had known of her bitterness much before he even matured, sensing it in every blow she'd delivered unto him with her scathing criticisms and switch. It was a relief to Varis when he went on campaigning, the distance had placed his acrimonious mother from his sight and mind.

When Hyppatia passed, Varis did not attend her funeral as he was occupied in the south. His mother had died on the night when Locus Amoenus was reclaimed, the ancestral birthright that belonged to every Garleans finally returned to them. Their rich fields of crops set blazed by the bombardment of incendiaries from above, and the leeches who grew fat from the many plantations burned just as well as their indentured servants, little more than slaves even centuries after the rule of Allag. Gazing upon the radiant reclamation from the air, the prince had wondered vaguely if his father and emperor would have been proud of this conquest.

Decades later, long after the tribes were absorbed into the fold of the empire, a small outpost was erected. In time, it soon grew into a city populated by a fair number of both Tchitans and Garleans, trading furs and meat and textiles. Tents were replaced by sturdy metal walls, kept warm by heated ceruleum pipes, warmounts made obsolete by cabriolets and public transport. Ovibos herders still kept some of their tradition, however, rearing much of the empire’s meat supply. This staple was important enough to warrant a castrum to be stationed within the city's heart. In recent years, the city's main military forces tightened their discipline, its security bolstered by the additional legion stationed in Castrum Archades. All knew the reason behind their growing primness, of course, for hosting a member of the imperial family took precedence over all else. Varis had brought his son north to personally oversee his martial education, and to tear his progeny from the sticky, vacuous grasp of that savage by-blow from Ishgard. His methods were stern even when compared to late mother's, putting his son through exercises in thick blizzards for hours at a time. It was a testament to the young prince's physical and mental fortitude that he had lasted thus far. A grown man in his place would have since fallen to his knees in failure or even perished, let alone another boy of thirteen.

Often after such rigorous trials, Zenos would collapse into his cot with a sound thud not unlike a sack of flour hitting the floor. The metal frame always creaked in protest at the force of his fall, half tangled in the sheets as he tiredly dragged the covers over himself. His hair stuck to his face from the melted snow, his limbs burned with exhaustion from the drill and spars he'd been put through. It felt as though he was a piece of meat being sluiced through a grinder, thoroughly masticated by metal teeth. He went through his training with a stiff lip and blank face, the same as any common soldier with the added caveat that he was of royal blood. One the standard exercises concluded, instead of dispersing to take a midday meal as the others, he was paired with a private mentor. He'd managed to down a score of his father's officers in the past two years in Tchita, earning a few formal accolades among the recruits and climbing the ranks in the legion. It was no child's play, but it was not precisely difficult either. The men who fought him were bogged down as much as he was by the inclement weather; it was easy enough for him to identify a more efficient approach through stealth, downing whomever he'd faced within the first ten minutes of each encounter.

His successes did not help to endear him to any of his peers, however, he did not mind their indifference. He did not speak to them nor seek them out, and they him. The difference in their age was apparent, exacerbated by his royal blood and natural talent for the military arts. They gave him a wide berth, a few even outright retreating from his immediate presence. There was a measure of furtive tension whenever he showed his face in training, most silently hoping they would not be paired with the taciturn princeling. Some of their reservation stemmed from his status, but most knew they'd be beaten soundly and humiliated before their peers should they go against the High Legatus' son. Despite the countless faces who passed him by each day, boys and men from several different southern territories, it was more isolating than that golden cage he'd grown up in with Crow.

Zenos blinked tiredly against his overstuffed pillow, curling into the covers as the adrenaline from the day wore off. Even after two years, it did not feel right to be so alone in bed, he often woke half expecting a small intruder next to him. He thought about her often, wondering if she'd gotten his letters. There were no replies forthcoming, but he would not be surprised if his father was withholding them from him. As long as she received them and knew that he'd little choice in the matter of his extended absence, he did not mind. He just hoped she hadn't forgotten about him.

The steely gray walls stared back at him, eyelids drooped slowly shut despite his resistance. His dreams of the endlessly burning city came about more frequently after he'd left Garlemald and his childhood companion behind. Often, it would start as a hazy glow in the distance like a fire viewed through a curtain of smoke. Zenos would approach without care, knowing well that all these crumbling streets were merely mirages conjured by his overweary mind. All around him, the wuthering towers came crashing like great downed airships. Sparks flew like great clouds of fireflies, fanned upward by the billowing towers of smoke to obscure everything within sight. The shouts of distress boxed him in from every direction, yet the city's many paths remained vacant as far as his eyes could perceive. Shadows of monsters loomed over the walls, yet none materialized into tangibility once he stepped in for a closer view. Their victims were similarly bodiless, their ghostly, hooded silhouette reminded him of the little painted legionaries Crow had as a child.

'Hark! Above you!'

A disembodied voice called out to him. This was new, he'd never heard a word uttered in these star streaked dreams before. He whirled toward the voice, seeing no one. The shadow beneath his feet grew as he finally snapped his sight up to the falling debris plunging down upon his head.

He blinked awake, vision scanning the dark of his chilly room for hints of the person who had tried to warn him. Within a fraction of a moment he regained a measure of clarity, sitting up and clasping the back of his damp neck. His shoulder-length locks stuck to his skin as he breathed in the cool air. He reached over to the night table and turned the desk light with an easy twist. The room illuminated, and for but a moment he saw the afterimage of that derelict city, it did not often linger as such but it seemed this round had left an impression on him.

Zenos checked the chronometer hung on the wall, he'd only managed a handful of hours of restless sleep. The hour was early, right before dawn where trainees would gather. Breakfast would be served soon and he couldn't afford to be picky with the bland offerings in the castrum. The prince heard the door to his room slid shut and locked itself behind him, trailing his way through the already bustling halls and corridors. Patrols returning from late shifts, engineers dragging their feet back to their dorms to fall into bed. Most worked hard in these parts, giving themselves into their service in hopes of receiving something he was born to. Citizenship of Garlemald was a privilege afforded to those who had served the empire for two decades, it was the aspiration most territorial conscripts yearned for under the empire's yolk. Tchita, despite grandmother Hyppatia's high rank and marriage to his grandfather Lucius, remained a conquered territory and not a state. However, the quality of life here was far more palatable and rich when compared to such places like Dalmasca or Nagxia. Food was aplenty here, the city streets lined with eateries and taverns. Shops offering glassware, porcelain, warm clothes and sweets of many varieties. The streets were well kept from white pileups by the automated magitek sweepers, and one could walk down those paths drunk and make it home without being accosted. 

Zenos himself had once trailed down the city path, a rare moment of downtime due to one of his combat mentors catching an ageu. His father had been too busy to assign him someone else, and bade him to make himself scarce. 

'Surely,' he had said to Zenos with a measure of disgruntlement, a hand sliding over the papers on his desk. ' You've autonomy to not rely on me to occupy your hours.'

That had been the summation of their interaction for the week, his father's pleasant way of allowing him leave to do as he wished. He seemed displeased that his own son had come to inquire him of his assigned schedule. Then again, he never seemed pleased with anything Zenos did, he was surprised at all that he was allowed time to himself for the afternoon.

Nevertheless, after some cursory wandering, Zenos became keenly aware of the city's main lacking point. For every ten local watering holes within the city, there was one bookshop. Tchita was but a small territory with only one city, and it had precisely ten bars. It was not known to produce many scholars and he suddenly had an inkling as to why that was. The lone bookshop was a narrow establishment, squeezed between a liquor store and a radio shop. The door groaned sharply when he entered and the bell overhead gave a tinny, worn ring. Once past the threshold, he was greeted with stacks and stacks of disorganized books that more resembled rolling knolls than any respectable collection of tomes. An old man sat dozing in a rocking chair behind the counter, accompanied by a small ceruleum heater. Zenos would have mistaken him for a corpse has it not been for the subtle rise and fall of the dozing coot’s chest.

The books were stacked a full fulm higher than his head, each one varied in age, ranging from old and yellow and worn to fairly pristine ivory prints with crisp covers. They all were hefted on closely pressed benches, free standing with no shelf to prop them up. Frankly, it was a hazard, and should they collapse upon his head, Zenos suspected that neither his father nor the legionaries would be able to discover his remains. Despite the morbid notion, he circled the tiny establishment with reserved interest through a narrow but shockingly kempt path. 

Ultimately, he came away with a few booklets of Tchitan folktales, some obscure treatise on warfare and oddly enough, a collection of eerie stories. The old clerk, spectacles riding low on his nose, only gave a snore when Zenos stepped over a small hill of books and up to the front desk. He much resembled His Radiance during one of his visitations to him and Crow. Zenos prudently left the money on the counter and returned to castrum Archades.

He now sat with one of his purchases in the mess hall, its sterile overhead lights flickered vacantly as the background jostle of the kitchens filled his ears. He'd produced the book from his coat's jacket and flipped through to his last stop, breaking his fast with a dull offering of stewed barley, a boiled egg, three sausages the size of his fingers, and four biscuits with a dollop of peach preserves. He looked away from his pages when he bit into the latter part of his meal, the sweet taste of the stone fruit filling his mouth. Silently, his lips twitched into a rare, rueful smile, wondering if she'd ever gotten those peaches she'd wanted. The times spent fetching her from the solarium seem like an age ago, the four years felt more like four decades to his young mind.

When the first of the legionaries, engineers and scientists trickled in, Zenos stood and saw himself out with his tray. They spared him brief glances and parted in the wake of his path, dividing like stalks of wheat as he passed. He had a hard day ahead, and the latest of his combat mentor was likely already waiting with impatience.

Notes:

It's ya (still baby) boy.

Chapter 13

The marble flooring was cold and gleaming, polished to a mirrored shine when Crow stormed across it. The soft sole of her leather shoes stamped angrily pursued by more clipped, hurried heels. The young princess clutched the skirt of her plain dress, raising her hem to almost jogging away from the malign nuisance chasing her. Her dark hair, coiffed tightly by said irritant, gave her a headache as she passed through another threshold. 

"I want to see His Radiance!" Crow demanded, more to the praetors guards than to the woman mincing after her.

The guards glanced at one another then down to the small girl before then. Before they could even decide whether to dismiss or comply, however, she was dragged away by one Vinia dus Varro, her governess.

"Let me go, you witch!" Crow shrieked, struggling against the governess's hold.

"I am so sorry, good sers, but the princess is having one of her childish fits." The woman gave an apologetic smile, putting on the looks of a hassled but patient caretaker. "Her Grace loves her theatrics, I'm afraid. Don't you, sweets?"

The princess by then had dissolved into tears, red faced and miserable, she sobbed incoherently as she attempted to wrenched herself away from the governess. Vinia cooed soothingly as she kneeled down to Crow's level, her fingers dug into her young charge's neck. The rich embroideries at Vinia's shoulder pressed painfully against Crow's cheek as she was forced into a false mockery of a motherly embrace.

"Listen here, you spoiled mongrel." The governess hissed when they went away from earshot. "His Radiance is occupied with far more important matters than your needless complaints, do you hear me?"

Vinia's grip was like a vice on Crow's arm, the jewels on her fingers glinting in the low light, her venomous whispers pressed against the young girl's ears. When the princess tried to pull away, she was held firmly in place, feeling nails digging further into her neck and leaving red crescents upon the tender pale surface. 

"Do. You. Hear. Me." The governess insisted, punctuating each syllable with malice.

Crow sniffed wetly, discomforted by the awkward angle she was forced to bend to. "You're hurting me."

The governess clicked her tongue with acute disapproval, relinquishing her hold on her charge and straightened. Her eyes dark with disdain as she sent one last glare down to Crow, snatching up the young princess’ hand with her manicured claws. This was the first time her charge had displayed such open defiance since the incident of the bath three years ago. Vinia thought she’d fazed out such unruliness, but she supposed a savage will always bear such ugly traits in their nature.

“Troublesome chit, I’ll have to submit another report of this incident on top of the weekly one.” The governess clicked her tongue sharply at Crow, detaching herself from the princess with an irritable fling of her small hand. “For now, you’ll sit and think about your breaches in decorum!”

The door to Crow’s chambers slammed shut, the lock outside sliding in place. It seemed that she would be deprived of lunch and supper for the next two days and let out only when she had lessons, such was the method of her governess. The young princess swallowed, feeling the thick dread slide down her throat. Her face flushed with undiminished anger, her breath quickened as her temper rose once more. With a pitched scream, she flung whatever she could get her hand on at the door. Old books, combs, pillows, neglected toys from her childhood, and even her shoes were not spared. 

She was mired in this box, the cage had lost its golden glow and it was left to rust and infect her with spite and vexation. Every week for the last four years, under the so-called guiding hands of her governess, she’d put on a placid face, smiling, curtsying, and studying to become a court lady worthy of His Radiance’s image. Every day she questioned where her companion had gone, his sudden departure left her feeling as abandoned as these toys she now hurled at the door. It began as a simple worry, waiting day by day for his return, the weeks turned into months, then into years. Had it simply been that, she should have been content to wait for Zenos, but Vinia’s accusations of her shortcomings added onto the anxiety weighing her down. As time passed with his absence, those words rang truer and truer in her declining confidence. She was flawed and imperfect in every way that mattered, she was not as keen as him, her neediness and affections only dragged him down, a bother to him when he had others who were better suited to be his playmate. That was perhaps why he went away for so long. She was insufficient, undeserving of Zenos' affections, let alone the emperor's regard.

As the years wore on, she was afforded only a yearly visit on the anniversary of her adoption under the emperor. His Radiance had grown occupied by the running of the empire even in his advanced age, sparing little time for her. Any gifts from him were snatched up by her governess, never to be seen or shared. In truth, she only would have liked for him to see her more often, His Radiance’s presence would have meant more to her than any shining bauble or new clothes, of which he would lavished her with to make up for the gaps of time spent by her lonesome. She wanted to tell someone, anyone, of the abuses she’d suffered, the nights spent in hunger, the constant verbal needling from the governess, periods of silence locked in the ostentatious box of her chambers. The only consolation that she had was through music, gathering what few pieces Zenos had written to comfort herself through the bad times. The harpsichord itself grew out of tune, but she did not mind it so much. Her little heart quivered and her fingers shook over the keys, but she played on with an abandon as though its strings were all that held her small form together.

Over the years the handful of servants, who were assigned to maintain the west wing of the inner palace, had dwindled to only one or two. The long winding corridors that had once been pristine and sunlit, now had fallen into dusty dereliction. Grayish filth collected between the light mantles and curtains caused her to cough incessantly, which was a point of annoyance for her governess as well. Even the solarium Crow had once loved had given in to weeds and rot. With the gardeners chased from their positions over some made-up accusations by Vinia, whose influence was steadily growing within the inner palace’s staff. Crow's once favorite place was now little more than an infested ruin, the wysteria no longer bloomed and was reduced to little more than a worm-ridden, hollow trunk.

She had once thought to tell His Radiance of the degradation of her dignity, her quality of life and her troubles, but decided against it, for if he had believed Vinia’s reports so easily, why would he place any weight on her complaints. As that vile woman had claimed, he was beyond such concerns as her personal comforts, and she was convinced of the self-sabotaging notion even when it went against all logical reasoning.

She soon grew tired from her extended fit, falling to the carpet where she stood, her body had grown frail from the bouts of deprivation she was subjected to. The tears, however, refreshed themselves like an unending fountain, streaming down her flushed cheeks. Her nose dripped messily and she wiped away at it with a sleeve, uncaring of the hell her governess would raise at the stains. Often, she wished herself a grown woman instead of a child of ten so she could stand on equal grounds against her governess. Had she the stature or the authority, she would show Vinia what she could do with just a steel-nibbed pen. In moments of isolation such as now, she’d sink into that moment of fleeting catharsis, imagining herself taller and stronger with something – anything – sharp in hand, to show her unending gratitude toward the sole caretaker she had in the entire world

****

The blade's tip pricked at the graying beard of Zenos' tutor, another in a long line that came before him, the man's throat gave a nervous bob as he gazed up to the indifferent blue orbs boring down upon him. He sat back and raised both his hands in surrender, it was only then that the steely glint in the prince's eyes would fade back, all interest lost on his target. He was a brilliant boy, so the tutor had surmised, picking up anything and everything through his sharp observations and keen ears. In the latest batch of recruits, perhaps even when compared to most veterans he'd met, Zenos surpassed every given expectation. His acumen in both the mental and physical aspects of his training were beyond excellent, his conducts were beyond reproach as well. He spoke little, if anything, preferring his own company even after four years with his father's legion. He had no semblance of acquaintanceship, let alone friendships, with his fellow trainees.

Nevertheless, his taciturn nature did not deter admirers. Whenever he fought with one of his personal tutors, an audience would gather and spectate with rapt interest. Typically, in events like these, small bets, an exchange in duties or food stuff sent by their families, would be placed by the recruits. Between the prince and his tutor, most weighed their winnings on the former as he'd proven himself time and time again. It was not a perfect streak, however, Zenos had been knocked off his feet a handful of times in the green beginnings of his training. Every new tutor introduced was a prospective bet, and it was a harmless game that was allowed by the overseeing officers – mostly because the decanus also wanted to observe the fight.

"Back to it, all of you! I want laps, one for each minute you lot slacked off!" Said officer bellowed as he detached himself from the fifty greenhorns. The duel between Zenos and his tutor had lasted a quarter of a bell, and all groaned and grimaced at another round on their legs in the cold.

Zenos dropped his training blade on the weapons rack and veered away from the crowd, his physical training concluding for the day. He had a period to himself before another line of lessons came up, subjects such as politics, economics, military histories and geography were included in the tedious repertoire. He does not protest against them, instead, blazing through them as well and as fast as he could. He wanted all this to conclude as quickly as possible and return to Garlemald proper, but it seemed his honored father always managed to find more requirements to hinder him with.

Once in his quarters, he shed the heavy coat and sat down at the small desk. He'd laid out paper and ink when he woke from his restless lay early in the morning, wanting as much time as he could get to draft up a letter to her. Once settled, pen in hand, the words flowed from him and onto the paper as it always did:

 

'How are you? Have you been eating well without me? I hope you haven't put on weight from all the desserts you've had to yourself. The food here is adequate though I think you'd hate it, you never did like porridge for breakfast. Unfortunately for yours truly, it is all they serve in the morning.

Have you read anything good of late? The selection in the city is sorely lacking, but I managed to find something that might catch your fancy. When I return, I'll have to insist that you take a glance. Tchita has a sufficiently interesting culture behind its industrial veneer, one that dates back to even before the republic days.'

 

The tip of Zenos' pen hovered above the paper as the next thought gave him pause. He had never directly addressed his sudden departure in any of his letters before, doing so now seemed like an erroneous breach. He'd wanted to apologize in person for leaving so suddenly. He certainly did not appreciate the circumstances, the same must be thrice as true for her.

A knock at his door sounded and he reflexively reached for a book to hide the letter, unaccountably protective of this bit of his private thoughts. Zenos caught himself in the moment, dispelling the impulse as he stood, sparing a lingering glance on the half-finished letter as he stepped to the threshold of his small room.

"Speak." He commanded through the door. 

The messenger cleared his throat pointedly. "The High Legatus wishes for you to attend him, Your Grace."

Zenos glared at the man behind the door. "Very well." He said after a moment, snatching up his coat and the letter, folding it neatly then tucking it into an inner pocket.

The legionary, who’d delivered the command from his father, saluted stiffly when Zenos stepped from his narrow quarter, then trailed behind the prince as they made their way to Varis’ offices. He was uncertain of what fresh demand his father had in mind for him today. A new tutor, another milestone set for him to overcome? The tedium seemed endless, one task after another to be had.

“You’re late.” Those were the first words his father uttered when Zenos entered.

“I cannot bend space to arrive immediately, my lord.” Zenos replied smoothly as he shut the door behind him.

“Do those tutors I paid for teach you nothing of respect or discipline, boy?” Varis said without looking up from his papers.

“Not as such, they teach me plenty in the week or so that they last.” He answered blandly with a subtle smirk, remembering the brief encounters of every defeated swordsman he came across.

“Insolent whelp, you’d do well to be silent and listen instead of running your mouth at your superiors.” Varis punctuated his obvious disapproval with a stamp upon a document.

Finally, he deigned to lift his amber gaze up to his progeny, gauntlets steepled as he took in the low burning defiance beneath Zenos’ placid facade. The boy had never voiced his desire to return to Garlemald, but anyone with half a wit can read the restlessness imbued in his every move. Everything Zenos succeeded at told the High Legatus all he needed to know, every task was curt and efficient as though he had somewhere else to be, another purpose to strive for other than the tasks at hand. Varis knew what distracted his son, that misbegotten waif was ever a hindrance to the greatness of his blood. His late wife had made her final desires known to Solus, leaving their progeny in the emperor’s care in his absence. Though he still held her memories dear, he cannot help but hold her at fault for this impeding attachment between his disrespectful son and that stain of the imperial family.

As much as he disdained to reward his son’s insubordination, the orders of the emperor trumped any of his personal desires. The masterwork of the imperial fleet, the Agrius, was to be deployed to make a bid for the heart of Aldenard and he would be the one overseeing the affair since the Black Wolf was occupied with Ala Mhigo. They would be flying over Gyr Abania and its green-choked neighbor to begin their occupation of Mor Dhona in earnest, thenceforth, once a base of operation is established, they would branch out to take each citystate one a piece with ease. The savages would hold little resistance with their sticks and stones, magicks be damned.

“We are to return to Garlemald.” Varis informed his son finally, his displeasure spiking as he saw the subtle widening of the boy’s eyes.

Zenos kept his face schooled into a calm, uninformative expression, but he could not keep the spark of surprise and anticipation from brightening his eyes. His finger twitched as he took in the news, suppressing the urge to clasp at his chest where the letter laid.

The prince gave his father a nod in a rare moment of brevity, holding his tongue lest any response would alter his father’s decision.

“That is all.” Varis waved his dismissal and watched as Zenos disappeared through the threshold of the office, a hand sliding over to pat on his coat’s lapel.

The first ten steps were slow and calm, but once away from his father’s earshot Zenos’ walk became brisk and fast, grew into a jog, then broke into a run. His sky-blue eyes wide, warm breath clouding with every step he took, his heart tight as a drum in his chest, beating in earnest as he pushed into his room to pack.

Chapter 14

All was quiet when Crow slid the slim hair pin into the crack of the door. The metal was delicate like a needle, able to pass through the ornate door of her chamber after some careful finesse. It was sturdy enough, proving able to finagle free the bar latch installed by her governess. Within the next few moments, the devious little princess sprang free from her apartments in triumph. She let out a hitched cry as she stumbled forth from her chambers, nearly falling flat against the floor as she clapped hands over her lips. The moon was high overhead, its gentle luster filtered through the tall windows lining the long corridor of the west wing. Zenos’ room was only two doors down from her own, but it had long ago been locked by that wretch of a governess.

Caught in the unlit hall without a lantern, Crow had a hand on the wall to guide herself. Comforted by the silvery moonlight and the repetitive ridges of the wooden wall panels, her soft slippered feet made quick work of the journey. The governess' room was not far, located at the very end of the wing. She knew that Vinia would not be present in her quarters, that vile woman had let it slip that she'd been invited to some sort of important party for grown ups. Crow had taken note of her pleasant mood and asked more in detail. Vinia had seemed so pleased with herself that she even told her charge of the time and identity of the host, an aristocrat whose name meant nothing to the cloistered young princess.

All she'd needed to know was Vinia would be absent from her own chambers after locking Crow in hers. It took a few weeks and more than a handful of broken hairpins, but the precocious princess had managed to work the lock and free herself. When she arrived before those foreboding doors, she'd expected them to be locked. Instead, they were left slightly ajar and a quiet thump made her jump. 

Crow peered inside, her heart fluttering with tension as she began to doubt the voracity of Vinia's loose tongue. A dark figure stood loomed over the armoire, the doors flung open as furtive hands roamed the compartments within. With a silent, hissing curse, the figure straightened and shut the door quietly. The young princess let out a small gasp as the moonlight revealed the neck and blade of the sickle hanging over the dark shadow's back. She clapped her hands over her lips and slipped away from the crack, but even she knew it was too late. Claws as long as her forearms, tinged with red, clicked against the edge of her door, a pale, eyeless skull peeked down at her head. It was a terrible vision, the creature was partially obscured by a black tattered cloth, its carrion stench encasing her in stygian fear and awe.

Having seen her, its fanged grin widened. The thing reached for her, red-tipped talons extended in an offer. It smelled potential, and more importantly, the delectable scent of malice swirling about this little vessel. Then a tug from its true mistress yanked it back, the leash ever so short.

Crow's pallid blue eyes were as round as the moon above, her lips parted and quivered as she took in the fascinating monstrosity before her. It retreated suddenly, its talons gave a last brush against her cheek before it slipped back behind Vinia's chamber doors. Not long after, the sound of heavy boots approached and Crow could not find her legs to flee. Rooted to where she stood, the young princess was yet again met with another strange sight, though perhaps one that was more mundane than the last. A woman, clad in all black with a great curved scythe strapped to her back, smirked down at Crow as she returned her gaze.

"Well, well, I was wondering why that thing went off on its own." She kneeled down to Crow's level, drawing back the hood of her dark cloak. "Isn't it past your bedtime, Your Grace?"

Her voice was deep and soothing especially when pitched low just for their ears. Crow shook her head, a blatant lie, but she found herself quite taken with this woman and her pet monster. A monster who was currently nowhere to be found despite its appearance before.

Her laugh was even better, rumbling in the young princess' delicately pointed ears. She found herself liking this stranger though she dared not voice her thoughts. It had been a long time since anyone had smiled at her, the woman's sultry chuckle lightened her spirit and helped Crow find her voice.

"I want the keys to Zenos' room, Vinia had locked it and I–" Admitting that she missed him to someone she'd just met felt wrong, the notion made her feel inexplicably vulnerable. "I need something from his rooms." She continued.

"Alright, stay here and keep watch then." The woman winked, giving the young girl a light pat on her head.

The First Princess was thinner than she'd expected, her cheeks too sharp on such a childish face and her nightgown hung too loosely on her bony shoulders. She was so small as well, no child of ten should look so malnourished, especially the ward of the emperor who was supposedly well-favored if the words at court were to be believed. It was why she was sent, she supposed, His Radiance had finally taken notice of his ward's silent plight and had sent her to investigate. 

Crow watched as the woman veered back into the chamber, returning moment later after some furtive searching. The ornate brass key was cold in her palms, but its weight was a comfort. As the black clad woman lowered it to Crow's hands, something gave her pause. A slight darkening on the young princess' forearm peeked out from her laced sleeves, the woman nudged the hem back to reveal a half-healed bruise in the shape of coiling fingers.

She clasped a gloved hand over the fingers of the young princess. "Does this happen often?" She asked, flicking her gaze indicatively toward the marring marks.

Crow lowered her head, averting her gaze, ashamed to have the evidence of her weakness exposed. The woman gently plucked up the princess' other arm and found a fresher brace of bruises. Her face grew grim, laced with a seething fury.

"Will you not tell His Radiance? He can dismiss her, someone better will come and–"

Crow shook her head, glistening, watery eyes downcast. "He will not believe me, and I don't want another. They're all the same, they do not care."

The woman had little to weigh in on the matter, she did not know how to comfort children, having none of her own. Her upbringing had been hard and the man who had raised her was one of little words and praises, though he certainly did not leave her underfed and so pitifully forlorn.

"None here wants to help, but will you?" Crow asked as she wiped at her wet eyes with a sleeve, clutching the brass key so tightly that it dug into her palm. 

"Very well, little bird, what would you have me fetch?" The woman in black extended her hand to the diminutive princess, taking pity upon her isolated circumstances. Perhaps she wanted a morsel of food or an audience with His Radiance.

Upon her answer, the young girl's small hand clamped down on the wrist of the woman like a viper. She was surprisingly strong for someone so physically deprived, the baleful malice in her blue eyes leering up at the woman. Therein that gaze, she saw keen desperation and hatred, it looked wrong when set in a face so young.

"Give me what you have, that creature." The young princess beseeched, her spirit unbent even after all these years under another's thumb.

The request — no, command — was so absurd that the woman could not contain her guffaw. Amusement and disbelief echoed through the silent night, dispelling the somber atmosphere with the crack of her laughter.

"Silly girl, I cannot give you what is mine!" She said as she scoffed with amusement.

The sentiment did not deter Crow, however, as she refused to release her grasp on the woman. "Then teach me!"

In the short moment she'd spent with the First Princess, the title seemed meaningless in the face of such neglectful abuse, she'd been privy to an admirable will and a ravenous grasp, figuratively and literally. She had the makings of a reaper and it would be a great boon to see their order rise once more from obsolescence. What better endorsement than a royal one?

"Very well, but you shall be your own teacher, I haven't the time to play mother goose to a child." She sneered down at the girl, ears perking at the series of footsteps heading their way. 

Without another word, the woman wrapped her arms around the young princess and fell back against the wall. Crow let out a startled cry as the both of them sank back into the surface, an opening swallowing both forms. The portal closed soon after they fell in, her shout cutting off as they were enveloped in warm darkness. Her eyes were shut tight but she felt a liquid warmth running across her skin, and then a rush of air blew over her limbs, the experience lasting a mere moment. Her legs touched solid ground but she held tightly onto the key and a scrap of tatter cloak.

"Open those baby blues, little bird, you're home safe." The woman bade her, crouching down to extract her cloak from the princess' grip.

Crow shook her head and let out a breath that she didn't know she had been holding in, blinking blearily at the familiar sight of the moonlight corridor. Her chambers' doors were right behind her, the room where she'd grown up all her life had not felt like home since she was six.

The woman in black pulled up her hood and Crow slipped into her room, each going their own way for now.

"Wait, what's your name?" She called out to the retreating figure.

"Just 'Drusilla' will be sufficient." The woman called back with a casual wave.

"Drusilla, could you kindly latch the lock at my door? if not I might have another bruise to add to my growing collection." 

With a dreary sigh, Drusilla, her new mentor, turned back and locked the outside of Crow's chambers with a sound click. That girl was really too conniving for her own good, the older woman thought with a little chagrin and a smirk.

****

Books, graphs, parchment, chalks and silver ink pots began to appear in Crow's chambers by mysterious means. She suspected Drusilla had a hand in these items' appearances, stalking into her chambers without permission to drop off these odds and ends. Small notes left pressed between each book, telling her where to begin her solo foray into these enigmatic arts.

After every lesson with her tutors, Crow spent her time pouring over the old leather-bound tomes, studying the hermetic writings of generations of reapers. Their insights into the summoning rituals were astounding. Nascent writings of temporarily raising minor voidsent — as these abyssal creatures were called — for minor errands, then to dismiss them once their tasks were finished. Most of the time, these dismissals were done rather crudely with a bladed weapon in hand. These creatures were stubborn, gluttonous things. If left to roam free, they would hide and grow like a cancer in the world, consuming any and all that crossed their path.

She spent the first week working over the nuances of these occultic graphs, tracing and repeating glyphs until she can recall and draw them out without reference. The alphabets of Mhachi were not dissimilar to common Eorzeans, the particular western language had spread through the three connecting continents thanks to the prosperous trading of Ul’dah and Hingashi. Judged to be the common tongue thanks to its relatively simplistic syntax and letters, most had adopted the tongue even before the founding of the Garlean Republic. As such, despite the current tensions between Aldenard and the empire, Crow was taught and became fairly fluent in common Eorzean. Such inclination toward linguistics helped her in the task of deciphering the erudite research of those who came before.

It was not before long that her first test arrived, it came in the form of a little note, left wedged between her windows. Crow had plucked it from its place and frowned at the erratic script of Drusilla.

‘Summon an imp.’

Crow gave her chambers a suspicious once over, wary of any dark corners that might hide a certain spying voidsent. It seemed that her absent mentor was instructive as ever. Regardless, before she could gather the necessary material and information to carry out the task, a ripple ran up her neck, alerting her of the approaching intruder. In a rush, she collected the empty vials and parchment, throwing them atop the dust-stained canopy of her bed. She winced as she heard the glass click and shatter, but that was a worry for later. Vinia was fast approaching and the shamelessly garish hem of the governess’ dress had brushed over and destroyed the glyph Crow had drawn out. The doors banged open, jostling the shelves and books lining the walls, she pressed her back against the window sill and braced herself for what's to come.

Even at the furthest point from the door, she could smell the acrid stink of alcohol lingering on Vinia’s form. The sweet stink drifted in with the rush of air as the governess staggered her way across the wool-woven carpet, her face was in a rictus as her roomy eyes focused on Crow. Some people took on different personas when they imbibed too deeply, they may be sadder or happier, but even in this,  Vinia proved herself to be a standout. She was belligerent in both sobriety and inebriety, holding on to the princess’ bed poster for support as she glared at her.

“You li’l savage…mistake, bas’ard child! Her governess slurred, having nothing good to say to Crow even when she was neck deep in her drinks. “Only good yer for is the…credits.”

Vinia had fallen far from her prim image, her vices for decadence, jewels and drinks far worse than any voidsent Crow could imagine. The only good that came from her recent taste for parties and galas was that she was often too inebriated to dole out her usual abuses. The princess covered her mouth in an attempt to hide her disbelieving laugh, disguising it as a cough but the flimsy attempt was spotted by the governess even in her wasted state. It had been two months since that first party and, though she had nary a clue of the specifics, it was clear that alcohol was not the only thing Vinia was partaking in.

“What’re yer laughing at, you low’y beast?” Vinia lunged forward while still holding onto the bed’s poster, her fingers digging into the swirling patterns of moths for purchase.

Crow slid herself out from the governess’ reach, astounded by her blundering limbs. The woman who was once a terror to her was reduced to nothing more than a sorry drunkard, it was a wonder to the young princess that she’d ever feared this pathetic specimen. 

“You’re disgusting, Vinia.” Crow hissed balefully upon finding her voice.

“Come ‘ere, you-” The governess was piqued at the insult but failed to find her mark when she made for another swipe, staggering back and tripped over the foot of the unmade bed.

Crow did not waste the opportunity and climbed atop her as she fell, a knee colliding sharply with Vinia’s bead-studded bodice. The fabric of her stocking snagged upon the gaudy attire as she snatched up an old pillow, a malign smile trace along Crow’s lips as she pressed down on her governess’ powder-caked face. Hunched over the governess’ head, gripping with all of her diminutive strength, fueled by nothing more than her own desire to exact her vengeance, the princess made a bid to snuff out her own caretaker’s life.

Unfortunately for Crow, Vinia was not one to go peacefully into the night. Her arms flailed and her muffled cries sounded beneath the worn silk and cotton, her nails finally found Crow’s small shoulders and latched on with stunning determination. Harder and harder she yanked at Crow’s hair and clothes, attempting to dislodge her young, would-be murderer from atop herself.

The young princess let out a pitched growl, gum and teeth glistening as she bare down at her caretaker. There were no words to be had, all the will and strength she had was focused solely on extinguishing Vinia’s breath. Her long hair curtained over the both of them, tangled and disheveled in the struggle. Her thighs were clamped around the woman’s shoulders, limiting the range of the governess' arms, any stinging pain she felt was dulled by the rush of anticipation for Vinia’s demise.

In the end, despite her vehemence, it was a stray finger that had been the undoing of her efforts, the deep, bleeding score nearly blinding Crow as it passed just beneath her right eye. She flinched back in reflex, the motion completely involuntary and ruined everything. The momentary lapse gave the weakening governess time to recover, and with a shove, she flung off the princess. Crow skidded against the unkempt bedcover, her momentum caught by her fall as she slammed against the floor, nearly biting into her tongue. 

The young princess panted heavily and heaved herself up from the floor, holding the arm that she’d fallen on. She daubed at the cut as she looked back at Vinia’s proned form, fingers coming away with a bright scarlet smear, stinking of rust and iron. With a second wind rising in her limbs, Crow pushed her thin form to its limits and staggered across the threshold. The governess was only rousing from the bed, barely recovering from her near-death experience, to see the bloody, vicious sneer marring the princess’ face as she turned away. Then the door slammed and clicked shut, the lock that had been meant for her charge now working to keep her a prisoner instead.

Crow ran as far as her legs would go as she heard the sturdy doors of her chambers banged violently, Vinia had likely sobered up and knew full well where she was headed.

Chapter 15

The praetors, who had once stood by and watched her be dragged away, now took one glance at her loose braids and rumpled clothes then stepped aside, expression placid behind their masked helms. Despite her sloven manner of dress and mussed plaits, Crow conducted herself as any proud lady of court would. She gave a polite but pointed cough at them, and each flanking guard gave her the same cursory glance before one of them reached down for the door. They had no cause to stop her, their job was to only act when a perceived threat appeared. To them, none else mattered aside from the safety of the emperor and she was but a tiny child, weak from being periodically underfed, 

The warmth of the expansive study brushed pleasantly on the cut on her face, the bleeding had stemmed and the trickle of blood had dried on her cheek. Her limbs ached, bruises blooming anew on both her arms and legs. When she attempted to wet her lips, nervous of what's to come, she had to stifle a wince as she'd apparently cut the tender flesh during the struggle. Stepping through with a sullen countenance, she saw the emperor at work with another in assistance.

"I do not recall having an appointment toda–" His Radiance grumbled, hand redipping his pen into the inkpot. He interrupted himself when he slowly raised his gaze to Crow, the sight of her state striking him speechless.

Even Quintus van Cinna, His Radiance foremost advisor when it came to warfare, turned and had pressed his lips into a grimace. She was a veritable wraith, all skin and bones with eyes as hollow and watery as a waterlogged corpse. The First Princess had obviously deteriorated since last he'd seen her despite all incoming reports claiming otherwise. She was not as hale as her caretaker had claimed, her long, dull hair undone in an obvious struggle and something had caught her just beneath the right eye. The cut was uneven and still glistened with seepage, a hint of a scab barely forming. To a battlefield veteran's eye, Quintus knew that it would fester and scar if left untreated.

"I…shall fetch the medic kit." The Legatus began, excusing himself to the adjacent room.

The emperor moved first, placing his pen down upon the ornamental desk, its polished surface gleaming in the light from the chandelier overhead. He graced her with the weight of his gaze, steepling his ungloved hands in anticipation. At attention, Crow lowered herself in a curtsy, torn stockings stretching with the movement.

"And what has happened?" He asked without further preamble, looking unperturbed by her appearance.

"Vinia and I had a disagreement." She stated tentatively. It was a gross understatement to have labeled it as such, but she continued without pause. "Moreover, I think I've outgrown the need for a governess." 

"Have you now?" 

Crow frowned at his none answer, her temper and impatience rising. All that she'd suffered for the past four years, the scuffle she'd had with her governess, the injuries and the abuse to her person seem to have mattered little to him. The thought caused her lips to tremble as she wrung her hands, eyes stinging as she buried her fingers into the wrinkled skirt of her dress.

"She is a horrible woman! I'm always hungry and she locks me in my chambers for days, hits me and accuses me for faults I haven't committed!" Tears began to flow down sluggishly as she ranted. "And she calls me a bastard and a savage even though I've done everything perfectly according to her standards!"

"How long has this gone on for?" He seemed displeased but unsurprised at the revelation.

"T-Three years." The young princess tried to steady her voice, her stern countenance broken by the drip of tears and mucus flowing down her pale face.

"And why have you let it go on without informing me until now?" He narrowed his unsympathetic gaze, yellow eyes like the leery lanterns casting judgment upon her.

Crow lapsed into silence, lips twisted into a rueful moue. She was too ashamed to admit her weakness, the fear that His Radiance would revile her for not being strong. She gazed down at the floor, feeling as though she was being reprimanded for giving voice to her plaints. 

"I will not ask again." He pressed, the rasp of his voice low like the bass of her harpsichord.

The princess flinched at his tone, sniffling and trying to stem the flow of her tears. She caught the movement of Quintus van Cinna returning with a small tin box in hand, rubbing her nose clear with a sleeve and steeling her nerves.

"I was afraid that… you would not believe me—she told me you would not." Crow confessed in a small voice, shrinking into herself as she uttered her shameful admission.

Her eyes were pinned on the arabesque patterns of the carpet, tracing the shapes with her mind when she heard the quiet push of a chair and steps approaching her. She started when she felt his broad, warm palm touch the crown of her head; he hadn't extended such gestures of affection since her fifth nameday.

"It is my fault as well, I was too occupied to have noticed it sooner." Solus admitted quietly, softening as he cleared the tear-soaked hair from her brows. "Though I am the emperor, I am not omnipotent, you must take initiative to secure your authority to protect yourself. Even children will not be spared from power-hungry machinations, and you are no exception, my dear."

The emperor ran a calloused finger across her uninjured cheek and then produced a kerchief from his coat's inner lining. "Though what authority you bear stems from my rule, be not afraid to use it to your advantage, do you understand?"

"How would I use such a thing?" She asked in earnest, grimacing as he scrubbed at her nose.

"Threats are effective, though a display of brute force is always the proven route." Solus mulled as he took the tin box from his advising Legatus' hands.

"Your Radiance, there's no conceivable way a child of her size can manage such a thing." Quintus cleared his throat, unable to fathom the lesson the emperor was currently imparting on his ward.

"Assigning her guards would suffice, would it not?" Solus turned as he was daubing the disinfectant agent onto her cheek, it seemed his aging hands still retained some practice with field medicine. The motion felt familiar, better than it did with a pen, at any rate 

"No guards." Crow interrupted the discussion, her hackles raised at the mention of another who would loom over her. "No guards, please." She repeated but demurred when both men veered at her outburst.

"I only wish Vinia dus Varro gone, please." The princess swallowed.

"Very well, perhaps it is a discussion for another time." Solus capitulated, pressing an adhesive bandage to the cut.

When Crow was fast asleep over Solus' shoulder, her small hands loosely encircled around his neck, Quintus made his tentative approach and asked in a low voice. "Shall I make the arrest now, Your Radiance? We've uncovered the trail of the misused funds from Her Grace's budget, and now this as well."

The emperor sat down on the long lounging couch and untangled his ward's fingers from his long, ivory tresses, then laid her down. "House Varro have been overreaching much, it's high time we knock them down to the appropriate rung."

As Quintus left, Solus pulled the warm cover over his ward's shoulders and stood, returning to his desk to gaze to the city beyond. His eyes easily found the district occupied by the lower aristocracy, narrowing upon it with hawk-like scrutiny. The reports submitted were extensive, detailing the embezzlement of imperial funds, the gross abuse of power among the servile caste, and connections that rounded back to the upper echelons of court. He suspected the Varro woman had loose connections to the imperial family through one of the dredges below him, though even that was merely the tip of the iceberg. 

These games of intrigue were beneath him at the end of the day. But now it was clear that he'd erred when he thought they knew better than to interfere with the affairs of the inner palace. The corrupted habits of these rotten husks were of the norm, he would've been content to leave them to their games had they not overextend themselves. What he could not overlook was the possible detraction of his plans to restore Mnemosyne. Had the abuse gone on for longer, the vessel might have been irreparably damaged. It galled him to be so careless, despite his outward calm, he was seething within when he lingered overlong on losing her again. 

Even only half complete, her restoration would greatly soothe his weariness. Each year brought them closer to his goal, he'd already waited nearly ten, what was another few until her majority? He'd only need to take more care to ensure that she survives until such a time, and the emissary will not object to another member of the convocation being restored. And if he did, well, woe to the man who would stand in his way

****

It really was a pity that Crow had been asleep when her governess was dragged away, she heard from the minor maidservants that Vinia put up quite the struggle. It had taken the efforts of four guards to shackle and drag her from Crow's chambers, wherein she'd been held prisoner. The former governess had screeched her plaints, so much so that they'd gagged her as they took her away.

She began as a terrible teacher and ended a reviled being, Crow could not have thought of a more fitting ending to such a noxious woman. Now, for the first time in three years, she felt almost at peace as she slid the key into place. Unlocking Zenos' old chambers, she lightly breeze to his desk, stillness of the room filled her with an uncanny sense of melancholy. Everything here had gathered a fine layer of dust, but it was not unkempt as not much else had been touched since he'd left.

Rifling through the drawer where he kept his music sheets, Crow was mindful to not disturb anything on the desk. She ran a finger along a sheet of paper filled with elegant script and notes, a corrected vibrato here and a contemplative scribble there, she hummed along and slowly remembered the affable etude he had written for her.

Reverently closing the chamber doors, the young princess trailed down the wing's bright corridor to the drawing room where her harpsichord stood. The entire space from top to bottom had been cleaned so thoroughly by a garrison of servants, the marble floor shone like mirrors, the carpets plush beneath her slippers after a justifiable replacement, the curtains no longer had strands of cobwebs and floating debris trapped between its folds. She could finally look out the windows without bursting into a coughing fit, then get yelled at for disturbing the peace by Vinia.

Crow veritably floated into the drawing room after dodging a few busy servants, her steps jaunty as she laid out the sheets above the manuals. Plunking down the first few keys, she warmed up her hands and began to play cheerily in earnest. During a delightfully fast section, he'd always had a certain affection for his allegros and prestos, she even giggled aloud, finally able to enjoy things as a child her age should. She did not stumble even once, her fingers were as fluid as water and her sense for tempo was impeccable. Things were falling into place and she was absolutely at the height of it, throwing herself into the music, leaning and bouncing with the rhythm. Her legs were swinging with the melody, so engrossed was she that she barely caught the tail end of the door closing. One of the servants had likely gotten in to clean, though she thought the mantle shelves, tables and windows were already scrubbed to a shine. 

Crow supposed one last thing had to be done. "Perhaps it's time for a tuner to come for this one. The keys are a tad sharp in some sections…" She said, reaching for one of the keys she'd been a little particular about.

Another hand beat her to it, the finger slender and elegant, slightly marked by calluses that had not been there prior. It was a hand she'd observed many times before as it guided her through sequences and scales, each digit was familiar and beloved. She froze as the note rang out, her heart nearly stopping in place as she turned to see a certain absent friend.

"I think it only needs a new string." Zenos played the note again, then straightened with surety. He blinked at the sight of her startled flushed face, her eyes once again growing watery and warm, lips trembling as she sat frozen to her seat. The subtle smile he gave in response soaked into her fluttering heart like honey unto wine, she could have drunk on this wondrous feeling and the sight of him in perpetuity and still not be sated.

Notes:

I like writing terrible, flawed people! Enjoy.

Chapter 16

The top of her head barely reached his chest, face buried into the woolen material of his shirt. Zenos felt her tears against his skin as she sobbed, arms wrapped tight around his waist. She'd grown since they last met, not only in height but also her acuity and skills. she was thinner, though, reedier than he was at that age.

Ever patient, something he had little to spare for others, the prince brushed the messy fringe of hair from her forehead and breathed a curt laugh. That only caused her to dig her fingers deeper into the back of his shirt, squeezing emphatically as though she was not ready to part from him just yet.

"Let me sit at the very least." He said, eyeing the bench.

Crow shook her head stubbornly, determined to remain latch on to his side. A mixture of emotions clashed within her; indignance, anger, flooding relief and joy. 

"If I let go, you'll fly away again and never return." She replied through muffled hiccups.

"Your ears have gotten longer." He said suddenly, using his last resort, tapping the delicately pointed tips with his forefingers. Crow gasped aloud and clasped her hands to them, pinning Zenos with an evil look.

"The maidservants told me they could hide it with hair." She said quietly, brows pinched together in a frown.

Released from the shackles of her arms, Zenos was finally able to be seated next to her on the bench. The seat had once been able to hold the both of them with a small gap of space to spare, its shiny lacquered legs had once reflected fleeting rays of light filtering through the glass windows. Now, it groaned under the weight of two, the both of them on the cusp of adolescence. Things had changed, and it did not take Zenos long to notice them.

"Don't be ridiculous, you look fine. Besides, I like them well enough." He propped a hand on his knees and graced her with another ghost of a smile.

"Well, if you say so." Crow pouted, settling down herself. "At any road, where did you go for so long?"

"Tchita, for military training." Zenos answered simply. "Did no one ever tell you?"

Crow shook her head glumly, picking at the neat folds of her dress.

"And you did not receive any of the letters I sent?" He asked only to receive the same response, nonplussed.

"I wrote to you nearly on the daily." Zenos said, put off by the thought of his lost missives.

"Vinia likely kept them from me." Crow explained. The former governess had once kept charge of her budget, schedule and any incoming messages from the emperor, rare as those were. It would not be out of character for that antagonistic creature to keep Zenos' letters from her.

"Who's Vinia?" Zenos raised a brow, he'd just arrived back in Garlemald and had scant clue of the ongoings of the inner palace. Regardless, judging from the apprehensive cast she sudden adopted, he surmised that she would not have a pleasant tale to tell.

In detail, Crow recounted her childhood companion of the horrible mistreatment at the hands of her former governess. Each recounting from year to year only added fuel to his disbelief and strained ire, until he had to stop her lest their reunion would be ruined by anger. Had he been here, things would have turned out differently. She would not have been so alone, left to suffer such excess indignance.

"And His Radiance, all this time, did not lift a finger to stop this woman?" Zenos bristled.

Crow bit her lip in turn, unwilling to broach the discussion between her and the emperor that had taken place only days before. The conversation lapsed into an awkward silence, Crow had realized her error too late when she saw the fury simmering just beneath his blank mask. A tensed jaw twitched as his teeth were set on edge as he listened. She reached for his hand, clasping over it with her smaller one, determined to not let Vinia ruin another good thing for her.

"Nevermind that, she's gone now anyways. Tell me, what was Tchita like?" She nudged him with a shoulder.

Zenos flicked his gaze to her and began to rummage in the pockets of his coat. Though he played along to appease her, he made sure to remember that vile woman's name. From left to right, top to bottom, finally finding the small booklets he'd purchased from the north.

"I'll not lie, I did not expect any souvenirs, from you especially." She confessed in frankness. He took particular offense to her bluntness and tapped her on the head with the flat of the books in reprimand.

"How does one become so polite but at the same time, so painfully candid?"

Crow snatched the books from his hands and grinned, taking the compliment with pride. "Would you like a lesson?"

He took genuine pause and gave the offer some thought. "You know, I might take you up on that offer."

"I'll have your desserts and snacks as recompense for my time, then." Crow preened.

"And snacks? I don't recall myself being that greedy." Zenos snorted, a wry quirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"That's your loss, prince." She fluttered her lashes at him and flipped open her gifts with a flourish.

****

The cell was intolerably cold and Vinia dus Varro had naught to keep herself warm but the tattered remnants of her dress and her spite. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably as she held herself, most of her energy had already been spent banging against the frostbitten steel door. The slop they'd slid under the door was already frozen by the time it brushed against the hem of her skirt, and the water was no better. There was only a bucket by the corner to relieve herself in and the long concrete bench by the wall for furnishing.

Her once rouged lips cracked and bled, limbs shivering ceaselessly as her body tried its best to keep itself warm but to no avail. These inhumane conditions were not meant to hold any prisoner over the long term. The infamous cellblocks III was where the most detested criminals were left to die, and she had found herself among their ranks. 

Things were not supposed to have played out this way, she was climbing the ladder of ambition and all had been going as promised. But who was it promised by but some nebulous representative of a scheming high aristocrat. Months after she was selected by the position of governess, weeks of playing tug-o-war against that spoiled savage, she was approached by a venerable lady of court. House Varro had never been a prosperous one but they'd always had their eyes aimed at the top rungs. Her brother, Valens, had made it into the VIth and slowly ascended its ranks, his future clear ahead for him. In her own way, she'd attained a measure of power, and all that was asked of her was to keep an eye on that uncouth chit on behalf of her benefactor.

At every turn during the first year, that damnable First Princess resisted Vinia at every turn. Every lesson devolved into an argument as the savage princess threw questions after questions her way. Why should I do this? What was the point of that? Where would I even apply this in practice? Were among her irritating repertoire. Crow wir Galvus simply did not wish to do as she was told, lashing out with her words and refusing to see her governess for etiquette lessons when the mood struck.

Those cruel words Vinia had uttered was the first semblance of control she had managed to wrest from the girl. At first, she had felt a little bad to have made the child cry, however, once she recalled all those tantrums and mulish fits of obstinacy, she felt justified in what came after. All the abuses, the privation, the pinches and slaps, and even the bruises left on the girl’s pallid skin seemed to weigh little in offense when applied to one of them. One can teach a savage how to behave and how to dress, but their low nature was irrevocable, prone to return at the flip of a coin. The chit had tried to snuff Vinia out like a candle the moment she'd an opportunity, that was proof enough of her evil nature.

But now, the former governess really was going to die here. Her death would be ignoble and humiliating, even if she would survive until her trial in this ice-gripped hellhole, not even her once ardent benefactor would step in to interfere when the emperor himself was bearing down on her. In a sense, she was already dead, all would take up the appropriate mask and condemn her for her supposed crimes. Everyone was merely following a script set by the man who ruled over them all.

Boots echoed through the concrete walkway outside, the complex was big and often quiet enough that one could hear an icicle break and crash. The only thing filling the intervening silence was the crack of ice outside and steel creaking from the cold. The wretch curled into herself, her stomach hollow with hunger and thirst, tasting her own blood as her gums squeezed against her teeth painfully. The light flooding into the room was near-blinding, it'd been a sickening while since she'd seen anything but the cloying darkness of her cell. Vinia felt her eyes water and go dry in an instant, shrinking back from the flare as she caught sight of a guard.

From one moment to the next, she found herself with a bag over her head and her arms shackled again. But she did not fight as she had before, anywhere else would be better than here, even the executioner's platform. The rough spun material rubbed against her forehead uncomfortably as she was led outside, wading through the slush in her flimsy shoes in silence. When Vinia thought her time had come, the executioner's blade awaiting her, she was shoved roughly into a vehicle, head barely scraping past the roof frame. She tumbled inside but wisely kept her gripes to herself, a cold sweat adding to the chill eating away at her bones. The drive was long, her only company was the guard and presumably the driver of the coach. Her ears popped, pressure building as they ascended some upward path, the atmosphere so tense that one can sink a knife in and come away with a slice.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, finally out cold from the strain of her experience. The plush comfort of the seat reminded her of the luxuries she'd once possessed. She'd give anything to taste a fraction of that now, the warmth of a hearth and a bowl of lukewarm gruel seemed invaluable to one who'd fallen so low. The momentary reprieve was ripped away all too soon as she was rudely shaken awake, then dragged back out into the cold. The crunch of recently cleared snow sounded underfoot, and the muffle sound of conversation sounded not too far off. Vinia swallowed and felt the weight of dread in her bowels, she no longer knew what would happen to her. 

Like a lame pack animal, she was led into the unknown, destined for something terrible. Up a flight of stairs and through the threshold of several entrances, the cold outside shedding from her skin with each pair of swinging doors. The crackle of tree sap sounded and the orange hue of firelight glowing from without her blinders, Vinia found herself unceremoniously pushed down to a velvet couch. 

The sack was yanked from her head, the rough fabric nearly shredding her cheek as it was snatched up. A curving archway met her sight, obscuring red curtains partially drawn back to reveal the red glow of flames dancing in a fireplace. Vague movements swept about in the dim, Vinia's eyes slowly adjusting to the dark shadows behind the damask silk.

"Must you bring that sorry sight before us, mother?" A male voice sneered in reference to Vinia.

"Fret not, she only needs a little polishing to be usable again." A lilting voice responded, evoking the very image of vain decadence with its rich, feminine tone.

"If you insist, but should your plan fall through, I’ll be carving my own way to the throne.”

The throne? Vinia blinked in disbelief. There were only two prime candidates for ascension should the emperor meet his end, Lord forbid. Varis yae Galvus, the vehement might that held the military in his palms, and Titus yae Galvus, the clever second son of His Radiance. The latter was respected but not so feared as the former, his critics would deem his claim weak due to his overweening nature when it came to his wife, the venerable Arrecina wir Galvus. That woman was the true claws behind her husband, for despite her extravagant taste and glaring presence, she also possessed a discerning ambition. It was likely she who sat beyond those crimson curtains now, presumably with her son, Nerva yae Galvus, the current Legatus of the IIIrd. 

The clack of an opened door sounded, then it shut again, the footsteps of the prince disappearing beyond earshot as he left through an unseen exit.

“My, can you believe that boy?” Arrecina laughed, the sound full of throaty indulgence. “He really takes after me a little too much.”

Vinia worked her mouth, mind blanking on a reply. Was Arrecina wir Galvus her enigmatic benefactor? The clink of porcelain sounded, the scent of coffee filling her senses and made her mouth water. It’d been awhile since she’d had a proper meal.

“Come join me, don’t be shy.” Her Grace beckoned, the silhouette of her bejeweled hand dark against the firelit backdrop.

Vinia gazed into the dim, mesmerized by its intoxicating glow. Had she worshiped any deity, she would have silently thanked them for this second chance. No, there was no need for such thought when the divinity who had saved her was mere fulms away, lounging by the fire, draped in rich blue silks and fan in hand.

Chapter 17

The imp was a horribly ugly thing, a bulbous head held up by a reed-thin neck. Its shriveled body kept afloat by its equally tiny wings, it was a miracle that it could even look at her upright. By all reasoning, its head should have been dangling sideways, and its sickly yellow scleras had the gall to narrow down at her as though she was the ugliest thing it had ever seen. Crow flipped through the pages from the enigmatic tome in bored leisure. It was bound by her will for the time being, hovering within the drawn circle with an irked sneer. It was sentient though not quite capable of speech, too weak and insignificant to be able to afford such a privilege. The pointed tail flicked back and forth, impatiently waiting for either an order to be issued or a chance to escape and cause mischief.

“Let’s see, how about…” Crow crossed her legs, propping a hand beneath her chin. “Search Vinia’s old room for Zenos’ letters.” She waved an indolent hand at her new thrall, shooing it away as she would a fly.

It gave a sour sneer and floated off, passing right through the walls at a lazy pace.

“And be quick about it!” The young princess called after the repugnant thing, at least it was obedient enough.

She fell back on the plush carpet, tilting the vial of old blood back and forth, its sluggish consistency inky dark under lamplight. The wind was howling against the steepled spire outside, chilled steel droning a mournful dirge as they endured the assault of snow and gale. The sound, she was told by one of the maidservants, often scared young children, mistaking them for ghouls and ghosts in the night. Crow liked to believe she was different as she found the constant susurrus soothing, closing her eyes and running a finger along the handle of the knife beside her. The dagger was left behind by Drusilla, she’d no doubt, likely for the purpose of dismissing the imp once service was rendered. Her grasp on these rites were more than sufficient to draw out stronger voidsents, yet her absent mentor was determined to hold her back for the time being. The princess knew herself to be brimming with potential, was sure she was capable of more, wanted what Drusilla had; that vicious looking shade her mentor had as her thrall.

Crow yawned openly, and blinked up to the warm lamplight, as content as a cat to simply wait. She had already fulfilled Drusilla’s condition, now only using the imp for her own ends. She was dozing in the pile of pillows on the carpet when a sudden crash sounded without her chambers, the shattering of glass and thunking of objects being thrown startled her to acute clarity. Crow shot up, eyes round as saucers as she tracked the noise with her delicately pointed ears. The sound, incidentally, was coming from the typically quiet quarters of a certain prince.

Picking up her skirts, fingers lifting layers of laces and warm petticoats, the princess snuck up to her doors and pressed a discerning ear to the surface. She winced as another clattering of books fell, the scrape of steel grinding against wood sliced into earshot. Cautiously, knife in hand, she peered out from between her chamber doors just in time to see the tip of a saber sink through the study’s door.

“Zenooos?” She called out, dragging the last syllable of his name out beseechingly, suddenly unwilling to brave the empty corridor.

The door creaked open to reveal said prince, clutching a bounded stack of envelopes, a whisper of dark dust scattering from the entrance. He did not look pleased in the least, more puzzled than upset as his pale brows were knotted unevenly.

“There was a flying rat in the study.” He said when he spotted her, nonplussed.

Crow snorted a laugh. “Thank you for getting rid of it, but I can’t promise that’ll be the last you see of them.”

She tossed the knife out of sight, refusing to react when it clattered noisily against the hardwood ground in her chambers, maintaining her enthused smile with admirable pretense.

“Shall I hazard a guess that they’ll be getting bigger?” His question was not quite a question, but she nodded in affirmation regardless, a sheepish grin on her lips.

“And His Radiance approves of this?” Zenos asked with a brow raised, flipping through the stack of envelopes he’d found in the creature’s spindly hands. He paused in his perusal to look at Crow, needless to say, he was not impressed at the vague shrug she gave in response.

“What he doesn’t know-”

“Will hurt you .” Zenos finished her sentence pointedly.

She had no grounds to even argue against that, much to her chagrin.

“I’m sure His Radiance has learned to be more attentive.” Crow trailed up to the prince, hands woven together primly. “Besides, you’re here now, so don't worry or you'll grow warts and pimples for your troubles!”

The look he gave her was a thing of pure consternation, brows knitted together and lips upturned in disapproval. Crow’s grin only widened, her hands sliding around his forearm as she vied to look at the missives in his hands. 

She gasped at the sight of the letters, feeling vindicated. “I knew she had them!”

There were many, many letters, each of them dated close to one another. Truth be told, he found it a little embarrassing to see the sheer number of them gathered before him and this was not even a quarter of what he'd written, but she seemed positively excited at the prospect of reading through each and every one. Some of them were repetitive, having no reply gave him little idea of her interests and conversation topics. Others were simply detailed, long winded descriptions of his busy days.

Crow, eagerly bouncing on her soft pointe shoes, tugged at his sleeve. "May I read them? They're for me, aren't they?" 

With some reluctance, Zenos handed her the stack, a rare petulant twist marring his boyish face. "Just don't do it when I'm present."

The princess held the envelopes to the light, drawing in his lovely script with her eyes, sliding down the length of his forearm. She was indescribably pleased when she slipped her hand into his, fingers snuggly entwined. These were the records of his thoughts, how he'd never forgotten her even while they were apart.

She tugged him along as they trailed down the vaulted hall, steps whispering quietly against the gleaming marbled ground. Long twin braids swinging as she turned back and smiled at him, letters clutched close to her chest.

"You know, I've been wanting for a partner to play ludus with." She said in open invitation, cornflower-blue eyes taking on a challenging shine.

He nudged the doors to his chambers open, ushering her in. Crow shook off the pat on the head from him as she entered, girlish laughter falling from her lips as she evaded his hand.

Zenos dragged the ottoman to the seating area, setting it down before the pair of small nesting tables.

"Fetch the board from my study room and we'll see if you can keep up." He shot her a crooked smirk, gilded tresses brushing against his shoulders as he straightened, stance akimbo

****

Ludus, shorthand for Ludus latrunculorum, was like draughts, except more complicated. Crow had the white side this time, sixteen pieces for each of them. Each piece was able to move orthogonally and may go as far as one end of the board to the other if its path was left unobstructed. When a piece is captured between two of the opponent’s pieces, in rank or file, it would be removed from the board; the goal of the game was to capture as much as the opponent’s pieces as one can. Victory is determined at the end when one side was exhausted of playable pieces on the board.

Crow simmered in her seat, legs crossed in an unladylike fashion as she stared tiredly down at the board. It was nearly midnight when she’d finally caught up to Zenos, the attempt was hard won and she was not one to give up easily. Sleep rubbed at her eyes as she barely stifled a wide yawn; she should have napped after dinner instead of doing Drusilla’s bidding.

“Giving in already?” Zenos goaded.

“Not on your life.” Crow shot back with the grouchy edge of a sleep-deprived child.

The prince shook his head and stood, his eyes trailing to the chronometer on the wall. “Come on, it’s time to go back to your chambers, I’m sure the servants are tired of waiting.”

Crow slumped sideways, the petulant habit she’d picked up from him years before resurfacing. “Then let them wait, I’d rather sleep here! And besides, you’ll mess with the board while I’m gone.”

“Then I’ll close the study room and walk you over, fancy that?” He slid over to the ottoman, an impatient hand proffered before her. 

With immense effort, she dragged herself from the seat and was yanked to her feet by the prince. Trudging tiredly next to him as they beelined from one room to another, they traveled through the three dozen paces separating their chambers. Crow was left with the maidservants by Zenos, her ragdoll form promptly dunked into a bath, no different from a soused cat and dressed in short order. They were just as tired as she and when one of them went to fetch Crow the hour previous, she was turned away by a sharp reprimand from the young princess. When she was finally put abed, lights dimmed low and curtains loosened, she drifted off into the gentle waves of sleep.

Zenos woke in the deep, blue dark, sharp pricks flaring like the fires of his dreams jolted him awake. They were more dreams than nightmares now, the placidly repetitive nature held little fear for him since the age of six. He narrowed his eyes at the returning throb, raising his arm to find little fingers latching on tightly, nails digging in to the point of almost drawing blood. Crow laid next to him, somehow finding her way into his bed as she often would since she was a mere toddler. She was damp with sweat, head grinding against her pillow as though she was retreating from some unseen threat. One by one, he pried her vicious grip gently from his skin, tucking her hand beneath the covers. Picking a dark strand of hair from her sodden forehead, Zenos swept the rest of her tresses upward to allow cool air to pass against her neck and face. It seemed to settle her somewhat, her nightmare retreating with the heat for the time being. He pulled her bundled form close, tucking his head against her small shoulders and shutting his eyes. The nascent moments before dawn often seemed like a period where all time came to a halt, a peaceful drift where all were pulled into the quiet hours after night. He liked times such as these where no one would bother them. He could almost believe that nothing would change from one moment and the next, exempted from the ravages of entropy and time. He wanted it to last indefinitely, content to lay here and not ever see the morrow.

Crow blinked awake and found herself curled up next to Zenos, half tangled in the down feather covers as she sat up. Her companion, his face half buried in the pillows, was still dozing lightly despite the morning rays piercing through the canopy curtains. The maidservants knocked courteously and entered a moment later. They scattered about the chamber like a coordinated flight of birds, spreading through the rooms to open the curtains fully at both the windows and the bed. One of them wheeled in a small cart of hot milk and a light breakfast. Cloves, cinnamon and honey were simmered with the creamy beverage, served with a plate of cheesy syrniki pancakes and canned peaches.

Crow gulped down the milk with gusto while Zenos sipped sparingly at a cup of hot water. He did not like partaking in food so early, he'd thrown up what he'd eaten years before when starting out on his training. The strict regimen of physical exertion had instilled into him a reluctance to eat a full meal to break his fast. They sat down to the nesting tables, one occupied with the ludus board from the night before. Crow perched on the same ottoman, her nightdress no longer seemed too loose over her frame. She'd begun to tackle food with an appropriate gusto, and even he sometimes felt full when watching her eat.

The first move was made by the little princess, the piece set down in a pointed clack on the board. The prince looked up at her over the rim of his cup and, without hesitation, followed it up with an aggressive one of his own. Back and forth they traded pieces, she seemed to have obtained a more solid grasp on the game since they'd first started the round. Crow was not shy when it came to sacrificing a few pieces to lock out an area of the board, trapping a number of his own within. He was impressed that she knew of these maneuvers, but he had counters of his own hidden within his fleece-lined sleeves.

Within the next five moves, she was declawed, unable to do aught but watch as he tightened his grip down to her last two pieces. Two against six, the odds were rightly in his favor. Crow stared daggers down to the board, wishing a magical means to somehow revert time when they had been neck to neck in score. Two maidservants kneeled down with a brush each, soft bristles combing through the calf-lengthed river of black that was the princess’ hair. Another set down a plate of fluffy syrniki, a dollop of sour cream and jam sat jiggling on the steaming confection of savory cheese and dough. Zenos covered his cup with a hand when a maid vied to pour him milk.

“Tea.” He demanded curtly without looking, instead, he was observing Crow with focused intent. 

She plucked the fork from a maidservant’s hand and stabbed sharply into one of the cakes, wolfing it down in three bites. Another move pressed forward, her face scrunched into acute concentration. He smiled inwardly, leaning back against the overstuffed wing-backed upholstery, pale lashes casted low in easy confidence. She'd put up a good fight, better than he'd given her credit for, but her current struggle was futile.

"May I suggest a graceful surrender?" His drawl was full of smugness to her ears. There was an opening, a tiny one, the chink in his cornering, and he had every intent to divert her attention from it.

She cleared her throat sharply, putting on a show that she was beyond his taunts. Her braids were done by the time she nudged her chosen piece forward with the handle of the silver fork, they hung from the edge of the ottoman as she leaned forward. Zenos inhaled with relish as he made to forward his next move, glancing up at Crow, intending to pass her a haughty, knowing glance.

The arrogant smirk he wore quickly fell off when he saw the dribble of red flowing down from her nose, the glossy dark drop stood out against her skin like ink on snow. Crow caught on a moment later, feeling the lukewarm wetness on her lips. She pressed a finger against her mouth and it came away red just as before when she had that scuffle with Vinia. Then a surge came up, the sensation of liquid flooding her chest, followed by a wet cough splattering against the table. There was an impossible amount of red covering the ludus pieces and the nesting table beyond the board.

Their eyes met over the table, shades of blue tinged with confusion. The first scream from a returning maidservant set him off, the noise thin and hoarse as it cut through the air. He snapped into action, the fork falling from Crow’s small hand and colliding against the embroidered woolen carpet. She braced herself against the table’s edge, frail frame shaking with effort as she hacked up her lungs. There was so much blood dribbling from her lips, spittle diluted into a rusty pale color as she clutched her chest. Zenos pulled her back lest she fell forward and cracked her head open on the carved wooden trimmings, she gave little to no resistance as she fell fully into his arms, weak and rasping for air. She was drowning in dry land, lungs drenched in her own fluids.

The prince gathered her up and, in blind horror, sprinted from the room, pushing past the rooted maidservant. Crow writhed in his arms as he ran, wracked with building agony. 

“Zenos, I...” The sigh of his name at her lips was interrupted by a wet choke, the grip of her hand at his shirt growing loose as she sagged further into his arms. A small hiccupping sob reached his ears and it made his heart clench so acutely that he thought it might stop as he was midstride.

The front of his nightshirt was soaked in the pungent stink of her sickness, the cloying stench of iron and salt weighed more heavily on him than any sword he’d been made to wield. Each step felt as though he’d been fettered by the ankles. Too slow, too clumsy to go where he needed to take her. The praetors could not stop him when he barged into the emperor’s personal sitting room, the five-minute distance cut down to three by his urgency. His Radiance was attended upon by the Legatus of the Ist as he was wont to, listening to morning reports about one thing or another in the empire the the territories beyond. Both men whirled at the intrusion and Quintus dropped the sheafs at the gruesome sight, the paper falling like shriveled leaves from his hands, his shoulder rising as Crow went completely limp in Zenos’ grip. The expression on his great grandfather’s aged face was at once fearful and thunderous as he took in the ghastly white countenance of the feeble slip of a girl, her eyes staring sightlessly downward, chin tucked low as though her neck no longer had the strength to support her head. A slow drip of crimson spilled from her nostrils down to the laced, rounded collars of her plain night dress, slackened limbs growing colder by the second.

The pleading glimmers of unshed tears expressed more than words ever could as Zenos looked up to his great grandfather. Mute with grief, he could only squeeze Crow close as he begged silently for help, anything that would undo this unforeseen tragedy. The emperor stood and loomed over the pair of children, golden eyes glazing over as he realized what Zenos had failed to grasp in his desperate rush; the princess had been dead moments before they’d even reached this room.

Chapter 18

The wet, slick mask tore off of Vinia’s face, it sloughed off her cheeks like a second skin as she slid a nail in. Espionage in Garlemald was a shockingly advanced area, a plain mask to change the shape of one’s features, coupled with hands skilled in the art of cosmetics, was all it took to slip into the ranks of faceless servants. Her strong nose had smoothed out beneath the mask, dark haired dyed a ruddy red as though she was someone from Landis. She hadn’t needed to speak, only serve, the stark black and white uniform pushing her presence back as she went about serving the children their breakfast. The prince and that fractious chit had been so keen on their game that neither had noticed her slipping a loose powder in the milk. The poison, she had to wash her hand immediately after wheeling the cart out, was a by-product of a legume hailing all the way from Thavnair. Tasteless, odorless and potent in its effect, it was an uncommon substance compared to the typical arsenic-based agents used by imperial spies.

Not long after she skulked her way from the inner palace, a silent uproar could be observed as servants were rounded up. A lockdown was ordered as even the praetors were mobilized, any and all entrances to and from the marbled corridors were closed off. Vinia was hidden in an alcove, the cold air brushing by as a pair of guards marched past, checking the area for stray servants to arrest. A pair of gloved hands closed around the former governess, a slick feminine voice sliding up her spine as she was held in place.

“Well, well, look who’s finally revealed herself.” The sibilant hiss scraped against her ears like a blade unto a whetstone. “That was a very boorish thing you did, m’lady.”

“Who-” Vinia began but refrained from speaking as she felt the edge of a knife pressed against the tender spot of her throat, the cold edge already drawing a hot rivulet down her neck.

“We had plans for her, you know, and you just had to go and ruin it.” The leather fingers dug deep into her skin. “But I suppose His Radiance would want to see your pretty face before I have at it.”

Her captor sucked in sharply through her teeth, dreading what was to come. “Really, it’d be better for you to just confess to me here and now; he’s scary when his mood is afoul, you know, that lord of ours.”

“Never.” Vinia squeezed out in a whisper, sight askance as she tried to glimpse at the hooded rogue.

The reaper chuckled darkly at the assassin’s defiance, her stubbornness would soon be useless in the face of the emperor’s all encompassing wrath.

“Suit yourself.” She scoffed and dragged the woman through an inexplicable opened portal.

****

Crow was torn from the prince's arms by van Cinna and a pair of praetors as the emperor watched on impassively, his face rigid in a rictus. It was a momentous task to not harm either child, Zenos' grip on the princess was vice-like as his face contorted in anguish. Hot rivulets spilled from his eyes as he curled inward, refusing to let go until his own great grandfather had lifted him up by the collar and snarled his reprimand. The prince’s long tresses spilled over his collar as he strained against the white-knuckled grip.

"Let go, boy, if you know what's best for her."

Blue chips of ice hardened as he met the emperor's striking gaze, his head tilted up to meet the towering figure of his forebear. Even at the age of thirteen, he was tall, head nearly reaching the shoulder of his venerable great grandfather. He swallowed but did not cower, the praetors yanking him back from their lord. Quintus plucked the tiny, cooling body from the prince's grasp with careful reverence, eyeing the emperor and his scion uneasily.

"Show the prince to his quarters." Solus stamped his cane and turned away, ending the matter himself.

The praetors closed ranks on him, hands reached out to seize Zenos by his arms. The drawing of steel sounded as he snatched at the hilt of one of their swords, all stood frozen as the prince leveled it at the emperor.

"Take me with her." He demanded hoarsely, the glinting point aimed for his revered great grandfather.

The guards moved in to subdue him but Solus raised an arresting hand, fist closed as though he had their invisible leashes in his palm. His dogs, in absolute obedience, hovered around Zenos, ready to pounce at the first sign of a threat.

 The emperor closed the distance between them, his steps as slick as water, his bones shedding their old weight as his cane swept up to punch into the prince’s gut. Zenos managed to hold onto the sword but toppled over, caught off guard by his great grandfather’s sudden spryness. Solus moved in and stomped on his wrist, forcing him to relinquish his hold on the weapon. The eagle head grip of his cane bit hard into Zenos’ chin as he was once more forced to gawk up at the emperor.

“I’ve coddled you for far too long. Out of respect for your dead mother, I have kept my words and granted you shelter and succor. But this,” he ground his boots onto Zenos’ forearm, watching as the boy bared his teeth up to him. “I’ve no time for ignorance or obstinacy. Now, begone!”

Those words echoed in Zenos’ mind as he slumped against the side of his bed. The praetors had tossed him roughly into his chambers, dragging him from the emperor’s wing to the one he’d shared with Crow with indifferent, stern hands. In his periphery was his study, the door left open with a mere crack, just enough for him to see the cold breakfast left as it was just this morning. Merely looking at it brought up flashes of her scarlet brimming face, her blue eyes had been bloodshot as she struggled to even bring air into her lungs. The memory made him nauseous, an insistent ache climbing from the pit of his stomach to linger at the base of his skull. He laid himself down upon the carpeted ground, little more than a forlorn animal waiting for death as he mired sluggishly in despair. His desolate stare could very well bore holes into the glass of the tall windows, too shocked to find form in his incoherent thoughts.

The prince looked sightlessly from noon till evening, then dusk till dawn, sickened when he thought of Crow’s grim fate. He did not understand; why would someone attempt to kill a princess who had no claim to the throne? Had the poison been meant for him instead?

The thought made it infinitesimally worse. It should have been him, the one who should have died. Had he known — but how could he have foreseen such misfortune? The more lingered on the hows, whys and what-could-have-beens, the more he fed into the expanding spiral of his grief. His shoulder ached, blood grown sluggish in his veins for having so long spent laying on one side of his body. He felt nothing of it, though, squinting against the corpse-pale light as he buried his face into his arms and inhaled tremulously, scenting nothing but her bloody visage against him.

All the questions coalesced into one ringing word: Why.

****

Her soul, even when only half complete, was as heartfelt and warm as the day he’d lost her. His Azem, his Mnemosyne, her light was as brilliant as the sun, the golden shine of her hair trailing through his fingers like cool liquid gold. He could only ever gaze up at her in longing, too stupid to ever think his feelings were requited. Had he the chance to do it all over again, he would have done many things very differently.

Solus caressed the glass as the amniotic fluid inside bubbled up, her aether lingered but had yet to settle into its new vessel. He had been reluctant to use such reprehensible means to keep her, but it was preferable to losing her all over again. Translucent pipes running from one wall to another reminded him of the chains that shackled the creatures held prisoner in pandaemonium. The lab was cold and its sterile, metal walls unsuitable to foster any of her warmth. His breath clouded before him, calloused hands wiping away the frost to reveal a still body suspended in animation. Of all his follies, this was one of his worst, it seemed he'd failed her in this life yet again, but he was making his amends, surely. 

This clone, as with any and all that had come before, was imperfect, but it was the best one in the long line, bearing almost no visible deformities. The chief researcher had informed him of the infirmity in the right eye, and the body’s sterility, but there was little choice in the matter. Her soul was so thin, it would invariably disappear should he attempt to tether it to his own, it would be as though a small mote being absorbed into a sun. Then she’d truly be lost to him.

Solus sighed, running a hand down his face. He was tiring of this farce of a role, running this entire play was an exhausting affair, if he was being honest. It’d been exhilarating at first, the incipient taste of violence, the indiscriminate slaughter was pure catharsis to soothe his acrimony for these ghostly dredges. But the newness soon wore off, leaving him with nothing but the mud beneath his boots and cold building in his bones. He’d built a mighty dynasty from these starving wretches he’d found in the cold waste, all to fulfill a goal beyond mortal ken and to entertain him, at least, that had been his aim.

“You are the last thing I need to see through to the end, my dearest.” After her restoration, he would be content for an age, perhaps longer even.

He would show her the wonders of the past, remind her of the people they’d lost, take what little joy they could, surrounded by the tranquil serenity beneath a deep abyss. He would be able to tell her then, how the love he’d been carrying weighed him down so. In his sojourn, he’d learned that the burden of a heart was a tremendous one. It was a bottomless receptacle for loss, love, sorrow and enmity, and through the eons, it’d grown so overfull and petrified that it’d rendered him akin to stone.

The dark was interrupted by a shaft of light, one from an opening door to admit a reaper. Simply known as Rullus, the fearsome man was as tight-lipped as they came, opening his mouth only to give reports or obeisances. One such as him gave up rank and family name long ago to join their secretive sect, carrying the knowledge of reaping from one generation to the next since the days of the republic. He now served under the august authority of the emperor, loyal to none but the beacon of the empire. They were the shadow casted by his light, rooting out corruption before it could develop and eat at the magnificence of their civilization.

Solus sighed as he sensed the awaiting agent. “Speak.”

“The culprit behind the incident awaits, Your Radiance.” The old reaper bowed deeply in reply.

He’d always like those who knew when to skip the formalities.

“And the investigation?” Solus tapped his cane sharply as though he could tamp down his lingering furor.

“Still ongoing, My Lord.”

The emperor lingered for a moment longer as another stream of exhaled gas was expunged from her lips, the oxygen tubes strapped to her nose and mouth tightly secured as they should be. “Very well.”

****

The young prince grew to hate being in his own chambers, so much so that he’d even abandoned it in favor of Crow’s. He ate, studied, read, and even slept in her old room, unable to stomach the thought of even spending a single moment in his former quarters. No one said a thing against this months-old habit, not the servants, not his tutors, and especially not the emperor who seemed far too occupied to even spare him a passing glance. Unlike his absent father, however, Zenos cared little for his great grandfather’s regards. While he was not precisely content to wallow in his own misery, alone and bereft of any notable company, he preferred solitude over any other overbearing presence.

Thus he found himself once again before pen and paper, though this time, he was not penning a letter to anybody. Instead, he’d come to devote himself to his previous pastime. Falling back to composing for comfort, he churned out dirges and pavanes for a princess whose fate was all but certain. It was all that was on everybody’s lips, her death, even the servants whispered of it though he still refused to believe the rumors.

His hand shook in a spontaneous spasm, eyelids heavy with exhaustion, a splotch of ink falling from the tip of his pen to marr the already scribble page. He’d forgoed sleep entirely of late, only collapsing onto the bed when his body could not withstand his deliberate deprivation any longer. That cherubic face smeared in red haunted his mind’s eyes whenever he made the mistake of closing his eyes, the last squelching sob she gave pained him to no end. He could not express this inexplicable affliction save for the notes he’d put to paper, yet it still felt horribly raw. It was like no other injury he’d sustained before, this was not a broken bone or a bloody gash. Those would have been on their way to healing by now, scabbed over into an ugly maroon shell, or bound in an itchy cast. He hated it with a passion, sought to snuff it out as though it was a never ceasing burn. But it would mean forgetting his childhood friend, and he still hadn’t the heart to commit such sacrilege. 

Zenos crumpled the paper roughly, punching the crinkled sheaf into his palm, compressing it with unspoken frustration. His knuckles were sore and lined incongruously with hair-thin cuts from the paper’s razor edge, formed from days spent destroying his own works. The door creaked open and a knock sounded, one in which the prince ignored.

“Your Grace, the servants say you haven’t been eating.” A sharp, gruff cough sounded behind Zenos.

“Leave, van Cinna, it’s none of your business.” The prince said, his shoulders rising as did his impatience.

“Or sleeping, or tending to your personal hygiene.” The Legatus continued as though Zenos had never spoken up in the first place, giving the princess’ room a sharp whiff, beard twitching.

“Begone, old man.” He pressed again without turning to face Quintus.

Said old man rolled his eyes in silent consternation. “You really are His Radiance’s great grandchild, with none of your mother’s temperance.”

A flick of steel flew by Quintus’ head and embedded itself into the door just behind him, strands of white hair parting from just above his ears in the wake of its passing. Even in the throes of privation and hunger, the boy still had impeccable skills when a weapon was placed in his hands.

“The next one will go between your eyes if you don’t leave.” Zenos said, pulling out another sheet of paper from a drawer just beneath his elbow.

“Your father has heard of your… delinquency.” Informed the Legatus, a thumb tucked into the belt at his side. “He has assigned you a new tutor to occupy your time.”

There was nothing Zenos could do to ever prove himself capable to his lord-father, it’d been long since he’d given up on that futile endeavor. Any talents and progress credited to him would pass from one ear and out the other, unacknowledged and went without praise, not that he’d ever wanted nor needed it in the first place. He knew he was exceptional, one tutor after the next replaced because they had nothing left to teach him, it was a testament to the prince’s excellent aptitude in both martial and scholarly subjects. His character, though, was always something his father despised. His fondness for the First Princess was well known through the courts, fostered since before the passing of his lady-mother. It was a subject of contention with the High Legatus, his father galled by the fact of his and Crow’s inter-dependency on one another. In punishment, his mighty and just father judged it fit to wring out all the time he had with an endless score of teachers and mentors. This was the wordless war of attrition that they waged against one another, all because he wanted to spend time with a lonesome and neglected little girl.

“How parental of him.” Zenos said dryly, he was not in the mood to hear of his esteemed father.

“He might return himself if you keep this up, Your Grace.” It was not a threat, it was a promise. For all the faults the High Legatus might have had as a parent, one cannot find flaw in his keen dedication when it came to his son’s education.

That had gotten the prince’s attention, all motion coming to a standstill. “If I agree to attend, will you finally cease your blathering and go away?” The white gleam of another knife flashed from over the prince’s shoulders, baleful blue eyes catching sight of his target on its silvered surface.

“The lessons will begins on the morrow, precisely at noon.” Quintus tucked his hands behind his back and leaned his head aside, just in time to neatly avoid the blade coming for him. 

Point taken.

When he left the room, shutting the ornate door gently so as to not disturb a thing within, he felt a warm trickle down the shell of his ears, gloved hand coming away wet as he found a tiny knick. There was no doubt His Grace had kept true to his words on that second throw, had the Legatus not taken the measures to step aside, he would have found himself inconvenienced by a case of mild cranial bifurcation.

Chapter 19

A dream, blue as far as the eyes can see. The horizon was nowhere in sight as motes of lights swam across the expanse. She was one in a million — billions and trillions — floating within this winding river where all meet at the end of the road. She was only at the beginning of her journey when she was scooped from the stream, like an uncut jewel being filtered from the river’s edge. Sitting up, limbs inexplicably forming from thin air, she gaped up to see a gleaming beacon, infinitesimally faceted to shine like no crystal she’d ever glimpsed at before.

Looking down, she saw the river that she’d been a part of, flowing as one glowing estuary of light and consciousness. Her hands, the bright, inchoate silhouette, each finger shaped only to an approximation of the flesh that came before, sank into the shallow depth of where she sat. The skies above reflected back, revealing a galaxy of stars dotting a deep violet firmament.

‘Hail, child.’ She started at the echoing voice, feminine and velvet, it spoke to her. Soft like the crooning of a mother, it was at once sultry and soothing to her ears.

‘Who are you? Where is this?’ She thought these questions but they spilled from her mind as though she’d said them aloud, sounding just as timid as she truly felt.

‘I am Hydaelyn, all made one.’ The voice responded. ‘And you, my child, are in the sea where all gather at the end of their journey.’

‘Then if I am here, does that mean…’ She drifted off, the idea so far buried and impossible that it would not be released into the ether.

All she’d remembered was the food, and the bloody moments that came after. She was jostled in a desperate embrace, carried off to somewhere she could not recall, fizzling out like a snuffed spark. Her last thought was incoherent yet they bore a terrible sense of remorse. Flashes of golden hair and blue eyes bubbled up from her half-formed recollection, a fleeting burgeoning of affection and sadness struck her into silence.

‘That cannot be, I cannot be…’ She quailed, thoughts unraveling.

‘ This life is as fleeting as the next, my little spark.’ Though disembodied, she could hear the smile in the voice, amused as though it was entertaining a naive child.

‘Am I to suffer in the next as well? And when I am here next, would I even remember what had transpired in that life?’ The heat built in her body and radiated all around her, the tranquil surface of the shallow lake bubbling in a show of her anger.

Yet for such a display, the voice remained silent, growing unresponsive even as she threw curses at this formless, nebulous entity.

‘Take me back, he would be alone without me, and I him.’ She sank to her knees, pleading, begging for a second chance. ‘Please.’

‘It is not within my power to interfere with the flow of the Underworld.’ The voice began, unhurried and seemingly indifferent to her plight.

‘Then what good are you?!’ Crow kicked at the boiling water, her vague form aglow and steaming.

As if in response to her abuse, dark hands snapped up from the roiling depths and latched firmly onto her limbs. She cried out and batted at them but found her form helplessly intangible, passing through these stygian claws as though she was only made from light and air. The next thing she knew, she was falling through the world. Past the flowing parade of light, past the blue expanse and into an unending darkness.

Crow’s eyes snapped open to the dim glow of evening, auroral lights shining into the dark room where she lay. She lifted a hand up to touch her pulsing temple, and where there were supposed to be her fingers, she saw no movement nor shadows. Her hands hovered before her but she could only see her left limb. She blinked, hand growing tremulous as she waved it before her right eye. There was no cloth to obscure her vision, no dark hair pricking at her cheek, yet she was unable to see.

Her breath quickened as her dismay grew, stabbing through her like an icicle. She sat up straighter, waving her right hand more earnestly from one side to another. She was irrefutably blind on her favored side.

“Zenos!” She cried out into the unanswering dark, an alarm setting off soundlessly in her head. “Your Radiance! Anyone?” She gasped, struggling to climb from the heavy down feather cover that someone had tucked her in. 

On her hands and knees, the young princess clawed her way to the edge of the expansive bed, feeling the smooth silk embroidery beneath her fingers. A snag yanked her back as the crash of equipment clattered violently onto the floor, the disconnection of needles and monitoring pads tore painfully from her skin. Crow hissed as she clutched the tender spot at her arm, then tearing out the tubes shoved in her nostrils. She was indescribably tired, the initial shock of her awakening wearing off to reveal hideous aches running throughout her body. A hand hanging off the ledge, the cool fabric brushing against her skin, she slid slowly down the edge and staggered forth on newborn legs.

A maidservant, one she did not recognize, found her nearly collapsed against the paneled walls, hanging on just by a thread as her emaciated form leaned against the lacquered surface for support. Her small body was thinner than before, even when she’d been starved it’d never gotten this bad. 

“Your Grace, please go back to bed, you need rest after your ordeal.” The servant girl pleaded, scooping the princess’ small form into her arms.

Crow buried her hands into the servant’s uniform, a fierce stubbornness gripping her even in the throes of weakness. “What-What ordeal?”

“You were at the brink, Your Grace, the…the poison, your recovery was a miracle in and of itself.”

The princess sat in bed, mulling over the newly acquired information with her brows scrunched together. The maidservant who had found her turned on the lights, and she found the room to be entirely unfamiliar. This room was smaller than her large apartments, her old chamber had been separated into three sections, these curtains were a velvet red rather than a grayish dove-blue, furnished richly by ebony upholstery accented by gold. Regardless, she hadn’t the energy to do much else but let herself be tucked in once more.

“Get me a mirror.” Crow said suddenly, cupping a hand to her right eye.

“A mirror, Your Grace?”

The deadpanned gaze the princess leveled at the servant caused her to swallow and nod without further input. She hated repeating herself when it came to simple requests such as these.

“And water as well.” The princess mumbled as she received the silver wrought hand mirror from the maidservant, licking her dry lips.

What she saw was honestly nothing out of the ordinary. Her face had remained the same, she’d expected a great scar ruining the right half of her face, but the skin was smooth and clear as an undisturbed pool. She spotted the same mole, one at the lower left corner of her lips, and an additional one just beneath her right eye. Crow tenderly brushed her right cheek, seeing the dull green eye staring back at her. Its pupil was dark and undefined, but not milky as she’d thought 

The princess gripped the crystal goblet, laying the mirror down as she stared at the clear liquid, then raising it to the maidservant. “You drink it first.” 

A blink of surprise was her response, but the girl obliged her after a moment. A mouthful drawn back, then a swallow. They waited in awkward silence, Crow closing her eyes and reclining back.

“How long have I been in this state?” She tapped a clipped, tapered nail against the polished rim.

“Almost six months, Your Grace."

“You may cease the formality for now, it’s bothersome, just answer as I ask.” The princess swirled the water, being reminded of that infinite expanse and that curious encounter.

Something had changed inside her, not just because of her half-blinded state or the atrophy of her body. Something was missing, a piece taken from her as she'd returned. Had she been the same girl as before, she would have been utterly distraught and thrown a tantrum for what she’d lost. But then again, how could one be angered when one did not know what had been taken?

Back and forth, the maidservant answered as best as she could when Crow veritably interrogated her for a good half-bell. Not much had changed, Zenos was still in Garlemald, pressing on on his own, and the emperor was as busy as ever. It seemed like she was the only cog that did not belong in this grand machine.

Upon taking a sip of water, out of habit, she reached up to draw back her hair only to find it cropped short. Crow froze, only now noticing this detail. Those long tresses she’d been growing out for years, where had it all gone? Why would they feel the need to shorn it all off? 

“Fetch a physician, and some food. '' Crow ran a hand through the chin-lengthed bob, lips pressed in a tight line as she watched the maidservant depart.

Never had she felt so utterly foreign in her own body; each drop of blood, each strand of muscle, each single bone was that of a stranger’s. Her skin stretched over her knuckles, highlighting a red mole that had never been there before. When she lifted the hem of her skirt to look, her heart skipped a beat at the sight, the small but numerous welts upon her knee from Vinia’s lashings were gone. Skin as smooth and pale as driven snow, flawless and unmarked. The sight had all but confirmed the burgeoning theory in her head, absurd as it was.

This body of hers, the one that she now inhabited with its aches and infirmities, was not the one she’d been born into.

*****

The emperor was shockingly more attentive in the recent days since she had come to, spending time by her bedside with a book or paperwork in hand. She’d grown a little heartier as she ate and drank, the small portable radio at the nearby desk churning out the usual news and music to fill the quiet atmosphere. Sometimes, he would glance at her, his thick white brows lifting in, what she’d imagined, silent concern.

“Your Radiance, when do you think Zenos may come visit me?” Crow asked forwardly, staring ahead to the clear summer sky, the mountain peaks dappled in white and black. 

He, glasses perched nearly at the tip of his aquiline nose, eyes still glued to the freshly delivered reports in his hands, said. “Everything has its time, my dear.”

Crow leaned her head sideway, cushioned by an overstuffed pillow. “I think I want a pool to be added to the solarium.”

“Then I’ll have the stewards arrange for it.” His Radiance replied without missing a beat.

“What about Victor? Do you think Lord Varis would be opposed?” Crow squinted as the sun rose to its zenith, filtering through the glass and putting the room aglow.

“That unruly thing will stain your carpets and wet your sheets, you'd try to skin it before week's end, better to ask for the moon.” Solus huffed his deep, singular laugh, shuffling through his papers.

“Then I’d like to have the moon.” She said simply.

The emperor flicked a brief glance up to her from the brim of his spectacles, beard twitching in a smirk. “I’m sure you’ve grasped the concept of hyperbolism.”

“Fine,” she sighed, her eyes sliding sideways to him, barely able to glimpse at his figure, half obscured by darkness. "Then I’d like a new body.” 

He shot her a peculiarly narrow look, not quite surprised but also not so entirely calm either. She was proud, for a moment, to have provoked such a reaction. His lambent gaze was like peering into pure amber, piercing in its clarity as he set the paper down at his robed lap. His brows smoothed out in acceptance, and a sly gleam entered those tawny orbs.

“When did you become so shrewd?”

Crow nestled deeper into the pillows, tucking her hands primly atop the lip of her comforter. Her long, graceful lashes lowered demurely, the very model of royal gentility. “I’ve always been this way, you’ve just been too inattentive to notice, Your Radiance.”

It was a lie, of course. Had she been as cunning as she was in the last four years, she would have suffered far less than she did under Vinia’s cruel ministrations. She’d been steeling herself in the last week for this moment, planning and reciting how she would even confront him about this issue. 

“Be content as I am that you are still here with us.” She heard him pour himself a glass of water from the nightstand, her ears pricking as she heard the crystal decanter clink against its companion goblet.

“Why was it that I am now blind and weak, Your Radiance?” She asked in earnest, lacing her hands together, her face an outward mask of serenity when just beneath her skin was a roiling mass of perturbation. She wanted to cry and tear down the room, throw fit and make him explain what had transpired in full. But she quickly realized that was pointless, the naked truth would be of no use to her in her current state.

“Because the poison rendered you so, my dear.” She heard the rustle of woolen fleece against upholstery, the whisper of paper being moved as he resumed his work.

The true nature of the imperial palace unfolded itself before her, the irony was sweeter than any dessert or cakes she’d ever tasted. It took her losing sight in one eye before the blinds were torn off, half-truths and lies unveiled themselves to her like a school of sharp-toothed, slick eels. Upon every face she glimpsed, their smiles molded to disguise their disdain, be they servants or soldiers. The miasma of gold-wrought magnificence clung onto her like a second skin, cloying and sticky, until she could hardly breathe.

Escape and freedom, words that had once meant little to her now became wuthering aspirations. Crow was determined to rid herself from this place once and for all, someday soon.

Chapter 20

When Zenos first saw her, after months and months apart, unsure whether she was alive or dead, he was filled up like a brimming decanter. Relief quenched him like water was wont to for a man dying of thirst. She was veritably buried in the masses of cushions, pillows and blankets, a tray of food set on a small table above her pristinely flushed knees. The meal was rich and still wafted with puffs of steam when he stepped closer, mushrooms layered over roasted ovibos tongue, coddled egg in a bowl topped with a small spoonful of black caviar roe, a specialty from the northern sea in Landis. Black molasses bread sat neatly buttered and lined with pickled beets. He knew that she hated preserved things, her immature palate unable to stand the taste of tart vinegar.

Crow tilted her head, hearing his approach, peering at him as she favored her left eye. One a bright blue, the color leaning almost to violet, and, to his bemusement, a dull green that seemed unfocused even if they moved as a pair.

"You're here!" She seemed to bloom at the sight of him, her smile bright and full of expectant joy.

It was a different scene since he'd seen her last, lacking the bloody heaving and gruesome choking. Dread slithered over his heart at the memory, roily and begrimed like a leech.

"And you're tardy as well, how unsurprising." She added, spooning a bite of the caviar and egg to her lips.

He was in a near catatonic state at the sight of her, living and breathing, and not so ashen and dead. 

"You're here." He muttered under his breath, but she was able to catch his words despite their subtlety. It was surreal, to see her in the flesh, his mind only just catching up.

"Where else would I be?" She bit down on the bread, sinking the tongs of her fork into the chanterelle and tongue. "Come sit with me, His Radiance has finally deemed me well enough for visitors."

Zenos remained standing, unnerved by the irreality of her bright, eristic cheer. He watched her speculatively as she watched him back, pale brows coiling as a wary viper.

"Who are you?"

Her smile fell away at the accusatory question, unable to grasp his meaning as she leaned toward him upon the bed. Her wrists were the color of spoiled cream, thin and frail as she climbed over the sheets, her eyes full of hurt and childish confusion.

"You're being strange, are you ill?" She reached for his forehead, propping herself up by the knees.

That green orb set him on edge, opaque and foggy just as the eye of his mother was. The weight of her arm weighed heavy as she stared lifelessly down at him, unresponsive to as he called for her. He sucked in a hissing breath and batted Crow's arm aside, she fell back and jostled the tray behind her. The food rocked this way and that, bowl and plates threatening to topple over in the wake of his paranoia.

"Have you lost your mind?" Crow gawked at him as he turned his back from her, slipping from the room in a hurried retreat.

Something in him had snapped looking at that eye, the bleak green of rot reminded him of his mother's dulled gaze and sallow face. Things had been well for a while when Crow had quelled those visions, the soft sincerity of their childhood pulled a pleasantly obscuring wool over his tumultuous thoughts. Her presence had muffled them to a dull, soothing hum instead of a churning roar. Now, she did naught but remind him of death, hers and his mother's. He fled as a result, unable to pick apart the whirlwind of emotions tumbling beneath his placid, inscrutable countenance.

The doors to her new chambers slammed shut, the paintings, red velvet curtains and glassware at her bedside rattling in Zenos' wake. Crow, left stunned by the sequence of events, had felt her heart crack in that precise moment when he'd pulled away, her first taste of rejection was as acrid and stinging as a mouthful of needles.

****

Drusilla hadn't the time to comfort a child, or anyone of any age, really. But here she was with the little princess clinging onto her belt and firmly refusing to let go. She'd been caught leaving the notes and study material for Her Grace, her voidsent had snuffled its way under the girl's bed and refused to leave. It grew increasingly disobedient whenever the princess was near, inexplicably drawn to her like a fly to nectar. When the reaper went to fetch the thing, tugging hard on their contracted bond, she found the princess had been staring at her from the pitch dark, owl-like and wide awake.

"If you are here…then you surely do not have any prior engagements!" The princess gritted out through flushed cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, full lips thinning into a firm, expectant line.

The reaper gazed longingly out to the frozen night, then reluctantly plopped herself down to Crow's expansive bed. She veritably sank into the plush mattress, the material impossibly luxurious compared to the different portable cots, steely nooks and cheap inns she'd been relegated to. 

"Alright, what is it?" Really, what did she have to cry about? Three hot meals a day, a large warm bed and being waited on at her hands and feet by a fleet of servants was more than anyone could ask for.

Crow returned her question with an indignant look, askanced by her mentor's forwardness. Her chin pulled upward into a trembling frown as she yanked against Drusilla's belt.

"You sound like you don't want to be here," The princess grumbled darkly.

What Drusilla did next she did for the sake of her and her grandfather's order. She wrapped an arm around the princess and pulled her tiny frame near, and with a heavy sigh, inquired after her troubles. With a wet sniff, Crow visibly wilted and snared her arms around her mentor.

"Zenos said that I was not myself, and I'm afraid he'll never speak to me again." She said in a scared whisper, unable to help the quivering in her voice.

"How do you mean, Your Grace?" Drusilla gazed down at the girl, unable to truly fathom her distress. She had heard of their particular closeness since they were little more than babes, certainly a little juvenile spat would hardly make a dent in their bond. 

"He swiped at me, looked at me like I was the most terrible vision he had ever laid eyes upon." The young princess explained, sounding not quite entirely in the present. Her thoughts drew back to that wrenching moment that took place the week before, mind still reeling from the shock of his rebuff.

The reaper leaned back on the overstuffed pillows and scratched at her cheek, unsure of what to make of Crow's descriptions. If she had to be frank, it sounded as though the boy was disturbed in the head.

"I…would not worry overmuch about it, Your Grace." Her gaze veered to the northern lights slithering in the skies outside, hoping she sounded somewhat convincing. Drusilla stiffened her lip and gave Crow a sound pat the back. "A boy his age will have a lot to think about, like girls and weapons."

"Girls?" The princess asked, looking displeased by the notion.

Drusilla cursed silently. "Nevermind him, you should focus on yourself, princess! How about taking on more advanced lessons with me?"

"Why would Zenos think about girls? I'm a girl, or did you mean other girls?" The princess, much to the dismay of her mentor, had latched onto the topic with keen puzzlement. Her mind spun around and around, growing more upset by the thought of another friend who would steal him from her. They would play ludus, eat and study together, leaving her alone again.

Witnessing her visible distress, Drusilla drooped against the bedding, a hand waving in the air as though to dismiss the notion. Her grandfather, Rullus, had once told her that she was never the most charming flower in the bouquet, and he would've likely sent her into the military had she not displayed her talent for their macabre arts.

"What about learning how to handle a sickle?" Drusilla finally offered, hoping that would be the key to putting the topic of the prince aside.

To her relief, that gave the princess pause though she glared at her mentor pointedly. "You're really bad at this, comforting someone in distress."

The reaper returned a deadpanned look to the princess, drawing up her hood. "Your Grace, it's often better to face your troubles than to run from them. Just talk to him, I'm sure His Grace would at least listen. ” She gestured at the weapon laid leaning against the bed poster. “Now, do you want the lessons or not?"

With a petulant pout and a roll of her mismatched eyes, Crow quietly mumbled her affirmation. "Yes, please."

Chapter 21

Even when back in the comforts of the imperial palace, Zenos was not spared a moment's rest. His lessons were scheduled tightly following meals with little time for leisure in between. His father had arranged this strict regimen seemingly with a vengeance, determined to not let him get away with any unoccupied periods. 

However, since his delinquency began, Zenos found himself more exhausted than ever. He barely ate or rested, spending much of his time doing what his father had labeled as useless. Composing had no place in the repertoire of a future emperor, but he did it regardless because it pleased him. What had pleased him more was listening to Crow bringing those pieces to life, but now even that modest satisfaction was no more.

He had nothing now, that beryl eyed stranger who had taken her place moldered in another wing of the inner palace. The sight of her and her uncanniness unnerved him. He had instinctively rejected her and fled from her presence. That had been days ago, but now he was here, forced to meet with this new arrival.

"Arm yourself." His latest tutor circled about the training hall, dextrously twirling his own dulled training blade in hand.

His copper complexion and dark hair told Zenos of his foreign origins; these traits were highly uncommon in the frosty climes of the capital and its surrounding provinces. The tutor's stance was unusual but not entirely unfamiliar, this dance was one he was well versed in. The prince plucked up his own sword and felt a slamming force cut into his back. It was all he could do to not fall and tangle himself in the rack, knees buckling as his spine gave a painful pulse. 

He'd been struck, he realized with a start.

“You are dead.” The man spoke, his accented voice dripping with bland derision as he strode off.

Zenos turned to face his new tutor, a scowl pinching at his face.

“We haven’t even started…” The prince gripped the blade, digging the blunted blade into the textured ground to prop himself up.

“The dead cannot learn. Perhaps next time you will not die, though I doubt it.” The foreign man said, his hard face set in wry amusement. Not once did he spare his new pupil a backward glance.

He disappeared through an exit, leaving Zenos behind in a dazed state. He had not a clue as to what had just occurred, never once had he been dealt with in such a condescending manner. Laid low by an unseen attack from the rear, not only was he astounded by the attack, the blatant curtness of his new tutor was something he’d never encountered by those who had taught him. From within he felt a fresh burgeoning of acrid bile, lips curling as he contemplated his newly found irritation. The sword clattered noisily as he let it fall, departing from the training hall himself with his fists tightly curled.

He returned to hear the muffled shuffle of paper within the chambers he now occupied, pausing to listen to the slight creak of the stacked desk. The motion was furtive but well-placed as though the intruder knew exactly where everything was. It was certainly not a maid for no servants were allowed inside since the incident. He did not want anything to be disturbed in the event of Crow's return. 

A small, sibilant voice within him told him that she did return as he'd wished, it was just that he couldn't bear the sight of her. That bubbling irritation surged as he batted aside that little voice, and at the same time, he barged in without another thought.

Indeed, his guess had been correct. The First Princess, his sole childhood companion whom he'd once cherished, stood with a stack of envelopes in hand. Her watery eyes wide as though she was a felon midway through a burglary. 

"What are you doing here?" He lowered his focus down to her hands, unable to stand looking at her in the eyes 

"This is still my room, you know." Crow said, shifting on her feet nervously despite her firm words.

The pregnant pause between them hung like bodies on a gallow, heavy and insistent for attention. Crow took a step forward, her lips parted as though she had something to say. Zenos took a step back, his eyes narrowed in visible discomfort. She could see it, taking the look as disgust as if he could tell by instinct that she was now a ruined invalid.

"Do what you want." He stepped from her line of sight, trudging over to her former bed. He sat and began unlacing his boots, ignoring her entirely.

She was poleaxed in the cloying silence, his dismissal repeated itself in her head. Her fingers trembled as she grip the letters in her hand, mustering herself up as she felt her face grow warm. She mulled over Drusilla's words from a few nights ago, thinking hard on how to approach this inexplicable chasm between them. "I wanted to see you yet you've made every excuse to avoid me, why is that?"

He let the question linger in the air, arranging his boots neatly side by side. His irritation niggled at him like a thorn upon hearing those words.

"Been busy, new tutor. I've got things to do, if you don't mind." He answered, becoming short with this extended interaction and gesturing to the door.

Zenos did not see the wrenching twist of confusion and hurt on Crow's countenance, his eyes stubbornly tracing the leather embossing on his shoes. She gave him a long, searching look, unable to understand why he refused to even glance at her. Everything had begun to go wrong the day he left, and the brief respite of their reunion was so painfully fleeting. When he'd returned, she thought that had been the end of her troubles. The events unfolding like that of a classic folktale with the prince rescuing the princess, but it seemed she was sorely mistaken. Reality was not so rosy like scenes of a story, she was not the clever and pretty Vasilisa and he was not Ivan the brave. 

"I see," she said, wringing her hands, each knuckle feeling as tenuous and weak as her heart. "Will you have time later? I wanted to–”

Zenos' sharp inhale interrupted her, the welt on his back throbbed as his muscles shifted.

“Not within the foreseeable future, no.” He said, face schooling into a blank, inscrutable mask.

She took a moment to feel the impact of yet another nix, one more score to add to the half dozen that came before. This one, however, she felt most acutely because it came directly from his lips rather than the excusing words of a servant. Without another word, she left before the unraveling of her composure could surface on her face. She could not explain her upset to anyone, she doubted Drusilla had any sound advice to give even if she could guess what went on behind’s Zenos’ difficult treatment of her. So Crow, as she did before with much of her troubles with Vinia, placed this event into another box and carefully shelved it into the recesses of her mind. She felt heavier for it as the mantle of her mind sagged even further, but it pained her less and she now had something to lean onto. Zenos of the past in these letters had kinder words, even if he no longer existed. She hoped he had more to say to her than the present version of him, feeling uncertain that she could endure another encounter like that.

Crow hid in her new quarters, covers drawn over her shoulders as she went over the first letter. Its content was simple and thoughtful, bringing a font of tears to her eyes despite its mundanity.

' Dear Crow I'll be frank, I can't say I like that style of opening.

It occurred to me that we've passed plenty of notes between each other but never did we really write letters to one another before this.

I regret leaving on such short notice, but I hope you won't be too crossed. I'll be away for some time in the north. My father, absent that he often is, claimed it will be for the short term and it would be the best course for the time being, whatever that meant.

Try to not give Lida a hard time, I'll be back soon…'

Crow gave a wet sniff, unable to finish reading, the smooth cover of her pillow growing damp as tears spilled sideways from her cheeks. Not only did her heart feel leaden but so did her body. She felt herself sink deeper with each word, drowning herself in soft woolen covers and briny sadness. She didn't know what she did wrong to deserve his indifference, yearned to learn so that she could right her position in his eyes.

She thought ceaselessly until she could think no longer, fighting through salt-crusted eyes and smeared cheeks. Ultimately, the endeavor proved fruitless as she soon fell asleep, cloaked in the warmth of childish grief at having lost more than just a friend. When she next woke, Drusilla was standing over her with an expectant air about her. The woman took one look at her and sighed.

"Come, you agreed to this, clean yourself up and let us not dally." She took Crow by the hand and guided her from her room, mussed hair, rumpled dress and all.

Within weeks, though the heft of Crow's hurt was still keenly felt, her physical lessons provided an exhausting but welcomed distraction. Her legs were sore from the laps Drusilla started her on, her arms and shoulders felt as though they would fall from their sockets from lifting kettlebells. Scythes and sickles were deceptively heavy, the weapon designed to sink into hardy stone and even cleave metal apart. To prepare Crow for her eventual wielding of such tools, Drusilla claimed she had to first whip her into shape. At the end of each day, the young princess often grew far too tired to give any thoughts to her grievances. A small meal and a wipe down by the maidservants was all she could endure before collapsing into bed for the evening.

Her adoptive guardian had judged the pairing sound and gave his blessing to the new tutelage. Though there was a slight tension between them, Crow found herself growing closer to the only man she’d ever had for a fatherly figure. Granted leave to come and go as she pleased by him, she flitted about like a bird from between lessons to the converted solarium and then to His Radiance’s private study. Hardly a week would go by without her sitting in his office with pen and books in hand, mulling over homework given by a new set of scholarly tutors. Often, nary a word would be said between them, the emperor with his fulms-tall stacks of papers and her with her own revisions. She’d graduated from the lady-like lessons of etiquette and poise to, His Radiance's suggestion, skimming over the basics of statecraft and diplomacy. She proved especially adept at the latter, her lessons in mannerisms and speech pleasantly impressing her new teachers. She was allowed to sit in on some private appointments between her adoptive guardian and notable members of the aristocracy, though hidden from plain sight in the drawing room adjacent. The emperor was dry in his dealings but was undeniably charismatic even when he was in a mood, flinging aside power hungry maneuvers from those who represented the aristocracy by proxy. Their proposals, disguised as fairly equitable suggestions on the surface, often hid pitfalls that would cripple a rival in one way or another. His Radiance seemingly did not favor one house or another, served as an arbiter that could not be denied. He was the giant that towered above them all, a fearsome pseudo-deity in the flesh, his words were law, and his will was inexorable.

She’d seen him as a father, but now, she admired as a model to be followed. He was, after all, the focus of their empire still even in his advanced age. They speak of her lessons over lunch, sometimes even supper, with him leaving wry remarks when he heard of what was being taught.

“I don’t recall paying that one for his opinions.” He said when he heard her describe the latest theory regarding the Far East’s economic model and her teacher’s criticism of their practices.

“I like him, Your Radiance, his lectures are not so dry when he’s red-faced about something.” Crow cradled her warmed saucer and smiled at the jab. “And he’s fair, I think.”.

Her teacher, a notable figure in the capital’s rich academia culture, had been drafted to buttress her education. Aeetus eir Colchis was a cantankerous man who bordered between genius and belligerence, but he had a hand in the nascent beginning of the empire, drafting up essential laws and rights. He and the emperor did not often see eye to eye, but that did not stop him from taking on the assigned task with gusto. At first, he was solemn and thoughtful, laying out the path to their daily sessions and establishing expectations without even noting her lack of a third eye. After the first lecture, she was left with quite the impression when he regaled her with stories of how he would debate the newly ascended Solus zos Galvus, then only three years into his rule.

Said emperor made a derisive noise, his white brows arching as he rolled his golden pupils. He spoke as though her tutor was a spry young thing when, in fact, they were a mere half-decade apart in age. His agitation regarding her this particular tutor amused her to no end.

Often after their midday meal, Crow would bid His Radiance a fond greeting and join Drusilla in one of the training halls. Down a long flight of polished stairs, she slowed her steps as she traipsed through a narrow corridor. Outside in the steel clad city beyond, a white drift of snow slowly descended on them. From the snow topped roofs and spires rose wisps of smoke, the fireplace was still a staple in some homes. As a small child she would liken their vague silhouettes to slumbering dragons, and Zenos, once indulgent and wry, would tell her of the Dravanians in distant Aldenard.

A clamor drew her from her usual path, taking a left instead of a right. Crow strayed toward the other open hall and saw two shadows exchanging blows. It was Zenos and his latest tutor. The sinuous, tan-skinned man was attempting to put some distance between himself and the prince. Zenos was the pursuer, chasing after his tutor with a fearsome doggedness. Despite his single-minded effort, his reach fell short and his speed was lacking compared to the foreign man. Thus, the prince was blown off track by a rippling wave that sliced through the air. The flicker of energy, Crow had thought herself dreaming when she'd caught sight of the technique, landed squarely against Zenos' shoulder and hip and sent him to the ground. The spectating princess took a step forward without thinking, worried eyes pinned on her childhood friend. 

He laid on the ground, seemingly defeated, neither tutor nor pupil uttering a word to one another. The both of them seemed to understand that once Zenos sustained a single hit, the session would immediately end without delay. There were no critiques nor advice given after the fact, only wordless departure.

The foreigner only spared her a narrowed glance when he passed, had he any thought of her, he did not indicate. She likewise had returned the look, her wariness brushed aside as she turned her attention again to the prince. Zenos had sat up from the ground and was now staring at her. He wore his scrapes and bruises like a badge, white patches covering up the worst of his injuries. It seemed this had been happening for a while now, and he was resigned to the bluntness of his lessons.

"There you are, Your Grace." Drusilla called out from some distance away.

Crow heard the reaper beckon to her but she found herself lingering for a moment, though it was only until hers and Zenos' gaze met briefly. He grimaced and tore his eyes away, the derision as clear as day for her to see. Crow swallowed and let herself be carried away by her steps. The shelf that she used to stow away her troubles was on the verge of bowing completely, the heft of her sorrows was too much for it to bear.

Chapter 22

The zaghnal, more nimbly designed than a scythe, was her first introduction to the main tool of their art. The training zaghnal's edge was dulled, giving Crow the chance to feel out the first swings without the risk of injuring herself. The warscythe Drusilla possessed had a longer blade, its handle calibrated precisely to her stature and strength. Crow looked quite taken whenever she was allowed to hold it with her own hands, admiring the way its wicked curve taper down to a point so fine.

“You’ll get your own in a few years, I’ve gone through one or two myself.” her mentor drummed her fingers against the war scythe's head. 

The young princess for once had no quips or remarks at the ready, only nodding in affirmation as she relinquished Drusilla's weapon. Their session for the day was at an end, but the reaper found herself hesitant to leave. Her pupil was pensive at times, throwing herself into the regiment of her training to snuff out her dejections. Today, though, Crow was undoubtedly solemn, barely three words uttered to her mentor over the past two bells.

Drusilla stepped away to leave, then backtracked as her hesitation tugged at her ankles. She sighed and inwardly prepare herself for a tirade.

"What's the matter, Your Grace?"

Crow glanced down at her training weapon, a knot forming on her brows. "I've been thinking Drusilla, how is it that a Garlean pureblood like you can use rites to summon your contracted creature when you cannot wield aether?"

The question gave the reaper pause. It was a confoundingly good question, catching her off guard. Sometimes, thanks to her petulant nature and sharp tongue, Drusilla forgot her pupil possessed intellect as keen as the prodigious young prince.

"I myself cannot pinpoint the exact science behind these dark esoteric arts, but I'll say that it is something you feel in the air around you." The reaper began, recalling back to the lengthening of shadows and her coiled fist as she reached out into the dark realms beyond. "It is the emotions within that guides you, these creatures are baited by blood and hooked on by your desires — then the rite binds you and your catch together."

"And the voidsent allows you to channel magicks even when you are unable to feel or use aether?" Crow pressed, another question bubbling up even as she spoke. "That means a pureblood can plausibly perform the same feats as any other should they have an augment to extract aether from their surroundings by proxy?"

"You would have none of our troubles should you try your hand at such things, Your Grace." Drusilla spun her weapon on its head and rested her weight on its haft, not quite seeing the issue her pupil was prying over.

"Regardless, are there such attachments one can install on a weapon to draw aether for a handicapped user as one does with a contracted voidsent?" Crow looked at her mentor with expectant eyes, squeezing the handle of her zaghnal as she waited for an answer.

The technology was not unheard of, and as far as the reaper knew, it had been prevalent during the major campaigning days of His Radiance. However, such a thing went out of fashion as the military drafted conscripts from occupied territories. Pureblooded Garleans were able to apply for exemption from military service, and the augments went out of favor as the cost of production proved unfavorable to the declining true Garlean minorities in the armed forces. Such things were uncommon now, even rare when it came down to the model and make.

"Well, yes, but it's difficult to obtain on nowadays." She scratched at her chin, and it suddenly dawned on her what the First Princess was trying to get at when she saw her brighten.

"Before you even ask — no, I'll not risk my neck should you do anything untoward with such a device."

"But I haven't– how would you even know?" Crow complained, put off by her mentor's sharpness.

"Ask His Radiance so it won't be my head he comes for if you get into trouble." The reaper was already stepping through an opened portal, eager to rid herself of the topic at hand.

Crow scowled at the spatial rift as it rippled and closed, then stomped away on her boots from the training hall. With that approach gone, she only had one route left to take to get what she wanted.

****

The light chime of porcelain against silver sounded as the young princess chatted about her day. The air between her and her adoptive guardian was affable and easy, as though they were a pair of doting grandfather and granddaughter.

"Drusilla has started me on weapon handling, and it won't be long before I'll get my own warscythe, I think." Crow said, bringing another bite of roasted quail to her lips.

"Oh? And what do you plan to do with such a thing?" Solus asked indulgently, swirling the stemmed glass of wine in his hand.

"I want to join a campaign, perhaps to Dalmasca or Hingashi as a diplomat." Though she hid her excitement from her expressions, the toes of her shoes tapped lightly together at the thought.

The prospect of travel abroad was an exhilarating one, exploring jungles and surveying deserts. Witnessing foreign cultures and seeing her studies come true, the sights, scents and sounds would be entirely different from her cloistered life in the imperial palace.

"I would prefer it if you exempt yourself from the service." He placed the crystal goblet down, and she swallowed the rising trepidation. She knew he would be against the notion, even now he was hinting at his disapproval.

"But, Your Radiance, should I not set an example as the First Princess? I would imagine those in Nagxia and Doma are in need of a gentler impression of us." Her insistence was subtle, but it was still insistence and the emperor did not look entirely convinced.

"A gentler impression, you say." Solus wiped at his stache with a cloth, his discerning eyes narrowed in on his ward. "Are you certain that this has nothing to do with the boy's incoming departure for his military service?"

Crow, having been caught, only smiled. She supposed it was futile to lie. "Perhaps, just a little."

The emperor grew sour at the mention of Zenos and her estrangement, for the last year and a half, the prince had held firm to his tacit attitude. It caused Crow no little distress, with nights of sleeplessness and stale appetite as she went through his letters. At point, it'd gotten bad enough that she fell ill, and that earned the prince the emperor's ire. He had been on the verge to command a cessation in this silent discontentment between them, but Crow had climbed from her bed and begged him to stay his hand in the matter. In exchange, she would make an effort to maintain and conduct herself well despite her torpor. And as was promised, she ate and allowed herself to be dressed by her maids, forcing herself to rest despite the insomnia. Often closing her eyes as a perfunctory gesture in spite of her restive thoughts.

Now, they were here on her thirteenth nameday, the second one without him. Her supporting comforts were her lessons with Drusilla, lessons with the sagacious scholar Aeetes and the occasional spent with His Radiance. Their presence eased her loneliness, but as one did with a vital missing limb, she yet felt Zenos’ absence in sharp clarity.

She glimpsed at the grimace on her adoptive guardian’s face, the expression sharpening at his cheekbones and deepening the lines at his angled, aquiline nose. “Please, Your Radiance, at least mull on the thought for a while before you give me an answer.” Crow pleaded, hands clutched over her throat, her pulse throbbing in anticipation beneath her fingers.

Solus drew in a breath, eyes shut in consternation. He let out a full-chested sigh before giving her a pointed look. “I shall consider it, but in the meantime, you’ll have to gain Rullus and Drusilla’s approval before we proceed at all.”

The young princess’ smile could light up an ocean’s depths as her eyes twinkled with ecstatic joy. At such a sight, Solus could almost spot a flicker of his Azem returning. He eased back against the tall backed chair, seemingly unable to deny her anything.

“Now, I think I have an inkling of what I want for my nameday gift.” Crow began, a coy finger tapping on her chin.

Solus raised a thick, graying brow. “Was that request not for your nameday?”

Crow shot him a wounded look, appearing aghast at the thought as she pressed a hand to her throat. “Why, Your Radiance, that is that and this is this!”

The emperor of Garlemald, guiding light of their empire, raised a hand to his temple preemptively to ward away the inevitable, incoming headache. 

“Go on.” With flippant waves of his wrist, he bade her to continue with the exasperation of a doting patriarch.

****

The augment fit just in the palm of her hand, its rounded frame was embedded with gilded laurels and within its core, a tiny, crystal-powered engine. At its back was a mechanism to lend versatility to the user, allowing it to be attached to a weapon with ease. The engine would convert and imbue the attached instrument with aether in the user’s stead, it was little wonder that the empire was so relentless and unstoppable in its expansion. Innovations and progress made up for any foreseeable shortcomings, while the savages from without grew complacent with their magicks.

Crow held onto the device with hope, weaving through the corridors between guards and maids as though they were naught but furnishings. They bowed and greeted her but she was far too caught up in her vision of reconciliation with Zenos to pay them any mind. Soon, though, she was overcome with nerves as she neared the room where he now occupied. Her palms grew clammy and her grin became a tentative, quiet thing as she halted before the pair of ornate doors.

Her thumb grazed over filigree as she deliberated on her opening, agonizing over what to even say as to not cross him as she seemingly always did at each encounter. The distance between them had grown wider as he made more conscious efforts to avoid her. It'd been weeks since they'd last spoken, and even that had been terse at best. 

Nervously, she raised a closed fist to rap at the door. Before her knuckle could connect, however, the polished wooden surface swept back and out came Zenos. Crow grew dismayed at the sight of him, catching sight of a barely healed cut lip and a fading bruise at his cheek. That instructor was the longest to ever have lasted, as far as she could recall. That foreign man did not seem to spare her childhood companion any measure of careful deference as others did, his status as a prince did not seem to lighten the blows delivered. If anything, perhaps, it only exacerbated the violence.

"What is it?" As he spoke, he only showed her the faintest of regard, a passing glance thrown her way before turning elsewhere. 

Before this interruption, he was engrossed in his research into the methods of the foreign swordsman. It’d been weeks of digging into records and reports yet for all his efforts, he hadn’t a firm direction to look to. His latest mentor’s physical features and skills could range from Thavnair to Dalmasca, where most were well versed in blades of differing variety. Each session lended Zenos too little hints since the man had little trouble picking up any type of blade whenever they sparred, and he would use the term sparingly as the prince could barely last past five minutes on field.

Crow, with all the gumption she’d mustered, was not deterred by his coldness, raising the device up as a sort of offering. For peace or for placation, all she wanted was to return to what they had with one another before.

"I saw your new teacher, Drusilla said he's Corvosi — I don't think she's too fond of him being around." She said lightly, doing well to hide her uncertainty.

That bit had caught his attention, it would seem as Zenos' attention snapped to her at last. She scrambled to hold onto the moment, mismatched eyes lighting up at his reaction.

"Since he's using magicks unfairly against you, I thought — perhaps, this could be of use to you." Crow hastily explained, fingers fidgeting with the metal edges.

He frowned, gazing down to the augment in her hands. Frankly, he felt offended by this attempt to buy his trust. “I do not recall asking for help.”

The young princess looked as though she’d been struck, a stillness overcoming her diminutive form. It was her turn to avoid his gaze, lowering her eyes to the glittering crystal of the dormant core. It took a moment for the impact to soak in, her lips pursing into a firm line as she bit into her inner cheek. Any eloquence she might have learned from her teachers had long fled in the face of such curtness. The tension between them balanced on a knife’s edge, threatening to snap at any moment when he would inevitably attempt to extricate himself from their conversation.

Crow blinked away the onrush of tears, swiping at her eyes with the back of a hand, the other still clutching the device like it was a lifeline. “Then at least tell me why — what did I do wrong?”

“I’d rather you not waste time with trivial questions like this, I’m busy.” He withdrew, closing up once again, as did his chamber door, having little patience to entertain such repeated banality.

The dismissal brought on something she never thought she’d felt against him, but her temper rose like an erupting fissure and brought a hot flush to her face. The mantle that she’d used to prop up her sorrows warped all that she’d heaped upon it into ugly, vicious feelings, and promptly imploded.

“Stop it and come out! I’m tired of this awkward charade!!” She exclaimed in a fit, unable to stomach another day without a clear answer. With a frustrated fling, the weapon augment crashed against the door and shattered in a shower of glass and dented metal.

When it was apparent that there would be no reply forthcoming, the chipped door remaining firmly sealed, Crow stormed through the corridor. The tears came as her breath quickened, overflowing from her eyes. She could hardly breath through a reddened nose or see with bleary eyes, every step resounding through the vaulted ceilings as she ran. Past the frozen, painted portraits of the imperial family, the indifferent praetors, she bursted into the private study with shiny, tear-streaked cheeks and into the emperor’s arms.

Chapter 23

Zenos heard a hard thunk of the collision, followed by the harsh chime of breaking glass and clattering metal. She had waited almost an entire minute before stomping away, leaving behind the faint echoes of her sobs in his ears. He sagged against the wooden surface, back dragging against the carved bas-relief as he leaned to. He could hardly stomach looking at her now, the bleariness of his privation catching up to him with a vengeance. He’d been able to ignore the need of sleep, staving it off through sheer will and focus into his search. Crow had been yearning for an answer from him, but he had his own quest to chase after in his studies, attempting to find the origin of his tutor and thereby his enigmatic technique.

Corvos, the words lingered in his thoughts, of Southern Ilsabard. It had merely been a passing comment, but they held the hint he’d been searching for. Zenos sifted through several records of possible selected territories and, whether by luck or through his natural acuity, came across the journals of a pilus prior that would have otherwise been passed over. Within the sooty pages, while in the midst of the campaign, buried shoulder deep in the trenches, the ranking officer had described difficulty in facing men who would strike in the night and flee by dawn’s first light. They rode in on gray beaked raptor mounts and had reaches far beyond the range of their blade. Through trials and bribery, the pilus prior found a name to put to the style of swordsmanship; The Unyielding Blade. Hailing from the fertile strip dubbed by proto-Garleans of old as ‘Locus Amoenus’, the technique held an old and secretive history known to very few. At length, he delved deeper and strove to find any semblance of instructions to the study of the style, but the venture bore little fruit. The final vague description he’d found only alluded to the use of aether, the more concentrated the user wielded this intangible energy, the deeper it would cut.

The prince shut the journal and held up the violet hued crystal to the light, scavenged from the broken parts of the aetheric augmentor, it shone against the cut on his chin in a kaleidoscopic array. Had his tutor gave as much effort into teaching Zenos as much as he did thrashing him, they would have likely gotten somewhere worthwhile with these farcical lessons. Nevertheless, these past moons had taught him plenty about his tutor through observation. Every precise movement, every involuntary twitch of a muscle registered into Zenos' mind's eye in vivid clarity. The tutor was reluctant at best to teach the prince anything, from the disdain in his eyes to how he never showed an ounce of regard for his pupil's safety, it was apparent he was forced to treat with the prince under duress. 

Zenos wondered what his father was using to leash the man. His family was the likeliest answer, possibly a parent, a partner or a child. His honored father had many tools in his repertoire he liked to employ, one of which was exploiting familial attachment. Speaking of, Zenos had no doubt that Varis was aware of these near-daily beatings, reported to him by his underlings of Zenos' progress. 

His lord father had since returned from one of his tours in recent weeks, and the prince had crossed paths with him as he was trudging back to the western wing from the training hall. He had been clutching a throbbing shoulder, another callous blow from his supposed tutor, when they came face to face. The train of retainers and advisors behind him grew silent, a pack of dogs following at their master's trail.

Pale gold eyes narrowed down at Zenos, the slight wrinkle of distaste lining his heavy, angled features. It was the look one would cast to a smear of mud beneath their boots, but he soon grew smug as he saw how the prince was holding himself.

"How goes your training, boy?" The High Legatus asked.

The prince smiled in kind, his expression at once serene and spiteful. "Very well, father."

This trial he'd forced his own son to weather was twisted but not out of character, regardless, Zenos held his head proudly to meet it. He felt neither humiliation nor indignation, even taking it as a gift for he'd learned much over the course of his time with his tutor. It felt as though a challenge was issued directly from his father, this form of merciless teaching, and Zenos intended to take as much as he could in strides.

Within the next few weeks, armed with knowledge of his tutor's origins and the name of his technique, Zenos drank in even more of the foreigner's methods. He was as a sponge, absorbing all that he could within the minutes that their encounter lasted. before long, he could turn away some strikes, his footwork taking on an elusiveness gained through trial and error. The strain of the experience has forced an impressive adaptability onto the prince, extending their spars to almost a quarter of a bell.

"Arm yourself." His tutor bade, a new day, a new session.

The tacit young prince spoke little in these encounters, growing accustomed to their terse exchanges. He'd improved in leaps and bounds over the duration of these short daily fights, but the tutor knew that his potential was severely limited. Even with a willing teacher, and he was anything but, there was only so far one of these detestable ilk can progress thanks to their inborn flaws.

Zenos slid his hand around the hilt of the sword, closing his fingers firmly around the handle. He drew the blade from its place in the rack and swung in one smooth motion.

At ten paces away, short of flinging his weapon at him, Zenos would have not been able to touch his tutor. Yet, against all natural odds, a faint, glowing wave sliced through the air and narrowly missed the foreigner. His reflexes had saved him from that blow, but he could not help but to gawk openly at what had just occurred.

The prince, against his own nature, had mastered what had been presumed implausible for any pureblood. This technique, the Unyielding blade, had been passed down for generations from master to student. In spite of the lack of any real guidance, Zenos had not only managed to unlock a measure of aetherial manipulation but also mastered the technique in only a year.

The young prince took a moment to access the countenance of his tutor. To his satisfaction, a mixture of shock and offense seemed to be building on his face. Zenos glanced down at the sword in his hand, looking at it this way and that as though marveling at a new toy.

"You… how did you–" His tutor, the Corvosi, choked on his own astonishment. He'd spent most of his life perfecting this art, side by side with his fellow practitioners. They'd shed blood and tears as warring comrades when the Garleans came down unto them, rising against imperial yolk in the name of their homeland. For all their efforts, however, they were woefully outnumbered and out-armed by their occupiers. In short order, with fire and steel, they were crushed and executed for their defiance by forces led by the High Legatus. Though for better or for worse, he was spared the fate shared by his fellow countrymen and brought to the capital. He'd been denied an honorable death, beaten low and now used to serve a scion of his enemies. The humiliation was too much, and, in his darkest nights, had thought about taking his own life. His wife and children were held elsewhere, status and location unknown, taken hostage to assure his obedience.

 Thus he stewed in his hate for over a year, his acrimony eclipsing the image of his family. All the love he had for them turned into a boiling poison, directed at the man responsible for all the death and shame he and his brother-in-arms were made to endure. His wife and children would be put to the blade when he carried out his plan to kill Varis yae Galvus, but there was nothing they could return to. Their homeland reduced to little more than a ravaged waste due to the incendiary bombardments, their people oppressed and starving. The once rich fields and teeming streams now overflowed with blood and bodies of the fallen.

His family would understand, they must. The Corvosi had prayed and planned with the patience of a monk, putting on a mask of indifference to take his vengeance.

But now, this mask was falling apart in the face of such a grievous insult. No trueborn Garlean should be able to even glean anything from the technique, yet here was a strip of a boy, third eye and all, tainting the proud practice of his people. 

Impossible. Unthinkable. Unforgivable.

"I'll admit, you've given me much to chew over in the past year, and there was so much to learn." Zenos felt a warm trickle run down from his palm. "But now, I cannot help but feel…disappointed."

The Corvosi held his own blade with a white knuckles grip, its edge was dulled but swordsmasters of his skill may yet kill with their aether. His vision pulsed and glazed over with red as he looked at his pupil. "Do not insult me, boy, ours is a proud, thousand-year history."

The prince had the gall to look bored, blue eyes lazily tracing over the sinewy frame of his tutor. The issue of his nemesis sent forth another wave with a swift swing and the true battle commenced.

A Garlean, the royal scion of their occupiers, wielding the Unyielding Blade, a greater insult could not be conceived. The Corvosi lunged forth, evading the prince's initiating strike and returned with one of his own.

" And it is not for the likes of you!" The tutor exclaimed, hatred contorting his sunsoaked features.

Zenos did not flinch at his tutor's hostility, even welcoming it as he met him head on. Their blades clashed at points but the Corvosi insisted on keeping the prince at arm's length, lashing out with cutting ribbons of aether. He only grew more enraged when each strike failed to find its mark, expecting the battle to conclude minutes after it began. 

The boy's defense was impenetrable, neutralizing each of the Corvosi's attacks with impeccable mastery and timing. When he stayed his blade, growing near to his limit, Zenos closed the distance with fearsome velocity, taking his hesitation as an invitation to a melee. He was astounded by the boy's speed, several slashes slipping through his parries to score at his flesh. Ere long, he was bathed in sweat and slick with blood, limbs leaden with exhaustion.

He was cornered. A year ago, the scenario would have been impossible for him to even consider. Now it was a reality and growing exponentially further from his control.

"No…" the Corvosi seethed through clenched teeth. "Not here, not now, and not by you!"

With a strangled howl, he charged with his weapon raised, intending to end the boy in a single blow. Before he could, however, a flash of steel bloomed as his former pupil slid beneath his guard and plunged the blade into his chest. It happened so quickly that he could only register the pain moments after the fact, his own sword sharply keened as it collided against the gritty ground. 

There were no final words uttered, no bitter sentiments to be had, only the dull collapse of a body and the pooling of hot, gushing blood. Zenos stood over the prone body of his longest lasting tutor, palm raised to reveal the crystal embedded within.

"The dead do not learn, they sleep. Is that not so?" He said as he pried the bloody chip from the slit within his hand.

The prince closed his eyes, steadying himself against the vertigo of aether sickness, the pulse of battle still singing in his head. He tilted his head back and drew in a deep breath, pocketing the crystal and quitting the training hall.

****

The maidservant, with stacked trays in hand, entered the apartments of the First Princess to serve her a morning repast. It'd been a fortnight since her nameday and she was still visibly upset since then. Her Grace was close-lipped and refused to speak of the matter, growing increasingly sharp and critical of their service instead.

She'd dismissed several hands and demanded replacement, seemingly impossible to please regardless of the quality of their service. There was always something amiss, a rumpled dress, the food oversalted or even a room being too cold. Every girl who was drafted to her service could only hope to pass beneath her stinging regard without trouble. Their livelihoods were at stake merely because of the whims of a petulant girl with a lofty title. Which was why the maid was superbly relieved when she found the bed empty, its sheets tossed aside as though its occupant had left not too long ago. The cloche-covered trays were left on a side table as she went off in exasperation to inform a steward of the missing princess.

The servants of the inner palace were antsier than usual that morning when Zenos woke. They scattered about as though in search of something, or someone. He was served a pot of dark tea and sugar, catching a glimpse of darting servants outside his doors.

"Is aught amiss?" The prince darted a broaching look to the servant serving him.

"Ah, the First Princess, Your Grace…" The servant's gaze lowered as he cleared his throat. "It seems she's locked the solarium and has been there since dawn."

"And what does His Radiance have to say on the matter?" Zenos took in a long swig from his cup, a hand thumbing the crystal in his pocket.

"The emperor is at council with the High Legatus, Your Grace, he does not wish to be disturbed." The servants replied stiffly, head lowered even further at the mention of their lord.

Zenos, seemingly upon a whim, plucked the hand towel from the servant's arm and strode past him. There was no time for him to register the motion before the prince quit his chambers. Left puzzled and alone, the manservant looked to the door then to the tray. With a sigh, he did as he had been doing for the past year each morning and made to tidy up.

Notes:

Cover art: https://twitter.com/Cascanor_/status/1685337136621662208?s=20

Chapter 24

The steward, a man of tall stature and severe cast, his frame as steady as a pillar, stood before the main entrance of the sealed solarium. With him were a few of Crow's personal maidservants, and when Zenos got within earshot, he overheard the tone of their discussion. There was concern, but it was reserved for themselves and their futures, the consequences that would befall them should the First Princess continue to behave in such an undignified manner. Since the incident of her poisoning, the entire staff of the inner palace was unceremoniously swept aside and replaced. Rumors had it that some were even placed under arrest under suspicion of conspiracy and corruption, causing wariness to spread upon the new faculty. The steward, to his credit, tempered them with discipline and cautioned them of such talks.

The young prince swept past them without regard and wrapped his hand in the pilfered hand towel. They hushed one another and lowered their heads as Zenos strode by, watching in bemusement as he wound up a swing. With a thought-startling shatter, one of the dozen square panels of glass broke at the force of his blow. The servants watched in abject horror as he reached through the destroyed frame and unlatched the lock without batting an eye. The entrance swung open and shut as all stood poleaxed, unsure of what to even make of the situation.

When Zenos stepped into the surrounding corridor of the solarium, the silence of his lush surroundings became suddenly too palpable. The only thing that had kept from being changed was the rectangular perimeter of the space, everything else, from the wisteria canopies to the loam covered paths were gone. A grand garden rose to flank a center path, filled with blooms such as wood hyacinths, low lying violets and blue asters. He climbed the smooth stone steps, its railing carved with intricate artistry of flowing laureates and curling flourishes.

The large granite tiles were dotted with fallen silhouettes both of the feathered and furred variety. He nudged the carcass of a hare aside with the toe of his boot and stepped over more than three dead songbirds, soon coming to stand at the edge of a petal-filled pool. Within, Crow drifted lazily with her eyes closed, floating serenely with her shoulder-length locks adrift. Her arms, the stain of blood washed away by the lapping waves, were spread apart. The nightgown she wore, lily-white and trimmed with lace, lent her a gossamery quality in the water.

If she noticed him there at all, she gave no indication. This was the worst of her tantrums yet. Zenos pulled the crystal from his pocket, allowing it to roll to the center of his palm. After a moment of deliberation, he spoke.

"You're being childish."

"That's because I am a child," she replied with no little bluntness, slowly drifting further from where he stood. "Who has no friends to speak of, and I'm tired of trying to be nice."

He raised a brow at her impetuous tone. This was new. "You're like a hound snapping at air, taking your frustrations out on the servants won't do you any good."

She sniffed sharply. "It got you here, didn't it?"

Zenos thumbed the crystal, a rueful half-smile tugged at his lips upon hearing her retort. Well, his intent had not been to scold her, he would be the last person who had the right to do so considering everything that had happened.

“That augmentor you gave was useful, after a fashion.” He squeezed his bandaged left hand, the cut had required some stitches as he’d cut it deep to make space for the sliver of concentrated aether.

“I heard you killed that foreign man, the servants said it was an unfortunate accident but I doubt that’s the case.” Crow said. She knew better than to believe the euphemisms of the servile caste. 

She’d overheard the careless whispering from when they’d been cleaning up the area after her own lessons with Drusilla. The slosh of rust-red water mopped up from the gruesome aftermath spilled over the rim of their buckets, the maidservants’ low fearful voices clear to her ears. She’d even seen the stained floor herself, the gritstone surface still damp, a dark spot was all that remained of that leathery, weathered man.

“Is that sympathy I hear? His Radiance would be appalled.” The prince goaded dryly, rounding the edge of the pool, orbiting her with his steps on dry land.

Crow saw the taunt for what it was; he was stalling, but she was uncertain of his aim. This was the longest they’d spoken in over a year, and with him taking initiative too at that. She let out a clipped, pointed sigh that carried the weight of her irritation, making sure that it was audible even across the distance between them.

“What brings you here, O fondest friend of mine?” Crow asked, the title she bequeathed him dripping with sarcasm.

If she would have him be frank, then so be it, Zenos thought with a measure of his own exasperation. “I’m here to thank you for your…attempt to help, regardless of how haphazard it was.”

Crow sank down into the rippling pool then surfaced a moment later, with fingers clutching her wet curtain of black hair like a headkerchief. She pinned him with a slanted look, peering at him with that one blue orb. They were closer now, nearly at arm's length when she asked.

"Will you answer my question now?" About what she did to deserve such scorn from him, all those months of avoidance that wounded her more deeply with each passing week.

Zenos grew severely composed at the prompt, and Crow expected to be disappointed once more. To be evaded time after time had taught her to be restrained with her expectations.

"My late lady mother had green eyes, just like your right one." He began, his expression cleared of any emotions. "By all accounts, she was a frail woman, but her reputation as the premier of court was undeniable."

Crow listened as she climbed the wide steps leading from the navy tiled depths, nightgown clinging to her small frame. The white of her form struck stark contrast against her drenched, reedy black hair. The princess thought about how a long dead woman had anything to do with her, but kept her mouth wisely shut. In all her years together with Zenos since childhood, she'd never once heard him bring up his mother. Even the servants knew practiced restraint when it came to the topic of the deceased Princess Carosa, the precious wife of the High Legatus. Her name was never mentioned in these vaunted halls, her only keepsake Crow knew of was the grand portrait kept in the central foyer of the inner palace. Located at ground level, her image was hung along with many other painted icons of the imperial family. Each one set in painstakingly ornate frames, chaste in gold and prestige worthy of the Galvus name. The ranks of whom she was not allowed to be among despite bearing their name.

"And, did you know that I was the last person to have seen her alive." He continued, the rhetorical nature of his question only provoked more of the same silence from her.

Crow wrung out the hem of her sodden gown, eyes casted down to the dead creatures at her feet. All these unfortunate creatures confined to the solarium, shut away in a gilded cage, ignorant to the death looming over their heads at every moment. Was she also destined to repeat the same fate again? To waste away in this decadent prison as these mute, helpless creatures had?

"In what state did you find her?" Crow asked suddenly, morbid curiosity needling at her, the collar of her nightgown feeling unaccountably tighter.

Zenos eyed his warping reflections upon the blossom-filled waters as the memory of his pale mother draped over his thoughts, then giving way to the crimson spatters of Crow's quietus. It seemed everything he held dear were fated to meet the same premature end. "I was in her arms when she passed, and woke to feel the weight of death upon me. My father soon found us when I'd manage to work my way out from her stiff embrace. Needless to say, he was quite stricken, apoplectic even." 

The princess turned at the amused note of his tone upon the mention of Lord Varis’ grief, and began to make her way toward him. "Is this your way of asking for absolution? By telling me that what I've become offends you, like being pinned beneath your dead mother?" Her voice faltered a little despite her calm facade.

"It's not an affront that I feel — it is trepidation." He explained, sight trailing to her reflection as she came to a halt beside him.

Wordlessly, she retreated from his side, reflection withdrawing from sight as he heard her wet footsteps grow further from earshot. Zenos ran a hand against the nape of his neck, surprised to find a fine sheen of sweat despite it snowing without the solarium. When he brushed aside the dampness, he caught the patter of quick, light feet and whirled. Crow, with the entire heft of her body, crashed against the prince, arms and fingers snag against the width of his torso. Blue eyes peeled wide as time slowed around them, his arms curled around her smaller frame reflexively as the air was knocked from his lungs. He had only mere moments to gulp in a breath before they broke into the pool. The water stung against his skin even through his clothes, the cold startling him into alertness as they fell in. Air escaped his lips as she pushed upwards and away from him, ribbons of black hair swept away to reveal her determined scowl. Shining bubbles stirred around in his vision, filtering through them was the shimmering artificial lights above. All he saw was her, gown, hair and all, consuming the radiance with her silhouette. He thought then, that this was perhaps how it felt to die as she did, with the air squeezing from his chest, and water flooding into every orifice.

When Zenos surfaced, blonde hair taking on a dark ochre as it clung to his neck and chin, he saw her already climbing up from the water’s edge. The space between her shoulders was narrow, reminding him that she was far younger than him. Yet despite their slimness, they’d known the weight of prejudice and personal tragedy. She made an effort to hide the subtle trembles of her limbs, but he knew she was cold from the second dip into the pool. Even from a distance, she appeared as alone as one could be in the vast spaces of the inner palace, singular as he was among the automaton sea of servants and guards.

“Never once have I thought of you as a coward, never.” Crow said without turning to face him, she sounded terribly crossed. “But I’ve had enough of this. If you would hate me and never see me again, then let it be known now.”

Zenos stared at the nape of her neck, skin pale as a fish’s belly, her words soaking into him as water did to the fabric of his clothes. It was heavy, he determined with a measure of careful introspection, the weight of loss he had held onto for his mother was like an undertow dragging him under. He had accused her of being childish, presuming to scold her for taking her ire out on others when he was the one who should grow up and face the ghosts that haunted him.

Crow tucked a sliver of hair aside, feeling the dampness of the locks against the lid of her blind eye. She stood slowly, feet sliding gently against the stone tiles to look upon him. “Tell me now, are we to reconcile or part ways permanently?"

It would be easy to not catch a glimpse of one another in the expansive estate of the inner palace with so many walls and doors separating them. Crow steeled herself in anticipation for the incoming blow, trying to convince both Zenos and herself that being affected by this was entirely beneath her. 

The prince gazed up to find that baleful green orb obscured, her youthful mien was at once demanding and pleading as though she was holding onto some lingering hope for their friendship. He cut through the water like a knife, dredging himself from the pool as she did. Her shoulders were warm as he placed his hands on them, blue eyes searching as he finally gathered his thoughts into order.

“You may not even remember this, but when I was a child, smaller than even you are now, I did make a promise of sorts to you.” Zenos announced without any preamble. “I had given you my word that I would never leave you to be alone, even when you want to see neither hide nor hair of me.”

Before she could have an edge in wordwise, he continued with an assuaging look. “And I was wrong to break it, I know now. I hope you will accept a renewal of that vow.”

Crow waited in an uncommon display of patience, her hand unconsciously tugging on the soused, unkempt hem of his shirt. Should she let go, her hands would tremble terribly to reflect the state of her heart for his scrutiny. She gave a wet sniff, lifting a glistening blue eye up to him as she listened.

“Through thick and thin, we’ll keep each other close and tell each other everything, no secrets shall be kept nor lies will ever pass between us.” Zenos said, his words carrying the gravity of a lifetime. “And never shall we part from one another again.”

Mute and on the verge of tears, she nodded in affirmation. The young princess had expected her ultimatum to turn against her, the trends of her life had always seemed to take a turn for the worst at every junction. As such, when he’d uttered those words, the relief that flooded her was akin to a tidal wave, rendering her face to a melting, teary mess. She knew she did not look her best as she felt her face scrunched up involuntarily, her shoulders shook as she was unable to hold back the first hiccup of a sob. Crow hid her face in Zenos’ wet shirt as she drew in a trembling breath, shoulders shaking and arms drawing him in as she stepped into the circle of his arms.

The prince did not mind the warm tears re-dousing his already soaked shirt, leaning in as he felt the chain of her arm squeeze tighter at points in conjunction with her sobbing. He would never admit it aloud, but these moments were missed dearly. He had not realized there was even an emptiness in him until he held her little frame again, the gaping chasm of his heart settling into a comforting fullness. This was perhaps this was the first time in his life that he’d ever felt the touch of remorse, even when compared to when he’d first wet his hands with the blood of another life. Regret for the past year and a half, all those months lost in cold indifference, never to be recovered.

This time, he would do things right, exerting everything in his power to never let his cherished friend go again. 

And she, without a doubt, would do the same , he thought as he peered down at her dark crown. 

Notes:

I'll be frank, I'm a little nervous with this chapter. There'll be no chapter forthcoming for awhile as I build a buffer again. But regardless, for better or worse, thank you for reading.

Chapter 25

Paper rustled over the desk, arranged neatly by relevant topics. Crow paused in her work to skim over the document in hand, curious of the monthly reports from different occupied territories. This particular one, eloquently written in detail and formal, was from Noah van Gabranth in Dalmasca Superior. This particular Legatus was a famed figure even in the capital, the youngest man to have ever risen to such a lofty position. At the age of twenty, his climb was meteoric when compared to his peers, and it did not hurt to be the son of the respected Basch van Gabranth either. That family was, and still remained to be, a staunch supporter of the emperor since the founding days, their loyalty unwavering and their conduct had always been beyond reproach.

Which was precisely why Crow frowned down at the news of relative fair weather and easy sailing for the territory. It was not what she was looking for.

"Best to not make your prying too obvious, my dear." Solus muttered from his desk, turning another page of his reference tome over — the military and civil laws of Garlemald were as numerous as they were stringent.

She blushed at having been caught peeking, laying down the rest of the missives in their due trays. “I don’t see why the viceroys must send you reports every fortnight, it’s tedious enough that you also must see to the affairs of court and the palace.”

Solus gave a derisive grunt, mildly annoyed at having found his pen dry and wanting for a refill. Crow smiled and shuffled to the supply cabinet, unlatching the cupboard with familiarity and retrieved a pot of ink. She crossed the distance and set the heavy glass vessel down gently, noting the approving nod he gave her way.

“Heavens willing that I hand these tediums off to another, but need must, my dear. Stability of the territories are always balanced on a blade's edge, such detailed missives are a necessity."

She tilted her head, counting off the numerous figures placed in charge of different annexed lands. Dalmasca was, as far as she knew, more or less kept in line after the XIVth and IVth’s joint campaign. The losses were equitable considering Rabanastre’s grand history, though their fearsome capacity for battles of attrition was made obsolete by skyward assaults. "I would assume Lord Gabranth was placed there to lighten your load."

“More than you are aware of, dear. It is not the west of Othard that causes concern but the east.” The emperor dipped his pen into the pot, drawing from the inkwell.

A metaphorical lightbulb flicked above her head. “Ah, Doma still retains their sovereignty.” 

“And pray tell, who rules the territory?” Solus asked, testing the steel-nibbed stylus with a smooth flourish across a stray note. His hands, though marred by wrinkles and knobbed with calluses accrued over the decades, were still as steady as a well-balanced blade.

“The territorial viceroy and King Kaien, isn’t it so? Though if I recall correctly, the monarch is little more than a representative of his people’s interest under the viceroy.” She answered after a moment of thought, the information surfacing with ease to her astute memory. Her main tutor had insisted that she memorized and kept up not only with the various names and identities of the aristocracy but also to be apprised with worldly news of the empire.

The emperor scoffed gruffly, a smirk twitched at the corner of his grayed beard. “Glad to know eir Colchis is performing his duties, though should you outgrow him, you need not hesitate to inform me.”

Crow held back a snort of laughter at the emperor’s uncommonly blatant dislike for her tutor, albeit with a measure of grudging courtesy for his expertise. Even after two years, her tutor still refused to personally draft up reports for His Radiance regarding the progress of her education. Instead forcing an observing page to jot down notes of the lessons and delivering it to the emperor in his stead. 

They lapsed into silence, the susurrus of writing and paper shuffling only exacerbated her nerves. With hands tucked at the small of her back, her duties concluded, she approached the grand desk of the emperor. She mustered up her courage to once again broach the topic.

"Your Radiance, I wish to leave with Zenos when he departs for his service." Crow began cautiously, her statement pitched barely above a murmur.

Without pause in his work, she could see the narrowing of his brows, wrinkles deepening as he frowned down at his desk. "Has messor Rullus and his ilk given you their approval?"

Hands hidden in the folds of her dress, Crow clenched her fist tightly in frustration. "N-No, not yet, but rest assured that they will soon."

There were still two full months left before the date set for Zenos' departure. She'd worked hard over the past two years under Drusilla, graduating from the advanced aspects of physical combat to even casting minor magicks without the need of a contract. The final test was something she'd been struggling with as no subject seemed suitable. Nothing she'd dredged from the abyss ever met the standard, and sending the dark denizens back often left her exhausted.

Drusilla had little to say on the matter, serving more as an observer than an instructor when it came to these rites. Her reticence only caused the young princess more concern, but Crow held firm yet in the face of such frustration.

"Then we have nothing to discuss on the matter for now." He intoned with firm dismissal, reluctant to broach the prospect of her military service.

They'd discuss the matter on her twelve nameday, brought up as a coy conversational topic. She'd kept quiet for as long as she could, biding her time and thinking she'd have Drusilla and messor Rullus's approval in due course. Now there was little time left, and His Radiance was short of denying her this request if she insisted on the subject anymore than she already was.

Lips pressed into a tight, polite smile, Crow gave a short curtsy before excusing herself for supper. The door swung back and she nearly dove nose first into a canvas of white robe. A man stood barring her exit, looking over her with his face obscured in a red half-mask, its eyeholes squeezed into two upward crescents. His lips were serenely composed into a faint smile as he cast his gaze down to the young princess.

"Pay them no mind, my dear." The emperor called out from behind her.

Crow took in the intricate linings of his attire as the man swept aside to clear a path for her, his clawed gloves gleaming as he motioned in greeting. Another stood behind him as well, she'd only just spotted him when he moved. This other man was the mirrored opposite of his white-robed equivalence, garbed in black with a crimson, scowling half-mask. A perturbed chill ran down her neck as she passed them, her sight flicked over to them surreptitiously to see the black-robed figure staring openly.

A brush of air swept close as she passed, and the pressure of touch nearly grazed her shoulder when the stern voice of His Radiance rang out.

"Lahabrea." The emperor warned with startling severity, filled with a grave promise should the figure lay a hand on her.

Crow had almost faltered in her step, heart thumping quickly like the pulse of a trapped animal facing its hunter. She resisted the urge to turn, instead walking ahead and rounded into a well-lit corridor. She scanned around and reached over her shoulder, clasping the spot of pressure she'd felt and dispelling away the perturbation with a rough swipe. A measure of her discomfort lingered at the thought of that mysterious pair, she could only imagine what sordid business they had with His Radiance.

Warm ceruleum lights illuminating her path at each turn, she entered the central foyer and felt her unease dissipate at the sight of a heightful, male figure. Too casually posed to be a guard, a hand resting in his corduroy slack’s pocket as he gazed up to the junoesque portrait of the Princess Carosa wir Galvus. His mid-backed, gilded hair reflecting the crystalline radiance of the chandelier hanging above them, booted toe tapping to some phantom rhythm.

She recognized the beat of a waltz, trailing up from his rear as she yanked out the pins holding her hair in place. A cascade of dark hair fell down her shoulders and she felt immediate release from the pulsating throbs of her scalp.

The clicks of her heels echoed softly against the black, marquina-marbled hall, the sound announcing her approach as she peeked from his flank with a sly smile. "In the mood for a spin?"

"Hardly, unless you're asking for a match in the training hall." Zenos replied, raising a brow at her in challenge.

Crow looked simultaneously askanced and amused. "I hope you don't intend to respond to your future betrothed like that when you're inevitably asked for a dance." 

"Certainly not, I think you’re doing an admirable job of keeping that mantle unoccupied." The prince smirked down at her, half-lidded blue eyes filled with smugness.

The scoff that escaped her lips was filled with indignance as she swiped at his arm, though she caught a smile tugging on her lips as the thought. Marriage was to be expected for Zenos, along with producing future heirs — the idea seemed impossible, however.

Crow looked up to the portrait of Zenos' late mother, her singular gaze tinged with admiration. Regretfully, she did not know the woman personally, but she'd heard and read of her fearsome hold in court. Carosa wir Galvus was the beatific right hand of her dour husband, a cunning woman who had the aristocracy at her beck and call. With the vast resources at her disposal and her innate wit, she had been the silk-wrapped spider who sat patiently at the center of an impressive network of information. She had also once been a very well-loved figure to the people, funding programs for invalid veterans and war-torn widows with children. Her passing had left a vacancy in the hearts of the masses, even when Princess Arrecina took over the duties of her charitable works.

"Do you think your future wife will be like her?" Crow asked, toying with the lacquered hairpin's needle-sharp point, her pricking absentmindedly against its point.

"No." Zenos answered blandly, a mild wrinkle of distaste showing at the corner of his lips at the notion. While he loved his mother, marriage and children was something he was wholly unconcerned with regardless of whether his lord father would push for it. He nudged her arm with a finger, pulling it away from the sharp hair ornament by the crook of her satin-draped elbow, broad hand slipping down to clasp her smaller one. 

After all, he had all he needed here.

Crow tilted her head up at him, eyes rolling. "Oh? No lady of court is good enough for the prodigy prince, is it?" She gave his hand a pointed squeeze.

Zenos let the half smile linger on his lips as he felt the rough skin of their entwined hands, each mark earned by leather and steel. Even in the patriotic capital, military service was a rare path of choice for any aristocratic daughter. Most were wont to select a more physically sedate life, though he doubted that it was any easier when it came to navigating the channels of intrigues in the imperial court. Fraught with sly pitfalls and social humiliations, the courtiers were little more than snapping dogs beneath the emperor's table fighting for scraps. War, on the other hand, was far more palatable for those such as them. It was the fight to see another day, where the threats were visible, and against them, he could defend and retaliate as needed.

"I only require that they earn your approval." Zenos said, towing her along toward the West Wing.

“Zenos,” Crow blinked, lifting the hem of her dress to keep up with his long strides. “You do realize they detest me.”

“I’m well aware.” The prince rumbled with an understated chuckle, leisurely slowing his step. “But you’d enjoy watching them grovel.”

Crow shook with mirth, giving their locked fingers another emphatic squeeze as she sighed a deep, honeyed laugh, steps growing jaunty.

****

The lentil soup drifted with steam as Crow stirred with the silver spoon, wrinkling her nose down at the finely blended concoction. The maidservant had tasted it and had not collapsed in the past quarter bell, but that fact helped little with her appetite. She pushed the dish aside and took another sip of the heavily watered down aperitif, throwing a glance over to her male counterpart who was just setting down his own spoon. Zenos’ soup plate sat empty, polished to an impressive gleam. 

“And yet you gripe at your height.” He commented, sight trailing down to the abandoned appetizer.

“Would that I be so carefree and have your gusto for food.” She retorted, though the jab was half-hearted at best. “It’s just nerves, I’ll feel better once something more solid arrives.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw one of the two servants surreptitiously leave to check on the next course. The other kept their head low, back turned to the main thoroughfare of the dining room. Crow scowled at the air and tapped at the small stemmed glass in her hand, the golden insignia ring at her right little finger gleaming against the light of the fireplace just behind the prince. In one flick of her wrist, she tossed the rest of the drink into the flame, feeling the heat flare up as the mild alcohol splashed upon the crackling cedarwood.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch some warmed cider? I’m afraid the tipple is a bit dry even with water.” Crow intoned lightly at the remaining servant, voice like pressed honey, insistent yet sweet. She'd grown this little talent for subtlety, a kindly worded request and a small gift to impart favor often went far in the eyes of the servile caste.

The woman inclined her head, muttering a low obeisance then trotting out from the spacious interior of the pair’s shared dining room. The young princess stood, trailing over to shut the narrow double doors, then whirling with an expectant light on her countenance.

Zenos, with a wry simper, reached into the inner lining of his lapel and drew out a small booklet. He nudged aside his plate and unfolded the map tucked within, key territories marked and scored with notes in a display of their previous discussions.

"Have you found out where you'll be stationed?" Crow asked as she resettled into her seat, uncapping the stylus from her skirt pocket. 

"Valnain, apparently." The prince leaned his chin on the peaks of his knuckles, gauging the reaction of his fellow schemer.

The princess hummed noncommittally, recalling the details of the port. Located on the very south of Nagxia, the verdant heart of Dalmasca Inferior, the main channels of southern Othard trade flowed through the city. It had once been the main operating base for the IVth legion, but since Noah van Gabranth had moved up to Rabanastre in Dalmasca Superior, it now fell under the jurisdiction of one Nael van Darnus. The position was supposedly a demotion for the VIIth's Legatus, his family bearing the brunt of His Radiance's disfavor after the Bozjan incident some decade ago. There was no chance for glory in Nagxia, squeezed between cowering Domans and the vehement fist of van Gabranth.

"I could scarcely imagine what it's like being so far south." She mused, following Zenos' finger as he traced out the city's location at the bottom tip of the continent, the other half of the signet ring winking on his left thumb.

"And have you obtained the emperor's approval?" He broached with a raised brow.

The energy she'd previously displayed deflated at the mention of their main hurdle. She needed to prove herself capable of military duties, even if she'd only be there as a junior diplomat. The chances of her ever seeing combat was nonexistent with Valnain being a tightly leashed city, its location strategically important enough to house a major castrum.

"No, not until Drusilla and her stuffy, old grandfather also give me their leave." Crow crossed her arms, falling back onto the overstuffed cushion of her chair.

Zenos sent a slanted look her way, he had questions but refrained from giving voice to them for the time being. More than once, he had caught her returning from one of her enigmatic sessions with her mentor, leaving behind boot prints of melting, muddied blood. The handmaids had zipped about two floors below with bloodied cloaks and clothes for laundering, he could very well hear their apprehensive whisperings from the west wing’s study.

"Are there reports from Othard?" He prompted.

Crow sank into her seat further, lips rosy in a pout. "Dalmasca is off the table, van Gabranth runs the place confoundingly well. However, His Radiance did mention concern for Doma."

Zenos eyed the eastern ranges of Yanxia, the land divided by a long, winding river delta that opened to the Ruby Sea. They'd been looking into suitable territories to claim for themselves, her desire to quit the capital was plain to see even before she'd confided in him. She had expressed interest in Dalmasca, the center stage of Othard. Being so infatuated with the myths and legends of Ivalice, the stories that had brought her comfort in a time of turmoil under her capricious governess, Crow had been set on settling in the antediluvian metropolis.

"Doma would be an adequate secondary option, though we'd have to contend with their figurehead, King Kaien." Crow griped as she reached over to Zenos' glass of mulled wine, taking a shallow sip as she spooled up what little information she had gleaned. "And I know little of the viceroy, and His Radiance seemed reserved in discussing the East's affairs."

All she had to go on was a name and scant history of the current viceroy. Now that she gave a bit of thought about it, it was highly suspicious that everything was so quiet and understated in a territory so rich in trade and resources.

"Flavis goe Marius." Zenos intoned, tapping a finger softly against the polished quartz tabletop. "He essentially bought his position by funding the venture into Locus Amoenus some two decades ago, his riches were said to have sprung from the flesh markets in Aldenard and Hingashi, little wonder that he would eye Doma where the laws are also lax in that regard."

Crow grimaced in disgust. "How entrepreneurial."

"And I gather that, soon, there will be a building revolt in the East due to his unscrupulous practices." He continued, the corner of his lips curling in dark mischief.

The princess arched a dubious brow at her counterpart, then a conniving smirk sharpened her dainty mien as she came to understand his implications. 

"And when is 'soon'?" She asked, tracing at the crystalline patterns on his stemmed glass with her nail.

"After our time in Valnain concludes, of course." Zenos plucked his drink from her hand, finishing the last of it in two swallows. 

Just in time, as their conversation meandered to its conclusion, knocks sounded on the door as their main course arrived. The heavy aroma of ovibos veal orlov filling the air as the pair of servants returned, the rich dish served with a side of stewed greens and sour cream. Crow nudged at her food and, under the pressure of her dinner mate's scrutiny, ate as much as she could stomach. Her appetite, average at best from childhood, had shrunk notably as events unfolded throughout her life. It was a minor issue, perhaps a symptom leftover from the incident of her poisoning, but she found herself unable to enjoy her food as she did previously as a child. The repulsion would set in, coating her insides with a greasy nausea that threatened to undo all her efforts. The only one to notice was Zenos, who had found her slumped over the sink in her bath chamber some months ago after a severe bout of purging, much to her chagrin.

The prince watched like a hawk as they partook in their evening repast, mindful of the pallor of her skin. He had wanted to ask if she would return to her old rooms but thought better of it. Many memories both treasured and traumatic had taken place there, the latter far more numerous than the former for her. Even now for himself, Zenos remained reluctant to enter his old domain, leaving it abandoned, furnishings draped in white canvas.

“I’ve decided to move to the southern wing.” He announced, taking the last bite off the silvered tines of his fork. He peered at her from beneath pale lashes, gauging her reaction.

Crow daubed at her mouth with a table kerchief, blessedly relieved that she’d managed to clean half of her plate before concluding her meal. “Oh? That’s sudden, pray tell why?”

“Call it a whim.” 

She lolled her head aside coyly, a doubtful simper dancing on her expression. “Why not just come to the east wing if you miss me so dearly?”

Zenos snorted dryly, stemmed glass raised halfway to his lips as he sneered. “And risk seeing His Radiance more than once a moon? I’ll forgo the pleasure.”

Crow chuckled dryly — the men in this family were like territorial cats, each to their own domain and they never failed to take issue at even glimpsing at one another. “It’d be preferable over an encounter with your father.”

He chuffed. “Knock on wood. It’s been a pleasant six months, and I’d rather not have you break that streak by jinxing it.”

“Zenos,” She scolded lightly in jest. “Superstitiousness is unbecoming of you.” The princess stood from her seat, wrapping the dark pashmina shawl around her arms.

“As you should know by now,” He aped her tone, lacing each word with a sweet, purring sarcasm only he could achieve. “I’ll deal with any devil to bask in his absence.” He smirked up at her, exchanging jabs at his father was a pastime shared by the both of them.

“Don’t be so sure, I think even demons would flee from Lord Varis.” Crow mirrored his smile, pulling a pocket chronometer from her skirt pocket.

It was almost time to meet with Drusilla, the gruff crone would rattle on endlessly about punctuality if she was even a little tardy.

“Late for an evening tryst?” Zenos asked wryly as they both stood from their seats, looming over her head as though she was skimming through a torrid love note from some secret beau.

Crow turned her nose up at him, snapping the gilded device shut. “Don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t even debuted in court, although after that, well… who knows.” She tapped at her bottom lip, sending a skewed glance to the corridor outside as though she could envision someone tall, dark and handsome darkening the doorway.

It was a joy witnessing his visible discomfort at the notion of her involving herself with the rabbles of court. The singular twitch beneath his left eye told her more than any words could say.

Chapter 26

The color scheme of red quite suited the current mood of Garlemald’s highest authority, from the crimson velvet curtains decorating his windows to the embroidered scarlet furnishings in his personal office. Solus glared sourly at the two hooded men before his desk, displeasure creasing his frown lines to dark degrees. In all of Ilsabard and the continents beyond, they were the only two who would not cower under the threat of his ire. The atmosphere contracted between them, his agitation palpable as he slammed the civil law tome shut.

"What is your business here, Elidibus?" The emperor began, golden leer sliding from the man in white to his contrasting counterpart. "Lahabrea."

The latter cackled, the low noise grating against his ears. Elidibus interjected smoothly, ignoring his fellow's rude opening. "We have need of you elsewhere, the rest have agreed that it is time to end this gilded charade.”

“To clean up after Mitron and Igeyorhm’s muck up, I assume?” Solus’ disdain seeped into the accusation, sending Lahabrea bristling. No matter how he twisted it, it was painfully obvious that the old man held a certain tolerance, if not affection, for the former champion of enlightenment and rhetorics. Likely for the fact that she held a passing resemblance in disposition to his late wife, one who had clashed with Mnemosyne in many forum debates.

“Indeed, and to observe the aftermath of Hydaelyn’s interference.” The Emissary was never one to dally around his points, even at the risk of offending his colleagues.

Solus arched a brow at the mention of her name. Never failing to meddle even after all this time. “How predictable of her.” He muttered under his breath. 

She had been a nuisance then, and remained so even in the present.

“Are the others so indisposed that you must disrupt my task here?” He sneered at the others, rictus obvious even from beneath his graying beard.

“Listen to yourself, you think raising this little kingdom would bring us closer to the Rejoining?” Lahabrea scoffed, gesturing loosely at the opulent room with a swipe filled with contempt. “Playing father to what end, exactly?”

“Watch your tongue lest you find yourself wanting for another vessel, old man.” Solus hissed, rising from his seat like a rearing asp.

The former speaker of the convocation let out a gruff laugh. “And that girl, really. My sight may not be as potent as your own, but even I was nearly blinded by her striking resemblance to a familiar colleague of ours.”

Elidibus sighed as his counterpart was blown off his feet, sent tumbling back and crashing against the upholstery and table by an invisible force. Those who had survived the end only grew more unruly with each passing eons, hatching their own plans and thinking themselves above the bigger picture. Age, it had grown more apparent to him with time, did not make a man any wiser.

“We have lost Mitron, Pashtarot and Halmarut have also ceased contact. Though our agents have been sent out to investigate, any news is yet forthcoming.”

It did not need to be said that Solus was their last resort, stretched thin as they were across the shards, pale imitations of their once glorious, united utopia. 

“Whatever it is that you have planned here, it is best that you conclude them in posthaste.” The Emissary bade with the note of finality and command in his decree.

Their departure was expedient, unlike their entrance. Two blots of darkness whisking the two hooded figures away to locations unknown. Solus fell back against his seat, dragging a hand down the worn contours of his face in exacerbation. He thought he’d had time, his plan to restore Mnemosyne was nearly there, he only needed another small handful of years to ensure her survival through the process. A mind so young and vulnerable yet would be rendered broken by an influx of memories, especially with one so fraught with personal upheaval. Life here had not been kind, and he could keep her isolated for only so long. Her inquisitive nature had persisted even through the sundering of their world. Even now, she was straining against her bonds and yearned for the world beyond these high steel walls. 

Worse still, he knew he could not protect her should he leave this throne to those below him. Those vicious lot would have her exiled, or killed to establish their rule. She had no power of her own, no men nor means to defend herself from the hungry royal broods. The emperor reached out to the two portraits he kept on his desk, one of her as a babe and the other recently commissioned. The cherrywood frame lent a warmth to her wan smile, she’d been ill yet she still sat for the painter with a straight back. Even in this life, she had held onto her stubborn streak, and heavens forfend, he was no less exasperated by her than he was lifetimes ago. He had loved her then and still loved her now, too much to risk losing her again.

It was clear to him, now, what had to be done.

****

In the wuthering distant cliffs of mountains, north of the empire's capital, sat Cell Block III, the official name for the largest prison facility in Garlemald. Its concrete brutalism complimented the reaching steel spires of the city, the harsh geometry of its structure evoking distinct discomfort to both visitors and inhabitants. 

Out of the three bastilles near the capital, Cell Block III was infamously known for its high death toll. The small frozen cells were designed to isolate, accompanied by small, steel benches that did not insulate any better than the hard, cemented ground. Any body heat was sapped away by the natural chill of the air, so cold one could veritably die from frostbite within a week of confinement. The oppressive silence of the air would press against the senses, intersected only by the distant sighs of breaking ice and contracting metal. However, the most dreaded sign of all was the sound of approaching footsteps.

The men who were stationed here were little better than the environs, they were indifferent and whim-driven. Knowing that most who were left here under their ministrations were destined for death, the guard often took sadistic delight in beatings and berating of the inmates. Not only did they indulge in physical torments, but bribes were also exchanged between hands here as naturally as coins in an Ul'dahn market. The warden who ruled over this dreary roost turned a blind eye to the corruption and abuse, rarely visiting unless there were pressing matters to tend to. He much preferred the comforts of his own home, in the embrace of a hired whore or in a pub whiling his days away in a drunken stupor.

Little wonder that few wanted a position here, where the pay was piss-poor and the management cared little for oversight. But it had its perks, few as they were, and they paid in notable dividends. 

"The head honcho making a visit?" The guard, one Andrus dus Metellus, kicked in the steel platter through a small grate, the stale, hard bread and half-frozen bowl of water slid over to the other side of the highsteel door.

He and a colleague were on feeding duty, surveying the conditions of the prisoners with a brief glance through a slit above. Corpses were a bother, but they were typically left for over a week without fuss even after discovery thanks to the dry, cold air. 

His older colleague latched shut the viewing slit and sniffed dismissively. "Aye, must be someone real important visiting tomorrow."

"He only comes by for that?" Andrus asked, wheeling the squealing cart on as they made their rounds.

"Aye, that good-for-nothing warden only comes 'round when there's a boot to lick." The gruff guard affirmed, hucking a glob of spit at the mention of the man. The liquid collided against the ground and froze over as soon as it made contact.

"Do y'know who?" He was curious, visitors were unheard of in the months that he'd been here.

The old guard grunted, mood visibly souring at his prying."Ask the Praefectus, when he isn't busy, I was off-duty last time."

Andrus sensed something amiss. Among the guards, the old man was the most experienced and even minded. He'd showed many new recruits the ropes to the place, even the higher ups below the warden refrained from minding him despite his basic rank of Lictor in their hierarchy. Moreover, being a typical chatterbox, he was the font of rumors among the correctional staff. Yet in this, he seemed reluctant to even discuss the matter.

With piqued interest, Andrus carried on his duties absentmindedly, his thoughts swirling with possible guesses. There was a quiet hum of anticipation among his fellow guards, a few seemed somewhat agitated even. He was the newest guard on the block, only just acquainted himself with the inner workings of the facility. He thought he'd navigated the channels well enough, being in the good graces of a few mainstays like the aforementioned Praefectus. 

Which was why Andrus was blindsided by the stricken look the man leveled his way when he approached him, lunch tray in hand. They sat together with two others near a mobile brazier, the crisp air nipping at their extremities despite the heat of the stove.

"Shite, again?" The Praefectus, an over-the-hill, ivory-haired Tchitan, swore under his breath. It seemed he was even less aware of this news than even Andrus himself.

"The old man said so, aye." Andrus nodded, spooning up another mouthful of hot stew. "So what's got all your rear ends so bunched up anyways?

The two others who sat opposite of him and the Praefectus shared a look and, with a wave from their superior, they both took their leave from the table. They'd only been halfway through with their meal yet they dumped their trays away without a second thought, all their appetite seemed lost. Wasting food was a taboo commonly frowned upon among the citizenry in not only the capital but in all of Ilsabard. The memory of hard famines still ran deep within the collective consciousness of the last two generations.

"You've only been here for, what, four moons?" The Praefectus asked suddenly, the frown lines deepening at each side of his face.

"Aye, ser?" Andrus agreed, unsure of where the conversation was headed.

"You missed the warden's last visit." The Praefectus snorted with derision at the mention of their often-absent superior, then produced a flask from his coat, taking a hearty swig from it. 

“Lucky bastard.” He then added after the burn of the strong drink settled, not exactly giving a straight explanation to satisfy his underling.

Andrus was puzzled. If it wasn't the warden who was causing this silent tension, then who? All this evasive hinting could drive a man up the walls, leaving him antsy with questions. 

"Is the emperor himself gonna show up here?" He finally blurted out. Prior to this, he'd spent hours guessing and mulling over the behavior of those around him, their clear nervousness only stoked the flames of his curiosity. The question was simultaneously genuine and sarcastic, and it earned him a slap upside his head for his impudence.

"Don't be stupid, His Radiance ain't never darkening our doors. If he wants anything from here, he'll send for 'em." The Praefectus corrected with a sneer. "Good thing you're not paid for your smarts."

His superior gave a sharp sniff, his concealed trepidation leaking through despite his abrasive confidence. Andrus wisely kept his observation to himself as he watched the Praefectus drag a gloved hand against his browline, wiping away a bead of sweat even in this white chill.

"If you're so damn curious, I'll post you for the inmate prepping — the old man will show you how it's done.” The white of the Praefectus’ teeth gleamed at Andrus as he bore a strained facsimile of a smile at the younger man. "Hope that luck of yours holds up, 'cause you'll be meeting the imperial family's little pet on the morrow."

****

Andrus watched with baton in hand as the old guard clapped irons onto the wrist of another inmate. That murderer made four thus far, the other three waiting ahead. Two male guilty of kidnapping and rape, and a female caught conducting body trafficking within the capital premise. All her wares were purportedly no older than fifteen, and some as young as five years of age. He hadn't a clue why they were dragging the worst of the offenders out like this, but he didn't mind roughing these scum up a bit.

The old man linked the inmates up, shackling them neatly in a single file and gave the last a sharp shove. "Start moving down to the foyer."

They shuffled along down several flights of cemented stairs. The complex was a wide, five-storied ordeal, natural light filtering down through the steel grated ceiling above them. At its heart was a concrete platform, wide and smooth as polished stone. It served as many things within the cell block; for those with lighter sentences, an exercise square when the weather conditions allowed, a place to drill the guards, and for the unfortunates, an execution stage. This particular place had always unnerved him, the cold never failing to sear through his insulated boots. Dark stains set into the ground, the spill of old blood impossible to scrub clean no matter how one tried. It was as though some semblance of the past deads had wished to remain to spectate the fates of their fellow felons.

"On your knees." The old man ordered sharply.

They wordlessly complied, save the murderer. The old man gave his younger colleague a flick of his chin, his eyes glancing down to the legs of the disobedient inmate. On cue, Andrus slammed his metal baton down to the back of the convict's knees and sent him to the ground with a grunt. Coming from the latest batch of arrests, he was not as gaunt as the rest, still possessing a measure of defiance in his eyes. The murderer only glared down at the concrete, his breath clouding as the rest of his fellows shivered in their threadbare uniforms.

They did not have to wait long before the sharp echoes of many footsteps closed in. The warden entered the foyer first from a side corridor, followed by two imperial guards. Then a woman garbed in black and carrying a large case appeared, her face concealed within the shadow of her dark hood. Next to her, half a head shorter and draped in a pale, fur-lined coat, was a youthful Elezen girl. She obviously had yet to reach her majority, still bearing a vague childlike roundness to her dainty features. Her one visible eye, the other hidden behind a fringe of dark hair, narrowed at the sight awaiting on the platform.

She peeled back her furred hood, full lips twisted, her displeasure plain for all to see. "This is slimmer pickings than last time, warden."

The warden, a whole two heads taller than the diminutive girl, shrank back visibly at her words. "There are only so many due for their execution this month, Y-Your Grace." His words were slightly slurred as though he'd been a few drinks in before this appointment.

Andrus stiffened at the deferential address, this was whom the Praefectus had referred to as the imperial family's pet. He would have kicked himself for not realizing it sooner just from that derogatory title alone. The First Princess, adoptive ward of the emperor, was standing before him in the flesh. That name was often used by those who disapproved of any foreign influences in the capital, the stringent view of pureblooded Garlean supremacy was popular here. By extension, the First Princess was a physical representation of their scorn, thus becoming a figure of social-political derision despite being taken in by the emperor himself. Still, at least in his insignificant estimation, she was a member of the imperial family in name, if not in blood, and thus a modicum of esteem must still be afforded to her.

"If you'd just lower your expectations, Your Grace, then we could all be done and over with this sordid business." The hooded woman commented wearily with a heavy sigh.

The First Princess ignored her accompanying retainer's words, at least he assumed that was what the woman was, and climbed the three steps up to the platform. The click of her booted heels strummed the tension in the air like tight strings, slowing even further as she inspected the inmates. She came to the end of the rather short line and stood before the murderer, the ware selected.

"This one looks promising, tell me of him." She ordered without turning to anyone in particular.

Reflexively, Andrus gave a stiff military salute and promptly began an abridged recitation of the convict's crimes. "Kin-slaying, Your Grace, killed his wife and child in the dead of night by strangulation."

He felt everyone's eyes on him, even the steady-mannered old man snapped his sight on Andrus in warning. The warden simply gawked, sobriety suddenly finding him. A moment ticked by, one could hear a pin drop from a mile away, then a light, girlish chuckle sounded, shattering the silence.

Her Grace turned to the warden, mood taking a chipper turn. "I like this one, are all your men so responsive?"

The warden sputtered from where he stood, poleaxed and wide eyed, his mind only barely catching up. But before he could muster a proper reply, a hacking sounded and a wad of spittle flew onto the First Princess' booted toe.

"Bloody foreign savage." The chosen convict sneered up at her.

Not a second ticked by before the First Princess whirled back, she snatched the baton from Andrus' hand and swung it with impunity. The metal length crunched against the convict's face, blood flooding his mouth as the flesh of his inner cheek scraped against his teeth. He fell over by the wayside, a tooth rolling from between his lips as he spat out another glob of spittle, this one dark with blood. His fellow inmates winced, peering from the corner of their eyes as the First Princess delivered a sharp kick to his side. She dug the pointed toe of her boot into his side, wiping clear the stain of the lowlife's saliva against his uniform. 

Andrus watched mutely as Her Grace's blunted, square heel ground against the fallen man' throat. She seemed to relish the hitched gasp he emitted, but reined herself in when the woman in black gave a sharp cough.

"Clear the others away and let us begin." She spun the baton in hand and leveled it at Andrus. Her amused smile had all but disappeared, though her singular eye positively gleamed with anticipation as she leered down to her prone offender.

Chapter 27

They marched to the fifth floor with the imperial guards at the rear. Andrus had been left with little choice when the warden offered him up as a guide, the old man sending a disapproving look their way before volunteering himself as well. 

"Bloody fool, you should've known to keep your mouth shut and your head down." The old man reprimanded him under his breath. "That lousy warden fled as soon as he was able, damn lily-livered shite.'

Andrus had no retort, only able to hang his head in muted guilt. He supposed it was his own overeagerness that had gotten them here in the first place. It was a rarity that the common citizenry were allowed a glimpse at a member of the imperial family, even if they were not of true Garlean descent. He felt honored to feel so close to the emperor, even if it was only by proxy. Yet still, he felt as though he was but an ant before the First Princess, her fearsome capriciousness had caught him off guard. Her Grace flitted from genuine delight to wanton violence at the turn of a second, taking personal satisfaction in exacting precise punishment to those she’d deemed deserving. It was not something he'd expected when compared to the more reserved and regal reputations held by other princesses who had married into the royal echelon.

Before long, he realized where they were headed. To that room where he'd been explicitly instructed never to approach nor enter. Sometimes ago, when inquired, he was curtly informed that it was a holding cell meant to confine surplus inmates should the facility ever exceed maximum capacity. It was a suspicious explanation for Cell Block III was meant to house death row inmates, life-long sentences were nonexistent under Garlemald's judicial policies. The only way a convict may leave this place was through a body bag, to be disposed of and buried in some unmarked grave.

The metal door groaned as the prisoner was ushered in roughly, followed by the woman in black. The old man lingered at the threshold, catching the aged rank of rotted blood. He knew not what had occurred but had seen the sickening aftermath, now only a hint of the horrific enigma remained. The room was sparse with only two benches hung by the wall on chains, it seemed even colder in here than in the foyer.

"You'll have to redraw the diagrams, they've scrubbed the place clean." The dark hooded retainer called out from within.

Andrus snuck a glance over to the diminutive princess, catching a shrug of movement as she peeled off her coat. Dressed in a woolen, high-necked tunic, dyed a wine-red, she tugged on the hem of her black, soft leather gloves. Her charcoal gray trousers were snug against her athletic form, high boots ending just beneath her knees. She shoved her coat into his arms, an inscrutable smile tugging on her lips.

"I'll borrow him for now, if it's all the same to you." The First Princess cocked her head at the old man, sensing his seniority over Andrus.

The two men shared a nervous look, the old guard sliding aside from the threshold and lowered his head in obeisance. "If it pleases Your Grace."

"The only thing that would please me is to never have to return to this morose place." She drawled with a wry roll of her eyes at the general ranks of the guards, then sighed. "But we make do, I'm sure you'll be glad once I've quit this place as well."

With a lazy wave, she beckoned Andrus to follow. The metal door slammed behind them with the tacit pair of imperial guards stationed without. It was all he could do to swallow the unfathomable dread building within his breast.

All it took was a word from the princess to immobilize the prisoner, the uttered syllable seemed to resonate with some inexplicable power. It was some dead language he did not recognize, the sound was vile even to his layman's ears. With a light shove, the convict collapsed against the concrete and Her Grace drew out a simple piece of chalk from her pocket.

She carved out a complex series of glyphs surrounding the body, each sharp angle filled with purpose. Then a dim glint shone in her hand, a small, spring-loaded knife snatching at his sight. Andrus clutched the furred coat and swallowed, he could vaguely guess at the convict's fate but never anticipated that he would play audience to this macabre ritual. The unlucky cad gave a stiff twitch as the princess kneeled with blade in hand, and Andrus realized he'd been conscious all this time. 

With a quick stab, Her Grace slid her victim's belly open, the stink of hot offal and iron puffed upward like a hideous stew. The convict gave several apoplectic jerks, each one weaker than the last as he bled out like a drained goat. The stick of chalk forgotten by the wayside, she laid a gloved hand above the jagged gash and allowed aether to flow from her palm. The room was incandescent with the light, the air humming with static as she channeled into the quickly fading sacrifice. 

Andrus stumbled back against the cold, hard wall as he saw a bloodied mass emerging from the opened belly. A feminine face, dark with gore, strained to free itself, stretching the film of slick flesh like a grotesque insect emerging from its cocoon. The horrid creature gave a sickening wriggle, its sight seemed pinned on him as it crawled forth from its disgusting cradle. Sharp talons scraped against the concrete as it bristled at him, limbs detaching from its sides as it readied to pounce. 

In a desperate bid to free himself from this paralytic fear, Andrus stumbled and fell back, accidentally saving himself from being skewered by the creature. It hissed and scrabbled towards him, hot blood steaming off its tattered wings. In its sickly yellow scleras, he saw his grisly death, yet still, he kicked at the ground to buy himself another moment. He cursed himself for being far too curious for his own good, had he kept his mouth shut, he would have likely been able to retire with a neat pension at sixty. Now, he was going to die with no property, no merit, and no family before his twenty-fifth nameday.

A hard metallic thunk sounded and the miscreant was halted mid-scramble, its needle-like talons a mere ilm from gouging out his eyes. It collapsed in a heap, cleanly bisected by the waist, black ichor pooling beneath its inert form.

The shuffle of boots neared as the First Princess strode up to the scene, her retainer not too far behind. "Another damnable succubus." Her Grace clicked her tongue, digging her heel against the wall as she yanked her scythe from its place. 

Bits of concrete came loose as the wickedly curved blade was freed, and the princess turned to regard him. Her small frame loomed over his prone form, she pushed a lock of stray hair from her cheek and graced him with a lopsided smirk.

"You kept it clean, well done." Her Grace praised, leisurely peeling her leather gloves off.

Andrus started, belatedly realizing that she was referring to the white furred coat that he'd held onto in spite of the strenuous splatter of violence and gore.

"Do you really have the luxury to reject this one as well?" The woman in black asked as she approached, kicking the already crumbling remains of the creature.

"Nonsense, I have more than a month’s worth to try again." The princess spun her weapon in a quick arc, the beak of the scythe snapping shut against its heft.

"If you say so, Your Grace." The retainer snorted and plucked the weapon from Her Grace's hand, stowing it into the case she'd been carrying. Once finished, the door to the cell opened and she made her exit, awaiting outside with the imperial guards.

Being reminded of the mundane world beyond, Andrus got to his feet, unsure of what to make of these uncanny events. He wasn't sure if he was even allowed to speak without being prompted. He settled for a stiff cough, holding up the coat awkwardly. The princess, without pause, slipped into the furred article and he found himself inadvertently helping her into it.

"You're surprisingly useful for a mere prison guard." She said with a short laugh, wiping a speck of blood sliding from her cheek. "How firm are you with your duties here?"

****

Crow strode along the row of cells, ice and stony cement grinding beneath her boots, they were on their way to exiting this ice-ridden flesh vault. On a whim, touched with a bit of incidental chance, she peered into a passing cell, curious of the harsh conditions here. She’d known nothing less than absolute luxury growing up, even when she’d been starved and mistreated, she’d never experienced such levels of destitution. The air was dry and left the back of her throat scratchy, even the short trips here left her lashes feeling unpleasantly crystalline as ice formed against her face. A gasping wheeze caught her ears and she could just barely pick out a huddled figure squeezed into the corner of the cell’s singular bench.

The princess uttered a disbelieving laugh, the sound only growing in pitch as it reached a crescendo. Her shoulders shook as she held her stomach, bracing against the thick cell door, gasping for air as her hysterics slowly eased. Her mentor, along with the guards, turned at her sudden outburst.

“Drusilla, come look.” Crow whirled on her mentor, grinning like a child who’d just uncovered the most delightful gift.

Drusilla furrowed her brows at her pupil, taking a look through the small rectangle. “Well, I’ll be.”

Crow slid her gaze over to her new, helpful friend in silent expectation.

The young guard met her eyes, then averted his gaze and lowered his head despite his heightful stature. “This one was among the latest batch, came here only a month ago, Your Grace.”

It was all the imprisoned wretch could do to merely shiver in her cell, a gurgling sob bubbled from her lips as she peered over to the figures spying into her tiny, four-walled abode. The light from outside penetrated the inky darkness, nearly blinding her frost-blinded eyes. It’d been so long since she’d seen proper light, time was a malleable concept within this prison, passing by her with fluid indifference. Only the pain and cold kept the wretch lucid, fingers and toes no longer able to feel much at all thanks to the vicious cold snaps.

“I’m sure after all this time, she’d be overjoyed to return to the inner palace, don’t you think?” The First Princess’ eyes narrowed into slits as a delicious mischief surface in her gaze.

Her mentor could do naught but sigh, dreading her pupil's inexorable whims, she pulled her hood up and turned away to march ahead. “Do as you wish, I’m only here to be witness to your methods.”

“Then it’s settled! Tell the warden to have this one delivered to the inner palace, I’m sure he won’t mind earning a pretty penny for his service.” Crow followed behind her mentor, waving to her new hire in farewell.

Chapter 28

All things would eventually come into her favor, this was a well earned lesson from her many trials since childhood. Crow put down her own cup and saucer, painted porcelain gleaming in the gentle morning light, and sidled up to her former governess. With a beatific smile, she squeezed hard at Vinia's gaunt cheeks, forcing her mouth open. A small treacle picked up and held between her fingers, Crow slid it into the woman's mouth despite her attempt at pulling away. Holding her jaw open, the princess pinned the woman with a bleak glare.

"Spit this one out and I'll have another finger from you." She warned sweetly, directing her sight to the two black, lumpy digits sitting on an ornately gilded plate. The fingers had been rotten with frost, Vinia would have little use for them anyhow.

Despite the former governess' protest, the food was not poisoned or rancid, they were freshly prepared in the palace kitchens. Crow had been kind enough to personally feed poor Vinia herself. Over the past four hours, she'd been nothing but a gracious hostess. She'd been taught all these etiquettes, it was only apt that she showed her former teacher the fruit of her labors. Unceasingly, Crow pushed small tarts, spoonfuls of pasties, finger sandwiches and morsels of fruit through gritted teeth. Her governess was shackled and bound, but the cold had blackened her limbs nearly to the knees and elbows that Crow saw little need. Yet the guards had insisted that she left Vinia restricted for her own safety.

Her guest lurched forward, nearly retching up all she'd eaten, but Crow forced her chin up, keeping her jaw pinned shut. The woman let out a ragged sob as her nausea passed, the sound liquid as she gurgled on her own vomit.

"You shouldn't waste food, Vinia, I thought you'd taught me that." The princess clicked her tongue in disapproval, wiping her hand against a cotton napkin. "Though you really aught tell me when you've had enough."

Crow daubed at Vinia's mouth daintily, a hand buried against the woman's dirty scalp to prevent her from squirming away. She smiled as the woman wailed wordlessly, her stubbed tongue worked ineffectually within her mouth. His Radiance had apparently seen fit to derive her of the ability of speech, but Crow did not need her to be a decent conversational partner. 

The princess caressed the side of her former caretaker's face, delighted anticipation forming in her gaze as she envisioned her plans for Vinia. She did not partake at this small tea party with her guest, all she needed to feel sated was the fear in Vinia's eyes and her suffering. 

And, oh, it was delectable.

"Does this not warm you with nostalgia, Vinia? Remember the weeks before every nameday, you'd force feed me like a fat goose ready for slaughter?" She reminded her captive, her coos sickeningly sweet.

All those bygone days where she'd be forced to gorge to the point of sickness. Fattened to disguise the punishing bouts of privation before she was sent to meet with His Radiance. If she failed to keep her meals down, she'd be lashed, memories of bleeding welts on her legs for the slightest mistake. Now they were gone and she was here in this flawed form, half blind and filled with hateful, black bile.

The princess ran the tines of the silver fork against Vinia's throat. Crow could pierce her a dozen times before she'd bleed out and feel all the gladder for it. But she refrained, a measure of practiced self-control to relish her victim’s pains later. "So tell me, was it you who poisoned me that morning?"

The wretched prisoner shook her head, her distress came in wordless groans of denial. The madness she saw in the princess' eyes spoke of retribution and spite, the cold fires of vengeance had come for her and it would be more terrible and excruciating than anything Vinia could have ever devised.

****

The prince lingered by the hall outside, arms crossed as he leaned patiently against the polished wood paneling. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop on the conversation taking place within His Radiance's public office, but the finer points of social propriety was lost on his irate father. His voice carried out through the cracks of the double door as he griped about Zenos' upcoming training campaign. He did not often put up so much resistance against their patriarch's decisions, but in this, he stood firmly against.

"She should not even be allowed to step foot into these halls let alone into a territory!" The High Legatus was apparently well-versed on how to project his voice, for it carried two full doors down within the long, spacious corridors of the main palace.

The inner palace was a large complex nestled deep within the imperial residence, but the main palace, where the crossroads of governance and law met, positively engulfed the former. its sprawling perimeter veritably swallowed the gilded halls where Zenos had grown up. Its vaulted ceilings dripped with decadent glass chandeliers, complemented by bas-reliefs of curling vines on its walls, and velvet drapes over tall and severe steel-wrought windows. A blizzard howled outside the warm hall, seemingly in tune with his father's heightened temper.

He had yet to hear a reply from his great grandfather. If he hadn't known any better, Zenos would've entertained the idea that His Radiance had nodded off while listening to his father.

"You've given a savage free reign of the inner palace and left her undisciplined!" The High Legatus went on, his grave voice booming. "How long will this charade go on for when Ishgard has now refused to uphold their part of your bargain?”

"Do you really have the luxury to cause such a stir over something so negligible when the debacle over Silvertear Skies has cost us the Agrius?" The emperor growled low, the warning resounding like thunder from the horizon.

To Zenos' immense satisfaction, that reprimand alone managed to derail his father's tirade. He stifled a smug laugh when he saw the High Legatus storm from the office. His father had been the one to command Zenos to attend to him, but judging from the vein throbbing from his temple, it would have to be postponed for the time being.

Varis paused in front of his son, his face dark with repressed anger. He loomed a full head taller as he glared down upon the prince.

"I will not have that savage on campaign with you, do you hear me?" The High Legatus gritted through clenched teeth.

Zenos, with eyes full of mocking amusement, smiled as he always did and said. "As you say, honored father."

The acquiescence was an empty one for the both knew it was not within Varis' jurisdiction on whether or not Crow would be allowed to step foot outside of Garlemald. The High Legatus was of the opinion that she should be locked away like a shameful secret, or stripped of her title, banished and erased from the annals of history. Evidently, in his father's jaundiced view, she was a stain upon their family's image and a corrupting distraction upon him. 

With no fight to be found and nothing left to say, his father's dark form retreated, leaving him behind to his devices. In passing as he was leaving, Zenos crossed paths with a tidily dressed manservant, his attire was not one he'd recognized. The man, standing two heads shorter than him, sheepishly knocked upon the emperor's public office door. Their eyes caught and he bowed his burgundy head low, then slipped into the room silently. Under typical circumstances, he would find any member of the servile caste to be negligible, unworthy of notice. But this one, he thought as he slinked across the throne room, made his eyes narrow with inexplicable foreboding. 

He stored the feeling away for the moment as another set of boots made its approach. 

"Cousin! How fortunate that we crossed paths." The mellifluous voice, dripping with ostentation, called out from his rear.

Zenos frowned at the appearance of yet another roadblock, he had somewhere to be today. An armor fitting, for one, and another meeting with a member of the senate.

Thus he does not slow his steady pace, walking on without acknowledgement as Nerva caught up to him. His first cousin, once-removed, and a potential rival, Nerva slithered about court with his deft dealings and sly tongue, a specimen who thrived off intrigue and underhanded machinations. He was opportunistic and power hungry — the taste of such things developed naturally being one among the royal brood. All this and more, Zenos could forgive had it not been for the irritating habit he kept. Nerva, vain as he was, loved to assert his status and authority to whomever had the misfortune of catching his eyes.

"It seems you and I will be spending more time together in Valnain, little cousin." He kept apace with the younger prince, his lips stretching into a serpentine smile.

Zenos remained silent, only acknowledging his words with a side eyed glance. Nerva was not surprised, even after all these years, his younger cousin still proved to be a stone-walling bore. His little cousin did not possess the fiery temper of his father, claws tucked away on most occasions, but he knew them to be there. His appearance in court was rare, unlike Nerva who prided himself on his own popularity among the aristocracy and citizenry. Zenos and that reclusive girl remained sheltered within the emperor’s private sanctum despite nearing their majority as adults. Nerva himself had only seen her in the portrait Solus kept in his personal office, yet she remained a subject of interest and rumors among the circles he frequented. One particularly curious morsel he’d heard was that she’d been poisoned some years ago, and still remained somewhat weak in constitution to this day, thus her withdrawn status. It was difficult to obtain reliable information from within the inner palace nowadays as protocols for even the servile staff were tightly enforced. Any and all non-residents, ranging from visiting dignitaries and guests to even royalty such as himself, were guided on a strict path from the arching black marble entrance to the imposing office doors of the emperor’s private study. There were no other routes that deviated into the private quarters as praetors, the emperor’s personal guards, watched any and all who came and went as eagle-eyed sentinels. Though some had claimed to have seen her on occasions and through first or secondhand accounts, Nerva had gleaned that she was almost never without Zenos, if ever spotted at all.

As such, he found himself snagged by a spot of curiosity.

“I heard a certain lovely thing will be joining us as well.” Nerva broached carefully, gauging Zenos’ aloof countenance as he spoke. “And that the High Legatus does not approve.”

“We shall see.” Came Zenos’ innocuous reply.

Nerva stifled his annoyance at his cousin’s unwavering curtness, not much had changed over the intervening years since the overweening Carosa’s funeral. A more direct approach might prove more effective. “Forgive my forwardness, cousin, but help me see the charm of someone so juvenile.”

A stir on Zenos’ unreadable mien told him that he was on the right track. Nerva narrowed his eyes, brows raised in irreverent arches, his smile nearly vulpine. “She’s growing to be quite the beauty, but your firm affection for her is, some would say, highly unseemly for someone of our vaunted lineage.”

“Is it so odd that children who were raised together are wont to stay together?” The younger prince allowed a wry smirk to crack the placid mask of his handsome face. “And what of you? Two years past your third decade and still without a bride… ah, but of course, we all know the Lady Arrecina would sooner flay a girl with her own hands than allow you a wife.”

Nerva nearly skidded to a halt, slowing himself lest he stumble on the smooth, polished path. He watched as Zenos walked on, his friendly facade growing tight around the jaws. Despite being an absent figure in court, that boy took after his mother more than in looks. Nerva had to admit that his young cousin was more informed than he looked in spite of his insipid reputation, and with a blunt ruthlessness to match. The Legatus of the IIIrd legion breathed out an amused scoff as the figure of his younger cousin grew smaller and smaller; the chink in his armor so well-cradled yet so obvious.

Chapter 29

Andrus felt his palms grow clammy even as he held them at the small of his back, his stance was rigid and ramrod straight. Each thump of his heart resounded in his ears as he stood before the beacon of the empire, his hero who laid the foundation of their proud nation scanned him with thinly veiled assessment. Physically, he was not as youthful as he once was, but the years had only served to endow his regal stature with a fearsome severity. The emperor’s war-worn fingers folded together as he sighed in open resignation.

“It is unorthodox that she would notice anyone beyond these walls, but I suppose it is the consequence of her natural inquisitiveness.” Solus muttered under his breath, more to himself than to address the former guard before him. 

He had always been careful to not limit her innate nature though still strove to keep her safe within the confines of the palace and its grounds. His lapse in focus had borne grave results in the past, but now, he was not so reserved in utilizing his means as he once was. His gnarled, steepled hands parted, and in one lax wave, the young man fell back unconscious. Before his limp form could hit the ground in a boneless freefall, Solus crooked a stiff finger at him. An invisible force dragged the inert form forward, head bent forward toward his open hand. The tips of his ringed fingers tapped against the young man’s forehead, esoteric magicks plumbing the depths of his mind for harmful intents. Unseen feelers crawled across the paralyzed psyche, searching inexorably for even a mote of contempt found so commonly among propagandized people. Prejudice was a necessary evil but such a trait was not something desired within a personal manservant, especially one assigned to her.

Satisfied to have found nothing of note, a rarity — perhaps he was a supporter of the Populares; a minor political party born from the infantile sentiment of better treatment for the non-citizens within the empire and its territories. Utter swill, of course, but he allowed them to exist in this social biome he’d crafted just to observe the discord their radical ideas would spawn. That had been their goal since time immemorial, after all, to sow chaos and usher in the Rejoining of the thirteen shards with the Source.

With a sharp snap of his fingers, the young man started back into reality. He blinked, unaware of what had just occurred, blissfully ignorant of his invasive inspection.

“Your introduction.” Solus intoned blandly as though he was just picking up the strings of an ongoing conversation.

Andrus coughed and bowed low, embarrassed that he’d lost his train of thought in the face of the august emperor. “Andrus dus Metellus, Your Radiance, your faithful servant. I came at the recommendation of Her Grace, the First Princess.”

Solus could ostensibly understand why she’d picked this one out of the many — he seemed overly enthusiastic to serve, like a dog. She’d always liked keeping pets and he was pleasing to look at by the female standard as well. Judging from appearances alone, he was of mixed heritage, likely Garlean and hyuran. His dark burgundy hair kept a smidge too long by the standards of palace servants, but he was broad shouldered and even tempered. His eyes were a warm brown, set beneath smooth, kind brows, his stature bearing an approachable air that did not suit his previous job title. 

He was not so interested in this one's background so much as his intentions, and the magicks he'd worked had eased his suspicions somewhat. Still, he skimmed over the papers on his desk, their content detailing the life, relative and academic records of this Andrus dus Metellus. Statistically speaking, the fellow was a mediocre scholar who couldn't even qualify to be a soldier; a weak constitution, the records informed the emperor.

Coming from a relatively poor family with no notable standing, the system Solus had devised had branded him a dredge of society. No talent to speak of and a liability, he had little merit save his meek but handsome mien. 

"I've been informed you've no family left in the capital?" Solus asked, his tone blunt and unsympathetic.

"Yes, Your Radiance, the Barheim incident in Dalmasca–"

Solus raised a hand to silence him — he needn't say anything, but he frowned at the volunteered information. That explained much of his poor prospects. With no family to support him, the pitiable sod took up guard duty in the least desirable place to be stationed at. 

He, his Garlean mother and sister were one of many colonists who had left the capital to look for better opportunities in these newly occupied territories. These forays had their risks, but it was not unheard of for settlers to prosper abroad. However, it was by pure misfortune that they were where they were, having little chance to survive an uprising of that magnitude. The fortress city had partially collapsed into itself when the Barheim tunnel was destroyed by rebel forces, and the casualty numbers had been unprecedented.

"Think of this as an opportunity," Solus advised, sliding the documents aside.  "As a servant of the imperial palace, you are to observe and report the activities of the First Princess, deliver the missive to any praetorian guard and you'll be well compensated for your trouble."

Andrus swallowed, a hand pressed against the smooth lapel of his uniform, and bowed deeply. The emperor wished him to spy on Her Grace — no, perhaps he needed an observant caretaker for his ward. Indeed, that must be so, Andrus reasoned to himself.

"I am forever in your debt for this opportunity, Your Radiance." He held his bow primly as he was taught in the past week, his gratitude rang sincere to Solus' ears.

"One more thing." The emperor called out when Andrus turned to leave after a dismissive wave. "Few have ever risen into royal service by chance as you have, and fewer still remain should they step out of line. See that you keep your position for the long haul."

 Stunned, Andrus could only blink until the emperor reared his golden gaze to pin the young man with a sharp look.

"I trust you'll be discreet in this arrangement between us?"

 Andrus nodded, unable to find his tongue. He slinked from the grand space of the emperor's public office, finding himself letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding in. The emperor's presence was an oppressive force, every word he uttered gave no quarter for one to deny him his whims and wishes. It was a surreptitious pressure that worked itself into one's mind, filling every space between him and His Radiance with a formidable gravity. The light of their empire was no mere beacon, nay, he was the sun itself.

****

The lock clicked shut with a turn of Crow's hand, the key was withdrawn and stowed in her trouser pocket. The West Wing of the inner palace never failed to instill a measure of foulness in her mood, its stately corridors sending ill waves to glaze against her skin. The faded perfume of the inner palace air mixed with dust clung onto her unpleasantly, evoking memories of a childhood spent tip toeing on eggshells.

Still, she smiled, her singular blue eye narrowing to a malevolent slit as she thought of Vinia. Crow folded her hands at the small of her back as she neared the threshold marking the beginning of the central foyer. Her new retainer bowed at her approach, his new uniform outlined his trim form well. White, starched collars were neat and buttoned with a wine red necktie tucked nicely into his lapels. He was perhaps two heads shorter than Zenos, but he still made away with three over her when he straightened.

"At least you are punctual…" Crow breezed past the manservant, trailing off as she felt his name linger on the top of her tongue. "Andrus, is it?"

"I'm honored to be remembered by Your Grace." Andrus trailed four steps behind the First Princess, matching her pace evenly.

"For the time being." Crow smirked as she slipped into the inner palace's expensive library with Andrus in tow.

He learned then that she loved to browse the shelves of the imperial collection, but hated the fact that she could not reach the taller rows without dragging around a step ladder. It was her great pleasure to point at something and have him fetch it. It was not the only capacity in which he served, teatime and her midday meals were meticulously arranged as well. He was instructed specifically by the steward to taste her food a full quarter bell before it was served, and he stood by to pour and cater as needed when she sat down to partake. Her appetite would often prove to be sparing at best, and even though it would be out of line for him to worry, he could not help how he felt. At length, he came to familiarize himself with her daily routine, assisting in the morning and nightly rituals alongside the half dozen flitting maidservants. For the most part, she treated him as though he was merely an extra limb, otherwise invisible when not needed.

The First Princess was a creature of habits, their days passing in relative uneventfulness for the first week. Sometimes, when there were no tutor awaiting her, she would stalk to a well-lit drawing room and bade him to wait outside. The sound of a meandering harpsichord would flow into simple nursery tunes, then picking up in rhythm until it stumbled. Andrus could hear the frustration plucked out in every halting note, and he would wince slightly at her mistake, she would slam down on the keys and walk away to brood. She did that a lot, stewing in silence when she did not have her eyes glued to a tome. Her sights were tossed into the far distance, beyond the ornate, diamond-patterned frames of the windows, even further than that of the Magna Glacies ranges. Oftentimes, in his silent observation, his mistress seemed like she was waiting for someone. Her shoulders sloped downward, hands folded in her lap when she had a quiet moment to herself. 

In the next week, he realized as to whom she was pining for. She would sigh in the middle of meal time, barely touching her food at all as she fiddled with the ring at her little finger.

"I'm finished, take it away." She would command, tone petulant.

His eyes trailing to her small, slender hands surreptitiously. It was one half of a signet ring, he identified when he was clearing away the meal. Before he could even entertain the notion of asking, overstepping his bounds as her attendant, the door to her chambers swung open without warning.

Andrus paused as he once again encountered the imposing stature of a royal prince. His long blonde tresses were dragged back from his forehead by a hand, a pinched look slipping from his patrician features as he met Her Grace's regard.

"You're here," the First Princess brightened, positively lighting up the room with her smile. Then at a switch, her pretty lips gathered into a pout. "And you're late."

The prince spared him but a glance as he sat down. "Things have been hectic — my father demands my attendance in the war councils and senate meetings."

She rolled her eyes at the mention of the High Legatus. "He certainly enjoys monopolizing your time as much as he despises me."

Andrus refilled his Lady's cup and set a new one down for His Grace, inclining his head as he slid a saucer filled with savory finger-morsels toward them. He parted from the scene after a moment, busying himself at the far end, steeping a new pot as a good hand would. He’d only just begun serving as a palace servant but had so far proven himself deft and adaptable, navigating the atmosphere of a room and his mistress’ mood admirably well. The maidservants would approach him with their concerns, afraid of a misstep that could cost them their jobs. He would provide them with details and did his best to gauge the taste of Her Grace on a daily basis, so deft in his task that others were disbelieving when he said this was the first he’d ever served in the imperial household.

This new servant’s presence did not go unnoticed, however, despite his efforts to blend into the background. Zenos glanced over to this newcomer, the unspoken question clear in his eyes as he nudged the plate of finger sandwiches over to her. 

With a sour look, he was all too aware of her poor appetite, Crow plucked up the cured gravlax and bread between her fingers. "A convenient, extra hand, 'tis all."

"Convenient, is he?" The prince snapped up a piece in one bite, washing it down with a mouthful of the heavy, dark tea.

Crow scoffed and leaned toward him against the armrest of her embroidered seat, her smile a teasing thing. "Is that jealousy I hear?"

His answering grin was slow to come as he reached over to cup her face in his warm, broad hand. It felt good against her skin, distracting her from her queasy stomach. Crow pressed against his touch, tracing over his knuckles with her slender fingers.

"We'll have more time together in Valnain." He said by way of an apology.

He'd been busier than ever, and though they may jest about Lord Varis, both knew that he was at his father's beck and call, at least for the time being. He had staved off attending court for as long as he could, not wishing to interact with the pining zealots that was the aristocracy. At length, however, he came to realize the importance of personal sway within this vicious empire. He needed the means to eliminate anything that stood in the way of his goals, a legion, bodies who would die for his cause. The power to keep what was his, to serve as the bulwark for the nexus of his world. Thus, Zenos covertly stepped into the fray, forging alliances beneath his family's nose, entertaining the grasping ambition from the advising senates. He doled out promises, lobbied and bribed, all to establish a quiet foundation for their sake. 

His efforts were not without cost, though, as he saw the unvoiced loneliness in her downcast gaze. He may poke at her for keeping this new retainer, but he would not begrudge her harshly for it — at least for now.

They moved on to lighter topics as Zenos expounded upon current court politics, formal legislations regarding territorial laws that would soon be passed and speculation on alliances between notable figures. Then coyly, she would broach upon the scandals and gossip of the aristocracy, only to be graced with an exasperated grimace from him. With a measure of reluctance, he would entertain her taste for intrigue as well as weaving in interesting tidbits from abroad. They would while their time away for a spell, sharing low chuckles and storied banters, but then reality caught back up when a missive came for him.

Moments after Zenos' departure, a summon from his overbearing father, Crow felt what little she'd managed to eat stir with uneasiness. She swallowed another gulp of tea in an attempt to tamp down the nausea, it proved to be futile though as she clutched her abdomen. She stood slowly, hand gripping the back of the rich upholstery in an effort to steady herself.

The manservant, to his credit, had seen her discomfort and hovered over to investigate. He was all but ignorant of her condition but he had been the only one to have ever lifted a finger to address it. The maidservants kept their heads down and played ignorant to her poor habits. It seemed collectively, they've decided that they would strictly stay within the perimeter of their duties and not involve themselves with her troubles. She was the pariah to all but Zenos and her guardian; her quality of life may have markedly improved compared to years ago but general attitudes of the factotums remained unchanged.

Crow batted his hand aside weakly, her face taking on an ill cast. No longer certain of herself, she rushed past her manservant toward the connected bath chamber. Within a dozen hurried steps, she collided against the opal topped counter and heaved up what she'd managed to consume before. The content burned against her throat, but relief overcame her as the nausea retreated. Her world spun and she suddenly felt as though she was balancing on a rope. A dry, unbidden sob escaped her lips as she willed herself to breathe, her chest expanding painfully.

"Your Grace?" That manservant called out, his tone low and careful.

Eyes closing, she cursed herself for not closing the door behind her. All that he'd just witnessed — her humiliation. Crow turned to him with daggers in her eyes.

"Not a word to anyone about this, understand?" She hissed and reached for the faucet, the water washing away the evidence of her weakness.

He inclined his head, then she saw the glass of water and towel in his hand. He silently offered these items up with a gentle, tentative look. It gave her pause, brows furrowed as she assessed his intentions. 

To her confusion, there was no judgment in his eyes, no disgust, only an earnest willingness to be helpful. Reluctantly, she took the towel but gave a pointed look at the water. He realized her qualm and took a demonstrative swallow from the glass. Crow, unsure how to react, settled with her standard petulant pout. 

"Perhaps it would be wise to take medication to suppress your upset before every meal." He suggested.

"Don't be so presumptuous, it doesn't work like that." She bit out, scowling at him.

If that had, she wouldn't still be doubling over to retch up her meals. It was a point of frustration for her, this was a problem that should not be. She did not know where this issue had originated, only that it plagued her since she'd woken up in this simulacrum of a body. It had begun as a negligible dread that worsened when she and Zenos had their temporary schism. Over time, it manifested physically into headaches, then full blown fits of nausea during meals. She also suspected her experiences with Vinia was partly responsible for this thing that plagued her, it was thanks to her that Crow had such a contentious relationship with food. 

She sipped on the water, feeling its coolness wash the acrid taste from her tongue. 

"You could have left it alone and get along with your duties, you know." Crow said as he cleared the table, stacking the gilded porcelain onto a wide tray. He could have done as others did, ducking their heads to avoid her easily earned ire.

"I'd make a poor retainer if I did so, Your Grace." Andrus replied. "Moreover, you've done so much for me just by raising me to this position."

Crow raised a brow, then with hesitation, she aske: "How so?" 

He straightened, counting off the points with each gloved finger. He no longer had to share his quarters with other guards on duty, no more back breaking hauls of supplies; he was given new clothes and a fair stipend; the risk of losing a limb to frostbite was no longer a concern; and his new charge was not prone to biting him. He gave her an amused look upon counting off that last point.

"At least I hope not." He chuckled.

"I do not see how it's so hard to share a chamber with another person." Crow folded her arms, cocking her head. She and Zenos had once often slept well enough together as children, after all.

"Heavens no, Your Grace." Andrus stifled his laugh but could not stop himself from grinning. "In a dorm, there were twenty beds a room."

She grew mortified at the thought, imagining them squeezed together like canned sardines. "By the Emperor, twenty?"

"What about privacy and personal space?" Crow pressed, her singular eye widened as she conjured up an image of bodies fighting for space.

"One's private matters were best kept under one's blankets, and in the dar–..." Andrus faltered when he saw the flush of red creeping into his mistress’ cheeks.

"That's not what I meant, you deviant!" Crow flung the towel at her manservant with starling accuracy, blushing prettily as she scrambled to clear the indecent imagery from her thoughts. 

“Out!” She demanded, uncharacteristically flustered.

Needless to say, Andrus cleared out the tableware with admirable expediency, skidding from the room with tray in hand.

Chapter 30

Her Grace, his mistress, had recently bade for his assistance in her studies. Pages of esoterica plastered the standing board behind her. From mysterious glyphs to indecipherable circular graphs, they left little of the surface beneath visible. 

Andrus shifted nervously on his polished shoes as he shuffled into Her Grace's personal study. He did not serve her in her bed chamber, those duties were given to the handful of hand-selected maidservants. However, strictly speaking, he was obligated to follow her orders to the precise letter and they were presently occupying the room adjacent. 

"Here's a list." She slid a note to the edge of the richly lacquered pedestal desk, its surface scattered with handwritten sheafs. "Fetch them from the imperial stacks, tell them Zenos sent you." 

"The prince, Your Grace?" Andrus peered down at her flowing script, the list denoting several linguistic titles, subjects of the dead language of Mhach coming to the fore.

"That pompous scribe tend to ignore my request unless I'm present in the flesh, now go." His mistress griped with an irritable sigh, shooing him out with an urgent sweep of her hand.

It was an odd thing, Her Grace had barely sixteen winters to her name yet she behaved like a cantankerous crone when she was deep in her books. His late sister would have been at her age had she survived Dalmasca, she would have struck contrast to the First Princess' severity with her love for flowers and handmade lacery. He caught himself at the thought. Mostly, he tried to not think about his family, but lately, thanks to the ease of life within the inner palace, he'd become a touch lax.

He'd lived a hard life, his worst memory after the Barheim incident culminated in him being ferried back to Garlemald on a rescue ship. His mother and sister were nowhere to be found, yet they'd stuffed him in with the rest of the infirmed and flew off. It was only months later that he found their names among the posted list of casualties, and in those bleak moments, he realized he was truly alone in this world. He was barely on the cusp of adolescenthood then, running odd jobs and taking whatever charity he could scrounge from the capital's programs. He never slept in the same bed twice, and the patrolling soldiers did not take kindly to panhandlers. At length, he thought about ending things. With nothing to live for and no credit to his name, Andrus was convinced that it would be best to finally take that plunge over the precipice. His mind had been filled with morose ideas as he spun a sharp shard of glass around in his pocket. What had stayed his hand was a job posting, one of the bastilles were looking for new hires. The running thought back then was that, for one, there was a promise of stable income and new clothes. For two, he supposed his fate was far more preferable than the miserable wretched locked away within those cells.

For certain, he'd been grasping at straws back then — the fault of an optimist. But after what he'd witnessed in that dark cell, he realized there were truly worse fates out there to suffer. She had her moments, though, his mistress. Over the past weeks he'd seen the many facets of her, oscillating from the yearning glint in her eyes for His Grace, Lord Zenos, to an overtly austere authoritarian. She was at her best when she acted her age though, in his humble opinion, recalling the furtive fascination on topics regarding life outside the inner palace.

Alas, her hidden loveliness was concealed by the miasma of ill-opinions of the masses and her own bristling temper. All the sadder still was when he was advised by his colleagues not to be too open to Her Grace. The servants who surrounded her tended to suffer unsavory consequences, so he was told, the memories of the mass dismissal and disappearances still fresh in the collective consciousness of the servile caste. Their general attitudes bled over to even the bookkeepers of the inner palace as Andrus handed the list over to a sour-faced librarian.

"And this is for Prince Zenos, you say?" The thin waspish man squinted down at the slip of paper through his horned-rimmed spectacles, his knobbed fingers tracing over the dried ink.

Suspicion clear in his eyes, the librarian slapped down the paper against the rounded counter and shook his head. “These are volumes from His Radiance’s preservatory, they cannot be taken out from those archives.”

“Surely, ser, exceptions can be made for his lordship.” Andrus implored with a winsome smile, unperturbed by the difficult reception. He was no stranger to such dour disdain.

The librarian seemed to clamp down against any attempt of persuasion, a gleam of recognition clear within his glaucomic eyes. "If Her Grace wishes to peruse the collection, then she should fetch it her–" 

A hard thump interjected, the dour old coot's words were cut off at the sight of the towering figure of the aforementioned prince himself. Andrus realized how the librarian had caught up to his trivial untruth so easily — His Grace had been on the premises all along.

"There is wisdom in brevity, short of that, well…” The prince leered down at the shriveled, robed figure behind the grand, rounded counter. “You might wish to ruminate upon the benefits of self-preservation, it would be a pity for you to meet the same end as our dearly departed, Lord Aeetus.”

The over-the-hill librarian seemed to shrink back at the thinly veiled threat. He inclined his head and swiveled away on his wheeled seat, hands reaching for the thick ledger just below the counter.

He stooped over the yellowed pages with a nibbed pen in hand. "I will process the requested volumes as per your order, Your Grace." 

The prince parted from the scene, his own tomes left by the wayside for the time being. 

"Come."

Andrus glanced from the now cowering scrivener to the retreating figure of His Grace. He wondered what unfortunate demise had befell this 'Lord Aeetus' to have warranted such fear. Wisely, though, he kept his curiosity to himself, this was not the irreverent setting of the cell blocks for him to be asking questions.

Keeping a respectful distance from His Grace, Andrus could not help but look on in awe at his impressive stature. His own height was nothing to sneeze at but the prince was more than a head taller, perhaps almost two. His Grace was a rising figure of prominence even in the eyes of the common citizenry, he was rumored to be a prodigy and destined to be a Legatus in the near future. In short, Prince Zenos was the complete antithesis of his mistress in the zeitgeist of the capital. Where he was praised and looked on with hopeful approval, mentions of her would follow suit with passing disdain. In the past, it was a fascinating dichotomy, to an observer such as Andrus. But now, he felt pity and a measure of unspoken concern for his mistress, though he dared not make it too obvious. She was witty and clever, more than capable at holding her own in an intellectual conversation if the things he'd heard were proof enough to go by. She was highly aware of the attitudes of servants and made her own distant disdain of them obvious, much to Andrus' mortification. 

They passed through towering shelves after shelves, each of their sides labeled with a polished steel plaque. Subjects were seemingly organized and numbered with a decimal system though he could hardly decipher without a pause for inspection. They continued to tread on through a narrow corridor, path lit by sterile pale ceruleum lamps, the massive maze-like library far behind them. A circular elevator platform awaited by the end, Andrus stepped on after the prince and pursed his lips against the tensed silence. 

"Do you wish to know what happened to Lord Aeetus?" The question was posed suddenly but lightly, the prince's cold, slanting blue gaze landing squarely on Andrus. 

The manservant turned to regard Zenos, his own gaze lowered. He swallowed his uneasiness and fixed on a polite smile — the smile that had, in the past, quelled many difficult situations. "I listen at Your Grace's leisure."

As they descended to the lower level, the steel shaft gave way to transparent glass. The prince gazed downward to the preservatory, each volumes and artifacts of various cultural origins sealed behind air-tight glass. Arranged in pristine rows, they stood opposite of each other like ludus pieces. Andrus could not help but to cast about in awe, the path before then lit only by display lights and the dim glow of a grand chandelier above. His Grace led their meandering with implacable confidence, seemingly having visited this most sequestered chamber many a time. 

"The former senator, Aeetus eir Colchis, was your mistress' main tutor. He was a hard headed man, some with gentle tongues would call him idealistic, but most would agree that he was a fool." His Grace expounded as he walked, one hand gesturing as though he could extract the image of the aged senator for his singular listener's viewing.

"By his own volition, he retired from the position after three years of service. Crow was quite fond of him, to the point that she pressed the suit of his health and insisted that he enjoys his golden years in peace after a sudden fit of cardiac failure."

After more than a few dozen paces, the prince paused before a worn shelf, its tall, weathered body seemingly carved from one single trunk. The tree that was felled to craft this piece of furnishing would have likely been massive and positively ancient. Andrus was impressed, but not enough to pull his attention away from the prince's unraveling tale.

"Did he pass away because of his bad heart, Your Grace?" The manservant asked as he watched the prince retrieve three metal edged boxes from the top shelf, easily reaching them with his imposing height.

A dry, sardonic chuckle echoed through the vacant vault as the prince ran his hand along the labels of the shelves. "A guess more obvious cannot be said, how commendable."

"Despite his retirement, Lord Aeetus was still quite the influential figure — a supporter of the Populares, and philanthropist for the oppressed non-citizenry." Zenos let a pitiless smirk settle onto his lips, his austere handsomeness made more inimitable by the expression. "All that wealth and power could not stop him from being found dead at the landing of his decadent home, the stairwell speckled with blood as his skull cracked open like an egg against the polished steps."

In short, Andrus realized, this elderly senator fell to his death down the steps of his home. Yet something was amiss, a missing crucial detail ringing like a hollow space at the center of a jigsaw puzzle. He needn't speak for the prince to spot the prying wrinkle knotting his brows. Zenos' faint smirk grew into a smile, cruel lips curling to reveal his glistening teeth.

"What telltale signs of an assassin were covered up, of course, but one could hardly erase the trace of a broken window or a splintered banister — so much paper trail and credits left behind for a curious, thorough eye."

Andrus found himself paralyzed by this knowledge, it felt forbidden — a threat. The prince had uncovered these crumbs, and was now feeding them to him like how one would toss table scraps to a dog.

"If a lord, endowed with resources and means, could not fend for himself once parted from the inner palace," The prince closed the distance between them with a serpentine saunter, looking down his chin at the nothing manservant before him. "What makes you, with only the clothes on your back and the weak flesh on your bones, any more capable of surviving our world than he?"

A point was being made, and with every word uttered, it twisted into Andrus akin to a bloodied dirk. His Grace raised the archival boxes to him, his bloodless smile now gone.

"You are lacking, before long, she will outgrow you as she did Aeetus." His Grace informed him with unfaltering certainty. "We have no use for ineffectual tools here, so return from whence you came."

Andrus bit down on a retort, he wanted to denounce the prince's words, prove himself capable of serving Her Grace. Instead, he lifted the parcels from Lord Zenos' hand, his movement filled with forced deference.

"Thank you for your assistance, Your Grace." He bowed his head as he clenched his teeth, his jaw gave a tensed feathering as he swallowed his indignation.

On the ascending ride back to the main imperial library, the prince turned to him again and said with nonchalance. "Ah… by the by, it'd be wise to keep your silence on the matter of Lord Aeetus’ passing lest your mistress becomes aware of your spying on His Radiance's behalf."

Andrus stiffened, his knuckles grew white as he gripped the sides of the stacked boxes. The prince stepped off the elevator platform the moment it came to a stop, easily striding away as though nothing of note had passed between them. When he returned to his mistress' chambers, he found himself filled with uneasiness. He'd felt somewhat guilty whenever he passed on private reports to a praetorian, stamped, sealed and unsigned, but had managed to reason that His Radiance solely had the First Princess' best interest at heart. Now, the weight that had been there had doubled with the new knowledge imparted to him by the prince.

"What took you? I've been looking to bridge these transcriptions…" She trailed off at the sight of his lackluster demeanor, he’d returned with the requested tomes in hand but his mannerisms were absent of the usual subservient enthusiasm.

"Is aught amiss?" His mistress asked, her quest temporarily forgotten. “Did that withered book-boy give you trouble?” She said with an amused scoff, he was unsure whether she was mocking him or the mentioned subject.

“No, Your Grace, but His Grace did happen upon me, it seems he’d been there prior to my arrival.” Andrus arranged the archival boxes neatly upon a corner of her wide desk.

“Well, that must have been awkward.” His mistress gave a wry smile. ”Anything else to report?”

Andrus lingered in a moment of hesitation, his tongue felt leaden in his mouth. “There was one more thing, Your Grace..."

Chapter 31

The final line of ink dried and settled into the paper, the formula she’d devised was finished, an amalgam of antediluvian Mhachi knowledge and the studies of the not-so-distant past Messors — the title granted to head reapers of their respective eras. This breakthrough should have been a defining cornerstone for the esoteric practices of not only her but also Messor Rullus and his ilk, yet she felt little elation at this triumph, Her thoughts, typically honed with clear focus, was presently clouded with melancholic doubt.

Her tutor had been old, and had suffered a fit that had her prompting after his retirement. His death was soon expected and inevitable, yet she could not help but feel somewhat morose at the thought. Lord Aeetus was eccentric and serious, but he'd taught her with an earnest enthusiasm. She'd enjoyed his anecdotes from back when His Radiance was young, even if they grew to disagree with one another through the intervening years. His Radiance bore a begrudging respect for the former senator, his sharp wit was undeniable. Like her, he'd been fond of ludus, and often used maneuvers on the board to demonstrate his lessons. War and diplomacy were two sides of a coin, 'Violence might be an effective tool, but only words may stoke and quell conflicts.' as he was fond to quote.

She wondered where he was entombed, even hoped he'd been cremated with the appropriate honors. A visit might do her a world of good, a contemplative moment away from these palatial yet stifling halls. Crow glanced over at the untouched tray of food left by her manservant, the fat of the small stuffed hen had congealed into a slick film, and the buttered chanterelle had gone cold and jelly-like. The recent morose news has robbed her of her appetite, and she had little energy to even celebrate her personal success.

Crow stood from her plush seat, organizing her research once the ink had set. There was only three weeks left until the day of Zenos' departure, and even though he may not express it in words, she could see his impatience leaking through. The furtive, flicking glances he would send her way were more than indicative, he'd wished to question her progress but did not wish to disturb the easy air of their meal time together. Lately, he'd been treating her as though she was made from glass, delicate and breakable. She had to admit, since withdrawing from physical training with Drusilla, she'd grown thinner. 

A susurrus hum silenced her thought, it came from the dark corner where the light of the smoldering fireplace and lamps could not reach. 

"Come out from there, did Drusilla send you to check on my progress?" Crow smirked, seeing a stir in the shadows. "If you do, I might be generous enough to toss you a speck of aether."

Stygian arms stretch across the plush carpeting, leaving behind greasy spectral stains that would soon fade. A black, tattered cowl slithered across the burgundy carpet, climbed its way up her desk and pooled at the edge of the surface. In the rippling center mass was an eyeless, withered skull, sharp teeth clacking as it grinned humorlessly up at her.

"Hello, Drusilla, how kind of you to think of me." Crow said as she leaned over the thing as though it was a reflecting pool, her tone saccharine. She knew her mentor was able to see and hear everything being said. "I'll be happy to inform you that I'm finished with my theory, I just need to find subjects for the ritual."

No answer would be forthcoming, this voidsent was incapable of speech. She'd once aspired to possess a creature like this one, but now only saw it as a mewling, hungry underling. Still, she kept her word and raised her hand. With both claws, it cradled her proffered fingers in anticipation. The pale glow of channeled aether suffused the vicinity, the reverberation of a growling purr thrumming against her palm. She pulled away, not a drop more or less than she'd deemed sufficient. The thing gurgled, begging for more, slowly rising from its flattened form.

" Fáhg, lagú ." She bit out harshly before it could fully loom over her, words ringing with the power of command — the dead language of Mhach were not only used to rain down destruction but also to ward against unnatural outsiders.

The voidsent hissed and retreated against the darkened far wall, darting along the casted shadows of the furnishing before slipping from her commode through the crack at the windows. All that remained was a hint of sulfur, Crow wrinkled her nose and retrieved a bottle of perfume from her desk drawer.

****

The grand mausoleum, where the honored dead and war heroes who had played a pivotal part in the empire's history rested, was built just beyond palace grounds. It boasted stately pedestal steps and wuthering halls where over two hundred departed souls were kept, their ashes decorated with a plaque that credited their achievements and valors. Zenos climbed from the sleek vehicle first, extending a hand to his companion. Crow followed suit shortly, peering up at the light snow raining from above. It was a pleasant kind of snowfall, tranquil with no accompanying gusts nor sleet.

Her dog, the manservant, had been left behind on this occasion, his tail tucked between his legs after he'd defied Zenos' firm suggestion to vacate Crow's service. Moreover, his loose lips had set an air of forlornness on her, the news of her dearly-regarded tutor's demise had sank her spirits even further. No matter how she tried to hide the fatigue under powders and blush, the faint sharpness of her cheeks were unmistakable.

"You should eat more, and quit your late night habits." Zenos scolded lightly, slipping her tapered gloved hand into her crook of his elbow.

Crow gave a clipped sigh. "I've just finished with my study, so worry not."

They climbed the steps together, fitted boots resounding as they passed through the threshold. Preceding the crypt where the urns of the departed were kept, a clean foyer greeted them, its centerpiece were portraits of famous figures whom she'd recognize, even a few notable playwrights had earned their way into these vaunted halls. His Radiance was ever fond of the arts, especially drama-theater.

"Such reassuring words." He said dryly.

Crow rolled her eyes, not bothering to disguise the annoyed look. "The same peace of mind I felt when I found out that you'd neglected to inform me of Lord Aeetus' death sooner."

Zenos frowned. "And you are stones lighter owing to the knowledge."

She huffed sharply, brows acutely drawing into her own irritated grimace. Their squabble was short lived as she dragged him to the directory, flipping through the old tome that recorded the date and names of the deceased. She understood his intention but that did not mean she was not crossed by his omission. At least he was making up for that fact by visiting this place with her, it'd been almost five days since they'd seen one another. Varis was growing confoundingly good at occupying Zenos' time. But that would change soon enough, should she succeed.

They stepped as a pair through the rows of plaques, each wall taller than even he. Zenos recognized a few names in passing, those who had been under his father's service and those under Titus'. A few of the aristocracy were here, though most were wont to be kept in their own private family plot. Imperial members were also entombed here, his grandfather, Prince Lucius and his wife. His own mother as well were resting just above their heads, sealed within a gilded vault, their portraits and plaques were displayed for remembrance. Inevitably, an unpleasant string of questions began to creep into his mind. Zenos glanced down at Crow as he recalled her limbs growing unbearably colder under his touch.

Had she not inexplicably survived her poisoning, would she be sequestered elsewhere instead of here? Her name etched finely into a steel plaque, one of the revered deads? Or would she be forgotten, lay moldering in some hidden grave? 

The prince stamped out the morbid musing, disliking the burdensome weight it'd manifested in the pit of his stomach.

"Zenos, are you well?" Crow peered at him with mild concern. It was unlike him to appear so pale and unfocused.

His composure was seamlessly regained as he met her eyes, realizing they'd stopped in front of Lord Aeetus' plaque. The steel was polished, newly installed compared to some others. 

'Senator Aeetus eir Colchis — beloved father, unwavering politician and respected tutor.' '

Crow, as far as she was aware, was his only pupil, but judging by this mention, he perhaps enjoyed teaching her as much as she did learning from him. She gave Zenos' arm an emphatic squeeze.

"He and Drusilla were the only two teachers who had ever treated me well." She said wistfully, drawing stalks of violets from her coat pocket. She'd smuggled them from the solarium, their gentle scent still lingering despite the cold.

"Are you sad?" He asked as he watched her place the tiny flowers into the small half-bowl beneath the plaque. 

"He’d be fuming with embarrassment had he survived his accidental fall, it was perhaps his time." She gave a short laugh as she thought of her tutor’s annoyed scowl upon being fussed over by physicians. "I’m not one for tears, but I think I'll miss him and his long-winded lessons."

He wrapped an arm around her slim shoulders, gloved hand running soothingly against her arm. 

It seemed that the manservant had chosen to lie, leading her to believe Aeetus' death had been a stroke of misfortune. At the very least, that upstart servant had realized telling her the truth would have been cruel; that associating with her often resulted in ill consequences. Political statements via foul play seemed to be the chosen fashion in the capital of late, and while Zenos was not opposed to this cull, her safety and comfort was ever his main priority.

 "Good, you get terribly red in the ears when you cry."

Zenos felt her elbow dig into his ribs and gave a half-smirk, the pressure of her dour glare needling at him. In response, he pressed her closer in an emphatic squeeze.

At visit's end, they traipsed past the stairs leading to the upper floor when she asked tentatively, gently tugging on his sleeve. "Shall we give your mother a visit as well?"

The prince's eyes trailed up the flight in a moment of consideration. It'd been more than a decade since her funeral, that day when she'd passed on and the subsequent weeks of mourning spent alone without a parent. He'd fled to the newly adopted Crow's chambers and spent all his time trying to forget the rage in his father's gaze and the lifeless form of his mother. 

"Very well." He murmured, thumb brushing against the soft fabric of her coat.

With each step up the bluestone flight, his thoughts grew quiet. It was one thing to see his mother in a painted portrait, but to see her once more in her final resting place was something he never liked to consider. Yet now, even in the face of the troubled memories of his childhood, he found himself quiet with calm.

It was a weakness to cling into old fears and regrets, things that had passed that he could not change. His mother had chosen to birth him, paid dearly for the act, and had loved him still despite her lord husband's acrimony. He'd outgrown his fear of his father, it was now time to lay the ghost of his mother down to rest as well.

****

The door to the drawing room swung open lightly as the First Princess returned, her jaunt had a slight spring and her cheeks flushed from the cold outside. For an outing to visit her deceased tutor, his mistress seemed remarkably chipper. She had tugged off her coat and gloves, requesting supper, and even turned the radio up to catch the latest recital laying on the evening channel. Her spirit swelled bright like a full moon after spending time with His Grace, even sparing Andrus a slight smile.

"Will Prince Zenos be joining in the usual dining hall, Your Grace?" No sooner than when those words left his mouth, he knew he'd erred.

Her Grace visibly soured, her mood turning at the flip of a coin. The prince must have excused himself early, indisposed for the evening.

"No, he had a prior engagement — Lord Varis." Then to his regret, her afterglow was gone.

Secretly, however, Andrus was relieved at the news. He was not quite so prepared to face the prince after defying his silencing order. He'd been told not to mention Lord Aeetus' passing, but judged it sound to inform her. In his personal experience, the news of death in the family or a close one only feels worse regardless of how much time has passed. He'd felt the sting of grief twofold, and though his wounds may echo keenly still, he was glad to receive closure regardless. Prince Zenos may have thought to shield her from life's growing pains, but it was better to feel such things now rather than later. Her interdependence on the prince, in the long run, ill-benefited her. Any mirth she may have gained often soon faded and left naught but a severe young woman, often prone to bouts of studious reclusivity.

After her supper, Andrus stooped to pour a dark, redolent tea for her, nudging forward the cream and sugar. The fire in its pit danced merrily before them as his mistress stirred in a dollop of cream and a cube of sweetener, her gaze unfocused, mesmerized by the flickering flames. Despite her earlier cheer, her appetite proved little better than the norm. He would have to inform His Radiance about this issue again, along with a few notes.

His mistress was deep in thought when she next spoke, her eyes appearing wistful as she sank deeper into her armchair. "You know, I don't think I've ever told my tutor that I appreciated his lessons. Not aloud, anyways."

"You were assuredly his best pupil, Your Grace." Andrus replied amicably, attempting to give what little support he could to his young mistress.

The flat look she shot his way told him that he'd once again ruined the moment in spite of his good intentions. "I was his only student."

The manservant coughed sharply, wracking his mind to salvage the conversation. "A testament to your astuteness to have been taught by a former senator!"

Her Grace turned to regard him with a familiar expression that she and Prince Zenos seemed to share — a trenchant, dubious smirk, a quirk of her brow wrinkling in sardonic amusement. Several moments passed as she cradled the warm teacup and saucer, letting the heat soak to the tips of her fingers before lifting it daintily to her lips. The beverage was mildly sweet and heavy with cream, filling her with a fleeting peace.

"Thank you…for your services thus far." She said suddenly, gratitude pitched quietly for only his ears. 

Andrus, positioned just behind her, straightened in surprise. The firelight outlined the contours of her arched browline and high cheekbone, dark lashes lowered as she gauged his reaction in her periphery. He lowered himself by the waist in a deferential bow, full glad to be of service.

"It is my pleasure to serve, Your Grace."

Chapter 32

Time was not on her side, the ritual could no longer wait despite her not being able to find a last candidate. Two lives must be given up to bring even a sliver of a greater voidsent through the veil; one a sacrifice and the other to be hollowed out as a vessel. Both must be of importance to the summoner as the resonance of heightened emotion would serve as lure.

Crow bit at her nails, wracking her mind desperately. A fortnight left before the date of departure to Valnain, she must earn Messor Rullus and Drusilla's seal of approval for the emperor to even entertain the idea. She was on the verge of tearing out her hair until the door swung open to admit Zenos.

"I see knocking is still beyond you." She glared at him from between the stacked times on her desk. The servants had been forbidden from touching anything, papers, books and cultish paraphernalia strewn about in organized chaos across her workspace.

"And keeping neat is ever your forte." The prince replied without missing a beat, stepping over a jar of dried animal bones and empty, crusty vials of old blood.

"I can find things perfectly fine this way." Crow sniffed.

Zenos shook his head but refrained from adding another retort. "I haven't much time today but I stopped by to inquire of your progress."

She frowned, leaning back on the soft calf-leather chair. It creaked slightly, accompanying her frustrated groan. "Do not even mention that."

"What happened to your visits to the cell blocks?" He leaned an elbow against a tower of tomes, watching as Crow clutched her face.

“Nothing from those bottom feeders produce anything substantial.”

Zenos hummed a short, contemplative note. “Have you tried with one of the palace servants? Your new hanger-on perhaps.”

Crow shot him a dry look and to her bemusement, his countenance grew hard and austere. He slid a plainly stamped envelope forward, the red wax seal unadorned, and fixed her with his trenchant blue eyes.

“What is this?” She did not recall sending out a letter like this, nor would she receive such missive from without the imperial palace prior to her public debut into society.

“He was handing this off to a guard. Though to whose eyes it was meant remains unknown.” 

The prince retreated to the study’s entrance, lingering just long enough to impart his warning. 

“You might want to reconsider keeping him on.”

The door clicked shut quietly but the sound echoed cavernously inside Crow’s ears along with Zenos’ words. She stared down at the slim envelope with furrowed brows and parted lips, a dreadful foreboding feathered beneath her bodice as she reached for it.

****

Zenos slipped into his father's war council, tardy. Only some among the peerage spared him a glance, his irreverence at these gatherings was nothing new. A glaring pair of eyes landed squarely upon him, however, jaundiced with disapproval.

"And what do you think so far of our discussion, boy?" Varis drawled, gauntlet scraping over the sprawling map.

His spiteful father did this at almost every meeting, aiming to punish his lack of punctuality. Zenos loomed over the nearest chair as he peered at the drawn landscapes, fingers tracing against the laureled grooves of the carved wood.

To the west was Aldenard with Gyr Abania as the latest to enter the empire's dominion. His father had claimed that there was no merit in taking Gridania as an immediate prize, instead deciding that it would be better to consolidate the central region and spread out from the continent's heart. The strategy would have been a sound one if one did not take into account of the dreaded wyrmlord's ambush of their forces in midair. He'd heard second hand accounts of the battle over wine and dealings with the imperial court's ilk. It was said to have been nothing short of a spectacular, expensive failure, one his father would find difficult to live down. The Agrius had been the first one of its kind, at once a flying fortress and a weapon of unconquerable destruction, the collective city-states of Aldenard would have been waylaid had it not been for literal divine intervention. Midgardsormr was thought to have been a myth of Coerthan origins, until recent times that is. The dragon king of legend had coiled around the gargantuan ship, howling its terrible song in triumph before perishing in a ceruleum-fueled blaze.

By the looks of the carved wooden ludus pieces on the sizable council table, the empress within Mor Dhona and her pawns spread to the surrounding regions, his father was willing to repeat his folly in spite of that venture's previous cost. Zenos surmised that it would not be a bad idea — if he was willing to bankrupt imperial coffers and destitute the royal family. 

The incursion into Mor Dhona was not the lone cause of their near-dire financial hold. One other such costly project was the construction of Baelsar's Wall in Gyr Abania. It had been a laborious effort to build, and merely maintaining chipped away at their vast wealth. His father's fiery setback over Lake Silvertear skies had consumed the rest of non-essential funds spared for military campaigns. Countless dead soldiers, the empire’s fleets without a flagship, and extravagant undertakings that left them vulnerable to their inferiors was apparently the worth of his father's pride.

These bloodsucking worms, aristocrats who were present and had pledged support for his father's cause, were merely seeking to have the imperial throne indebted to them through him, the High Legatus. Their conniving ways were almost admirable.

"My opinions would bear no weight in this hall of veterans — but surely, my Lords, don’t you think His Radiance would take great interest in your plans and with much to add himself?" Zenos, as he spoke, casted his eyes to each and every one of the faces present, finding none able to meet his gaze head on.

They knew, even while they strutted about, crowing for glory, that this was near-treason. To go beneath the emperor's nose and make grand campaign plans before receiving his approval, the cell blocks would be quite full for a moon or two if his father's plans were uprooted.

"Leave us." Varis growled low, his inflamed temper burning dark.

One by one, the steel and silk clad men shuffled out of the bedecked hall, the door swinging shut on silent hinges as Zenos was left to face his father. Varis remained seated, the vein next to his third eye visibly throbbed as he regarded his son. Directly on the opposite end the prince stood straight with his hand tucked into his coat pocket, though his bearing was regal and firm, his shoulders were loose and his stance was as relaxed as can be. 

If one were to drop a pin, it would echo to the wuthering vaulted ceiling, all the way to the shimmering crystal chandelier hanging over their heads.

A fist collided with the carved, stone-topped surface, shattering the terse silence. Varis spoke first, snarling his warning.

"You'd best watch yourself before it ruins us, boy."

"I only aim to ape my betters." Zenos inclined his head, an audacious smirk dancing on his lips. "Though even for you, this is quite bold."

"Your input is no longer needed, so be quiet and listen." Varis leaned back on his plush, velvet seat, composing himself as a ripple of satisfaction smoothed out the scowl on his face.

The prince shifted on his feet, sensing something amiss upon witnessing the break in his father's ever-present frown. He almost smiled before Zenos, lips morphing into a vague sneer before delivering his next words.

"Plans have changed regarding your military service, you're being assigned to van Baelsar's legion in Ala Mhigo."

"Is that so?" Zenos tightened his grip on the carved grooves, nails scraping against the varnished designs.

The XIVth legion currently fell under his father's jurisdiction, and he would see to it that Crow would not be able to join him regardless of the emperor's verdict on her assignment. Clearly, this was Varis' way of reasserting power over Zenos, reminding him that he was not only his father but also the author of his fate.

"And what does His Radiance have to say?" Zenos pressed. His father did, after all, ceded the responsibility of his upbringing to his great grandfather.

"A matter between a father and his undisciplined son need not the emperor's intervention." Varis steepled his fingers, looking as though he'd won.

Zenos supposed he did. His Radiance would only ever lift his finger when he deemed it necessary, squabbles such as this between his sons and daughters were beneath his notice. Crow had been the first to receive such focused and unprecedented favor, leaving a bitter, green taste in the rest’s mouths. Moreover, without his accompaniment, the emperor would be less willing to let her depart from the capital. She would remain here still, separated from the world beyond — the cloistered shame his father sought to conceal, and their desire to escape this place snuffed out before it could even be realized. And, with this reassignment, they would be torn apart again for at least a year, their promise to each other broken again. With one move, his father had thrown a disruptive wrench into their plans and achieved one of his many spiteful, short term goals.

The prince clenched his jaw tight, knowing Varis, there would be no point in arguing. He turned and simply walked away, his mind already at work on how to right this matter. Victory was his father’s on this day, but he would be damned before he let things stay that way.

Chapter 33

To say she was bewildered by the letter was a severe understatement as each word perfectly described where she was and what she'd been doing in the past week. The smooth paper left her fingers feeling cold as blood drained from her face. Her immediate reaction was shocking consternation, then came a sharp ache that lanced through her breast. Betrayal, she realized as she let go of the pained breath she'd held in, was an invisible dagger.

The sheaf fell from her fingers and landed simply onto her desk, light and harmless despite the impact it'd impressed upon her. Crow wondered why and to whom he'd been reporting to — the paper bore no hint of its recipient. Without thought, she slammed her fist against the missive, growing increasingly wrothed by his audacity. She had been the one to pluck him from that frozen box and gave him every comfort, yalms and malms better than what he'd been afforded as a nothing prison guard. And this — she snatched up the pages in disdain— was how her favor and charity was repaid?

The princess gripped at the paper, thinking of all the ways she would punish him for his disloyalty. She rose then, unable to hold herself still for any longer, and stormed out of her study and apartments to find the first servant she could get her hands on.

A maidservant quailed as she was caught, reminding Crow of a panicked finch. Had she wings, they would've been flapping in distress as she was subjected to the full thunder of her imperial lady’s regard.

“Find my retainer and send him to my apartments immediately.” She commanded coldly.

The maidservant nodded rapidly. Whatever errand she'd been sent on was forgotten as she fled to do the princess's bidding, though she was far more eager to put distance between them than to carry out her urgent orders. The maidservant found the aforementioned retainer in the kitchens, a silvered tray in hand with his mistress’ afternoon repast.

“Her Grace wants your immediate attendance.” The Garlean maidservant glanced over to the piping hot plate of cheesy pelmeni dumplings and lightly steaming rassolnik soup. In the beginning, weeks prior, he hadn’t always been so well-regarded. But over time, he’d earned himself a generous measure of acceptance among the lower servile caste. Andrus had always been gracious to her in small but meaningful ways, helping her carry heavy laundering loads whenever they crossed paths and even once smoothly cut in when one of the stewards overstepped certain boundaries. “She…well, she’s in one of her moods, perhaps you should leave that behind.”

“Ah, is she?” Andrus smiled, the opposite reaction one would have upon hearing such dreadful warnings. He passed the tray to her and gave her a courteous nod, thanking her for her troubles.

“You could request to transfer, you know?” She called out, seeming overripe with worry. “After all the things you hear, I can't imagine–”

The maidservant stuttered to a halt as she saw him hold up a finger to his lips, a pleasant smile belied his objection.

“Please, refrain from disparaging Her Grace. It would not do to spoil her ears with such tiring gossip.”

The maidservant looked on helplessly at his retreating back. She was not the only one who looked favorably upon him, in fact, most pitied him for his service under the pariah princess. More than one girl she knew pined for him, but all are relegated to a distant admiration as he showed nothing but the utmost consideration and dedication to his mistress. However, in her private observation, his devotion was more suited in the rosy kaleidoscope of a staged play than within these frigid walls. 

It was quiet when he arrived before her rooms, the towering double doors tightly shut. The last thing Andrus expected was the stillness of the atmosphere. His mistress had the penchant to be rather violently liberal with her properties when she was roused with frustration or anger, almost kinetic as she would send something flying this way or that. He steeled himself and knocked, the silent pressure behind the doors seemed palpable to him.

“Get in here.” 

He pushed through the threshold, a dreary anticipation plucked at him like a poorly tuned string. It was bad from the sound of it, though he knew not what could have ignited her foul ire. That was until a set of familiar pages and envelope was tossed at his feet. He did not need to skim through its content before he recognized his own quick, sharp script.

“Who put you up to this?” Her back was to him, face hidden from view.

Andrus took a step forward, his tongue unaccountably leaden. “I can explain, Your Grace. The emperor–”

“The emperor?” His mistress balked, incredulity souring her comely face as she whirled to face him. Her silken sleeve swayed as she seemed to bat aside his claim. “Why would he order something like this? He’s never taken keen interest in my personal affairs.”

“He is simply concerned for your wellbeing,Your Grace, and it is on his behalf that I do this. And if I may be direct, your lack of appetite, the escapades at the cell blocks and His Grace's impending departure has placed you under great strain.” Andrus approached her as he would a wounded beast, hands cautiously extended in appeasement. The mention of His Radiance seemed to somewhat mollify her fury though he would still be under her mercy if she were to lash out. “The lord emperor cares for you more than you know… though in this humble servant’s opinion, his skill at showing such affection leaves us all wanting.”

From anger to sullenness, and now astonishment painted her features at his moxie to criticize her guardian. An involuntary laugh escaped her, sounding more a hitched breath than anything stemming from amusement.

“Do you expect me to believe your claim?” She hissed, yanking him down to her level by the length of his maroon necktie. “You, who know nothing of the games played in this nest of vipers, would not think anyone with sweet eyes and grateful murmurs could sell you out for a half-year’s wage. They are liars and will turn a blind eye to the most brazen atrocities if it suited them. As a matter of fact, I could have your head here and none will remember you by year’s end!”

Andrus lowered his gaze, gloved fingers wrapping around the hard clutch of her hand and slowly sank to his knees at his mistress’ boots. Even against such a threat, he could not bear to leave her for she had so little in the way of familial bonds for someone so richly endowed in material wealth.

“Before, I only did as the emperor bid because I had no other choice, Your Grace. But I know now that he truly is concerned for you, and I as well for you remind me of the family — a young sister — I’ve long lost.” 

She flinched upon hearing the comparison, halted in her attempt to withdraw.

“Leave.” Her face was shadowed as she scoured him with her impassioned order, the words harsher than any physical strike she could've dealt to him with her slim-fingered hand. “Now.”

Andrus swallowed and relinquished his hold. He hoped the guard would allow him enough time to prepare himself before they dragged him back to the very cellblocks he’d come from. This time, he surmised, he would be on the other side of the thick steel doors, likely plucking off his frost-blackened toes as his teeth fell out from all their clattering in the cold.

He stood and bowed with composed grace as a palace servant ought to, in spite of himself. He gave his mistress one last lingering glance; he cared for her even as he feared her wrath, understanding that the fires of youth were a double-edged sword. He’d seen many facets of her and knew she was capable of not only acrid resentment but also honest appreciation, he would be sorry to see the softer side of her be stamped out on the account of his errors and her growing distrusts.

****

The sharp, clipped echo of her bootheels bounced through the groin vaulted ceiling of the imperial palace, warning the praetors of her impending arrival. The First Princess stood before them with a displeased lour as they regarded her in turn, one even breaking their stony vigil to shake his head to discourage her from intruding. Behind the door, she could hear the murmurs of discussion, made faint through the filter of the lacquered lignum vitae doors.

Sparing only the briefest moment of deliberation, the princess ignored the guard’s behest and barged in without knocking. The door swung back on quiet hinges and she saw an older man, tall but slope-shouldered, standing before the sprawl of the emperor’s busy desk. His sandy blond hair was tied neatly back, the emerald damask silk vest shone faintly by the grand study’s warm sconced lights. 

“But my lord, the house arrest you placed on Arrecina has taken a toll and–” He paused mid-sentence upon sensing her presence.

The emperor flicked his lambent eyes over to her, the annoyed furrowed of his brow lifted when he saw the grimace on her countenance.

“That conniving wench should count herself lucky that I do not strip her of everything and throw her into the tundra waste. Now go, and never bother me with this again.” The emperor warned softly, his words like an edge on a whetstone as he waved a curt dismissal.

The man blanched though he managed to retain a modicum of his dignity, bowing before brushing past. He ignored her entirely, pale-faced and craven in his retreat. Had he a tail, it would've been tucked between his legs. She closed the door behind him and frowned despite His Radiance’s palpable displeasure.

He rubbed at his temple as he watched her approach. It seemed everybody had a bone to pick with him on this day.

“I assume that was Lord Titus.” Crow broached, reining her temper in. She had not been aware that the Princess Arrecina was under house arrest, in fact, she was hardly privy to much without the inner palace walls.

“He's quite…” She searched hard for something polite, “...obliging.” She finished lamely.

“My second son — a worm pinned under the whims and wishes of his harpy of a wife.” Solus scoffed. “He’s always been such, one wonders what I've done to deserve him among my ilk.”

“I imagine Lord Lucius must have been quite the opposite considering his accolades.” She paced to the side of the desk, placing herself in a position that was not so adversarial to her guardian.

The emperor pinned her with a long, ruminating look, seemingly able to extract the motive of her visit with only his eyes alone. 

“No, he was much the same, yet different.” He said finally after three short ticks of the chronometer, an aged weariness settling upon him like a burdensome cloak. “Now, what is it?”

She drew in a pointed breath and surrendered her meandering tactics.

“I'm would speak to you about Andrus.”

He gave no reaction, only leaning upon the calf-leather armrest of his seat with an elbow. She waited, and His Radiance released a drawn out sigh. 

“Go on.” He allowed.

“By chance, I was recently made aware of your arrangement with him.” Her frown was acute, lips pressed into a disapproving line.

“And what of it?” He arched a brow at her, entirely unbothered by her growing discontentment.

Crow straightened, flushed with offense at his disinterest. “I am not a child to be coddled, I do not need a minder who reports to you day and night.”

“If you wish to be treated as a grown woman, then it is high time you conduct yourself like one.” Solus said sternly. He had no doubt she’d given her pet dog hell when she’d discovered their communications. “And look at yourself! Thin as summer’s ice — you’re hardly eating and neglecting all else in pursuit of your dalliances with obsolete nonsense.”

She could scarcely believe what she was hearing, her temper growing inflamed by his reprimand.

“Do not do this now, Your Radiance. You’ve never lifted a hand in all those years against Vinia, leaving me to suffer under her charge.” She retorted thickly, looking increasingly upset with each exchange. “I have neither mother nor father, only you, and you chose to hand me off to that wretched woman when I am your daughter in all but name!”

She barreled headlong into her anger, pushing past the walls she’d erected so long ago. “Starved and then poisoned, I must gather the will to eat at every spoonful so I’ve the strength to leave this cage. It is far too late to overcorrect your neglect of me!”

The moment halted in an instant as they stared at one another. She was shocked at her own acrid sentiments as soon as they left her lips, the reopening of old scars scalded her more than she could express. Likewise, he appeared stricken by her sharp words, wounded golden eyes staring in stunned placidity. Her vision grew flooded in a blur, a warm tear slipped from her lowered lashes to fall down her cheek. Crow sucked in a scant breath and caught the drop with the back of her hand, biting her lower lip to stifle herself.

She was before him now, tremulous despite her stubbornly upheld facade of strength. It was the same back then as it was now, her farewell bitter and sorrowful and lacking the sweetness he’d become accustomed to. He had, he realized with some difficulty, failed her in many aspects as her caretaker, but what could one expect from a man who had only known so little of love and understood it even less. Now, owing to his failures, she wished to leave, to return to that glorious wanderlust that had ever driven her to new horizons. He had not the heart to stop her then and he was not one to change even after several lifetimes lived.

“Go then, if you wish.” Solus murmured quietly and scraped at his rich robes over where his heart lay beating, only dimly aware of the pained squeeze it gave.

A heavy hiss escaped his parched lips as another pulse wrenched through him. Then another and another, each wave increasing in intensity until he was mute with agony. He clawed at the leather doing all he could to keep his head above the rising tide of unconsciousness. Alas, there were things even he could not withstand for long, he'd ever been a glutton for punishment but could never stomach the pain. A voice, muffled through the murk, called out, though he could not place what was being said before he was dragged under the dark tides.

This was, by no means, an unfamiliar experience. He’d died before, this mask was only the latest one in a long line of incarnations. In centuries prior, not once could he recall such acute remorse while in the throes of death. His demise was as varied as the roles he’d played, a diseased crone, a jester beheaded in court, a martyred prophet of false gods, et cetera, et cetera. if one could veritably think of it, he’d done it at least once, or twice. This time, though, he found himself hanging on the ledge still, his business yet to be finished. He’d felt the pang of his heart, more than just the physical cause from a long-lived life — he actually felt his heart breaking under the weight of her words, and the revelation had left him bewildered. 

He’d been a hopeful dolt when his firstborn was brought into this world, and when he had died, it felt as though that hope was a useless, futile thing. He’d lived many lifetimes, yet that had been the first time he’d fathered another soul. He’d hoped to feel the pleasures of fatherhood with Azem, his dearest Mnemosyne, by his side, but his cowardice had sundered that dream to ruin. He’d thought he could live a ghostly semblance of that dream with Lucius, then, twisted as it was, with this incarnation of her. Perhaps he was simply not capable of such parental tenderness, his desires and needs now all muddied and unrealized.

A wet trickle dripped against the back of his hand coaxed him to consciousness, followed by the warm contact of skin. A small sob, the sound sweetly familiar to his ears as he remembered that tiny, swaddled thing he’d held in Ishgard. His eyelids were weighed down by the leftover dredges of sleep, his joints cried out with unbidden aches when he tried to shift himself. The feel of soft silk and warmed sheets engulfed him as he finally opened his eyes, squinting against the diffused yellow lamplight.

Crow laid curled up next to him upon the sea of linens, appearing as a pool of sobbing worry and dove-gray gown. Her cheek pressed against the back of his worn, spotted knuckles. Her smaller hands tucked into the crook of his fingers as she gave a wet sniff, the sound plucked on his heartstrings like the melodic cadence of a chord. He reached over and swept her hair back, glimpsing at flushed ears and nose as she casted up at him. 

He held a mollifying finger to his lips as he stroked the crown of her head, basking in the slow evening dusk. The quiet but constant chirp of a pulse tracker interjecting the hushed atmosphere, accompanied by low, worried murmurs that drifted in from the adjacent room. Quintus and the royal physician were discussing how and when to break the news — first to the imperial family, then perhaps to the citizenry if he did not wake by the next three days. They sounded fearful as all subjects of kingdoms and empires always tended to be in the event of an ailing monarch. There would be chaos and uncertainty, ambitious power grabs and civil strife, he would make sure of it for the sake of the Rejoining. 

But for now — he ran a wrinkled finger against his ward's tear-streaked cheek — for now, he would take in the moment as it is.

****

His mistress was in a state when she summoned him, she was beside herself with worry and whatever issue she’d hold against him was left aside for the moment. She’d been sinking into a plush couch, posture more akin to a wilted stalk of flower than a dignified princess. Her hand was pressed against the upper half of her face, a ruddy flush coloring her cheeks and pert nose, trembling lips pressing into an sad, uncertain shape. Her lustered hair spilled over her shoulder and gathered loosely on her lap over which draped a thick woolen blanket.

From where he stood, he could see that she was in a long chemise dress, kept warmed by a painted fleece robe. It was the barest state of undress he’d ever seen her, lacking the usual pomp and regalness of her day-to-day attires. Dusk was upon them though the day without still lingered with a cobalt-blue sheen, curtains drawn back to let in what little light there could be had in the tundral climes. A strong fire crackled quietly, contrasting the unrelenting fall of snow outside, as did its best to keep back the pressing chill of her apartments.

The First Princess started upon hearing his approach, and looked almost disappointed to see him. She’d likely been hoping for Prince Zenos, though it was apparent that His Grace’s obligations were keeping him from her.

“Fetch me something warm to drink, I can’t sleep.” Her order was thick and morose. She’d barely collected herself from the previous day’s hardships, he surmised and bowed.

He came back with honeyed darjeeling, warmed soft cheese over toasted rye bread, sprinkled with sturgeon roe and dried dill garnishings. The kitchens had done its best, making good of what it could with such simple, quick fare. He’d ask for something light and easy on the stomach, and the head chef had rolled his eyes. More than once, his food had came back down untouched and he was more than displeased by the blatant waste regardless of the empire’s wealth. Though in Andrus’ opinion, it was more a matter of pride.

He was filling the delicate porcelain cup when she spoke, her sight aimed toward the incandescent flames.

“Tell me of your sister.”

Andrus set the cup down, turning the handle for her convenience, and straightened. He allowed himself a moment’s pause for thought. Her face came to mind, callow and lovely when she’d first felt the sun’s warmth on the window sill of their new, modest abode in Rabanastre. His mind was far away, remembering when he’d helped their tired mother with the family’s sparse belongings up the small steps that led to a worn blue door. How different it was from his present, seeming from another lifetime entirely.

“We first moved to Dalmasca some four years ago after my father, a legionary of little note, passed during his service. We were given a choice to stay or leave to take part in a colonist program, and being quite destitute, my mother agreed and we were ferried to Othard en masse.” He smiled a little before continuing on. “My sister, who thirteen was at the time, was quite excited and even asked my mother if we could open a flower shop. Oh, her face was as bright as the sun when we first moved into our new home, and she’d saved all the money she earned from her needlework to brighten our embarrassingly spartan abode with a bouquet.”

His mistress gazed into her half empty cup and asked. “What kind of flower?” 

“Ah, I can’t say, I’m a rather poor horticulturist.” Andrus scratched at the back of his neck and racked his brain. “They were small, six-petaled funnel shaped flowers, several blooms growing in a horizontal line and, I think, yellow. Though they came in a variety of hues, a different color for each week.”

He grew a touch more animated as he described the plant, basking in the glow of some bygone days. Crow watched him now and vaguely wondered why he was going such lengths to indulge her prying. She was aware of servants who’d been in the palace’s employ for decades, yet none of them she can name, their distant and formal regard of her placed them well into the mold of unfeeling fixtures. But here was Andrus dus Metellus, who was willingly offering himself to be placed under her scrutiny.

“They’re freesias.” She clarified, plucking a black, pearled roe between her fingers.

His grin was genial, his appreciation of the minor knowledge warmed the room more than even the burning hearth. “And what are you partial to, Your Grace?”

The pleasant brininess of the sturgeon egg bursted between her teeth and she took a brief sip of the warm tea. It warmed her from within, her congested nose clearing with each swallow.

“Violets.” She said, prodding at the still-warm soft cheese and toast with a finger.

At the hour of dawn, Zenos found her drowsing on the long couch, a thick blanket pulled up over her shoulder. A plush cushion laid atop the shallow armrest with her cheek pressed against it, one of her hands had dropped over the edge and nearly brushed against the intricate thavnairian weave beneath. An empty cup sat on the small end table next to her dark, dainty head, the stain of cold tea barely finished sat still at the bottom. 

He ran a hand against the curvature of her crown, each strand like silk beneath his fingers. She looked tired even as she roused, no doubt sleepless in her fretting over the emperor. His collapse had sent the palace into disarray and the High Legatus, his leery father, had dragged his cohorts into a preparatory meeting in case the throne finds itself wanting for an arse to fill its empty seat. The prince has not been spared from the summon, being subjected to an interminable wait until His Radiance’s continued wellbeing was confirmed. He had wanted to go to her, knowing how she would be affected, but for her sake he'd elected to stay. There was no telling what would happen to her if she were to be without His Radiance’s guardianship, his father's inexplicable disdain for her was infamous among the aristocracy.

“Oh, what time is it?” She yawned into her pillow 

“Early, you should rest.” He said, drawing her up by her hand.

Blearily, she sauntered a few steps past the couch then turned. “Will you come with? You look like you haven't slept a wink.”

Crow read the hesitation on his face and arched a brow, a sardonic touch gracing her pouting lips. “You're already here, why even think about it?”

Even when addled with sleep, she was keen on his case. Zenos reached for her, clasping a hand around the small of her back and walked the thirty paces from her sitting area to her bedchamber. Ultimately, he relented and sat down atop the neatly made covers as Crow shed her robe as he unlaced his boots. Before long they were laying together under the wide, canopied affair, something they hadn't done in a while since those halcyon days of their childhood.

“Am I safe to assume that your father commandeered all your time for the last week?”

“Tyrant that he is.” Zenos concurred, eyes falling shut. “He's eyeing Aldenard like a vulture still.”

“Obsessed with righting his errors — the apple truly does not tumble very far from its grandfatherly tree.” Crow snorted dryly, but it was half hearted at best.

“Ah, it was His Radiance then?” He guessed with startling accuracy, chuckling.

“Who else?” She sighed.

“Well, I can name you a host of interested parties, you're more sought after than you realize.” He chuckled, rolling over to face her. His golden hair fell against his cheek and Crow reached over to brush it aside with a finger.

And not a one would have her well-being in mind, she sniffed.

“What shall we do with your spying pet?” He asked, a faintly amused smile surfacing on his shapely, bowed lips.

His counterpart hummed a short, ruminating note. “He’s of no consequence, so he may stay for now.”

Zenos’ eyes flicked open, the twin blue shards like ice chips in the dim. However, he spoke no more on the matter, only running a hand down her arm as he took in her contented sigh. He drew her close, burying his nose in her hair, feeling her slight form against the beat of his grasping, greedy heart.

****

More fish, the physician had decreed, less rich foods and absolutely no more wine or liquor. Almonds, walnuts and greens, things that were supposedly good for the heart, were assigned to his diet. Solus rolled his eyes, rubbing at his temples as he listened to the endless droning of instructions.

"I'd rather chew on ration bars from the trenches again." The emperor groaned from his place on the canopied bed.

Fish! He hated the blandness of their flesh to the oceanic stench of any dish they were incorporated into. The kitchens never clean them well enough and their bones often caught against his teeth. 

Crow cleared her throat sharply, her pointed look needling at him despite her red-rimmed eyes. She gave another sniff in spite of herself, and he produced a square of linen from his robe's inner lining in response. Reluctantly, she plucked the kerchief from his hand, clutching it as the physician continued on with his monotonous lecture.

"No sweets, and refrain from consuming red meats more than twice a week." The man tucked his monocle away into a breast pocket, beginning to pack up for his departure. "And plenty of bed rest, of course. We'll have to observe your condition closely, Your Radiance, lest things get out of hand with your condition."

"Yes, yes, fish, nuts and rest." Solus waved his hand dismissively, looking every bit the old grouch he was.

Quintus peered at the notes of the physician's order, his legs already on the move toward the door. He knew when his Lord wanted privacy, if the flicking glance was any indicator to go by. "I'll notify the stewards of these changes."

Crow watched as the door to His Radiance's bedchambers quietly clicked shut, and sighed a long, relieved breath. Their argument seemed like a distant memory now, and insignificant in the face of his failing health. She had said cruel things in the heat of the moment, things that were inarguably true. However, that did not mean she did not regret using them to hurt him. That stricken look he'd worn right before he'd collapsed had stayed with her in the past two days. Had he passed, those awful things she'd leveled at him would have been the last they'd ever exchanged.

"I am …sorry," She began, pinching at the silken cloth with idle, nervous fingers. "For saying those awful things."

Solus shook his head, placing his hand upon hers. As he looked at her, nearly a woman grown, he found himself caught between the love he bore for her as a daughter and the nostalgic longing for her past self. As much as he tried to separate them, they were inextricably caught, tangled like an impossible knot.

"I'm not long for this world, and I suspect that once I'm gone, things will only get more difficult for you." He saw her tremble at those words, fresh tears renewing the wet glistening in that one visible eye. She would be the only one to weep for him in this family as the rest armed themselves for war.

Crow shook her head as she lifted his hand against her face, a sob racking her shoulders. He cupped her chin, the wistfulness of old age overcoming him. "I believe it is perhaps safer for you to go abroad for now."

"So, you shall have my leave to depart for Valnain as soon as Messor Rullus gives his approval." Solus continued, drawing his ward close.

Crow wrapped her arms around her guardian, his shoulders feeling so thin and fragile in her embrace. He'd always been so impressive in his regalia, appearing mighty and unstoppable from afar. The projected aura of absolute power and charisma made most forget that he was still only a mortal man. But time had not been kind to him, it sapped away his strength and vigor until there was little left. His pallid skin seemed as though it would crumple beneath her touch, his hardened bone folding as she held him.

 She'd finally received what she'd been after, so why did she feel so hollow in spite of this triumph?

Crow set her cheek against his shoulder, the muted scent of sandalwood and liquorice filling her senses. Her one and only father, she loved him so despite everything. She felt his broad palm against her back, fondly patting as he soothed her.

"Your nameday is next week, it's likely the only reason why I haven't assumed room temperature yet — I'd be rather displeased to miss it." 

She drew back, aghast at his choice of metaphor. Solus rasped out a chuckle at her bewildered expression, she was a veritable mess akin to a soused cat. Finally making use of the handkerchief she'd been given, Crow mustered up a reply.

"Then I want you to not miss any of my namedays for the next two decades, at least." She said as she wiped at her nose.

"That is wishful thinking, my dear." He intoned wryly, tucking back her dark fringe.

"Indulge me, Your Radiance." Crow pressed, daubing away beneath her blinded eye.

His heart gave a squeeze upon glimpsing at her sightless gaze. He wished he could have done better for her, at least given her a vessel free of such flaws. 

"The next ten namedays then — you'll have to forgive this old man for haggling." Solus's thick stache lifted with a smile as she blew her nose sharply into the cloth.

Crow held his hand, feeling the bumps of varicose veins and old calluses beneath her own rough fingers. She nodded her mute ascent, giving his knob-jointed fingers a soft squeeze as though she could halt the inevitable with this simple gesture.

Notes:

Updated: Sept 13, 2024

Chapter 34

His constant companion from childhood, canny and half veiled behind her smiles, had been little more than a shadow of herself of late. She'd been listless with worry since the emperor’s sudden collapse during a particularly thorny disagreement. Worse yet, she blamed herself as the catalyst to his decline, attributing the onset to their conflict. Zenos watched as she nudged at the roasted quail with a listless blandness, light green pistachio flaking off the congealing fat. He could count the times she'd lifted the fork up to her lips on a single hand.

“Would Your Grace prefer a simple borscht instead?” The manservant offered a shallow plate of stewed beet soup, 

She waved him away, sniffing. “You're hovering, Andrus.”

“You must eat before your appointment, Madame Drusilla will be displeased if you're late.”

Crow snorted a laugh, the noise, though unladylike, breathed a little life to the stilted meal. “Listen to you — ‘Madame’ Drusilla — the look you'd earn if she hears that.”

All previous titles and prestige were required to be given up once one was initiated into the Interficiun. After such, their sole master and decider of their fate was the emperor. His words were absolute and his orders unquestionable, the order of Crow’s martial mentor was both faceless, and inscrutable by the public zeitgeist. They were but tools for delicate discretions, for things that needed to be rid of quietly.

From the head of the table, Zenos’ eyes flicked to the manservant, the latter’s echoing laugh was polite yet earnest. 

“His Radiance is doing well, though if he has to fret after your health as well then I'm afraid recovery is a long ways away.” The prince interjected.

The notion gave her pause and she frowned down upon the small fowl on her plate, the tines of her gilded utensil stabbing into its cold but still-succulent flesh.

“Set the borscht down.” She mumbled with a sullen pout.

Andrus put the warm soup down and brought the small serving boat of sour cream closer for her convenience. He bowed courteously and detached himself from her side, returning to whatever he's been occupied with prior. He was the only one to be serving them lately during mealtimes save for when the dishes were being brought in, more akin to an attentive retainer than a member of the ubiquitous serviles of the palace.

Crow had managed to strip half the bird of its tender meat and finished half the ruddy stew when Zenos drew a box from his inner coat pocket. It was barely bigger than his broad hand, plainly black and undecorated. She watched as he laid it down between them, curiosity obvious in her gaze.

“I've something that might interest you.” He said, nudging it closer to her.

A wry smile tugged at her lips as she lifted the lid, the magnetized cover unfolding to reveal a handgonne set into velvet. Its grip and barrel were chased with silver, engraved by masterwork hands with leaves and flowing, serpentine scrollwork. Four ammunition cartridges set into their own small niches above the weapon, their bullet tip glittering with aether.

Crow chuckled, delicately picking up one of the pulsing munitions. She admired the flawlessness of the bullet, the wild aether contained inside the reinforced glass. The weapon itself was a work of art, more ceremonial than practical and likely belonged to some wealthy senator back in the old republic days. It was too old to fire the likes of these, though perhaps he'd ordered some modifications to be made.

“You're better off bribing a magistrate with something so sumptuous.” 

The prince shook his head slowly in amusement. “Think of it as a favor repaid for that augmenter.”

“If I recall correctly, I left it broken at the threshold of my old quarters — quarters which you so rudely commandeered, if I may add.” She said, sweeping across the beautiful barrel with the tip of a slender finger.

He could still remember the sensation of the jagged crystal in his palm, the jarring hum of forcefully discharged aether and the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood thereafter.

“Regardless, it was an immensely useful gift.” He nodded, sounding almost wistful.

Crow can't quite remember the face of that Corvosi man, only his hard, wiry frame and the proud way he'd held himself. Zenos, in his own way, had likely made great use of him as well.

“Thank you.” She said quietly.

This was his own way of trying to lighten the dour cast of recent events, she realized, hoping that he could feel her appreciation as her finger met his forearm.

“All will be well, and we shall be in Valnain together before long.” His voice was clear like glacier waters, words uttered with implacable certainty in her time of the turmoil.

In spite of her doubts, she shrugged with an amused sigh and stood from her seat. “My mentor will be sure to cart me there herself, her patience is nearly dry with all these visits to the cell blocks.

“If all else fails, there is always a place for you in my luggage train.” He offered, leaning back with pale wine in hand and appearing insufferably nonplussed.

“Hah.” She pulled away as well, her one-syllabled laugh was dry and sardonic as she turned to Andrus who was positioned at the far side. “Be a dear and bring this to my apartments, my grouch of a mentor awaits.”

The princess shrugged on her coat and bid her counterpart farewell with a light peck, bringing away with her the pleasant easiness of the evening. The only thing that remained was the light scent of her perfume lingering in her former seat. Zenos gave the stemmed glass a swirl, following the manservant’s movements with his trenchant gaze. There was hardly ever an occasion where he would linger after she was gone and, often the case after meals, they would move to a more private space to take their digestifs and talk. He had wanted to see her try her hand at this newly minted firearm, the flush of surprise upon feeling the recoil and how she would relish the new experience.

Alas — he tipped the rest of the wine back —  she had other things to tend to.

“I am quite surprised that she decided to keep you on after your indiscretion.” He began archly, though his countenance persisted in its inscrutability.

The manservant hesitated for a moment too long, his head dipped down in a humbling nod. “Her Grace is a gracious mistress, more than I deserve.”

“Is she?” Zenos prodded. He knew what the servants thought of her, and she was anything but kind by their accounts. Their opinions of her were not exactly unfounded as she’d been responsible for more than the expulsion of one clumsy handmaid, maybe even the maiming of one if he could recall.

“The fact that I am still here speaks volumes of her charity and clemency.” He met Zenos’ gaze head on as he cleared the table, ardent brown against baleful blue.

There was a challenge there, more than obvious by the way he straightened when speaking of his mistress. His faith in her was firm, believing himself a fixture despite his superfluous position. He was brave, the prince conceded with a quirk of his lips, or perhaps stupid.

“A dauntless soul like yours belongs with the legions, yet you insist on the lowly position of retainership,” He rolled the ruby-red stem in his hand, piercing eyes boring into the other man. ”why?”

“I was rejected from service owing to a frail constitution, and by the time I came to Her Grace’s service, I realized perhaps this is what I was meant to do.” Andrus stacked the porcelain dishes, unable to help himself from such candid language.

Zenos’ low laugh was short-lived as it filled the space between them. “If such scraping subservience is your predestined path then fate is cruel indeed.”

He'd seen the way the manservant had glance at the silvery barrel, the look was brief but replete with a keen interest. A would-be soldier who’d yearned to earn prestige for his family, and a good coin or two while on campaign. Though even the most undermanned legions did not want an invalid among their ranks, it did cost them a pretty penny to feed and maintain every man and woman under their authority after all. Had this one managed to join, he would've been relegated to the ranks of lowly vanguard fodder and slip into an early grave in open combat. Any potential promotion would pass him by as weakness was an undesirable trait among the leadership of the legions.

“Well,” The prince said on a whim and laid his hand on his gift to Crow, the feeling of the tweed-lined cover pleasantly textured beneath his fingers.“How would you like a taste of the other untrodden road?”

****

Since the hungry, dire days of the Republic, Garlemald had always relied on whatever it could to survive. Underhanded dealings with allies and enemies both, espionage, pillaging neighboring lands, and even esoteric dealings with slavering fiends was not beneath the pre-imperial government. But at its core, like a constant companion through thick and thin, Garlemald had been built with steel and innovation. The ultimate goal at the end of all these technological wonders had been to kill, quickly and deadly.

Contrary to what the common propaganda rag would have one believe, the modern comfort of man had only been a happy coincidence in the search for efficient bloodshed. Death had always been the aim, it had to be so when the Republic had been surrounded on all sides by rivals in such harsh conditions. Resources were limited and they had relied on winter forays into enemy territories to provide for their own.

Zenos leveled the barrel and fired, barely feeling the recoil through his sturdy wrist. It still threw his aim just a fraction of an ilm off the perfect bull’s eye. It was an old model, standard issued from the imperial collection but well-maintained thanks to the dedication of the imperial weapon’s steward.

Andrus, despite having no ostensible prior experience with such things, assembled and loaded the weapon with familiar practice. Zenos turned from the target board, silently indicating the manservant’s turn.

Said man blinked up from where he sat, feeling unaccountably nervous. When the prince had proposed this little competition, he'd been caught off-guard. He was not known to address those beneath him unless strictly needed, let alone invite a servant to partake in friendly sport.

He followed the prince’s gaze to the handgonne he held, feeling the inexplicable urge to explain himself.

“I’d often been given the duty of cleaning my late father’s arms.” He said awkwardly. “Unloaded, of course.”

“You were expected to join the legions when you were of age.” The prince intoned with a light scoff. “How typical — he was the Garlean half then.”

Andrus straightened, the need to correct and defend his family from the prince’s nebulous scrutiny surging. “He was an honorable man, and one needn't be pureblooded to serve the fatherland.”

“Ah, but honor does demand a heavy price, and its yoke is heavier still.” The prince’s words were pointed, and it wounded Andrus to the point of inflammation.

“And what of your lord father, Your Grace?” Andrus asked.

Zenos only chuckled in reply, his back to the manservant at the parts bench, hands busy slotting in the next round of ammunition. He only needed one for his purpose.

“I only hope he would be as honorable as yours.” 

A shot rang out and Andrus breathed a furtive sigh, the bullet had pierced the secondary rim. He might have known his way around a handgonne, but he was anything but a crack shot. 

“Perhaps you'll find better sport against Her Grace, my lord.” 

The moment the words left his lips, a blunt blow to the back of his right knee sent him sinking to the seamless granite tiles. He could scarcely register what had happened before he felt hard metal jutting against his left shoulder. He froze as a spike of fear stabbed into him, right before the reality of his predicament dawned upon him.

“What I cannot fathom,” The prince began in the same even, conversational tone he’d been speaking with. ”is why you did not heed my warning.”

Andrus lurched forward as the prince’ sole connected against the column of his spine. The kick was hard and the impact was not diminished even through the fine wool of his uniform coat, and he fell further, shoulder-first against the polished ground. Through the abuse, he wondered if he should even attempt to beg for his life. His mistress had been the one to wear her ill-repute like armor, but as for the prince, not even the most prolific gossipmonger can dredge up any stain upon his reputation. At surface, he was a pristinely blank slate, but now, Andrus could see the black and reds of his perfect cruelty hiding just beneath the flawless veneer.

“She will know.” He grounded out through gritted teeth, his cheek pressed painfully against the cold surface as the prince’s shoe slid over the side of his head. “And she will never forgive you for this.”

“She will know, eventually.” Zenos agreed, cocking the weapon. His countenance was serene with certainty in spite of his violence and Andrus’ protest. “That I do all that I do for her sake.”

Another shot rang out, however this time, its mark was one of soft flesh instead of stiff plywood. Zenos had pinned him down beneath his feet as his blood drained from him, akin to a yawning abyss against the gray granite. Andrus tensed at first, blood spurting from his lips as he coughed sharply. He sputtered against the searing flash of pain, his lungs growing inundated as he drowned in his own ichor. 

His strength left him rapidly, replaced by an interminable chill that numbed him from head to toes. He thought of his family as the very few last sparks of life pulsed through him, his sister’s cries and his mother’s voice bading him to flee from beneath collapsed rubbles. He would be with them soon, able to make amends for leaving them behind against the Dalmascan insurgents’ encroachment.

A tear slid down his cheek, his last thought was of his proud little mistress. He remembered the small, tugging smile on her lips as she named his sister’s favorite bloom. He regretted that his time as her retainer had been cut short, and hoped that he hadn’t disappointed her.

The doors to the target range slammed shut before the final light left his warm brown eyes, the falling evening like a silent tomb upon him.

****

Crow shook off a trace of snow and her coat with a rough shrug, dismissing the maidservant with a wordless, agitated glare. The chit flinched at her brusqueness and gave a hurried curtsy before backing out from the small foyer of her apartments. She dragged a hand down her face as she made her way through the lounge area, a low ember burned in the fireplace but she was anything but cold at her moment. Her frustration was scalding at the lack of progress. Minor voidsents, one after another, were the only things that came through despite her sound research.

Leaning against her desk, its surface stacked with papers, empty blood vials, esoteric glyphs drawn over and over to the point of practiced flawlessness, she took in a sharp breath. Her hand clawed up the first thing she could reach, crumpling up sheets of paper at a time and throwing it at the high mounted shelves. A book followed, then another, and soon a glass vial. Crow raised up her hand as she caught a glimpse of white at her desk corner, fully turning to swat at it and hearing the tittering of porcelain shattering. She stopped mid-swing in spite of herself, an odd dissonance halting her fury in its track.

The tea set had been there since this morning when she'd breakfasted in her study, and here it remained still. After her departure, he would've returned to her quarters to neaten things up. It was unlike Andrus to shirk his duties, even if it was something so minor as a neglected tray. She reached for the polished tea pot, the tips of her fingers barely grazing the cold, painted surface before a faint knock sounded from beyond the foyer of her apartments. 

 The princess stepped from her study and down the two shallow steps to the plush carpet of the lounge area.

“Enter.” She bade, voice carrying to the door.

A steward slid in and bowed at her approach. His face was graven and closed-off like a dried fig, a grim frown etched into the corners of his mouth as he relayed the news. An unfortunate accident, he said delicately, with a mishandled firearm. Crow stared at him, lips parted as though to speak but her mind was a vacuous void.

“His remains await you in the medic basilias below, Your Grace.” He could not meet her gaze after gauging her initial reaction. “Would you wish to be escorted–”

“No.” She said evenly and placed a hand on the table central to the small foyer, her face a mask of neutral acknowledgement. “I will go myself on the morrow, I’m sure the head medicus and his staff have much to preside over regarding His Radiance’ health.”

The steward was unsure of her placid reply, knowing full well of her sullen, unpredictable disposition, but refrained from commenting. He backed out as soon as servile propriety allowed, offering no platitudes nor short eulogy for the retainer who was so well-liked by the factotums, and by her. She would’ve had him beaten for that, had he lingered and overstepped his bounds, but he’d held onto his post for over two decades and knew better than to attempt to relate to his betters.

The tension seemed to snap within her the moment the ornate doors swung shut, their quiet click tolling the severance of her nerves. Crow sluggishly sagged against the central table, her gold cufflinks clattered sharply against the rounded lacquered edge. Her silken dress shirt rustled in muted distress as her knees gave out from beneath her, and she was forced to lower herself down to the wide, black marble tiles. Her countenance sedate with a mixture of stunned consternation, palms slick despite the dry chill.

Her mind spun in confusion, fingers still clinging onto the ledge of the tablet towering over her slumped form. She’d seen him only four hours previous, insisting a dish of bloody beets and stock upon her. There had to have been a mistake, a miscommunication. Reasons and scenarios were riffled through in her head, some bordering on conspiracies that went beyond the realms of logic and rationality. 

‘Accident’ — she scoffed once she found her footing again. Every child that grew up since the empire’s founding knew their way around small arms well enough, whether through aspirations or obligations.

Against her prior words, Crow stalked down the stretching corridors at the stroke of midnight. Even with its heated walls and air controlled atmosphere, the ride down in the grand elevator was a frigid journey.

The head medicus had been tucked away into his office and still burning away when midnight oil, so to speak, when the metal slate door slid aside. He and his dedicated staff were charged with the responsibility of overseeing the hundreds of servile personnel within the imperial palace. Their aches and ails were his to ease, and it was also his burden to shoulder when one of them passed. It was standard procedure to dress the body to be cremated, or sent back to the deceased’s family if there was any. This one has come to him under unusual circumstances, he'd been veritably pressed into following a prearranged narrative and urged to clean up the poor fellow in haste.

He had been prepped to begin when none other than the First Imperial Princess herself arrived, though she looked anything but regal as her title might've suggested. No escort nor handmaid to accompany her in sight, her hair loose and she wore naught but a white chemise dress and lace-hemmed night robe of the same ivory shade. He nearly stumbled back when she paused at the threshold of his office door, more revenant than mortal. 

“You're relieved of your duties. Go home, medicus.”

The illusion faded when she spoke to him, the weariness in voice grounding her dreary visage. She brushed dark strands from her face and swept them behind her pointed ears, a sheer, forlorn figure contrasting against the navy shadows of the basilias’s steel walls. 

“And I needn't mention that you never saw me here, do I?”

He shook his head mutely, hands groping to pack up even as he felt her eyes following his movements. She watched his brisk retreat with lingering eyes, her soft bedroom slippers whispering across the metal as she pushed into the autopsy theater. Her hands were clammy especially after the maidservants had washed and oiled them, almost as pale as Andrus’ skin when her shadow presided over him. His body was draped over by a white cloth to preserve a sense of modesty, face obscured by the plain shroud. His aquiline nose and eyes outlined by the settled cloth, smooth and serene like the beginnings of a statue under a craftsman’s hands. The faint scent of blood tinged at the edge of her senses, setting her teeth on edge as she dragged the fabric back slowly and unceremoniously.

Crow sucked in a breath through her clenched teeth when she was met with his face, her chest overfull with the chilled, sterile air of the theater. The urge to avert her gaze and deny the fact of this reality tugged at her, but she held firm and filled her sight with her loyal hound’s shut eyes and parted lips. His mouth had not yet been wired shut, the flesh deathly blue. He was a ghost and she imagined him about to spring up at any moment, to attack and rip out her throat or prostrate himself at her feet for dereliction in his duties.

A dainty finger lifted to touch his waxen flesh, running up the fine contours of his cheeks and over the brows. She’d handled and mistreated more than her share of bodies over the course of the last few moons, but never once she’d thought of them as people. They’d been cattle, destined for death regardless — only a means to an end.

She settled her forefinger over the lid of his left eye, gently caressing the dark mole marking the eyelid. She’d only caught flashing glimpses of this beauty mark, whenever he lowered his lashes demurely at her. He’d been too good of a soul for this place, a man who had nothing yet tried to give her something at every turn of her whims.

“Andrus…” Crow called to him lightly, beckoning as though she’d some errand for him to run. “Do you know why most of us prefer cremation over the burial practices of the savages of Aldenard and Othard?”

She sauntered around the embalming table, shedding her robe with a mechanical shrug. The set of scalpels were laid out neatly upon a side tray, gleaming vividly under the surgical lights overhead.

“There was a time, long ago, when the exiled people had thought their deceased loved ones would come back as wraiths to devour them. The earth here was hard, you see, and the traditional burial practices in Locus Amoenus were impossible when the ground was more ice and rocks than dirt. The dead would be angered by such neglect, they believed, and would set upon the ones who were closest to them in life.”

The first glyph was the hardest as her hands trembled, but the blade was sharp and cut true. “At first, the people would drive a stake through the unfortunates’ chests for they had thought that piercing the heart was enough to subdue whatever malevolence they had in life. They were foolish, I think, but we’ve the benefit of hindsight on our side, don’t we?”

She was at the fourth glyph now, hands steadier than when she’d first began. The recollection of old Ilsabardan lore bound her steel-wire nerves well, and past practice tempered her further still.

“Families would go missing overnight, and small villages would succumb in days within the prolonged nights. You would know some of their experiences, huddling together for warmth with the winter’s howling at your back. It would start with the children at first, lured in by the face of their beckoning grandparents or a sibling, then the women next when the men set out to find their little ones. These things were clever and they never strayed far from their prey’s homes, utterly insatiable in their bloodthirst.”

“They were given the name of ‘moroi’ — meaning ‘nightmare’ in the proto-Garlean tongue.” Crow chuckled mirthlessly, the final glyph sliced into his still, breathless chest. “The feeble wretches grew desperate and eventually began to toss their loved ones into communal pyres in spite of their beliefs, and so the practice settled into our modern habits. What they were ignorant to at the time was that what had taken on the faces of their beloved family members were merely voidsents — this was long before the advent of reapers and the Interficium, of course.”

“It was an era when the nights were long and people feared anything and everything that moved in the darkness.” The princess dragged a new scalpel over her palm, easing the narrow rivulet of her blood in between his lips. 

“But that was then and this is now.” She crooned, wistful even in her grief.

****

The lamp at Solus’ desk flickered for a brief moment and a keen humming rose to fill the air. Solus’ golden eyes snapped open upon sensing the aetheric disturbance, the sharp note ascended to its zenith before thinning back into the quiet of the night. An acrid trace still trailing from beneath his feet, far below the lofty perch of the imperial quarters. He’d a nose for such things, so to speak, detecting the slightest hint of sulfur — the stench he associated with the voidsent-ridden relics of the past.

There was only one individual brazen enough to hold such foul ceremonies within the imperial palace. Her mischief no doubt will be unveiled soon enough, whatever it may be, he sighed. More than anything, it signaled the beginning of the end to his role here, melancholic as the notion may be.

It was time to prepare for his curtain call.

****

The roll of bandage wound round and round her hand, the one treating her wound smiled down at her with ambiguous benevolence. He lifted a pair of scissors up and snipped off the gauzy length, then bound his handiwork with a small clip. It was a ridiculous scene to be sure, he was prioritizing her wound even with the bloody runes carved into his flesh. Such markings would close over time if he willed it, if he wanted to keep his body from the maggots. 

Crow watched him intently as he tied the knots to the surgical gown, reacquainting himself with his stiffened fingers string by string. His eyes sealed shut, face no different from when he was prone on that cold metal slab. She reached out, laid a hand on his chest, and felt nothing. His heart was unbeating, his body drained and corpse-like as the finality of his state of being weighed upon her.

She gave a hard sniff, her cheeks burned with frustration and disappointment. Abject tears threatened to overflow from her eyes before she pressed an unstained sleeve to catch them, the other bloody one was no good. This was no good. She was hardly any different from those ignorant settlers from Locus Amoenus, trying to delude herself into thinking the dead could be brought back.

It took a few moments to right herself like her nascent attempts at sharpening her own sickle from years ago, Crow looked to her manservant.

“You'll need a new name.” She said more to herself than to this not-Andrus, pulling her kerchief from her robe’s pocket.

He reached out then and Crow took a step back wearily before he raised an upturned palm to her, beckoning solicitously. Whatever now inhabited his body seemed to possess a semblance of intellect unlike the score that came before. With furtive curiosity, she gingerly entrusted her hand to him and he began to trace his finger against her bloody-stained skin. Letter by letter, she felt the common tongue’s alphabet and spelled out the word in her mind.

N-A-B-E-R-O-S

It knew the common tongue, a creature of the upper rungs then.

The epiphany was a soothing balm as cogent scholarly intrigue overshadowed her sorrows. There was so much unknown to be peeled back for her to look over and study, an abyss just crawling beneath his taut, waxen skin. She tightened her hold over her manservant’s hand. For certain, she’d lost something she’d hold dear but gained so much more in return.

Notes:

Updated: Sept 13, 2024

Andrus deserved a bit more character moments, I think. :)

Chapter 35

Messor Rullus, as Crow knew him, was the most gifted and experienced reaper in the empire. An exceptional agent of the emperor's will, he was capable of finding and eliminating anything. From information to people, nothing was beyond his reach. His right hand, Drusilla, Crow's mentor, often assisted him in these ventures. The handful of other discrete souls within the order often flew solo in the field, small numbers were often more efficient for espionage. They were a tiny, organized body when compared to a legion, but they were as spiders in a large web of networks.

These ten men and women, pureblooded Garleans all, had given up their identity and wholly embraced false names time after time. For the sake of their duty, they've often changed their faces and even given themselves over to contract with a voidsent of their own summoning. Theirs is a culture of secrecy and loyalty, a solemn and quiet devotion to the emperor. 

Crow could not be compared to them as a mere initiate. She had not yet served as they did, no, though she held the same love for His Radiance, she desired to be free. That was perhaps her sin, the selfish choice to want something for herself. Nevertheless, there were other paths to demonstrate one's fealty, ways that would satiate both her need to be unrestrained and demonstrate her filial devotion. And often the first step was always the hardest, but she would ensure Andrus’ sacrifice would not be in vain.

The blade of the scythe slid free as her thoughts lingered on the smear of betrayal on his comely face. She hoped he would forgive her as she did him with his disloyalty, and understood that what she did was born from necessity. The chilled air of the decrepit mountain village flooded her lungs as she drew in a deep breath, her opponent drifting onto the stage, animated by a vessel-bound voidsent. 

The doll, Galatea Magna, was a feminine, pale apparition made from tempered ceramics. Its balled joints rotated in smooth tandem as its slender limbs unfolded, its own sickle unsheathed to face her. Crow's heart thrummed in anticipation and the shadow beneath her boots rippled in kind. She felt the head reaper's eyes on her, watching keenly. Drusilla was here as well, half-hidden in one of the alcoves. They were both her judges and chaperones since Drusilla had missed the summoning ritual, passing this final trial would grant her leave to fly free from this place.

Her opponent swept in as it detected her lapse in attention, swinging its weapon in a wide arc. Her shadow sprang forth in answer as Crow circled for a suitable angle. A dark clawed hand held the Galatea Magna's blade at bay with minimal effort, delivering a sharp jab into the white ceramic throat. She lunged in with a blow, but the unfeeling marionette swiveled its neck with eyes aglow. A paralyzing ray seared from its twin red orbs only to be knocked off course by her voidsent with a redirecting punch. Her blow connected, the doll's supporting leg halved by steel. Leaving its leg behind, the doll back stepped with its remaining limb, hovering at the far corner of the arena. Its eyes blazed, the same trick again but at an even wider radius. The voidsent closed the distance between its mistress and itself, arms wrapping around her as its cloaked stretched into shielding wings. Crow saw the blinding crimson flash extend their shadows, her line of sight blocked and protected from the vile magicks.

By the sidelines, Drusilla stood from her crated seat, walking up next to her grandfather and lowered her cowl from the red radiant blast. The distance severely diminished the effects of the ray, but one could never be sure with such potent artifacts from the bygone glory days.

She narrowed her gaze at Rullus. "Are you certain that this is safe? She has doesn't even know how to assume enshroudment yet, the Galatea Magna is only for those who has–" 

"The Interficium is dying, we must push where we can, she's the only one out of three initiates that has shown any measure of promise." Rullus cut his granddaughter off, eyes never cease watching the trial.

"And what of the others? I thought they were ahead in training?" Drusilla watched as her pupil landed another strike in tandem with her voidsent.

She was impressed, given the fact that granting one's voidsent a physical vessel was a risky and treacherous venture. Somehow, though, Crow had managed to devise a way to inextricably bound the summoned fiend to her will. A contracted partner with it's own autonomy was something unheard of in their practice. She observed the vicious warpath of the creature, it radiated malevolence worse than anything she'd ever beheld. Whatever had stepped through that torn veil, she knew that was not its entirety. Voidsents of the first rung could only ever squeeze a sliver of their being through a rift, their power too immense, their presence far too devastating for this plane to handle. They were nearly godlike in the abyssal realms, and this one, she and Rullus could not doubt sense, was a mere fragment of such an evil being.

"One of them died after being mauled before his contract could even be made. The other succeeded, but she is regretfully unremarkable, she’ll never be able to assume enshroudment." Rullus gestured to the arena beneath them, the marionette was on its last leg now, the pair was now merely playing with their food as they circled it. "Compared to that, and she still has so much room to grow, can you not see the future in her?"

"Do you intend for her to become your successor?" Drusilla frowned, wary of his ambition. She did not like the tone in his voice, the way he spoke as though her pupil was only a tool.

Her grandfather clasped a hand on her shoulder, a smirk on his face. "No, you will inherit this position, and she will be the dark blade in your hand."

"Do not speak of her that way, she's but a child." She pushed his gloved hand away, crossing her arms.

"A child who no longer has a purpose, Drusilla, the deal His Radiance brokered with Ishgard ended years ago." He waved a hand over the unfolding scene below, a crackle of shattering ceramic sounded and dusts of cloud were kicked up, shadows suffusing the air. "Grant her purpose, show the empire that she has a place among us."

Drusilla pursed her lips, a thin line pressed into a tight, disapproving frown. He did not know Crow as she did, never seen the desperate glaze in her eyes as the bodies stacked up behind her. She was brittle and hungry, and hardly spoke to anyone save the emperor and the High Legatus' son. Crow, in some ways, was still that desperate waif she'd met long ago. Such a mind, no matter how sharp and cunning, often made unstable and willful weapons.

"Don't think you'll find her so malleable — she has her own plans, I know she does." 

Rullus watched as the marionette's ceramic head rolled down the edge of the arena, bouncing once then shattering as it collided with a rock. The First Princess sauntered down the steps with her voidsent three paces behind. 

"Then we should see that her aims also benefit us." He intoned, gray eyes hardening from beneath the tattered brim of his hat as he stalked down the poorly paved path down to the arena.

The creature was of a height, it towered over both him and Drusilla, dwarfing its mistress by a large margin. The lining of its black cowl and cloak was scarlet, appearing as though it was a part of its anatomy, rather than an article of clothing. A dark, three-pointed crown pierced through the material atop its head, its sightless, bandaged gaze following their every move as they approached. Its ebony form was as a stalwart wall, a mantle of scarlet-tipped horns jutting from its back, highlighting its wide shoulders. By all accounts, it was humanoid with the normal number of limbs and proportion one could expect from a man, albeit one with a pallid, corpse-like pallor. 

"Was that doll possessed by a voidsent?" Crow began, glancing over at her own creature. "Because I think it was consumed."

It looked sated by the experience, an ever-present smile gracing its blackened lips. The only spot of visible skin from the rest of its chitin-clad body, its pleasing, chiseled face, seemingly aglow after subsuming another of its kind.

"Indeed, the Magna's are precious, products of a lost art from a bygone era." Drusilla sighed, reaching out to pat her pupil's shoulder.

The voidsent snatched at the older woman's wrist before it could make contact with its mistress, its aggression on full display despite its placid, unchanging simper.

"Naberos." Its mistress' clipped voice rang out in warning, her will tugging on it like a leash. 

Naberos uncurled its clawed digits from Drusilla's wrist, its smile stretching into a sharp, teeming grin as it silently bared its teeth at her. There was not an onze of levity in those glistening rows of fangs.

"A pity." Crow continued as though the moments prior never took place, she smirked and looked at the strewn pieces of tempered ceramics. "I would have held back had I known." 

"Think nothing of it, the wear and tear of time would have taken them anyway." Rullus finally spoke, walking up to the First Princess despite her creature's prior display. "Better for them to see use rather than languish in retirement."

Crow inclined her head, a measure of respect in her greeting. "Messor Rullus." 

"A most adroit display, Your Grace." The Messor tipped a shallow bow to her, ignoring his granddaughter's pointed glower.

Crow considered him for a moment, her senses prickling at a stifled waft of smoke and sulfur. This was their first meeting though they knew much of one another. Of him, she'd heard anecdotes from Drusilla, and even more aside from her sparse glimpses of the reports the emperor received. It needn't be said that he might know her better than most, a frightening font of information obtained through dubious means.

"There are no better compliments than your approval, Messor." Crow said with winsome spirit, snapping her scythe's blade shut against its handle.

"Ah, His Radiance had mentioned your intent to travel abroad." He nodded in affirmation as he recalled, a coy smile creasing his scruffy, rugged face. "As a junior diplomat, if I am correct?"

She bit back her impatience, fingers readjusting against the leather grip of her weapon. "Correct, I would be permitted to leave once I earn your leave as a full fledge reaper."

Crow slid her gaze over to Drusilla who was being suspiciously quiet since her grandfather had stepped in. Her mentor remained tight-lipped despite her brief but open assessment. There was no help to be had there, she supposed.

"This…village," Crow graced the rickety hovels with a vague sneer, the winds whistling through the cavern like a mournful howl. "Is rather cold, Messor, why don't we speak on the way out?'

In their periphery, her voidsent's form dripped like melting wax as it responded to her unspoken will. Its shining chitinous skin rumpled into the texture of a finely carded gray wool uniform. Its crown splitting into burgundy hair as its claws retract into a pair of white gloved hands, each digit long and elegant. Its eyes, though uncovered from the blinding bandages, remained shut. Its muted lips, stained the purplish-blue of a corpse, frozen in a charming simper. Drusilla made a face at its appearance, realizing what her pupil had done with her former manservant. That young man had been a new addition in the folio of servants of the First Princess, his kind eyes and easy attitude was popular among the factotums. Crow had given him to her thrall, a new suit for the voidsent, so to speak. It had swallowed him whole and assumed his position, emulating a watered down simulacrum of his demeanor.

She knew not what he'd done to earn such a grotesque fate, but she was unsurprised by Crow's indurated heart. Her pupil certainly had her tender moments, reserved for only two individuals in the empire. Even Drusilla, who'd been raising her up from a fledgling trainee, was only privy to a terse sort of fondness. It did not help since her duties grew heavier, sparing brief encounters with her pupil to survey her progress. The rift between them widened as both became occupied with their own pursuits, student and mentor now eyed each other with a modicum of familiar courtesy.

Drusilla fell behind her grandfather, skin prickling as she strode a little ahead of her pupil's thrall. Its attention was pinned on her, slavering intent plain despite its beaming visage. Her own voidsent's ephemeral spirit stirred, retreating deeper and away from Naberos' presence.

Never turn your back to a predator , Drusilla thought and watched it from the corner of her sight, wading through the poorly lit cave with the silhouette of Crow and her grandfather. 

"The practice of our art is a dying one, Your Grace, I am full glad to see our rank swell with such great talent." Rullus said. "I would certainly vouch for you should His Radiance ask for my opinion."

Crow paused midstep, they were nearly at the cavern's mouth now. Snow drifted in from the Mons Albus forest beyond, bringing with it the scent of ice and old pines. The only hint of motion on her were the dark strands of hair brushed against her cheek as she regarded the old reaper.

"I believe you're mistaken, Messor Rullus, I have no intentions on joining the Interficium." She corrected his presumptions without hesitation.

Drusilla eyed her grandfather, watching the amiable indulgence fall away as he took in Crow's unflinching rejection. His lips stretched into an acute frown, eyes darkening beneath the shadow of his hat.

"Then I cannot give you my approval, your training is still incomplete." He'd retracted his awe and praise in the face of her pupil's defiance. While what he said was true, Crow had yet to master the entirety of their practice, it was only a matter of time that she would fully realize the true capacity of a reaper even without guidance.

"Grandfather–!" Drusilla protested, seeing the sharp glare Crow leveled at him. The voidsent had picked up on his mistress' displeasure and was now bristling at Rullus. It took a step closer and Drusilla turned, her hand braced for her weapon. The tight leash her pupil held could be released at any moment. With the two of them, she was sure they could subdue the creature, though they would surely not go unscathed.

"I'm tired, I wish for a bath and rest." Crow announced suddenly and hitched her scythe to her shoulder by its strap, the threat of sudden violence dissipating as she brushed off Rullus backpedal. "Come to the inner palace tomorrow and we may negotiate, I think you'll be interested in what I have to say" 

The older reapers watched as the uncanny thrall stepped up and cradled its mistress's hand, playing its bit as the dutiful retainer and servant. A maroon rift ripped open behind them, and without hesitation, Crow and her creature stepped into the portal, leaving behind naught but a smoking ripple in reality.

****

The chronometer ticked by on the wall, its needle pointing toward noon. Solus shifted on his bed, leaning back as he completed the first draft of his final writ. He smirked as he envisioned the expressions on his issues' face, he wished he could witness their mortification for himself as they realized the impact of his post-mortem decree.

He glanced over to the stack of social petitions and judicial proposals, repressing a groan. He was busy, ever so busy even as he planned out his death. If there were a lot of things he would be glad to be free of, the ever tedious bureaucracy of his inferiors and their ceaseless need for order and organization. He'd devised this strict system, but could not help hating how much it reminded him of the past — of a certain chief architect, that mischievous imp that had scolded him for his cowardice.

A knock sounded and a guard entered, his faceless voice announcing the arrival of his latest appointment. Another thing he was glad to be rid of were these mewling men and women who pined for his attention, dealings and favors, negotiations and worldly duels. He wanted to hear naught but silence, time spent without disturbance and rest.

"Send them in." He drawled, having forgotten who had requested this meeting. Quintus had been the one to keep track of those minor details, but he'd excused himself to pay respect to his late niece.

He remembered her in the last of their meeting, when Crow was still only a babe and her still well enough for social visits. The silver rattler she'd gifted long ago was something he still kept in his personal cabinet, recollected after Crow had long outgrown it. Carosa had always had sound advice in those beginning months, being a mother was only one of her many talents.

Solus folded the pages of his will into a neat rectangle, suddenly feeling wistful. He looked up as the door shut behind his latest visitor, amused at the incidental appearance of his sole great grandson. The boy had inherited the beauty of his mother and the rich golden shade of her hair, not one bit of Varis visible save for the solemn severity he often adopted. The trait was not unique, however, Lucius had also been prone to such moments of brooding even as a boy. 

"Your Radiance." The boy intoned, no bow or even a polite inclination of his head, ever the impudent guttersnipe.

He could have him dragged from the room for his insolence, but he was feeling magnanimous today. It was a rare thing for this one to seek him out, they'd not face each other one on one like this in years. Not since the boy had barged in with Crow in his arms, chest speckled in her blood. 

Solus tamped down the sour memory in favor of the present, replying with his own curt acknowledgment. "Boy."

They both regarded one another as Zenos sauntered up to the foot of the bed, arms folded behind him. The moment was bloated with clipped awkwardness, neither patriarch nor great grandson seemingly willing to give in and speak first.

The first crack in the prince's mask came in the slight furrow of his pale brows, and the emperor's own twitching mustache came along not far behind. Zenos' chest rose as he took in a full breath of air, lips tightening into a frown that mirrored his great grandfather's.

"I have a favor to ask." He did not know how Crow could bear to do this, asking for things from the emperor with such pliable ease time after time.

His Radiance triumphantly preened upon his victory, he straightened himself and steepled his fingers. He did not prod further with a question, instead raising his brows pointedly at the youngest of his issue. Zenos visibly grimaced, his pride taking a blow for even having to ask for something.

"My ever wise father has deemed it correct to redirect my future course to Ala Mhigo," Zenos curled his fist at the thought, nails digging into the skin of his palm. " And I disagree with his decision."

Solus leaned forward on his lap desk, lowering his eyes to the will. He could see where this was headed, from Varis' previous opposition to giving Crow any chance to bolster her image in military service to disciplining his son with their separation. "Has he, now?" 

"Say if my things were so happen to be flown to Valnain by mistake, and I go my errant way," Zenos peered at the old emperor with a slight mischievous smirk. "Would you be able to block his attempt at retrieving his lost prodigal son?"

Solus felt the rumble of a laugh in his chest, his silk-robed shoulders shook as it climbed upward and tumbled from his lips. He clutched his forehead as it grew into a full guffaw, a moment caught in absolute mirth. He could only imagine the utter impotent wrath upon the already sour-faced Varis, it was too good of an image to resist.

He cleared his throat, an indulgent sigh leaving him as he settled into an amused conspirator's smirk. "Perhaps I can, but you cannot hope to have me stall him forever, do you?"

The High Legatus was ever one to hold onto a grudge. He was as stubborn as a dog with a bone, oddly akin to the pugnis hound he kept. Though he suspected the boy had something up his sleeve he had yet to disclose, he was too clever to risk Varis' ire without contingencies.

"No, Your Radiance, just until Valnain concludes." Zenos met his eyes, a trenchant, determined spark shining in those blue orbs he'd received from his cunning mother. "We are intent on the East after, where she'll be safe and away from court."

"You wish to overtake Doma then." Solus tapped his finger against the surface where his work rested. "Pray tell how."

"Once we return from our service, there shall be rumors of a rebellion brewing in Yanxia." Zenos simply stated.

Solus raised a brow, he'd heard of no such thing. Then it hit him, eliciting a chuckle as he realized the ploy. "I'd always thought you were your father's son despite your fraught bond — a blunt instrument to beat the masses into submission."

"But you are also your mother's child, even if she was taken before her time." He raised his hand in slow applause. "Who would suspect you capable of such conspiracy."

Zenos had been tentative in this proposal, knowing full well the emperor may deny him altogether for daring to plot such disruption to a relatively peaceful territory. He was capable of anything if it meant granting Crow her wish, all the better that this would also keep her from the machinations of the royal family when the inevitable struck.

"Do you approve?" The prince gripped at his wrist as he waited.

Solus closed his eyes, nodding his ascent. "Do as you see fit."

Zenos finally inclined his head, his obeisance accompanied by a measure of gratitude.

A door to the emperor's chamber opened and a diminutive figure peered in. Her dark head of hair bound back into a braid, the still-damp length swinging pendulously as she swept into the grand space with a luncheon tray. Crow wore a look of surprise as she saw Zenos standing at the end of the high, half testered affair.

"Knocking also beyond you I see." Zenos commented, half turning in place to regard her.

Crow lifted the stacked tray to make a point, rosy lips pulled into a petulant pout. But she let a smile come to, letting it smooth out her brows as she took in the scene. The two individuals she adored most in the same room, a sight to behold considering the difficult attitudes of the men in this family.

"Worried for His Radiance's health, are you?" She circled the room with tray in hand.

"No." Both patriarch and great grandson replied in unison, the emperor adding a dry scoff at the idea.

"There is only ever one reason why anyone would come to me, and you're not exempt from it, my dear." Solus let out a long suffering sigh, clearing away the busywork surrounding him.

Crow looked positively attacked, but was unable to find a justifiable retort. She laid the tray down atop the small desk, pouring out a spot of tea for him.

"And pray tell, what urgent request provoked this visit then?" She asked stance akimbo, glancing between Zenos and her guardian.

The emperor and his great grandson shared a look, each tossing the responsibility of producing an answer to the other.

"Ask him." Solus said from the gilded rim of his painted porcelain teacup. 

"It's nothing of note." Zenos replied as he rounded the corner, coming to stand next to Crow.

Much to Solus' satisfaction, she settled on pinning a broaching look up at the boy. Craning her neck, the top of her head reaching a little half past his torso, her eyes narrowing as she tried to discern the secret behind Zenos' cool composure.

When that proved fruitless, she gave a sharp sniff. "Fine, don't tell me."

Her cheer was undiminished, however, as she leaned down to peck at the jut of Solus' wrinkle cheek and bid him a good meal. She’d been a most doting caretaker since his collapse, insisting on spending more time with him even as the date of her potential departure neared.

Turning, her habit-prone hand tugged at Zenos’ sleeve, insisting that they have lunch together today. She chimed away as they left, asking benign questions about the social happenings of court with animated interest. The prince ushered her out, sparing a final knowing look to the family’s patriarch.

Solus watched them leave, two children of the yesteryears almost fully grown. He sat sagging against the over-fluffed pillows as the door swung shut quietly. Inexplicably flooded with relief, at least for the moment, to see her secure in the foreseeable future. Once he shed this guise and cleaned up after his incompetent fellows, he would return to retrieve and guide her back to her lost self — his dearest Mnemosyne.

Chapter 36

This creature, despite wearing Andrus’ face and adopting his mannerism, did not speak. He — it, rather — lacked the vibrant energy he brought about the room, where he’d been attentive and active, it was inert and static. It took care of her needs well enough, though it was not wont to be so eager. Crow batted aside the vaguest hint of remorse whenever the feeling reared its ugly head, telling herself that she preferred the ailing silence that now plagued the atmosphere. She languished on the chaise, unable to focus on the tawdry romance rag she’d snuck from the old librarian’s secret stash.

Crow turned to the creature, the Andrus who would never presume to know what was good for her or otherwise, watching it stand with a preternatural stillness.

“Do you even have a thought rattling around in that head?”

It swiveled its head as it took in the question, seemingly registering her words but not having the intellect to answer. Crow graced it with a deadpan stare.

“I thought upper rung voidsents like you would be able to at least converse reasonably, even if only a fraction of your soul is on this side of the veil.” What a dull creature.

‘I merely have little to say, mistress.’

Crow sat up straight, startled by the deep, susurrus reply. Its voice was like the rustle of dried leaves, the sound echoing in her steepled ears even when its lips hadn’t cracked a peep to speak.

"You spoke…" She blinked in disbelief.

' Did I?' Its smile widened, amused at her dumbfounded countenance. ' How befuddling.'

Crow was suddenly all too aware of her gauping, cheeks growing flushed as she realized she was being teased. 

"Watch your mouth lest I sew it shut for you." She bristled, snapping the book with a pointed thud.

' My lips are sealed.' The dimple at its cheek deepened, mouth unmoving as its voice resonated in her mind.

Crow rolled her eyes — Of course it had a sense of humor as well, how fortunate. She propped her chin against her knuckle, leaning upon the slope of the chaise as she inquisitively eyed her contracted thrall.

"So tell me of your homeland, the laws and hierarchy of the void."

It seemed to give genuine thought to her prompt, and after a brief moment, a panoramic view came to her mind's eye. The dark, barren landscape was broken and jagged, the earth incapable of bearing life. The somber skies overhead were bruised with distant, violet stars. A scarlet orb, the moon, she realized, bathed everything below it in a bloody light.

'My House of Dignity lay in the far south, where all who enter would uphold civility to enter my service. Such conducts are precious, nearly extinct in the savage gluttony that governs our ruined world.' 

The world sped by as though she was being carried on dark wings, skirmishes and ravaged battlefields littering the drifts of floating land masses beneath her. The laws of nature have long since relinquished its hold on this plane, even the earth no longer adhered to gravity, slowly drifting apart by the unseen shift in the air currents. A black spire soon appeared on the horizon, crowned by a circlet of thorns, it looked over the island it occupied. The so-called House of Dignity, laid on a hill of scraggy obsidian glass, was patrolled by drifting stygian apparitions. Their many mouths groaned in anguish, building into a cacophony as they cried out for entry, for salvation, for relief from their insatiable hunger.

'Our world is incapable of bearing new life, every womb twisted and salted, we are as a snake destined to swallow its own tail. We are cannibals of the truest degree, eating each other and even our own limbs to quiet the gnawing in our souls.'

Crow leaned forward, her mind reaching out to the ebony spire, willing the vision to delve deeper into Naberos' lair. She wanted to witness its true form, curious as to what laid hidden beneath its humanoid visage. She felt hands on her shoulders, pulling her back from her overeager sense of curiosity.

'The energy you call aether, that which forms the very structure of our bodies, is the only thing we crave more than violence and misery of our fellows.' She could hear the smile in its voice as it guided her. 'And oh, you fed me so deliciously with both when you brought me here, not only your tribute's but also your own, so much so that I could hardly resist your call.'

Its breath was at her neck, perilously close as death on her skin. Crow tensed up at the sensation, willing the vision gone as she tore herself free from the illusion. She ripped herself from Naberos' grasp, blood pounding in her ears as the view of that dreadful black tower evaporated like a dark mist.

On her feet, she sucked in a sharp breath, facing her thrall as it grinned at her. A purplish tongue ran along its saliva-lacquered row of fangs, its naked desire for her grotesquely plain. It wanted to consume her, swallow her essence whole as a snake would with a mouse.

" Stád! " Crow spat out the word venomously, the single word resonating as it wrapped around the voidsent, binding it in place.

The creature was bound in place, frozen and unable to even speak. The smile on its handsome face twisted into a rictus right before her arresting command slammed against it. Without further reserve, she closed the distance with a raised hand and delivered a resounding, hard slap. Its neck snapped aside at the force of her blow, had it been still human, a bruise would have formed where she'd struck.

"Impudent creature," Crow hissed, yanking it down to her level by the collar. She was the predator here, not it. "I know you are sensible enough to realize our contract is the only thing that's tethering you to this plane, it's in your best interest to keep me alive and well."

Her fingers slid around its jaw, her singular blue eye  "So behave yourself and you'll continue to benefit from our arrangement, understand?"

Silence, the command had worked to halt both Naberos' physical and mental capacity to move and communicate, Crow clicked her tongue in annoyance.

With a word, she released her hold on the contemptuous voidsent.

It remained stooped, though its hands slowly lifted to clasp at her grip. It coaxed her hold loose and pressed its lips against the back of her knuckles, the ideal image of subservience.

' A thousand pardons, mistress. ' Its words leaned up against her like a slinking cat, the apology brushing sinuously against her mind as it cordially kissed her hand. 

It untangled the frown on its face and resumed its invariable smile. ' I am your faithful tool forever and always.'

Crow scoffed at its flowery prose and pulled away, wiping the back of her hand against her snug breeches. She peered at the chronometer on the wall, tossing her long locks aside and sighing in agitation. Her light handed admonishment hardly seemed sufficient, but there were more important things to see to for now.

"Fetched my coat, that geriatric nuisance of a reaper will be here soon."

****

Face to face, that was how Lord Aeetus' taught her to negotiate. She sat at her pedestal desk, atop her leather seat within the lacquered walls of her personal study. The shelved books loomed in closer to confine Rullus. The space of her study was by no means small, but it made him feel boxed in regardless. That had always been his sentiment toward the imperial palaces, especially the inner halls where their Lord resided. It was all just an elaborate, gilded cage. The reaper eyed the girl sitting across him, the cage's main inmate. Anyone may leave this place of their own volition except her, she was tethered here and was biting on her bit to escape this place.

He doubted she knew of the dangers lurking outside, the real world held many perils for one so sheltered. Slavers, ransomers, kidnappers, and thieves were out there, eager to take advantage of one so naive to the ways of the world.

"So then, you would that I join your order, Messor?" Crow began, her face a placid, simpering mask.

Rullus nodded.

"The emperor supplies you with recruits well enough, wherefore do you need me?" She nudged further, already disliking his tacit response.

He took a moment to answer, taking in the sharp glint in her gaze. "The Interficium may have the resources to bolster a new generation, but as with every dying art, new talents are waning with each wave."

The steam of pouring tea wafted from a bone china cup, its aroma of rosehip and assam filling the air between them. The First Princess' thrall drew up its mistress' cup and tipped it back, a taste test to quell her paranoia. Its physical vessel had apparently retained a measure of normal function as though the body still yet lived, Rullus determined, poison may still provoke some reaction.

"Every subsequent initiate past Drusilla's generation have found it more difficult to control their voidsent, thus unable to assume enshroudment." He continued, righting his attention back to the discussion.

"Enshroudment?" Crow had read of the concept but had never seen it done, Drusilla had been a most detached teacher save for when they were engaged in combat lessons. Even then, she’d been most insistent on holding back on her strength.

"A half-possession where one allows their contracted creature to merge with one's self, temporarily assuming more of their power to gain an advantage." Rullus explained, somewhat disappointed at his own granddaughter to leave her pupil so uninformed. "The Magna Galatea puppet, which you'd easily dispatched, was meant as a training gauge for those veterans could assume such a state in the past."

Crow blinked but tucked away her surprise behind the rim of her teacup. She took a shallow sip, taking a moment to process what she'd just learned. The doll had seemed all but a plaything, little different from the fragile toys she'd torn apart as a child.

"They are supposedly formidable tools, then." She concluded.

"In the days of the Republic, they were even used as discreet solutions to territorial disputes, though that information was never made known to the people." Rullus explained, uncovering a hidden facet of their predecessor's history.

She would be lying if she claimed she was not interested in learning more, but she could see the flattery in his words. Nevertheless, the needle on her campus pointed ever forward, toward her own desires.

"We've always maintained few in numbers but ours is crucial service to the Garlean people. Yet we find our ranks growing weaker with every new face, wrought with failed contracts and unrealized potential." The older reaper seemed earnest in his plight, his words bordered on a plea were it not for his bitter scowl. "Among ten candidates, only Your Grace and another made it through as pacted reapers. The potential for enshroudment is half that number still, the other does not have such control over her own voidsent as you."

Crow laced her fingers together, waiting for his tirade to meet its end. What did she care for the Garlean people? They who turned a blind eye to her suffering as a child, every servant and every guard had ignored the bruises on her body inflicted by a spiteful woman. He preached as though his order's service mattered a wit to her.

"As much as I…sympathize with your issues," Crow lowered her lashes to her cup. "I do not wish to bind my allegiances to an order. His Radiance would that I join a legion after my service and a conflict of interest might abound should my loyalty be split, you understand."

"That is why I think I may contribute in other ways." A leather bound folder was laid down in the space between them by her thrall. Therein laid her research and notes into the linguistic arts of Mhach, detailing the glyphs that composed the contract she'd use to bind Naberos. This knowledge was priceless, but her freedom was more valuable still.

"Subsequent generations may make use of my efforts, if they can replicate it." It was a bloody labor of love and hate, born of sacrifice.

Crow gauge his reaction carefully, her heart hammering in anticipation. She would not allow herself to be placed beneath another. She would answer to none save His Radiance and Zenos, and she would serve no other agendas save her own.

Reading the intensity of her desire, Naberos stepped closer to their guest's seat. Its presence needled at the old reaper, yet it remained ignored for the moment as he came to a decision. She could see that he was determined not to leave empty-handed today.

Old Messor Rullus stood suddenly, a lengthy breath escaping his bearded lips. His hands were tied when she mentioned the emperor for they always seemed to be of an accord. "Very well, if His Radiance wills it."

Crow allowed herself a smile as Naberos presented her guest with a contract, the singular page borne on a rounded silver tray. "Thank you for your understanding, Messor."

Notes:

Connecting to the reaper story quest! Guess who supplied Rullus with such esoteric tomes and ruined him after fleeing from Garlemald?
I hope it's clear that 'Messor' is just an honorific/title. Drusilla's grandfather is just known as 'Rullus', but I wanted to add a little prestige to him as the of most skilled reaper in Garlemald.

Chapter 37

Heels echoed through the southern wing in a hurried pace, brushing past guards and busy servants alike in a whirlwind of petticoats and lace. The corridor was busier here than the east wing where everyone seemed to tip-toe around her and the emperor’s respective quarters, a maid stumbled aside as she swerved to avoid a collision. In her hands was a tray stacked with empty plates and used utensils, the startled servant could only look on with wide eyes as she realized who'd just accosted her. A moment passed as the First Princess' personal manservant jogged by. He paused and tipped a bow to the bemused servant, then continued after his mistress.

Zenos, unwinding with a healthy dose of sweet port after a long day and a particularly dense Lord of the lower aristocracy, stood before the tall window overlooking the capital. He heard her steps before she even knocked, an amused smirk tugged at his lips at the image. She extended that one courtesy before entering, forgoing the wait for a verbal invitation.

Crow swept into the room and kicked the door closed, her skirt hitch nearly to her knees as her grin lit up the austere space. Zenos turned to regard her, waiting to hear of the cause behind her blithe jaunt. 

"I did it!" She rounded the lounging space as he set down his crystal glass by a side table, her unobscured eye gleaming with joy.

He extended a beckoning arm as she closed the distance, embracing him by the cinch of his belted hips. Crow buried her face into the broad, warm expanse of his torso, shoulders sagging with relief.

"We can leave together." Came the muffled sob, her temple and cheek pressed tight against him.

Three years in the making, this dream of being able to escape Garlemald was becoming a reality. In just four days, they'd be stepping on an airship and taking off to a foreign land. All her effort and sacrifice finally came to fruition, and it filled her nearly to bursting with elation.

Zenos drew back and ran his knuckle against her cheek, brushing against her flushed face. She leaned into his touch as she gazed up at him, appearing proud of her accomplishments.

"Well done." He said in simple acknowledgement.

For the first time in a very long time, she beamed at him in uncomplicated joy. She parted from him, the moment's glow fleeting, and began discussing what to bring with her while abroad. Before long, they sank down to his bed, stacks of books on Nagxian history and culture laid about her lap. They spoke at length of the battles that took place decades prior between the empire and the resistance. The infamous massacre of Bunlai and Dagluk were the two most known footnotes, caused by Lord Titus' incompetence and made little better by the subsequent occupation. Due to these diplomatic disasters, the empire was never able to gain a solid foothold in the entire region, and Valnain remained their only stronghold in the far southern reaches.

"Any castrum built atop the marshlands would inevitably sink into the mud, not to mention the relentless insurgents that would strike from the foliage by day and night." Zenos swirled his glass, gazing into the deep burgundy depth of the wine. He could envision the scene of soldiers fighting against not only the hidden rebel menace, but also strange diseases and venomous pests of the jungle.

"Why not did they not adopt the same strategy as your father in Locus Amoenus?" She recalled accounts of fiery bombardments over the fields of the Garlean ancestral lands. The takeover of that fertile crescent was an effective but thoroughly brutal affair, an efficient show of might that seemed suitably in line with the High Legatus’ character.

"They tried." Zenos said and swallowed the last of his heady drink. "Everything just grew back — it’s poor form to indiscriminately rain down destruction besides."

“A graceful show of restraint, how uncharacteristic of you to think so.” Crow chuckled, rolling over as she flipped to an illustrative spread, the hem of her dress spilling over the edge of the bed. It’d been a long while since she allowed herself to lay back and indulge in leisure reading without worry. This was but a brief respite, she knew, but it was well earned nonetheless.

"What do you think the food will be like?" She wondered if they were heavy handed with spices, what kind of ingredients the locals used for their daily bread. Mulling on the port city, she took a haphazard guess. "Perhaps fish?" 

"You'll have to find out on an external excursion to the city, most castrums serve standardized ingredients shipped in from the capital." He informed her, thinking back on the unexciting fares from his time in Tchita. As with troops, foodstuffs tend to be imported from elsewhere, significantly lowering the chances of their supplies from being tampered with. It may be more costly than utilizing local produce to feed a legion, but replacing scores of sick or dead soldiers was far more expensive.

He counted off with his fingers, reciting the bland, expected repertoire. "Starch, grains, meat, vegetable stews, some canned goods, and, if allowed, sweets at week's end."

Crow did not have the most robust appetite, but even she wilted at the thought of such dull repasts. She turned to Zenos with a mortified grimace. "Do you think it'd be an imposition to ask for an allowance?"

He sat up from his place at the bed's opposing end and reached over to pluck the book from her grasp. Reading it aloud, he scoffed at the ostentatious title.

"An Astute Sojourner's Guide to the Mysteries of Othard." An obnoxious mouthful, he thought. "By the venturous Galuf Baldesion and co. Volume three." He did not recall having this in his personal collection, nor ordering it for purchase.

Crow lunged to retrieve her stolen tome but he leaned back just out of reach, arm extended to its full length. She laughed in disbelief at the instigation of this juvenile game.

"These are more than three decades out of date, the information taken down years before the occupation.” Zenos deftly evaded another swipe, giving neither ground nor chance for her to steal the article back.

“It’s a fascinating read!” She bounced to her feet upon the mattress, clutching her skirts in one hand and one of his shoulders in the other. “Oh! Give it back, you brute!”

“You’ll fall.” His warning sounded more like teasing, and despite his words, he did not seem inclined to give her back the bloody book. She’d been glancing over the dresses that the women wore, a form-fitting, double-slitted affair made from lotus silk or, if one could not afford such luxuries, cotton. Accompanied by white, flowing pantaloons, they struck an exotic image compared to the more uptight, heavily layered fashion of the capital.

Crow vied forward in a surge, ignoring her childhood friend’s caution, obstinate as ever. Little wonder that she tripped against a tangle in the sheets, tipping forward like a knocked over teapot. The world flew by in a whirl, the moment exhilarating but brief, coming to a slanted stand-still. Her fall was halted, caught by her wrist and waist before she could fully tilt off-axis and collide with the ground. She turned and leveled a lopsided grin at Zenos, the book had fallen spine-first to the arabesque carpet when he’d let it go to catch her fall. His brows knitted together as he shot her an unimpressed look, none too pleased by her stunt.

She, in turn, stuck out her tongue and sprung lightly off the edge of the bed. As she reached down for the tome, she felt his hand tighten marginally. Then with a firm tug, he brought her crashing back onto the bed, a gasp caught in her throat. Before she could untangle herself from this predicament, not dissimilar to a fly caught within the web of the gilded spider, a curtain fall of gold surrounded her sight. Blue orbs pinning her down with the weight of his sardonic amusement.

Zenos loomed over her like a lion with fresh prey, the arc of his torso pressed against her bodice. "That wasn't very wise— what if I had missed you?"

Crow reddened at the proximity, her chest heaving under him. He still had a hold on her wrist, keeping it pressed against the bed above her head. Still, she swallowed the fluttering sensation in her belly and mirrored his mischievous smirk.

"I have every confidence that you wouldn't." She said simply, catching the scent of bergamot and spiced wine from their closeness.

The room swam with a rosy glow as she reached for him, a finger skimmed lightly against his cheek to tuck back a long section of his hair. They'd known each other their entire lives, holding onto one another as though their world would end if they ever let go. That warm, curious feeling within her had made itself known since last year, her heart reaching out to him whenever he was near. It was a yearning that she'd ignored for a while, pretending it was not there even when it filled her with a giddiness whenever their hands touched. It flitted in and out of reach, this sensation that made her heart throb and cheeks flushed.

Acknowledging it was something she had thought was beneath her, reading of this sensation from those sordid romanticas. Now she was helpless to submit, her austere composure strewn out of reach as she lay disheveled beneath him. 

"Your confidence is appreciated." He murmured, his thumb tracing lazy circles against her wrist.

Zenos saw the whirlpools of her mismatched gaze, the peril they promised should he give into the fire burning low in his belly. Her petal-lips parted as though she had a thought that had yet to be given voice, their corners tugging into a tempting smile. His throat bobbed carefully in a suppressing swallow, he was a parched man before a spring. She was too precious for the things that circled in his thoughts, the crawling appetite that only grew despite his nightly ministrations.

He began to draw back, lifting himself away from this predicament. Crow, however, had other ideas as she caught him by the collar. With a demanding tug, she pulled him back down like an errant wave. He caught himself as she vied upward, lips brushing together halfway, her hesitation tipping at a precipice. Her heart was hammering in her ears with this bold move, molding herself to his form. Those lips were startlingly soft and it melted against his lips like spun sugar, his arm curling around her waist without his conscious command. In the blooming moment, the shock gradually wearing away, leaving naught but a pleasant, soaking headiness that no wine could ever evoke from him. 

A small whimper escaped her throat when he ran his tongue along her bottom lip, her hand squeezing against his shirt collar. The heat of her cheek radiated against his own as he pressed further in, giving her a sharp, reprimanding nip. Parting from her tender lips, he trailed a line of kisses down her jawline.

"Zenos, a moment…" She pleaded in spite of herself, feeling him slow down along the contours of her neck. 

A sharp pinch made her freeze up, sucking in another sharp breath. He'd clamped down in earnest, the graze of teeth and lips. The pain sent a shiver down her body, back arching as she strained against him. Her hands roamed for purchase, finding naught but the smooth, firm planes of muscles of his shoulders and arms. It tickled and it ached all at once, and she was on the verge of begging for mercy.

His tongue lapped over the sore spot and, before she knew what had just happened, he withdrew. Crow found herself breathless, clutching her heaving bodice as she stared up at the coffered ceiling. Sparing not another moment, she sat up, vision spinning in a head rush as she tried to focus her sight on him. 

Zenos likewise scanned her over from where he sat, a hand dragging back his mussed tresses. She looked suitably dazed, cheeks bashfully sanguine, much to his hidden satisfaction. Her modest coif was falling apart and the pearled pin keeping it in place was nowhere to be found. A ruddy red bruise flowered where her neck and shoulder met, a consequence of his momentary slip.

Crow stood suddenly, the back of her hand pressed against her blushing cheek, feeling painfully shy despite her previous ardor. He'd expected her to flee, or even admonish him for taking things too far. He was willing to apologize, though he felt little remorse for what he did. She'd been the one to light the spark, after all, and he did enjoy the ensuing consequences. Though, perhaps a little too much, he thought as he savored the taste of the kiss with a fine flick of his tongue.

Instead, defying his expectations, she leaned to the fore and graced him with a press of her lips to his cheek, the sensation of teeth pinched against the corner of his mouth. He froze in place, caught off-guard by her reciprocation, the moment a rarity as he found himself unsure on how to proceed.

"Incorrigible fiend." Crow muttered as she pushed away from him, then marched from his chambers and left him utterly bemused.

She was, at the very least, peeved — yet not, if that parting peck was anything to go by. The mysteries of the opposite sex seemed impossible even to one as percipient as he, prodigy or no. Zenos tapped his fingers tenderly against where she’d bitten, surprised to find a faint warmth creeping up his face. 

****

The last of her luggage was carried from her chambers, her uniform being buttoned up by the seemingly mechanical maidservants. They kept their gazes lowered as their hands worked to braid up her hair and served the morning's victual.

"You must be relieved," Crow commented as she gazed into the mirror of her vanity desk. "Today's your last day under my service."

The pair slowed as they registered her words, wide eyes regarding her with undisguised wariness. It was a rare thing when she would acknowledge them, going weeks on end without a word spoken as most of her main needs were catered to by Naberos.

"W-we shall miss your presence, Your Grace." One added, an Archadian girl of Crow's age, flaxen haired and gray eyed. 

Archades was supposedly where the late empress had hailed from, a small city to the east of Garlemald. Their main product was armor and clothing, textiles woven from the by-product of ceruleum refinement. A quiet and prosperous bunch, she wondered if they'd developed a taste for ambition to send one of their own here. Hand servants of any imperial family member often hailed from the minor aristocracy that dotted beyond the capital borders, and to send a daughter here was telling of their hopes.

The other, mousy haired and utterly lock-jawed, could only nod along and avert her eyes. Crow felt her hands tremble as she inserted another pin into her hair, and the shadow beneath their feet flickered with impatience.

Crow slid her gaze to the Archadian girl, determining that she might be of some use in the future. "You may leave." 

The maidservant's brows relaxed, a subtle breath released as she gave a parting curtsy. She did not spare her fellow maidservant even a backward glance as she left, relieved to be dismissed.

"Tell me, where are you from?" The princess asked as the woman slid the armored collar around her throat. The austere accessory, made from silver-filegreed steel, was light and sat comfortably against her neck and clavicular curves.

"I'm from Landis, Your Grace." She replied, the chord of her nervousness audible over the snap of the ornate collar's mechanism.

Crow slid smoothly from the small vanity bench, pulling on her soft leather gloves. She took a moment to examine the woman in more detail as she made final preparations to depart. This maidservant looked older than her departed Archadian counterpart, likely in her early twenties and of no significant looks. As drab as her hair and as slender as a stripling, no one would really miss a no-name servant if she were to inexplicably disappear.

"Really? You don't look the part." She chuckled, those who hailed from Landis bore ruddy red hair and a warm complexion, it was plain to see the contrary.

"I married into a Landite family, Your Grace." The servant lowered her head as she offered up the information.

Crow unhooked the sable-trimmed coat from its place by the wall, shrugging it on and examining herself before the tall vanity mirror. It went well with her utilitarian ensemble, lending a more decadent edge to the snug trousers and bishop-sleeved blouse. Black was ever the chosen color, accented by silver and the glistening smoothness of the sable lapels.

In the reflected scene, the shade beneath the princess stretched like rolling molasses, spilling across the polished floor towards its ignorant prey. The maid could not have seen the danger as she was distracted by the princess' approach.

"And your husband?" She asked, blue eye widened like a prowling cat.

"He serves in the military, Your Grace, stationed in Ala Mhigo as a pilus." The maid attempted to step back upon the narrowing of their proximity, hiding a gesture to ward away evil beneath her apron. She'd heard vile things about the First Princess, had even helped clean the aftermath of whatever horror that had unfolded in the former governess' quarters. The sour stench of rotting blood and spilled entrails still clung to her sense like a charnel breeze.

No sooner had she uttered those words, she was yanked off balance from beneath. The maidservant gave a startled yelp, barely able to catch herself against one of the bed decorated posters.

The princess watched as the maidservant was dragged into the stygian pool by clinging tendrils, reminding her of the little critters she'd trapped in a pit as a child. The woman let out a panicked shriek as the first crunch of bone sounded, clawing at the ground for purchase in hopes of an escape.

"Your Grace! Please!" 

Crow stepped over her thrall's amorphous, bubbling form, her victim's pleas falling on deaf ears. She retrieved her signet ring from a lockbox atop her night table — the twin to Zenos' — pocketing it as the woman's voice was reduced to nothing more than a muffled gurgle. Then eventually, mercifully, silence.

"There will be more to have in Nagxia, but you'll have to be far more discreet than this." She pulled her coat close, standing before the rippling black pool as her eyes searched the scene. "I digress, at least you're keeping things neat."

There wasn't a drop of blood to be found anywhere, the woman had died quickly but not so quietly. Crow trailed from her room as the voidsent resumed its place beneath her steps, blending seamlessly into her casted shadow.

She sighed and looked back, taking in the bedizened carving on the walls and coffered ceiling; the heavy scarlet draperies by the windows and lush carpets beneath her feet; silken sheets that kept her warm and rich meals that often sickened her. She was leaving behind this ostentatious cage at last, the doors thrown wide open for her.

Crow whirled forward, squeezing her eyes shut as the image of Andrus bidding her farewell surfaced. No regrets, she bit her lip and pushed herself onward, ejecting the picture from her mind's eye. She would leave this place light and free, the cost be damned.

****

Zenos bound up his long locks, the legionary uniform was tight on his shoulders and loose around his waist, the attire meant for the barreled frame of a roegadyn. He would not need it for long, only until they took off for Nagxia. His father would be furious and impotent to do much about this act of mischief, the thought brought him endless satisfaction.

The helmet slid on smoothly, at least this did not give him trouble, and he stepped from the shadowed corridor. His legs slipped into a hurried jog, body language displaying the role he now adopted — a soldier nearly tardy for deployment. There were a few who nearly rivaled him in stature, the emperor had made sure of that. Roegadyn were popular enough for their strength and noteworthy capacity for war, qualities that bolstered their standing within the average legion.

He slipped into the ranks of the aligned soldiers, steps crunching into the snow, stationed at the very back for uniformity. They stood in the imperial landing field where several airships were in the midst of taking off; there was one that still lingered, however, awaiting a final passenger. Distant red light blinked against the heavy icy drift amongst the faint outlines of steel towers — signals given and sent for take offs. A senior officer stomped through and stirred up some sort of commotion among the established ranks.

"You, come." The Pilus Primus pointed at Zenos, behind him was a building collection of awaiting legionaries. They were rounding up men, either gathering hands for a search or his father was faster to catch up than he'd given him credit for.

"Impudent fool, the First Princess is due to leave within the hour. That unit is meant to pilot the craft." A familiar gruff voice interjected, resonating with cool authority. 

He turned to see Quintus van Cinna approach from the air bay's entrance in his full Legatus regalia. The suit, made from the most advanced developments Garlemald had to offer, kept one warm during the most vicious of Ilsabardan blizzards and reasonably cool under a desert's sweltering sun. The commanding Prilus edged back, all his commanding candor declawed by the appearance of the head of Ist legion.

"But my Lord, the High Legatus' orders– and prince Zenos is– " the intimidating red cross that bedecked the Pilus Primus' helm seemed to wilt before van Cinna, Zenos could hear his barely suppressed distress.

"You have enough men, now begone lest you waste any more time." The Legatus intoned, dismissing them sharply.

With his authority overridden, the Pilus nodded mutely and waved to the men he'd recruited. Once cleared of any disruptive elements, van Cinna turned to the unit and barked his next orders.

"As for you lot, make ready for departure as soon as Her Grace arrives, do not dawdle."

The prince hung back as the rest shuffled up the assault ship's hull, sending the old Legatus a subtle, reciprocal nod.

Chapter 38

It gladdened her to see the emperor hearty enough to walk around, even if he now needed the aid of a cane. The Praetors slid the doors closed quietly behind her, shutting out the world and leaving them together with the lazy crackle of the fire. The heavy, dreamy glow of the flames outlined the drooping silhouette of the emperor and casted a sleepy ease over the large chamber. The darkness, comforting and obscuring, danced at firelight's edge, rendering the room smaller than it truly was. His Radiance was situated comfortably in his tall armchair, lightly dozing with a book bent over a robed knee and a half-drunk cup of tea by his elbow on a side table. 

Crow retrieved a throw cover from the chaise across the room and draped it across his lap. She kneeled before him, plucking the book from his knee and straightened the wrinkled page with patient reverence. Time seemed to have slowed within the borders of this decorated chamber, even the howling winds outside tamped down to a morose sigh. His chest rose and fell, a slight snore accompanied his every exhale, appearing at peace in the moment. Crow pried the cane from his gnarled grip, and that seemed to cause him to stir.

"My dear…" his mumbled speech was further muffled by his beard. Regardless, she held his broad, varicose hands between hers, hoping to warm them further.

"Your Radiance, I'm here to bid you farewell for now." She beseeched softly. "I need to go soon."

His eyes remained shut even as his fingers curled around hers, a surprising strength still lingered in those old joints. "Stay… stay, Mnemosyne."

A glimmer of tear slid down the crevices of his senescent cheeks, his brows knitting together as he was caught between the realms of dream and reality. Crow had never heard of the name, her eyes widened at such a display of unbidden grief. Her heart quavered as she was kneeled before him — her beloved father and beacon.

"I shall return soon, so please…" Crow staunched her brimming eyes, lowering her head to press against the back of his hand. "Please be well and wait — wait to see me stand on my own two feet, I'll make you proud."

She left him before her resolve could break, the warmth behind her eyes fading back as she pulled her sable coat close. Arriving at the air bay, she was assaulted by a cold front, though the icy bite did not manage to penetrate through her layers. The chill was invigorating, spurring her on. There among the crossings of engineers and soldiers, she spotted a familiar figure, the exemplary cut of his stance held the weight of decades at war.

Glad to have chanced by him before her departure, Crow called out to him. "My Lord Legatus." 

Quintus van Cinna paid his obeisance in a shallow bow, hand tucked at the small of his back. His surprise was detectable even through the fearsome geometry of his helm. "Your Grace, you've half a bell yet til departure."

"His Radiance had dozed off, so I judged it best to keep our parting short." The princess let slip a rueful smile. "While dreaming, he even bade me to stay, calling me by a strange name — I wonder if you know of it, my Lord?"

"Pray tell." Quintus turned fully towards her now, his attention and curiosity undivided.

Crow hesitated, unsure to disclose such intimate information. "Well, does 'Mnemosyne' inspire anything?"

The Legatus lapsed into silence, she could not discern whether he was truly pondering her prompt or debating the disclosure of some forbidden knowledge. The moment swelled with tension like a rising wave between them as Crow waited for his answer.

"No, Your Grace, I cannot say I do."

She sighed, her disappointment sharp but brief. "I see, thank you at any road."

Quintus nodded as he noted the quick flit of her thought by the furrowing of her brows.

"By the by, have you seen Zenos?"

He chuckled at her bounding mind. "He awaits you aboard, Your Grace."

Crow frowned, a fleeting redness overtaking her countenance. She fiddled with her gloved fingers, looking every bit a flustered maiden.

"I was hoping he would accompany me from His Radiance's chambers." She mumbled sullenly.

Oh? — Quintus raised his brows from behind the obscuring mask of his helmet, a knowing smirk raising his lips. Her heart was worn on her sleeve for even one as aged as him to see.

"Then best not to keep him waiting, Your Grace."

 "I suppose you're right." The princess sniffed haughtily, straightening.

"Please take care of His Radiance." She said by way of farewell, her concern was as earnest as the warmth of a hearth.

"You have my word. Now, please." The Legatus gestured toward the awaiting ramp. "Conditions will soon turn again before long."

****

Emet-Selch was furious, but he kept his ire in check as he faced Azem. She looked pale and tired as though she hadn't eaten nor rested in days, her once radiant waves were tangled with the beaten sundiscs woven into them. 

Venat stood facing him, her advisory robe as pure white as her tresses, the knowing, mischievous smile she often wore was nowhere to be seen. This was a grim meeting indeed if the flippant witch could not even muster her usual retorts.

"What lies did you offer to lead her so astray?" Emet bristled. 'The people are beside themselves with unrest and fear, how could you of all people sow disharmony in the ranks of the convocation?'

Venat held her ground before the overseer of the Underworld, unfazed by the sting of his accusation. "Azem came to this conclusion by herself and approached me; the sacrilege you propose would be tantamount to genocide."

"Would you rather we all perish?" Emet-Selch bellowed, the ill-fitting stopper he'd placed on his temper finally erupting. Aether pulsating in ephemeral waves as his voice rose in volume. "The need of the many will always come before the wants of the few — are you so in love with such romantic ideas of individuality that you would have us all face extinction?!"

"Enough!" Azem stepped between them, ever the peaceful diplomat. She was never one to stand by and watch her colleagues squabble among themselves, always seeking to mediate for agreeable resolutions.

"Apologies, Venat, but I would have a private word with Emet-Selch." Pupil and former mentor met eye to eye, Azem gave an assuaging nod and smiled.

"I cannot, in good conscience, leave you alone here." The woman insisted, shooting an exasperated glance to their antagonist.

"Mother," it was a title rarely used, if at all, for once one rose to a seat of the Convocation, they were required to denounce all familial ties to ensure impartiality. Nevertheless, Azem was ever one to cling to the desires of her heart and sentimentality of blood. "I shall be but a moment."

Venat frowned, she could never quite deny her anything, her hands placed firmly on the shoulders of her once-daughter. "You only need to call for me and I shall come without delay."

Azem watched as the ripple in the spatial rift smoothed itself back to the weave of reality, then turned back to Emet-Selch with a rueful simper. They were in her archival quarters where innumerable crystals laid at rest, the final moments of life encapsulated into a beautiful shard. Her duties, along with surveying the world beyond Amaurot, required her to sift through each morsel of information. Equal part scholar and warrior, her meticulous nature was inimitable even when compared to her many of her peers. Her work was once assisted by eight wonderful scholars, their musing delighting her as they worked. The Words of Azem were small in number, but their works were invaluable to the neverending toil of the Akademy. They were gone now, however, succumbed to the ailment that had recently plagued them. Each of them far too empathetic to the distress of their peers, and they'd paid the tragic price for it. Now she was alone, mired in her grief even as she admired what still remained of their painstaking labor.

Among the undulating crystalline drift, she lowered her head, mustering up the courage to face him. Azem let out a lengthy breath, resisting the habit to loop her arm around his as she did in their akademy days.

"Shall we walk?"

She strode ahead of him by two steps so that he would not be able to discern the pang of her heartbreak. She felt herself tremble, though not with doubt, for she'd already made up her mind, but for what she must do to stay true to this path she'd chosen. They left the iridescent hall far behind but crossed paths with no others. Since the terrible symptom of this mysterious illness that had stricken them, very few still maintain the practice of their research. These golden halls, once filled with boisterous, intellectual discussions now languished in stilted silence, their steps echoed in hollow resignation.

"I know you disagree with my decision, but you cannot divert me from this road." She began, her voice hardened though she dared not to face him.

Emet-Selch saw only the pale gold waves of her long tresses, even the polished sundiscs seemed dulled by the recently unfolding tragedies. He'd heard what had happened to her eight subordinates, they'd succumbed and what had crawled from their nightmares turned on them — a terrible fate that was all too common lately. He knew also that she was concerned for that fool in Elpis, the star-obsessed idiot that she'd placed under Hermes' care. 

"'Disagree' is a severe understatement." Emet-Selch frowned, and his face, though still youthful, creased sharply with weariness. "Do you have any idea what they're thinking of doing to you?"

Azem shook her head, still refusing to meet his eyes. "Whatever the punishment I shall endure." 

"They will erase you!" Emet-Selch could not hold back the stricken look from his countenance, a rush of desperation gripping him. He took her by the shoulders and forced her to meet his penetrating eyes, though it did not take the power of the soul sight to see her anguish. 

"They would have that you never existed at all, Mnemosyne! For all your protestations…" He choked on his words, barely able to suppress the rush of sorrow that nearly blindsided him. "I cannot allow that."

Azem swallowed thickly, a river of stinging tears carving down her cheeks. Her eyes like pools of verdant lamentation, twin emeralds glistening in indescribable regret. She shook her head again regardless of the pain of their parting, wordlessly denying his pleas.

"Stay, please. Together, we may yet save those who are not lost." He implored, his stern mask cracking. His brows furrowed together and, for but a moment, she thought those lines would extend far beyond the limits of his handsome face and he would break before her like porcelain.

Azem drew him in slowly, her arms sliding against his robes, the milk-pale skin of her arms pressed against the back of his neck and hood, smooth as silky water. She pressed her forehead against his shoulders, eyes shut tight as she did her best to absorb this final, fleeting feeling between them.

He did not return her embrace but could not bear to push her away. He bit at his lip, clamping down on anymore begging words that threatened to escape, realizing the futility of his pleas.

"I'm sorry, Hades, I hope we may see one another again some day."

This farewell felt far too permanent and he was helpless to protest, then, belatedly, he reached out as she stepped back. However, it was too late, far too late to let her know how precious she still meant to him. Emet-Selch took a step forward but the ground gave beneath his outstretched foot, the geometric tiles warped like the winding flow of the river Styx. He fell in and the violent tide of darkness rushed up to consume him tandem, washing over him was an implacable wave of unending time and loneliness.

Solus blinked awake, his lips parted as though he'd been about to say something. A bead of sweat dribbled down his temple and into the border of his ivory beard, his heart bucking like an unsettled beast. The smoldering coal of the fireplace had gone completely out, the only source of illumination left was the single yellow lamp by the far wall.

The standing chronometer chimed a low tone when the blanket of midnight overtook Garlemald, yet the world outside remained palely lit by refracted moonlight. A blizzard keened without, the scrape of ice against steel muffled by insulation. They scratched against the battlements and steeples like restless spirits, wishing for shelter from the merciless squall. Solus scoffed inwardly at the conjured prose, perhaps he should order a macabre tale penned for the imperial troupe.

The emperor stood with the assistance of his cane, the weight of this body keenly felt as the years passed. He was unconcerned, however, for he already had a new suit ready. He will at least give a handful of years more for her sake, but he was fast growing weary of this role. Tapping his cane against the ground, he summoned the ever present shadowed left hand of his rule.

A soft, dark swirl swept in like an errant breeze, coalescing into a cloaked shape. Solus paid the reaper's entrance no mind as he nudged the needle of a phonograph onto a crooning track. A sorrowful tune layered over the prior stillness of the air, each note like molasses, sweet and yearning. The piece, Home Beyond the Horizon, was a commemorative song dedicated to the official founding of the empire. He'd grown admittedly fond of these small, worldly things — for all their shortcomings, these empty shells did have at least a commendable knack for creative pursuits.

"So how did she fare under your estimation?" Solus' gaze trailed along the spinning record disc.

"Her excellence is undeniable, a pity she prefers the drudgery of a soldier over what the Interfectium could offer." Rullus replied, still somewhat sore over the hand he was dealt by the princess.

Solus regarded the reaper with ill-humored eyes, inwardly scoffing at his thinly veiled attempt at grasping for a better position. Crow had been an investment of sorts by allowing Drusilla, his granddaughter, to play mentor to Solus' charge. What Rullus did not account for was her will and cunning, coming away with a lesser prize that could guarantee nothing.

As emperor, he'd always made sure to keep a tight leash on the shadowy organization, keeping their numbers to a minimum for clandestine purposes. Fewer heads to keep track of meant the risk of leaked secrets were minimized, but the presumptuous, grasping Rullus had always yearned for more. The continuation of his legacy, and the means to maintain the future of his order no matter the cost. To Solus, he seemed as a parasite, unable to grasp anything beyond the labor of his decrepit legacy's continued survival.

"How long has it been since you've entered my service, Rullus?"

The old reaper paused in thought, bowing his head low. "Some thirty years, Your Radiance, and may you grant me many more years."

The emperor stroked his beard, admiring the gray skies beyond the snow-mottled panes of his windows. It was time to sever his left hand and all their secrets with it, a clean cut to conclude his role in this play.

"Do you not wish to retire in comfort? Lay down the blade and let your granddaughter have her time in the light?"

Rullus paused at his liege's prompt, inexplicably unnerved by the sudden shift in topic. "Surely you jest, Your Radiance, I cannot possibly–"

Rullus jerked as a cold tendril stabbed through him, the blade so thin and cold that it very well blended into the shadows of the chamber. He casted his gaze down to see it piercing through his chest and collarbone, the slanted angle rooted him to the spot where he knelt. It slid from his body cruelly, a dribble of blood following its withdrawal. The shadow of the emperor eclipsed his sight as Rullus clutched his burbling wound, a smear of blood trickling from his lips.

"A pity then." Solus, his terrible contempt leaking through, leered down at the reaper. 

Rullus met his lambent gaze, golden with abhorrence as though he was nothing more than an insect to be trampled underfoot. The reaper, much to his chagrin, had grown complacent in his decades-long service under this gilded tyrant. In his old age, he was no longer so wary and keen to the intentions of those surrounding him, much less his master. It was him all along that Rullus should have kept his eyes upon—perhaps he deserved the consequences of his carelessness. Regardless, the reaper grit his teeth even as he tasted the iron upon his gums, it did not mean he would submit to death easily.

The serrated claws of Rullus' voidsent lashed out, its eyeless skull gnashing fiercely. However, for all its power, the attack passed through Solus harmlessly like a sighing breath. The reaper hadn't the time to reel from astonishment as his legs carried him post haste to the nearest window. A crashing of glass and sliced steel tumbled as he made his exit, a ribbon of blood trailing him all the while as the blizzard crashed against him. He disappeared into the white maelstrom, fleeing desperately as a hamstrung buck into the night. Solus drew the blade from his cane and slid a thin line across his arm, eyes narrowing to where the reaper had escaped. He'd let him slip, but he would not live for long with a wound so grievous.

With a thought, he lifted the veil of silence from the chamber and sent the phonograph crashing to the ground. The music distorted by its violent displacement, stuck on a sharp, ugly repetition of its own tune. The Praetors came not three seconds later, barging into the room with weapons raised and vigilant eyes. 

"Fetch a medicus, and issue a decree for the arrest of the Interfectium on grounds of attempted regicide." Solus ordered sternly from where he stood over the stain of Rullus' injury, his own ichor trickling down to mix in with the growing pool. His outrage was superficial at best as he ostensibly grew weaker from his exertions.

It must have been quite a sight for even the ever-stoic praetorian guards blanched. They split ways to carry out his command as Solus pressed a sleeve to his arm, blood slowly seeping through the bunched fabric. The servants will soon swamp this sanctum of his to ruin what little tranquility that remained. He closed his eyes as snow drifted in from the gap, feeling the icy flakes melt against his cheek like the final caress of her touch.

The night was long, and the coming years would be longer still. Everything henceforth will be done for her sake, her and her alone, as the preparatory gift of his departure.

Chapter 39

Clouds, as far as the eyes could see against the azure firmament, broke apart by the ascending body of the sleek imperial airship. It traveled steadily over the skies, skimming just above the streaking nimbus masses. Just below them was the inland body of the Knowing Sea, its salty waves enclosed within Northern Othard save for the narrow opening that led to the Unpromised Islet. Crow traced over the map, pouring over the elegant scrawl of imperial cartographers. Her finger coming to stop at the sea's edge, right before the stark emptiness that demarcated the razed remains of the former territory of Bozja. She had heard of the incalculable force that seared into the land, and could only imagine the magnitude of the destruction wrought about by it. 'The Bozjan Incident' — it was coined, though little else was known save for the visible aftermath of the flood of power that burned the land flat. Every man, woman, child, even the animal and vegetation were hardly spared. All dead within a single moment, no further thoughts or feelings to be had.

"Quite fascinating for a great swath of nothing." Zenos said across from her, his legionary helmet laid abandoned at his elbow.

They were gathered in the executive quarter, their midday meal laid out on the table. A simple fare of ovibos goulash stewed in fine vintage, black bread and table water. Behind her was a wide viewing window meant for leisure observation, its thick glass panes streaked with fading condensation. The sunshine was refreshing on her skin, its unapologetically bright warmth dancing across the fairly lavished furnishings of the generous cabin.

"Aren't you a least bit curious as to what caused it?" Crow cocked her head as she cupped the sunbeams in her palm, spying a peek of the desolate white landscape between the gaps of the clouds.

"Likely some overambitious experiment gone wrong," the prince slid from his seat and came to stand beside her to share the grand view. "The emperor loves his novelties."

Crow's easy cheer subsided at the mention of His Radiance, his absence keenly felt. Two days into the journey and her thoughts drifted to concern for his health.

Sensing her silent shift in mood, Zenos turned. She smiled upon sensing his eyes on her, picking up his stray helm as she drew herself from her private thoughts.

"Then we must be the most novel people in the world." 

He snorted, watching her step up next to him with crossed arms. "He favors you best, make what you will of that."

Crow spun the helm this way and that, letting the sun sparkle across the jet black metal. Its visor reflected the azure sky, new as can be straight from the manufacture lines.

"Myself beside, he's fond of you enough to go along with your plans of elopement — something you've neglected to inform me about." So much for keeping each other apprised, she thought with a frown.

She'd actually been the one to have caught onto him after boarding. He might have changed out of his royal raiments but he could hardly hide the imposing set of his shoulders to the smooth swordsman's gait. Even among the roegadyn men who nearly rivaled him in height, he looked like a lion among bears; large beasts all but there was an unmistakable elegance to the way he held himself. Her sight, so used to that implacable walk, was able to pick him out by the time they were in the air.

"While we were indisposed, my dearest father had other intentions on the matter of where my service should take place," Zenos let the smirk tease at the corner of his lips. "I disagreed and His Radiance merely lent an obliging hand to resolve the issue."

"Where would you have gone, pray tell?" She kept her sight firmly forward, disguising her displeasure with acute squint through the glowing beams.

"Ala Mhigo, under Gaius van Baelsar." He said.

"Little wonder, the XIVth's Legatus is fiercely loyal to him." She scoffed.

Where better to send a recalcitrant heir while still keeping an eye on him? 

The Black Wolf was a storied man, his belt notched with several successful campaigns. Under Varis, he'd not only helped reclaim the Garlean ancestral land but also paved the warpath all the way into Eorzea by orchestrating Ala Mhigo's civil war. She'd even read the manuscript of the play dedicated to that deed, though the focal point of that sordid take was centered around Theodoric the mad. Moreover, instead of being the dark hand that engineered Ala Mhigo's downfall, Gaius van Baelsar was depicted as the hero who had freed the warlike people from a tyrant's yoke and showed them the enlightened path of the empire. It was all casted over with the rosy lens of necessary bloodshed and heroism, but Lexentale, the master of his craft, had made it all so convincing.

It was, she determined, an excellent piece of propaganda. She may hold a measure of affection for the visions of the empire, but she would not be so blind to such illusions. The Legatus had swooped in once the kingdom was in the throes of turmoil, like an opportunistic jackal. It was an underhanded but brilliant strategy, for he knew his legion alone could not face such hardy veterans of war head on.

It was where servant differed from master — Varis was as a siege-ram, full of blunt, forceful power, preferring spectacles in his methods and the sheer, dominating force of the legions beneath him. While Gaius van Baelsar was the saber that slid betwixt one's plates to cut at an artery or tendon, his cunning was the best asset Varis held in his ruthless fist.

"Your father will come for you, you know." Crow parted from his side, tossing the helmet against a cushioned seat. "What will you do then?"

Zenos drummed his gloved fingers against his arm, following some phantom tune she could not hear. Though she could not see his face, she saw the confidence in his relaxed stance.

"How about a wager?" He asked suddenly.

Crow leaned her hip against the table's edge, picking at the signet ring around her little finger and mouing in disdain at the suggestion. "You know I've terrible luck."

He turned and approached her, closing the distance in two steps. "It's precisely why I proposed the notion."

She made an indignant noise. "Well, you needn't be so hurtful about it, even if it is true."

Zenos extended a hand to her, open and inviting. He wore an understated smile, eyes narrowing in devilish delight. "I’ll wager that my father won't come."

With a sullen pout, Crow took his hand, certain that the universe would ensure her loss on this farcical gamble. "...and I shall have to disagree, even if I hope for otherwise — he won't let his only heir go so easily."

"And what will the winning prize be?" She cocked her head aside, brow raised.

He loomed over her, bracing himself against the table and bending down to press his nose against the soft nook of where her ear ended and jaw began. Crow reddened, squeezing his hand as she tensed against him. He knew very well what she liked, what stirring reward they'd both want even if she herself would never admit it.

"You're a beast." She said as his lips feathered against her sleek jawline, pushing him back before her heart could leap from her chest.

Her childhood friend looked utterly delighted by her flustered discomfort, much to her chagrin, like a lion over a bowl of cream. 

“From Golmore itself.” He concurred.

A hand clutching the spot where his lips had grazed, Crow gave scoff and bit down on her lip, stifling the tugging smile at the corner of her mouth.

****

Spilled blood dribbled in a telling path, from the Mons Albus cave entrance to deeper still into the abandoned village. Drusilla had gotten the pearl link call from Rullus, his speech slurred and ragged, a telling tone of injury and exhaustion for he was never one to imbibe.

[ We…have to run, prepare…kssh – vicus messorum– ] 

When the reaper attempted to reconnect to the channel, she was met with the ear scratching haze of static. The trek was of little issue, the path was maintained though it was not as it once was before the advent of magitek. The snow bowed the bridge in slippery heaps, icicles hanging from the sturdy ropes like the teeth of some patient beast. Below, a steep fall awaited those unlucky enough to take a tumble, the chasm shrouded in blue opaque mist from the buried ceruleum within these eastern ranges.

Drusilla stepped across the bridge carefully though with a touch of haste. Something told her she should save the gift of distant teleportation for now. Drusilla was unlike her former student who used her voidsent as easily as one drew breath, she even at times found herself at odds with her contracted creature even if it was bound to her. Such was true for most who worked the dark reaping arts, even her grandfather could not make light of a voidsent's fractious will. Whatever the First Princess had done to bind her fiend, it most definitely required costly sacrifices.

Rullus was clutching a nasty stab wound by the time she found him, curling over a rickety table to brace against the pain. Drusilla went to him, hands already working at her belt pouch for bandages.

"What happened?" As she closed in on her grandfather, she saw not only one but two wounds.

"Emperor…eliminating us." Rullus heaved, a spurt of blood soaking through his cloak and tunic.

The wounds were too great and he'd lost a great deal of blood. Drusilla paled at the thought of losing him, her only family and the Interfectium's sole leader. In a split second, she came to a decision.

She stowed away the bandages and drew her dagger instead. The first cut on her arm stung and brought a tear to her eyes, carving the necessary glyphs to perform this chosen ritual. Adding another line into her contract with her voidsent to give some of her remaining years to him. Eight terrible words of power, four on each arm, Drusilla pressed her palms against her grandfather's wounds. To turn back time was a sacrilegious rite, scrunching up the fabric of reality and restitching it to her needs. Greater even than what Crow had to give to summon her fearsome voidsent, Drusilla would give her years to her fiend for aid.

"No… don't–" her grandfather protested but was too weak to dissuade her.

The flesh smoked with sulfurous cinder as Rullus bellowed his pain, his injuries stitching themselves close by fiendish Mhachi magicks. Drusilla felt the energy drain from her limbs, glyphs shining ruby-red, vitality and years sapped away to save her grandfather. Before her eyes her hands grew gaunt as though she'd just aged two decades, her hair waning from its graying russet to a bone white. It was more than she'd deigned to give, and with all her remaining strength, she wrench herself to part from his wounds. Her voidsent, ever the cheat, would have supped on every bit of her and been free from its yoke.

That, however, was the least of her concerns as she looked weakly toward Rullus. She heard him suck in a deep gasp, then let out a shaky exhale. He doubled forward, climbing to his feet with renewed vigor. His wounds were as old scars, damaged organs and arteries mended as good as new.

"You foolish girl." He croaked, scooping his weakened granddaughter up into his arms, bundling her into the fabric. "What have you done?"

She looked frail and tired, but still, her iron will shine through as she nodded at his recovery. "Old dogs may still have new tricks up their sleeves, don't you know?"

There was no time for reprimand as the old reaper set up the remnants of the Galataeas as a parting trap. Any pursuers would have to get through them, and if they did, they would not go unscathed.

"What about the others?" Drusilla asked from where she sat, upon an old stool, gnawing on a piece of dried ration. 

Even Sabine would be hardpress trying to elude capture, there was little hope for the others. They were capable enough in their own rights, but the emperor's personal guards were a force to be reckoned with.

"I reached out to any and all — only you came." He needn't said the rest.

Drusilla stoically took the news with grave wordlessness. She was worried for them, but they could not afford to mount a rescue. They'd never set foot in the capital safely again, much less the imperial palace. 

"It's not only them I worry after." Drusilla said as she thought of her former pupil.

"Save your concern for us, we'll be trekking by foot over these ranges, perhaps make it to a fringe city before they post warrants for our defection." Rullus tucked a leather folder into his pack, carefully stowing it as though it was a precious heirloom.

"What's that?" She asked while gathering supplies.

"I'll tell you if we make it to the next city." If, not when. It seemed even he was uncertain about their continued survival.

"You'll have a lot more to explain than just that." Drusilla glared at him, pulling up her cowl.

Before her grandfather could offer another word, the distant echoes of footsteps and commands reached her ears.

"We've overstayed our welcome — Come." He bade, swerving behind a rock face, into a hidden passage. The cavern was filled with such paths, carved into the walls by natural means. They provided obscure routes to and from the abandoned settlement, most known only to their diminishing kind.

Drusilla gave one last backward glance, she was abandoning everything while not even knowing the reason behind their abscondment. Her home, her history, the connections she'd forged in the capital and beyond, all erased in an instance of unseen treachery. She hid her pain well behind the familiar stoniness that came naturally to their people, but it was still there, growing in its acuteness as they were forced to abandon all they'd worked for.

Chapter 40

The air, once cool and regulated, grew thick with their slow descent. The flight had been easy with almost no turbulence save for a stormy patch of clouds. Lightning had scored the skies then, a jagged flash that overwhelmed everything in a harsh cast of white. Zenos had brushed the dark fringe from her face, taking in the long lashes and rosy, parted lips. Her loveliness was like the crescent moon, shadowed when she was held in her sole company but brightened whenever they were together. Crow had sought to hide that green eye of hers, thinking it would gall him to see it once more. He felt a twinge at the thought, for her having to go that far to hide it. Though she would never deign to use an eye patch, he knew, for it would be tantamount to announcing to any and all that she was a burden. The military did not appreciate physical imperfections, disdained those who bore them, in fact, as much as they did bureaucratic obstructions.

He rolled the gnawing weight within him like a polished stone, unsure if it was guilt or remorse that dragged at him. After all, it was he that had first lashed out at the sight of that eye. Its dark, clouded green reminded him of his late mother’s sightless stare as she caged him in her embrace.

“Brooding again, are we?” she was blinking up at him, suddenly awake. “A coin for your thought?”

He pinched at her cheek and curtly said. “War, mostly.”

Crow, head upon his lap, wrenched away from his pincer touch. She blearily sat up after a moment, feeling the craft sink with the ripple of descending pressure rise up her body. She shivered, unused to the rapid change that took place during take off and landing. In spite of this, however, she was full glad she was not one to hurl up her stomach from vertigo.

“A little too eager, are we?” she commented as her words trailed into a yawn, dragging a hand through her sleep-mussed tresses as she stood.

By then, Zenos had meandered over to the large cabin window, hands tucked at the small of his back. He easily braced against the shifting craft's descent, gazing down at the city below.

“Come.” He said with a beckoning glance.

Crow slinked over and peered down at the swooping landscape, taking in the vast skyline of Valnain. Stony towers rose up to meet them like the swaying palms that were so ubiquitous throughout the maze-like districts. It was a sprawl of life below, and at a glance, she could spot the center of trade. People practically packed against one another like an overfull matchbook under the setting sun’s heat, bearing baskets of goods and vats of water this way and that. The valley of the bustling markets grew more polished and clean with the outlet paths’ ascent, giving way to limestone paved steps, well swept and decorated with lush foliage of Golmore. These roads were well-patrolled, accessible only by imperial citizens, their residences elevated above the cookfire smokes and loud hawking of the shaded stalls.

Wonder filled her mind as she took in the fleeting scenes, excitement sparkling like a sunlit stream. They had slowed by now, passing through several highrise flats striped with the empire’s banners. They were not the only ones who were occupying the air as smaller crafts zipped to and from, busy with their own duties.

She squinted as they neared the landing strip, the airship extending its landing supports as they skimmed to a noticeable impact. 

“Is that Nael himself coming to receive us?” Crow asked in disbelief even as she was jostled by the landing.

Zenos steadied her with an arm, clasping around her shoulders as he looked to the approaching party. He watched the party approach, spotting a vexingly familiar figure next to the White Raven.

“Nerva as well.” He said, the handful of syllables sufficiently conveying his thorough distaste for his first cousin.

Crow picked him out from the retinue by the opulence of his dress, he looked like a preening peacock in his sleek, royal blue plates, trimmed with a veneer of gold. They'd never met back in the capital, him being nearly twenty years her senior and, by all accounts, a vain sort of man — a trait he'd inherited from his shamelessly extravagant mother.

However, Zenos had informed her not too long ago that she'd been waylaid from His Radiance’s favor for some years now. Their supporters were here and there on occasions, but most of whom were dispersed as their funds dried up. The emperor had withdrawn not only his attention but also severely slashed their annual allowances, leaving Nerva and his ilk high and dry.

“What you've told me before — is that why he's here? To earn back His Radiance’s regard?” She asked, curious.

Zenos smirked. “At last council, he could've outpaced a frog by how he'd leapt at the chance.”

Crow had to press back on a burst of girlish laugh at the image. “You're awful! Frogs could be charming creatures, a toad would be far more apt.”

His smile grew wry as he drummed against her shoulder, a brow raised in sardonic humor. “Semantics.”

She parted from his side, striding across to the small water closet within the cabin. It was a tiny space when compared to her palatial apartment, but it had a clean, working faucet, a small tub and privacy. The other soldiers on the ship were made to share a lavatory and the communal showers, but this cabin and its amenities were reserved for the upper rung. Crow appreciated the moment alone to wash her face and comb her hair, then stripping down to her negligées. Zenos, who had never seemed able to sleep well, had opted to clean and dress before she even woke. Thus, she was hardly surprised to hear the door open and shut as he went ahead to meet the receiving party.

Her shadow bubbled forth, the voidsent manifesting in a swirl as she drew a mauve silk blouse and white trousers from a strapped-down chest by the far wall. Promptly, it got to work, hands deftly fastening silver buttons and straightening silken folds. The neck mantle and armored corset fitting snugly against the swell of her chest, set in place by cleverly placed latches. Gloved hands ran against the dark path of her tresses, parting them then working them into a long braid. 

Crow examined the length with a jaundiced eye, a raised brow directed at her manservant. “How did you learn to do this?” 

Even the palace maidservants could not achieve such sleek, even handiwork.

Naberos smiled down at her, eyes sealed shut. She only just then noticed the dark beauty mark just above its long burgundy lashes.

‘The knowledge is not mine — the former owner of this body had often braided his younger sister’s hair.’

 ‘It seems that his hand remembers even if he's no longer present.’ It smiled even wider at the stricken look on her face, the tightening of her curled fingers, nails digging into the skin of her palms. 

Crow casted her scowl forward, firmly turning away so it could no longer glimpse at her expression. She’d known scant little about Andrus’ history but she would not give it the satisfaction of her open ire, to let it know that it could scald her with such simple facts. Thus, she unwound the coil and tossed the mass of her hair over a shoulder.

“Just tie it up.” She grounded out.

****

The underside of the airship opened like a maw as Crow stepped to, coming to stand right next to her companionable counterpart as the craft extended a ramp from its underbelly. It was evening now, the landing lit up in stark white by the incandescent ceruleum powered cones at each corner of the air dock. A breeze swept into the hold as she laced her hands primly together, the embodiment of imperial deference. Zenos only smoothed out his gold embroidered collar and strode down with her, the motion irreverent yet one could hardly take offense thanks to his effortless grace. He looked every bit the imperial scion he was born to be, regal and imposing, unlike her who seemed dwarfed by most. She was small and, by reputation, any who were worth their salt in status would entirely overlook her in favor of her statuesque partner.

It was as it should be as he was her stalwart bulwark against unfriendly attentions. For now, as the impotent pariah of the imperial family, it was best that she avoid any party that might seek to puppeteer her for their own gain. She hadn't had her debut as most genteel girls did at fifteen, too caught up in the last two years pursuing this.

Crow caught the beginning of a frown and adjusted it into a rather unconvincing smile. She was standing before the White Raven, Nael van Darnus. If what Zenos has gleaned were true, this particular Legatus swung between indifference and iron fisted cruelty like an unwieldy pendulum.

Moonstruck and capricious — he'd described the man. Legatus Darnus had seemed a towering figure from what she'd been told, him and his odd fixation with celestial bodies. Alas for him, both Nerva and Zenos proved themselves to be far taller than the seasoned Legatus. As far as first impressions went, he did not speak much but he’d paid her the minimum obeisance with a bow. It was more than she'd expected out of most let alone from someone of his status.

As Crow lowered her head in greeting to the two leads of the retinue, she felt eyes linger on her. 

“Princess, it is a pleasure to finally meet.” His voice was sharp, serpentine and edged with unwelcomeness. 

She beamed up at Prince Nerva, taking on an amiable mask. “The feeling is mutual, ser .”

The snub was subtle but it did not go unnoticed, it was all the more satisfying to see his artificial grin falter. She technically outranked him as First Princess, but the title hardly meant anything within the political sphere. The First Prince of Garlemald was the title of his father, who was almost as impotent as her when it came to personal influence. As the emperor’s surviving second son, Titus’ immediate eligibility to the throne was about the only thing he had to cling on.

Next to her, Zenos did not bother hiding his dry mirth. The Legatus similarly took stock of the interaction even as he and Zenos exchanged pleasantries. An order was being established, the subtle game they would all take part in was already in play.

Chapter 41

Pillars of stone stood along the lamp-lit path, craftsmen long gone had worked intricate geometries into their lengths, lending a refined air to canvas-draped open corridors. The busy hustle of noise and bodies were left behind, no smoking stalls nor bustling merchants to be found. A cool dusky breeze swept past them as they were led to the elevated castrum, clearing the mugginess of the climes for but a moment.

It was supper time when they arrived at the open courtyard, sandstone grounds emptied as the soldiers had gone off to take their meal. The Legatus had supposedly assigned a legionary to show them their boarding situation for the remainder of their stay. However, said soldier had not yet arrived by the time they stepped foot into the castrum proper. 

“He should have been here by now.” A glimmer of impatience peeked through Nael’s veneer of hospitality. He peered around the vacant hallways surrounding the circular yard, a gloved thumb pressing hard against the side of his hand.

Crow swept her sight past these telltale signs, noting them for future reference when dealing with the Legatus of the VII. Neither Zenos nor her commented but Nerva had seen fit to interject when he saw the cresting displeasure of his peer.

“Come, Lord Darnus, let them enjoy their repast, I'm sure I can fill the role of guide well enough for now.” The smile did not quite reach his eyes when he directed it at the both of them.

Zenos watched Nerva’s gaze slither from him down to Crow, and it lingered on her far longer than he would've preferred. In fact, if he was allowed his way, he'd have his first cousin’s eyes rolling around in the palm of his hand just for leering at her in such a grotesque manner.

A ripple seemed to pass through the moment, and the Legatus seemed to grow demure, almost ashamed. “The poor reception is my shame to bear, Your Grace, I–”

“I insist, my Lord, it has been so long since I've spoken to Zenos.” Nerva cut Nael off, his tone full of false cheer and insistence.

Zenos and Crow shared a look, uncertain on what to make of Nael’s fluctuating demeanor. The question passing between them needn't be said aloud: Who exactly held the true power here in Valnain?

****

Nerva walked ahead of them, elucidating on the basic history of the city after the occupation war. All three of them were well familiarized with the accounts by the history books, yet Nerva lectured on as though he was a learned sage preaching to his disciples. Behind him, Crow wore an incredulous look, gesturing in disbelief.

Is he always like this? — She seemed to say.

Zenos nodded with a bored, forward stare. He'd had his fair share of these kinds of encounters, where Nerva would take the stage and find a long winded way to say a lot of nothing. His flowery speeches were best left for the civilian rabbles who knew little else but their comfortable lives. Most aristocrats, though they entertained him due to his princely status, knew better than to put too much stock in his suggestions. Nevertheless, fortunately for him, his cousin only ever sought to antagonize him whenever they encountered one another.

This time, it seemed, he was talking entirely to Crow, opting to ignore Zenos’ presence altogether.

“A most delicious rumor of Nael cropped up when he was assigned to this place — could you believe when Bozja became what it is, he was sent here to hold out this backwater region?”

He spoke as though they were old friends only just catching up after years of separation. More than anything, Crow figured, he certainly loved the sound of his own voice. 

“Why is that?” She asked, a little curious.

Nerva’s rich laugh was taut and condescending. “Oh? Did my little cousin never tell you? Nael was the most ardent supporter of the project. In fact, without the Darnus family's generous donation, Bozja would likely still be on the map in the present.”

From the main courtyard to the training grounds, they walked with the older prince’s voice ringing out. Their guide cared little for the fact that they'd just been traveling for days on end, preferring to enlighten them with his arbitrary facts of Nagxia and inane anecdotes of his deeds thus far into the campaign. Had it been any other day, Crow would have smiled and bear through it with more grace, but she was tired and longed for a hot shower. Her neck was sore from the flat pillows and the last meal she'd eaten was more than six bells past.

 Finally — belatedly — they arrived at a set of sturdy double doors, its wood stained surface worked down to a worn smoothness by use and wear. 

“This is your quarters, cousin.” Nerva said with an irreverent wave of his hand, not even sparing Zenos a passing glance.

“The female dorms are to the left, your room will be straight down the next corridor.” 

He was done with them for today, bored by the lack of visible reaction while being his august presence. A sharp chirping filled the muggy night air as they watched him saunter off, relieved to see the last of his preening way for now.

“Emperor’s eyes, do his jaws not tire?” Crow muttered the moment he went beyond their sights. “I thought my brain would drip from my ear canals.”

“Try a whole bell of that and you'll have the average council meeting.” Zenos said as he entered his assigned chambers.

The quarters were well prepared, the high ceiling equipped with a three-paned fan. Two rectangular windows flanked each side of the generous bed, large enough to fit four men side by side. A desk and chair sat against the farthest white washed wall, plain but steady footed. Next to it was a tall cabinet, six drawers by the bottom and a closeted space. The furnishings were spartan and stoutly made, practical in every sense.

She peaked in and sighed, wiping the accumulated sweat from the back of her neck. “How quaint, I hope they'll allow me the mercy of an air conditioning unit though.”

“The heat does cling, best to dress light.” He advised as he stepped back out, apparently satisfied with his cursory inspection.

Tentatively, as though plucking at the pregnant moment between them, Crow reached out and slid her finger against the side of his hand. The touch feather-light and brief as a shadow. “Well, I'll see you in the morning.”

Zenos nudged a knuckle softly against her cheek, the touch marking a sort of beginning for them. They were here, and at least for the foreseeable future, they won't be struggling against the dark currents of his father’s influence.

It was only when they were a good distance away that Naberos made itself seen, shadows heightening to a solid form as it trailed behind her. Its tall but subservient presence lent her an air of importance to the assortment of female legionaries, something she could appreciate even while in the throes of terrible weariness. Some threw inquisitive glances at her, an unfamiliar face who was dressed in the unusual fashion of the capital. Others spoke in low tones, theorizing that she might have been part of the arriving party. 

Those were the vaguest of snippets she'd heard as she trailed to her assigned chamber, none knew who she was here. The average provincial legionary were often not from Garlemald, the body of a legion often composed of conscripts and citizenship hopefuls. Two decades of service in exchange for a status that came with adequate stipend, housing and generous retirement pay. It was a good deal if one was posted in a relatively well managed territory like Dalmasca, where casualty rates were low. The hazard of death or maiming was never too far off, however, and if one was no longer able bodied, they were discharged from the legion with minimal recompense.

The life of the average soldier was a demanding one, all pieces on a board to be used at the end of the day. She digressed, standing before the single door that was supposedly her room for the duration of their military service. Unlike Zenos’ chamber, it did not swing open on quiet hinges, squeaking plaintively as she peered in, a hand searching for the light switch.

A narrow room with but a sparse bed, a small side drawer and a shelf met her eyes. Crow slammed the door shut, still rooted outside her bunk. She opened it again as though her accommodations would change, surely a bad dream. Her travel chests were stacked right next to the single cot, barely leaving two ilms between the metal bedframe and the luggage.

She shut the door again, the shock wearing away to give way to rising ire. Behind her, the voidsent began to laugh noiselessly.

Not quite to your taste, mistress?

Crow whirled on it, face set in a heated rictus. She dug her fingers into it's collar, yanking it down to eye level.

“Cease your cackling before I make you.” she hissed against its grinning face.

A voice interrupted them, girlish and pitched as it coughed awkwardly. Crow and Naberos turned in unison, mistress and servant snapping to the intruders with sharp intent.

“Um… well met!” 

A lalafellin girl who only came up to Crow’s hip greeted them, her moss-colored hair braided to a neat length. Her bark brown eyes, set atop a small pert nose, were wide as she stared at them. 

Crow was so taken aback by the tiny thing that her temper subsided to a glimmer of fascination. All her life, she'd never met someone so diminutive, it felt as though this girl could fit in the palm of her hand. She'd always been the shortest member of the imperial family, even most servants could boast an ilm or two above her.

“And you are?” Crow addressed her, coming across more peevish than she'd intended.

She saluted reflexively, her body moving without thought. “Ah – I'm Sisila oen Sila, pleased to make your acquaintance!” 

Crow’s hand grew slack, drawing up to cup her face to stifle her growing astonishment. Her salute was trim and good in form, but something about the motion performed by such minikin limbs tickled her to no end. She cleared her throat, regaining a measure of her composure.

“What business do you have with me?”

Sisila’s countenance grew bashful, brown eyes bright. “Apologies, I didn't mean to intrude, and you've just arrived so you must be tired, it’s just I wanted to extend a welcome to Castrum Valnaini to you!”

Crow cocked her head, the sight of the lalafellin reminded her of the small hares she’d captured in her younger years. Well fed and soft, she'd been the only predator to truly prowl those gardens. She wondered if this small person was just as injurable as those harried critters.

The princess sharply pushed back the door to her quarters with an emphasizing frown. “ This is hardly a warm reception.”

She gestured at the packed room, utterly offended by its cramped dimensions. She could hardly fit half her clothes inside the side drawer, let alone even begin to unpack. Sisila edged somewhat closer to have a look-see, then grew sheepish at the sight.

“Oh dear…” The three cases of luggages were on the verge of toppling over to any who laid on the cot. “You see, the last diplomat was an ascetic unfortunately, so you were handed his lodging.”

“And what happened to that fool?” Crow sighed, half tempted to stroll back to Zenos’s quarters.

“He was taken hostage by the guerilla group, and…well…” Sisila was unwilling to finish the explanation, realizing how it would come across.

“He's dead, isn't he?” Crow pinched her brows, feeling a headache surging.

Her new acquaintance laughed nervously. “If it makes you feel any better, the rest of us share a dorm — privacy is hard to come by when there are ten other bodies snoring in a chorus.”

Crow paused at the statement, suddenly reminded of Andrus’ anecdotes about his time as a cellblock guard. She caught herself before she could glance over to Naberos, the one who now assumed his face.

“I see.” She said as her mood deflated even further.

“It's…nice to meet you, but it has been a long day.” Crow waved distractedly to Sisila, no longer wishing to extend the conversation.

“Oh, if you need a tour of the women’s quarters, I'd be happy to–”

Sisila was cut off by the shutting door, left outside with the uniformed retainer. His pallid face smiled down at her, the handsome visage unaccountably waxen under the glow of dim ceruleum lights. She blinked, the atmosphere filled with a humming tension. Without his lady to draw up attention — Sisila realized she'd neglected to ask for her name — the strangeness of the man grew almost unbearably noticeable.

 She nodded to him, suddenly reluctant to let him leave her sights.

His smile only widened in acknowledgement, and despite the warm night air, Sisila had to suppress the prickle of gooseflesh running up her arms. She left as fast as her brisk jog would allow.

Chapter 42

Near midnight, a portal split open Zenos’ chamber’s leftmost wall. He looked up from the book in his hand, some topical issue of Doman trading habits, to see Crow stepping through in her nightgown. He watched as she unceremoniously fell face first down onto the bed, leadens limbs bouncing against the plush mattress.

“I was told that my predecessor was something of an ascetic.” She began, propping herself up by an elbow at the foot of the bed. “It’s unbelievable to think the cell blocks have better ventilation than that stuffy box.”

Zenos, with book still in hand, saw her pounce in his periphery. He snapped the pages shut and caught her, her slender arm firmly embracing his broad shoulders.

“Now see here,” she peeked at the cover with a wrinkled nose. “I'd like to think I'm more interesting than Yanxian economics.”

“That depends...” He trailed off as she leaned in and nuzzled against his clean shaven cheek, lips trailing light kisses as she went. 

The prince encircled her in his arms, pulling her against him in earnest. Crow reared back contrarily to his embrace, holding back their lips from fully meeting. Her smile was laced with sweet mischief, fingers tracing circles against the material of his linen tunic.

“The answer, dearest, is a firm ‘certainly not’.” She lectured him lightly, sliding free from his touch. “Besides, I’m sorely in need of a hot shower.” 

Zenos watched as she kicked the bathroom door shut behind her, fingers already unlacing the front of her gown. He dragged an exasperated hand down his face and as ever, she was wont to test the limits of his self restraints.

Certainly not, indeed, he thought with a long suffering roll of his stiff shoulders.

Later, when she was out from the water and steam, damp hair sticking against dewy skin, she slid snugly against him. Sleep was easy to come after that, an arm draped across his lap as he resumed his nocturnal reading. Her breathing was light as she drowsed against him, nose pressed against the folds of a towel to ward off the dim lamp light. 

A warm stirring gently swam within him as he took in the moment, her weight a pleasant pressure against his shoulder. A lone cricket keened from without as a cool breeze flowed in through an open window, the night was long yet and her presence was as reassuring as an anchor to a moored ship. 

****

Morning came far too soon as Crow furrowed her brows against the intense rays of the rising tropical sun. Its intensity was merciless as it pulled her from slumber more effectively than any alarm could manage. Naberos was standing at attention with a tray of cooling tea and a generous helping of rye bread and butter.

She found herself alone in the chamber, the sound of soldiers drilling resounding outside leaking into the upper floors. Going through the motion of morning rituals, Crow found a note left for her by Zenos on the night table. Curtly, it informed her of an appointment with Nael just before the hour of noon. According to the table chronometer, there were three bells to spare before said meeting — plenty of time to take in the scenery of the castrum. 

The people too, she supposed as an afterthought. 

Once dressed in a light muslin dress, cinched at her waist by a short corset, Crow allowed Naberos to lace up her boots. She leaned on the small balcony as she drained the last of the lukewarm tea, eyeing the circling legionaries below. They were situated two floors above the expansive courtyard where soldiers were doing laps, all of which looked like ants as they traveled from one corner to another.

Half way down the flights, she spied Zenos leading the pack. He towered over the rest, golden hair swept back into a high length. He was slick with sweat, and the planes of his well formed figure drew plenty of eyes. It seemed the entire female dorm was down there, positively entranced by the sole sight of him. They whispered and ogled, snatches of conversation audible as Crow trailed behind the long corridor of gathered girls and women.

They giggled and cajoled one another as they commented on his trim waist, strong arms and long legs as though he was a mount in the stables. Not to mention their covetous tone at how handsome he was and his royal status. It was all disconcertingly dehumanizing. But she held her tongue, balling up her annoyance until she could feel it no more than a benign pressure at the back of her thoughts. 

As far as she could get away from the crowd, Crow circled the courtyard’s edge, examining the steel-etched door of council rooms and offices. Nael did not keep a tribunus by his side since his initial demotion from the emperor’s favor, thus leaving these spaces unoccupied. She was on the opposite of the gathered gaggles now, their mincing were but background to the heavy steps of the galloping legionaries.

One of the office doors opened suddenly as she trailed past, and out came one Nerva yae Galvus. His face lit up as he spotted her, and she was but a deer in headlights.

“Princess.” He made the word sound sibilant, russet eyes narrowed as he smiled at her.

“Prince Nerva.” Crow returned his greeting with a smile of her own, one that did not quite reach her eyes.

He swept in closer, red silken brocade coat draped over a light linen shirt. The ensemble was by far the most ostentatious thing she'd seen here. His sandy blonde hair was kept shorter than the imperial norm, tied back to combat against the humid climes. As a man in his prime, Nerva held at least two fulms over her, but he was no Zenos and she was not cowed when he neared.

“I do hope your accommodations were suitable.” He said, watching her intently.

She gave him nothing, mirroring his pleasant but unreadable mien. “I slept like a swaddled babe, thank you for asking.”

Nevertheless, if thoughts could kill, he would be lying dead in a second flat. They exchanged polite small talks of the weather to the health of the emperor, the veneer of courtly civility veiled subtle jabs against one another. He needled her with snide remarks of her anonymity, a prime example of how insignificant she was in the structure of the imperial hierarchy. She retorted by asking after his mother, knowing full well of her disgrace and dismissal from the royal court. In the end, the match drew a draw, with Nerva wearing a twitching sneer and her barely holding onto a quivering smirk.

At last, before either could refan the flames of their caustic exchange, a certain prince climbed the shallow steps of the courtyard and judged it sound to cut in.

“It's a fine thing to see family get along, isn't it, cousin?” Zenos said dryly, coming to stand between Crow and the older man. “But do you not have council with van Darnus soon?”

At Zenos’ appearance, Nerva practically turned up his nose and abandoned the encounter entirely.

“He’s quite fond of you.” Crow commented as soon as the eldest Galvus was out from earshot.

“As far as he can throw me, which is…well.” Zenos smirked as he turned to her.

Nerva never had a talent for war, no one had expected him to make the rank of Legatus. He was a sly cad who was better suited to a seat on the Senate and everyone knew that, yet he’d somehow slithered his way into the IIIrd legion. He was holding onto the position as though his fate depended on it, seeking to improve his standing by earning accolades of war.

Crow produced a handkerchief from her skirt’s pocket, pressing it insistently into his palm. She ran her fingers against his, an emphatic caress as she gaze up at him

“You've earned yourself quite an audience, and goodness, you’d be scandalized to hear what they say about you.” She chuckled.

Without fully turning, Zenos slid his sight to the still gathered audience by the far end. It felt as though they were in one of his great grandfather’s sordid plays, complete with a crowd of eyes watching their every move.

“Marking your territory, are we?” He played along, pressing the slip of embroidered fabric against his neck.

“Perish the thought, I'd never do something so crude.” Crow towed him along, both her hands curled around one of his, leading him back to his quarter. “I'm merely doing you a favor and showing the admiring dredges their limits.” 

They would not be allowed to do anything but watch from afar, of course. Still, if she had it her way, they'd be blinded for doing even that.

“Very well then.” 

His tone gave her pause as she detected the knavish mischief in his ascent. Before she could react, he tugged her close and planted his lips against the corner of her mouth. A kiss in full view for the enjoyment of the masses, Crow felt her face glow hot red — she would not be surprised if steam was rising from her pointed ears.

In the distance, she heard the row of delighted gasps and amused chuckles. She was the embodiment of utter mortification, they'd only been here for less than a full day and she felt as though she could never show her face to the legions again.

The kiss lingered for three ticks of a clock hand yet it felt like an embarrassing eternity. Crow pulled back and glowered at Zenos, caught between a head rush and indescribable chagrin.

The prince smugly said in a low conspiring tone. “For last night, consider us even.”

Emperor’s eyes — If only she could disappear into the floor for the rest of her service.

Chapter 43

Her cheeks were still lightly dusted as she firmly kept her eyes averted from him. Zenos, for all his steady nonchalance, seemed to be in a good mood despite their encounter with Nerva.

That was not the last of him they saw for the day, however, as they spied him standing by when they entered Legatus van Darnus’ office. Thankfully, a formal civility was kept despite her and Zenos’ contempt for the older prince.

The scent of clean clothes and soap drifted to her from him, he'd cleaned up and dressed with a quarter bell to spare before this meeting. Crow pretended that she was not affected by his pleasant proximity as she stood beside him, taking care to present a calm, modest front.

“First and foremost, I’d like to extend a personal welcome to Your Graces to Castrum Valnaini. I'm glad to be the one hosting your military services, I hope our amenities are suitable for your needs.” Nael addressed them with open palms, the greeting was formal but sounded genuine enough.

Politically, house Darnus maintained a neutral stance between the two primary claimants to the throne. Nael, the head of his family after the untimely death of its former patriarch, was far too busy chasing after the elusive success of replicating ancient technology. Clearly he'd taken the wrong turn and landed himself in this backwater, evidently still pining for the same goal as he sought to climb back into imperial favor.

Valnain was the ideal destination for their service, with Nael as an pragmatic observer of the power struggle and Nagxia still fighting against the empire’s vast hold. It was a good proving ground where potential power grabs were up for the taking. It was why Nerva was here as well, they were all striving for the same dangling prize — the suppression of the native insurgency. The feat alone would earn anyone prime accolades with not only His Radiance, but also the upper aristocratic houses. Trade routes from Dalmasca Superior to Domain ports would be reestablished without the harassment of the local brigand bands. Much was at stake, and there were three factions at play. Not only must they compete against Nerva, they must also keep a close eye on Nael himself.

“The stay thus far is excellent, my lord, thank you for your hospitality.” Crow said, withholding her true opinion on where she was situated. 

She was decidedly staying on with Zenos for the duration of their duties here. He'd suggested that she used her narrow accommodations as storage space, and the rest was history. There was no point in bringing up a resolved issue, after all, nevermind that it broke protocol for opposite genders to share bedding.

“Very good, and I think a grace period will be allotted to settle in, a day before your duties begin in earnest.” Nael continued.

A generous allowance, one that was received graciously. The idea was not without its detractors, however, as Nerva’s scoff interrupted his peers.

“I wasn't aware that we had such leisure to let children run and play while crucial shipments were found stolen.”

Crow bristled as Zenos focused on the latter half of his first cousin’s comment.

“Stolen shipment?” The prince’s questioning gaze slid from Nerva to Nael.

The Legatus of the VIIth drew in an audibly exasperated breath, lacing his fingers together tightly. It was the only tell of irritation that he'd let slip, his expression firmly hidden behind the fearsome visage of his helm.

“A cache of warheads were unaccounted for in the latest batch from the capital, and search attempts have come up empty thus far.”

A dubious look crossed Crow’s mask of bland politeness, she wondered who was responsible for guarding the shipment. Though, judging from the bored, knowing stare Zenos was leveling at Nerva, she could confidently make an accurate guess. The older Galvus was locked in a staring match against Zenos, leaving Crow as the only one to engage with Nael.

“That aside, please be welcome to familiarize yourselves with the city.” The Legatus said that as though missing explosives were not something serious to consider. “I've assigned a man to guide you should you wish to venture into the city proper.”

“An offer we'd be grateful to take, my lord.” Crow nodded, then raised a brow as she took in the hostility between the two princes. 

“That’ll be all for now.” Nael said emphatically, the dismissal ending the silent contest between the male imperials.

Outside, a man awaited them, dressed in the typical black of a standard legionary. He was small in stature, comparable to her in height. His helmet was held in his arm, revealing black eyes and hair, and a lighter complexion that suggested he hadn't been here for long. A Doman — she presumed — the first she'd ever met.

At the sight of them, he straightened and gave a stiff salute. He seemed positively star struck, eyes tentatively darting up to Zenos.

“Your Grace, we welcome you to Valnain!” 

Crow let his greeting hang as he'd ignored her, and if Zenos heard the Doman’s eager reception, he gave no indication. It was an all around awkward meeting. She watched as his zeal fizzled out at the prince’s lukewarm reaction, it was only then that he turned to regard her.

A bootlicker in the making, how trite. 

“And you are the princess, I presume,” the Doman sod said, sounding far less impressed. “I am Asahi pyr Brutus, your guide for today.”

“A citizen? My congratulations.” He must have been only a handful of years older than her, yet he bore a Garlean surname. Either he was some martial savant to bear such promotion, or his family was of noble status who supported the initial wave of Garlean occupation in Doma.

He swelled with pride at the recognition despite his relatively low regard for her. 

“I’m as proud to serve the empire as any other here.”

“Then shall we start with the markets?” The princess chimed, but Asahi realized she'd glossed over his declaration in favor of speaking to her imposing counterpart.

“I still have to unpack — can't abide by the thought of your creature touching anything of mine.” Zenos muttered, a small dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth as he frowned.

“Some of us can appreciate the convenience of a readily available pair of helping hands.” Crow snorted in a decidedly unladylike manner. “Regardless, I intend to bring Naberos if you're not coming along.” — someone had to carry all her purchases, and it certainly was not going to be the reedy Doman legionary.

Zenos pulled a small steel case from his pocket, and within the snug memory foam padding laid a pair of linkpearls. “Take one and keep it close.”

The pearlescent device glimmered against her ear, the cuff fitting well enough to not be jostled by sudden movements. Crow cradled the shell of her ear, beaming up at him.

“How does it look?”

Before the prince could answer with his brand of a brisk affectional, a hard cough from the Doman interrupted their conversation. One could easily pick out the thinly pressed lips and flat stare, annoyance radiating from Asahi in waves. Never before had he encountered such a sickeningly saccharine dynamic between two people. 

“It's best to leave soon before the merchants pack up for the day.” Asahi insisted with a stiff smile.

“I'll come find you once I'm finished.” 

Crow watched the retreating figure of her childhood friend, then slid her attention to her Doman guide.

“Shall we?” She folded her hands neatly at her torso, the very prim picture of pleasant interest.

Asahi paused at the castrum’s gated entrance. “Is there not another coming along?”

Crow blinked, suddenly realizing he was referring to her thrall. “Oh worry not, he’s present.”

The shadow beneath her feet flickered unnaturally under the hot noonday sun as she gestured for him to go ahead.

There you are , she ground her heel against the dark mass. You're late.

Naberos was uncharacteristically exasperated when its reply came.

You've worked me to the bones, mistress — I never thought one could fit so much in three middling sized chests.

Crow rolled her eyes as she climbed onto a light air skiff, one that would take them down to the city below without needing to hike down the winding paved roads.

****

The first thing she bought was a light parasol made from oiled paper and bamboo wood. The accessory was a plain thing but it helped ward off most of the sun’s heat. According to her Doman guide these had originated from his nation of birth. Literati from Nagxia and Hingashi often painted scenes and composed poems before the waterproofing layer was applied, transforming them into statements of art and fashion. However, after finding inflammatory criticism of the empire atop scores of parasols, Nael had judged it sound to outlaw the illustrative practice within the city.

Crow spun the handle absentmindedly, taking in the sights and sound of the streets around her. People bustled this way and that under the overlapping canopies of the mercantile stalls, their steps filled with purpose and their eyes sharp. Despite the crowded press, most gave them a wide berth thanks to Asahi’s conspicuous black uniform. They eyed him with unspoken disdain, then at her with poorly veiled disapproval.

Her nose caught the fragrance of exotic spices as they passed by vendors with palm leaves fan in hand. They sat bow legged over wide coal grills stacked with skewers of seasoned meats, deboned fishes and other varieties of seafood. Another section contained hawkers whose sole advertisements were their impossibly wide woks of saffron rice and bubbling pots of offal stew. Her guide seemed put off by the agglomeration of foods, wrinkling his nose at the puffs of white smoke and hollering cooks. On the other hand, Crow was absolutely taken by the disorderly hodgepodge of the bazaar, flitting from one place to another as a bee in a flowering thicket.

Nevertheless, there was one thing that placed a damper on the mood. Crow frowned as she chewed on the last of the fried snake skewer, squinting at Asahi.

“I need you to get out of your uniform.” She said suddenly.

Asahi stood frozen in shock. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your uniform is attracting undue stares, I gather the legionaries are not so well received here.” She clarified, annoyed at having to explain her demand at all. Most would have done as she asked without questions as was their duty to a member of the royal family.

She shoved an embroidered green tunic into his hand, snatched from Naberos’ heavily leadened arms. Her manservant had inexplicably appeared not too long after they'd left the air skiff, and his arms only grew more stacked with the princess’ whimsical purchases as time passed. He was damnably sure that there'd been only the two of them on the skiff as passengers, and the pilot was someone he was acquainted with.

“Well? Get changed then!” The princess’ command yanked him from his thoughts as she corralled him into a narrow alley. The silhouette of her looming manservant blotting any possibility of outside interventions as Asahi made his protest known.

“This is ridiculous, I will not–!”

He nearly bit into his tongue when her hand snapped up to grip at his face. Her hold made speaking difficult as she leaned in, the atmosphere taking an discomfiting turn. 

“I don't believe I asked for your opinion.” Gone was the excitable girl who was insistent on stopping by every stall they came across, replaced by a cold, dead eyed creature who looked at him as though he was little more than chattel. 

 Her breath grazed against his cheek, voice dangerously low and sibilant. “I've been quite accommodating in the face of your insolence, but defy me again and you won't live to regret it.”

Her nails dug into the skin of his jaw as she gave an emphatic squeeze, all strength seemed to drain from him at the contact. “Do you understand?”

Asahi wanted to brush her grip aside, defiantly question her authority and show her that he was not one to be trifled with. He had never even heard of her before yesterday — was not even aware the empire had a First Princess. At any road, she was likely as impotent as the others who had married into the imperial family, nothing more than vessels to provide heirs to the throne.

And what of him? He'd made Decurion in less than two years after he was assigned to the VIIth, soon he'll be a Centurion even. That and more besides, he'd proven himself in the academy after all, graduating in the top percentile. Indeed, ‘Asahi sas Brutus’ had a very gratifying ring to it, he'd thought whenever he daydreamed of the advances he would make in the very near future.

But in spite of himself, in spite of his guttering fire of defiance, Asahi found himself raked of courage as he gazed into the princess’ lightless stare. Vaguely, as he gave a weak nod, Asahi realized that her right eye was a dull green.

Crow realized that he was staring and shoved him back with the point of her parasol, a scowl wrinkling her brows as she brushed over her covered eye.

“Get to it.” She waved scornfully and turned away.

The Doman rubbed at his jaw as he glared at the princess, taking off the outermost layer of his uniform. His helm and overcoat was stored away, replaced with a less identifiable article. It kept him cooler than his uniform, he’ll grudgingly give it that, at least.

“Shall we then?” Crow said as she brushed past Naberos, redonning her gregarious disposition. 

****

The hiss of oil and waft cook fires teetered off gradually as they walked on, giving way to winemongers and textile concessionaires. Crow leaned down to inspect a bottle of clear, amber liquor. Within was a coiled snake, pickled with its round, lidless eyes still glowering up to any who dared to brave a swig. Medicinal roots, or what she assumed to be such, twisted around the serpent’s neck in a near strangle.

The princess tapped the glass, she'd never seen a hooded snake so up close. Its banded belly white and black as though to warn an opponent off before it strikes.

“The young lady has a discriminating eye! Herbal snake wine is good for the body while also being delicious when taken before a meal.” The merchant bellowed over the din of the crowd.

Next to her, Asahi frowned in disapproval. “Those concoctions are usually poisonous if made incorrectly, I would doubt anything being advertised.”

Crow smirked down at the glaring viper, it reminded her of a certain someone. She wondered how he'd look blue faced and choking on snake venom.

“Say no more.” She said, dropping two sols into the merchant’s hand. 

Asahi seemingly disapproved of every coin she paid in these parts, but to buy was to learn. Over the course of their excursion, she'd gleaned interesting insights simply by interacting and observing the natural happenings in the sprawling marketplace. One of every Garlean sol converted to five gil, giving imperial citizenry much trading power over the average Nagxian. The local imperial embassy presided over these exchanges, and kept a fine tooth comb over every occurrence of conversion. Any shipments of goods were paid in sol, then traded to gil when needed. It maintained the power of the imperial currency as the paid party was forced to make conversions at the embassy for a small fee. Even ships from Ul’dah could not deny the power of the imperial sol despite the empire's strained relations with Eorzea nations.

Military occupation aside, money was the true reins that controlled Valnain. Though the peace in the region was tense, she could at least appreciate Nael’s deft policies in economics.

Fabrics of silk, linen and cotton were the most prevalent here, cooler fabric for the sweltering weather. Crow felt the sweat slide down her back, the day’s heat piquing in the late afternoon’s interminable blaze. Her parasol could hardly protect her from the rising temperature perforating from the press of bodies. After Asahi had changed from his uniform, they blended almost seamlessly into the crowd. Though Naberos stood out with his notable height and servant uniform, most only spared him a passing glance before resuming their business. He was not the only oddity here, for what was normal to them was foreign to her.

Men, women and children of varying features littered the streets. Some with horns and scaled tails, others with long hare-like ears. There were even beastmen who'd originated further north, those who managed to escape the encompassing disintegration of their citadel. They ate, haggled, bought, sold and even bicker against patrolling guards.

 She wondered if the mercantile district of Garlemald also operated in such wonderful chaos. One thing, however, that she sharply disapproved of was the ubiquity of garbage underfoot. There were cleaners and sweeper here and there, but littering was a notable issue for the stalls and restaurants. Waste and roadside debris was evidently an unavoidable hazard. She'd nearly stepped on spilled food twice, treading over discarded skewer sticks and utensils. Cooks and their helpers threw away refuse in the gutters without much thought, flushing them down with sudsy, brown dishwater. The biting insects attracted by live butchering of animals were insufferable, almost as much as the insipid remarks the Doman leveled at every stall they stopped by. His words earned them no grace, though the stern brows of the slighted peddlers were smoothed over well enough by Crow’s coins.

In the latest encounter in the upper tier of the market, the princess had loaded her guide with an armful of her purchases. Tied muslin packages filled with fabric, shoes and even a jadeite bracelet wrapped in paper were held in both arms. Naberos was not spared from his duties either, bearing the brunt for most of the excursion. She'd stuffed a steamed pork bun into the Doman’s mouth to keep him occupied as she browsed the wide selection of accessories and hand mirrors within a small, but well-stocked jeweler shop.

She held up a pretty bronze pin, its head topped with the white stone carving of a thick-tailed squirrel. Inexplicably, she was reminded of that small lalafellin girl. Maybe a gift to thank her for the courtesy as she was the only one to extend any sort of niceties towards Crow within the castrum thus far. As she handed coins over to the vendor, the lacquered box behind him caught her eyes. It was a small thing nestled between a bronze table gong and a large crystal geode, just big enough to fit in the palm of her hand. Carvings of opalescent birds swirled around the twin moons, Mephina and Dalamud, stood out against the dark shine of the case 

“Show me that.” She pointed to the box.

The vendor clapped his hand together in delight, vieran ears standing at attention. His painted eyes smiled as he lifted it from the rosewood shelf.

“The box itself is a work of art, mother of pearl inlays from the Ruby Sea, carved and set by Hingan artisans.” 

Crow ran her hand along the lid’s beveled edge, the smooth polish gleaming without imperfection. She lifted the lid to find a violet hued stone within the velvet-lined box.

“Within is a chrysoberyl — a common stone known to shift in color when exposed under moonlight or daylight.” The vieran merchant picked up the stone and cradled it in his palm, extending it for her examination. 

Crow lifted it from his palm and held it up to the sun. The stone did indeed shifted from a purpled hue to an opaque viridian, she could not help but be a little mesmerized by its quality. It would look good against flaxen hair in any light.

“Common you say? Where is it mined from?”

“From the Fanged Crescent, my lady, west of Doma. The tragedy of Bozja cracked the mountains and exposed an abundance of new minerals, what was rare before became very affordable for most after the discovery of rich veins.” He explained, sliding the sizable teardrop gem back to its lacquered box.

“You know of the incident?” She asked.

“There isn’t anybody in these parts who does not, but it is a taboo to broach the topic.” The merchant kept up his polite smile. He seemed to be able to discern her Garlean mannerisms, familiar as he was to them living under the empire’s rule. It was obvious that she would get no more from him on the matter.

“How much to make a pendant from the stone? I'll need a durable chain as well for it.” 

He raised four fingers in reply and said. “And a small percentage more for the chain and service.” Then tucked his hands into his voluminous sleeves, raising them in a gesture of mercantile obeisance.

Crow placed a generous stack of imperial sol down, half the fee for the box and its content. The vieran inclined his head, lifting the payment from the mahogany surface of his front desk.

Half a bell came and went with her and the rest before they traipsed back to the modest shop. She was climbing the steps up to the upper tier when a small figure collided into her with a rush. Crow caught herself against the stone rail before she could fully tip over the steps, more startled by the shoulder check than pained.

The child whom she could now identify was caught against Naberos’ tight grip. Little more than a street waif, the youth was spindly and wore a moth-eaten long tunic and a pair of muddied trousers. Her hair ears, cat-like as they laid flat against a messy crop of dirty gray hair, as she veritably bristled at the human-faced voidsent.

It was easy enough to see that she was very hungry, the bones on her wrist a little too sharp, and her face too angled for someone her age. There was a hard edge in her yellow eyes as she tugged against Naberos’ vice grip.

Crow could remember being a starveling and at the mercy of an authority. Even when surrounded by gilded decadence, she had felt her stomach gnawing on itself as she curled inwardly in pain. The hollowness emptying her from within as she remembered the hearty childhood repasts she’d once enjoyed, so all consuming that her mind could hardly spare a thought for nothing else.

She sighed, withdrawing a few sols for the fool girl. 

“You can't possibly be giving this urchin coins.” Asahi weighed in as though she was dipping into his pockets for the money.

“Your counsel is neither wanted nor needed.” The princess said flatly.

Asahi averted his eyes, settling them balefully on the skinny guttersnipe. He sneered in derision but kept further arguments to himself as he caught her side eyed stare. “I merely think it’s unwise. The city is filled with these lesser stocks, be them child or adult, they will not thank you for sparing them any passing considerations.”

The urchin shot from her manservant’s grip, slippery as an eel and charged for her. Crow had nary any time to backstep from the waif’s headlong rush. She braced herself, anticipating the plunge of a knife into her belly but was met with a bracing embrace. The princess stood rooted in shock, even Asahi was gawking at her as he witnessed the event. Only Naberos had lunged after the urchin but his wide eyed focus turned into a bemused snicker, the trappings of the day’s purchase abandoned on the ground.

Crow looked down, having not felt an assassin’s blade, and the child had her arms wrapped around her waist. Tentatively, she reached for her. Whether her hand meant to tear the child away or to offer comfort, she was not certain. However, before she could properly respond to this awkward squeeze, the stray urchin drew back and snatched the pouch of sols from the princess’ grip. Then light as a breeze, she was gone, disappearing back up the flight of steps on nimble legs. 

The princess found herself mirroring Asahi’s expression — everything had happened in a flash, her funds stolen and the damnable thief was gone. 

Asahi watched as his heretofore charge ran off after she’d bade him to stay and watch her belongings. The princess’ face was twisted in a sharp scowl, lips scrunched into a pouting rictus as she dashed after her sly-fingered assailant after dropping the pearlescent linkshell into his palm. His warning had fallen on deaf ears, and she’d wanted nothing but obedience from him. The Doman legionary shrugged and leaned against the stone railing, waiting as the afternoon sun fell from its Zenith. Before long, however, a tall, familiar figure arrived. Prince Zenos’ imposing height rendered him unmistakable from the passing crowd, Asahi felt himself growing inexplicably excited as he admired the handsome austerity of the imperial scion.

His lord’s bright blue eyes passed over him, casting about as he searched for his counterpart. Eventually when he realized that she was nowhere near, Asahi had to explain the situation in earnest, emphasizing the princess’ firm insistence on stationing him here to stand guard. The prince’s displeasure was sharp, yet when his gaze landed on Asahi, it only caused his heart to drum soundly in his chest. 

“You were told to follow and advise, yet I find you dawdling here.” His Lord’s disapproval rang out as he towered over Asahi, his patrician features dark with a barely restrained promise of violence.

“H-Her Grace said she would not tolerate disobedience, my Lord!” Asahi swallowed, growing fearful despite his burgeoning admiration. He nearly fell to his knees, ready to further beg for forgiveness and mercy, but the dark shadow of the prince fell away and he was left to languish once more. When he allowed himself to look up from the ground, his lord was already gone, leaving him pining for more despite the perilous context of their first true encounter with one another.

Chapter 44

It was unbelievable that a shanty town was mere two streets over from the rich market of Valnain. Beggars lined the corners, cloaked in tattered rags to ward away the hot sun. Some were not even afforded that much. They laid under thatched eaves, curled into the shadow to stay cool. Biting gnats and flies buzzed over them as they slept through the worst of the afternoon, appearing almost like emaciated corpses had it not been for their creaking ribs as they breathed. Some lacked limbs after the occupational war, destituted due to their inability to find adequate work. As for others, she could not say. There were dozens of reasons why a man may be ill-considered for work, perhaps misfortune or simply hiding from the law. The legion, bold as they are, rarely deigned to patrols these littered corridors. They likely disliked wading through the carelessly discarded refuse of society. As such, the slums were often left to their devices, only occasionally cleansed with spontaneous raids under Nael’s whims.

The thieving little urchin was right ahead of Crow, tail curled to balance out her blind dash through the narrow alleys. They vaulted over broken wooden pallets, stacks of half-rotted straw baskets and avoided stray hounds that scavenged the city’s lower streets. The princess struggled to keep up through the unfamiliar terrain, veering left and right as she pursued her quarry. Fortunately, Naberos had seen fit to intercept where it could, nearly snagging the impudent miqo'te by the scruff of her shirt.

Crow snatched up a wooden plank as she sprinted, throwing it as hard as she could to hamper the thief’s momentum. The projectile connected against the miqo’te’s calf causing her to stumble. Still, her resilience held on as she scraped against a wall and shot into another narrow alley. Crow followed doggedly, pushing off the wall for momentum, elbow colliding with the mudstone wall of some destitute’s hovel. She stumbled and hissed sharply, winded from the chase. She'd been neglecting her training in recent months, so subsumed by her dark, scholarly works, and felt the exhaustion wrench at her limbs.

Her lungs burned coldly as her vision flickered, the aftermath was never this difficult even on hard days with Drusilla. She staggered against the wall, using it as support as she limped along. The sudden rush of cold sweat prickled at her skin, and she felt as though she'd fallen through a frost hole despite the day’s muggy heat.

A hand closed around her wrist and she twisted in retaliation, entirely too aware of how vulnerable she seemed. She was easy pickings for the unsavory elements in these parts, but she'd be damned if she would accept her fate.

“Easy, it’s me.” He said, spinning her around, hands firmly closed around both her shoulders.

Crow blinked a bead of sweat from her lashes and saw Zenos. Her knees nearly buckled in relief as he caught her.

“I don't… I don't know why–” The princess stammered as she felt his cool hand press against her forehead then neck. 

“Likely heat exhaustion.” He said curtly, kneeling and gathering her into his arms.

She had little energy to even stand now, unable to place why her body was betraying her. Zenos glanced at her pale face as dread coiled at the pit of his stomach, this episode, whatever it was, was new.

He walked past an alcove as the scent of iron hit him, the shaded dimness hardly hid the gore-spattered figure of Crow’s thrall. It held her pouch of sols between its fingers, a tongue darting out to lick the flecks of blood from its lips. Zenos did not see a body, the only evidence of violence was smeared messily on the sunbaked wall. The scene only gave him a momentary pause, enough time for the thing to turn and smile at him.

“Fetch water,” Zenos remembered glancing over an umbrella when he'd interrogated the Doman guide. “And your mistress’ parasol.”

The voidsent frowned, having failed to provoke a reaction from the prince. Unlike the rest, he'd always been frustratingly unflappable. It gave a curt bow and beelined back to where their guide was last stationed.

****

A light fever fell over her like a muggy blanket. At any given moment, she felt too stifled and warm, but any breeze that swept into the room made her shiver. She drained cups after cups of water to wash down the bitter draught of medicine, the syrup sickly sweet and bitter in the worst ways. Assigned to bed rest for two days, she had plenty of time to mull over her experiences in the city.

The only positive to be had from the experience was her steady appetite, the taste of savory eel porridge and sweet river reeds sat well with her stomach. Zenos watched her like a hawk as she ate, insisting that she finished whatever was served. Crow had anticipated the bouts of nausea after every spoonful, her unwilling aversion to food dispersing as she took her rest.

“Perhaps Valnain agrees with my palate.” She observed that night as the tray was carried away by Naberos, fingers flipping through another page of the daily legionary report. Sick as she was, she had insisted on beginning her assigned work. 

Zenos, continuing his reading from the night before, shifted next to her in bed. “It's the only thing that agrees with you so far.”

“An unlucky start, that's all.” Crow countered, signing off on another report.

“Unlucky or out of shape?” The prince snorted.

Crow scoffed, the noise keenly indignant. He certainly had a way of needling her with truths. “You shouldn't put it so bluntly even if it is true!”

“Perhaps resuming your physical training would put you at a more agreeable disposition.” He suggested, turning another page of his book. 

She seemed to perk up at the idea. “It would be good to take up a weapon again.”

Zenos shook his head. “You'll have to work your way up to that. For now, it'll be back to basics for you.”

She buried her face in his pillow, letting out a plaintive groan of dismay. Zenos smirked as she pressed her cheek against his firm shoulder.

“You're a tyrant.” She said through a lopsided pout. 

Zenos flipped yet another page, chuckling.

“I try.”

The day after tomorrow came, and she was feeling well enough to climb from bed at the crack of dawn. Ordinarily, she'd have difficulty waking up at such early hours, but the two days spent in bed was more than enough rest for even the most slothful invalid. In form-fitting black, She abstained from her routine repast, instead downing a cup of honeyed warm tea and made her way down to the castrum’s courtyard with Naberos tucked away underfoot.

She'd nearly concluded her stretching routine, one that Drusilla had drilled into her since they began weapons training, when the legionaries began to assemble. She felt them eye her with curiosity but none dared to openly stare save a familiar bowl-cut head.

Crow spotted him in the front row with a striped hrothgar and a fellow hyur flanking him. Their eyes met and she held the stare til he tore away with a visible frown. She smiled at that, pleased that he still knew his place despite him likely witnessing her moment of weakness.

Zenos stepped next to her, a hand pressed to her back. “We start and end with a run, hand-to-hand in between, you can observe at the midpoint.”

“Very well.” She nodded.

With a simple, sweeping gesture, open palm raised to the air, the scores of men and women broke formation and began their daily marathon.  Since their arrival, Zenos had taken charge to personally handle the day-to-day discipline of both the VIIth and the IIIrd legions in alternating days. It was impressive, to say the least, that he had both forces already familiarized with non-verbal commands even before the week’s end. 

Crow fell into line with the herd, staying at the periphery of the group as she made three laps around the vast grounds of the courtyard. She observed even as she ran, taking in the melting pot of a typical imperial legion. While hyurs made up the majority of the legion, there were also muscle-bound roegadyns, beast-like hrothgars and even the occasional tall-eared vierans. Lalafellins were rare enough, and fellow elezens were rarer still, most of whom reside in central to eastern Aldenard where the empire held little sway.

She was winded by the time the laps concluded, though she felt nothing as perilous as before. The morning was still cool when half the soldiers broke into pairs and began throwing themselves at one another. They were well trained and well coordinated with a tad of restraint, blows were marginally softened where they connected and strikes to the head and groin were forbidden. They traded partners in and out, never facing the same man or woman twice in a session.

Zenos circled them all, correcting their stances with wordless knocks to their limbs. The legionaries, for the most part, were accepting his critiques readily enough. He stood nearly half a head above than the tallest roegadyn man, a figure whose prowess and knowledge demanded respect even from those who disdained him for his youthful countenance and assumed inexperience. Crow herself watched not only him but also the soldiers avidly. The standard legionary methods were notably different from what she was taught. Where the average individual was instructed to fight defensively, Drusilla had honed her to extend herself far more offensively. Her reach with a warscythe was longer than the standard gun blade or gladiatorial sword, affording her more room to get into an opponent’s guard. Another thing her mentor had emphasized was accuracy and flexibility, weaving void-magicks in with every strike. Missing a blow was not something a reaper can afford as it might leave an opening for a fatal counter.

Day after day, Crow ran with the soldiers each morning until they no longer gave her puzzled glances. Less of a curio and more of a fixture as she rebuilt her strength. They did not approach her but they did not avoid her either, granting her a measure of deference when they inferred her relations with Zenos. She was the junior diplomat and rumored paramour of the prince, only the Doman and the two Legatus knew the full truth of her title. Needless to say, her counterpart was fast becoming a well-regarded face within the two joint legions. There was little doubt that he would become a magnificent Legatus in due course.

For the past few days, she'd taken to accompany Zenos on his rounds as he instructed the legionaries. She watched and learned his preferences, wondering if he'd learned them from that peculiar Corvosi man who had looked so ill at ease on the palace grounds. It was a surprisingly insightful side to him she'd discovered.

“Care for a round? It's been a terribly long while since you've taught me anything new.” She said, angling her chin slightly in a coquettish angle. It was the same kind of charm she donned whenever she had a favor to ask of the emperor.

He seemed to mull over the request, eyes still darting about as he observed the fighting tangle. “Eager, are we?”

“Of course, I might fall behind otherwise.” She admitted, shooting a teasing grin at him.

Zenos snorted he knew full well she was capable of wiping out a score of these cannon fodders if her magicks was allowed. Yet for all his awareness, he could hardly deny her much for long. They parted themselves to an open space, each taking on anticipatory stances.

Eager for the challenge, Crow dove in first with a low leg sweep. Her foot caught against his ankle and he retaliated in kind, nearly throwing her off balance. She redoubled her effort, going higher for his knee instead. It was a sound strategy attempting to topple opponents who had superiority in heft, however, the downside was he trumped her in strength and read her body easily.

He braced his knee against her kick and took the hit like a plate of reinforced steel, hands reaching down to subdue her quickly. While it was true that they were in the midst of combat, his aim was evidently to incapacitate and not injure. Crow ducked even lower from his reach, fingers jabbing into the nerve of his extended elbow. While his face showed nothing but composed anticipation, his muscles told a different story as they flinched in reaction.

“A new trick?” Zenos’ lopsided grin was approving, blue eyes focused intently on her coiling form.

Crow did not answer, and instead backpedaled to create some breathing room for herself. Had she lingered, his arms would have closed around her like a triggered snap trap. He did not allow her the space, however, chasing after her with a forward rush. Looking positively glowing in the moment, he aimed right for her blind spot and caught her by the wrist. She gasped as within a moment, he had forced her to turn with her right hand twisted at the small of her back. He was so much faster than she'd realized, it was almost unfair.

“I yield.” She capitulated, taking the loss in stride. She'd never had any hopes to win anyways, at least not yet.

Crow gave her shoulder a roll and realized the rest of the courtyard had been eyeing them. Zenos strode up beside her, rubbing at the spot where she'd dug into with her tightly steepled fingers.

She felt a little pride at managing to leave such a mark, even if it was neither a visible bruise nor a scratch. 

“Pain points.” Crow explained when he shot her a questioning glance. “No permanent damage, but you'll feel a bit of it still by noon”

He made a peculiarly contemplative noise, and gestured for an early dismissal. By all accounts, he seemed to be in a good mood after their short skirmish if the lingering flicker of his eyes were anything to go by.

“You'll have to tell me more over our midday meal.”

Crow tugged at the ribbon bounding her hair, smiling back as she strode off to break her fast. “Let a lady have her secrets, won't you?”

Chapter 45

A letter for her came in by post, passed onto her by Nael himself after she wrapped up for the day. Postal day was treated as a half-day where non-stationed troops were allowed a small respite from afternoon drills. Strict as the rules of a legion was, they still allowed a little latitude to their soldiers for their services. Gifts or missives from home often provided some relief to the strains of being so far abroad, some were even sent allowances or homemade treats.

Crow had no such comforts, but she did keep a little letter exchange with her guardian. The emperor wrote once every fortnight, reassuring her that he was still maintaining fair health and a decent appetite. She was always pleased to read the swirling script, each letter elegant yet pointed as he was. He complained of the bland tilapia and marlin, balking at the imperial kitchens for not being able to make any improvements on his new pescatarian diet. She chuckled at that, glad to hear he was adhering to the royal physician’s assignment.

Her eyes had been on the letter one moment and then it wasn't as she found herself colliding with another. A high pitched yelp sounded as Crow stumbled back, the letter from the emperor flying up with the rest of an assortment of books and documents. She found none other than Sisila, the gregarious lalafellin lass before her, knocked to her rear after she'd rammed into Crow at full speed.

“Are you alright?” The princess kneeled down, her eyes scanning for the emperor’s letter.

Sisila shook off the fall and blinked to Crow in surprise. “I'm d-dreadfully sorry! I was in a rush to deliver something to His Grace.”

She was likely referring to Nerva, Zenos would've gotten things himself. It was not that he had no one to do his bidding, most of the castrum would scramble to be at his personal beck and call, he simply saw them as inefficient and unreliable. 

“Ah, you're from the third then?” Crow concluded, restacking the books and helping sift through the loose missives and forms.

“Quite so, oh – please don't trouble yourself, I can manage.”

“Perish the thought, I don't mind at all. Moreover, there's something of mine in the mix — a letter.” She had a half the sheaf in hand, checking page by page at glance as Sisila assisted with the other half.

The lalafellin skimmed through them briefly, brown eyes darting speedily with the astute shine of one who was used to more complex texts. She straightened when her mind caught up to what she'd read, suddenly realizing she was intruding on a note written by no other than the august hands of Emperor Solus zos Galvus himself. Accidentally peeking into another’s letter was bad enough, but to intrude on such a weighty missive seemed like a terrible breach.

Sisila swallowed, shutting her eyes immediately with an embarrassed flush. She thrusted the letter to Crow with her head lowered, fingers feeling the fine quality of royal paper stock. This explained everything about the enigmatic diplomat, from her haughty demeanor to her connection to Prince Zenos.

“I'm sorry, Your Grace! I hadn't realized who you were!” 

Crow was taken aback by her sudden outburst, casting about to see if Nerva or Zenos was near. When she saw the letter Sisila had in hand, she realized the lalafellin had hit a minor epiphany.

A peal of laughter made Sisila raise her head, still terribly ashamed of her informal address of the First Princess of Garlemald. Most did not know of Her Grace, but Sisila personally kept up with the news published in the capital. Be it fashion or politics, she observed their trends with avid interest as she sought to attain citizenship. She was likely one of the few in Valnain who’d heard of Her Grace. However, any information was sparse, and the newspaper kept their opinions to themselves whenever they did mention her.

The most recent information had informed the reader that Her Grace had turned sixteen and would be tending her military service. There was no portrait, just a small patriotic blurb about the civil devotion of the imperial family and how all should strive to send their sons and daughters around such an age as well. 

“One could hardly fault you, the capital does not pay homage to a pariah.” Crow plucked the letter from her small fingers, folding it up and shrugging on her cotton shawl. 

As she straightened, Sisila noticed the fine, deep magenta-violet dye and how well the color complimented the white of her snug attire. The looseness of the shawl emphasized the svelte contour of the princess’ bodysuit and white leather half boots. Simple gold studs adorned her ears and her hair was braided into a thick, luxurious length.

Fashion! This was a passion of hers. The First Princess was only just coming into her beauty but she knew quite well what suited her best. She knew then that Her Grace would make a fine muse if she ever got to open her own boutique in Garlemald.

“No one could hate you if they had eyes, Your Grace.” Sisila exclaimed, perhaps a little starry eyed. She'd turn them into an icy stalagmite if they did!

Crow turned away and snorted a laugh, even Zenos would never be caught saying something so saccharine.  “Thank you for the kind sentiment.”

Sisila bowed and began to resume her journey, pleasant detour aside, Prince Nerva’s short fuse was dwarfed only by his patience.

“Hold your steps.” Crow held her back before she could shoot off, pulling the bronze pin from the top knot of her braid.

The white stone, shaped into a large tailed squirrel, shined softly against the late afternoon cast of the sun. She'd never precisely liked small, cute things, their uses to her began and ended with cruel entertainment. But this Sisila oen Sila looked at her as though she'd only just discovered the sky, a sort of misplaced admiration twinkled in her eyes despite the fact that she scarcely knew Crow.

“A gift,” the princess held up a finger to stop a protest from bubbling forth. “In gratitude for your welcome despite my…prickliness.”

Sisila looked as though she was on the verge of tears when she accepted the pin. She bowed deeply in one arcing swoop, familiar with the different style of obeisance to the military, and tucked it into a breast pocket close to her heart.

“It shall be an heirloom for my family, thank you, Your Grace!” Sisila sniffed with visible gratitude, lips wobbling as she smiled. “If you'd like, I could introduce you to the female dorms, they’ve been awfully curious about you..”

Crow thought about the offer, lips folding into a thin line. During the past three weeks here, she hadn’t been able to acquaint herself with the common soldier. Zenos had been an all-consuming teacher, working her harder than Drusilla ever had whenever they had the occasional scrap.

“I suppose it would be an educational experience.” She nodded, a little curious about the life of the average legionary.

A heavy set of boots approached them, alerting both Crow and her diminutive acquaintance. Nerva, in all his agitated glory, set upon them like a glooming cloud, temper pointed directly at Sisila.

“I should've known a savage like you is incapable of such simple work” The prince hissed, his mouth curling into a moue of disgust.

“I-I’m sorry, my lord, I was merely–”

“Futile excuses, have you no other use than being a waste of time?” He spat venomously, then veered to Crow as though he'd only just deigned to notice her presence. “But I suppose birds of a feather flock together.”

“A good day to you too — good enough to abuse your subordinates as any, I suppose.” Crow took a dim view of such drawn out mistreatment. If one wishes to rid themselves of a useless retainer, one should be about it swiftly and without hesitation.

Nerva set his jaw and recomposed himself before her, the slip was covered up in but a moment as he barked at his assistant. “Get out of my sight.”

Sisila glances up nervously at the princess, only to be met with a tight smile. Being all too familiar with the callous ways of Prince Nerva, she did not wish to leave Her Grace alone with him. It seemed, however, that her hands were tied in the matter.

Crow slid her eyes back to Nerva as she heard Sisila’s booted pitter patter, a sardonic remark readied at the tip of her tongue. Those words, sharp as they were, evaporated like tattered wisps when his large hand met her throat. A thumb dug into her jugular as Nerva drove her against a wall, the rest of his fingers curling around the base of her neck.

“A savage retains her dirty stripes no matter what name she bears — back in the capital, I could have the clothes ripped from your back and flog you ragged for speaking to me like that.” His hand gave a threatening squeeze, russet eyes gliding over her gritted scowl.

“But this isn't the capital, is it?” She spat venomously. “With Zenos here, and Nael as viceroy, you're as impotent as your father.”

Her words struck him better than any physical blow could as he bristled at her words. He had a temper hidden beneath the pompous gentility of his pedigree, that much was evident. The trigger to that flaw, she found, was his father. Titus was lacking in comparison to the late Prince Lucius but was too incompetent to do much about his current lot. His son too suffered from an inferiority complex, except his competition was the empire’s rising prodigy and not a man long dead. Zenos was noticeably growing in popularity here, even a blind halfwit can see how the legionaries admired him for his effortless excellence and discipline. In contrast, Nerva was out of touch and heavy handed, his open contempt for non-purebloods garnered him little loyalty even from those directly beneath him.

“Ah, well, you are neither Nael nor my little cousin, are you?” Nerva hissed, his eyes roaming down to her shoulders then chest. “You're simply Zenos’ bed warmer, ingratiating yourself into our legacy like a parasite.”

His greasy stare slid over her like bile, the lust in his eyes made her feel unclean. He leaned closer, features sharpening into something unnervingly lupine as his mouth twitched into a rictus. He managed to stymie her side with a lurid drag of his hand, leaving her wanting to crawl out of her skin. During the brief contact, he'd molded his fingers against her body as he sneered down at her. That was as far as he'd gotten thanks to the flint of pointed steel prickling at his torso. Her dagger, a convenient thing the length of a man’s hand, had been strapped to her side, hidden by the shawl. Its sharp point had punctured through the two layers of his doublet and tunic, drawing a small smattering of blood when he'd leaned in too close. Had Nerva fully committed himself to his obscenity, he would've quite literally fallen on the blade.

“Even parasites have teeth, prince.” The princess said, leaning forward with her harasser falling back. His hand raised in a gesture of surrender as he leered down his nose at her. 

Suddenly, all Nerva’s faculties left him, jaw seemingly wired shut by an invisible string. His limbs creaked as they moved against his will, marching to the nearest view of the open sky. He stood just outside of the shadowed corridor he'd cornered her in, stepping into the hot afternoon sun. His neck snapped up as his entire face was paralyzed, not a muscle, even his eyelids were incapable of operation. The sun beamed down at him as he stood poleaxed, its blinding rays searing into his corneas. 

“If you must touch things that don't belong to you, then I suppose you should have a good reason to do so.” Crow tucked her dagger back into its place, pulling her shawl over her head as she came up next to Nerva, the heat of the sun beating down upon them from above.

Crow grew contemplative as she looked at him, appearing as a critic examining a sculpture. “I reckon half a bell will do — I want to take my afternoon tea before going over the daily reports.”

Nerva realized she was no longer speaking to him, he strained against whatever unnatural force working within his body but to no avail. He felt like he was struggling against an immovable mountain, muscles held rigid as he felt the agony of his spot-blighted eyes.

She left him there without another word, Nerva’s scream went unheard, deadened before it could even escape his throat.

Chapter 46

Crow watched from the small balcony of their shared room as Nerva was dragged away to safety by passing soldiers. It'd only been five minutes since she left him there, but it was apparent that the briefing in the main courtyard had concluded early when the prince’s absence was noted.

While the common soldiers were drilling and doing weapons maintenance, those in the upper rung were gathered, Zenos included, to discuss an upcoming expedition into Golmore. A grand mobilization to retake posts that had been overrun by the insurrectionists, and a display of power to quash any burgeoning thoughts of rebellion. It would only be effective should it succeed, however. Losing could put the entire city in jeopardy by stoking the flame of defiance.

“How disappointing.” She muttered as she felt Naberos slip away in the ensuing alarm at Nerva’s inexplicable condition.

He would still suffer from the time he'd spent with his eyes glued to the sun, but alas, the damage won't be permanent. Nevertheless, the message was delivered clearly enough. She may not have the benefit of Zenos’ prowess nor Nael’s lofty history, but she was not someone to be trifled with. 

It did not come without cost, however. Crow pressed a finger against the base of her throat, wincing at the throbbing tenderness. What a day to be caught without the armored collar. 

“That was your doing then, I gather.” Zenos slinked into the room and closed the heavy doors behind him.

Crow snapped her hand away, somewhat startled by his quiet entrance, then only to immediately realize her mistake. “We… had a disagreement of sorts.”

He marched up to her, icy blue eyes narrowing in on where her hand had previously lingered .

“Show me.” He demanded stiffly.

“It’s nothing, don't concern yourself with petty squabbles.” Crow brushed him away with a careless wave, turning from his sharp scrutiny to resume her desk work.

The prince caught her by the shoulder, sliding a finger into her collar and slid the snug material a mere ilm down. His face was pale and thunderous when he caught the beginnings of her new necklace. What was reddish before had turned into a deep mauve, and Crow let him take it in for but a moment before batting his hands away.

For some inexplicable reason, she burned up with shame when she caught the ire on his face. It simply felt wrong, made her feel weak for having been caught off guard by someone as vapid and underhanded as Nerva.

Crow heard the clink of steel and darted for the entrance, blocking it with her arms. Zenos, a half dozen steps away, met her gaze. His knuckles were deathly white as it gripped the scabbard of his saber. In a splitting moment, he swept across the room before she could even begin to reason with him. She followed suit but was marginally too slow to intercept him as he climbed through the balcony window.

“Damn it all!” Crow exclaimed as he deftly leapt down the three stories, stamping her foot down in frustration.

****

The razor edge of steel slid into Nerva’s pillow as he laid in recovery in his silk-decked bed. Even after some minor healing magicks and a dose of curative eye drops, his vision was still only half as effective as it was before. The useless chirurgeon claimed it would take about three days for him to fully regain his sight. Regardless, judging from the murderous blade next to him, he might not even have that much time left.

His heart was at his throat even as he squinted through the thin layer of silk bandages, only just managing to dredge up an affable smile.

“Zenos, how kind of you to visit my invalid self.”

“Give me a good reason why I should not open you up from throat to navel.” Zenos hissed, voice low in a wrathful susurrus.

Despite his position, Nerva leaned back against his pillows and barked an amused scoff. His little cousin was so steeped in his infatuation, and for the pet savage no less. It was so ridiculous.

“Before you do, tell me: What makes you think she’s yours to have?” The older prince sneered. “No matter who next sits the throne, she’ll likely be sold off to the largest bidder once His Radiance passes, left to languish in obscurity for the rest of her days if she were so lucky.”

Zenos dislodge his blade with a swift yank on his hilt, the shadowed planes of his face made harsher by shafts of the setting sun leaking through the drawn drapes. Zenos loomed over Nerva with his weapon raised, poised to end the ignoble wretch before him.

“Garlemald would sooner be razed to ashes.” He snarled, caustic at the idea of another having her.

Nerva's eyes widened at Zenos’ words. It was the first time in all of their encounters that he'd shown anything aside from cold apathy. The fiery conviction in his voice shot through the older prince, his treasonous words made it all the worse. Nerva’s sins may be extensive, and his arrogance as boundless as the empire’s borders, but he could never be accused of holding their fatherland in such careless scorn.

A blinding gleam reflected in the steel length as it descended upon the older prince, his death spelt so clearly before him despite his impaired sight. Nerva flinched as he squeezed shut his eyes, anticipating the flencing of his flesh from his bone by his treasonous cousin’s hands.

A moment passed. Then another, devoid of the incoming hot gush of blood or cold slice of agony. Nerva tore away the thin bandages over his eyes and blinked up blearily, realizing that the blade had been stayed. A pair of black, clawed hands bore the brunt of Zenos’ saber, visibly straining to hold the edged steel from meeting its mark. A few more flutters of his lids marginally cleared things further, enough to make out a hulking, cowled figure kneeling on the bed. This thing, a demon spawning from some barbaric mythology, was nearly as tall as Zenos and it was the only thing standing in the way of Nerva’s bisection by blade. 

With Zenos on one side of the bed, hands gripped tightly by the hilt of his weapon, and the hellish creature on the other, they played a deadly game of tug-o-war.

The older prince could do naught but let out a disbelieving laugh, sinking further into his mattress and away from the honed steel. “All this for the family’s pet savage? you’re too much, cousin!”

The blade shook as Zenos curled his lips in visible fury, and with a flick of his wrist, changed the angle of the strike. The hard slash took Naberos’ fingers, black ichor evaporating into fine ash as it came into contact with the air. The voidsent winced but was wholly devoted in its assigned task to stopping his homicidal endeavor.

“Out of my way, thrall.” Zenos ordered, watching it crouch over his target protectively. He'd had a hand in bringing it into this world, he can very well be responsible for its unmaking as well should it keep interfering.

It bristled at him, its cape twisting into six curving claws to compensate for the loss of its fingers. They eyed one another, muscles coiled to spring at any moment.

Bang!

All heads whipped to the shot through the double door, the sound overwhelming all other commotion that took place before. A white boot kicked open the shattered lock and Crow came stumbling in, her shawl abandoned elsewhere and her messy braid falling over a shoulder.

“Pray tell, he's not dead, is he?” The princess lowered the smoking gunblade, peering over Naberos’ form as she approached.

“I’m quite well, princess.” Nerva drawled, still trapped in his bed between a voidsent and his seething cousin. 

Not for long, Crow thought as she spied him tangled in his sheets.

With a cold satisfaction, she raised the butt of her weapon and brought it down against the side of his head before he could run his mouth again. The sound blow earned them blessed silence, knocking Nerva out as well as a sleeping draught. Then it was just them for the time being until the entire castrum came to investigate. Naberos snapped its teeth at Zenos in displeasure and melted from view. It'd lost some limbs from the encounter but that may be recuperated in time. 

She set down the bladed rifle against the foot of the bed, circling around to meet Zenos. Her hand extended imploringly to him as she neared.

“Have you lost your mind? You'll start a civil war if you kill him here.” Crow said, brows knitting together.

Zenos frowned, redoubling his hold on the blade with a tight squeeze of his hand. “You'd rather I do nothing?”

“For now, you must.” She answered without pause, briefly shooting a venomous glare at Nerva.

Crow came closer, fingers sliding down the tensed contours of his wrist, taking up the hand that held the saber.

“Though fret not, you won't have to endure it for long. Once in Golmore, there is always a chance of an accident, plenty of hazards to see him pay for his overstep.” She met his gaze, slowly prying the hilt from his fingers. 

Zenos, sullen and unreadable, held fast to the sword but withdrew from the perilous proximity of Nerva’s bedside. He sheathed the weapon and stepped past her. Though he was displeased by her interference, she did have a point. 

Without another word uttered, he made his egress through the same window he came in from. Crow dragged a hand down her face, marveling at the mess at hand. She plucked up the stolen gunblade from its place and gave it a once over. Nael would not be pleased if he ever heard of her pilfering the armory.

She aimed the weapon at Nerva's unconscious, undefended head, picturing him splattered prettily against the headboard. It would make for delicious retribution for what he would have done to this body. She relished the image and caressed the trigger, listening carefully to the click of the safety latch as she readied her shot. Then with a long suffering sigh, she reluctantly lowered the rifle head. 

She could not bring herself to ruin their plans, the compulsion dwarfed by her long running ambitions for the future. Alas, with the kinslaying crisis averted, Crow slung the weapon over a shoulder and kicked the doors through again on her way out for good measure.

****

Clerical work was as underwhelming as they came, a thankless service that included reading through patrol reports, vetting commerce logs of shipments that goes to and from the city’s main port, and organizing civil campaigns for the average civilians within the territory. Alas, liaising with local representatives was something she would only be assisting in, not directing. That particular duty was oversaw by none other than the viceroy himself.

Crow shuffled the survey papers into a neat stack, the day’s reports and letters proofread already filed away. Sisila was going to show her the women’s dormitories, and she was going to take the opportunity to gauge troop satisfaction. Such a thing was not a necessity, but when more than three quarters of the baseline legionaries were composed of foreign conscripts, it was best to mitigate mutiny where one could. A small inconvenience of toiletries could very well snowball into mass revolt if given the chance.

Nael had left before her for the war council, something she was not able to sit in on thanks to her non-combatant status. Still, she was determined to ask Zenos for the details later. 

A head peeked in from outside, Sisila greeted Crow with a bow and a grin. “Reporting for your introduction, Your Grace!”

“While it isn't a secret, perhaps it's best not to announce it to the world.” Nael’s receiving room, where her work area was located, locked with a sound turn of her key.

“Ah, indeed, His Grace would want to keep you all to himself, I apologize.” Sisila’s grin grew impossibly wider.

Crow dropped her key with a noisome clatter.

“Perhaps we should do this on another day.” She said, face deadpanned, and began to walk away.

Sisila cried out after her with an outpour of apologies, begging for forgiveness.

They resumed their plans after Crow failed to dislodge the lalafellin from her leg. Evidently, it was difficult to walk without a dragging limp when one was hindered by the equivalent mass of a sack of popotoes. 

Crow had to concede that they'd gotten a little closer after the last month’s incidental encounter with Nerva, who now gave her a wide berth once he regained the full use of his sight. He was not someone easily cowed, but at least for the time being, the brush with death had cornered him into being content with simply seething at her from afar.

Sisila was dismissed from her position as his assistant, but that was perhaps a blessing in disguise. Crow, though she loathed to admit, was a little concerned for the aftermath regarding the lalafell’s fate under Nerva. She was too earnest to be working for someone so undeserving.

The humdrum of activity flowed in and out of the two-entranced dorms. Most here were older than her, equipped with more experience in the field as well. Conversations were carried out with notable camaraderie, buzzing with not the hushed tones of schemers but of those who were proper comrades in arms. From conscripted strangers to battlefield veterans who just depend on one another for survival, she wondered how long it took for such bonds to form.

“Hear ye, hear ye! The new diplomat is here to conduct a survey!” Sisila had quite the pair of lungs for her tiny frame, she certainly had no need for a voice amplifier to reach the far end.

Some heads perked up at the announcement, Crow swallowed and pasted on an amiable smile. While she was comfortable enough weaving around sparring pairs in courtyard training, being the sole focus of a crowd was an entirely different beast.

She cleared her throat in preparation as they gathered, ready to hand out the forms. It was merely to examine the needs of the soldiers, from personal hygiene to uniform materials. The empire may spend a fortune in maintaining weapons and acquiring resources to craft automatons, but the average legionary only receives a personal stipend and standard uniforms while in service. Things, including but not limited to, soap, dental brush, toothpaste, shoe polish, needle and threads were necessities that had to be replaced out of pocket. A small allotment of the budget to be spent on these toiletries could save the legionaries a lot of grief, especially out in the jungles.

The residents, dark eyed Domans, warm skinned Dalmascans and even a few red haired Landites from Ilsabard, gathered round and accepted the paper, then leaned in close together to exchange curious whispers. After her hands were emptied, Crow found herself snatched up by the wrist and pushed down to a nearby bench. Surrounded on all fronts, she found her back pressed against the wall as shining eyed females grinned down on her.

“Tell us! What is Lord Zenos like? Are you really lovers? My, that kiss by the courtyard! How did you meet?” Were only some few questions Crow could pick out among the excitable bombardment.

A caged bird among the vixens, as she imagined herself.

The princess felt the rise of color upon her cheeks, reaching all the way to the tips of her ears as she heard someone bold enough to ask after Zenos’ form when he went without clothes. Caught between despair, distress and utter embarrassment, she could only sputter and give vague, flustered denials.

“Back off, you vultures! Give her some space.” A broom appeared over the horizon of the gathered women, warding them off with light thwacks against their backs.

“Dorm lead or not, you’re a tyrant, Sisila!” Someone cried out., brushing dust from their uniform.

“That’s right! I’ll singe your brows off.” The lalafell cackled, broom in hand.

Crow stood as she fought to regain her composure, gathering herself up to present a more dignified image. “As you all know, I'm Crow, the junior diplomat assisting Legatus van Darnus. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Easy laughs and greetings responded in kind to her introduction, the women amused by the flushed young official. She'd been here awhile, and most have seen her practically hiding behind the tailcoat of the young Galvus prodigy. Initial impression had been that she was too pompous to associate with the common legionaries. But after more than a moon’s worth of observation, and her rescuing Sisila from Prince Nerva’s ire, she'd earned a more forgiving lens within their eyes. The little peacemaker was prone to keeping to herself, now even seeming awkward as she made her pronouncement. It was like looking at an eaglette trying to appear regal when it has still not shed its soft downs.

One could see how their beloved dorm lead became a little fond of her even after their rocky introductions. 

“If you're in need of crucial supplies and toiletries, please write it down. I plan to expand the legion’s budgets to include personal essentials so you may no longer need to use your own funds.” Crow pointed to a box in the sample form, her mind already working on how to reach out to local suppliers to create business bonds between them and the castrum. The people here may not be fond of their occupiers, but the flow of coins may just be enough to begin to lay the foundations for stability in the region.

Sisila hopped atop a lower bunk bed, one of the dozens that sat in rows in the dorms, and waved up a hand. “Are there limits on what we can ask for?”

“I only ask that you temper expectations, the things we may procure here will have to be products that cater to general use. There won't be luxury goods like scented bars or skin oils, stick to the basics and I'll do my best to assure their quality.”

Crow herself had been using the products given to upper officers and were dismayed by how grainy the soap was, and her comb she'd used to run through her hair had broken its fifth tooth. She was mortified when she realized some soldiers went without these essentials all together as many opted to send most of what they earned back to their families back in their home territory.

“I know someone you lack forgo these things to support your kin, but I am in the belief that a person serves best when they’re at ease in their own skin.” She expounded, back a little straighter as she clapped her hands together. “I may not be of use in  the upcoming battle, but I wish to provide you some comfort wherever you may be.”

The response was slow but decidedly positive as the dorm residents came to their own conclusions. Any boon, no matter how seemingly insignificant, was a boon regardless. One could never underestimate how important it was to keep clean in the muddy trenches, where even a shallow scratch may fester into limb-claiming rot. It would allow them to save their stipends as well, a little more leeway for leisure spending or funds to put away for a future.

For Crow, it would be an opportunity to put out feelers for local businesses. Considering the leverage power of sols here, merchants would be hard pressed to turn down the offers she intended to make.

“Alright, but I think I speak for the rest when I say we will do this in one condition.” A sharp eyed vieran grinned at Crow from her place by a stone pillar. 

The princess suppressed a groan of dismay as she realized the price for their cooperation.

“Very well, I'll answer three, and only three, questions about–” The princess sighed and summoned her patience. “Lord Zenos.”

In council with Nael on the other end of the castrum, both pouring over the detailed geography of Golmore, said prince let out a clipped sneeze and snapped the pen held between his fingers into ink-blotted halves.

Notes:

Achoo!

Chapter 47

Nael was dubious of the proposal, steepling his fingers as he read through the compiled paperworks. It was a sound plan to promote business relations between the local suppliers and the legion, but the stability of this region was only a stepping stone. He would loath to be chained to Nagxia by economical deals.

“No, this would cut into the legion’s budgets too much.” The Legatus shook his head. “And it would require long term commitment between the VIIth and untrustworthy sources.”

The princess was a deft hand at management, perhaps far too excellent for mere deskwork meant for a mere assistant. Since her involvement in the day-to-day clerical operations, he'd found himself able to plan for the upcoming expedition and conduct inspections of the aerial forces. He was pleased with her work, surprised by her startling efficiency. However, it did not mean he would allow her to make such blatant changes and dip her hands into matters where it did not belong.

“That isn't true — my lord, this plan may be adapted to whichever territory you may be assigned to next, simply change some variables and it would secure a steady and affordable supply chain for the ground troops.” Crow balled up her hand, hiding it beneath the fabric of her light shawl. “Your spending on imports from the capital would decrease by almost an entire fifth of last year’s gross spend.”

“We cannot make such major changes to the supply chain on such short notice.” Her proposal was slid back to her across the wide, rounded desk. “With all due respect, you're trying to fix what is not broken, Your Grace.”

He was being stubborn, shifting in one excuse after the next to maintain an indiscernible sort of upper hand. Crow could not decipher his purpose of undermining her efforts like this.

Was he colluding with Nerva to even the playing field against her and Zenos? It was highly frustrating trying to read Nael’s intent through his voice alone. He had little tells of irritation and approval, but those alone were not enough to fully understand the White Raven. To the frustration of her curiosity, never did he ever go without his helmet, even in the comforts of his own personal office.

Crow pursed her lips, lifting it into a sheepish smile. “Of course, I may be overstepping my jurisdiction. My apologies, my lord.”

That evening, she marched into her shared chambers and sank herself into a near scalding bath. Her temper ran as hot as the water as she relived the scene in her head. Naberos ran the ivory comb she'd purchased through her hair, its length had grown thicker and longer in the months that she'd been here. A healthier appetite had grown with this newfound freedom, even Zenos seemed to approve whenever she cleaned her plate. 

They're unable to see your vision, mistress. All at present seem to have their own motives and desires here, not so different from my homeland.

Naberos’ voice echoed in her head, the sound was like an indistinct susurrus from a parched throat.

“If you've something to say, then spit it out.” 

Crow glared at the flat water, the soap could hardly produce suds to be of any real use.

Do you really need the viceroy’s authority when this is for the legion's own good? 

“You're suggesting I go over Nael’s head on the matter?” She shifted to prop her legs up next to the tub’s bronze faucet.

Denying a proposal that benefits all over such petty power is the mark of a poor leader.

Crow scoffed, amused at the voidsent’s commentary. “And what would you know about leadership, you gluttonous thing?”

Naberos clutched its chest, feigning injury as though it was struck by the pointed sting of her skepticism. You doubt wounds me, mistress. I once turned my cloak upon the great queen, Scathach, and fooled her into imprisonment, I am the Paragon of ploys and wicked stratagems, my council is one you should keep the closest.

She reached back and slid her hand beneath her thrall’s chin in a hard grip, forcing it to lean over the rim of the stone tub. “Your anecdote does not help you in the least.”

  Cunning enough to tell your current master of your past traitorous misdeeds. Crow rolled her eyes. Over her shoulder, Naberos’ lips curled into a sharp toothed grin, face pressing into her touch like an overeager hound as rivulets of water slid down its angular jawline.

I digress, mistress, what could the viceroy do against you? A scolding and a light slap on the wrist? You are the First Princess of this empire, you should do as you please.

It was goading her into a hasty decision, however, it did have a point. As long as things went the way she wished and all benefited from her efforts, even the White Raven would be hard-pressed to discipline her. It would risk his image in the eyes of his own soldiers to punish the princess who sought to better their lives.

Water cascaded off her body as she stepped from the quartz tub, tugging the towel from her thrall’s hands to wrap around her slim form. Modesty was an irrelevant concept in the company of a creature whose sole pleasure was through consumption. Right on cue, timing was impeccable as always, she heard Zenos’ return.

“Go feed yourself — leave the soldiers alone, though. I'd rather not file paperworks for missing legionaries.” She waved at him before wringing out the last of the wetness from her long, dark hair.

Ever so generous she is, my mistress. Naberos bowed low before slipping through the crack of the tiny square window of the bathing chamber, its form as flat and dark as a pool of dark ink.

He was waiting for her outside, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. His hair, the color of deep honey, was left untied, damp sweat only just drying from the day’s exertions. His eyes locked onto her the moment the door opened, taking in her parted lips and dewy skin. The towel’s hem barely reached past mid thigh, clinging on by a mere simple tuck above the swell of her bosom. Yet for all these tempting little details, he could only focus on the hawkish gleam in her eye He knew that look, the flickering ember in her singular gaze stoked by the heat of ambition.

“And what have you been planning?” Zenos drummed his fingers against his bicep and braced himself against the doorframe.

Crow smirked, eyes narrowing into feline crescents, head lulling aside in that familiar angle. 

“Before I tell you, I have but a small favor to ask.”

****

Zenos eyed the headman of the city’s mercantile guild as he sat next to Crow. He saw a Nagxian man, born and bred, chocked full of bitterness and an obstinate resistance to change.  Said man was tan-skinned with a head of closely cropped black hair. His eyes were dark and his broad nose was dotted with a flat, notable mole. He carried himself highly, with an air of mild contempt for any who he deemed as foreign. Namely Crow and him, in this particular case. Blonde strands of his hair spilled from the cowl he wore to conceal his third eye, the mere sight of them seemed to be enough to brand him as an outsider. Crow was even less well received, her elezen heritage placed on full display without any concealing garments. Her pointed ears and growing height was a noticeable thing indeed, the top of her head now reaching his chest. After leaving the oppressive air of the imperial palace behind them, he was pleased to see her shed her reticence towards food and tentatively thrive beyond the capital’s borders.

He digressed, such exclusionary attitudes were understandable from the influential forces in Valnain. However, he was putting up more of a fight even when Crow cornered him with an undeniable boon of a contract. In clear form, the headman was a trapped animal who was too stubborn to acknowledge the fact of his capture.

“These demands are too much, the city does not have sufficient means of production to provide in the long term.” He picked at the bands of gold on his fingers, doughy cheeks flushed as he sought for yet another reason to deny her his approval.

Next to him, Crow smiled. Any protest her opponent had brought up was swiftly resolved by the ironclad draft of her contract. “If you read the print I provided, it offers a trial period of a year, after which renegotiations may take place.”

The headman sputtered, face growing a ruddy red. He looked as though he was about to burst like an overripe, bearded tomato.

“A year is not so long, and the dividends are so generous. We may scale down riskier importations to boost production of domestic goods.” Reasoned one of the representatives, this one a horned, pale-coated hrothgar dressed in intricately patterned silks. His voluminous sleeves fluttered as he beseeched to their leader.

It was a relief to hear a voice of reason from the other side. Crow had asked Zenos to accompany her down to the city since it was a rest day, but she did not wish to spend the entirety of the outing with her rear planted on cushioned ratan furnishings.

“Do not make us bear the brunt of your hasty avarice, Dansch.” The headman turned to glower at the hrothgar.

The other representatives, two hyuran women and a vieran man, dressed in colorful embroidered garbs, looked at one another. It seemed they were caught between the headman and the horned hrothgar, still on the fence as they gauged which way the winds would favor.

Something to tip the scale was needed, something small but significant enough that it could not be refused. “You face heavy tax on exports, do you not?” 

The room seemingly started upon hearing his voice, his question placing a stopper on the imminently approaching debate. He'd remained silent throughout the exchange, sitting in as the imposing bodyguard of the diplomat. Now, however, the room tipped uncomfortably toward him after his trenchant observation.

Crow paused at his words, smoothly picking up on his hint once she realized saw the merest hint of a smirk on his lips. She now owed him more than just for the favor of his company.

On cue, she extended a gregarious hand to them. “We could lighten the load of taxation for the trial period, in exchange for a little bonus surplus in goods.”

“Under what authority? The viceroy has denied our petitions time and time again, sneering at us from the lofty perch of his castrum!” The headman slammed his palm against the table between them, the inkpot and fountain pen rattling on impact.

“To not look a gift horse in the mouth — is that how the saying goes in Othard?” Crow tapped her chin, recalling the Doman adage.

“Our terms are generous yet you're spitting into the hand of friendship I offer.” She stood, retrieving the trade agreement from across the table with a drag of her fingers. “Perhaps it's time we take our leave.”

Zenos got up and watched the headman stiffen, the four who stood behind him had their eyes trained firmly on Crow. They had the cast of worry about them, caught between their loyalties and their need for succor from the iron fist of Nael. Even if temporary, the reprieve from the White raven's harsh policies was desperately needed by the peasantry and merchants of Valnain. 

“Please wait, we need a moment to convene.” Dansch, the horned representative called out.

“What are you saying? We’ll be feeding the very same hands lashing our backs!” The headman, who was content with letting a good thing slip by to appear his resentments, exclaimed in outrage. He whirled upon his fellows, stark indignation on full display despite polite company.

Collectively the four shuffled off behind closed doors, none looking back to their supposed leader.

“While that is true, would you rather continue receiving the whip or take the rest that's offered?” The slim elezen wench folded her hands on her knees as she sat back down. 

This was no kindness, the headman realized. They'd stepped into the awaiting jaws of a croc.

Notes:

Happy New Year! (ㆁωㆁ) Stay in good health, everyone!

Chapter 48

Anger, fury, wrath, all these words were insufficient when Zenos saw the bruises that lined her collar. The feeling lashed across his mind like a searing brand of lightning, a thousand unspeakable things he would do to Nerva for laying a hand on her. He would have flayed his cousin open, cut off his tongue with a heated blade and ensured he could feel every onze of pain a mortal could endure.

“You're sulking.” Her voice played along his ears, the observation made with wry amusement.

Her slender finger reached up and traced a fine line along his cheek. Her eyes twinkled when she gaze up at him, boots on tip-toe as she tucked back a stray strand of his hair. She was in good humor with today’s success, the halfway milestone of her endeavor achieved. Her laugh was warm and bright as she teased him, the crafted mask of the austere diplomat falling away once they were far from the tense confrontation of negotiations. At length, they’d meandered over to an open square overlooking the city’s sprawling port, people the size of ants busy at work under the clear skies.

“Don't tell me you're still upset at me.” Her hand fell to his shoulder, then to his chest. The touch was brief but emphatic, brushing across the fabric of his cloak.

Zenos shook his head, the broad length of his hand clasping over hers. The moment drifted in companionable silence, her smile fading as she turned to the distant sea.

“The legions will be mobilizing in a week’s time.” He said, thumb drawing circles on the back of her knuckles.

Crow nodded, her suspicions affirmed. They'd been working in preparations to depart for more than a fortnight now, the castrum buzzing with hidden anticipation. The legionaries were not told the exact time, but they were endowed with eyes and ears and saw clearly enough that war was on the horizon. The magitek engineers and their crews were stowing weapons and completed machines of war for transport even as they spoke. 

“Have they ever found the missing cache Nael mentioned?” She asked, anxious of unpredictable factors.

“No, but I will not be surprised if they were to make a disruptive appearance in the midst of the fray.” He let her hand fall away as she leaned against the carved stone railing. 

Gulls cried out ahead over the busy dockyard, the cacophony filling the empty space around them as she watched the calm waves and bobbing ships. 

“Will you not ask what I plan to do with this contract?” Crow asked suddenly, a briny breeze catching on her parasol.

The wind swept back his cowl and hair, pleasantly chilling the sweat at the nape of his neck. Zenos took in a lungful and let out a wry, sardonic laugh. “I may have an inkling.”

Crow hummed a noncommittal noise, put off by his nonchalance. “A pity, I can't ever seem to catch you off guard anymore.”

“You think circumventing the authority of not one, but two Legati is a wise course of action?” Even as he asked, Zenos felt that the question needn't even be voiced. She would dance along the lines of treason if it meant getting things done her way, and he would be there to catch her  should she ever fall.

“With Nerva’s incompetence and Nael so obsessed with his own agenda, someone has to be responsible for the logistics of the supply line.” She continued with a sniff, dreading the piles of paper works she’ll be filing to arrange for her plans.

“I cannot help but feel left out in your observations.” He drawled, chuckling at her caustic commentary.

Crow was tickled with disbelief. “Is the empire’s prodigy complaining that he has no discernible flaws I can pick on?”

“I take my pleasure in being picked apart by you, garment by garment if it can be helped.”

Zenos, ever the rogue, appeared smug at the sight of the rising colors on her pretty face. Her full lips parted in surprise as she came to realize the meaning of his words, tresses streaking against the building wind as she whirled from him to hide her bashful countenance. He was full with satisfaction just by seeing that flushed, vulnerable expression — the true pleasure in teasing her was that look he could never get enough of.

He stifled a low, sly grin as he redonned his cowl, trailing behind her to the marketplace of Valnain. Even when she refused to meet his eyes in the aftermath of his licentious humor, their hands still remained joined as they walked the crowded, winding paths betwixt and between hawker stalls.

****

Asahi dismissed his squad of legionaries with a wave, subtly aping the way of his lord and ignoring their sour, side-eyed glances. The gesture, as he remembered so well, was curt and wasted little energy. They were new conscripts who were only just flown in from the training camps from Doma. None owed the people of Nagxia allegiance and would never hardly bat an eye if a reservation of the jungle natives burned to the ground. Here, it was every man for himself as far as Asahi knew. He hasn't had a pleasant time here and he was doing them a favor in showing them such indifference. 

A leader should not seek love in his inferiors, he only needs their fear and discipline. That was the motto he operated by when training those beneath him. He punished them as he saw fit, starving them for a full day whenever they failed one of his tests. They were soft, refusing to truly injure a fellow countryman even with a dulled training blade. Today, Asahi had pressed a particularly lily-livered man into dislocating another’s shoulder under the threat of withholding his stipend. At the thought of not being able to feed his family, the victor of the match had nearly cleaved into his opponent’s shoulder blade with a single stroke. All the while, Asahi watched, taking in the muted horror of the rest of his men.

It was a lesson in loyalty; their minds and bodies belonged solely to the empire, no kith or kin should stand in the way of their devotion.

The thought made him almost preen with pride, his mind drifting to Prince Zenos. His dream was to serve his lord, and see him ascend to the true legacy of the imperial bloodline. Only such a revered position would suit his august figure best, mounted atop the world and rule it as he saw fit. Asahi would be there by his side as an advisor, serving his lord to the best of his abilities. He could be all that his lord would need, and more, if he was required to be.

His heart swelled with the vision, blinding him to a stalking shade that trailed behind him. The preternatural blackness slid from pillar to pillar and melded into the Decurion’s shadow, perfectly copying his every move as it stretched with the light of the setting sun. 

Asahi blinked, thinking himself mistaken as the corridor elongated itself right before his eyes. Like a serpent’s spine, the path beneath his feet wound into curving coils, causing his vision to spin and waver in bemusing intervals. At length, he marched on in a stupor and drunkenly followed the set path to destinations unknown. He remembered dragging his boots down — or was it up? — a half dozen staircases as vertigo snatched at the edge of his consciousness.

Fingers snapped sharply in his face, startling him from his mysterious fugue state. 

“There — let's hope you haven’t robbed him of his faculties.”

Dazedly, his mind began to finally grasp the image before him. The princess hovered over him like a buzzing wasp, squeezing the tines of a fork between his teeth.

“Can he speak?” She asked an unseen figure, the scrape of her steely utensil prodding uncomfortably against his tongue.

Asahi let out an alarmed wail, his awareness finally coming to. His limbs were as immovable as stone, muscles petrified as he sat before a set of modest supper.

“Ah, he speaks, I think.” She smiled down at him with feline malice. “Well done, Naberos.”

“Where am I?!” Asahi exclaimed in panic, the white of his eyes wide as he flicked his pupils about. It was as much as he could move aside from his speaking faculties.

He was being held in a personal chamber, and immediately to his left was a small balcony overlooking a small foyer. The vague murmurs of masculine voices and distant activities told him that they were in the heart of the male dormitories, his own personal quarter was not so far from here.

“I'm having supper, as you can see, and you'll be my conversational companion until Zenos returns.” Crow discarded the dirtied fork before Asahi, picking up another and spearing a large prawn from the lemongrass-scented stew.

“So tell me, what do you know of the VIIth’s history before Valnain.” She asked after a swallow, twirling a slice of sweet pepper on silvered tines before meeting his eyes.

He could only seethe in impotent anger, biting his tongue as he only had a colorful stream of curses for answer. He watched as she made a face at him, lips twisting into a petulant moue as she clutched her fingers beneath her chin. He was familiar with her kind from his days in the academy, those who perceived themselves as his betters. They had looked down at him just as she did now, the condescension in their eyes was far worse than anything that they could physically inflict on him.

“Come now, silence makes for poor company. I’m only curious to know of your Lord Legatus’ exploits before Nagxia.” Crow put down her food and took a lengthy sip from her well-watered wine.

“I only know that the VIIth legion was stationed on the outskirts of the Bozja Citadel, and the city was wiped out due to misuse of imperial weapons at the hands of rebels.” His reply was robotic and well practiced, the standard explanation that was drilled into any and all who came and left the legion.

Crow shook her head, that bland answer was not the one she sought. Every legion had its own secrets and creeds that were indoctrinated into its new members, and though it was allowed, once inducted into rank and file, transfers between legions were almost unheard of. It was what helped foster such closely welded shackles between each legionary, the bonds of secrets that binded each conscript to their leaders.

She rose to her feet, pushing her chair back with a quiet scrape. A hand, smaller than his, fell to his shoulder and gave a sound squeeze.

“Is that all you have to say?” The princess asked, her expression blank of any discernibly human emotions. “Are you truly satisfied with giving me such an answer?”

She'd heard the same thing thrice over already, each word repeated was more or less paraphrased, every subsequent repetition more trite than the last. Naberos had made short work of each man who'd given her such answers, disappearing into the night while on patrols, or met with unfortunate but inexplicable accidents. She doubted that the voidsent minded the task, especially when it glutted on their bodies in the aftermath.

“What–” Asahi sputtered as he felt her hands close around his throat. “What are you doing — s-stop!”

Crow could not hear him as she squeezed into the soft spaces of his throat, relishing the  feeling of each straining tendon. She did not know why she wanted to take care of this particular legionary herself. Perhaps it was his impudence, or the fact that he did not quail in fear as the others had. She rather liked the accusatory look he leveled at her as flecks of spittle flew from his lips. His face grew red as he strained in her hold, paralyzed as a fly in a spider’s web, unable to even lift a finger to change his fate. 

“Asahi pyr Brutus, was it?” She recalled how ready he was to fall to Zenos’ boots with tongue at the ready while greeting her with discourtesy. “You should be flattered to die by my hands when others before you were mere feedstock.”

He was fading fast, the blood vessels around his temple felt as though they were ready to burst. His eyes bugged from their sockets as he choked desperately for air.

“Da…lamud…Gar…lond–” He wheezed in a last bid to save himself. A tear slid from the corner of one of his eyes. His dreams to serve his lord unrealized, snuffed in its cradle by a taloned witch of a girl.

The doors to the chamber swung open and the princess turned, her grip growing distracted enough for a bit of sweet, relieving air to slip through. Asahi’s throat desperately expanded to draw in more of the life-granting element, but was met with her hands still wrapped around his neck.

“You're back early.” She said, glancing back down to the Doman. He looked like another one of her broken dolls from her childhood with Naberos still keeping him upright. “And I was entertaining a guest too, how untimely.”

“...–ael was not pleased with the latest report of supplies… expect him to come calling on you by the morrow.” A deep, heavenly voice, one that belonged to his savior, called out from some ways away.

“‘Tis to be expected.” Crow replied, idly tilting the Doman’s slackened chin this way and that as she examined her handiwork. “Alas, all his men are impressively stubborn. I can only get snippets from them, and never in a proper sentence.”

The shadow of his lord darkened Asahi’s wavering field of view, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he barely managed to make out the magnificent visage of his savior.

Zenos stared at the scene, unimpressed. She could be rather impulsive at times, leaving things half baked while getting sidetracked.

“You're certain he's dead?”

She gave the legionary a moment’s consideration, then a bored shrug. “Naberos may have him, I've gotten what I needed.”

“Nael isn't wont to be heavy handed against you regarding the supply dispute, but I can assure you that he won't be pleased with the number of missing soldiers on the rise.” He cautioned her, remembering the crossed state of the VIIth’s Legatus when he'd left the war council.

Crow sniffed. “Spoilsport.”

“Lovingly so.” Zenos concurred dryly without missing a beat.

She leaned back on her heels, a petulant cast washed over her frown. For a man who embodied excellence, he could be such a wet blanket at times.

“Fine, have it your way.” Crow flung her hand out in dismissal, no longer wishing to see the wayward Doman. “Go drop him off in his quarters — convince him that it was a dream or what have you. I don't want this getting back to Nael” 

She slid Zenos a pointed look upon uttering the last part of her command. He was already turning away, no longer concerned once the matter had been resolved. Crow gave her guest one last scrutinizing looking before his unconscious body was dragged through a swirling rift and disappeared from sight.

 

You should be thankful…

Feedstock…

The mellifluous voice rippled through his unconscious mind, sounding as though it was filtered through cavernously immersive depths to reach him. It sneered at him, spurring him into a lashing rage, enough to haul him to the waking realm. Asahi woke with a start at dawn, half of an entire day unaccounted for in his memories. He remembered a smattering of scenes like the disjointed static of radio interference, a meal and the wrapping of fingers around his throat. A terrible nightmare of someone whom he could not recall, he blanched upon remembering the exquisite realism of his agony. The air squeezed from his lungs by a stranger’s hands, killing him as he was rooted to his seat.

He had told himself that it'd all been a bad dream, until he stood in front of a mirror and saw the marks on the skin of his neck.

Chapter 49

True to form, Crow was indeed called upon by the viceroy first thing in the morning. Even with his helmet on, she could see that he was angry. Nael van Darnus tapped his foot whenever he was impatient, and when he was displeased, he tended to raise his voice. More often the case, he was contemplative in a dolorous fashion, prone to mutterings and sullen silences. However, for the past ten minutes, she'd been subjected to his booming reprimands and . Impressively, his voice had not grown hoarse despite his tirade, even repeating himself at points in demonstration of his disbelief.

“You are hereby suspended from your duties! Access to the city — revoked!” His balled fist collided with the desk, jostling the stationeries and stacks of filed documents. “Do you hear me, Princess?!”

Crow had the wherewithal to look suitably chastised. She hadn't been bellowed at like this in years, the experience bringing forth some distasteful memories with Vinia.  

“Overruling my authority with your imperial seal was a breach in not only military decorum, but also mutual trust! If only he could see you now, your late tutor would roll in his grave for this grave faux pas!” Nael gritted out, his momentum temporarily spent.

The princess frowned at the mention of the late Lord Aeetus. “Let us not bring up the dead in the matters of the living, my lord.”

That sobered the Legatus a little, and he leaned back against his tall-backed seat. His hand laid clenched on his desk as he regarded her, temper still running hot in spite of himself.

“While you're within your rights to say so, you have no grounds to advise me on my comportment, Princess.”

Her sights trailed down to the sole lamp lighting his desk, waywardly knocked over by his outburst. “Forgive me, my Lord Darnus, he was a passionate teacher. I suspect that he might have imparted his insolence unto me as I was his last student.”

That earned her a bark of sardonic humor. “Spare me, Your Grace. I knew him as well as you did, perhaps even better for I was an alumni of his.”

She stepped ponderously closer to the desk’s edge, the moment’s opportunity clear for the taking. “He did mention his time in the Darnus estate. I was told that you and your sister, Eula Darnus, took lessons from him as well — his two favorite rogues, he would name you both.”

“He was an old coot who knew no boundaries — too much time and too many anecdotes, enough to drive one mad. Our late Lord father despised him, but my younger sister, the Lady Darnus, insisted on his tutelage.” Nael scoffed, though she heard the undertones of fondness beneath the surface of mild disdain.

Crow primly folded her hands and stationed herself next to the fallen light. “The emperor held similar sentiments. He did begrudged Lord Aeetus a measure of respect but shared little of his progressive views. I think they would’ve made good friends had His Radiance ever deigned to speak to him.”

The fog of sentimentality blanketed over them for a while, calming her superior enough to listen to what she had to say next. “If I may be direct, my lord, mayhap…we may come to an understanding on this matter — a lesson on compromise from His Radiance, if not the late Lord Darnus.” 

He leaned against his armrest, head angled in a downward cast though she could still sense his trenchant scrutiny. “And what if I deny you once more, what will you do then?”

Crow plucked up the tilted lamp, righting it in one smooth motion.  The metal was cool in her grip, her sight firmly meeting the Legatus’ eyes through his helm.

“It isn't a matter of what I'll do, my lord. If you won't indulge in this, then it is assured that you'll be trapped in Valnain indefinitely, dealing with rebelling riffraffs in this backwater muck.” her fingers closed around the base of the lamp, grip tightening in a strangle hold. “Do you not wish to resume your pursuits as you once did in Bozja — with Dalamud above?”

Nael twitched at the mention of that enigmatic project, the motion almost reflexive as he tapped a finger against the lacquered stained wood surface of his desk. He dismissed her insolent tone for now, the prospect of being free of his seaside dung heap was far too tempting. “And what do you propose?

“After our service, allow Prince Zenos and I to take care of Nagxia for you as proxies. It would free you of your responsibilities here to move onto greener pastures.” She said it so lightly, as if it was the obvious solution all along.

“You wish to have Nagxia? What use will you have for all this unusable land?” The jungles of Golmore were arable, but it would take a decade to flatten Golmore for it to be of any real use. The legion have been harried by the local insurgencies as well, cropping up as fast as they were stamped down. He'd clamped down on the city’s constabularies, constricting trade to stifle the trade of contraband weapons. Her new policies were already undoing all his work, thus the point of contention at hand.

The princess shook her head, her blue eye narrowing into a slim crescent as she smiled down upon him. “Not only Nagxia, but from Valnain to the Bay of Yanxian, and in time, perhaps Hingashi as well.”

The scope of her ambition could rival even Noah van Gabranth, the man who laid low the impregnable legacy of the B’nargin Dynasty. Nael could not hold back the trickle of mad, disbelieving laughter. He clapped slowly as he cackled, applauding her for her gumption.

“Aha! It simply cannot be done, Your Grace. Even without your intentions for the Koshu isles, to hold both Nagxia and Yanxian is like tying yourself between two oxens. It is not plausible to sustain a territory of such significant mass.”

The First Princess endured his amusement with commendable restraint, her face carefully molded to that of a patient simper. 

“The old Republic similarly doubted His Radiance when he set out to conquer Ilsabard; I believe that one man’s implausibility maybe be another’s capacity.” Crow, with both her palms flat against the desk, leaned across the flat plane, the deep blue depth of her singular gaze was a void that snuffed out his mocking mirth. “Moreover, once you rid yourself of Valnain, there will be no need for you concern yourself with the matters of this place — how I rein in Nagxia will be of little consequences to you, my Lord.”

It was a marvel to feel the gravity of her drive, her silvered tongue twisting this session of admonition to a meeting of opportunity. He'd been relegated to this backwater in punishment for his folly in Bozja, and even if he should succeed in repressing Nagxia’s defiance, there was no firm assurance that he would be free of this place. A voice in his head urged him to take the deal, Aldenard calls to him like a crooning siren. It would be there that he could start over again with the meteor project.

Even if all of Othard were to crumble into dust, it would indeed be of little consequences to him.

“How can you guarantee my reassignment?” 

Crow shrugged lightly, appearing as though she had all the answers to his concerns. “As you already know, my lord, Silvertear Lake remains far from reach and the Black Wolf remains occupied with the unwieldy Ala Mhigans.”

Nael steepled his fingers, nodding in affirmation. Aldenard had proven itself resistant to their ingress, the significantly more mountainous regions provided better means of defense for the local elements. Othard, where it had mattered, had proven geologically vulnerable to both aerial bombardments and nautical assaults. Only Dalmasca had stood to the last, and even then, they fell into line like the rest after King Raminas was taken hostage and his only son slain.

“Another legion would provide the proper bolster to encourage progress. As much as I admire Lord van Baelsar’s excellent history, I do not think a single legion is enough for such a vast continent.” The princess continued, her reasoning so far seemingly sound.

“And all this would begin when Prince Zenos comes into his own as a Legatus, I presume.” Nael saw where everything led to and wondered whether all this was for Zenos’ benefit or hers.

“Indeed, our most eminent Lord Varis will assuredly make his elevation a reality.” Crow drawled dryly, apparently bearing little love for the High Legatus.

The Princess then extended a hand to her superior, all the pertinent cards were laid out for his plain viewing. This was a transactional relationship of mutual benefits, one that — she hoped — was too good to turn down.

“Do we have a deal, my Lord?”

Nael looked at the open palm, marked with light calluses of training but young and still slender yet. She was brimming with so much potential that he forgot that she had yet to reach her majority. He supposed if this were to proceed, it would require a bit of mutual trust. Moreover, he thought, one should always look another in the eyes when striking such cunning bargains.

The Legatus reached up to the latches on his helm, unbuckling them with resounding clicks. His gloved hands lifted the encasing mold of steel and cushioned meshing, white hair cascading down to brush over squared shoulders.

Crow watched in stunned surprise as she was met with a woman’s face. She'd seen that striking visage before when reading up on the high aristocratic families of the capital. Eula van Darnus now sat before her, a self-satisfied smile dancing on her lips. The Legatus clasped the princess’ hand in an emphatic grip as she rose to her feet. When she next spoke her feminine voice unadulterated by a vocal augmentor. 

“We do, Your Grace. That we do.”

****

Her hands trembled lightly as she pushed through the door to the shared chambers, shutting the heavy teak doors behind her and sauntered to the expanse of the bed. She collapsed atop the neatly made sheets, entirely exhilarated at the day’s success and revelations. Nael was, in reality, not Nael at all but Eula Darnus in the flesh. So the rumors from all those years ago did hold water, that Nael rem Darnus had perished on campaign, leaving House Darnus without a male heir. If that were true, Crow rubbed at the arch of her brows in thought, did this Nael murdered their family’s late patriarch?

She closed her eyes and rolled onto her back, dismissing the irrelevant thought. The veracity of those bits of hearsay mattered little, at least not in the present. She would wager that His Radiance was well aware of all these facts, and cared not. That point alone was enough for her to drop the matter for the time being and refocus on her goals at hand. Since even before they arrived in Valnain, she'd planned to supplant the viceroy from his seat, but never could she dream that he — she — would give it up so easily. Backwater or no, a power hungry figure such as a Legatus would almost never cede his position so easily. 

“What exactly is it in Eorzea that has everyone so obsessed?” Crow thought aloud. Gaius van Baelsar had staked his flag in Ala Mhigo and remained steadfast in his intentions to further the empire’s borders. Now, Nael van Darnus was chomping at his reins to carve out a piece from that dark continent.

‘Tis a beacon — even the winds hailing from the west are suffused in rich aether. Came Naberos’ enigmatic reply as it stood guard by the entrance as a flat cast of shadow.

Aether, the building blocks that made up the world and allowed practitioners of magicks to ply their arts. She'd only scratched the merest surface of the concept, her own abilities hailing elsewhere from the Naberos and the void. 

“Is that why Eorzea still face the primal plague?” She looked past the vague outline of her voidsent, brows knitted in contemplation. Its silence was telling enough; it had no intention of giving her further answers without another sacrifice. She should have let it have that worthless Doman.

Crow sighed and dug deep into what she could remember, scarce as it was.

Othard had never dealt with the threat of rampaging, deific beings. If they ever had, the imperial records never reported such events. Her scholarly interest yearned to study these phenomenons, putting them under the fine lens of science for dissection and understanding. Alas, such studies would be relegated strictly to secondhand recollections from official reports and Sharlayan-written essays. Reading through those would be a good pastime now that she was suspended from her day-to-day duties; Legatus van Darnus would miss her yet once the clerical works begin to pile back up, she thought with a haughty sneer. Deal or not, she was still made to endure the boredom of her sentence until the legions returned from their expedition.

Crow curled herself into the covers, incidentally uncovering a gambeson shirt Zenos had left out. The material was thick and soft under her touch as she dragged it from beneath a stray pillow, too insulating for the average day’s activities. It smelled vaguely like him despite being unworn, having absorbed his scent from the bedding. 

He had no particular smell to his person, only the same soap and shampoo used by everybody here. It smelled pleasant and clean enough in spite of its poor quality. Yet when she caught a whiff of it, all that she was reminded of was him; of warm nights spent encircled in his arms and a companionship of another body beside her.

Two months apart was the asking price for stability in the region. Had they any other recourse, she would have taken it in a heartbeat. He would be fine without her in the coming months, ever the sturdy pillar of her world. She, however, would be trying to keep busy, treading water with her head just barely above the surface. Crow tucked herself into a small, dark place, pushing back the anxiousness of his incoming departure with all the will she could muster. Her needful little heart quailed at the thought of going without her other half for such a long time.

A brush of cool fingers woke her, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. Crow reflexively clutched at the origin of the feeling, her right eye blinking blindly into the depthless dark as her left refocused itself. Sleep fell away as her fingers wrapped around a wrist, her sleep-addled vision registering Zenos leaning over her. She laid beneath his gilded bough, mind grasping for words as her arms moved on their own to draw him down into an embrace.

Thunder clapped in the firmament, accompanied by the sudden downpour of rain. The pitter patter of droplets sounded against window panes and their shutters, filling in the seconds between their breaths with a peaceful droning.

“I wish I could go with you.” She said, nosing against the contour of his jawline.

In the moment, all Zenos could feel was the warmth of her breath and the chill of her skin against the back of his neck. Slowly with deliberate care, he sank down into the bed beside her and nestled into the quilt. The mattress sighed as he slid in, the weight of him bringing an implacable steadiness to her mind. His arms veritably scooped her against him as she fitted snugly into the crook of his body. He shook his head and held her tight, she formed perfectly against him as though she was born just to be there. All for him, all that he had. How could he have pushed her away in his foolish youth, to castigate her for something she could not help. He could only count his blessings that he was able to keep her still.

“The signal lines will hold even during the peak of monsoon season, I shall be but a radio call away.” He informed her, running his lips along the back of a slender ear.

Crow flinched and let out a pitched gasp, the soft noise towing the fine line between a moan and a sigh. Zenos squeezed her tighter upon hearing the noise, basking in every moment as though any one of them could be his last with her. His childhood companion clutched her ear shyly, pointed tip dusted with a rosy tint. He could envision her flushed cheeks and that pining, terribly vulnerable gaze. With her back pressed against his chest, he could feel their heart drum in faint unison, the sensation comforting enough to lull him into restful oblivion.

Chapter 50

The lurid, tropical air stirred as another transport craft took off, carrying hundreds off to the lush thickets of Golmore. Food stuff, materiel, and armaments were only some of the malm-long list of essentials for sustaining hundreds while away from civilization. Nael had given the order for an early departure as soon as the weather cleared. Monsoon season was bearing down on their heads, the atmosphere was positively cloying even with the clear skies above. A storm cloud was never far away, threatening to hurl lightning bolts and submerge the lower city’s slums in a deluge.

The scent of petrichor was swept away by whirlwinds of hot air from the airships’ exhaust, the smell of burning ceruleum permeating the aerial bay. Crow had accompanied Zenos down to the dockyard, holding onto the last moment she could have with him.

“I'm sure you won't be needing good luck or well wishes out there…but know that I’d rather go back to Garlemald as a failure with you than a hero without you.” Crow met his gaze, watery eyes filled with genuine worry. She tried to swallow her unease, fingers toying with the box hidden at the small of her back. “So please come back in one piece, won't you?”

Zenos clasped his hand upon her face, wiping away the unshed moisture from her eyes with twin sweeps of his thumbs. Crow squeezed her eyes shut as he did so, wrinkling her nose up at him.

“You may shed those upon my return.” He smirked down at her.

“I shall do no such thing.” Crow inhaled sharply, brushing his hands aside with a petulant, puffing breath. She raised the lacquered box up to him, its small squared lid inlaid with mother of pearl. “Here.”

The prince plucked it from her fingers, sliding it open with a light flick of his thumb. A violet, teardrop jewel sat nestled within, hanging by a sturdily braided chain of gold. Its hue shifted from violet to red then back as he examined it with an appreciative eye. It was a thing of beauty only because it came from her, a lifetime spent receiving her gifts had not diminished the significance of each bestowal. 

The last of the legionaries had finished boarding by then, Crow spotted the final awaiting officer and nodded at them.

“They're waiting, you best get on–”

The last word clipped from completion, sealed away by a stolen kiss. He'd taken advantage of her distracted attention and swooped in for a final hurrah. His lips seared against hers and the world closed in to encompass only them, the spark at each point of contact was almost electrifying. She leaned in after a moment’s hesitation and wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling his hands cradling her close. Zenos imparted an extensive, heated farewell with his sinuous tongue on her tender lips, more poignant than any mere words could express. Crow desperately immersed herself in the moment, absorbing every point of his touch and these fleeting moments into her mind.

She was thoroughly dazed when they parted, breath heavy and lips kiss-swollen. He wore a self-satisfied smile, appearing appallingly proud of his handiwork. She forced herself to step back and watched him go, heart still taut like a war drum as it thrummed in her chest.

The craft took off moments after he boarded, leaving her behind. Crow then snapped from her stupor and had the grace to look embarrassed, straightening her blouse and hair from its disheveled state. 

“That good, was it, Your Grace?” 

She started at Sisila’s voice, finding the lalafellin right behind her with a smug, knowing countenance. Her heart nearly leapt from her mouth, it was bad enough that the small handful of engineers had bore witness to the scene. Them — she could avoid for a while, but she'd learned that Sisila was the mistress of lurid gossip in spite of her hearty nature.

“I haven't a clue what you're referring to.” The princess brushed an invisible speck of dust from the collar of her sleeve, clearing her throat with a delicate cough.

Sisila snickered as she trailed behind Crow as they meandered back to the heart of the castrum. The place seemed quiet now in comparison to a day ago. Where before, the fortress was simply a well-oiled and disciplined machine, each person serving their task and minding themselves in the presence of their superior officers. There were the occasional scuffles between the lower legionaries just as there were in the higher rungs, but they were resolved quietly through reprimand or more underhanded means. Conflict was an inevitability with a mixing pot as large as the average legion, but most were forced to keep their opinions to themselves or be castigated harshly for disrupting civility.

Before today, more than three thousands had eaten, slept and drilled on the daily, and now only one hundred and fifty remained to maintain operations. They would patrol the city in tight shifts as per protocol, stay apprised with the progress of the expedition, and maintain supply lines for those in the fields.

“Peaceful, isn't it?” Crow tucked her hands behind her back, strolling through the empty stairways corridors. “After an eerie fashion.”

Sisila nodded in agreement as she trailed along behind the First Princess. She was used to the liminal tranquility of a hollowed castrum; this expedition was not the first but as with every excursion, she hoped it would be the last. Being an officer of notable experience, she'd been placed in charge of communications and normal operations.

“It would be a day before they set up any means of contact, we can do little but wait for them to send a signal. Things won't stay this way for long once they head beyond the outposts in earnest." The lalafellin assured her with fair confidence, her experience and knowledge of the VIIth’s habits lending Crow a small measure of relief.

She touched the corner of her lips and realized she'd been frowning.

“Something to look forward to indeed.” She said and breathed a soft laugh.

****

Often newcomers were inclined to agree that Valnain had its fair share of the Nagxian heat, the city’s wuthering stone structures and paved roads often transforming into hot plates during drought-prone summers. People often stayed inside to avoid such incandescent blaze but found that the sweltering temperatures followed them even indoors. The humidity clung to one’s body like a second layer of skin, trapping sweat, dirt and other unmentionables in clothes and armor alike.

All that had been nothing when compared to the green, heaping thickets of Golmore. The air pressed against one’s face like a damp blanket, almost suffocating even when one took in a full breath of air. The shade of the tall canopies overhead did almost nothing to alleviate the syrupy heat, in fact exacerbated the experience by trapping every drop of moisture at ground level. One could feel the evaporating precipitation rising from the jungle's littered grounds, slipping against every nook and cranny of one’s body like a muggy, unwanted embrace. Pests like flies and mosquitoes plagued the legionaries as they set up their base of operations, each buzzing menace growing to the size of a pea as they glutted themselves on blood. When killed, they exploded like tiny balloons of blood and sticky ichor, leaving naught but a terrible itch and a sense of quivering disgust. Even leeches, black, eyeless slugs of varying sizes, were found nestled in the most unthinkable places. From one’s boot feet to even under a uniform-clad back, the most ubiquitous location being in the back of one’s exposed nape, they latched on and pulsed grotesquely as they drank directly from one’s veins.

The unruly, pestilent wildness of Golmore was a discomfort they all suffered. All, except for one. Droning bloodsuckers seemed to hover around Prince Zenos, displaying a strange hesitation that they did not have when it came to other victims. A legionary had sworn by the life of his mother that he'd witnessed His Grace snatched a fly by the wing mid-flight, examining it with a bored sneer. The insect was promptly crushed between his gloved fingers and that had apparently been enough to set a precedent for the rest of them. The winged menaces had strangely avoided the prince from then on even as they spared no other from their harassment.

Leeches were not so sharp in their selection, however. They latched onto the prince just as any of the others, though they never had the opportunity to grow so fat. More often than not, they were flensed from his person and tossed into a lit brazier. He seemed to take some minute satisfaction to hear them pop in the cracking flames, but otherwise bore the conditions with an admirable stoicism.

There had been doubts that the prince could bear the difficult conditions as the climes were harsh even on veterans. It was a place where death lurked in even the smallest creature. Spiders the size of one’s finger nail could leave a man writhing in agony, flesh blackened by venom. Snakes as thin as ribbons could fell a man with a strike so fine, that he could hardly feel its fangs before falling dead mid-stride. By the third day, someone had already gone missing before facing any true combat. They'd suspected a kidnapping by ambushing rebels until a bloated serpent the length of an assault craft was discovered nearby. It laid lazing underneath some low foliage, unable to move thanks to the prey it had swallowed. 

Zenos had crushed its skull underfoot as it began to rear up at him, its pink, glistening mouth dislocated and bloodied. He'd slid his saber into its distended belly and cut free the steaming, quite-dead carcass of the missing legionary as others watched. The man had been intact, barely tinged by the creature’s acrid intestinal juices. He'd died by a crushed torso, squeezed to death between the muscled coils.

Death while using the privy, Zenos mused, a fate more amusingly ignoble could not be imagined. He recanted the thought suddenly, already thinking of ways he would deal with Nerva once this is all over.

After that sordid find, it was mandated that soldiers were to go off in pairs regardless of their tasks. They could hardly afford to lose any more soldiers before the fighting even started.

He was assigned Tribunus Angusticlavius with little more than five hundred men placed under his command, the smallest unit out of the expeditionary three forces. He was charged with a quadrant as large as Nael’s despite having only half the number. Nerva, ever the opportunist, had claimed the smallest quadrant despite his forces being as big as both Nael’s and his combined. Zenos had let him have it, knowing that it would be easy to find him later in a smaller perimeter.

“Send in half the magitek bits first to find traces of their lairs.” Zenos said to a Pilus prior, circling around the base camp on the map with a finger. “Extend outward in a semicircular formation, if they take the bait and destroy the probes, we shall narrow down the search in cells.”

The man struck a salute and strode off to relay his orders to the accompanying engineers. He suspected that the probes would not last for too long in the jungle, they were not built so well to deal with clinging of vines or looping branches. They would have to suffice for now as surveyors, he was not so inclined to needlessly waste bodies until the time was right. Every man and woman was a pair of hands needed, especially when faced with such foreign remoteness away from the benefits of civilization.

Another man trudged up to him with a strip of paper in hand, head lowered in deference as he passed the missive along. The message was from Nael, translated and sent at the same time as it was written from almost a hundred malms away. The wording was concise and to the point.

 

-combat engaged at 20:00 last night (4.5, -11.2)

-ambush from foliage. Beware of camouflage and traps. Guard supplies closely.

 

Zenos returned to the planning table, a four-legged, foldable contraption made from lightweight steel. He traced the coordinates to a point right between their quadrant, give or take a few dozen fulms. As far as the latest information may concern, the insurgents had no vehicles to speak of, which meant the enemy relied on travel by foot. It would be a gamble to prod at them, but it seemed they'd taken the initiative to strike first.

He recalled the Pilus prior to correct his previous orders, the magitek bits would patrol around the given coordinates and err toward their own quadrant. The legions would dig up these unruly dissidents from where they were burrowed, and not a stone shall be left unturned. He would carve out their due from rebel flesh and tame Nagxia for the sake of his dearest’s aspirations. He shall give her all of Othard and the world beyond if she would ask it of him, the lands and its people pinned beneath the point of his blade.

Chapter 51

The equatorial rain roared down from the dark firmament, showering both allies and enemies in a wet, almost warm curtain of water. Each drop tasted a little of the sea as it slid down his face and body, drenching his partially armored form without mercy. An incandescent flash of lightning illuminated the scene ahead, followed by the deafening rumbles of thunder. The booming claps rang out in succession, echoing throughout the unruly wilderness. The smell of plasma and gunpowder laced the air with a sharp acridness that even the rain could not wash away. Bodies of both legionaries and insurgents were strewn haphazardly across the clearing, the skirmish had evidently been quite deadly for both sides. Particularly Nael’s forces as there were more black uniforms than there were ghillie capes, the garb worn by Nagxian rebels to blend in with the choking thickets.

Zenos stalked the edge of the former battlefield as a handful of scouts followed from a distance, his blade drawn at the ready. He was leading the reconnaissance personally to assess the situation for himself after the missive from the VIIth’s Legatus. The skirmish had bled into both of their quadrants, bathing the grounds in blood, dead bodies piling into a stinking, mud-slick graveyard. The scene was little more than a day old, managing to attract a myriad of scavengers. Stray bespeckled dogs of middling size snapped between themselves, fighting over a particularly big femur. A group of loosely gathered vultures pecked at another corner of the field, each roughly the size of the torso they were devouring. They were not the only winged beasts that plagued the field, Zenos heard a keening shadow overhead as it passed. The cry startled the rest of the feasting denizens, the dogs whined and the vultures took off in unison as the dark shape swooped down.

A scout slinked up next to the prince in furtive steps, careful to not reveal their location to the massive, landed predator.

“We should leave, Your Grace, that harpy–”

Zenos held up a silencing finger, never once taking his eyes off the lumbering feathered creature. Its gray wings could almost touch the edges of the large clearing, an impressive span to carry its hulking frame. It was endowed with long, muscled talons that dug into the first body it could reach, throwing it at the cautiously lingering dogs, apparently territorial over its new find. A sharp, shrill shriek pierced through the air and into their collective ears as the harpy bristled at its fellow scavengers. A crimson, vaguely feminine face endowed with twin rows of needle-like teeth bared after the retreating spotted dogs.

It rooted about the muddied soil with clawed feet, picking through the bodies as a child would pick through their food. When it found what it wanted, a mostly intact body save for a head, it buried its face into its entrails and glutted itself. Intestines slid from the ravaged flesh, dangling like loose ropes from a ship’s mast. The man beside Zenos blanched at the sight and averted his gaze, not daring to move lest they make themselves known to the monstrous thing.

The harpy took its time nipping the bone off of the dead, perfectly assured that no others would come to interfere with its feeding. Its legs were almost as articulate as hands, able to sort through the piles easily for the sake of its discriminating taste. Its feathered throat distended as it was able to swallow limbs whole, gulping an arm or a leg down smoothly when stripped of their gloves and boots.

Zenos leaned in with a sharpshooter's eye, holding himself stone-still as he closely observed every movement within sight. For a brief instant just beneath the harpy’s bloated belly, he saw a head move of its own accord. To any other, the motion would have been dismissed as the trick of the misty rain, but he recognized it for what it was. The jerk was one of fear, a mistake a hare would make before being snatched up. The survivor had evidently been playing dead, biding his time until an opportunity to escape arose. Fool was he to not chance the lesser beasts, now fate had been capricious enough to deal him a more dangerous trial.

“The insurgent over there,” Zenos nodded at the unlucky wretch in the field. The scout next to him locked eyes upon the downed figure as he began to stir among the corpses, his leafy ghillie cloak tattered and dripping with the gore of his fellows. “I want him alive and back in base — I shall divert the creature’s attention. Inform the others and get in position for an opening.”

The scout looked as though he'd something to say, but the ingrained military discipline triumphed over his personal reservations. He nodded and quietly slipped back into the rushes to prepare the others. Had he moved to protest Zenos would have another use for him as live bait. After all, a moving prey was always more sporting than limp carcasses.

The prince stalked his new target, his form coiled and at the ready, able to spring from the hedges at any moment. He eyed the creature’s taut tendons, strung tight like a recurve bow. It was what gave the thing such notable speed, a posable claw allowed it an almost man-like finesse when combined with its three other fore talons. Those legs would be his first priority, then its expansive wings so that it could not give chase after the scouts.

He drew in a deep breath and tightened his sword grip, the world drawing to a focused quietness. The harpy jerked its head up, suddenly realizing it was being watched. Its xanthous, long-lashed eyes peeled wide as it surveyed the end of a clearing. A feathery, rounded mantle burst open around its neck as it bristled at the treeline, blue breast inflating to a bloated balloon beneath its chin. A piercing shriek cut through the jungle once more, the challenge issued to whatever had made the error to tread upon its new  feasting ground.

He treaded carefully to its flank on quiet feet, and when the next bolt of lightning flashed through the skies, Zenos launched himself in with a burst of speed. Detritus broke beneath his soles, water spraying behind him as he sped in. The harpy spun to face him, wings swung wide to deter his approach. Such primitive strategies did not work on him, blade slashing out to cut away its pinion feathers. Talons shot out to meet his steel through the dispersed plumage, the scaled leather of its feet as tough as calcified wood. The prince bore down on it for another split second but was forced to dislodge himself lest it threw him back from whence he came. 

The harpy’s claws snatched after him and cried out, balancing on one leg as it grasped empty air. Zenos darted from its reach with a deft back step, leading it away from the targeted corpse pile. It scrabbled to follow, steps sending bones and bloodied mud splattering. The ground stank of iron and shit from the voided bowels of dead men who had fallen in the middle of nowhere. The rain insisted on its steady fall, turning everything beneath his sodden boots into squelching filth. The bog did not let go of his legs easily, sticking to his shoes like an implacable trap.

The harpy fared little better when there were no bodies to carpet its steps, its heft more burden than advantage in the miring terrain. The creature struggled yet it still dove recklessly for him, sharp teeth snapping with a gluttonous drive.

Zenos slid low, his body almost perfectly parallel to the ground as he slipped beneath its chin. His blade darted out and sliced into a tensed tendon, the gristle snapped with a slick crunch and the harpy screamed. It fell back with a clumsy beat of its wings, barely able to balance on its last remaining leg. He could sense that the end was near for this vicious inconvenience, and judging from its limp, it was aware of that fact as well.

Blood and dangling tendon slid off his saber with a wet flick, washed off by the constant stream of lukewarm rain. Zenos readied his weapon as he stalked toward his prey, the hatred of the harpy's lambent gaze slid along his face like the caress of a knife.

“Is this all Golmore has to offer?”  

He knew the creature could not possibly understand his taunt, but he'd said it all the same. His derision was aimed toward the land, its verdant veins so steeped with inferiority.

The creature swiveled its face beyond him suddenly, eyes focused on another target. Without looking, he knew it had spotted those scouts lugging the surviving Nagxian rebel away. Its humanoid visage twisted into an expression of pure spite and wrath, a gleam of low, malignant intellect shining in its slitted eyes. It bore its teeth at Zenos, and within the next fraction of a second, the harpy launched itself with its remaining leg towards the undefended group.

The prince followed suit, his speed far superior to the hampered harpy. The weapon augmentor whirled to life above the handguard of his sword, an aetheric crystal burning white-hot as it was consumed to empower his blade. Zenos dove in with a powerful swing of his sword arm, a crescent flash splitting itself from the edged steel and bit clean through the charging mass of feather and hate. The foul beast was knocked off deadly trajectory by the force of his attack, letting out a howl of surprise as it felt the searing heat burn through its wings, then ribs. It thrashed as it collapsed into a heaving, shuddering mass, not having the dignity to die quickly.

Its shrill death throes echoed through the jungle as it kicked at the mud and gore of the battlefield. Before long, the scouts and their captured charge had fled from the scene post haste lest another bigger predator show up to investigate the commotion. Zenos had opted to linger for a while longer, watching as the harpy’s writhing grew weaker by the moment. The massive, gaping wound by its side reached through its flesh and cut clean into its intestines, pouring out sour bile and a gushing river of steaming blood. It pooled beneath his feet, as the beast finally reached its quietus, yet another body to feed this macabre field.

A handful of stones rolled from the trickling stream, rounded like eggs the size of his thumb. Zenos scooped one up from the cooling pool, letting the rain wash away the filth as he cupped it in his gloved hands. A red stone, garnet or ruby, he surmised. As a child, Crow had once held a dead dove in hand and proudly informed him that some avians ingested stones to aid in their digestion. She'd then bore the thing’s ripe, blooming organs to him, showing the cut open gizzard filled with small pebbles. In the fashion of a co-conspirator, he further demonstrated to her the musculature with a partial dissection, provoking a precocious spark of fascination and a precious grin. When caught, they'd been thoroughly scolded and forced to discard the vivisected specimen. Yet the memory remained, a once forgotten tidbit that had suddenly come back to find him now almost a decade later.

He breathed a wry, disbelieving laugh as the concluding thought came to him. This thing had been plucking these jewels from some unknown veins, using them in the same manner previously described. 

They were rounded and heavy, polished to an uneven smoothness by the time spent rolling around in the innards of this vicious creature.

“Such parallels could only be a product of fate, don't you think?” He thought aloud, almost able to hear her sling a dismissive retort to such a preposterous notion.

Fate? When did you become such a romanticist? — she would have playfully chided him, a dubious brow raised and lips adorned with a pretty simper.

Zenos plucked a few more stones from the ground and let the rain wash through them. Their deep scarlet hue glowed even under the dim overcast, every rounded facet greedily sucking in the light to fuel their own wicked beauty. A sudden impatience stirred within him, wondering if this was what she’d felt when she presented him with her feathery prize. 

He would have to finish up this sordid business Golmore as soon as possible, his mind already envisioning how the glory of these jewels would be extinguished when set against her resplendent loveliness.

Chapter 52

Sisila marched across the grand spaces of Castrum Valnaini, boots scraping against the sandy grit of the ground. In her hands were the latest report from the Golmorran frontlines, mostly news that was a mix of the good, the bad, and the unbelievable. The First Princess had insisted on being consistently apprised of their progress — daily if it can be helped. Unfortunately, once or twice a week was all that could be managed.

All the time she’d glimpsed at Her Grace, she'd had her nose buried in a book or academic papers pulled from the castrum’s archives. Records from past centurions and piluses that had served this castrum some decade past were ravenously consumed, her interest perhaps borne from boredom. Since she'd been suspended from her duties, the princess maintained a restive mood especially without Prince Zenos’ presence..

On the upper floor, Sisila came across another face, one she had only passing familiarity with as he was from the VIIth. He was Doman with black hair and eyes, almond shaped eyes and thin lips cast into a flat frown as he clutched several documents and thick tomes in his hands.

He all but spared her a glance before knocking on the doors of the Prince’s quarters. “I've brought the record you've requested, Princess.”

Sisila picked up her pace as she saw a door swung open, the pallid face of Her Grace’s manservant met them with a rigid smile. As a thaumaturge, she'd studied dark magicks and plumbed the intricacies of the arcane. But by the gods, nothing had ever successfully chilled her as the uncanniness of his waxen simper. He was silent as the grave, his voice sealed tight behind an ever present smile. He was also unfailingly immaculate, never a hair out of place as though he was a perfectly arranged mannequin. One would hardly think he was a person until he deigned to move, the precision and efficiency of his service carried out with an implacable devotion.

“Out of my way, servant.” The Doman, seemingly oblivious to the manservant’s queerness, pushed his way into the unlit room.

Sisila stood with her jaw hanging at his audaciousness. She took a step past the ledged threshold, sneaking a look up to the imposing figure of Her Grace’s almost constant aide. There was a trace scent of incense, burned hours ago and still clung stubborn onto the air despite the occasional breeze.

He was facing firmly to the Doman despite his blindness, then snapped to Sisila when he sensed her discreet examination. She started and averted her gaze, her heart nearly leapt from her chest. 

With a hard thump, the Doman dropped the book atop the neatly made bed and lingered by its edge. She could not discern his expression as he now faced away from her, but they both turned immediately at the clink of a crystal glass on wood. He seemed even more displeased to know Her Grace was present, his stance becoming wide and confrontational. 

She was hidden behind a wooden divider, situated in the corner on a small seat by candlelight. She'd made no sound until the moment before, perfectly happy to ignore the commotion made by the Doman.

The same one who chose that moment to give a pointed cough. “I'm not your errand boy, I'm supposed to be making sure you abide by your suspension, Your Grace.” He ground out the honorific with emphatic annoyance.

“A useless endeavor, Asahi, I've no intention of disobeying Nael.” The First Princess replied, the flutter of another page turning accompanied her voice.

Sisila was frankly appalled by the Doman’s attitude, the pins on his uniform indicated that he was a mere Decurion yet he dared to speak in such a manner to a member of the imperial family.

“I've brought the field reports, Your Grace.” She cut in lest things escalate. The Doman looked as if he's more choice words just simmering beneath the thin veneer of restraint.

Chair legs scraped against the oak flooring, the top of the Princess’ head bobbed up just above the divider. Her eyes and nose peaked over the teak border, expectant and excited.

“Excellent, give them here.” The clipped sound of her soft leather half-boots sounded across the wood as she stepped forth, making her way to Sisila.

Her demeanor shifted from night to day at the mention of the latest news, gracing the lalafellin with a pleased smile. Sisila extended the sheaf to her outstretched fingers, politely lowering herself to a shallow bow. 

Her Grace was immaculately dressed today as well as any other, sporting her hair in a half-updo. A halter shirt cut in the shape of a diamond wrapped around her rounded bust, its black silk shining even in the growing gloom. The slitted skirt, cut from the same ebony fabric, played just past her knees. The ensemble was completed by a gossamer cardigan touched at the hem by white laced embroidery.

Sisila looked at her and smiled, feeling refreshed at such refined couture. 

“Thank you for your promptness.” Her Grace said, the sense of her gratitude displayed with an approving nod.

The manservant, who heretofore had been positioned near Asahi, crossed the threshold in five long strides to light the lamp beside his mistress behind the wooden screen. She did not pay him any mind as he fussed over her surroundings, her focus entirely captured by the transcribed words from afar.

“You're really good at that.” Asahi spoke again as he meandered his way to stand somewhat at her rear, this time his comment was directed at Sisila.

“Beg your pardon?” The lalafellin turned.

“Brown nosing, I mean.” He added with a snide touch, black gaze narrowing into slivers.

Sisila bristled at his forwardness, she may have not been in the same legion as him but she still held rank above a mere Decurion. She glanced over to the occupied princess, then back at the impudent whelp of a Doman.

“Only a provincial bumpkin could mistake decorum for bootlicking.” Sisila quipped back, revealing the thorn beneath her otherwise amiable comportment.

Asahi took a step forward, a sneer marring his pinched mouth. “How dare you! I-” 

“If you must squabble like dogs, go bark outside.” The princess interjected, then as if to emphasize her chiding, a boom of thunder clapped above their collective heads.

Before anyone could move, the power flickered and a light bulb popped with the power surge. Crow sighed in dismay at another outage, the occurrence was growing increasingly common since the majority of the engineers left with the legions. Hands for maintenance were sparse and worse still, the cloying monsoon weather was detrimental to equipment.

“When will the generators be installed?” She held up the candle in the dim, the overcast weather blotting out the typical rays of a southern sunset.

Crow had pushed to get them set up once she'd realized that this was something they would bez living with for the next two months. She'd woken up sticky with sweat in the pitch of night  when the ceiling fan had staggered to a halt, Naberos holding up a light by her bedside with wordless patience. The silence of the world outside had unnerved her, the only thing visible was the faint firelight of the city below.

“The six remaining engineers ask for two more days, they've been doing everything they could to prevent the outages.” Sisila explained with a rueful smile.

She pitied the men, not only did they have to work to minimize operations, but they had complained that the infrastructure of the castrum was outdated by five years. The latest systems from the capital don't often get shipped to a backwater like Valnain in posthaste, especially when Ala Mhigo and Dalmasca were more highly valued territories.

“Tell them to get the backup sources up and ready as soon as possible, we can't have such spots of blackouts when the castrum is so low on manpower.” the princess held the light against the report, taking in the last of its content with grim countenance.

“Those wrench spinners have their hands full as it is, I hardly think adding more to their plate will ingratiate your fair self to them.” Asahi chimed in. 

“Your Grace.” He added after catching her acrid scowl.

Crow opened the shuttered windows, feeling the mist of the downpour against her skin despite being nestled within the generous eaves of the upper floors. The scene outside was peaceful, the rain drumming against the stone and steel of the fortress. No legionary patrolled its halls, defended only by likely obsolete magitek bits and a dozen mountable reaper armor.

 She set the candle to a side table and reclined down to the seat pushed forward by her manservant.

“Sometimes I cannot discern if you're being dense or just willfully blind.” The princess remarked sharply at the Decurion, folding the pages of the report into a neat rectangle. “We're surrounded just as much as the legions are. Worse yet, the date of their return is being pushed back by another fortnight.”

“They've got the jungle and its dangers, but at least they've the men and weapons to span out and defend their bases.” Crow rubbed at her temple as she thought of all the things that could go wrong. “As for us, we've got all but a skeleton crew and an outdated defense system against the tens of thousands that walked beneath these walls, colonists aside. Should they realize this fact and decide to organize against us while the power is unstable, we might not survive a single week.”

She turned to Sisila, her grim urgency ringing across the room as she spoke.

“So ensure that those engineers understand that my request is made for all our sakes.”

Sisila nodded, suddenly all too aware of the discrepancy between them and the malcontents of Valnain.

****

“She's growing mad with paranoia.” Asahi exclaimed into the receiver, traipsing about as far as the cord would allow him.

On the other side was some middling Tesserarius whose vernacular was limited to ‘go on’ and ‘received’. He knew the halfwit hadn't registered a word of what he'd even said, jotting down his report with the awareness of an automaton. Asahi sucked in a derisive sneer, the knob probably didn't have the precision of a machine to suit the comparison.

“You've gotten down everything I've described?” The Doman pressed.

[Received] — a voice cracked back.

He wanted to throw the entire communication board across the room thanks to that word alone. Things were achingly slow here with nothing but lukewarm meals and the monotonous droning of rain to fill the hours. His time was spent lugging dusty records from the archives or sitting guard by the close doors of that rotten girl. He had to accompany her everywhere she went if she ever left her — his Lord’s —quarters. Fortunately, she took her meals inside and the facilities left her wanting for nothing. Especially with that unnerving corpse of a man she had for a servant popping in and out at her every whim.

He should have been with the legions, earning his glories with each body he cut down. More than that, he should have been fighting side by side under the commanding wings of Prince Zenos, serving to buttress his glorious accomplishments. Instead, he was assigned here, with a no-name royal who was both insane and a slave driver

Asahi threw the receiver against its mount, his frustration sending it clattering against the metal hook. He bit back a cry of frustration, unable to bear another moment imprisoned in the castrum.

“Tattling on the paramour to your Legatus, are you?” A rotund roegadyn Tesserarius strolled back to his post from break, chuckling into the warm soup of his metal mug. He leaned against the door frame, the threshold growing stiflingly narrow with him obstructing it.

Asahi glared at him, a sneering moue twisted at the corners of his mouth. “Faithfully carrying out my duties, unlike some who can only think when their next meal would come.”

“Aye, better the taste of proper chow than an imperial’s boots.” The Tesserarius snidely raised his cup in good cheer. He knew the Doman Decurion by reputation. The boy was at the age his young brother would have been, with thrice the temper and prickly as a Thanalan cactuar. His types were the pompous ones who never knew the true meaning of poverty or hunger, afforded everything in life just because his family turned spy and betrayed their homeland. Ones who could sleep soundly at night even after sabotaging the future of their kith and kin.

Asahi nostrils flared with his anger as he grappled for a retort

“You talk as though the empire does not own you as much as the rest of us.” He scoffed at the Tesserarius. “Best get in line before they see fit to starve you — though you might benefit from losing a few ponzes.”

“Hah, spoken like a true legionary— as for myself, I only work here as a lowly operator, unworthy of such… honors.” The roegadyn shrugged and dodged the exiting Decurion, taking the barb as though it was a feathered tickle.

The look in the boy's eyes was murderous as he passed by. The roegadyn grinned affably at his back as he watched Asahi go, fondly patting the angular bulk tucked obscurely in his hip.

Notes:

Ankle-biter popoto vs rat

Chapter 53

The scythe’s blade snapped out like a viper’s fang, its curved edge shining in the rare moment of sun as Crow gave an experimental swing. It was a clear day today, not a dark cloud to be seen, a good day for a bit of sparring. Zenos had insisted on her upkeep in strength, promising that he'd be back to test her adherence to his instructions.

There was no audience this time, Sisila was off performing her duty as a communication overseer and Crow could hardly care less where the little Doman rodent ran off to. 

While I understand your need for a partner in this dance, I would loath to lose my fingers again .

Naberos’ susurrus thoughts thrummed against her as it flexed its hand at her. The digits Zenos had sliced off had taken two victims and nearly four days to grow back, the magicks of repairing a vessel was costly indeed. She did not relish the idea of that body being damaged, even less so than Naberos itself.

Crow scoffed and stamped the butt of her weapon against the sandy ground. “Cease your whinging, I'll be gentle enough.”

As a wolf in lambskin, mistress, the voidsent replied with a touch of dryness.

She ignored its newfound grasp of sarcasm and began to circle her thrall, weapon extended. 

“Come.”

All reservations melted away as Naberos lunged at her, its servile facade giving way to feral eagerness. Crow spun her scythe with a bladed flourish, body leaning forward in anticipation. Momentum sufficiently built, she slashed out to meet the voidsent’s ardent advance. The ring of steel against jagged claws sounded through the generous foyer as they met again and again. 

The princess grunted as the point of her weapon rebounded, deflected by the hard carapace of her servant’s preternatural claws. Each digit gleamed darkly and steepled to a needle point, nearly impenetrable with ordinary steel. It was a testament to Zenos’ astounding strength that he'd managed to slice them off to the bone.

She staggered back and sidestepped a jab, plunging her knee hard into its opened guard in retaliation. Crow sneered up at her servant, her knee caught in a block before it could connect.

If it's any consolation, you've improved vastly since your little trial — Naberos brushed a strand of hair from her face, teeth glistening in its smile. 

The space between them was intimate, but it was not what Zenos and her often shared. Rather, it was comparable to the moments right before a jackal closes its teeth around a particularly delectable species of prey.

The stone tile beneath them cracked as Crow’s scythe bit down into the space where the voidsent had been. She curled her lips in derision, a low growl rasped in her throat.

She lifted the weapon and rushed after her thrall, its tip raking against the ground as she lashed out. Her uppercut was disrupted from its arc with another clanging deflection, sending it swerving sideways. Crow spun on her heel and returned with another charge, disallowing the voidsent any breathing room. They met blow for blow in succession, an excitement bubbling within her. Naberos’ mirth was contagious, a snarling grin curling at her lips. It had been a while since she was able to take out her frustrations in this manner, with her true weapon in hand. Combat had once been a perfunctory exercise, but in recent times, it'd become a sort of stress reliever. She could push aside the worries of the future for a short while and submerge herself in the heat of the moment.

There were many things that needed to come together for their goals, but those factors did not matter for now. What did count was the burn of her muscles and the next incoming blows, every feint and guard counted from one second to the next to serve as another step to dominance. 

Naberos slipped back into the offensive, a claw extended in a bid to reach into her guard. Crow spun her weapon and jabbed forth like a striking viper, the butt of her shaft colliding with its torso. The voidsent’s smile slipped as the air was knocked from its chest, its gambit had failed. It skidded to the ground on its side, its uniformed glamor hardening into a gleaming chitinous shell to break the hard scrape.

The flat of her sole pressed firmly down upon the broad plane of its chest, the handsome face had chipped away to reveal an dark, unearthly visage. Any mortal-like pallor was bleached away, replaced with a powder-white face and lips the color of grave soil. A ragged strip of bandages draped atop its empty socket for eyes, sightless as the blind fishes beneath Garlemald’s ice floes. Naberos grunted as she ground down her boot upon it, claws curling up her ankle in a beseeching caress. The point of her boot slid forth as her heel dug against its throat. The voidsent winced but smiled up at her once more, Crow clicked her tongue in disapproval as she nudged its chin aside, disliking its pliant simpering.

“Never patronize me again.”

I wouldn't dream of it, mistress — the creature chimed, clutching her boot tenderly like a cherished trinket.

She uttered a clipped scoff of disgust and pulled her leg back, dragging her boot over the seams of its torso. It was unpleasant to witness the voidsent feed, its belly and chest plates flowering open to reveal a wet, endless maw. Its victim would be dragged in by backward facing teeth, each razor sharp spike digging into clothing and flesh to prevent escape as they were torn into by its claws. She knew there was a price to pay for this pact, but never did she foresaw Andrus’ body so irrevocably disfigured by the possession. She shuddered with discomfort, head swimming at the thought.

Crow pushed off her thrall with a blunt kick, stumbling back with a sudden onset of vertigo. Her legs felt leaden as the sudden warmth of her previous exertions left her, trickles of sweat on her neck turning cold like ice water. Here it was again, the same sapping sensation that left her so frustratingly weak. She leaned against her weapon with wide eyes, a heavy bead of perspiration sliding down her cheek. A pain curled around her innards like the beginnings of some tropical illness and her vision flickered with black spots. A warm yet wet sensation dribbled down her lips and her hand came away with dark red blood when she daubed some away, scarcely able to cobble together a stunned thought before a surging cough shot to her lips.

Emperor’s eyes, it seared her throat as it came up, the force of her hacking seemed to go on forever. She thought she would be able to glimpse at her own lungs before it stopped, the spatter of dark ichor painting the grit and stone scarlet.

So this body bleeds red, after all — that had been her most astute thought before her eyes rolled back, limbs too jellied to resist the spinning world.

****

Naberos had caught his mistress by the wrist before she could fully acquaint herself with the stony tiles, gathering her up like a fragile doll in his limbs. She was burning up like a smoldering fire, so wonderfully in distress without that prince here — she’d flog him herself if she ever heard him think that. Sharp and brittle as glass, and just as mesmerizing, this latest mistress of his.

 Her tantalizing aroma brought him to the point of salivation as she brimmed overfull with an enigmatic, impossibly old aether, predating far beyond even the most powerful of his kin. It’d be so easy to just have her here, swallow her whole with no one being the wiser and disappear back to that unforgiving void. The voidsent frowned at the thought of his home, from the petty, incessant competition to base intellect of the lower denizens for company. All of them as stupid as beasts and with appetites to consume this world thrice over. They lingered in his domain where the very air was as dead as the salted earth, a red gloom hanging over their heads as the sun was reduced to nothing more than a long-forgotten myth that few remembered.

Blackened lips curled back in restraint as he looked over the sickly cast of his mistress, stifling the intense yearning to sample her. He needed their contract to remain here in this world, where simply breathing filled him to bursting with vitality. Without her, he would be banished by the contemptuously ironclad terms of their pact. If nothing else, his mistress was as shrewd and cruel as a tapered blade. She was far too clever and wary for her own good.

 A fine vintage must be aged before its saporous sampling —The creature counseled himself as his serpentine tongue slid over the jagged teeth within his torso, the appendage curling longingly against the plates that barred it from its tantalizing prize.

“Your Grace, I come with good news, the generators you requested are on their way to being installed.” The high voice of one Sisila oen Sila called out from the far edge of the foyer.

Naberos turned with his mistress in arm, the partially shattered glamor of its humanly mask reforming as he slowly pivoted to the lalafellin woman. 

“Princess!” Sisila started at the sight of Her Grace, all that blood on her lips and the ill parlor of her skin. Her breaths came and went with difficulty, forehead glistening with a thin sheen of sweat as she languished in the hold of her manservant.

“Get you to the infirmary at once.” She bade the mute servant, beckoning to him with an urgent wave.

The medicus on site was taken aback when her office was waylaid by the telecommunication commander and an ostentatiously uniformed man. By complexion alone, he looked like he was in dire need of a transfusion. Then she saw the rumored paramour, apprentice under Legatus van Darnus as a junior diplomat, unconscious and stricken with fever.

She ushered them in at once, ready to examine her latest patient. Valnain was hard on newcomers, especially those who were unaccustomed to the sweltering climes of the far south. She'd heard words of the girl’s illness before but it was her overseer that had seen to her care. The Medicus Primus had looked nearly as pale as his bone-white hair when he returned, and when prompted, he only shook his head forebodingly to discourage her from broaching the matter further. She was left in the dark and could only guess at what ailed the paramour, but it seemed to have returned with a vengeance. The elezen girl was plagued with a high fever with blood seeping from her lips and nose, she shivered and moaned even while in the throes of her insentient stupor. Whatever the malady was, it did not display symptoms common to the average legionary’s aches and pains.

“What’s afflicted Her Grace, medicus Jodis?” the commander — Sisila oen Sila, the medicus recalled — pressed ardently, clutching her trembling hands to steady herself.

The hyuran medicus, paused at the address reserved only for royalty but worked past it to the problem at hand. There would be time later for questions and answers, what mattered now was stabilizing the patient. She ran her fingers down the elezen girl’s abdomen, feeling her wince reflexively despite her unconsciousness. Her pulse was weak, even faltering at points, and her extremities were growing blue due to poor circulation.

“Her prognosis does not bode well, her heart and lungs are failing.” The medicus said as she strapped a rebreather mask to her patient’s face, the machine wheezing to pump air into her weakening lungs. “Even with the machinery we have, she’d be lucky to last the next three days.”

“That cannot be, there must be something — anything — that can be done to save her.” Sisila insisted. She could send for transport from the capital, but it would take days for them to arrive with proper equipment.

“What had she been doing before this? Did she ingest something she should not have, poisoned perhaps?” Jodis suggested, sauntering back with a needle and syringe.

She took up the patient’s wrist and had intended to slide the anesthetic in before being abruptly halted by the snatching grip of the waxen man. His widening smile only made him more unnerving, his pressing insistent and distrust written clear despite his silence. The medicus glanced over to the commander, unable to dislodge herself from his corpse-stiff fingers.

“Stand down, ser, this is for Her Grace’s own good.” Sisila bade the servant, then snapping back to address the medicus. “Isn’t that so, medicus Jodis?”

Said medicus nodded, her eyes never straying from the eerie man. His eyes were tightly shut and not once had she ever heard him speak despite his discernable concern for his lady. Reluctantly, he relinquished his grip, seeming able to track her movements despite his sightlessness. The patient visibly sagged in relief once she was anesthetized, though she still teetered on the edge with one foot in the grave.

“I doubt that she’d been poisoned, the good ser here tastes everything prior to them ever coming near Her Grace’s lips.” The commander remarked in sharp observation. “Though she has had such an episode once before when she first arrived, as far as I can recall.”

The medicus racked her brain for information. There had been no visible trace of injury, and what was currently presented was entirely internal. She could hazard an educated guess from her observation and move forward from there. Such types of illnesses that could manifest later in life did exist, oftentimes appearing when there were marked external or internal shifts. Judging from what Jodi's was told, she'd been stricken before, and her symptoms aligned with a class chronic degeneration that was linked to hormonal changes known to crop up in another race.

“If I may, how old is she?” Jodis frowned in deep thought, a vague idea suddenly coming to her.

Sisila blinked and looked to the manservant for confirmation. “Seventeen, I believe, is that right?”

The manservant affirmed the commander’s guess with a nod.

The Medicus was taken aback, her patient had appeared to be in the midst of her majority, an event that would have placed her in her early twenties. Elezens were late bloomers who mature later than any other races, reaching adulthood in their second decade of life. Any exception to this rule was virtually unheard of until now. She glanced down in utter bafflement at the prone body of her patient, taking in the astonishing prematuration of her physical form. There were still so many missing pieces in this enigmatic puzzle, and she sensed that there was something that was happening beyond a mere flux in physiology.

“More analysis is needed perhaps, but I shall do all I can in the meantime to help.” It was all she could do for now to keep her patient alive, any inquiries would have to be pushed back to a later date.

For the paramour’s sake, she hoped her curiosity would not be sated through an autopsy.

Chapter 54

Neglecting his duties was what could be accused of Asahi pyr Brutus, but he would call it taking a well-deserved rest. He could only stomach so much drudgery, running around to fetch documents and books when he was not standing guard at her door for a dozen hours a day. He was tired of playing sitter and servant both, especially when she had that dreadful domestic waiting on her. Though he had to admit, what made his temper worse lately was the relentless night terrors. He couldn't seem to even breathe when he laid his head down at night, let alone sleep.

Whenever he closed his eyes, that awful scene would play itself back to him like a broken record. His throat would constrict, the rise of his gorge thick with phlegm and fear. The odd mixture of lemongrass and violets soured at his senses, lingering stubbornly even as he writhed for air. It was an uphill struggle to even wrench himself from that horrible stupor, the line between reality and dream momentarily blurred by his abrupt ejection.

Yet no matter how the illusion persisted and his memories of those lost hours in disarray, he knew for certain that he'd nearly been murdered by someone. The necklace of bruises he'd worn had been proof of that and he refused to delude himself into thinking otherwise. Whenever he tried to dig any deeper, however, he was punished by the sensation of plunging needles to his temples. The pain thus far was too great to overcome, even dulling draughts were unable to stifle the agony of his attempts. For now, the memory remained lost to him, unable to recall the face of his would-be killer.

He ran a hand along the cold steel pipes of the engineer’s workshop, the corridors dimly lit to preserve fuel. The hold was located beneath the pyramidal castrum’s grand plaza, it was the only place where the Princess’ manservant would not deign to venture. He seemed to refrain from straying too far from his mistress like a leashed dog.

 Asahi was remiss to have been left out of the fray, his duty was to be out there under Prince Zenos. Serving him in any capacity he desired, Asahi suppressed the perverse desire that boiled in him. His intentions were born from faith and admiration, far more noble than that licentious bedwarmer and he would not have it sullied.

He gripped the pipe and shook it roughly in a silent tantrum, the old metal gave a weary sigh but remained intact in spite of its age. A foul odor hit him then, seemingly leaking from the jostled structure. 

“Heavens above, this place truly is a godless shit heap” He exclaimed under his breath and made to trudge off elsewhere to take shelter from the princess’s slave driving.

A dark, stinking globule drilled directly down upon his head, dribbling down to his forehead. Asahi wiped it roughly away, utterly disgusted by the grotesque sensation. He stumbled back from where he stood, brushing any remnants off his hair in hurried swipes. When he pulled back his hand, he saw a white speck had been caught in the wrinkle of his glove. The universe must have been cursing him this day for said speck began to wriggle and fell to his boot. Asahi let out a startled cry as he realized a maggot had fallen from above to infest his hair, biting back a startled yelp as he watched the worm flew off beyond the reach of the mounted hall lights.

The Doman casted his eyes to the catwalk above and fell to his rear at what he saw. A body, uniformed in the attire of a magitek engineer, laid faced down against the steel grate, flesh ridden with rot and premature larvas of carrion flies. A round hole bore through its forehead like the centerpiece of some macabre circlet, skin boiling with the multitude of the infestation. He twisted aside as felt his gorge rise and nausea caught him like a tidal wave. His lunch, what little of it there was, came back up with a painful heave and spilled onto the floor.

It was not his first time seeing a dead body, but the smell and, Kami forfend, the fact that it dribbled onto him made it so much worse. Asahi staggered to his feet with the grace of a newborn foal, the idea of guard duty did not seem so bad now. More than that, he was glad that it was not him that laid prone up there, moldering in the dark with the worms. 

Before he could rein himself in, Asahi found himself barging into that menace of a woman’s office. Despite their disagreeable opinions of one another, Sisila took one look at him and ushered him in posthaste. 

****

A mechanical click prodded at her consciousness, it repeated itself with a constant rhythm like the beat of a metronome. A small reminder of a pavane Zenos had composed in his youth, the melody still came to her easily after all these years. It'd been so long since she'd touched the harpsichord but her vision was not what it once was when she woke in this body. When she'd first resume playing, her fingers were clumsy and she would often misjudge the distance of a key. This particular pavane was the last she'd ever played, making mistakes after mistakes as she progressed through the song. In the end, she could not bring herself to see it through, unable to stomach the fact that she’d all but butchered something he'd made for her. It seemed that breaking things was all that her hands were good for now. Seemingly in silent solidarity, he'd also ceased any creative pursuits, appearing to dedicate himself solely to her requests and whims. She wished she could be a good person and encourage him to live for himself, but she needed him to stay afloat in the drudgery of existence. While adrift in slumber, he as well clung to her as though she could dissolve into foam at any given moment, arms locked tight and bodies flushed. In such manner, they both were content to sink with each other into the depths of bloody dissoluteness like snakes entwined.

The even clicks grew louder as she neared the surface of wakefulness and an ebbing pain slowly made itself known to her. A pulse monitor was next to her, she realized, the same machine that had once sat beside her when she had first woken in this living nightmare years ago. She remembered the warm trickle of blood down her nose after the short spar, then the dark spell thereafter.

Unlike before, however, the heat of her sheets provided no comfort. Sweat veritably coated her like a second skin and she could feel her sodden pillow as she was reminded of where she was. Her eyes felt sunken as a cloying ache gnawed at her head, vision swimming as she forced her lids open.

“Emperor end me.” Crow croaked in her delirium, her voice muffled through the breathing apparatus strapped to the lower half of her face.

A hyuran woman approached her bedside, it took her a moment to identify her as a medicus — the only one who stayed behind in the castrum.

“It’s a miracle that you’re even conscious at all, Your Grace.” The medicus fiddled with the intravenous drip hanging above her head.

“I suppose I have you to thank for saving my life?” Crow had only the energy for speech, even the idea of turning her head seemed a herculean feat.

The medicus lingered by her bed with clasped hands, the moment pregnant with trepidation as Crow awaited her response. When none seemed forthcoming, she spoke again.

“What’s your name?”

“Jodis jen Memtis, Your Grace.” Jodis answered with a bowed head. Her heart was worn so openly on her sleeve that Crow could read the bad news even without being able to fully view her face.

“How much time do I have left, Jodis?”

“Not long, less than seventy-two bells at best.”

Her insides hollowed out upon hearing the bleak prognosis, her next thought trailing to Zenos in the field. She could hardly summon forth the strength to sit up, let alone stagger to the telecommunication quarters. He would rush to return here if he ever heard of her failing condition and jeopardize everything they’d been working towards. Though what was the point if she were to perish in a few days?

Her guardian’s withered visage came next, his gnarled, warm hands running against the crown of her head. The touch at once cowing and comforting with the weight of decades behind those old, notched digits. She knew she should’ve resented him for those years of terrible neglect, but what child could bring themselves to fully hate a parent for their faults. The mantle of ruling an empire left no allowance for his own flesh and blood, to speak nothing of an errant adopted charge. She was grateful to have been given this body and a handful more years to spend with them, but she would be lying if she claimed to be happy with her lot. 

“Tell me why.” Crow bit down on her lip, the emptiness inside filling up with an acrid bitterness. Had she the strength to rage, she would have, but settled for a venomous command in lieu.

The medicus did not shrink back and adopted a forward but tender disposition. “Your body is unable to handle the premature growth it’s experiencing, I’m chemically suppressing it as much as I can but it simply isn’t responding to treatment.” 

As if on cue, a fit surged up her insides. Crow tore aside the apparatus strapped to her face as she struggled to repress the fit, the tangle of wires and polymer yanked sharply by the wayside. Her cough was singular but violent, blood spewing from her lips and stained the cover of her damp pillow. It left her utterly drained as she contended with the agony of the aftermath. The medicus winced at the sight and hurriedly fetched a replacement for the soiled cushion.

“I’m afraid your respiratory system is taking the worst hit and your body is outright rejecting the medicines I’ve administered. If there’s anything you could tell me about your ills, perhaps I could devise a plan to alleviate the worst of your symptoms until the transport from the capital arrives.” Jodis urged as she tucked the pillow beneath Crow’s head, supporting her neck with a lifting, gentle hand.

Crow let out an incredulous, broken laugh as she sank back down into the stiff fabric. It took a little over half a week to fly from the capital to the far southern reach of Nagxia, they’d more likely be bringing a cooling corpse back for a final funeral.

“Very well.” The princess swallowed the iron tang coating her mouth, closing her eyes as she took in ragged, wet breaths. She doubted that the medicus could do anything with the knowledge, but it would be cathartic to tell somebody about this unnatural vessel she inhabited.

“I suspect this is not the body I was brought into the world with, this flesh is likely a product of the dubious experiments run by His Radiance’s scientists.” The look upon the medicus’ face was one of uncertainty and disbelief, prompting a dry laugh from the princess. “As incredible as the notion of cloned flesh might be, I would be inclined to remind you that the magicks of the savages of Aldenard exists and they perform near miracles each day without a second thought to their inborn talent.”

“Now, where to start?” Crow mused as she allowed Jodis to fuss over her, wiping away the bloodstain and redonning the breathing aid.

The ceiling above served as a blank canvas to the roil of memories flowing through her head, all that confusion and fright just as fresh as the day she’d experienced them. The only difference was the stoicism she now donned as she relived them, taking on the detachment of a spectator as she gazed upon the reflections of those bygone years. She kept it curt for both their benefits, picking out only relevant bits of details while leaving the myriads of abuses in the dark. From the terrible way she’d been poisoned, the result of her late governess’ affections, to her contemptuous struggle with food the thereafter nausea, each scrap of major and minor recounting bearing hints of her deteriorating physiology. With every layer added, she could see the growing mortification on the medicus’ face, it only made her realize the extent of how twisted and unorthodox her upbringing was.

“I-I’m sorry for all that you've been through, Your Grace.” Jodis stuttered. What else was there to say to this young girl after all the horror she’d been put through.

“I do not ask for your pity, only your skillset.” The princess bristled as she saw the watery welling in the hyuran medicus’ eyes. “And it needn’t be said that you best keep this all to yourself, yes?”

Jodis nodded as she blinked away the shoring tears, sharply sniffing to clear the thickness in her nose and throat. “Of course, Your Grace.”

It seemed Sisila had informed Jodis of her true identity, not that it was a secret in the first place. 

“If you're finished here then I'd like to be alone.” Crow frowned up at the intravenous drip bag, each falling droplet counting down to the hour of her impending demise.

The medicus bowed out from the sick bay without further comment and left her to wallow in her own company. Crow sagged into the thin mattress, body feeling more like the pulp of a pressed fruit than actual flesh. She was so tired, the ebb and flow of pain left her wanting to take shelter in the dulling haze of sleep. A shadow fell over her heavy-lidded vision, the voidsent sat itself by the side of her cot as it mirrored her rictus.

“So,” She began, gaze sliding lazily over to her thrall. “You've heard everything, I presume.”

Did you really not desire her sympathy? Why divulge so much about yourself when you know it's of no help? — The voidsent cocked its head at her, its brows knitting together in bemusement.

“Vanity, perhaps.” She admitted, curling her fingers into balled fists to ward away the cold. The weather was wet but warm, obnoxiously humid by most accounts, yet she hadn’t felt this cold since leaving Ilsabard. “I've done all that I could and still have nothing to show for it, I wanted someone to know of me at the very least.”

The princeling will be devastated, he might even wipe out the city you've worked so hard to give him — Naberos rubbed at its chin in thought, it would be remiss to not be able to witness such wanton destruction in the aftermath of his mistress’ passing.

“Are you trying to comfort me? How heartfelt, but one does look ridiculous while cooing to their meal.” The princess remarked dryly, slowly drifting off even as she spoke.

The creature lunged down at her then, a gloved hand locking around her throat. Crow’s eyes snapped open in shock, a curdled snarl narrowing Naberos’ comely visage as it bore down on her. 

‘Are you finished then? Submitting to this pathetic fate as you breathe your last in the incoming days? I had thought you better than that.’

Crow sneered up at it even as its fingers dug into the skin of her jugular, her throat bobbed uselessly as she gritted her teeth at the impudent servant. How dare this parasite demean her. It did not know of the jagged road she'd crawled through to survive, what she's given and taken to carve a future out for herself ilm by bloody ilm. Her trenchant hiss was packed full with disdain as she answered.

“Frankly, I'm shocked that you’ve yet to gorge yourself on me and end our contract. Or have you grown sweet on me?” She could envision it licking its chops as it thought about making a feast out of her.

‘Call it a gourmet’s affection, if you will.‘

It had the audacity to run its nose against her cheek, savoring the scent of her sallow skin. It did not mind the briny sweat, even relishing the savory metallic bouquet of her blood, preternatural senses honed so finely that it can almost taste the electric draught just beneath her skin.

‘But I’ve stayed my hands because I've a proposal for you, my sweetest mistress. ‘

“How generous.” She managed to remark with a sardonic drawl, her throat straining under pressure.

You’d be hard pressed to deny me. So, for once, just listen — It gave an emphatic squeeze at her jaw, turning her fully to meet its predatory gaze as it gleaned at her thoughts

Crow, in spite of her precarious state, bore the abuse with a dignified rigidity as she regarded the voidsent.

“On with it then.”

Chapter 55

A Nagxian rebel in the flesh, alive and bound at the mercy of his captors. They were an elusive bunch, adept at camouflaging in the green foliage and darkness with their ghillie capes. These mantles were woven from leaves and vines, blending a man seamlessly against the backdrop of the sweltering jungle. Zenos examined the prone man, taking in the smearing verdant paint and mud. The layer was partially washed away by his sweat and careful swipes of the medicus’ sponge to reveal a sun-hardened face. He had been sedated before he could bite down on the capsule of serpent venom they found in his cheek, cleaned and then bandaged after they dragged him back to base camp. Fortunately, one of his legs was broken, severely hampering the likelihood of his escape. Regardless, this fact did not stop him from trying, his grit approaching somewhere near commendable. However, he did not reach a fulm beyond the camp’s perimeter before he was caught by the guards on duty.

Zenos, in his typically nonchalant manner, had detached himself from his supper and personally ensured the Nagxian’s other leg was also put out of commission. The medicus had nervously informed him that their prisoner’s leg was broken in three different places, rendering him bed-bound. The prince took the news in implacable evenness and even donned a small, wry smile, evidently pleased that there would be no further trouble from their captive.

“Refrain from any analgesics, I want him lucid until I am finished for the day.”

The medicus bowed and busied himself elsewhere as the prince carelessly dragged a chair to the captive’s bed side. The scuffle of metal against uneven dirt was audible but did not reach a point where it would wake a sleeping man, yet the Nagxian jolted awake as though shocked by a bolt of levin. He was skittish and half-drenched in a feverish sweat, swarthy complexion gleaming in the dappled noon refraction. They were located in the physick tent but the heat still clung to the back of his neck like a stubborn sheet of cobweb, something the prisoner was no doubt used to.

“Well then, full glad are we to see you so hale, soldier.” The depth of his tone was anything but welcoming despite his words. “Your tenacity was admirable but I do hope you'll stay to enjoy our hospitality for a while.”

Defiance burned in the Nagxian’s verdant eyes, the color resembling the green foliages of the jungle. In reply, he spat in the prince’s direction, the wet globule landing squarely on his boot. It was speckled with blood and glistened with an offensive luster, moisture slowly setting into the material of his shoe.

Zenos smirked in kind and tightened the belted straps that bound him to the bed. He said nothing as he wiped the gobbet with a hand towel he'd found by the side table. Such attitudes were common enough, even the people in Valnain slums had surreptitiously practiced the same unsanitary ritual as he passed by. The natives hated their occupiers with a passion, so much so that even after decades of unsuccessful uprisings had failed to extinguish their spirit. Time after time, they tried to pry apart Garlemald’s tenuous grip over Nagxia, but naught ever seemed effective. From the poorest destitute to the elite merchants, they viewed the empire’s grip on their city and nation as a blight. Some kept it more discreet than others, even outwardly praising and thanking their overlords for the economic boons their city experienced. They were all the same beneath the surface, but unlike this pitiable bloke, most chose the wiser choice to submit and prosper rather than waste away with their pride intact.

“An excellent introduction, but I think I'll forgo mine to cut to the chase.” Zenos drawled lightly with a foot propped up by a knee, polishing the dirt from the steel toe of his boot with a final rub for good measure. 

Draping the dirtied cloth over the captive’s face, Zenos watched as his sullen glare disappeared beneath the brown flax. He lifted the jug of rainwater, collected and left unfiltered from the recent downpour, and began drizzling it down onto the Nagxian’s head.

“Come, pray tell, where your comrades are holed up. Give them a quick end to this farcical waste of time.” The gentle stream of water quickly soaked through the cloth, molding it over the captive's broad, flat nose. The fabric sank against the indentations below his brows and outlined the contours of his mouth, creating a sodden death mask even as he attempted to evade the narrow beam of water. The man attempted to speak beyond the sodden cloth, likely to level an insult at him. However, whenever he opened his mouth, he could not find even an ilm to breathe and was inundated with the dripping rush. “Lest you force our hands into reenacting the slaughter at Bunlai and Dagluk from three decades ago.”

That was a lie, of course, Zenos knew that the empire was hesitant to dump so much resources into a land they’d already laid low once before and now possessed. However, the man had looked to be well into his fourth decade and was wont to remember the brutal massacre of those villages. If he was unfortunate enough, he would’ve been there to witness it himself. The first to be attacked had been Bunlai, most of its inhabitant and structures had been razed to the dirt by a rain of fire from the latest airship in demonstration of Garlemald’s rising might. The empire’s ambition had been displayed as plain as day when Doma, known for their history of stability and prosperous exchanges with Hingashi, surrendered under ambivalent terms. The Southerners and Dalmasca had scorned Doma for its craveness and casted nervous eyes to north, uncertain whether these new conquerors would think to reach any further than the verdant paddies of Yanxia. When the first wave of bombardment came down, the people of Nagxia were blindsided, scarcely able to organize to defend their land thanks to Garlemald’s initial scorched-earth strategy. What had made it worse was the fact that Rabanastre, the capital of Dalmasca, had cut their losses and left Valnain and its settlements stranded and without support.

Credit to them, however, the people rallied and made a valiant — if not ineffectual — stand against Garlemald’s efforts. Five years after that first round, when resistance mounted still after the blitz, ground troops were sent in to crush the rest of the native’s contrariety. The second village chosen had been Dagluk, a hub in which a not insignificant numbers of farmers and craftsmen resided.  It was a more difficult feat to operate in such muddy, soft terrain, and casualties stacked like fallen game pieces. They eventually folded, however, when the last of the militia were forced to their knees and executed by rifle fire without trial. Such was the empire’s mercy, of which there was little to be had for those who refused to fall in line.

Little indeed, Zenos echoed inwardly as the Nagxian gargled and gasped for air. Only half a bell had elapsed and he was repeatedly crying out for mercy when they took intermittent breaks, though any usable information remained undisclosed. His men were actively searching the quadrant for signs of the insurgent’s base while he wasted time drowning a man. He’d expected things to come to a conclusion a month in, but it seemed he’d overestimate both Nael and his cousin.

“St– Stop! – beg! I’ll talk, sto–!” The captive sobbed from beneath the waterlogged cloth, a desperate note growing in his plea. He hadn’t the strength to struggle lest be further put his broken limbs through more anguish, thus he was forced to lay still and accept Zenos’ inundating ministration.

The prince paused and took his time in setting the jug down; he thought it would’ve taken longer to break the captive since this had only been his second refill so far. 

“How obliging of you.” He said as he peeled the cloth from the man’s drenched face. “You lasted longer than most, I must admit. My compliments to your fortitude.”

The Nagxian’s eyes were bloodshot when he dared open them, rivulets of water dribbled from his nose and eyes as though he’d been bawling uncontrollably. His belly was distended from the amounts of liquid he could not help but swallow, he gaped like a fish as he gulped in mouthfuls of air. To drown on land and hover at death’s door whilst lying comfortably in a camp’s infirmary, the idea held an amusing juxtaposition to the prince as he slid his gaze down to the pallid clod.

“Shall we begin then?” The prince beseeched politely as he retook his seat, fingers laced together over his crossed knees.

At length, the Nagxian reluctantly revealed the coordinates to an offshoot camp close to the clearing where skirmish had taken place, swearing that it was the truth as he glanced fearfully at the water jug. The water torture has been something he'd read about in an obscure secondhand account of an old, long-dead Tribunus who'd served under the famed Basch van Gabranth. It only required a cloth, a jug of water and a touch of prudence from the interrogator. The method saw much common use during the occupational wars in Othard, a fearsome yet elegantly simple technique that brought less bodily harm than most others.

“How many were there in your cell?”

“Don’t matter anymore, they're all dead thanks to your thrice-cursed legion.” The captive said with a bitter scoff. 

“And are there more of you?”

“Always, it's busy work killing you imperial bastards.” He answered, regaining a bit of his previous belligerence.

Zenos narrowed his eyes, his tolerance growing slim. “Your lot stole a cache of weapons from the legions you so despise — what do your ilk plan to do with them?”

A sneer of derision rose to the Nagxian’s lips, sour as the rot trapped in his cast. “Those spineless city dwellers don't know what hardship is like. We suffer day by day to free ourselves from the empire's yoke, yet they lounge under your mercy and do nothing while we toil for the sake of freedom.”

He was rambling, half-mad and immensely bitter even when speaking of his own countrymen. It seemed that there was hostility between the city’s rabble and Golmore’s insurgents. He gripped at the thin mattress with his one unbroken arm as he spoke, fingers digging against the cot as his resentment came to a boil. 

“You're too late to stop what's coming.” He spat smugly as he saw his tormentor glowered back with a conclusive start.

“Now die!” Against the pains of his broken body, the captive lunged forth with a surgeon’s blade. The hatred in his eyes was enhanced by the red veins shot through his sclera.

Zenos caught his wrist with an asp’s reflex, clamping down on the limb with a vice-like grip. The fool had managed to pry himself loose from his bindings, enough for a suicidal last stand. 

The motion was almost lazy when he twisted a tendon, dislodging the small silver blade from the Nagxian’s thick, callused finger. He did not deign to stop from merely disarming him, however. Further and further he rotated the limb until a dull crunch sounded and a plaintive cry bellowed from his charge’s throat. The man cradled his arm against his tattered tunic and moaned in agony, tears streaming down his face as he writhed with careful restraint.

The prince plucked the scalpel from the dirt, its polished blade and haft catching the visage of his burning blue eyes. 

“Your tenacity is perhaps your people’s only saving grace, though I cannot say it will do you any good when you fail to recognize your own limits.” He mused as he pressed the blade against the fool’s soft neck. The Nagxian’s whimper was sharp and whining when he realized his end was near. Like most men, he was utterly pathetic in the face of death, snot-nosed and sodden-cheeked as he stammered for mercy. With a sharp flick of the prince’s hand, he was blessed with a gashed smile across his throat. He gargled his last words, unable to staunch the seeping blood from the wound with his dislocated wrist.

The cache that was pilfered was not an insignificant amount, one of the largest to be distributed between Dalmasca Superior and Inferior for posterity. The general consensus when it came to the affairs of these territories was that one could never be too careful about organized uprising. In such large quantities, these warheads could bring down half the city if set off. 

Zenos made himself scarce before his captive fully ceased to breathe —  a call had apparently come in from Nael himself. The legionary who’d delivered the news had stumbled over his first words when he saw the choking Nagxian, only managing to relay his message after he averted his gaze from the blood spattered sheets. It was one thing to kill your enemy in the smog-ladened midst of battle, watching life slowly slip from his eyes in full clarity was something most men could not stomach.

Chapter 56

According to the shocking recounting of Asahi pyr Brutus, he'd encountered the remains of one of the engineers while within the hold of the castrum. Sisila took in his sheet-white face and plain grimace, judging his words to be the truth after a moment of consideration. The boy, for he was truly just a boy of twenty, looked aghast at what he'd seen. Once his stammers had subsided she could make out the details of the colorful description he gave. The man had a rounded hole in his taut forehead, old blood oozing from the small cavity. 

“If what you say is true, I must inform Her Grace at once, we likely have a killer in our midst.” Sisila hopped from her seat, toddling off in a hurry on her small legs.

“Why? She's not in charge here and, moreover, an invalid.” The Doman shot from his chair, jostling the wires and telecommunication apparatuses atop the long desk. He could not, for the life of him, see why the lalafellin woman hinged so much of her belief on the princess who could hardly even stand at the moment. She was imperious and condescending, a sardonic chit who looked at him as though he was lowlier than the dirt beneath her boots. Yet this chief Tesserarius insisted on nearly prostrating herself before that royal invalid to curry favor.

“You seem to have forgotten that she outranks us all by mere virtue of her very presence here — suspension or no.” She whirled and looked upon him with bemusement. “Her Grace also foresaw this, if not an enemy without then they are within. One of the legionaries who'd returned from patrol could have been an anarchist in disguise, and they'd correctly discerned our weakness.” 

“Regardless–” He bit out.

“Regardless of your misgivings, it certainly won't be only one man down the next time. Without the engineers maintaining the castrum we’d be more vulnerable than the forces in Golmore.” Sisila cut in before Asahi could level another word of argument and echoed the princess’ previous suspicions. In this affirmation, she felt naught but dread toward the coming days. “Now go and ensure that the scene remains undisturbed, we'll need to have a thorough examination of the poor dead fellow.”

With that final order, Asahi was left behind to feel thoroughly chastised and humiliated for his doubt. He seethed beneath the dark fringes of his hair, dagger-eyes pricking the spot where Sisila had stood. He flung out his hand in retaliation, knocking over a standing microphone in his haphazard tantrum. It was all so absurd to have to follow the orders of a mere woman . Damn her, and damn that rotten chit of a princess.

The sound of clattering metal was almost satisfying as it bounced and rolled beneath the generous crevice beneath the desk. Asahi glowered at the thing for a while, his brows wrinkled in a silent snarl. Then suddenly, with more malice and any measure of proper rationale, the idea came to him. Perhaps this manslayer, running amok as he was and targeting key figures in the castrum, needed a nudge in the right direction.

This vindictiveness was what Asahi clung to as he adhered the small note to the underside of the catwalk’s rail handle. An inconspicuous corner left peeking out from beneath. If the culprit came back to continue to dispose of the body, he'd be thoroughly searching for a clue to where it would've gone. 

With the easy part out of the way, the Doman Decurion dragged the dead engineer to the heart of the smelting chamber. The facility was used to cast metal molds and frames for the legion's numerous weapons, conveniently equipped with a roaring incinerator that could vaporize even ceruleum-forges steel. He struggled not only with the rotting carcass but also the urge to vomit again. The stench was worse than ever before with him being so up close, and the maggots spilled into his uniform like a grotesque tide. Fortunately, dead men did not protest the treatment of their bodies as he shoved the decomposing sack up on the conveyor belt and cranked the contraption to life. Metal whined as the body was wheeled into a fiery, molten maw, the smell of roasting flesh and burning hair somehow outstripped the foul rot in acridity. It made Asahi’s eyes water and he coughed roughly even as he spurred the machine on.

He stumbled from the room with his sleeve pressed to his nose, little help that did him if at all. The legionaries who had the misfortune to cross paths with him recoiled once they caught a whiff of his approach. Luckily, they gave him mortified looks and picked up their pace, their need to quit his proximity far more pressing than their curiosity.

Even after three consecutive visits to the showers and a fresh change of uniform, the smell still clung to him like a condemning miasma. The vexatious princess, weak as she was in her current state, found her voice to dismiss him from her presence the moment he returned to resume his duties. She even had the gall to command him to ‘shower yourself in perfume if you must! Now, by the bloody emperor, get out!’.

Had he an onze of sympathy left for her plight, if it ever existed at all, it was thoroughly extinguished by the time he was roughly shown out by her pallid manservant.

****

The call came in after Zenos left the infirmary tent, directly from Legatus Darnus himself. His voice crackled on the other end and the prince glanced over to one of the Tesserarius with a wordless command. The man was already turning the apparatus to clear the signal in anticipation of his leader’s need. The men under him had taken to his direction and intent like a pack of well-trained dogs, learning to observe him and respond accordingly. His capacity to straddle the complex web of fear and admiration was second to none, perhaps even rivaling the emperor himself when it came to wielding people and delegating the appropriate duty to the right people.

The Legatus’ voice soon cleared up, the prince able to discern the stern but pleased note in the message. His quadrant was cleared of the Nagxian rebels, however, the subterranean base they'd built had no signs of the stolen cache.

“The cache was likely transported with their exodus— they're planning to bombard the city proper.” Zenos said curtly, eyeing the small assault craft at the center of base camp.

A pause briefly lingered before a reply came. “By what way did you obtain this information?”

“A survivor after your skirmish — he claimed there are more of them about, though I suspect they’ve chosen to cut their losses to evade us.” He’d concluded that they’d moved on from his area of jurisdiction since any resistance was not forthcoming thus far, relocating themselves and the pilfered cache to elsewhere. “ If we’re speaking like this then I fear the gracious Lord Nerva will be facing an overwhelming influx soon. The Nagxians will no doubt attempt to break our lines to get to Valnain.”

“You will go and provide aid. Stop them at any cost.” The order rankled at the prince but he did not bother to put up any protest as the line was cut. 

The White Raven was ambitious and efficient but he sorely lacked the ability of foresight; the Nagxians would have engaged Nerva and his forces by this point, perhaps even broken through their barricades considering his cousin’s lackluster skills in active combat. The quadrant given to the IIIrd was pressed against the torrential Zierchele, a massive river that slashed through Southern Othard, dividing it into Dalmasca Superior and Inferior by the empire’s reckoning. Those waters would have swelled threefold by now under the deluge of the monsoon rain. If the rebels were clever — and they were, when one accounted for the frustration that Garlemald had been dealing with over the decades — they would have found a way to cut the bulk of the IIIrd’s forces with a well-timed flood.

But there may be time yet, and Zenos soon began calling for marshaling of his forces. He was not fond of helping Nerva in the slightest, the notion fanning his ire whenever it surfaced. The pragmatist in him, however, triumphed in the end and he only had to think of Crow to rein his temper in. The city would be taken by a firestorm should their lines be broken through lest he aided his impotent first cousin, and Golmore would sooner be reduced to a scorched waste before he would allow harm to come to her.

“We move by the next bell, gather up base camp and we shall match.” He bade to his designated second-in-command, a scar-ridden elezen man whose only positive trait was the gruff volume of his bellows. The orders soon went around and before long, the assault craft soon rose and took off ahead with their equipment and supplies.

The prince had given word that the enemy would’ve likely begun their offensive by the time he and his men near the Zeirchele, thus it was important that they were fully ready for battle as soon as they crossed into the IIIrd’s quadrant. The march was at the mercy of the pervasive jungle heat, but every man and woman trekked on with their own packs and gunblades strapped to their backs without complaint. The notion of shedding one’s clothes to ease the intolerable torridity was a tempting one, but the myriad of buzzing bloodsuckers would drain a man dry should he show even an ilm of skin. Mosquitoes, brazen as they were, were the most timid of these parasites. Gnats and flies swarmed in visible gray masses over brackish swamps, the opaque basin teeming with green scum and indeterminable slithering dangers.

More than one man had been dragged under by the snapping jaws of a river crocodile, the ravenous reptiles were twice as thick as a man and three times the length. Their yellow, slitted eyes visible just above the waterline as they drifted near, the mossy ridges on their backs disguised as driftwood. Before long, they would close in and the water would grow violent and frothy with blood as the unlucky victim was wrenched apart like an errant ragdoll. Those bodies had to be left behind to serve as distraction for the Crocs, the blood in the water stirring up into a splashing frenzy as they tore their prey into pieces.

One has been brave enough to approach Zenos, its jaws hinged open as it propelled itself toward him with naked aggression. The men behind him had raised their spears and shouted in alarm, but the prince had waded cleanly from its lunge and taken off one of its squat legs with a swing of his blade. The loss of a limb had sent the monstrous creature reeling and its fellows descended upon it in a bloodbath. Unapologetically opportunistic, they were willing to turn upon one another when given the chance. In that sense, the predators of Golmore seemed little different from the sycophants in the imperial court, camouflaging themselves to approach the unwary and sinking their teeth in once they neared. 

They cleared through the swamp after a tolerable toll of half a dozen men, four to the crocodiles and two after to something else entirely. The legionaries who'd been at the rear swore up and down that they'd seen a gargantuan shadow lurking beneath the murky shallow, larger than even the crocs. The men who'd disappeared were inexplicably sucked beneath the rippling waves, not a second spared to even cry out before they were dragged under. They were logged as losses and the rest were forced to move on, the rest wore grim faces stared into the campfires when they took their rest. There was little relief for the morrow held more perils. They looked to the prince for some measure of reassurance as he circled the camp perimeters in patrol. He was not alone, of course, every man slept in three to four bells intervals before he was awoken for guard duty, those who nodded off again were withheld rations for a full day.

“Tell them to keep the fires burning through the night and check their beddings before they climb in.” He heard the Primus Pilus relayed to his subordinate in passing.

Even in rest there were risks, venomous nettle lizards enjoyed the warmth of a bedroll and deadly centipedes found the crevices of an empty boot to be their ideal nesting ground. Neither pests were pleased when they're rolled over or stepped on, resulting in rather fatal consequences for the owners of these articles.

Zenos poured the trickling leftover swamp water from his boots once he had the opportunity to sit, and tossed another damp branch into the fire. He wrung his sodden socks dry and hung his dripping coat by the tent’s hooked hanger, well acquainted with the drudgery of soldiering. He'd been forced to march and live as one during his time in the Tchitan wilderness, the frostbite of the north took limbs as effectively as the wet rot of trench foot. It was where he'd learned to cook his own meals, darn his clothes and treat his ills alongside other legionary hopefuls. In Garlemald, or even Valnain, such mundane chores would have been far beneath him but he did all this and more with stoic practicality.

He eased himself into an elevated folding cot, a luxury when compared to the ground-level bedrolls the average legionary had to content himself with, and let out a long breath. He was not tired, more precisely, he was concerned. Any communication he'd had with Crow had been limited thanks to the distance between the city and the untamed thickets. Signals could only travel so far before it was lost within the tangling foliages. In the past week, there had been no word forthcoming and her silence left him admittedly worrisome. He could not place the origin of this inexplicable anxiousness, which made it all the more prominent. Still, there was naught to be done but to quickly conclude this expedition. Till then, his hands were tied as communications were limited to short waves between the three divided forces.

The prince thumbed at the pendant she’d gifted him, its golden chain unmarred by the grime of the trek thus far. He would have to find a goldsmith for the rubies in his pack, the finest craftsman to make something from those uncut jewels. Earrings, he determined, thinking of the simple studs she always wore, and a necklace. His finger caught against the signet ring he'd looped through with the chain as rings were not wont to stay on reliably in combat. Its thick band was crafted to encircle its slimmer twin; if combined, they formed a two headed serpent that overlapped linking chains. The seal paid homage to their imperial lineage and symbolized their one-mindedness on all matters when they would come into their own together.

Nevertheless, their plans for Doma were still far off for they would have to contend with his father and the imperial court first. Zenos frowned at the thought of the High Legatus; he'd been far too quiet of late. Either the emperor was far more effective at keeping him in line than he had thought. That, or his father was hard at work scheming and biding his time. It could very well be both for all the prince knew. The uncertainty was irritably disconcerting.

Before the turn of midnight, next to the crackling portable brazier, he closed his eyes against the firelight and submerged himself back into that place of streaking black sky and ruined metropolis.

Notes:

Bonus chapter, I'm really enjoying writing in Zenos' perspective of late. His adventures in Golmore is so colorful to me ( ꈍᴗꈍ)

Chapter 57

The supposed corpse that Asahi had allegedly stumbled upon was inexplicably gone. Sisila was beside herself with frustration when the Doman became stubbornly close-lipped when the matter was broached, often deflecting with claims of ignorance. Yesterday, He'd been beside himself with distress when he practically ran into her office, white in the face and scrambling to gather his thoughts. 

Now she was perched on a stool next to the First Princess bed, going over the events of the past day. Her Grace looked to be in a bad way, lips pressed in a thin line as she silently endured her failing health. It was clear that she was clinging on with all her willpower, her face schooled into an otherwise composed mask. 

“Something is amiss with that wretch.” Her Grace paused and drew in a rasping breath, the breathing aid filling her weak lungs up with air. Every inhale seemed a trial but she bore through it with but a hint of discomfort. 

“He could be the saboteur we’re looking for, he hasn't attended to you in a full day and the other legionaries hardly see him about.” Sisila suggested in a low whisper, glancing over to the closed door.

“Hah — no.” Crow winced even as she rasped a sardonic laugh, fingers digging into the sheets as she was chastised by her own body. “He's too much of a craven and a sheep. Moreover, he wouldn't jeopardize the chance to show his loyalty to the one he so pines for.”

“You mean His Grace?” The lalafellin frowned.

“You're far sharper than I give you credit for.” The princess chuckled, brows wrinkling even as she donned a smirk. “Have you seen this body yourself?”

Sisila bowed her head to hide her chagrin. “No, Your Grace, I only know as much as what he'd described to me.”

“Then order for guards to patrol the perimeter and station them–”

A scuffle sounded without the infirmary, followed by a resounding discharge of a pistol. Crow’s eyes shot open at the disturbance and Sisila started in fright, the both of them had their sights on the shut door like a pair of startled deers. It was apparent then that Asahi was missing from his post once again, or dead, as heavy boots signaled the approaching assailant.

“Take cover and hide.” Crow ordered firmly, glancing over to the sturdy steel cabinet. It was big enough for a child or someone of Sisila’s stature, tucked against the corner of the infirmary. 

“What about you–” Sisila moved to obey, but grew hesitant as she turned back to the princess.

“Just go . ” She hissed caustically. There was no time for heroics or bravery, only the ugly, gelid face of their current predicament.

No sooner had the cabinet swung shut on quiet hinges, the entrance to the chamber slid open. The lalafellin’s eyes watered up as she felt her teeth sink against her bottom lip, taking in the scene through the narrowest slit of the doors. The lingering smell of gunpowder filled her nose as she watched, fear sending her hands shaking uncontrollably. She was no combatant, she may be able to cast minor spells here and there but her talents lay in research and management. 

 The ticking seconds passed in stretching sluggishness as her ears picked up what her eyes could not. The deafening discharge caused her to flinch back as though she herself had been the bullet’s target, lashes fluttering like scattered birds as she jumped in fright. A sharp mannish cry reached her first, then a sharp gasp escaped the princess’ lips. No words had been exchanged, everything had unfolded in mere seconds — the longest series of moments in her life. Sisila fainted then, her nerves and legs giving out from beneath her.

****

A roegadyn man, stocky as a barrel, eclipsed the threshold with a smoking pistol in hand. His eyes like two blackcurrants pressed against the doughy set of his cheeks, his wide jaw set into a grimacing underbite as he leveled his weapon at her. Crow had managed to sit herself up and meet him with a glower of imperious condescension. She hadn't a clue who this impudent cur was, and his identity mattered not a wit to her. However, the crazed light in his dead eyes stayed whatever sharp words she might have had for him.

Naberos lunged from above the intruder as he cocked his next shot, a thin strand of shadow cutting through the muscles and tendons. Instead of letting go of the firearm, however, it went off with a booming crack that rivaled even monsoon thunder. The roegadyn cried out and finally relinquished his hold on the pistol, clutching his wrist in anguish and fled the scene.

Crow looked at her manservant in his true form. It closed the distance between the doorway and her bed in a curt rush, for once with nothing clever to say or an enigmatic smile to offer. Her eyes trailed down to where white sheets gave way to a bay of fresh red, her hand had reflexively came up to clutch at her side even when she hadn't realized she'd been wounded. The notion was so unbelievable that she could scarcely register it. Her hand was warmed by the gushing tide even as the rest of her was growing so unbearably cold.

Jodis was dead, that much was obvious by now. Gone along with any chance for her survival in the current predicament. 

Emperor save her, it hurts — she nearly cried out. More than words could describe.

She slid her gaze to the voidsent as it loomed over her, waiting. “Are you satisfied? I denied you, and yet, fate insists on pushing me over the precipice.”

It only smiled in answer, leaning in with the anticipation of a prowling predator.

Crow laid awkwardly with an elbow propped beneath her, a tear sliding from her eyes. She slumped weakly as what little strength she'd left began to leave her drop by drop. The pain left her reeling, accompanying it was a crawling chill to sap away at her consciousness. She dragged her bloody hand away from her seeping wound and reached out to the voidsent, the gesture ungraceful and sluggish.

“I agree… to your terms.” The princess whispered tremulously in a low hiss, eyes fluttered shut at the finality of her ascent.

No sooner had the words left her lips the voidsent surged forward and snatched up her hand. Crow was helpless to resist its eager hands as she was thrown back against the bed. It kneeled over her prone form, tattered cloak like a dark shroud as it ensconced her frail, dying body. The voidsent clutched at her face and leaned in, coal-black lips closing against hers as the rest of it grew featureless and amorphous. It slithered down her throat, pushing into her like some grotesque, sluicing stream. She nearly choked, clawing uselessly at its smooth, aqueous length in a bid to dislodge it from her airways. She could not scream — could not breathe — gullet bobbing involuntarily as her gag reflex twitched over and over again. Twin streams of tears streaked down her face, eyes bloodshot as she kicked and tossed her head against the seemingly endless violation. It was far, far too much yet she was not blessed with the mercy of oblivion in spite of her unraveling.

When the last of the voidsent slid past her lips, she had no tears left to shed. The agony that had raked at her was all but consumed by the ravenous hollowness in her belly. Crow collapsed against the blood-sodden bed, too exhausted to move as she stared sightlessly at the far wall. 

A ragged sob escaped her, the noise sounded like it came from a wounded animal to her ears. It slipped from her lips unbidden as she held herself. Her last thought was of Zenos, longing for the comfort of his presence and the unwavering strength of his constancy. Without him, she found herself as a child again, helpless and frightened of the coming dark. Crow trembled as she curled into herself, the hard bullet in her side pushed from her wound as her flesh knitted itself back into flawless, supple smoothness.

Chapter 58

The dilapidated village was overgrown with the jungle floras as far as the eyes could see. The ruin of Bunlai was on the shortest path between his and Nerva’s quadrant, giving them a quick but treacherous route to the heart of the would-be conflict. The once populated settlement was deemed cursed in the local myths, haunted by apparitions of the lingering, vengeful dead. According to the legionaries serving him, victims who supposedly encountered these wights were abducted in the dead of night and were found tangled among the vines with their innards splayed open. However, it was more than like that they’d crossed paths with a jaguar on the hunt, subsequently finding themselves hung up for consumption at a later time.

 He was not disappointed by the foreboding sight of threadbare skeletons tangled among the vines, empty sockets hollow staring sightlessly at the detritus-ladened ground. The legions that had swept through the settlement had never bothered themselves with the propriety of burying the fallen. Shot dead where they stood, the horned auras of Nagxia were marked apart from the hyurans by their worn ivory horns and broken spears still clutched in their rotted fingers. Other desiccated remains were less discernible, though if he were to hazard a guess, they could be the local vieran hunters and carpenters that had once made their living off these lands.

One could still pick out the basic structure of a palm wood hut, once-sturdy pillars now stood half rotted under the heat and moisture of the encroaching jungle. Against their better judgment, some of his men surreptitiously made their respective culture’s signs to ward off evil as they marched. He allowed these small offenses to slide for the sake of expediency, anything to move them along quickly to their intended destination.

Zenos was leading the march, blade in hand as he cut through the overgrown path. Those behind him wielded their machetes with practice efficiency, carving the way clear with tight-jawed reluctance. They were a suspicious lot, hesitant to disturb the scattered remains of Bunlai. But it was this or suffer a flogging administered by the prince himself. The threat, if nothing else, had proved to be encouraging as they were making headway.

It was in the late afternoon, after a half day march, that he heard a man scream. The occurrence was spontaneous and violent, a man had buried his blade into his fellow’s neck in the back of the row. He was caught in a blind panic, eyes wild like a cornered animal. A hyuran legionary had murdered his own comrade, looking as though he was surrounded by enemies. He fumbled with his gunblade as his knife went down with his victim, hands shaking and wailing as he casted about. Men and women who'd spent more than a full moon with him were regarded as strangers, hazards that were to be eliminated. 

Everyone around him jumped back as he leveled his weapon, pointed it this way and that to ward off whatever threat he perceived them to be. 

“Stay back! Bloody monsters!” The hyuran veritably bellowed, the whites of his darting eyes visible to Zenos, who was fast approaching.

He whirled and fired at the prince, narrowly missing his shoulder by an ilm. Reinstating order quickly, Zenos closed in and ended him where he stood with a prompt jab to his unguarded throat.

“He's lost his mind!” His assigned partner exclaimed. “Just up and started waving his weapon ‘round.”

The prince kicked aside the fallen weapon and lifted the dead man’s helm up by the tip of his blade. It revealed his face, normal and unassuming as the next soldier. His brows furrowed as he observed the man; the march had ground to a halt thanks to his outburst, conveniently when they had little daylight left.

The elezen Pilus appeared next to him with a stiff salute, the only one to have kept his head among those under him thus far. The rest looked positively stunned by what should have been all in a day's work.

“Speak.” Zenos bade, flicking the blood of his saber.

“The path is no longer traversable, Your Grace. What would you have us do?” 

The prince slid his eyes from the corpse to his second-in-command. The question in his gaze need not be given voice to receive an answer.

“A barrier was erected by magicks, and it seems to encompass beyond the perimeter of the ruins. Thus far, we know not of the source.”

“Something intends to keep us here.” His grip was white knuckles against the hilt of his blade, displeasure rolling off him in oppressive pressure despite his schooled countenance.

The foreign, humid stink of the jungle was tainted with something familiar. The torrid atmosphere reeked of rotten meat and sulfur, a heaviness that had not been present before weighed down on their collective heads like an incoming storm. 

“Let us go and meet our host then.”

****

Fabric slid against her skin as she pulled on the light chemise, casting her eyes down to the drawers. She selected a high-necked vest, the brocade shone with silk embroidery of laurels and scaled serpents. The fabric was impractical in Nagxian sweltering weather, especially now when the sun was reaching its zenith, but she did not mind giving up bodily comforts to bolster her authority. Though she had not deigned to correct the legionaries before, the lascivious sobriquet of ‘the Paramour’ would need to be discarded for her to take up command. 

Thus forth would the First Princess sally, Crow thought with some dryness.

She had to dress and mind herself for the last two days, something she hadn't deigned to do in years. Even while she was neglected and tormented as a child, there’d always been the odd servant who brought her food, bathed and dressed her under Vinia’s harsh instructions. The imperial palace was packed to the gills with the servant staff, never lacking a man or woman for the needed task. Here, without Naberos’ constant anticipation of her needs, she found the experience thus far oddly novel. She was often left to her devices, the Doman had scampered off elsewhere to do emperor-knows-what. His activities have been suspicious indeed but all her summons had fallen on deaf ears when it came to that impudent provincial. In losing Naberos, she had lost some intimidation factor, but that soon shall be corrected.

Nevertheless, in spite of the several benefits of this partial possession, it came with its caveats. Her stomach let out an audible growl, and she sighed wearily. She felt as though she could eat the imperial coffers into destitution, her appetite was never sated even after she was well enough to resume her daily habits.

“I hope you realize that people are not on the menu for us from now on.” Crow muttered under her breath, recalling the particular cruelty the voidsent showed towards its chosen victims.

Crow kicked on her shoes when no reply seemed forthcoming, making her way to the main chamber where Nael had typically held assembly with Zenos and Nerva. She’d commandeered the chamber to meet with the remaining officers in charge, along with the surviving engineers. The five that was left were to be watched and protected at all times until the legions returned from field.

The room was furtive as those that had gathered whispered among themselves, their bodies told her what their concealed faces did not. Something was amiss, despite all that needed to be here were gathered, for they all turned to her the moment she stepped inside. Brocade vest embroidered with the black and red of imperial colors, the badge of her royal title gleaming on her chest.

Sisila dutifully saluted, greeting her with a firm declaration. “We’re gathered as per your request, Your Grace.”

Crow scanned around, thumb nudging against the golden band on her forefinger — twin to Zenos’ signet ring — and took a sharp, steadying breath. None of the men followed suit, the language of their stance reluctant and full of doubt. She passed the lalafell, nodding her acknowledgement as she did so.

“Thank you all for gathering.” She began, marching up to the oaken conference table. “In lieu of a Legatus, I, Crow wir Galvus, will take command of castrum Valnaini in this time of emergency.”

“As you all may know by now: one of your fellow men, an engineer, met his end through foul play.” She widened her stance and clasped her hands at the small of her back, watching them as they watched her. “We will ensure the safety of non-combatant personnels first, and–”

 Abruptly, a man stepped forth, square shouldered and almost swaggering as he met her gaze. “If you are who you claim to be, why are you only coming forth now?”

Crow frowned. Even if she'd anticipated pushback, it was still an irksome inconvenience. “Because I myself was a target to this traitor only a day after the first death was reported. Our culprit is bold and impatient, and we're now lacking any proper medical aid thanks to him.” 

“You can surmise why I do what I do now. It is for the sake of those who cannot defend themselves.” She pressed on. “This is a time of emergency until we can find this scoundrel, thus I called for this convening.”

“Might our gathering here make us an easy target? What's to say nothing will happen while we meet?” Another questioned, a centurio in charge of the patrol forces crossed his arms.

The princess shook her head. “As far as we know, he is a lone man. A saboteur that aims for the crucial weaknesses in our current order. I suspect that he will return to his marks after his latest failure with me.” She said, looking to the unnerved engineers. They were mostly silent thus far, their brevity understandable considering their precarious situation.

Though restive, the officers were sufficiently mollified by her answers, though not all were so cooperative. They deferred to the Centurion who had spoken instead, treating her with sullen silence. Words were traded back and forth between her and this representative in such fashion for another three bells, information making their rounds and the tension in the air was gradually alleviated somewhat. She found herself in approval despite their wariness, quite certain that none among them were the culprit. She recalled her would-be killer’s broad frame, almost barrel-like as it blotted out the light of the hallway. None of whom at present seemed to match that memory despite their concealed faces. These men were of Garlean descent, mixed or pureblooded, and all were not so inclined to inexplicably inflate in size to fit what she'd seen.

A plan was formed, guards would be stationed in key locations in the castrum and patrols withdrawn slowly from Valnain proper. The engineers were assigned to said centurion, watched over by his men at all hours of the day in shifts. Much to her surprise, two guards were pressed under her service as well.

“Lest you forget, you are a key figure and a target as well, Your Grace.” The centurion had said before he departed from the chamber.

His unexpected acceptance of her leadership after the drawn out deliberation was gratifying, and it seemed the rest had also come to an efficient conclusion in light of the uncertain circumstances. At least until this crisis is quelled.

Next on the agenda was the morgue. Sisila had taken the initiative to show her the way, her dutiful enthusiasm diminished to a subdued gloom once the council drew to a close.

Oddly enough, Crow felt a touch of concern for her uncharacteristic tacitness, enough to asked after her. 

“How are you?” She broached with suppressed awkwardness.

The lalafell started, seeming skittish at the sudden question. Or rather, Crow observed, the sound of her voice.

“Truth be told, I’m not certain, Your Grace.” Sisila confessed as they trailed along the stone tiled path. Rows of doors passed by, lit by the sterile ceruleum lights overhead. This floor was two flights below the main castrum level, filled with sharp-turning, narrow corridors. It was cooler down here, the stones maintaining a steady temperature regardless of the climates without. The perfect facility for the dead, waiting to be cremated or transported to their final resting place.

“Of your well being?” Crow raised a brow. She was perhaps not the best hand for comfort.

“Of yours.” The chief Tesserarius looked up to her, her eyes filled with concern.

Crow chuckled, smoothly masking her surprise with the light laugh. “Whatever for?”

There was a layer of glistening fear over her worry. “You were shot, Your Grace. How are you able to walk around as you do now as though nothing happened? And your manservant–” 

Crow raised a hand to stop her from pursuing that line of inquiry. It seemed Sisila had grown somewhat wise to what Naberos was, its absence had perhaps all but confirmed her suspicion. A new bargain had been struck, additional terms drawn up and agreed upon. She would keep it well sated and allow it to inhabit a living form while it supported her ailing body. While within her, it would be free of the limitations that hindered a corpse-vessel, giving up its autonomy to taste and see this land in a new perspective. All its needs would be hers to bear, its ravenous appetite included.

“I thank you for your concern, but what comes my way is mine to bear on my own.” Crow pushed forward into the dry, chilled hold, only pausing to glance back to her lalafell. “Do not speak of the matter again.”

Sisila pursed her lip, looking rather hurt by her dismissive tone. Crow hardened her heart, it was no business of hers to bring up. Andrus had been the same and things had ended so horribly for him, the remorse at her rash vindictiveness still hounded her whenever she forgot to rein herself in. It was perhaps better that she kept these good few who worry for her at arms’ length, for their sakes as well as hers.

Her attendant, in lieu of a proper medicus or mortician, drew out the metal tray that contained all that was on the unfortunate Jodis’ person at the time of her discovery. Her uniform, once white and trimmed with black, was splattered in the brown stain of old blood. She inspected the items at hand, from the silver studs of her ears to the turned out lining of her pockets. Finally, Crow fished up a crumpled note from the tray, unraveling it delicately as she caught sight of the scribbled message.

Her brows knitted together upon reading the hasty scrawl. She turned to Sisila, suspicion and displeasure written clear on her face.

“Does this belong to her?”

Sisila blinked, peering up to the collection of miscellany and clothing. “It was found in her hand, Your Grace. Tightly grasped and purportedly difficult to remove, is it of any import?”

Crow scowled, a sneer twitched at the corner of her lip then subsided the next moment. She squeezed the note tight in the palm of her hand as she took those words she'd read to heart:

‘A favor for a favor. The engineer is gone; get rid of the paramour and you shall have the castrum before long.’

“More than one traitor is among us, it seems a belated collaborator wishes me dead.”

Sisila grew silent as the gravity of the situation sank in. It was one thing to sabotage the efforts of a legion, a serious crime in and of itself, but to plot the assassination of an imperial was tantamount to a death wish. 

Crow cradled the pistol left behind by the saboteur, unable to recognize the exact background and history of the weapon. It seemed old but her knowledge of specifics were vague at best. She carefully dislodge the cartridge and checked the ammunition count, finding the chamber empty.

“Summon that centurion, I want to know where this is from.”

Sisila nodded, running off in a hurry to do as she was bid. The princess was thus left alone in the silence of the facility, the absence of noise pressed against her ears like an oppressive blanket. Without much thought, she found herself trailing to the cold lockers and stopped at door fifteen, the number etched into the old metal. The hinges creaked as it swung open, the rolling joints of the container groaned louder still as Jodis jen Memtis came sliding out from the cramped little locker. Her pale body had naught but a paper sheet draped over to give her a modicum of modesty in death, her moistureless mouth slightly parted as she laid unmoving. Her face was relaxed, seemingly at peace despite her violent end. Above her browline, right where her temple began, was a small, dark hole where the bullet had made its ingress. What blood there was had been wiped away, yet there was still a thin crust dribbling into her hairline. Crow ran her finger along the dark streak, feeling the dryness of Jodis’ cold skin as she examined the woman with clinical detachment.

An amusing thought came to her then; she was at death’s door not two days ago, agonizing over her increasingly narrowing choices while Jodis, hale and healthy at her prime, worried over her. Now they’re here, with her standing over the medicus’ prone corpse. 

“Was it as painful for you as it was for me?” The princess whispered to the corpse, recalling the rending sensation of those darkening moments from years past. She’d taken so many lives yet never did it occur to her to ask this of those she’d tormented.

Jodis was not very forthcoming with her reply but Crow was hardly disappointed. She only hoped that she would not be left to languish like the poor maid when her time came once more.

Before long, Sisila returned with their sought-after man. He was of a height, having half a head over her when standing at attention. He does not salute as he would to Zenos or any other Legatus, instead offering an understated bow. His posture was graceful though unpracticed, familiar with the mannerisms of the aristocracy yet clumsy in his execution. It was little wonder that he did not oppose her claim to command, knowing of her from his time as a citizen from the capital.

How quaint — Crow thought as she cocked her chin at him, the motion not unlike the bird of her namesake.

“What is your name?” She asked, keen-eyed and with an amused quirk of her lips

He took his time to answer, unhelming himself to reveal a head of cropped silver-gray hair. Appearing as a clean-shaven man in his prime, likely just brushing past his middling twenties, he was fair of face and cut with a stern edge. Sharp, cupid lips and high cheeks lent him little affability at first glance, but his eyes reminded her pleasantly of peach skins and beige leather. Most notable of all were his ears, short yet pointed in tips, hinting at his mixed lineage.

“Sergius quo Lanatus, Your Grace.” 

He was curt, she noted. Without further delay, she pushed forward the pistol. He stepped closer to the steel table where the remnants of Jodis’ personal possession were laid out, taking up the weapon without further prompting.

“You’re aware of what this is, yes?” She pressed.

He nodded. “The tool of murder found at the scene.”

“Tell me the make and model.”

“It is of imperial origins, though I fear it has been long retired from production. I cannot fathom how it has made its way here as we do not carry such outdated stock.” He said as he checked the empty chamber and cocked it with ease.

“An heirloom, perhaps?” Sisila suggested.

“A standard-issued pistol is hardly worth passing on, especially when this particular model is prone to jamming.” Sergius scoffed. “I reckon it has not been well taken care of either.”

“Stolen then.” Crow concluded, drumming her fingers against the polished metal surface.

“Ostensibly,Your Grace.” The Centurion agreed. “From the times of the Dalmascan occupational war.”

“We have a rebel sympathizer in our midst.” She determined after a moment of deliberation. It seemed that Jodis’ death and the attempt on her life was but a detour in whatever was unfolding, while the perpetrator’s true goal was still yet to be discerned.

“Summon all personnel. From legionaries to custodians, gather everyone in an assembly. I shall find this brazen cur myself.” The princess ordered, pushing herself off the table and stalking from the room. The two officers naturally fell behind her without prompt, trailing her steps in decisive somberness.

Chapter 59

A gloom descended on Zenos and his legionaries, the oppressive air thick with the stink of rotten eggs and decay as they searched the dilapidated village’s perimeter. An invisible barrier had barred them from advancing with no feasible way round. By magick and malice, something was hellbent on keeping them here.

The men were unnerved by the inexplicable occurrence, both by their intimate proximity to the scattered remnants of the long-dead and their personal superstitions. At least for the time being, no man seemed prone to be infected with the same madness that had afflicted that first legionary.

“Perhaps we should clear out the remains and take shelter.” Proposed his second-in-command as he tore down the overgrown foliage that clung over a ramshackle hut.

Zenos slid his gaze down to the shorter man, his blade immediately lunging forth. The elezen flinched, anticipating a blade to his neck. To his relief and fright, the prince’ blade had struck true and pinned an eight-legged horror against the moisture-rotted wall. The arachnid was the size of his head, its four, black eyes glistening soulessly as its mandibles twitched forward to reach for them. White blood seeped over its ochre-spotted carapace as its mottled, clawed legs slackened, stubbornly taking its time to die.

“No, I think not.” The prince dislodged his weapon and flicked off the sticky entrails, the ambush predator dropping to their feet. “Retreat to the outskirts to make camp, we shall–”

His orders were cut short by several screams, followed by a collection of airy hisses. A man stumbled forth with a mottled horror clinging to his helmet, reaching blindly for aid. Zenos, disgruntled by the inconvenience and incompetence of his terror-struck men, stepped forward and bisected another of the offending creatures.

His decisiveness seemed to fortify their wits somewhat, following suit to help their fellows. An unfortunate few were bitten, however, their flesh turning necrotic even as the creatures attached to them were removed. Those cases were beyond the ability of any medicus, their anguish was slow and put many a man in distress. The delivered venom took a full half-bell to kill, their insides rupturing as blood streamed from every orifices. After the first case met his end, Zenos took the initiative to wet his blade with yet more blood. It was an act of mercy, the preferable end to the gruesome effects of those creature’s venoms. Yet still, his men turned to him with visible wariness in their eyes as he put their suffering fellows to the blade. Ten more men died in all as their losses continued to mount, and worse yet, they had nothing to show for progress.

Within the miasmic climes, even the campfires burned dimmer. The sodden wood hissed unpleasantly when tossed in, forcing soldiers to soak some damp kindling in ceruleum to keep the flames going. They settled as far as they could from the village, their backs against the all encompassing barrier. Men huddled together within the light’s proximity, afraid of what laid beyond the protective borders of their encampment. There were a little less than five hundred men that remained, but they were packed tightly together to ward off the chill and dangers in the foliages. When the rain came down, all crawled into the shelter of their tents. Four men each, they were squeezed tight like packed ration loaves. Still, no one had cause to complain, the companionship and security of shared presence brought them a measure of comfort in the malaise.

That was until the first man was dragged from his flimsy abode.

It was past midnight, at the halfway point between the witching hour and daybreak, Zenos was pulled from his fiery dreams by the clatter of bones and the lone yelp of a man.

He dragged the flap of his tent aside to see others coming to from the dredge of sleep. They climbed from their own tents in a clambering chaos as the first row of skeletal encroachers made themselves known. Under the gibbous moon, their ivory limbs shone yellow, stained by decades of dirt and old blood. They grasp a myriad of weapons they had once held, spear, swords and bows to beat back a defunct legion that no longer existed.

“To arms! Lock ranks, you fools!” The Pilus prior bellowed.

Zenos stepped out with his blade drawn, the elezen commander coming up to report. The legion as a whole was sluggish in response, caught unaware by this night ambush. 

“Your Grace!” He cried out as the din of battle hit, the first few shots of rifle fire booming across the narrow clearing.

The prince signaled for him to stay in command and the Pilus answered promptly in the affirmative. In quick gestures, Zenos bade the Pilus to keep the flank lines while he would lead a forward offensive to break through their foes’ ranks. Without further prompt, both men split from one another to lead.

The field was fog laden, a ruddy mist had settled into place with no wind for dispersal. Their enemies were shattered apart by sheer firepower, and seemed to pose little threat in the face of their vanguard. Enemies fell by rifle and bladed swings, Zenos and those accompanying him cleaving through the skeletal guards as though they were dried straw under the noon sun. Yet, for all their efforts, the enemy were unending, getting back up on their brittle legs as soon as they were felled. These undead had no will of their own, mindless in their relentless advance. They crashed past the prince's offensive and met against the flank guards, men cried out even as they fought, their wills tested by their fears of the supernatural.

It was one thing to clash against insurgents but none had expected to cross blades with specters of a past long extinguished. Skulls, femurs and spines were strewn about as the clash continued, lifted from where they landed to reform into a complete soldier by unseen, foul forces.

Casting about with sharp eyes, Zenos fended off attackers with swift parries and ripostes. He was the blade that swept through the field, carving a temporary passage for the legionaries that followed. Those that fell, bones, joints and all, were trampled to fine dust that could not be mustered for reanimation again. Yet in spite of their heaving charge, the opposing forces spewed forth like a gushing dam. The ambush had poured in from the northeast, a path that led straight into the heart of the dilapidated settlement. 

There, he was sure, was where they could put an end to this supernatural deluge. When the prince and the legionaries managed to cleave through the ranks of undead, they were rebuffed by a wall of fire that had inexplicably sprang up from the damp mud. From end to end, all forces had met against the ambush forces, the narrow battlefield had devolved into a scattered melee. Should it go on for any longer, what little morale and strength the legionaries had left would wane as the minutes ticked by. In no uncertain terms, they would be crushed under the pressure of attrition.

“Hold the line!” The distant yell of his second-in-command seemed the furthest thing. Yet with greatly mustered will, their ranks tightened against the onslaught.

The prince weighed his options for but a brief moment, his decision made between the time between one heartbeat to the next. The fight was holding for now, and time was a luxury no mortal here could afford. The hair-fine difference between consideration and hesitation, Zenos had concluded long ago, was the ability to decide without fear. Whether or not this was the right choice would be determined by his own deeds. Regardless, the time was nigh to do or die.

He dove through the curtain of fire, blade sweeping aside the fiery tongues as he cleared the heat. He landed with an efficient roll, snuffing out the smoldering embers clinging onto his sleeves and pressed forward into the settlement’s heart. There were bog-bodies awaiting on the other side, blackened by the damp mud, they were preserved to an unnerving degree. Their faces sagged with the weight of time and decay, emptied socks flattened shut by drooping lids. They silently shambled forward with rusted chopping blades and woodsman axes, clumsy jabs and swings easily turned aside as the prince made short work of them. They soon had no weapons to bear, reaching out and wailing as though they could stop him with their useless stumps.

When it seemed he would clear through the ghoulish barricade, the way was further obstructed as the shuffling undead were set aflame. They continued on toward him like mobile pyres, the searing heat burned brightly as it was fueled by the fleshly bog peat.

A shrill laugh sounded from just over yonder obstacles, its smug tone entirely feminine to his ears. The unfurling of dark, insectile wings caught his eyes even against the intensity of the flames, at their apex crowned a pair of impressively long horns. In the clawed arms of the fiend— he could not place its exact stripe with his cursory knowledge — clutched a young child close to its bosoms as it danced across the air.

They locked eyes, its searing red orbs turned to crescent slices as it lashed out with a clawed hand. The glob of fire hurled straight for him only to hiss against an unoccupied patch of mud, the attack too slow to catch the prince. Another followed in succession, and another still, sparing little room for him to resume his offensive. The big ghouls fell upon him only to be kicked aside, unable to get back up as their peated bodies were eaten away by the heat. Still, they were an effective hindrance as Zenos was forced to stay back from his true mark. He fell back into the shabby collection of huts and the fiery horde followed suit. The desolated homes went up easily in flames as his harriers were lured in, black pillars of smoke billowed up like the final funeral pyres for the wretched dead.

The voidsent casted about, weaving between the smoky towers to seek its mark. A glint caught its eyes, the shine of a blade giving away its enemy’s position. Nevertheless, by the time it'd realized where Zenos had been, it was too little too late. It scrambled in midair to flee the inevitable, the child in its arms still slumped against its shoulders, placidly and blissfully unaware.

The saber but clean into its wings, severing them entirely. The force of the blow sent it crashing to the mud beneath, yet it still clung onto its young passenger with reckless abandon. Zenos landed with a suppressed snarl, the delay had cost them much, possibly jeopardizing Valnain and thus, Crow as well.

The voidsent bore a woman’s visage, dragging itself across the ground despite its incapacitation. It was a pathetic sight, a creature so filled with arrogance before now appeared like an insect without its wings. It turned toward him as his shadow fell over the pair, clutching its contractor — he surmised — closer with some discernible motherly protectiveness.

It growled at him, snapping its pointed teeth at him in defiance. With a curt slash, Zenos took off its head before it could do anything more. The effect of its demise was immediate, the oppressive atmosphere lightened and in but a few moments, distant cheers could be heard as the legionaries were relieved from the struggles of battle. One by one, the straggles of the undead fell apart like puppets cut from their string. Without the magicks of this fiend holding them together they returned to the earth as dirt and bones.

The body of the voidsent too disintegrated into a pile of ebony ash, its cradling hold against its hostage still vaguely outlined as it crumbled. The child in question looked down dazedly upon what was left of the voidsent, cupping what had been its arm with dirt stained fingers. Then without ceremony, he began to cry.

Zenos entertained the thought of putting this waifish boy out from further misery, fingers squeezing the hilt of his blade in thought. The jungle would swallow him up like crocs gulping down a school of river fish — he'd be better off dead.

“Mother…” The prince heard through the blubbering tears. 

“Wake up, mother!” The waif gathered up the ashes, leaning down as though to embrace what was left of that thing in his trembling arms. “Please, please wake up.”

Zenos curled his lip in distaste, uncertain of what emotion had surged up within him upon witnessing this. He raised his hand, steel flashing, ready to put an end to this fateful mockery. 

And hesitated, finding his arm locked at its zenith.

The child continued sobbing, soot-stained hands pressed to his face. He was inconsolable and entirely unaware of the peril looming over him. The moment swept him away like a tidal pool and Zenos was then pulled back to that bedroom of his childhood, the dulled golden tresses of his mother spread like a death veil across her slackened face. 

His teeth clenched at the unpleasant recollection, bile building in his throat. 

A loud, cracking bang snapped him from his paralysis, and the boy before him slumped forward — dead. The back of his unkempt head bearing a bleeding hole, one which took Zenos a numbingly long time to register. A simultaneous flare of fury and uncoiled relief sprang from within him in a conflicting clash, rendering him stock-still as his mind reeled from the scene.

“Well! That's the end of that.” The irreverent scoff filtered through the royal blue helmet as Nerva stepped close, his handgonne still smoking. “Even the juveniles are a bloody pain.”

Zenos whirled and strode up to his first cousin, his hand immediately snatching up the fabric peeking above Nerva’s throat guard. The younger prince, typically tacit and inscrutable, had a cold, stricken expression on his face. His blue eyes flashing with the promise of untold violence.

“It's only a child, you'll have others to whet your appetite. Moreover, you should thank me for coming out here.” The Legatus of the IIIrd said smugly despite being forced to stand nearly on his toes. “Nael would not cease his yapping, telling me to meet you halfway since you were late.” 

He went on to claim the noble role of providing reinforcement, crowing about how hard he and his men have had it going against the insurgents without Zenos to drag them into more trouble. Nevermind the fact that he only came after the battle was nearly done. Zenos, lips thinned and wroth-pale, shoved his eldest first cousin to the ground and stalked off back to the settlement’s outskirts where his men awaited. He casted off the brief thrum of that unnameable distress; there was no time left to waste on such frivolity.

Chapter 60

Another earth-quaking explosion sounded in the far distance, the groans of metal and men blending together in a low, miring cacophony. Mud and rocks sluiced past the sandbags and fell into the shallow trenches. Each wall was only hip-deep, allowing cover from bullets and arrows only when one crouched low. It was the best they could do when one considered the uneven terrain, choking with thick roots and the ungovernable monsoon rain.

The insurgents had somehow commandeered half a dozen reapers, left behind by the IIIrd legion after a hasty retreat, and repurposed them into stationary cannons. It was how they were holding their line so well against the combined forces of the two legions. They knew the land far better than their foes and, flushed with a cache of stolen armaments, dug themselves in like a colony of ticks upon soft hide.

“Emperor’s bloody stools, can't they wait until sun up?” Nerva swore under his breath, knocking back another swig of unwatered wine. 

He hardly slept, a bottle of vintage in hand as he was forced to sit and listen to his stripling-cousin and the disgraced Legatus drone on about battle plans and potential routes to break the siege.

His side comment earned him a glare from both men though he was far too deep in his cups to care. Nerva slumped against the back of his seat, their contempt mirrored on his face.

“T’is a lost cause! A third of our men–” he hiccuped, then sniffed crudely. “They're dead ‘is what I'm sayin’.”

His correction earned little amnesty for his slovenly conduct. It was embarrassing for all in attendance, which fortunately were only Nael, Zenos and him.

“Morale is already abysmal, must you add to that tipping scale as well?” The Legatus of the VIIth hissed with acrid venom. 

The past week had also taken their toll on him, his usual decorums were left by the wayside for the slattern prince. He was markedly more prickly, prone to muttering to himself for an extended bell or two. More than once Zenos had spotted him seeking a prescription of quaaludes for succor. Legatus Darnus was a man who was held together by little more than thinning nerves and desperate fervor. The state of leadership reflected upon those beneath them, such was the adage. Now more than ever he found that wisdom to be painfully true.

The legionaries who did not have the luck to be killed in battle were carted back to camp screaming. Their bloody stumps bled like unstoppered fountains all and their screams played a frightening symphony for those held in reserve. Moreover, should they survive the medicus’ surgical table, they still had to contend with the deplorable conditions of the physick’s tent. The large, muddied awning had its flaps left open for ventilation, welcomed in flies and mosquitoes like guests to a banquet. Disease spread like fire and there was hardly enough medicine to last them another fortnight. Even now, no hands were free from the medical duties as they grappled with a surge of dysentery and blood-rot fever. Hardened legionaries who'd seen a decade of conquest and hardships stumbled from the tent retching after their shifts, unable to stomach the raw suffering within.

Zenos himself had to hold a man down as his shrapnel-blasted leg was sawed off. The blood and the shrieking he did not mind so much, but the unspeakable stench of death and dreadful malaise was something he did not wish to linger around for long. Crow, he mused, would likely find herself quite at home here — or at least the morbid creature she kept would, if nothing else.

The prince glanced over to Nerva, now blessedly silent and dozing on his chair in a stupor, and exhaled dryly. He would give his left arm to have her here instead of this useless layabout. They could have washed their hands of this mess in half the time had she been allowed leave to join on this expedition. They would've planned this in meticulous detail together, tearing out the insurgents by the root before they could plant themselves in this deeply.

He kneaded his temple in an attempt to smooth out the bundle of building pain. The discussion had long since died out, even Nael had sunk into his seat in silence and exhaustion. His singular comfort in these disappointing moments were his inward visions of her drawn from memory.

She liked underhanded tactics that dug into enemy weak points, knowing where it would hurt most as she twisted the dagger in. He knew because he’d taught her such tactics himself over the gleaming, pieces-lined face of a Ludus board. Combined with her disposition toward the carmine, she could've elevated the sordid chore of war and slaughter into a refined artform.

His contemplations meandered along that philosophy, trailing over the detailed map of the immediate landscape. He imagined her beside him, crack wit and trenchant ideas abound. Her finger would trace over the map and his tired eyes would follow. It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at, the raised scrawl depicting a small, no-named mountain. The area was considered too dangerous to approach as it lay to the rightmost rear of where the insurgents had based themselves. Nael did not wish to divide their forces, a point of contention between Zenos and him, and Nerva had foolishly concurred in an attempt to curry favor. That decision that had so far cost them quite steeply. If nothing else was done to staunch this loss of men and resources, they would be facing total defeat very soon.

An idea sprang to him then, one that would deliver them from this stalemate and give them a crushing advantage. He envisioned the admiring spark in her eyes at his plan as she would spring from her seat in anticipation, the notion at once amusing and encouraging.

 As far as he knew, they possessed a fair amount of explosives themselves, a little more than what the opposing forces held, if not the same. However, they were under no reservation to save the supply for another target unlike their counterpart.

A landslide? You knave! — Zenos could veritably hear the delight in her voice, sweetly embellished by his sleep deprived mind.

The prince tapped his finger against the rickety table, running his hand down his face. The headaches were worsened by his lack of rest, a dull pounding haunting him even in his delirium. 

“Wake up, gentlemen.” Zenos drawled with unrestrained disdain, the edge of his impatience sharpened by weariness, and waited until at least Nael stirred to alertness. “I've a plan.”

****

If the insurgents would fight for their land, then they would be glad to die by it — thus was the proposal. A cell of five would be sent out, a scout, three legionaries and Zenos himself. When asked to pick someone else to lead the operation, the prince bluntly questioned if Nael would trust any other officer could be spared. Much to his chagrin, the Legatus found himself left wanting for an answer. Any who were capable were now maimed or already stationed in the frontlines. It was indeed risky to venture, they would have to skirt the edge of no-man’s land and slip deep into enemy territory. The strip of narrow land between the imperial legions and the insurgency was reduced to smoking mud and blown limbs from battle the week before. Tappers had tried to infiltrate camp three days previous as well, though their efforts were well met with a nasty series of buried mines. Needless to say, they'd no discernable bodies to identify, let alone prisoners to take.

Any movements, even a dim light lit by a torch, would be met by a poison-tipped arrow. The Nagxian do not miss — as the legionaries had oft said while they lay dying. The consensus forced a begrudging respect upon them after twenty of their men were killed by a flaming shaft. The exposed canisters of ceruleum were a double edged sword as their source of fuel went off easily at the spark of a match. The supply in the frontline had to be replenished as the fires raged, only put out by a downpour a bell after.

They were forced to deal with such significant loss of resources, and all it’d cost those jungle savages was one singular arrow.

“For your sake, I cannot allow you leave to disembark on such a suicidal mission.” Nael pressed his protest as he leaned on his palms. The Legatus stood at the head of the table between Zenos and the insensible Nerva, shaking his head as he scanned over the prescribed route.

He was already disgraced by the measure of the capital, forced to be a lowly overseer of an unscrupulous, seaside shantytown. If he let anything happen to these royals, he'd be plunged to the depths beyond any measure of redemption. House Darnus would forever go down as ignoble nothing's alongside the likes of those fractious Lanatuses, and his tomb would be Valnain itself.

“Have faith, my lord Legatus, I will not die here.” The prince rolled a gleaming signet ring in his palm, watching the wan afternoon light bounce off its pristine band. “I've made a promise I cannot renege, you see.”

“I need something more tangible than mere belief and promises, Your Grace.” Nael answered, unconvinced by the royal's nonchalance. Prodigy or not, he hadn't the proper experience to conduct nuanced tasks such as reconnaissance and sabotage. So far from command, there was no guarantee that he might even make it to the designated mountain side.

Zenos glanced surreptitiously at the drunkard perched across the table before continuing. “As tangible as the verbal agreement you made with the First Princess?”

Nael stiffened.

There was a slyness in this Legatus that was almost admirable, Zenos found. More than anything, however, he found his fingers itching to wrap around Nael’s throat. He had dealt with Crow to pursue his own agenda but stubbornly held on to the supposed neutrality between the two main royal camps. This was not clever duplicity but sheer cravenness as he struggled to cling into the last vestiges of his reputation.

The two authorities, one disgraced and the other still coming into his own, stood their ground as they silently contend with one another. The prince, though still nascent in his power, had inherited the steely will of his great grandfather. Nael was backed to a corner, with no plan for a counter proposal and the potential of defeat looming, balled up his fist in frustration. Everything hinged on the elimination of the Nagxian insurgency, the road before him was forked and almost fraught with peril. Put the prince in the path of danger and watch himself fall further from the path of redemption, or be run over by the anarchists who were now knocking at their doorsteps. He was still suffering from the aftermath of the Bozja Incident, his legion stripped down to its bones and his family name left in ruin. 

And that faint calling from across the sea that gnawed at his insides, irresistible and unrelenting.

The empty bottle of vintage slipped from Nerva’s grasp and fell to the dirt, its sharp shattering did not even stir the drunkard prince. As much as Nael was loath to admit, the imperiously headstrong Zenos seemed to have been the only ones to have inherited the old emperor’s implacable fortitude and cunning. The smallest glimmer of potential resolution to this wretched rebellion forced him to concede. 

“Do as you will then.” Nael gritted his teeth with contempt, his pride lay trampled before him as he said. “Take a scout and a small squadron, and as much supply as we can spare shall be allotted.”

Little words were exchanged between them thereafter as Zenos and his chosen few slipped into the treeline. No love was lost, no farewells left unsaid, the younger prince was out of the legions’ base camp before Nerva could even come to

Notes:

The difficult mechanic called school has been resolved for now, thank you for your patience ♥

Chapter 61

It needed not be stressed that stealth and subtlety was an absolute necessity on this excursion. They had to avoid detection at any and all cost, silencing any stray insurgents would only put them in high alert. Leaving a trail of dead men would only expose them all the sooner. It would not be out of the ordinary to abandon a soldier as a scapegoat to ensure the success of the mission. A cruel step to take, but Zenos was willing to do much to draw the curtain on this tiresome affair.

He glanced briefly over the four heads that now accompanied him and accounted for them with a quick count. A bearded lalafellin scout, two hyuran hoplites and a miqo'te sharpshooter. Their names mattered not a wit to him, only what they brought to the table with their skills. The party was a day into their trek, halfway to the marked site, and were now evading a pack of enemy patrolmen. A wide berth was given to the battlefield, yet the Nagxians proved to be as paranoid as hunted animals. They were thorough as well, circling back with a route differing from their first, then once against for good measure. 

His scout covered their tracks retroactively, yet the insurgents still lingered. Zenos and company were forced to remain hidden, laying flat on their bellies atop a ravine cliff. The vegetation was thick and kept them out of sight, but the creatures lurking in the underbrush were no laughing matter.

A sinuous scuttle slid over the sharpshooter’s shoulder, the whites of his eyes visible to the prince as they bulged in alarm. He watched as the fool plucked the thing from his collar and flicked it some distance into the ravine, the thing was the size of a finger and forebodingly striped in yellow and red. Its landing disturbed the blades of hip-high ferns causing the casual murmurs beneath them to cease all at once. The bird calls were gone as well with silence ballooning into their ears. The deafening quiet was broken by the snap of a taut string and Zenos immediately kicked the miqo’te aside. 

Not split second later, a shaft of arrow sprouted where the sharpshooter had once occupied. Without a shadow of a doubt, they all knew then that they'd been discovered.

Not a word was uttered, the insurgents dispersed through the overgrown glade. Razor grass and spotted ferns whispered in hushed rustles as the Nagxians slinked speedily through them. Their dark, flaxen trousers and mud-smeared skin served as excellent camouflage against the jungle’s darkening gloom. They were armed with long cleavers and short recurve bows, designed to be fired in close range with bone-puncturing power. They were in their element here as formidable stealth fighters.

 Zenos and his men got to their feet posthaste, closing ranks as they found themselves outnumbered two to one. The dimming skies made following the enemy’s movements difficult, but the prince could track them just as well by ear. They were quiet but they were men all the same, their breaths and presence surrounding them like a circle of leaves-shrouded shadows.

As one, the insurgents rushed in with their blades drawn, aiming to kill in one strike. The hoplites parried with all their might, alas, the miqo'te sharpshooter cried out as he was run through. The curved, broad blade had entered and exited his lithe frame with ease, his rifle rolling from his loosening grip. The scout was nowhere to be seen, but perhaps it was for the best considering the situation.

Zenos overwhelmed two men with a wide slash of his saber, cutting the recalcitrant lot down. Before the attackers engaged against the hoplites could react, he unsheathed a dagger from his hip and buried it into another’s throat. Hot blood coated his fingers as he pulled the steel back, spinning in place to split an arrow down from mid-flight. The hoplites soon recovered and now worked in tandem to cover for each other. They kept on the defensive, preventing any more opportunities for arrow-fire, as Zenos led the offense. He fought with dagger and saber each in a hand, mercilessly sinking steel into flesh as his weapons found their marks easily. The Nagxian insurgents were quick and dexterous but they bore no armor and their swordsmanship were unrefined, their cunning tactics meant to quickly end their foes before a true battle could be had.

So accustomed were they to the clumsy blundering of the average armored legionaries that the prodigy prince’s finesse blindsided them. Compared to those who served him, he was adorned lightly with breastplate, vambraces and leg guards. His speed was almost blinding as he efficiently slid his blades into the soft bellies and unguarded throats of his foes. Narrowly, like a lunging viper, he slipped past a zipping arrow as it cut through the air. Strands of honey-dark locks sliced through by the poison-tipped head, just barely unable to graze the skin of his cheekbone by the tiniest of margins.

Blue eyes flashed as he slid his blade into the man’s mouth, the blade clearing through the back of his head in one violent stroke. The last Nagxian patrol slammed into the lichen-covered trunk, impaled by the head against the tree. The pitiable wretch writhed briefly like a hooked worm, his fingers cutting against the blades’ razor edge as he struggled in futile animal panic. Zenos gave a low, singular grunt as he pulled his saber out, the body falling to the jungle floor in a limp pile.

Ten insurgents fell in less than a bell, and it'd only cost them one man. The loss was acceptable but they now have less time to do what needed to be done. The prince knelt and patted the corpse down, his mind already leaping to the few next steps necessary to keep things moving as he unraveled a small map from the dead clod’s pocket.

He folded the scrap of paper and gave the area a once over, suddenly spying the lalafellin scout half hidden in the foliage above their heads.

“You.” He barked, jolting the diminutive man from his stunned spectatorship. “There is a cave nearby, correct?” 

The scout gave a thick swallow before nodding. “Yes, Y-Your Grace. F-Five minutes due north.”

He rounded on the hoplites. “Move the bodies. Toss them in, then we move.”

They need to diminish evidence of their trespassing to buy as much time as possible. The hyuran hoplite pair struck an obedient salute and got to work as the scout ambled his way back down to the ground. 

“Clean up our tracks, leave nothing behind.” Zenos said to the tremulous lalafellin as he wiped the blood from his blade. The motion was perfunctory and uncaring, his focus was entirely placed on the work ahead even after his ruthless excising of the enemy patrols.

“Y-Yes, Your Grace, right away.” The scout saluted in ill-form and began his work as far away from the prince as he possibly could be.

****

The sun was incandescent in the sky when the summon was issued, a rare moment of warmth in between the gloomy bouts of rain and thunder. Yet for all its brightness, the air dragged against any and all forms, moisture still dripping from the walls and edifices of the elevated castrum complex. Legionaries gathered in organized rows in the expansive courtyard, boots scraping as they lined themselves before the wide steps beneath the looming portico.

Asahi did not know why this assemblage  was called for, but he suspected that it might be his errant royal charge’s attempt at holding court. He loathed to go but not showing his face was tantamount to insubordination — an offense punishable by a dozen lashes. Alas, there was more than just his unwillingness that held him back. The cool metal of the blade dug into the soft skin of his jugular, accosting him as he was on his way to the courtyard like everybody else. It only took him a brief moment to realize he'd been unlucky enough to run into his erstwhile co-conspirator. Worse yet, the fool hadn't even managed to do any significant damage to the previously dying princess. 

How hard was it to kill an already bedridden invalid?

“Walk.” A gruff voice commanded.

Asahi recognized its gruff cadence, the very same that had belonged to that lumbering Tesserarius. The roegadyn telecommunication officer was the one who'd been running amok in the castrum. It seemed his encounter with the First Princess had pressed him hard as he now bore nothing of the nonchalance he'd once displayed.

“They'll find you once they take everyone into account, you know.” The Doman sneered. There was no need to disclose who he was or what his intention had been. As far as anyone was concerned, their incidental collaboration might as well have never happened.

“Shut your mouth and double your steps.” The thick hand that was clamped on Asahi’s shoulder gave a hard squeeze, the dagger’s edge pressing harder against his neck.

Down the corridor they went, a dimly lit back channel that had once served as the servant’s passage. It encircled the castrum, predating the Garlean overhaul after Valnain’s occupation. These halls were not unknown to the legionaries, in fact, far from it as it was sometimes used for illicit assignations between lovers. Although not explicitly forbidden, romantic endeavors were severely frowned upon in most legions, it was perhaps why the brazen displays of prince Zenos and his petulant paramour had caught so many by storm. It was all rather childish, if Asahi had to be blunt.

He was dragged before the armory, the largest sector after the engineering bay. The clod wanted the code to the weapons, he realized as he was shoved against the wall panel.

“Open it.” Came the curt demand.

“What exactly do you intend to do?” Asahi asked as he punched in the numbers, body warily half turned even as the large blade warmed against his skin.

 His compliance was rewarded with a dagger hilt to the back of his head, the blunt force delivered felt as though it could crack through his skull. Limp as a sack of popoto, he fell gracelessly to the ground, knocked senseless by his captor. His insensible self was then roughly dragged to a nearby utility closet, kicked in by a thick-soled boot and shut in without further regard.

The armory door slid open smoothly to admit the traitorous Tesserarius, not a witness in sight to interfere with his machinations.

Chapter 62

Nobody quite matched the picture she had in mind. There was only one other roegadyn present, but this particular individual was a woman of clay-red complexion. The man whom she'd been trying to pick out was the color of mildew and heavyset, his pale gray jacket was that of a telecommunication officer. 

Crow watched on, subtly nodding down to Sisila. She silently cursed herself for only just remembering this last detail. “Sisila, are there any roegadyns under your employ?”

The lalafell nodded as she maintained the appearance of being at attention. “Only one, Your Grace. A Tesserarius named Rhonwys — is he pertinent?”

They were stationed behind Sergius as he addressed the gathered assembly, updating those who were tasked to stay behind with news of the expedition. Before communications became difficult news came in that the legions beyond the city were locked in a battle of attrition against the seditious insurgents. Their return, though inevitable, would be delayed by a fortnight. Crow already knew this of course thanks to Sisila’s diligent updates, still her anxiousness refused to be quelled.

The Centurion’s commanding voice was gripping as he delivered the short missive. He had clearly inherited the impressive height common to elezen male, his tall figure drawing the attention of those who stood below the portico’s shallow steps. 

“And now, addressing you all will be Her Imperial Grace, the First Princess.” He lowered his head toward Crow, palm pressed to his chest.

She stepped up, feeling smaller than she truly was. Her stature had grown by a handful of ilms over the half-year that they'd been here, yet she still preferred to live in the comfort of Zenos’ shadow. She liked that he was always there to soak up attention, his pedigree and natural talents never failing to put the masses at awe. Nevertheless as a member of royalty, she was taught from birth to uphold the standard of excellence when it came to presenting herself. On her lips a regal smile and her poise was proud yet inviting, a suitable mask to don for any occasions, be it before friend or foe.

But this, she'd never been quite settled before a large crowd. These legionaries gazed up at her with slow, stunned acceptance, that the girl who’d weaved between them at the prince’s coat tails might also be someone of importance. First Princess — the title might bear some sort of weight here to the common provincials, this place was worlds apart from the intransigent political scene of the capital.

“I greet you, good men and women of the empire.” Crow squared her shoulders and hid the slight tremors of her fingers behind her back. It mattered not whether they were citizens or otherwise, with less than two hundred pairs of hands available, they would need every abled body to see through whatever was unfolding.

“It pains me to inform you of the passing of an engineer and our remaining medicus, both done in through foul play.” She traced along the length of the stair with her steps, pacing from left to right as she scanned the rows of soldiers. “Their loss was grievous and we shall see to it that this perpetrator is caught and punished for their heinous crime. Furthermore, be aware that the suspect is a male roegadyn of notable heft, pale in complexion and formerly a telecommunication officer.”

A strained murmur rose among the ranks of what should have been disciplined soldiers. None who had counted themselves lucky to be chosen to stay behind seemed pleased by the ominous turn of events. They had likely expected things to carry on as per the norm, the day-to-day operation was minimal and lightweight compared to when the castrum was flushed with legionaries and personnel.

“Attention!” Sergius stepped in with an apprehending bellow.

Crow gripped her wrist to still the thrum of her own nerves, bading herself to pause as she awaited for the next moment of silence. The Centurion’s sharpness was commendable, he was able to anticipate her needs before she would lift a finger herself to rein in the rabble. Her station and dignity would have been undermined had she been required to raise her voice over their nervous mutterings.

Imperial training, instilled deeply into these conscripted men and women, kicked in and they stood straight-backed. They issued no further noise as their heads snapped to the fore once more.

“It needn't be said but refrain from going about alone and report all suspicious activities to…” her brows knitted together as a dark mass stomped into view from between the pillars.

Even across the generous expanse of cobblestone and carved stone columns, she could somewhat make out the large, ungainly shape of a magitek reaper. Its core was exposed as it charged up a shot and all Crow could manage was to turn from clear view and flee from its crosshair.

“Get down!” Sergius roared as he lunged, tackling the princess to the stone.

Her chin scraped hard against the rough, porous surface, nearly biting off her own tongue as the rest of her body slammed down painfully.

“Take cover!” His commanding bellow boomed in her ears yet it was engulfed a split second later by a deafening explosion.

The blast sent a wave of heat and dust rippling through the courtyard, the portico’s supporting pillars and its subsequent wall crumbling at the devastating attack. Crow’s ears rang even as she was dragged by the arm, fleeing for the larboard of the compound. She reared back, squinting against the opaque plumes of masonry dust and chunks of crumbling debris. Blood was pooling beneath them, men and women wailing their plights as they were pinned beneath immovable weights. Bodies were strewn about like dolls of her childhood, broken and beyond fixing. Those who were fortunate enough to still be among the living could barely make sense of what had just happened, their mouths full of ash and barely able to stumble from the scene.

She was sharply guided further into their retreat, Sergius clutching his side as he towed her along.

“We have to go, Your Grace.”

Crow allowed herself to be led, mind still reeling from being blindsided. They hid themselves in an alcove where a series of supply rooms were lined in a neat row.

“What in the bloody emperor’s name is happening?” The Centurion hissed under his breath.

“I believe we've found our saboteur.” The princess sighed, a trickle of warmth sliding down her bitten lip and gashed chin. She wiped away at it, finding that the cuts had already closed up. “He got the jump on us, a brazen and hasty move.”

“Tsk, it certainly worked out in his favor.” Sergius scoffs and leaned against the cool wall, tenderly feeling at his ribs for signs of breakage. 

“He's only a Tesserarius, one could only guess which fool gave him access to the weaponry.” Crow clutched her head and squeezed her eyes shut, it was as though there were hornets running amok inside her skull.

“We must regroup and muster a force to defend ourselves — arrest him alive for interrogation.” His words came out in laborious effort, wincing in intervals as he drew in a sharp breath.

“Alive? I want to see that man’s head on a platter for what he’s doing.” Crow bared her teeth, sliding a glare to the now-ruined courtyard.

“Never thought you could be so bloodyminded — being a delicate princess and all.” He shot her a lopsided smirk, irreverent in his pain.

Crow closed the distance between them in two steps, her hand sliding in to clamp around his throat. She dragged him up to a straightened stance against the alcove’s wall, her gaze sank into like needles as he felt her nails bite into his jaw. The moment passed sluggishly as Sergius felt himself grow unnerved by her unyielding grip, he had more than a full head over her and yet found himself akin to a specimen destined to be dissected.

“Savior or not, I shall not endure such disrespect.” She warned quietly, her face a mask of rigid irritation.

The lump at his throat bobbed against her palm as he swallowed. Sergius shut his eyes and, with pliant obeisance, said. “Forgive me, I forget myself at times, Your Grace.”

Crow lingered for a moment as his pulse thrummed quickly against her hand, narrowing her eyes and frowning as she drew back. Relinquishing her hold on the Centurion, she crossed her arms and remarked. “Very good, let us proceed then.”

Sergius’ heels met the concrete as he was released, casting a wary glance to the imperial princess as she brushed past him. She was deceptively strong, perhaps preternaturally so. It was difficult to fathom that such brutish capacity was contained in her sleek frame. He shook his head, massaging his abused neck with a hand as he stood awkwardly to spare himself further pain. 

“There are back channels that we may use to circumvent our troubles.” he answered, righting himself as he readjusted to walk.

Just then, before any further determinations could be discussed, a sharp pitch of feedback resounded through the open air to snag at their attention. 

“Hear me, imperial whoresons! Attention!!” The coarse shout of their terrorist flood through the space, crackling through the conal speakers of the castrum.

Crow sucked on her lower lip as her face twisted into a restrained snarl. His cadence was smug and imperious, dripping with hatred that bordered on fanaticism as he made his announcement. 

“This blighted castrum is rigged with incendiaries from within, try anything and we all shall go up together in flames!” 

More good news, of course. It seemed only appropriate that they would leap from the pan and into the fire, Crow thought with a sardonic bite. Next to her, Sergius grunted a low curse under his breath.

“My first demand — I want the Centurion captured and bound before me! Secondly, all of you, regardless of injury, shall assemble by sundown without arms lest you want to reduce this castrum to ash and torn bricks!”

“How flattering.” Said wanted man supposed with chagrin.

“He wants to use the survivors as leverage.” Crow thought aloud. The fool could not hold his position indefinitely, his was a threat that would easily be dismantled given time. “Or he's stalling for reinforcement.”

“Tardiness accounted, he is ignorant of the expedition’s delay.” Sergius nodded, tentatively straightening himself. “But likewise in ignorance, we know not of the troop movement beyond the city – the castrum even. We're effectively blind as moles here.”

They slinked through the shadowed hall, briskly rushing to check on the pilfered armory. Windowless recesses were augmented with metal panels, protecting and concealing the pipes and wiring that ran throughout the complex. She spotted the access console and made for it quickly, eager to arm those who yet lived to retake castrum Valnaini. All at once, however, she was pulled back by a sharp yank at her arm. She scowled and turned on Sergius for his impudence, catching the pulsing eye of an armed mine at her calf line. Her anger sputtered to a halt as she followed his eyes, registering the active explosives that surreptitiously flanked their path. For a full six fulms ahead, the corridor was lined with them. The sensor lines zigzagged and overlapped like a tangle web, allowing little to pass between them without being set off.

The vile cur was, she supposed, less of a fool than they'd thought. He'd made sure to discourage anyone from fighting back, laying traps atop what he couldn't use or carry.

“One wrong move and we won't be seeing sundown.” He remarked, eyes darting about to count the armed mines. “It would take awhile to deactivate them, and we're unfortunately short on time.”

The princess breathed a laugh, reaching down and slipping out the dagger concealed against her boot’s velvet lining. “Now why would we need to do such a thing?”

The portal, dark and foreboding, opened with a warm, liquid slash of Crow’s blade. Sergius swallowed, astonished by the display of her unnatural magicks. The dark art was, for the most part, outlawed in most territories and allowed to only sanctioned thaumaturge's. For certain, he'd seen such practices, his silver brows had once nearly been singed off by a levin strike delivered from a malm away.

This, whatever it was, filled him with a dread too foreign to deny.

“Don't dawdle, come.” She bade him brusquely, already half submerged in the dark vertical depth. 

Sergius swallowed his trepidation, his pains momentarily forgotten and his eyes tightly shut. Stomach sinking to his bowels, he entered the lukewarm murk.

Chapter 63

Slick mud slid down Zenos’ boots as he and three others slogged through the muck. The rain cascaded down upon them in a sheer curtain of liquid, each drop almost like a bullet as it pelted against their skin and materiel. This downpour was cold, however, as they made their ascent, nothing like the tepid drip below the foothills.

A sharp hiss cut through the sheeted rain, the fletched arrow missing the lalafellin scout like a head. This weather was both a boon and a curse for them, the general low visibility making it difficult for their pursuers to track them. At the same time, navigation became a difficult endeavor thanks to the slipping mud and gushing slopes. The impressive amount of precipitation alone formed several small waterfalls to form above them, pushing loose dirt down upon their heads as though the mountain itself was trying its best to dislodge them.

The prince was a bulwark for the scout, clearing the way with his seemingly unending strength. Branches broke beneath his boots, stones shucked into place so that others may find easier footholds. The hoplites pair held their own well enough, their strong limbs standing against the heave of debris better than their more agile but light counterpart. 

They climbed up the steep incline without rest, their attempt to delay discovery had only bought them a few hours at most. They were almost to where they needed to be, evading errant arrow-fire and searchlights under the cover of night. Zenos motioned at the hoplites to pass him, then roughly kicked a boulder loose. The move was deliberate and calculated, its initial plunging bounce seemed to herald a devastating chain reaction. The ground beneath their feet veritably shook as rocks and dirt tumbled down in a free fall. They stood pressed against an ancient network of entwined roots, pale with fear for their own safety. The scout prayed silently to any divinity above to not let the giant tree above come barreling down to end them all. Some distance below, wails of panicked men mixed into the roar of the deluge of rain, their end coming to meet them in the form of a terrible landslide.

The prince strained against the packed dirt behind them, feeling the tree roots becoming undone despite his gargantuan efforts to push against the tide. Debris rained across his shoulders, his once golden hair streaked with mud and dark with rain. The gnarled bark and roots bit into his back as it alone held back their doom, heels dug into the sluicing gravel and roots to uphold the meager wall they had. The hoplites contributed what they could, every onze of support squeezed to the very limit. The quaking, hollow road of the landslide filled their ears, rendering them nearly deaf to everything else.

The gods themselves could not have held up the world better. Zenos clenched his jaws and bore the brunt of the disaster, eyes focused forward in wordless endurance. A mere ten seconds had elapsed from beginning to end since he'd begun that collapse, the longest moments where his limbs burned and his back groaned for cessation.

Rain dripped down his jaw, slipping down bowed lips to mix with the dirt and sweat as all fell to quiet. He balled his fist to quiet the creaking of his bones, finally straightening to dislodge himself from the precariously posed cliff. Yet there was still distance to cover before the determined detonation point. 

“Keep moving.” He commanded brusquely, eyes focused on the path ahead.

Now with the issue of their pursuers put to rest the scout scampered ahead on quick footed surety, his leathers flaking off rainwater as he wove through the drooping foliage. The hoplites looked at one another, breaths heavy as they wrenched themselves up to follow. The skies lightened into a bruised gray as the storm lifted, dawn shifted weakly through the dark clouds to shine over a score of dead Nagxian rebels. Broken bodies jutting from the dredge of earth and peat, put to rest by the very land they sought to reclaim from the empire’s grasp. None would feel the warmth of the sun again, their graves were shallow and their headstones the very boulders that crushed them. There were no eulogies nor mourners, only the plaintive cry of indifferent carrions coming for their next meal.

The cloying heat resumed its hold on the jungle as the sun reached its zenith, its constant lashing rays were not unlike fist of a harsh drill master. Yet before long, through cutting thickets and up perilous cliff faces, they finally found themselves at the designated point. Jagged, toppled trees laid slanted against some recent uprooting, branches stripped bare of any greenery as they rose from the dark, soggy soil. These were indeed dangerous grounds to be in for an extended period of time, so prone were these inclines to upheavals.

The prince began to dig as his cohorts unloaded the satchel of dynamites, readying them into bundles to be planted down the mountain slope. From this height, even through the endless rows of trees, they could see the faint streams of smoke that rose from the Nagxian insurgents’ camps. There were fewer of them than expected, many felled by the hands of the White Raven and his VIIth legion. Hounded as they were, however, they still fought on against imperial rule as dissident fringe militias. It was confounding that they’d managed to fend off total annihilation for this long, truly a statement of the combined legions’ inefficiencies and the rebels’ own tenacity.

Zenos glanced down to the sloping valley, blue eyes filled with detached contempt. They were as ants to him, obstacles to be eliminated to clear a path for him and his own. If they were to stand in the way of their vision, then let them be exterminated.

“Prepare the signal once this detonates, the legions will commit to a full frontal assault once the flare is fired.” He instructed the scout, tossing the scarlet cylinder to the lalafellin.

The small man fumbled for a moment, the prince’s direct regard unnerved him more than any beast of these lands. “Aye, Y-Your Grace.”

At his signal, a firm wave and a nod, one of the hoplites lit up the blasting cap on a paper-wrapped cylinder and tossed it into an uncovered hole. The prince walked briskly as his men ran towards safety, and by the time he was twenty fulms away, a world-shaking blast shook the vicinity. Thus began the end for Nagxian rebellion, their very own homeland coming down to greet them with open arms. Part of the mountain itself opened like the maw of a beast, spewing its bile of rocks and mud down to those who’d lived and died here for generations. The irony was not lost on Zenos though he spared only but a momentary consideration to that line of thought.

An incandescent bloom of red zipped up from the treeline the same time as when the mountain descended on the rebel forces. Nael had been waiting with bated breath for the last two days for this, drawing in a sharp breath as he relished the prince’s success.

“They did it.” Beside the White Raven, Nerva remarked in audible surprise.

“Foward! Break their lines!” Nael’s command was relayed through the amplifiers of the reaper he rode on, the first of the artillery fire decimating the vanguard of the enemy.

It was an all-in frontal assault, one of the two pinching forces laying waste to the rebellion. Fire rained from the sky from the twin assault crafts that flew overhead, throwing the enemy into disarray. The shockwave of the rearward landslide was felt beneath their feet, the earth coming to swallow the rebels from behind and the flames of progress consumed them in the fore. There were many who leapt into the rushing river to quell the flames that snapped at them, trying to swim away only to be gunned down by imperial troops. It was a veritable massacre once their reinforcements were snuffed out, what was once a force that numbers over six thousands were quashed by the legions that made up only half of their numbers.

In less than twenty-four hours, the insurgency was in the final arc of its death throes, fractured beyond the point of salvation as their ranks broke against the onslaught. Men, women and even children were put to the blade without trial, Nael’s merciless hand showing little patience for the tedium of bureaucracy, and Nerva having little interest in the fates of jungle-dwelling savages readily stepped back to watch. Those who had not managed to escape could only hope for a quick death, for a worse off fate awaited them once the youngest of these three leaders returned. Nagxia was only one head of this particularly disobedient beast, the other being the Dalmascan underground forces. Information was the foremost of their priority, at least from the discernible leaders of these backwater barbarians.

The older prince had stepped up to the plate when Nael had failed to find the pilfered cache of explosives, offering his services as an interrogator for one of these ne’er-do-wells. Alas, all his questioning had given him naught but blood-stained fists and a headache. He lurched in a half-winded state, glaring daggers at this stone headed fool. Nothing had gone his way here since Zenos and his little whore had arrived, the two had conspired and stolen Nael’s support from him. That itself would have been negligible had it not been for the fact that Varis’ stripling is about to snap up all the acclaim that came with relieving this festering bog of its dissenters.

Nerva raised his gauntleted hand once more and backhanded the rugged clod before him, one of his eyes squeezed shut after being spat at. “How dare you, filthy swine!”

The savage recoiled from the force of his blow, jaw emitting a satisfying clack as his teeth rattled in his skull. He could’ve bitten his tongue off for all Nerva cared, as long as he was still alive to take each and every blow. Even rocks will crack, given time.

****

Hot air radiated from the emission vents of the landing assault craft as Zenos stepped down unceremoniously from the edge of its open hull. His sight panned through the crude base, on one side sat a set of metal cells hastily erected to serve as a prison quarters, and on the other were physick tents to house the injured. He beelined straight for the middling command tent, intent on delivering his report and immediately returning to Valnain posthaste. It’d been more than three days since he’d had a moment to sit down let alone rest.

He swallowed what was left of his dried ration and slipped into the canvas-enclosed space. Therein stood the White Raven, hunched over a thick logbook. He persisted in his habit of keeping on his helm despite the merciless heat of the jungle, never once seen without it on. Nevertheless, Zenos did not need to see his face to detect the frustration in his body language. His impatience spilling out with every wrench of the page, boot tapping eagerly against the damp dirt as he signed off on each document.

“The mission is a success. We had pursuers on two occasions but that was of little import.” The younger prince began without preamble, taking in the spartan furnishings of the tent.

It was endowed with only two tables with no seat to speak of. Nael likely planned to finish things here within the week, the insurgency was all but finished. Yet there was still one thing that remained unaccounted for, something that had pressed him so sorely to go to such length to protect a city he cared little for.

“Have you found the cache?”

Nael leaned against the table, back hunched over the paper-strewn surface. He shook his head slowly. “No, a search party is out for that but we will go as soon as–”

Zenos turned on his heels immediately, sparing not even a moment to hear the rest of what the Legatus had to say. His heart drummed sharply in his chest, the spike of dread stabbing deeply into him worse than any knife.

“Prepare the assault craft!” The prince snarled at the ranking officer he found. “Assemble a squadron, we go back to Valnain!”

The startled centurion fumbled to obey, running off to carry out Zenos’ orders. Before too long, Nael watched in grim exasperation as the airship took off, gray streaks of exhaust trailing behind it as it made its return trip back to the city. The search was ongoing and extensive, but they were in unfamiliar territory and the rain tended to wash away tracks in an inexorable deluge of mud and detritus.

He did not lift a finger to stop the young prince’s headlong rush. The search effort had bore no fruit thus far and he suspected that the survivors had slipped away in the chaos with the explosives. Freedom, survival, the prosperity of their blood, all mattered little in the name of vengeance. Regardless of the cost, they were determined to carry out the supposed retribution upon the empire. Valnain was merely a symbol, inhabited by those who'd capitulated to Garlemald’s rule. Backwater or not, its destruction would send a powerful message to both the capital and other so-called liberation fronts in other territories.

“Double the search efforts for the day and send a battalion of a hundred back to Valnain ahead of us. If things do not look up, we shall match back by the morrow.” Nael issued his orders to the camp soon after Zenos’ departure.

His second centurion nodded in affirmation. “And the captives, my lord?”

The Legatus waved the question away, his response came promptly and with easy nonchalance.  “Take no prisoners and leave their remains for the jungle.”

Chapter 64

In all of the empire's territories — no, in all of the continents and oceans of Hydaelyn — a more pathetic sight Crow could not have thought up sat right before her. The utility closet door had rattled when they'd walked past, a muffled voice weakly crying out for release. Sergius had flung open the door after unlatching from the outside, a handgonne leveled at whomever lay within.

“Mercy!” Asahi’s cried out, parched voice cracking from prolonged thirst.

He had his hands raised to shield his face from the sudden presence of light however dim. His dark eyes narrowed to focus on them, breath trembling as he registered their visages. His haunches were flat against the naked concrete flooring, the smell of old fear and sweat hitting Crow like a thrown glove. She gritted her teeth and whipped her head aside, a tinge of disgust lacing her tired mien.

“You — this is where you’ve been?” She hissed in disbelief, eyes trailing over the small, barren space in cursory inspection. There was a broom and two sparsely stacked shelves, decorated with fallen webbing. Her sight returned to Asahi as he staggered to his feet, the lines on her face nearly feline as she fixed him with a glower. 

“I-I was taken prisoner!” The Doman exclaimed by way of an explanation. When he saw the still-brimming fury in her eyes rise to the surface, he added. “I was ambushed and held by blade point! I could have been killed if I hadn’t–”

“You gave him access to the armory.” Sergius concluded with his accusation.

“I had no choice, ser!” He flicked his gaze to Crow, beseeching for her defense.

He found nothing so merciful as he stared down the barrel of a gunblade, her cold gaze pinning him in place as she took aim. Her right eye flared with spots of light even as she snarled her judgment.

“Give me a reason to not simply execute you where you stand for aiding in conspiracy.” 

Whether he'd intended to or not, he was complicit in this treasonous, one-man coup. The capital punishment for such crime was death, and she was itching to see his innards splattered across the concrete for landing them in this crisis. Asahi stumbled back, hands raised in surrender. Even with her impaired aim, she could easily put a hole in his detestable face without missing.

“You can't do this, I deserve a fair trial!” He bit back, looking more askance than horrified to have a weapon aimed at him. His bid to beg and grovel abandoned by the wayside when he addressed her.

“Your Grace, we haven't the time. If you kill him here, the sound of the gunshot will alert the assailant of our location.” The Centurion clutched a thick pair of steel fetters, raising them up between him and the princess in compromise. “We must gather and arm what's left of the legion before the designated time.”

The crosshair lingered for another moment then lowered, her face a mask of utter displeasure.

“Henceforth, he shall be stripped of his rank of Decurion and be no better than an aan until all this is over.”

Indignation spread across the Doman’s face at the princess’ decree, the outrage barely kept back as he bit his lower lip. His hate flashed across his face in the dim corridor, there one moment and gone the next as the shackles were clapped onto his wrists. Crow was hardly a stranger to disdain and condescension but his dislike for her had grown into something that seethed just beneath the surface of his servile façade. 

The feeling was quite mutual by this point.

“We go.” Sergius cut in with firmness, walking ahead with several gunblade slung over his shoulders.

The weight of the weapon was almost  comforting in her hands as she nudged Asahi forward, a silent command to proceed. It was the second time in the last twenty-four hours that he found himself at risk of being shot.

The first body, Asahi blanched, was a mangled limb nearly blacked to a crisp by the initial blast. One could hardly tell what it was at first glance but the size suggested that it was a leg, the smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air and invaded their senses with macabre acridness. It was the herald for what was to come as beyond that singular instance laid a scattering of broken bodies. Men and women who'd managed to crawl away from the ruins to take shelter lingered at death’s door as the initial shock of the blast wore off. Their backs had been turned and they'd been caught at the epicenter of the reaper’s charged beam, bearing the brunt and allowing her a chance to come away relatively unscathed.

Beyond the next left turn was yet another hallway that led to the grand courtyard where their one-man terrorist sat, any prospect of retaliation seemed bleak at best given the state of the legionaries.

Crow scanned through the bodies for any signs of Sisila, hoping that the chief Tesserarius managed to escape on account of how far back she'd been positioned. Without her expertise, the notion of communicating with the legions would be nigh implausible.

“We must rethink our strategy.” Sergius said, his mouth pressed into a grim line as he took in the hopeless state of things. “Lest we end up among them.”

****

The courtyard’s cobblestones were charred to black by the heat of the reaper’s charged blast, the portico’s eaves and its pillars were now nothing more than crumbled stones and broken steps. It was little wonder than the kingdoms that bucked the empire all came in line briefly after conflict. What armies they could muster up fell over like toppled dolls in the face of such wanton destruction. What use was a single mortal reaper when compared to the walking metal weapon of mass destruction. The rider was elevated above the heads of the average vanguard, their artillery fire unmatched by even thaumaturges. Its high armor plates repelled spears and sword, retaliating with Gatling fire equipped on its flank. The pilot seat was perched on two agile and sturdy legs, maneuverable even through unsteady terrain.

Per contra of its defensive capabilities, it had one glaring weakness that was painfully obvious even to one inexperienced to war. The modern reaper was woefully ill-equipped to handle retaliating fire, the pilot left vulnerable to projectiles as primitive as a well-aimed arrow. 

The sole of her booted heels ground against the cracked stone tiles, the stench of ash and dust giving way to petrichor filling the air. The sky was overcast, clouds rumbling with the threat of heavy rain as she appeared with both hands raised. 

“I am here to comply with your request, please do not fire.” Crow called out to the space between her and their captor.

“Hands up, no sudden movement!” Bellowed the roegadyn. “Walk forward a dozen steps slowly, anymore and I’ll fire!”

She complied, finding herself staring straight down the barrel of the reaper’s maw. Above its gaping cannon was the impudent dross that held their lives in his hands.

“You're Rhonwys, correct?” 

“Where's the centurion?” He ignored her question, his square jawed mine curling into a snarl.

“I am head of the castrum in the absence of a proper Legatus–”

The rapid rattle of gunfire cut her off, bullets shooting past her with cutting pressure. Crow clenched her teeth, suppressing the urge to flinch with a sharp inhale. A bullet, a gash, even a knife to the belly would not be the end for her. Were she to be filled with holes, however, she was uncertain of how far Naberos’ powers could take before she faced the prospect of death again.

“I will not ask twice, girl.”

Time — she needed to buy as much time as she could.

“What use could you possibly have with a dead centurion?” Crow rolled her eyes, managing to look imperious even with her hands raised in surrender. “Especially when you have an even more valuable bargaining chip in hand.”

“And that is?” Though seemingly short in patience, he took her bait.

“Even the emperor might entertain the notion of a parley when he hears my capture — his dearest imperial ward.” Despite her sophistry, she hoped that her doubt would not leak through.

She bowed in a graceful dip by way of an introduction. “I stand before you as the First Princess of Garlemald, beloved ward of His Radiance — The Emperor of Garlemald.”

Rhonwys’ face was slack with non-recognition but the spark of interest was present enough despite his scowl. He gave the idea some thought, scratching at his thick jaw with sausage fingers. There with the motion she saw the detonator, the glint of dull steel glancing off the brief flash of sun between the clouds. 

It seemed, however, that even the heavens were against them on this day. The roegadyn shifted abruptly in his seat, startled by the shine in his periphery. Crow quickly followed along his line of sight with a flick of her gaze, wincing at the sudden flash of metal coming off of the rifle-lens on the rooftop.

She uttered a foul expletive as she reached down to her boot, the thrown dagger was arcing through the air even as the crack of Sergius’s shot resounded through the courtyard. Seconds lingered in suspension from one moment to the next as the blade collided against Ronwys’ knuckles, the hope that she’d give Sergius enough time to pull the trigger sparked within her. 

It was, alas, too little too late even as the detonator flew from his hand, the spurt of blood sprayed from between his eyes in a crimson gush. Fire and brimstone bursted into view from behind the now-pilotless reaper, the kinetic energy of the blast blew her off her feet and bathed her in hellish heat. Crow slammed into the rubble even as the explosion dissipated into dust and smoke, her arms and legs scored by gashes and burns already stitching back together even as she struggled to collect herself.

Her ears ran hollow with a deafening pitch, mind rattling inside her skull as though someone had brought a mountain down on her head. Her mouth tongue felt as though it’d been run through sandpaper, the taste of blood coating her palette as it dripped from her cracked lips. She rolled to her back slowly, hand coming to clutch a length of shrapnel embedded into her side. Words were beyond her, lost in the midst of scorched stone and black-clotted sky.

“Your…-ace” Her vision swam as she reached out, plagued by black spots as she tried to muster up some semblance of cognition 

“Your Grace!” Sisila’s voice came back in full clarity along with her small, sooty face. 

“Hold her down, I have to tighten the tourniquet.” Sergius was somewhere to her right, voice stern but held the edge of quaking nerves.

“Your Grace, please stay awake.” The lalfellin ‘s hands shook as she offered her a bit to clamp down on.

The princess blearily regarded the piece of leather, shaking her head and she clawed for speech. Her warm, wet hand pawed at Sergius’ sleeve as she hissed her next words.

“Out…” Crow wrenched herself to sit up despite her impalement, abdomen screaming and tearing against the foreign object that was plunged deeply inside her. 

“Get it out!” Her fingers found the folds of Sergius’ collar, the full force of the agony now hitting her as her body sluggishly regained its functions. “Damn you, pull it out!”

“But you’ll bleed to death! I cannot...” He protested, his words falling away before they could be fully formed as he saw the bloodshot sclera of her oft-obscured right eye.

With a violent tug that caught Crow blindsided, Sisila freed the pipe from her innards. Blood spewed from her lips with the sudden egress, her dust-covered blouse now unrecognizable as it became sodden with scarlet. She clutched at her gut, the familiar cold nipping the tips of her fingers before Naberos’ power washed over her like a heavy cover. She fell back against a large wall of debris for support, legs splayed limply as her wound ebbed itself close. This body, with all its flaws and mortal vulnerabilities, was now implacable with its new pseudo-immortality. 

Crow hacked roughly, dislodging dark ichor from her throat before cascading into dry, heaving laughter. The coarse sound soon cleared up, giving way to a bell-like peal tinged with manic amazement. The two that had sought to help her could only now sit in stunned silence at her rapid recovery, she could sense the undercurrent of fear in the stilted air between the lapses in her fit. With a sharp inhale, she rubbed away the sticky sheen of sweat and dirt from her face, dragging her hair back from her face in one smooth motion.

For the first time in more than half a decade, she could see everything in perfect, balanced clarity. Her smile fell from her lips as she sobered from her absurd amusement, relishing the afterglow of hard earned survival.

Her legs creaked in protest as she climbed to her feet, tearing away the makeshift belt and cloth from her waist. She took in their nervous gaze and re-established her will over them with a grim command.

“Gather what we have left, the city must be sealed.”

Chapter 65

Over thirty injured and unfit for service, over a hundred and fifty dead. Asahi was dragged out from his delirium and put in charge of caring for the sick alongside the chief Tesserarius. To say he was sick of Valnain was an understatement, the only thought that kept him going was the image of His Grace’s return. Prince Zenos and Lord Nael, nay even Lord Nerva would be a better hand in ruling than the fool princess. His thoughts strayed as he fastened the bandages in place, bloody gauze and trays of shrapnel rattling as he cleared them away.

They were in the men’s dormitories which had managed to stay more or less undamaged through this ordeal. The women’s area was unreachable thanks to the collapsed access stairs and they were running low on usable cloth.

“You're quite the deft hand at this.” Sisila remarked, her words sounding almost complimentary.

“A legionary must be self-sufficient and well-rounded, this is hardly a trifle.” He replied, watching as Sisila eased a sip of water to the invalid soldier’s parched lips.

She pinned him with a dry look, screwing her flask close and pulling a thin cover over the injured legionary. “Humble, are we?”

The Doman snorted and pushed his cart along to the next bed, the fetters — now locked around his ankles — rattled noisomely as he moved. There were too many bodies to care for for a handful of personnel, him, Sisila, three legionaries and a remaining engineer was all Crow was willing to leave behind. The former dormitory was converted into a sick bay, the structure only just holding on to stability with cracks running up its beams. The air permeated with the miasma of iron and sickness, it was safe to say that the state of the castrum was little better than the frontlines of the expedition. Asahi quickly took stock of what was left, chagrined to find that they were running low on practically everything.

Pain medicine was stretched thin but Her Damnable Grace had explicitly forbade uniformed officers to venture out to the city to buy any supplies. The situation would only be exacerbated if the rabbles get a single whiff of weakness from their overseers. Her reasoning was sound, he had to give her that, but there was only so much vomit, blood and tears a man could bear before quitting this place entirely.

“Pass that to one of the others and come eat, you look pale.” Despite her stubby legs, the chief Tesserarius managed to catch up to him.

They passed the crumbling courtyard, barely recognizable from all the abuse it'd taken, and turned into the canteen. There were fair little people occupying the scattered long tables, most were still incapable of undertaking any sort of duties but well enough to mill about listlessly.

“Spare me your sympathies.” He served himself a bowl of thick gruel and quickly seated at an empty bench, spooning it to his lips despite his shallow appetite. He almost spat out the first bite, his tongue overwhelmed by the sweetness that coated his tongue. Asahi gave a shudder as he pressed himself to swallow.

“Kami save us, what is this?” he remarked after washing it down with some water. 

“All we had left was sugar after the salt dissolved in a massive leak in the pantry” Sisila chuckled.

His incredulity was palpable, seeming at once amazed and horrified. 

“It’s how some take it back in the capital.” She shrugged. “You should have seen Her Grace, downed two bowls before she departed without batting an eye.”

“What?” Before this mess began, he'd never seen her remotely enthused by the prospect of a meal. She certainly ate but with visible reservation, appearing to force herself at every bite and only as much as minimally needed before sending the meal back.

Speaking of meals and menial labor. “Did that wayward manservant of hers ever turn up?”

The lalafellin paused at that, her affable demeanor drawing back to some unnamable reservation. “No, I don't think so.”

Asahi sensed her hesitation, dark almond eyes narrowing at her. On her part, Sisila let her gaze roam across the room, picking up some irrelevant topic about changing the sheets and bandages of the patients. He let her drone on but tucked away that subtle shift into his mind. She knew something about the princess, something that she wasn't willing to disclose.

“If that's the case then I'm frankly appalled by how Her Grace treats those loyal to her.” He broached, his face scrunched into appropriate distaste. “She’s practically made of ice for how much she's bothered with trying to find that fellow among the dead.”

“That isn't true, Her Grace would never!” Sisila clicked her tongue, growing miffed at the sudden turn to slander against the First Princess. She was suddenly reconsidering her decision to extend any measure of kindness to the Doman. “Besides, you shouldn't speak of subjects you know nothing about! Her Grace needn't make the effort to look for him is because he isn't–”

A loud, echoing pop resounded skyward, followed by several more. They sounded far yet  clearly audible even when separated by malms of distance. The noise, to any legionary still within the castrum, resembled the ruckus caused by a severe engine malfunction. It was a warning to steer clear before any machinery went off in flames as the pistons misfired, heralding a dangerous explosion. This sound was thus naturally followed with a roaring boom as the city below found itself assailed by flames.

Immediately, before Asahi could tease any more information from her, Sisila scampered from the canteen in a hurry. It would be long before he could bait something out of her like that again if her wary countenance was any indication.The few invalids who were well enough to walk around got to their feet and limped off to follow the chief Tesserarius. Injury or not, it seemed to serve little to diminish their curiosity and alarm. He rolled his eyes and marched after them, brushing past those who were too slow. 

By the time he made it to the landing bay many legionaries were agape as they saw the plumes of black smoke spiraled up toward the firmament. 

“Emperor be good, we’re being attacked!” One of the invalids exclaimed, his voice sounding the internal alarm within Asahi and the rest.

****

It took two bells before Crow could muster up the attention and efforts from the city’s merchant guild. They seemed skeptical and disliked the idea of closing the grand, decorated gate. It had not budged over the past decade, seemingly set to welcome any and all that stepped through. Free pass was only a privilege granted to the colonists, however, as all goods and native people were stopped for inspection. A levy was imposed for entry and whatever else they carried through for trade. Most bore this with a grudging passivity despite the heft of these fees, the prospering port was too rich of a location to give up despite imperial presence.

The avarice of man surpassed even the barrier of race and identity as nigh countless coins traded hands. It was what drove these fool’s protests  even as she pressed with the wisdom of barricading themselves for the next five days. It would give some chance to establish communications and time for the legions to return. Yet at every point she made, she was stonewalled by blunt refusal, their incredulity palpable as they dragged out their petty debate.

For a moment, she entertained the idea of torture and threat but there was no time. Something in her gut urged her to get everything moving before day’s end, and she hoped it was merely her anxious paranoia driving it.

“Our deal hadn't yet bore any fruit yet you now seek to slash our profit even further?” The guild’s headman balked with a petulant wave.

They were in his office now, she and Sergius, bearing witness to the stubborn foolery hindering their plans. Her diplomatic mien was rapidly faltering with every dialogue exchanged, patience burning away like a candle lit at both ends.

“All I ask is your leave and a small contingency of your men to assist in securing the city.” Crow dug her nails into the back of her hand as she plastered on a sweet but insistent mask. “Surely you can afford such small asks.”

“What I do not understand is why you’re seeking our help when you certainly have the remaining legionaries at your disposal.” His jowls shook as he scoffed, a shallow brow raised in condescension. “Or was that particular ruckus of some significance after all?”

The worm was enjoying this, to be sure. He liked the fact that she was now the one pressured to bend, and the price of his assistance was her pride. Crow sat stock still even as she heard Sergius’ gloved hands tightened into a fist. She had less than a score of men left to defend the city, they were hardly enough to even send out on routine patrols let alone hold out in a siege. This clod of a headman was far too clouded by his own pettiness to see the bigger picture even after she’d informed him of the impending troubles. He was too much of a craven to try and wrest control of the city, being nestled so comfortably within the current status quo despite Nael’s hardline laws. It seemed standing aside as a spectator and allying himself with the victor when all was said and done suited him best. After all, it mattered little who sat in the position of viceroy so long as the flow of wealth was maintained and filtered through him.

She stood from her place on the silk-upholstered armchair, the slight smile frozen on her lips and never once reaching her eyes. She gazed about the grandly appointed room with a candid eye: ceiling draped with sheer cream curtains centered like a blossoming petal around a bronze chandelier dripping with crystal droplets. Paintings of serene river banks, flighty cranes and swaying cattail reeds hung tastefully across the teak paneled walls, complimented by furniture carved from heavy, oiled rosewood. The plush cushion she’d been seated upon was embroidered with the finest stitches flecked with silver, depicting water lilies and lotuses. Even the cup of untouched tea she’d been served was finely carved from bone china, small songbirds etched upon its rim in sleek, delicate shapes.

It was the first to go as she swatted it off the table, saucer and all. The milky, gleaming cup made a delightfully sharp tinkling crash as it shattered against the herring-bone hardwood flooring. The pot was to go next, the dark liquid staining the woven wool carpet beneath the tea table between them. The utter shock on the headman’s face pleased her well enough, but she had a point to demonstrate.

“What are you–”

She showed the table even less mercy, toppling it over with a rough kick. It flew towards the headman, careening over his head and slamming against the display cabinet behind him. The shatter of glass and precious porcelain was music to her ears, her stiff smile sharpened into something more genuine as his distress heightened. Sergius could only watch on as she shredded the curtains with a vicious yank, the chandelier jostling precariously as the draperies pulled free from their hooks.

“Stop it! Stop!” He shouted at her as she crushed glass and fabric beneath her low sabaton-heels. “Guards!”

Sergius stepped back and locked the door, barricading it with a heavy shelf that the princess had yet to get to. The door shook as the headman’s personal attendants attempted to barge in only to find their way firmly barred. The Centurion placed his weight against the creaking shelf and cleared his throat sharply.

“Your Grace–” He winced as the chandelier finally gave in and crashed down before the headman in a spectacular shower of glass and light.

The headman gave a yelp and recoiled from the blinding impact, raising his arms up to shield himself from the crystalline rain. Alas, he remained unharmed, voluminous sleeves, silk slippers and all as Crow stepped over the small hill of sparkling wreckage to stand over him. His cotton underobe and velvet lined collar felt soft even against her careless grip, fingers digging in as she swung him forward to face the broken remnants of his ostentatious show of riches.

“Do you think you'll come away unscathed if any insurgents breach the legion’s line?” She forced him to look and gestured to the room as a whole. “You've thrown your lot in with us the moment you surrendered the city decades ago, we are but a hierarchy defined — the same under one imperial banner!”

“You're mad!” Accused the headman while he struggled to pull himself away.

“I'm trying to protect us all.” She tossed him back against his armchair, his corpulent form filling into the curving frame.

Her rising form filled his vision in the dimmed room. Baleful blue eyes pinning him to his seat, one of them flooded in red. He was naught but an animal staring at the butcher’s block, the sweat at his jaw pooling at his collar.

“Do as I say or die in ignominy.” Crow sneered down at him. Then just to be cruel. “You have a daughter abroad in Ul’dah, do you not? T’would be a tragedy that she is beggared by the missteps of her father — the empire does not spare even a mere pittance for traitors.”

“I-I am not– I have served as headman for over a decade, I’m no more a traitor than the next citizen.” He protested, regaining some semblance of a spine.

“Your inaction is proof of your disloyalty! I, Crow wir Galvus — First Princess of Garlemald,  attest to your craven ways!” Her voice rose over his like a vengeful tidal wave, even what little light that reached them seemed to be absorbed in her darkening face.

The headman recoiled, seemingly struck by the revelation. Fearing more for his life than any measure of awe, he cried out his ascent and raised the decorated placard of his office with a trembling hand. “Please, do as you wish and leave me and mine in peace!”

She snatched it away and turned, leaving him to his dread. He was a cowering worm and she knew she would take much satisfaction from quashing him for his impudence, but even detestable louts such as he still had uses.

“Come! We must make haste.” She headed for the far wall, knowing that there was no time to wait for the doorway to be cleared.

With a quick unlatching of a window, she climbed from the shuttered opening and dropped down to the floor below with a distinct sense of urgency. Sergius followed suit, catching up to her in a brisk run.

“Was all that truly necessary, Your Grace?” The headman was moments away from soiling his knickers at the sight of his ruined sitting room.

Crow brushed the strand of hair from her forehead and adjusted her gold cuffs, the hot day bearing down upon them with particular vehemence. She’d recovered some semblance of calm though a haughty smile still tugged at her lips, unable to be suppressed by her underdeveloped sense of self-restraint.

“I'd rather not waste another bell in useless debate, and more importantly,” She continued with a show of glistening teeth. “It made me feel better.”

Chapter 66

The gate of Valnain, dubbed ‘Gilded Giam’ in the native Nagxian tongue, was a golden construct made not from gold but a limpid, yellow alloy. These doors had kept the city safe from sieges in time immemorial against enemies without, but a gate was hardly a barrier when the assault grew airborne. Garlean legions had stormed this port city by air and took it in less than a fortnight, securing swift surrender from those in charge. 

Nagxia’s relationship with the capital of Rabanastre had always been a contentious one, declaring themselves an autonomous body from the royal ruling in Dalmasca Superior. They'd send their men to Lea Monde when the occupational war broke out, hoping that their sister city could withhold Imperial advance. Ultimately, when Nagxia’s capital fell to Garlean hands, Valnain found itself lacking any power to defend itself. The wave of aerial assault that fell on this fair city was more a demonstrative show of force than a true attempt at destruction, leaving the city terrified but mostly unscathed once they capitulated. To this day, the gate’s integrity remained untested against Garlean weaponry thanks to Valnain’s swift surrender. She ran her finger down the scribed layout of the city, contemplating her next course of orders. Paper whispered as she marked down another point to station the mercenaries, along the walls in shifts of six hours each to be sure.

Crow had been in the midst of organizing new patrol routes when the commotion sounded. A bell rang out as people ran amok and calls of a fire reached her ears from without the inn she'd commandeered.

She marched to the front of the establishment where Sergius was already conversing with a legionary, a frown set on her lips. “Commander, is aught amiss?”

“A blaze broke out by the dockside, Your Grace, by the storehouses.” 

She paused, recalling the layout of the city she'd been looking at only moments before. The port was on the opposite side of the gate, loosely populated and the least secured out of all the area she had gleaned. The circumstance was highly suspect because fires, as they were wont to behave, do not just appear from thin air in such heavy climes. The timing was much too convenient.

“Send a messenger to Sisila, I want to know if she'd had any success connecting to the expedition forces.” Crow wracked her brain, going down the list of priorities as she held onto her composure. It was all too easy to drop everything and lockdown the castrum, but she wanted this city to remain intact and thriving for her future endeavors. “Can I trust you to manage the fire?”

Sergius gave a salute. “As Your Grace commands.” 

Within the hour after the gates were closed and the fires barely contained, she was met with yet another displeased merchant. The third one yet, he launched forth his complaints regarding the storehouse blaze, pressing for recompense for the loss of profit from destroyed exports. She wanted nothing more than to round these men up like pieces on a game board and give them a good, rough shake.

Crow leaned back and propped a cheek on an armrest of her seat, the gleaming silver nib of her pen still dark with ink. Her eyes followed the merchant as he paced and rambled about shipment deficits and the outward appearance of keen attentiveness kept well intact despite her wandering thoughts.

“If it’s profit you seek, how about this?” She began nonplussed. “You shall supply the legions with barley, rye or whatever else you trade in for the next year. The castrum shall buy exclusively from you for the duration at eighty percent at market value, good enough?”

“You want me to sell at a discount? When I’ve already lost so much from your closure of the port and the fire?” The merchant bristled. “What kind of simpering services did you pay to those Garleans to earn your authority?”

Not a moment later after his last words of outrage left his lips, the silver pen flew past his face and the silver nibbed pen embedded itself into the thick, hinged door. He could scarcely blink before registering the sting of air at his cheek, finger lightly daubing only to come away with a light scarlet smear. 

“Take my offer or leave to remain destitute, I do not care.” She warned, temper darkening. “But you shall do well to tie that tongue before I take it from you.”

He bore a look of outrage, narrow nostrils flaring as he pursed his mustached lips. Nevertheless, he was sufficiently cowed both by her threat and seemed to be tempted by her proffered deal. Her late tutor had taught her once that merchants, big or small, likely knew a good deal when they heard it. Some were even willing to lay aside their pride to reap profit.

“Very well.” He seethed. “But I wish to have it in writing.”

Crow waved a hand in dismissal. “Send a man to me once you have it drafted, I have far too many things to do to play broker.”

“That’s absurd! You’re the one who–” It was far as his words went before a series of metallic, deafening bangs sounded. The clatter that marked gunfire and steel, it was close and more dreadful than anything she’d ever had the displeasure to hear.

In the next second, a booming shockwave shook the teak-paneled room, nay the very building they were in groaned against the inexplicable disturbance. Dust from the crevices from the ceiling medallion fell in a light cascade. Glasswares clinked and furniture joints creaked sharply in protest. Crow lunged from her seat as she spied the spider cracks growing on the windows behind her, narrowly avoiding the great shower of broken glass as the reverberation resounded throughout the city’s front border. Dust hissed through the naked window frame, forcing her to flee to the merchant’s side. Said man had been knocked to his feet and was currently kicking himself back toward the room’s entrance, he was as stunned as a stupefied lamb and barely able to force a cohesive sentence.

Once everything had settled, she pulled her carry case from beneath the tea table and shoved his silk-clad, reedy frame aside to exit the ruined abode. The trader made an indignant grunt and was left in her periphery, the time for petty complaints had passed. Two steps at a time, she raced down the flight, eyes darting ahead in search of a legionary only to find that the inn’s staff had taken upon themselves to flee. The establishment was left in a rattled state, stools laid toppled and clay cups left in pieces on the tiled floor as the midday sun glittered against broken glass panes. The quiet aftermath presented to her eyes like a still painting in time. Even without the benefit of a view, she could all but imagine what chaos was unfolding past those marginally cracked doors. Her resolve quavered suddenly once given a moment’s rest, she'd been running on fumes and now this. The events of the handful of days have been, and continued to be, a series of trials by fire. At this moment, more than ever before, she felt every onze of scouring pressure nipping at her heels.

Crow clutched at the twitching nerve at her brow, closing her eyes to shut out her roiling belly and throbbing head. When was the last time she'd slept or had a proper meal?

“Your Grace!” The entrance was thrown open and the cacophony of battle leaked in, the illusion of solitary peace broken. Sisila barged inside in a headlong rush, barring the door with her negligible weight. As if in response, a charged blast detonated outside some distance away, the heat of its discharge veritably knocked the lalafellin off her feet.

The princess rushed over and dared a glimpse outside as Sisila picked herself up from the ground. Billowing towers of smoke blotted out the sky, the smoldering glow of a growing inferno hinted at what was coming their way. The street was a scene ripped directly from any reports during the occupational war, bricks and mortar shops knocked down over those who'd once lived and traded within the city. Bodies laid scattered of both man and beast, bloodied and dead.

She shut the door, a foul expletive just barely held back behind her gritted teeth. Her eyes trailer over to the chief Tesserarius, finally a moment spared to reassure herself of Sisila’s safety.

An exhausted sigh dragged from her lips, the breath as heavy as the stone weighing down her chest. “What news?”

The lalafellin brushed herself off before striking a salute, the best she could muster given the current circumstances.

“I came to deliver the good news — They've splintered the Nagxian insurgency, according to our contact from Lord Legatus Darnus!” Sisila said with a hopeful nod. 

Alas, her initial optimism faltered. “The bad news is that Valnain is currently being assailed by the remnants of the insurgency.”

That much was already apparent. Crow righted a bench and plopped down with little ceremony. “And will there be any aid sent our way?”

She'd given any remaining able bodies to Sergius to man the fires and had kept all but a pair of guards to stay back as escorts. Bloody emperor knew where they'd run off to.

“Why of course – I do not have the heart to leave you on such ill tidings!” she said, almost proud. “Lord Zenos is on his way back as we speak, he will be back in less than another bell or two.”

There might not be a city to return to in a bell or two, but she refrained from commenting.

Crow perked up, though not at the news but at the heavy stomps of approaching footsteps from beyond the entrance. Without warning, she snatched up the chief Tesserarius by her waist, and rushed behind the barman countertop just to the left of the doors. Crow pressed a finger to her lip and Sisila clapped her hand over her mouth, their pointed ears waiting in taut anticipation as the doors creaked open on old hinges.

“...Is all a damn luxury, should just burn the damn place down.” A booted foot kicked against the bench Crow had previously occupied, wood splintering when it collided with a painted pillar. “Fat leeches living it up while we starve in the jungle.

Another spoke up as he spat derisively at the establishment. “Aye, haven't seen the like since I snuck in with my brother ten years ago.”

Crow realized she'd left her carry case behind when they dove for cover, cursing herself silently for her negligence. Before long the intruders parted ways to search the building, more looters than righteous liberators. One set of boots traipsed about as she heard two pairs wander off to the back of the inn. Bottles and furnishing were smashed against the tiles in wanton indulgence as one of the insurgents slowly made his way to the counter. Quickly, she glanced about the shelves and swiped up a heavy glass decanter filled with a strong brown brew. 

The clatter of steel landed against the countertop and Crow shot up to her feet. He was leaning against the surface and contemplating his poison when she blinded him with a splash of alcohol. He hadn't even the time to recoil when she smashed the decanter against his temple. 

“Outside, now!” Crow cried out even as she lunged over the long bar island. For good measure, she gave the recovering fool a shoving kick to the chest before sliding off the surface.

Sisila ran past her as she lifted her carry case off the ground, her hands working to unlatch it as she barreled through the inn’s threshold. In her periphery, she saw two others returning to the scene before a blast punched through the main thoroughfare of the inn. The street over was in the process of being swallowed in flames, ash filling her nose and lungs like a bitter miasma. A flock of terrified civilians fled the fires through the road ahead, pursued not only by the heat but also armed pursuers. Any who had the misfortune to be caught were cut through without mercy, their blood dyeing the dirt a ruddy red.

Her body moved on impulse, outraged by their insolent trespass on what would soon be hers. The first wretch fell quickly when she struck, her scythe slaking itself as it cut through limbs like stalks of grass. The civilians staggered to a halt like frightened herd animals, a dozen of them in all watched as Crow put their harriers to the blade. The insurgents, caught unaware by her intervention, fell in short order without a proper fight. Five men in all, their cries snuffed out as quickly as the lights in their eyes, bloody smears decorated her weapon and hands as prettily as laced gloves.

Crow kicked the sword from a dead insurgent’s hand, turning to the wide-eyed herd. “Arm yourselves and make your way to the city’s port, you will be taken in so long as you tell the one in charge that the First Princess sent you.”

She motioned to Sisila and nodded to the group of civilians. “I want you to lead them and gather as many of them as you make your way to Sergius at the port, but do not detour and only help if you judge it feasible.”

“What about the castrum? We could possibly shore up our defenses there and make a stand.” Suggested the lalafell.

Crow shook her head. “No, if the fire spread further we'd choke on smoke without any means to escape. Moreover, the enemy possesses a cache of Nael’s warheads. I imagine they'll be attempting to level the castrum with it.”

“And where will you go, Your Grace?” Her eyes were filled with needless worry.

She peered up at the towering pyramidal structure that loomed over the city. The symbol of imperial might was now little more than a death trap for those who still resided within. “I’ll be stopping that from happening.”

Notes:

Slow on updates due to other creative pursuits....and classes, thank you for being patient with me.

Chapter 67

From the skies, Zenos could see the current destruction ravaging Valnain. Judging by the severity of the situation, they were too late to secure the city. Embers and smog poured from the upper side — the colonist quarters — its edge grazed by the fires that had consumed the lower shelves. To the east, the slums was a collapsed heap, the inferno had burned itself out after reducing mud shacks and straw huts to little more than charcoal. In the adjacent row, the marketplace was in the midst of falling apart. A once colorful place filled with a myriad of goods and noisome hawkers now nothing more than an uncontrollably spreading pyre. He spotted the collapsed gate as they flew by, a slab of xanthous alloy unmistakably punched in by several explosive fuses.

It was of some comfort to see the chaos had yet to reach the castrum. Yet when they made their landing, the prince and his accompanying men found the aerial bay heavily damaged. The poor state of the platform forced them to settle for the large courtyard within the castrum itself. Even that was little better for half the grounds were littered with building debris and metal. Each side that surrounded the square had collapsed, destroyed by some inexplicably convulsive event.

The men blanched when they climbed from the air ship's hull, seeing the bodies of their deceased fellows buried beneath the detritus of fallen walls and pillars. A small group of legionaries came to greet them, their faces haggard and creased with anxiety. At their fore was a Doman, somewhat familiar but his name was lost on the prince. He seemed to brighten as he bowed, playing the part of a scraping courtier despite their dire circumstances. The two others who loosely accompanied him gave weak salutes, their grim faces contrasting the Doman’s simpering countenance.

“Report.” He bade promptly, scanning the surroundings in brisk assessment.

Every word that escaped the Doman’s mouth painted a turbulent picture, one of sabotage and betrayal. There had been an agent of the insurgency planted within the ranks of the castrum’s communication officers, one that aimed to hold the fortress and all its inhabitants hostage. When met with resistance from the First Princess, the threat was rendered into reality. All this in less than three days.

“And where is she now?” Zenos narrowed his eyes, recalling the Doman’s assignment to Crow when she was placed in suspension.

The wretch began to sputter when he realized his folly. He'd been responsible for her safety and accountability, yet he could scarcely produce neither hide nor hair of his charge. He had been so eager to greet the prince that he practically scrambled to lead the ramshackle procession, now his mouth grew chapped as the prince bore down on them in his displeasure.

Asahi’s eyes were fixed firmly to the cracked flagstones, the high steel tips of his Lord's sabatons just barely visible to his prostrated sight. His heart gave a jolting skip as he heard the drag of steel being drawn, mouth still working to befuddling ends. To speak of his failure as her warden was to invite death, yet he was loath to admit that she'd overruled him through all but will alone.

“Her Grace assumed authority and seized control of the castrum after the attack.” The man next to him rummaged at his coat’s inner pocket as he leaned on his crutch. “She left a missive in anticipation of your return, Your Grace.”

The Doman snapped his sight to the legionary. He was a nobody! Asahi did not even know of his name or recognize his plain face yet he'd been trusted with a letter by that fickle wench. The personal slight did not go unnoticed, that notion delivered through her subtle snubbing of his role as her warden. The twitch at his upper lip pulled his mouth into a snarl, quickly smoothing itself out as he straightened before his Lord.

“Indeed, my lord, I had to defer to Her Grace’s authority when she bade me to remain in the castrum to lead. She had wished to oversee the city’s stability herself, but alas, I fear she may have underestimated the savages' reckless nature.” He nudged the crutch of the traitorous legionary aside with the toe of his boot, sending the man lurching when he fixed Asahi with an incredulous glare.

“Arrest him.” Zenos remarked without parting his attention from the sheaf of paper. “ For assisting in the hijacking of the castrum and the attempted assassination of an imperial family member, he shall be held accountable for his grievous negligence and remain an aan til proper judgment be rendered from Nael.”

Those words, uttered in such bland indifference, took long seconds to register in Asahi’s mind. It was only when he was taken by the arms that he realized what was happening.

“What– my Lord, I've never done wrong! I tried my best to accommodate the wishes of the princess!” Asahi tugged against the armed legionaries that surrounded him, three men in all, clad in faceless blacks. Their helms were streaked in mud as though they'd just stepped from the expedition’s frontlines. His voice, pitched with distress as he cried out to his immaculate prince, fell on deaf ears as he was dragged away.

Carelessly like a sack of refuse, he was thrown into an unlit cell within the belly of the castrum. Even far into the depths of the dark hold, he could still hear and feel the tremors of the chaos without. The hot venom of his gaze pierced through the dark, imagining the architect of his disgrace out there in the chaos. He hoped she would burn along with the rest of this wretched city, reduced to naught but fine ash and be wiped from the annals of history. By contrast, his hatred was biting and cold. It filled his veins and replaced his blood, poisoning what little self-restraint that still stayed his hands.

On his life and devotion to his Lord he swore, this humiliation would be paid a hundredfold.

****

Zenos spoke — nay, practically interrogated — those who were sound of mind enough to respond to him. He demanded the last known whereabouts of Crow, a smoldering urgency gripping his every word. The best they knew was the inn she'd last occupied to oversee the city’s security. However, when the bedraggled legionary pointed out the location on the map, Zenos realized that it was the same area he'd seen being swallowed by fire. The unspoken fury was visible on his face and the man had shriveled up where he stood. The sod bowed and scraped for appeasement and returned to his caretaker duties.

The prince glared at the map, then scanned over the thirty or so makeshift sick beds as he walked down the center lane. Less than a tenth of them were filled with men at various stages of injury. None were combat-capable aside from the three that were at their wits end trying to care for these invalids. He was tempted to abandon them to their fates for what good were unusable pieces on a board.

No, he thought. There was perhaps something they could still do.

“Is there a Tesserarius among you?” He asked once he reached the end of the occupied beds.

His voice carried without needing for him to raise it, demanding attention even from those who could barely turn their heads. A man sat up from his cot, face and body bandaged tightly. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, each word took hard effort but he pressed his affirmation as he volunteered his service. He was not well enough to walk on his own, needing to be wheeled to the communication offices. He averted his gaze when passing the debris of bodies and stone, they hadn't even the resources to lay out the dead. Even the barest measure of ceremony for the dead could not be spared in these times, not when the fate of the city was balanced on a knife's edge.

Zenos watched as his men pushed the communications officer to his station. He loomed over the man as he worked, statuesque in his stillness as he recalled the state of the city in the fly-by.

“Get on the emergency line, and I shall speak.”

Unlike his halting speech, the Tesserarius’ fingers worked smoothly to connect the channel on the switchboard. In less than a handful of seconds, they were live and ready for an urgent broadcast. He nodded, offering the metallic microphone with a nudge.

He considered the device and held down the switch to record. He kept the message concise and informative, beseeching for any within range to pick up and report.

“The insurgency possess a stolen cache of legionary warheads, take up arms and defend yourselves. But do not instigate combat. I repeat, do not engage against the enemy.” He paused. The city had two main means to admit goods, both of which were viable ways to make distance from the impending catastrophe. “Head portside or escape through the city gate, do not falter for help from the VIIth and IIIrd legion shall arrive anon.”

After that, things moved at a breakneck pace. His next series of orders were succinct and decisive. Those who were bedridden were moved to the subterranean level within the castrum, where the repair bay of the engineer was stationed. The space was not insignificant, able to house the invalids and the accompanying cots. Supplies were hauled from frozen storage and distributed, and with the help of two surviving engineers, they got the generators' output limited to the occupied space. 

Zenos promptly washed his hands of their safety and care once everything was situated. He gripped the hilt of his weapon, finding little easement in the gesture. His main priorities still was to locate her as soon as possible, but hindrances seemed to appear one after another. He was in the middle of strapping yet another dagger to his belt when a call came in. 

The Tesserarius, evidently duty bound, had insisted on remaining above ground to monitor the channels, at least until the engineers could cobble together a makeshift set up for communication. The audio was scratchy at first, a female voice cracked through with some difficulty.

[...–ead…do…read..kshhh–rincess]

Zenos tensed upon deciphering that single word. He whirled to his subordinate, blue eyes blazing in silent urgency. The officer was well ahead of his command, fine tuning his board to narrow down the signal. Before long, a comprehensible clarity came through and they were able to receive the message in full.

[I repeat, we have a defense line portside and are awaiting further orders. Her Grace, the First Princess remains missing. The ships are damaged and not seaworthy. Kssh–Centurion Lanatus believes this was sabotage.]

The prince recognized that voice — the lalafellin that Crow had favored was now speaking through the broadcast line.

“Come in, where were her last known coordinates? What did Her Grace intend to do?” He intoned into the microphone, his pressing need to find her seeping through despite his stoic front.

[Kshh– she said she wanted to stop the insurgency from detonating the cache. They are concentrated in the outskirts of the marketplace where the fire has yet to spread, I believe Her Grace may be located there.]

“Very well, remain in position and defend. Evacuate only when necessary, we will not give this city to these dissidents.”

[Receive. We shall stay and hold.] A lingering pause, he sensed her concern even through the tinny filter of the audio. [I hope you find her well, Your Grace.]

He hung up and examined the map once more, striding to the assault craft with a pair of legionaries in tow. It would be the quickest way to reach the marked destination. 

His fist was tightly balled as he climbed into the steel hull. “To the western end, return without me until further notice and seal the gates.”

The pilot and his mate struck stiff salutes, their eyes lowered upon glimpsing at the thunderous cast of his patrician features. Before much else could be said, hot gusts were stirring beneath the Craft's propellers. Zenos’ thoughts coalesced into one, singular image of Crow before he'd departed with the legion. The tips of her fingers brushing against his arm, the hesitation before she presented him with her parting gift. Try as she might to hide it, he’d sensed her anxiety, and the longing she’d cast his way lingered on even till now.

The need to see her again spurred him on, a sweet and painful pining so familiar coiled in his chest. She was waiting for him — of that he was certain.

Chapter 68

Chaos ruled what remained of Valnain as people fought and died on the same streets where they had earned their livelihoods, and haggled over daily bread. The first thing he did of note was pilfering a dusty cloak off of a corpse. Its cowl sufficiently obscured his face and, more importantly, his third eye. There were no sides to take but your own in these circumstances, but the embittered people of Nagxian had little love for any Garleans at the best of times. Their ire would be little more than a hindrance, however being hindered was the last thing he needed.

People were at each other's throat in broad daylight, bearing steel and animosity even as the heat of the impending inferno breathed its coal-black breath at them. Women fled with their babes in arms like harried prey, children tore at each other's clothes and fought over anything and everything they could carry. It was all the same in whichever street he would slink through. Pandemonium reduced these already poor examples of humanity to little more than contemptuous beasts, striving for their own survival by any means. Zenos found himself abhorring even the sight of them, their slavering snarls and hands clutching crude instruments for weapons.

The link pearl pinged quietly into his ear in search of its pair. It was a single chirp, the trail warming somewhat. He had hoped that she would still be wearing it, using it as a two-way locator. Him reaching out as such would surely make her aware of his efforts, yet to his chagrin, there was no response thus far. 

When he next turned a chipped, stony corner, he was confronted with a gaggle of men. For the moment, they paid him little mind, hardly even noticing him as they tugged a shawled woman between them. 

 The prince contemplated the dead end before him, weighing the time he could save by trudging through the depraved cabal or scaling the tall wall. He had no desire to involve himself with the scene, stepping toward the towering stack of uneven brickwork. The scuff of boots sounded and he whirled, flencing off the skin of his assailant’s arm in a smooth draw of steel. The fool’s startled cry was cut short when his sword’s edge slid into his sinewy throat, head cleanly parted in a single, uninterrupted motion. He was short-tempered on this day, gray cloak billowing as he descended on the backpedaling rabble. The second was cut down as he made a reckless charge toward Zenos, the whites of his eyes glistening as he found himself run through. The third fell even quicker, having only moments to let out a ghastly shriek as he clutched his bleeding stump of an arm. One by one, eight in all, they fell as easily as cattle to slaughter, and never was there a moment did the prince pause in his forward advance.

He’d miscalculated, he supposed, making his way through the alley was much quicker.

The woman, disheveled and half-tangled in her shawl, shrank back as he passed. Her eyes never parted from the bloody stranger even when the sight of him made the fine hair on her neck rise. Her heart was galloping a malm a minute, the leftover rush leaving her hands trembling. She'd been caught in the streets, fleeing from the blaze and the strange insurrection that appeared like a sudden wildfire. Her neighbors, an old couple and their married children, perished in a fiery blast. Their screams rang in her ears as she was knocked off her feet, body thrown roughly off her balcony and into a haystack below. When she woke, she'd nearly suffocated crawling through the gray haze. Knees scraping against the cobblestone even with her stinging eyes, she heard the cacophony of the slaughter. Tears streamed from her eyes by the time she'd managed to make it out, though she was unsure whether it was from the smog or a child’s blackened finger she'd numbly held onto when she was finding her way.

 This terrifying man crossed through the alley like a maelstrom, leaving naught but death and wordless malice in his wake. She was not unfamiliar with the unsavory element within Valnain, having dealt with the information guilds and underground black market runners in her time. Many came to her to get their fortune told before a risky task, and she was not known to be wrong. Her words were harsh but honest, even the most seasoned smugglers consult her before scheduling their shipments. She'd been a failure in her motherland of Old Sharlaya, but here she was almost revered for her skills as a diviner of the future.

However, it did her no good when it came down to the defense of her person. She was forced to face the reality of her shortcomings when the leaf-clad men of old Nagxian chased her down, their intentions unthinkably vile. They liked toying with her as she dashed through the alleys, cornering her like prey and spared no thought for decency or mercy.

The diviner clutched her swollen jaw, running her finger down to the cloth abrasion at her throat. They would have strangled her with her own clothing while they had their way with her, the thought drove a spike of chill down her back. Whatever peril was in store, she was unequipped to face alone. 

Better the devil you know, she supposed.

“Wait, ser!” Her mouth felt as though she'd stuff her cheeks full of cotton, the vague taste of iron coated her tongue as she called out to him. It took three tries for her to stand, no different from a newborn foal. He was already far ahead, his towering frame disappearing into the smoke.

“ser! I–” She cried out stumbling forward as she caught a gleam of steel protruding from the stirring haze.

Her breath caught in her throat, nearly stumbling into the blade leveled at her face. Her eyes stared down the length of the blood-streaked weapon, from hilt to arm, then up to twin rigid points. They were wintry blue, she noted, a color terribly uncommon in these parts. He was handsome in a way that one might think a jaguar was beautiful, capable of spilling your innards with a swift flick of his wrist. 

The diviner held up her hands in surrender, warily gauging the ilms between her and the point of the blade. She could see his impatience, poorly veiled behind his impersonal contempt for her, for the world. He was in a hurry to go somewhere, clutched in his other hand was a silvery earpiece. A linkshell, she realized. The device was commonplace among imperial troops, used to relay both locations and communications.

He was looking for someone, surely.

“If you're trying to reach the west end, ser, that way is no good. The blast destroyed the bridge over the canal,"she explained meekly. “I know a better route, we can safely avoid the blaze.”

The sword held its position despite her offer, a wrinkle of distrust marred his perfectly bowed lips. He stared her down, seemingly weighing the benefit to simply cutting her down or indulging her proffered guidance.

“I-I only need to be escorted to the west end, well part ways from there and I shan't bother you ever again.” She blurted haphazardly, sounding no different from the pleas of mercy she'd been uttering moments before.

Out from the thorny ravine and into the lion’s den. She would die this day, surely, all because she couldn't keep her mouth shut and stay out of the way. Her gaze was firmly fixed to the littered ground, tears burning up in her eyes as the smog thickened. The fire was growing, fed by the dried teak frames of Valnain’s antiquated buildings. Her biggest regret was dying as a maid, unspoken for and never knowing the touch of a lover. 

“Walk.” 

She was gonna die screaming at the end of some stranger’s blade, bloodied and ragged like her assailants. Never knowing peace and–

The diviner blinked, eyes snapping up to look at the imposing stranger. It took a moment for her to reacquaint herself with her tongue, spooling up what little composure she had left in a panic.

She stumbled back, backtracking down to an adjacent alleyway. “Y-Yes, right this way.” 

Zenos trailed after the diminutive street rat as she slinked cautiously around yet another turn. They'd climbed down several different flights of stony steps, the air cooling significantly as they descended into a subterranean passage. The stairs were mottled with a sickly green moss, a muddy stench pervading the thick air. It mixed with the smoke, producing a curious bouquet of burned hair and sewage. The faintest of illumination filtered through the rusted grated above, insufficient to light their path. He could feasibly see five fulms ahead of him though he sensed deep-running cavernous channels ahead. The sound of running water bounced off the cobbled wall, helping him map out the area by ear.

One could avoid detection from imperial patrols if they manage to navigate these parts successfully, an easy endeavor for those familiar with the sordid underbelly of Valnain.

He watched the limpid orb cupped in her palm, a cluster of concentrated aether channeled into a small, starry sphere. Her technique was refined, emitting a soft glow that bore none of the destructive intent he'd possessed. It was the difference between the fine control of the savages and the aether-inept Garleans.

“Can you see? Is it too dim?” She noticed his frank assessment, turning back after the first half dozen steps ahead.

The prince sheathed his weapon, wordlessly closing the distance and waiting with cross arms. The diviner started, he was as a statue that came to life, imposing and unfeeling. His eyes passed over her as though she was beneath him, a familiar and unpleasant condescension that reminded her of those bygone scholarly days. An invisible divide prevented her from settling in with her Sharlayan-born peers, between those who were favored for their familial prestige and foreign urchins who'd come from nothing. 

“May I ask your name, ser?”  She asked furtively, striding ahead with hands aglow.

“No.” Blunt as a hammer was his reply.

To the west end was a long walk away through these labyrinths, and she would be willing to dive into sewage just to tear herself away from the stifling silence.

“Then would you indulge me in a card reading as we walk?”

His skewed gaze was deadpanned, managing to convey the considerable volume of his annoyance. “If I entertain your charlatan arts, would you cease talking for the rest of this delightful jaunt?”

Frankly, she was thoroughly offended but dared not voice her indignance. Instead, she smiled and lifted her little star globe, drawing out a small deck from her sling to shuffle at her leisure. The motion was soothing to her, well-loved cards seamlessly gliding between one another as her deft fingers caressed them.

Before long, a wide fan of eight cards was spread before her. “Pick a card, ser?”

“Third from the right.” He said without even a moment of consideration, eyes firmly kept to the path ahead. Either he thought very little of her arts or, unlike the rest of the world, he was blessed with absolute certainty in every choice he made.

She tapped the sheaf to her lips, letting a little mysticism seep into her next words. “You're…looking for someone, are you not?”

She'd deduced as much even before touching the deck, sometimes an intelligent guess was all that it would take to impress a client. It was hardly a difficult determination when his gait tilted ever so slightly forward, urging her to speed up with the needle of his focus and large strides.

“If you're not looking for something or someone in these climes, you're surely a corpse.” He replied, nonplussed.

‘The Arrow’ floated up before her, the nascent reading beginning to form in her mind. Another card was drawn — second from the left, the ‘Lady of Crown' revealed itself to her. Another piece of his enigmatic self for her to interpret.

“Someone you hold dear to your heart, yes?” If the cards hadn't told her otherwise, she would've assumed he was looking to cut down someone in revenge. A hardshell holds a tender core, she supposed and snuck a glance at the wayward mercenary.

The clap of thunder boomed from above, almost foreboding in its timeliness. Still, she was glad for the incoming storm, the sound familiar to any who'd spent more than a full year in Valnain. The smoke that clogged her every breath would clear up with the rain, cleansing the tragedies of the past day through a torrential deluge.

“The canal will swell up soon with the rain,” She said as they took another turn, all her amiable chatter dying away like wet embers. “We have to hurry and cross through the dry channels, otherwise we'll be blocked off.”

As she spoke, the last card lifted itself from her small deck. What she saw made her mouth go dry in trepidation. A portent most dreadful, foretelling naught but long hardships and wuthering adversities.‘The Spire’ was inverted into a crooked tower, laid upside down when it came into her hand. The reading was complete but she was hesitant to tell him the final draw’s meaning.

She felt his eyes on her, boring holes into the top of her head. He was expecting an explanation despite proclaiming her divination as magical drivel.

“Oh-hoh, I wonder how deep your affection runs if the mere idea of her provokes such anticipation in you.” The cards folded themselves away with a flick of her finger, a knowing smirk playing on her cut lips. “Does she herself know that you love her so?”

“Loving someone is a choice, implying there are others to devote yourself to. I have since realized that I need her as I need air to breathe and sustenance to live, there needn't be a choice in the matter to begin with.” He responded unexpectedly, his recitation was well-practiced as though this thought had been contemplated time and time again. If the concept of love and devotion were whetstones, then they’d been worn down to slim, polished placards by how much he'd worked over them.

The diviner caught the intensity of his eyes, they burned like cold fire as he regarded her. She swallowed the lump in her throat, unnerved by the very first trace of emotion he now displayed. The scattered pitter-patter of rain filtered through the grates above, the hard downpour distracted her enough to tear her eyes away. Any hint of affability evaporated as she was briefly privy to his inner thoughts, and what she saw truly frightened her.

She clutched onto her little star-globe for comfort as they came to a small barred archway, jiggling the rusty brass handle in futility as the water below the lichen-covered path rose steadily. It seemed that they'd run out of luck. Not many knew of this less-trodden path but she'd hoped these desperate times would urge one of her seedy acquaintances to make their escape through here.

“It's no good, I know another wa–” She was yanked back as a flash of steel crossed through the antiquated metal, it gave a miserable groan before being dislodged by a swift kick. She could only stare at him with a loose jaw and wide eyes. Perhaps most things in life could be solved by violence. 

He was crossing the narrow causeway before she could utter a quick prayer to Oschon. Truly, she hoped to survive this tumultuous day in one piece. She looked down to the rushing currents, suppressing the urge to shiver as she forced her eyes to look forward. The mercenary had made this look so easy, his confident strides making short work of the precarious trip. By the time she passed through, the onrush of water was less than a fulm beneath her slippers. They would have knocked her foot from out beneath her and dragged her into a watery oblivion. Regardless, she was as drenched as a wet dog. 

But a live one, she digressed.

The closer they came to the point of their parting, the guiltier she felt about keeping the message of the final draw from him.

“In regards to the final draw.” She began after a long stretch of silence. 

“Keep it to yourself if you wish to keep your tongue.” The mercenary’s cultured drawl was casual, but his threat was all too real.

“But, ser–” 

“Your poor attempts at diverting my attention is telling enough, I will not allow a mere augur’s words to cloud my eyes.” Her plea was ignored, overtaken by the blinking chirps of the linkpearl.

Her answering smile was bitter but she understood, having borne witness to too many self-fulfilling prophecies.

 “Then let me part with some advice, ser.” The diviner continued past Zenos, her destination still some ways away. “Hold onto her as tightly as you can as though she is life itself, and no matter what, do not let go.”

She did not turn for one last look, the imposing stranger that had saved her was someone she did not want to see again. Her voice had carried a bravado she did not possess for she feared that he would've cut her down where she stood for her insolence. By the time she cleared the subterranean passages, she found that her hands still trembled. With trepidation or relief, she could not say. Through a low, unblocked archway piled low with mossy debris, all she could see was green foliage and a sheer curtain of rain. It was a sight she’d never thought so beautiful after the smoke and hellfire of the now-ruined city.

Chapter 69

The prince narrowed his baleful eyes at the diviner, he'd half a mind to run her through for her presumptuous words alone. However, the chirping of the linkpearl intensified, responding to its pair’s close proximity. He stowed the device away, he could find her yet without giving away their location to the roaming pack of dogs. Step by step, his boots landed against the sodden stairwell, climbing up to the wan blue sheen of evening. Once the charlatan augur had left with her globe, everything fell into darkness. His eyes had adjusted to the dim even through his obscuring cowl. The sigh of rain was constant, dulling the senses in all directions. The chaos of the city fell into a subdued docility compared to before, his steps muffled in the persistent downpour.

He walked along the shallow eaves of a slanted roof, the right side of its wall half crumbled. Acrid smoke filled his nose, the recent inferno snuffed out by deluge. There were spots of light in the distance, some street lights installed by the imperial regime persisted in their functions even while the city fell. The shouts of men filtered through the static of the shower, his ears perked and his blade already drawn.

They were growing further away, he realized, in pursuit of someone else. Without hesitation, he followed them in the shadow of dusk and closed the malm with his long strides. Upon closer inspection, they were armed with broad, flat blades and had since shed their ghillie cloaks. Still, their jaws were set and their body language not unlike a pack of bloodhounds on a scent. When they came to an open plaza, a man fell back and took aim with his flat bow. The trigger was squeezed and the arrow was midair by the time Zenos descended on him, blade flashing. As he dispatched the insurgent, he caught the stiff cry and his hackles raised in recognition.

He rushed forth as the men closed in on her, his heart at his throat as he saw the fletched shaft protruding from her torso. In spite of her wound, she remained on her feet, still fighting tooth and nail for space in the wide, empty plaza. A scythe swung out, catching the nearest man in the chest. A hot gush of blood fanned out as he fell, his fellows circling her like vultures. Like a diving hawk, he struck. As precise as he was deadly, Zenos gutted a man from behind and opened another’s throat in retribution. 

The pack recoiled from him, their momentum disrupted by his appearance. He could see her in full then, her cloak sodden and bloodied. She was on the offense the moment she was given room, the cornered prey turned predator. Crow was focused on naught else but the demise of her pursuers, her wound did little to dampen her vicious retaliation. When there were none left, she turned to him and dove in for yet another kill. Murder flashed in her eyes as the uppercut swing came, parting the constant rain but for a moment. Zenos backstepped, the glistening point of her scythe missing him by a hair’s breadth. The hem of his cowl parted, falling back to reveal his face. 

At the sight of him, she faltered in recognition. The head of her weapon bit against the cobblestone as the fight left her. She leaned against the length of her scythe for support as exhaustion caught up with her all at once. The relief upon seeing him was indescribable. Worse yet, she’d been running on fumes and adrenaline, now she'd nothing left but the pain in her side. Her vision was filled with the pale visage of his familiar form, she and her other half reunited under the worst circumstances.

“We cannot stay here, there are more of them to come.” Crow warned, on the watch against the streets connected to the plaza. Though rain had muted the clatter of battle and the several abandoned carts served as decent cover, it would not be long before they were found.

His hands molded to her shoulders even as she moved to depart for safer grounds, easing her implacable against his body. His fingers pressed on the space between her stiffened shoulders, sliding down to the arrow that was still lodged in her side. Her nose and mouth were stuffed against his chest as she felt his hand wrap around the shaft. It was a horrendously deep wound, and she cried out weakly when he snapped the shaft in half. Her knees buckled as the muscles that wrapped around the serrated arrowhead stirred, the wound struggling to push out the foreign object and failing. She was too starved of aether, the voidsent's powers clinging on to keep her alive. But only just.

Zenos hushed her, cradling her limp form in his arms. She heard him sheath his blade then folded her scythe close, its strap slung around one of his broad shoulders for ease of transport. Energy drained from her like water through a sieve as moments passed, barely cobbling together the wherewithal to hold onto him for purchase. Her head laid against his shoulder, heat radiating to warm her cheek. An arm slid beneath her knees and he rose almost gently, the motion smooth in consideration of her wound.

“Stay awake. Do not close your eyes.” She heard his voice filtering through the downpour, her eyelids drooping as though weight down by stone.

Crow could hardly feel her fingers despite their tremor, so numb were they that she could only focus on the bleary, glowing motes. It reminded her of the far-flung moon she would look to when she was at her loneliest. Those isolated days where she was locked up by Vinia, starved of sustenance and companionship. She would grow misty-eyed, wishing for someone to come to hold her and tell her that everything would be alright. That she was worth even a morsel of care to someone.

The thought was pushed aside, at first by her willful pride for seeming like a bovine-minded damsel. Then came the pain, tugging and insistent, enough to wrench her from the ebbing oblivion. she felt her ribcage expand as she took in a creaking breath, hands clawing for leverage to push herself up. She wanted to get away but a strong grip held her down. Her eyes snapped open as the world rapidly invaded her consciousness, all too aware of the hand clenched around her shoulder. She had her nails haphazardly dug into the offending limb, a hitched, pleading sob escaped her lips. 

She hated herself for that noise, but what she currently was and what she wanted herself to be were two very different things at the moment. 

“It's me. It's alright.” His voice brushed against the shell of her ear, a pressure clamped against her waist where the arrow was. “Let go, I need you to sit up.”

Crow pulled her hand back and felt the tears rise, completely unbidden and against her will. She pushed herself up and hid her face against the nook of her elbow, eyes pressed against the damp skin of her arm. She didn't want him to see her like this, sorrily steeping in her failures and feeling like trodden mud.

“I'm sorry… I couldn't protect the city.” She bit her lower lip to keep from trembling. Had she been sharper to realize the insurgency’s intentions or faster to take action to guard against their attack, the sack of Valnain would've been a drawn out siege instead.

“The legions’ inadequacies are not yours to shoulder, the stragglers should have never slipped past the trenches’ perimeter to begin with.” The prince wrapped another loop of bandaging around her, a stern frown set on his wan lips. “Nael was too caught up with holding the line and Nerva drowned himself in liquor, too soused to contribute anything meaningful.”

Crow rubbed the unneeded tears away, composing herself with a sharp inhale. Zenos began summarizing the past months spent in Golmore, the exotic beasts, ambushes by the insurgents and his strange encounter with a voidsent that stank of sulfur. She listened to his adventures, fraught with a myriad of menaces, and was intrigued by his last foe prior to rejoining the others.

In an old manuscript she'd once found in the imperial records, it was claimed that Othard had astoundingly stable aether unlike its neighbors. This consistent state of stability allowed them to develop and practice an art called geomancy. It was also noted that voidsent were rare in the continent, regarded as demons who opposed the benevolent deities they worshiped. What Zenos had described was unmistakably a succubus, a voidsent that puppeteered a dead woman’s remains to malevolent ends.

“A child — its contracted host — called it mother, you say?” Crow asked, thinking back to her early years when she'd clung to Drusilla and begged for a creature of her own to command.

“He was young, seven at most. It was all he could do while clinging to that creature.” The prince unclasped his armor as he spoke, the light weight breastplate stashed up on the table next to her. 

“Does he still live?” She gingerly swung her legs over the edge of the table to face him fully.

Zenos shook his head and Crow frowned. “Not by your hands, I hope.”

He hesitated, recalling that he was ready to cut the child down. “No, it was Nerva.”

She closed her eyes, unsurprised by the news. “I suspect that the succubus was what became of his mother and he the unwitting contractor.”

“The summoner is likely a third party, facilitating bonds between voidsent and fools who know nothing about the nuance of their contracts.” Perhaps a quick death was a mercy. The succubi were an especially ravenous kind of fiend, that child would've become little more than an ailing sack of flesh and bones within the span of a fortnight.

She had been so caught up in her guesswork that when her eyes refocused, she was given an eyeful of Zenos’ bare back. His sodden shirt had been peeled off, leaving warm, sun-tinged skin that still glistened with rivulets of rain and sweat. His shoulder blades moved as he shrugged off the fabric, muscles feathering at his lower back to tempt her eyes southward. Twin dimples sat just above the beginnings of where his breeches’ waistband began, flexing as her companion wrung out his clothing.

Crow shut her eyes, her thoughts tripping over and tumbling into a disorganized tangle. She pursed her lips primly and felt the dappling heat bloomed on her cheeks, this was not the time to be distracted.

“I don’t suppose you’d have some sparking flints on you?”

Zenos reached into one of his pockets and tossed something at her. Crow caught it at the end of its gentle arc, blinking down in bemusement as she held a bar of ration in her hands.

“A fire would give us away, we cannot afford to be seen in enemy territory. Moreover, you should eat, you look terrible.” He intoned, thoughtful if a tad too blunt. He was charming in that blow-in-the-stomach sort of way, she supposed dryly.

“What would I do without you?” She peeled back the wrapper and bit into the dry biscuit bar. It tasted slightly sweet, chalky and nutty, coating her mouth with the feel of dusty sandpaper. Not the worst thing she’s had, better than the rancid fare her late governess had served, and she’d be willing to say she would have a second serving if given no other options.

“Dying out here is far beneath you, I would hope.” He retrieved a bundle of fabric among the things he’d scavenged from the small hold, extending one scrap to her.

Crow snorted, the noise sardonic and highly unladylike. “I'm touched by your optimistim.”

The scrap was a blouse, plain and threadbare but dry. She was reminded then of her sodden chemise shirt, clinging to her like an itchy second skin.

 He stood before her with his arms folded, waiting. Their eyes met and Crow leveled an expectant look at him, then to the clothes and back to him again. Zenos rolled his eyes and turned his back to her once more, quietly exasperated.

Rain pelted against the damaged roof as she settled back down to the table. It was the only thing that survived the looters and fire, managing to retain its balance on four thick legs. Motifs of flowers had been carefully carved in by hand, scratched from use then smoothed by years of wear. She wondered what terrible things it had borne witness to, if those who'd called this place home yet survived.

A blanket, homespun-brown and laced with the scent of smoke, wrapped over her shoulders. Where it touched, she was warmed, the extra layer helped warding off the prolonged downpour’s chill. She brushed her fingers against his, feeling his cold fingers as their eyes met.

“Where'd you get this?”

Zenos nodded to the small hallway behind a drearily thin curtain, its tattered hem swaying with a light breeze. “There was bedding stored in a cabinet, though not much else.”

Crow lifted the sheet with an arm, a soft invitation in her small smile. “It's always warmer with two.”

Reluctantly, he leaned against the table's edge and allowed her to drape one end over him, her arm slid across his neck as she retreated. Her withdrawal was halted when he turned, a hand reaching back to catch her slender wrist. They were nose to nose, the space between them feather-thin, the heat of their bodies trapped by the cover. They'd never been strangers to this kind of closeness, yet his hearts always seemed to thrum a bit more earnestly whenever she neared. He could see that the effects of their intimate proximity was not his alone to feel, her form fully leaning against his side. The pliant way her body molded to his made his mouth dry, his hand possessing a mind of its own as it roamed around the svelte curve of her hips

She'd grown taller in the past year, her slender frame rounding out in all the right ways as she bettered herself with food. He'd been feeling such unnamable things for her since they'd begun their training together, his eyes catching on the sweat sliding down the valley of her chest, the curves of her toned thighs leading up to her narrow waist. 

The way she’s pressed against him through that thin shirt had him on the precipice, he sucked in a sharp breath and ran his lips against the corner of her mouth. Her response was tremulous at first, then lips fully sealed against his in answer. She moved languidly against their kiss, a hand cupping his jaw to pull him closer. He let his grasp on her wrist slip as he pivoted to fully face her, the soft pressure of her bosom kneading against his chest.

His tongue slid against her lower lip, tasting its faint sweetness. She let out a sigh and ran her hand down his side, letting it linger at his hip where his belt began. The prince clutched that hand, pressing it down against where it settled. If she'd gone any further–

Crow withdrew with her fingers twirled around his necklace, her eyes filled with naked adoration as she gazed up at him.

“I missed you.” She murmured between light pecks down his chin. It was all he could do to not have her there and then.

He tamped down on the guttering fire in his belly, heart hammering just beneath the tips of her fingers. He wondered if she knew she had such an effect on him.

“Did you now?” Zenos hummed, feeling her trace her lips down to his collarbones.

He swallowed hard as he felt her teeth sink down on his skin, his breeches feeling too tight for comfort.

Crow parted her kiss-swollen lips from him, too precocious about such things for her own good. Her lustrous eyes aglow with fae mischief. “Just as you did me, I hope.”

Notes:

Back together at last :')

Chapter 70

The cylindrical cartridge was held between her thumb and forefinger, its length was barely the span of his palm. Such potential destruction was held at her fingertips, the steel cap encasing the switch that separated Valnain’s total destruction and the neutralization of the insurgency’s plans. Crow had stolen the detonator of the incendiary cache, their activation impossible without it. Thus explained the dogged chase after her and the bands currently on the prowl in the area.

She held it up to him. “They were struggling among themselves to get this to open. The warheads would be neutralized if they were not set off with this, yes?” 

Zenos nodded and lifted it from her hand, running his thumb across the cap's rim then straight down its leftmost face. A mechanical click startled Crow, her back straightening in alarm as he unlocked the detonator’s security seal. A white, shallow button extruded from the flat circular plane, deceptively small and inconspicuous. 

“These warheads are encased in a dampening agent as a precautionary measure, if breached from the outside, they'd be rendered into duds. They’re meant to be launched via airborne from air bomber crafts, the outer case would detach and the true load would become active.” He snapped the cylinder shut, humming an impressed little noise as he dropped it back into her hand. “It was developed some two decades ago but only saw real use in our aerial encroachment over Mor Dhona.”

She blinked.

“Over Silvertear Lake?” She’d heard of the devastation wrought upon dragons by the imperial fleets, the persistent fires of the warheads rendering their thick hides to little more than butter tossed into flames. Had the great wyrm, Midgardsommr, not intervened, Garlemald would’ve been afforded a direct route straight into the heart of Aldenard. Now, only a small waystation of a castrum remained there, little more than an outpost to discard disfavored soldiers. The only thing that stopped that station from folding entirely was the notion of all-out war against the empire, the local rabble likely expected nature would subsume the small encampment of imperial troops soon enough without needing for them to lift a finger.

A thought came to her then. “They didn’t know how to unlock the detonator…how then did they deploy them to breach the city’s gate?”

Zenos paused thoughtfully for a moment as he remembered the explosives that were used in the front lines. Aerial warheads were not the only means of detonation in a standard legion’s arsenal. “Kinetic attachments included within the cache likely punched through the gate’s frame — a sort of battering ram that only needs to be sunk into stone or steel. The Domans yielded after their castle gate was breached by the same means some thirty years ago.”

“How excessive.” She sneered, recalling the glass-shattering aftermath in memory.

“Such are the needs of war.” The prince drawled. “There's only too little or too much, no time for precision when it comes to the bloody fields.”

“Do I sense a poignant anecdote after such wise philosophizing?” Crow scoffed, a teasing smile dancing on her lips as she lifted the small canister of water up for another sip.

“No.” His reply was amusingly deadpanned 

“Oh, come now, surely…” Crow’s smile lingered even as her words trailed off, as did her sight.

Lightning illuminated the dim room with a series of flickering flashes, with it came a pair of lambent orbs in the far corner. It was frozen stock-still, blending in with the broken shelving and torn furnishing, but it was there to her discerning eye. Between one moment and the next, the dagger was swiftly drawn from her boot and came at the creature. A deflated shriek filled the air as the imp writhed against the wall, pinned down by her knife. Though eclipsed by the claps of thunder overhead, its sharp cries went on for another few moments before it evaporated into miasmic dark aether.

Zenos watched the scene unfold. It began and ended within three short seconds, more than enough time to come to the conclusion as her.

“We've been found.” She declared in a low whisper.

He met her gaze, his attention immediately fixed onto her injured side. “Your wound.” 

“I'm fine, it just needed a bit of time.” She shrugged on her damp, tattered cloak and picked up her scythe by its strap.

Zenos scanned over her even as she moved to retrieve her embedded blade, a doubtful hint knitted into the furrow of his brows. 

Crow patted her flank in demonstration after tucking the blade back to its hidden sheathe. “See? Right as rain.”

In truth, the spot had closed itself up but there was still tenderness in her muscles. Whatever poison had that arrow been dipped in had stiffened her joints to a notable discomfort, still, she was better off now than before. Bleeding out on the pavement was not a fate she’d envisioned for herself.

Any time they had left must have run its course as the sound of boots stomped across the front of the abandoned home. It sounded like a lot of men, too many to fend off in such cramped quarters without risking further injuries in her state.

Zenos rushed through the back with Crow closely behind him. The door to the back was flung open to reveal a stormy deluge, the downpour had only grown heavier, veritably an all-encompassing waterfall. He waited for her to clear through the threshold before rolling in a steel canister, silhouettes of men not far behind them through the barely lit corridor as he slammed the door shut again. The cylinder bounced once before a gaseous hiss spewed from its ends, their pursuers choking in the noxious cloud filling the hold. They were gone even before the last man hit the battered plank flooring, unable to make it back into the rain.

****

Crow shadowed her companion silently, never more than three paces behind as she kept an eye to their rear. Men of the insurgency were only half the problem as it became evident that there was an errant voidsent summoner in their midst. Wherever this reprobate may be, they’d apparently escaped the ravaging defeat within the jungle. Only to end up here in search of a twisted form of retribution against those who were deemed traitors by the dissidents of Nagxian.

They exchanged little words while on the move, their cloaks already soaked through within the first few moments out in the rain. Retracing his steps, Zenos led them through a series of alleyways, climbing over debris and looping around blocked paths through recently abandoned homes. They crossed through a destroyed back garden, where many of the potted greenery was overturned. As they approached the end, she saw mounds of dirt laid heaped next to a dead man, his back soaked through by old blood. In his arms laid a young girl, presumably his daughter or relative. She faced skyward in a blank state, parted lips overflowing with rainwater. They'd been cut down in the midst of their attempt to escape, caught by blades blinded by vengeance.

She averted her sight and swept through the tragic scene in haste. Despite her nonchalance and contributions toward such unsavory deeds, her own experiences had colored her view on the killing of youths. It coated her stomach with an oily unease and her countenance must have betrayed her as her companion took notice.

“Do you pity them?” Zenos asked as they cleared the half wall, sticking close to shadowed nooks and narrow alleys.

She clutched her arm, cold fingers pressed against slick, lukewarm skin. Drops of water slithered down the corner of her lips as she parted them, head filled with uncertainty. She let out a light laugh, it sounded sufficiently apathetic even  to her own ears.

“Will you scold me if that was the case?”

“There isn’t a need to account for each and every case of collateral damage.” He said with a low voice, barely audible over the cascading sigh of rain. He seemed to see through her willful deceit even without looking at her, as if he knew her even better than herself.

“Yes, yes.” She gave her arm a disciplining squeeze. “I’m merely concerned about how much of the workforce we’ll be losing in the aftermath.”

He ducked into one of the winding cobble squeezes that littered the debris-filled thoroughways, pulling her with him to a crumbling niche in the brick walls. Crow stood with her breath held as steps of splattered rain stumbled past them, the frightened whimpers of a woman reaching her ears. She peered over the turn and saw a maid with a child trailing behind her, their gray silhouettes fleeing through the deluge. Another shape was in pursuit, on all-fours and sleek, its canine nature obvious even through the murk of dusk.

The tiny waif stumbled and went down against the sodden cobblestones, legs too short to keep up with the chase. Her guardian skidded to a halt, tugging on her charge with increasing urgency. Their hunter would be on them in mere moments, its barking snarls hardly sounding friendly.

Pulling away from Zenos’ grip, Crow barged into the thoroughfare without further consideration. Her scythe unfurled with a sharp clank as she closed the distance. The maid was white as a sheet as she managed to yank up the child and throw both of them out of the way. The hound, teeth snapping, growled as it dove in and missed. It readied itself for another attack when a cleaving slash of steel came and disrupted its momentum. Her weapon bit into the rough stone road and gouged out a curved chunk, sweeping pebbles and water aside in an arc. The projectile splashed against the beast and it flinched back, whirling to meet its new opponent.

The princess maintained her advantage with a series of swings, keeping the creature on the retreat. Upon closer inspection, she realized this was no ordinary rabid dog but a summoned hellhound from the bowels of the primordial dark. Her revelation came with consequences, knowing full well that these abyssal trackers were never alone in their hunts. A shadow zipped into her periphery to catch her undefended flank. She whirled and braced herself for the impact, expecting to feel teeth sink into her throat or shoulders. Yet none came to meet her anticipation, instead a sharp canine yelp sounded. A pitiful pitch extracted from the secondary hellhound by a hurled dagger, Zenos stepping into the field with a disapproving grimace.

The other voidsent, noticing her diverted attention, turned back to its original targets with malicious cunning. It rushed in on the defenseless maid and her young charge, eager for the kill. It did as all voidsent would, driven by its gluttony and aiming for the weakest link of a group.

The prince sank his saber into the neck of the red-striped hound, severing head from body with a clean stroke. It was something to behold as it laid dead, black ichor leaking from its stumped neck as it slowly dissolved into wet ashes in the rain. Teeth elongated to unnatural lengths, eyes smoldering like the guttering embers of a brazier. Its head topped by horns that had torn from the base of its skull, its hide bubbled with corruption and scabbed over haphazardly in patches as though its body knew not what to do with this new occupant. Nothing, however, would leave a more lasting impression than his very first encounter with these aberrations.

Zenos watched as his companion gave chase to her quarry, leaping through a split open portal to close the gap and bringing her scythe down into the creature’s back. She'd been so determined to rescue that child that she was willing to put herself in harm’s way. This streak of kindness was new to him, though he suspected that it'd never surfaced before because of the lack of such juvenile presences in both the imperial palace and the castrum. 

He nudged at the hound’s head with the toe of his boot, narrowing his eyes at its ugly, slackened features. 

Where had that unseemly manservant of hers disappeared to, he wondered.

Chapter 71

Vitality surged through her as she pinned the hellhound down by its throat, weak and without strength but still alive. It red pupils rolled back to look at her, full of hate and low bestial intellect, tongue lolling out as it laid there in its last moments. When she’d laid her hand on it, intending to secure the escape of the maid and her charge, its life force seemed to slip through each point of contact and filled her better than any meal could. Even under the cold, sodden blanket of the unceasing monsoon, she felt warm and sated as the voidsent inside her glutted itself on its fellow.

In spite of this brimming discovery, Crow leashed herself to spare the depraved creature. She needed it alive, if only just.

She sensed his presence behind her as she brought her attention back to the hounds’ quarries. The maid had collapsed on her knees, her skirts drenched as she held the urchin boy. The creature had been a mere a dozen ilms away, had it not been taken down in the exact moment that it did that child would have been torn to shreds by the beast. The woman shook where she sat, her attention fixed not on Crow but past her, face stricken with fear despite her narrow escape from the jaws of death.

“Head to the port for shelter, the legions there will take you in.”

If they were careful and stuck to the edges of the city, they would surely be able to—

“Garlean! get away” There was more than mere fear in that squeezing whisper, she was rendered utterly paralyzed by the sight of Zenos. She scooted back and halfheartedly dragged the child with her, little more than sniffling ragdoll.

In the midst of this terrible siege, Crow had forgotten that the people here feared their occupiers as much as the dangers of the jungles itself. The maid picked herself up clumsily and resumed her skittish run once more, this time the child was scooped up in her arms as their forms faded into the night. The rain had finally petered out, leaving them with little more than glistening silhouettes in the dark. There were no more street lights left to light the way, only the cold beams of the waning half-moon that watched over them with uncaring constance.

“They’re going to die out there.” He said bluntly.

Crow frowned but was resigned to their reality. “I know.”

“Then why do all this?”The pommel of his saber snapped against the lip of its sheath, pointedly punctuating his last word.

She sighed, shoulders rising and dropping. “Don’t fret, it wasn’t all for nothing.”

Without further explanation, she slid her dagger from her boots once more and began to carve short runes into the hellhound’s hide. It twitched and panted as it felt the nick of steel dig into its ruined fur, and then a final, violent spasm as she finished her spell off with a flourish. Crow slowly stood with the tip of her dagger steadily held over the carcass, a stream of black ichor pining up after the glinting edge from each gash she’d drawn.

“Thanks to our loyal friend here, I have the compass that will help us find our pesky summoner.”

“That will have to wait.” He resumed his leading position. “Come, we must get to the nearest radio access.”

She bounced the spinning black sphere off the flat of her dagger and rolled it into her palm, trotting up next to him with ardent strides. Whatever altruism she’d felt for the harried citizens quickly was casted aside, her caprice showing its baleful hand. One cannot help those who would not help themselves, and she saw no point in lingering overlong about the fates of others.

“Very well, but only if you tell me what you're planning.” She graced him with a knowing look as she fell into step next to him, a conspirator’s smile playing on her lips.

****

The Imperial embassy was the only location left relatively untouched by the fires, but raiders had gotten into the first floor and destroyed much of the ornate splendor built into its very architecture. Marble pillars, carved with ornate scrollwork and gilded, stood with damaged bases and spiderwebbed with cracks. The Garlean banners that typically hung at the entrance laid on the ground in shredded tatters, trampled on and stained with liquids of unmentionable sources. A broken barricade of desks and tables were stacked against the wood-framed glass panels, each one shattered as though the attackers had sought every venue for entry.

Crow peered into a small gap, seeing little else but toppled furnishing in the dim. There was no one inside, likely any who'd worked within were now dead as the insurgents found other points of entry. There were windows high up on the second story, difficult but not impossible to break in through. She took in the grim state of the once austere office, somewhat mortified by the ruin that greeted them.

Zenos swiped at her elbow, the touch quick and alerting. She realized there were faint torches some distance away, spun back to the gap in the door and realized that it was not a big enough space to accommodate her companion’s imposing form.

Their eyes met and, with only that exchange, both wordlessly rushed to vacate the embassy’s front entrance. Off they went in a hurry, slipping behind the ornamental hedges that decorated the building’s sides. Crow shielded her face from the leafy thrust of the trimmed brushes, finding herself being yanked free by her companion by her arm. They kept low to the ground, slinking under the shadows of the tall bushes as the orange glow of firelight drifted into the wide, formerly manicured courtyard preceding the embassy. She watched as a patrolman at each side split off, one rapidly approaching them with his torch raised.

Roughly ten paces behind her, Zenos found what he was looking for: a steel hatch, single-doored and raised just a fulm above ground level. It had no way of access other than a card slot at its side, almost seamless save for the difference between its granite border and ceruleum-steel face. Crow snuck over to him and winced as she heard the affirming beep of the hatch.

“Who’s there?!” The insurgent raised his light forward, his broad machete blade drawn in suspicion. There was only an empty, overgrown path ahead, and that impregnable hatch no one seemed capable of opening. He kicked the stone lip, slamming his booted feet on the solid entrance.

“Bloody shite Garleans, ought to burn this place down too.”

The impact was little more than a dull thud against the single-paneled high steel barrier, barely breaching the four-ilms thick door. Just below, Crow blinked in the dark, her limbs tangled with her sodden cloak and Zenos’ arms. He'd gotten them through the hatch, pulling her in with him just before their imminent discovery. 

Seated squarely in his lap, her back supported by one of his knees, Crow sagged in relief as a small sigh escaped her lips. She could smell the petrichor of the damp earth on them, intermingled with a touch of sterile, recycled air. Her companion leaned back, the perfect prince looking not so perfect after their harrowing day together. They had fallen in, ignoring the short ladder entirely, scraping by unnoticed by the skin of their teeth.

“There are supplies and bedding for the night, and a radio communicator further down.” His words did not match his action, seemingly content to sit in the dark for a moment.

Crow resituated herself beside him, legs splayed out as her head fell against his cloaked shoulder.

“In a bit…” Her legs seemed to protest at even the thought of walking again.

Rest; the concept a solace to their weary bodies. For now, within this temporary bunker, they were safe and afforded a moment’s respite. Crow twined her hand into his, feeling the gesture reciprocated with a brief, earnest squeeze of his calloused fingers. 

“I’m grateful that you came for me.” To anyone else, she would have been a distant afterthought.

His thumb stroked the side of her hand, the weight of her body against his was a comforting reassurance. He would never let her go so long as he drew breath, no matter the expanse between them.

“You won’t be rid of me that easily.”

She could hear the smirk in his voice, and it drew out a smile from her in turn. 

****

Crow swallowed another spoonful of canned egg pudding as she was perched on a folding chair next to Zenos. Grimacing at the saccharine taste, she nudged it over to him and closed up her blandly gray jacket, rubbing her arms to warm up. Beneath the desk where the radio communicator sat was a small heater, an old model from years past that glowed a ceruleum blue. It was at least smokeless, radiating sufficient warmth to dry their clothes and keep their legs toasty. This was the most leisure she’d experienced in the past week, having been pulled in a dozen different directions thanks to the clamoring merchants and then the invading insurgency.

“You should eat something, you've been sitting here since you got out of the shower station.” Crow stretched back, tensing up against the metal backed chair.

“Contact needs to be established for this to work.” Still, he turned the can and allowed it a contemplative look. “Is there nothing else on the pantry shelves?”

“Of sweets? No.” she frowned.

“It's no cream choux from the royal kitchens.” He snorted, scooping a bite in. “But it’ll suffice.”

He'd been subsisting on dry rations for the past weeks. Hardtacks were dehydrated for ease of transport, and whatever liquid or sauce that was available came in overly-seasoned, sealed cans. Meats were overdone and any previous greens were stewed into near-mush, their texture almost slimy when not heated. Though in the jungles, they were almost god-sent when one was hungry enough.

“I’ll stomach the cold barley kasha and salt cod but the sheer amount of molasses in those is simply unconscionable.”

Zenos huffed a short laugh. It seemed some things just don't change, their childhood habits lingered like a comforting aftertaste.

Crow watched in mild mortification as he made short work of her pudding, and then some, going through the tomato-beef goulash and hard biscuit-bread without complaint. Royal imperial prince or no, he was not picky when it came to what he ate. His freehand continued to work, fine tuning the frequencies in order to reach out to both the castrum and the port. Static hissed like ghosts in the aether, blindly groping in the dark until the quiet of a stable connection hummed soothingly in the air. Home Beyond the Horizon — a dreary classic penned by some patriots from the republic days — drifted through the small subterranean bunker.

“Is that it?” She asked, sitting up.

“Your Tesserarius handmaid must've set up this frequency for open communication.” He explained, toning down the music with the turn of a small knob.

Crow hummed a lilting little note, impressed at Sisila’s foresight. “Remind me to poach her from Nael.”

He leaned back, his work placed on hold to examine her in frankness. “You seem overly fond of that one.”

She paused, the odd note in his words disrupted the pleasant rhythm of the moment. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve a bad habit of getting attached to the expendables,” he steepled his slender fingers, hawkish eyes tracing every movement of her features. “And it always leads to your detriment when they inevitably expire or disappoint you.”

Her brows furrowed, indignance bubbling from within her. “It's called gathering support, something you very well know is necessary.”

The prince shook his head, his blue eyes scrutinizing. “One does not grow fond of a tool merely because it does its job adequately. My father, obdurate boor that he is, garners support through more concrete means than mere idle fawning.”

She was incensed by the mention of Varis, the man who'd stolen Zenos away and kept them apart for four painful years. Yet here he was, thinking of his father as the wise, consummate politician when he was nothing short of cruel and neglectful to his very own flesh and blood.

“You mean to tell me I should follow his example? To become someone who’s estranged to the very notion of affection and loyalty?” She had her regrets with Andrus, and she did not wish to repeat another such mistake. His sacrifice had benefited her in the end, but the guilt still gnawed at her like an ache that refused to go away.

“Indeed, the ordeal with your manservant should have taught you the importance of keeping the rabble at arm's length.” He chided, a caustic tone souring his lecture. Then it parted to a sentimentality she did not foresee, his hand tentatively clasping over hers. She recoiled at his touch but he held on tight, not unlike the jaws of a closed trap.

“Trust and loyalty are privileges between the two of us.” Their entwined fingers bridged the space between them, him knowing all the right ways to provoke and cajole. “We only have each other, after all.” His eyes met hers, intense and searching, wearing down her resistance in its miring depths.

Still, Crow scowled at him, the sting of his criticism barely soothed by his furtive conciliation. She did not understand why he was needling her to this extent, she was no soft, stupid thing that needed to be coddled by his instructions.

“Fine, I’ll indulge your ridiculous notions.” She bit out, arm straining against his careful but unyielding hold. It was only after her ascent that she was able to pull her hand back, turning from his piercing cerulean gaze.

“Please do the honor then.” He sounded pleased, much to her annoyance, as he offered her the microphone stand. The slow crooning that had been dripping through the air became washed out as Zenos dialed down its volume, allowing her some semblance of focus as she spoke.

“Attention, all imperial troops, attention. If any still stand and are able to hear this, respond immediately.” 

Moments passed with anticipation lingering in the air, the tick of the chronometer sounded thirty times over before a response came. As she thought to repeat herself, a hush of static clamored from the small desk speakers. Crow looked to Zenos as he fine tuned the parameters of the signal, Sisila’s voice coming through with painfully gradual clarity.

[Yo- Gra-shh, come in- response. Come in, we hear you.]

Crow nearly missed the switch before managing to reply. “Sisila, report. Did you make it to port?”

[Kssh– No, Your Grace, we were set upon by a group of armed anarchists. The refugees you’d ordered me to gather scattered and I was forced to retreat to the castrum alone.]

She drew in a stiff breath, there went any fighting hope they had to defend the city. Even a farmer with his plow would be better than nothing.

“And how fares the castrum?”

[Not well, Your Grace, a handful have succumbed to their wounds. Supplies are low and only four of those who came with His Grace remained behind to help. The rest–ksshhh have–] Static consumed the rest of the dialogue, cutting the Tesserarius off. It was all Crow could do to contain her frustration.

“Sisila, come in. What happened to those men?” She exclaimed, leaning closer against the stand as though that would do the signal any good. 

She looked helplessly over to her counterpart, beseeching his help. Before long, with some deft calibration, the radio crackled yet again. Zenos turned up the volume and sharpened the signal’s focus, beginning forth an audible improvement to the incoming response.

“This is a different station.” He cautioned before another familiar voice came through.

[Centurion Lanatus reporting, Your Grace.]

“Commander, how goes your stand at port-side?” The castrum would have to wait for now.

[We were under attack as the refugees evacuated by ships, but we managed to fend off the insurgents for the time being.]

She was taken aback by the good news. “How many casualties were sustained?”

[By the grace of his Radiance — only three men were injured.] Sergius sounded as surprised as she when he relayed the information.

Crow and Zenos shared a look, dubious brows raised upon hearing the low count.

[It was thanks to the twenty legionaries who’d arrived from the castrum that we were able to scrape by without heavy losses. They said the chief Tesserarius had insisted that they go and help secure the vicinity.]

Some good news at last, thanks to Sisila’s foresight. Crow closed her eyes, feeling like an inept fool who knew nothing of the world. But one must learn to walk before knowing how to run, and she’d only just barely been able to stand after being tossed into this trial.

“That, I am full glad to hear, commander.” She said, her will coalescing as she took her first steady step. “On the morrow, we will strike out instead, spread your forces on the west side where the insurgents are most concentrated. You will draw the attention of the enemy while the prince and myself will eliminate the leading marks, we will cut off their heads and send them into disarray.” 

[It will be done, Your Grace. We are glad to have His Grace with us, and you as well, Your Grace.] The mere mention of him stirred up morale within the centurion, it was impressive and spoke much of his already growing influence as an illustrious figure of the empire and its military. She quashed the sliver of insecurity, stifling it to little more than a weak ember before it could catch fire within her. Further discussion stretched beyond the bell, laying down proponents of the assault to the centurion and his men. They smoothed the wrinkles and finally came to a solid plan, piecing together information from both sides to form a cohesive stratagem. Before she realized, it was hours past midnight as she concluded their call.

Crow at last climbed onto the narrow cot and settled in for the night, anxious thoughts swirling in her head as she laid the cards out before her. Her eyelids heavy as she recalled Zenos’ words, in the dark. Though callous in his philosophy, he’d always had her best interest at heart. People were mercurial, looking at her with adulation in hopes of catching a morsel of her reflected prestige. Pariah or no, she was still a member of the revered imperial family. Both the peerage and the people would whisper behind her back or pay empty lip service to her face, if they remembered she existed at all. It was perhaps sensible to shield herself with the glory of her counterpart, her bulwark against threats both within and without.

Unable to find proper rest after a bell of tossing abed, she climbed down from the upper bunk and found him browsing through a small shelf in the next room. With the thin blanket draped over her shoulders, she must have made for a pathetic sight for he welcomed her with a crooked smile. Though she had a little pride to not take it, she still strode forward to sulk next to him. Filled with three shelves, the room was stocked with a myriad of books, topics ranging from common local fauna, methods of water filtration and the construction of makeshift latrines and pipe repair. Most of which were guides to survival and self-sufficiency, logical, informative, and lacking any drama or romance.

She glanced through the books, idly tying loose knots in her long tresses and letting them slip free. Finally, she gave the book a glance and wrinkled her nose at the tome he’d been perusing, making a disapproving face at its botanical topic. For the first time since she could remember, she felt awkward as she stood next to him, feeling like a petulant, immature adolescent.

She made a show of sharply inhaling, the exaggerated rise and fall of her shoulders made even more pointed by her pouting exhale. 

“For the record,” she began, seeing no other recourse but to break the silence herself. “I think your father is a bastard.” She wanted to end the sentence there, it would’ve been apt and perfect with truth.

“But I suppose I will concede that he is a…” She almost choked at the thought. “ A consummate leader and a capable politician.”

Zenos snorted and without missing a beat: “He’s a stone-faced, thrice-fucked arse, you know that as much as I do.”

She clasped a hand over her mouth, spittle nearly flying from her lips as she took in his unprincely slander of his own father. Charming as a battering ram, this dearest companion of hers.

“Perhaps not, I didn’t have the privilege to spend four years with him in Tchita.”

“Count your blessings that you didn’t.” Zenos snapped the book shut and intoned dryly. “A frostbitten limb would’ve made for a warmer parent.”

Crow let out a coltish chuckle, the peals of her laughter was tired but sprightly. Her hand moved with a mind of its own and tugged at the hem of his shirt, her sight peering over the horizon of his broad shoulders. His gilded locks spilled just over the edge, contrasting the drab blue dye, like strands of spun gold under the yellow lamplight. Long, pale lashes lowered to glimpse at her, patient and keen as a sentinel knight. His palm smoothed over the back of her hand, fully engulfing her chilled fingers. Their skin was similarly callused, worn by the efforts they’d both put in. Indeed, she reminded herself, a man who could all but care less for the trappings of his birthright was exerting his all for her wish.

“We shall see this through together.” His assurance braced her for the worst possibilities as she looked into the dark before them. “Remember: they are all collateral, bricks to be stacked for your path.”

Crow wove her fingers with his, seeing not bloody road but the shining gate to that sequestered paradise. Away from Garlemald, away from schemers and their poisons.

“No matter what it takes,” She echoed in tandem. “We will carve out our own utopia.”

Notes:

Messed up codependency between two heinous people :')

Chapter 72

The sphere molded into the shape of a teardrop then rolled flat on her palm, its tapered point kept northward as she lunged to the next spot of cover. Her partner in stealth was not far behind, positioned low behind a capsized ox-cart as insurgent patrolmen dashed past. The men, now dressed in pilfered attires of the city’s inhabitants, were only made discernable by their bone tooth necklaces. Those who were without such crude accessories, she presumed, were turn-cloaks who sided with these dissenters once the fires and fighting broke out. They were either opportunistic survivalists who were sharp on the low troop count within the castrum, or legitimate anarchists who vehemently opposed the occupation. With or without the nuance of allegiance, their fates would all be the same once order was reestablished.

For what was a gallow without its string of bodies, she thought morbidly. She slinked briskly to the back of a building once the last of the patrol passed, pausing behind a jagged row of wooden fences to wait. It was not long before Zenos joined her; one would think a man so imposing might have a difficult time with stealth.

“It's pointing north this time. We’re close. I can sense it.” The wisp of dark aether was akin to a trail of breadcrumbs for her. It came in the form of a dark mauve motes that eventually coalesced into a thread, smelling vaguely of rotten eggs and smoke.

Just beyond the next block, she could feel where the aether gathered as vaguely avian shapes milled about on its roof. At first glance, they would seem like ordinary carrion birds on the watch for their next meal. With only the barest effort from her, their glamors were lifted to her discerning sight. Atop the building perched a cacophony of imps, each a hideous gray cherub endowed with shriveled wings and a forked tail.

“They've watchers on the eaves facing us, I have no doubt our titular summoner is nestled within the building after next.” Crow carved out their positions in the dirt with her dagger, marking each watch-point in neat ‘x’s.

Zenos leaned over the corner for a good look, frowning as he read the tilted signage of the blighted establishment.

“That's one of the more popular brothels.”

She leveled an amused grimace at him, to which Zenos batted aside her unvoiced accusation.

“Don't be crass, I've better things to do with my time.” His voice was even and matter-of-fact, entirely unaffected by her teasing jape.

“Plenty frequent such places, and considering your growing prominence, I wouldn't be surprised if the pleasure houses had extended complimentary invitations to you.” Crow shrugged, recalling the economic drafts she'd read through in Nael’s stead. It had contained breakdowns of both legal and illegal venues of income from the city to the legion. A little coin here and there to grease some palms, and the legion would avoid certain sectors for a day or two. Indulging a population’s vices was certainly one way to allay full scale revolt.

She chuckled at the disapproving shakes of his head. “It’s just…rebelling anarchists headquartered in a whorehouse, the cliché alone is offensive enough.”

“You've been indulging too much on those syrupy romance rags.” He said, prodding at her penchant for such louche tales.

“You should have a skim before you condemn my taste.” Knelt next to him, Crow clutched at her heart. “Unlike the common soldiery, I'm not afforded the freedom to visit my favorite squeeze when the mood strikes.”

“You'd sooner butcher a whore than lay with one.” Zenos scoffed at the notion. He was well aware that her appetite for the sanguine was as constant as the ebb and flow of the sea, even before the voidsent came into the equation.

Her lashes fluttered as she batted them up to him. “What can I say? I'm a lady of discriminating taste.”

He sniffed, resuming his examination of her dirt-bound diagram. The only feasible point of ingress was the rear with how the watchpoints were positioned. This, he was certain, was a matter of stealth.

“We need to stir up their ranks to get in.” In this, the prince deferred to her. “As well as distracting the guards assigned at the back entrance.”

“Nevermind the backdoor, we can skip the preamble of going floor to floor, but we'll need to get up to higher ground.” She leaned close, tapping at his belt bag. “And your spyglass.”

Her companion’s smirked mirrored hers, his interest piqued by the glittering mischief he spied in her eyes. 

The noon sun had reached its zenith by the time they made it up one of the adjacent building’s upper floors. Most had been abandoned, its inhabitants long fled, or dead. The one they'd selected was gutted like an old, rotten fish. From the looks of the broken bottles of sour vintages, it had seemed to be a dramshop. She stepped over a semi-drenched, disheveled carpet, nostrils curling at the faint stench of old liquor. Zenos was ahead, checking the rooms on the level before motioning for her to follow. Each kept their peace as they climbed the flights of quarter-turned steps, eyes watchful through each floor for lurking unwanted guests.

They entered an office at the top of a set of flared stairs, its chairs smashed and its desk toppled; ruined paperwork lay on the floorboard, drying off the musty wine that had spilled and stained the chaise. Sunbeams were askance, filtering through a window riddled with spiderweb-cracks, catching on her skin as she breezed through the space. Broken glass scraped and cracked beneath her boots as she passed by a display cabinet, filled with meaningless shelf-toppers like animal skulls and small vilekins encased in dull amber. Evidently, such things had little value to the barbarians of the jungle, their minds more focused on things that could be eaten, drank or sparkled like jewelry.

Unable to help herself, Crow lifted a specimen from its place and examined it with delicate curiosity. Scrubbed clean of the flesh without, its ivory sheen was relatively untouched by the chaos that had run through this office. She was not quite sure what species of bird this was, beautifully cupped in her hand as it was. Tinged a blue-gray, its wickedly curved beak demarcated its predatory nature. The skull was big for what it was, far outstripping the paltry little songbirds that had inhabited the imperial solarium. She could only imagine how big its wingspan was, the height it could reach before air diving for prey.

The thunk of a dislodged ladder snapped her from her reverie, the sun-filtered, rosy lens melted back into the ramshackled reality around her.

“It's a finished attic, perhaps a better vantage point.” He peered down from the ceiling hatch, gilded locks falling to dangle next to his cheeks.

“And no one is up there?” She said, abandoning the ivory specimen and scaling up the ladder.

Zenos grasped her hand, easily lifting her from the access hatch then closing it behind her. “One could hazard a guess: no one managed to make it so far in the initial sacking.”

A grim thought, one she could picture easily. Clerks being cut down before they could even leave their post. For the last three decades, the people here have been domesticated like cattle, grown complacent to the customs of soldiery and war. The thought struck her like a flash of levin: there had been no bodies and hardly a speck of blood in spite of the ruined shopfront.

“The people – there’s hardly a corpse around this district.” The epiphany came tumbling from her lips like an errant pair of tossed dice.”They’ve been rounded up to use as summoning fodder.”

The prince lifted the closed drapes with a subtle finger, taking in the hoard of perching black ravens through a slim gap. They were large, unnaturally so, more besides, their kind were not known to be found in Southern Othard. His eyes may be fooled, but his intuition told him that they were anything but ordinary carrion birds.

“If we eliminate this summoner, will his thralls be dismissed as well?”

Crow seated herself on a leather ottoman, mind ever working as she considered the question. “It depends on whether the creature is contracted with this summoner himself, or a third-party host.”

She drew her dagger, carving a rough diagram against the polished, wood paneled wall. “If A summoned B and binds it with C, killing A simply won’t do. However, if A summons B and binds the creature to itself, theoretically, we can hamstring a majority of their momentum within the city. Destroying the creature’s vessel is also an option, but more the like, there are too many of them to even consider that route.”

It all seemed to click in Zenos’ head then, the larger picture unveiled. With arms folded, the prince mused aloud. “Those in the insurgency was only a means to an end, Valnain being their first fodder in line to fuel an army of not men but void-corrupt demons. If successful, their efforts might bleed into Doma and even Dalmasca Superior.”

Crow tapped her chin, puzzled. “The question remains: why not simply convert the insurgents to voidsents instead?”

Zenos shook his head. “Why settle for an armed, vengeful two thousand who can turn on you when you can have the vulnerable populace of an entire city.”

Tens of thousands who were mostly undefended, unsuspecting and unable to fight back. More powerful thralls would be summoned sparingly and tethered to only a single insurgent, it would take everything for a novice to wield such a volatile creature. Speaking in broad terms, a man is only able to sustain, at most, three contracts with a denizen of the middling rung, and as for an upper rung voidsent, even two placed the contractor at risk of being possessed and worn like a new coat. The greater entities that inhabited the other side of the veil were not known to play well together, let alone share their potential prey. The unlucky wretch would be torn asunder and consumed as voidsents warred against one another. Minor weaklings such as imps or drifting bombs could be dredged up without requiring much sacrifice, and they served easily and eagerly in exchange for a tiny sip of one’s aether. Though having fifty bound to one person might lead to an early grave, not that anyone aside from her and their mark would be privy to this information.

Ultimately, it was a number’s game; the longer it took the main legions to return, the more voidsents would be brought into the enemy’s folds. It was all they could do to hamper this growing threat. “We’ll have to track down and put every contracted dissident to the blade. I doubt they’ll be so willing to forfeit their lives.” 

A heavy sigh blew from her lips, the list of tasks was growing endless.

Zenos withdrew the spyglass and spun the narrow end toward her, the quirk of his lips was subtle but seemed almost encouraging. He was ostensibly invigorated by the obstacles ahead, square-shouldered and sharp of eyes as he spoke. 

“Then we should begin forthwith.”

Notes:

Cloak and dagger!

Chapter 73

The mote of aether floated across the row of restless imps, each one looking as bored as the next as they kept their vigil atop the tiled brothel roof. Crow watched from the adjacent vantage point as her main target jolted to attention upon scenting the bait, her form mostly hidden behind the windowsill and drapery. Imps were greedy, shortsighted creatures, almost always focused on the task at hand when given the order. However, they were easily distracted by even a single whiff of their next meal, therein their glaring flaw as watchmen.

The concentrated mote drifted by lazily as though dragged on a gentle breeze, zipping just out of reach when the imp swiped at it. It let out a frustrated hiss before lunging further forward, only to miss yet again. The sudden stir of movement caught the attention of its fellows as more than a score of yolk-yellow eyes swiveled over for a look. Another joined in on the game, striving ever forward to catch the baited morsel. Another and another, and before long, the entire flock was clambering atop one another just to have a bite of her aether.

A mass of black and gray took flight to give chase, swirling up en masse and away from the roof. The mote would last while before petering out into nothing. She chuckled, enjoying the thought of having lured the hideous little things in a futile pursuit.

Crow then fully opened the window, extending the spyglass to peer into the ornate interior. The building was practically infested by a myriad of voidsents, from babouli to vodorigases, all milling about and awaiting their next set of orders. She searched for an unoccupied room where they could make an inconspicuous landing, finding an old storage space with a tiny shuttered window. The slats were broken, a door barely hanging on by the hinges, allowing her to peer inside the dim interior.

That was as good as it was going to get in a place so teeming with danger.

“Alright, I've got it.” She stood from her place, dagger at the ready.

Zenos watched as she seemingly stabbed into the atmosphere itself, drawing her blade down as though opening the belly of a beast. The space gave into the path of her cut and parted, sliding free like the thick hide and fat of a shorn ovibos steer. The dimensional gut spilled forth to reveal an unnamable dark that rippled with various shades of reds and violets, perilous yet inviting all the same.

Crow flicked her blade, drops of inky night hissing into nothing as it made contact with the ground. She looked back to him and smiled at his wary countenance.

“Shall we?”

****

Walking through the uncanny portal was an experience one could hardly forget. The night pressed close against one’s body like being smothered between clinging velvet cloth, suffocating like a mother’s unrelenting embrace. Zenos could see Crow’s silhouette as they marched through the set path, every motion he made was forcefully eased into a leisurely pace. Yet before too long, the curtain peeled away and spat them back out into the mundanity of their reality.

The storeroom was just shy of crampedness, its walls lined with shelves of dried goods. It seemed to be more or less untouched, that was until her boot crushed atop the crisp remnant of broken eggshells. She froze in place, breath held mid-draw as her eyes locked against the door. Zenos heard the creak of approaching footsteps as well, becoming on edge upon picking up the noise. To their ears, it was perhaps three sets of feet all moving concurrently as one, one heavy foot after the next as though they all worked to move a single body rather than three. She had quite a few guesses as to what those legs belonged to, but none of them bode well for their endeavor.

Crow reached back to her scythe, ready for the worst until a hand closed around her wrist. She twisted and looked up, feeling the oddly high angle of his hold. He was perched atop the bare beams, their eyes locking for but a fraction of a second before she was hoisted up and out of the small closet space.

The door burst open and a nauseating visage slowly slithered into the room, carried on a grub-like length for a neck. Its thick, painted lips parted to reveal clicking insectile mandibles, its poxy cheeks were topped by six puckered eyes that more resembled dried prunes than organs for sight. The stench it emitted was repulsive, to say the least, a difficult concoction that vaguely smelled of vomit and saccharine tree sap. Even by voidsent standards, this was a spectacularly detestable specimen. Emperor forbid, it made Naberos seem almost lovable by comparison.

The gods-forsaken creature casted about the small space, its face drifting from shelf to shelf before stopping at the ripped sack of expired anchovies fries. The find evoked a hacking gurgle of delight before it chowed down, its taste was as repugnant as its existence. 

Crow watched from the beams above as it dragged the sack out, leaving a drooling trail of sour digestive fluids. 

“How do you find such things charming?” Zenos was the first to break the tense silence, evidently even he was not immune to such assault on the senses.

“Charm has nothing to do with it.” She frowned in distaste, drawing back into the dark of the rafters. “But rest assured, ugliness is their least maligned trait.”

The black spherical compass balanced in Zenos’ palm, passed onto him by his companion, and pivoted slowly as he turned to regard her. They'd been balancing in the thick beams, using it as a clandestine walkway to avoid the voidsents that scuttled around in the brothel’s main throughway. He saw her draw her dagger once more, hackles rising as he saw her sliding it across her palm. His jaw flexed as he reined himself in, the consternation scratching at him when he saw the dark blood well up in her palm.

Crow, on her part, was too focused on her own task to notice his palpable reservation. Edging herself across the rafter beam and taking care to not spill, she smeared her seeping hand against the dry, old wood. The building seemed like an old beast of hedonism, witnessing decades of writhing bodies and illicit affairs. With its belly full with salacious pleasures, layered over secrets like silken sheets atop nude bodies. It soaked up her blood easily like a parched cat over a saucer of milk, the stain drying easily in moments despite the cloying humidity.

The smear glowed with the thinness trace of her aether, marking the first of a half dozen that would be placed.

“And this?” Zenos asked dubiously, voice pitched low into a husky whisper.

“You'll see soon enough.” She cupped her palm close, careful as to not even let a drop go to waste. “Let me walk ahead this time, I want to get this done quickly before we run into anything else.”

With a touch of reluctance, he acquiesced. She slipped by sinuously, trailing through the length of the generous beams with serpentine ease. Her face was serene, perfectly honed in on the purpose of this wayward ritual. The iron tang of her shed blood filled his nose, causing his mouth to water and a cold sweat to trail down his neck. It was polarizing to the point of discomfort, to watch her wound herself yet again for another of her erudite rites. It was a world that absolutely fascinated him yet he abhorred the cost that she often paid for her powers. Had she asked, he would have offered his own ichor up for her use so long as she ceased her self-mutilations. He watched them as she put her blade to the wall, drawing a precise diagram. Her motions steadied by the familiarity through practice.

Palm flat against the very final wall, Crow etched into the wood a symbol of malediction: Three nails vertically slashed through a wrung viper, encased in an encompassing circle. For the next two hours, all voidborn creatures would be struck by paralysis, unable to come or go through the threshold of the brothel no matter how hard they try.

The prince drew his blade the moment she turned back to him, barely able to deflect a shadowed coil that struck directly at him. Crow gasped sharply as she was hit, caught off guard by the attack. It'd been a twinned assault, striking them both at the same time. She fell through the thin plaster ceiling, her torso crashing harshly against a walkway railing only to fall yet further down to the third floor. She fumbled and managed to hang onto one of the unbroken banisters, the pain at her side flaring like the very fires of hell itself. It was all she could do to keep herself from lunging all the way down. While she could recover from such an impact, she would like to avoid the complete fragmentation and dislocation of her body.

Crow clutched at her side, fingers kneading her inflamed ribs, feeling them knit together back to wholeness as the second ticked by. She heaved herself half-way up once the worst of her pains subsided, catching a cloak figure sauntering down the steps nearby. He stank of malevolence like sulfur off a dvergr, ill-intent rolling off him in waves even from beneath the red half-mask he wore.

Split-second decision made, she lowered herself back down and swung into the second level. She managed a rolled landing, nearly stumbling into the biggest dahak shed ever laid eyes upon. Its leer verily bulged from their sockets as it tracked her every movement, body frozen stuff like a taxidermied replica. Instinctively, she grasped at her back only to find naught but air — her scythe must have been knocked from her possession when she fell.

Zenos and her were now separated, her weapon nowhere to be seen; and now, Crow whirled to face her latest adversary, their titular summoner was drifting down to greet her himself. And my, it was a warm welcome indeed.

She dove as another shadowy tendril lunged for her, barely making it behind the dahak to shield herself. The coil punched through the voidsent, tearing through the possessed vessel with wet-papery ease, and missing her head by two ilms.

“Crow!” She heard his call, the loudest she’d ever heard him shout. There was more than a note of urgency, and her own spike of alarm echoed in response.

“Second floor! I’m here!” She yelled back, dodging and weaving through statuesque voidborn thralls to evade the tracking missiles. 

Her legs vaulted over a puddle of noxious pudding, turning sharply into an open boudoir before shutting the thick oaken door. She needed a moment, just a moment to collect herself.

Alas, such ask was perhaps far too much for the door was lifted off its hinges and came at her with a vengeance. Crow fell back and landed on the unkempt bed, bloodstained sheets shredded much before her unceremonious arrival. The door narrowly missed her, crashing through the wall and into the next room. The princess shot up with glinting dagger in hand, the flat heels of her boots scraping against the fabric of the soiled rug as she circled the eerily familiar masked wretch.

“Tell me, who are you?” Crow hissed imperiously when she felt anything but.

She'd sensed it when she casted her hex over the property and its inhabitants. Every single voidsent here, tens of dozens from the basement to the very top floor, was inextricably linked to only one will. And by the same principle, he'd traced back the spell to her and found them within moments, striking them first in what should've been an ambush from their end.

“Or rather, what are you?”

Chapter 74

Zenos leapt down from the rafters, lunging across the hallway then down to the floors below by the banisters. A telling crash sounded down a side hall, followed by a shower of plaster and dust from the latticed ceiling. The small glass chandelier that was the centerpiece of the throughway crashed to the ground and shattered, the sparkling pieces ricocheted and slid off Zenos' cloak as he practically flew past.

With no patience for the voidsent bodies that obstructed his way, the prince wetted his blade with their rotted ichor and cut through any that proved to be even a remote inconvenience. Veritably smothering these newborns before they could take their first malevolent step to slaughter the coming legion, Zenos cleaved through them like a steel-edged storm.

With another tremendous crash, Crow flew through the empty doorway. Her back slammed against the adjacent wall, head cracking against the painted wainscotting; shoulders slumped forward as she clutched the bleeding puncture wound at her shoulder. That had not been the only injury she'd sustained going toe to toe with an ostensibly deadly foe, for he saw dozens of cuts shredding through her one pristine twill breeches and gray linen blouse. Blood dyed her attire a sickening scarlet as she picked herself up. It was a miracle that she was conscious at all. There was no longer a shadow of a doubt that she'd given something up to gain such nigh implacable vitality.

Zenos slid himself between her and the ominously robbed figure, his red mask scowling directly at them.

“Lack of the shining armor aside,” she grunted sharply as a boney pop sounded between them. “I'll be glad if you could buy me some time. I need to find my weapon.”

Inky portals yawned open beside their foe, and in stepped two eyeless, winged avian beasts. The act befuddled Crow, for no vessel was prepared for the summoned thralls yet they walked easily as though they belonged on this plane. It was a stunning display of power. Power in which she had yet to understand.

Zenos spun his blade by the hilt, a chilling eagerness stilling any distracting thoughts; there would be time later for other matters. For now, there was prey to be had.

“Ariochs — mind your ears. They're blind but fast.” Behind him, she flexed her bloodied arm, seemingly satisfied to feel it working as needed.

With that singular piece of advice, Crow retreated from the side hall. One of the flying voidsents moved to follow, only to be punished for its negligent haste. His saber bit through a leathery wing, evoking a shriek of alarm and agony. His blade sank into his skull with a resounding crunch, stilling its lopsided floundering.

“You shall entertain me, until I deem otherwise.”

“Ignorant wretches, to think that you would lift even a finger against your betters.” The hiss was raspy, full of condescension and disdain; the first words to be uttered by their enigmatic mark.

The prince graced them with his silence, blade gliding into the fray. The Arioch spat a shrill scream and kicked out with its clawed hind legs, grasping at the steel. Its chest expanded visibly, preparing a deafening shriek, as he remembered Crow's words of warning. Applying more force to his blow, the blade of his weapon slid horizontally and cut through the clutching claws of the beast. At the same time another shadowy coil, intended for Zenos, struck from his rear. It missed the prince owing to him veering away from the beast.

The arioch’s intended offense deflated as it was pierced through by the misfired tendril, crashing into an already-crooked bed poster upon the recoil. It gave a final, quivering wheeze, slumping to the stained boards and crumbling to compiled dirt. Wasting no time, the prince turned on the robed scoundrel with saber flashing.

Crow hastily casted about as she leaned over what remained of the railing, spotting her scythe haphazardly abandoned on the foyer. A cut in the ether was all that was needed to bring her down to retrieve her weapon. The commotion of breaking furniture reached her even at the bottom floor. It was a good sound, indicating that the fight was still ongoing. She would've been concerned had there been silence, the thought of her companion ever losing to anyone, even a potent mage, seemed a comforting implausibility. Debris was kicked out of the way as she grasped at the haft of her scythe, and slipped back into the open portal.

The fight caught back up to her in the form of a pair of bemoaning personaes. Pitch black and amorphous save for the many white masks that lined their bodies, their visages contorted into a myriad of expressions that ranged from extreme grief to euphoric ecstasy. 

The first came at her straight on, its cohort splitting off to crack at her from another angle. Crow cleaved the first in half then pointed imperiously, a venomous command slid from her lips.

“ Stád!”   The second froze, caught in the grip of her enspelled command.

Before the first persona reformed, its form reconstituting itself like bile, Crow drove her scythe into its mask and grimaced against the howling shriek that followed. Its partner fared no different, falling as ashen sand once its main vessel was destroyed.

Before she could catch her breath, her companion was blown from the hallway by a malicious swirl of darkness, skidding against the carpet and crushing the pudding she'd previously leapt over. He seemed more disgusted than injured, much to her relief. Their eyes met over the span of the corridor and she smiled sheepishly in response to his moue of revulsion.

There was little time for such momentary camaraderie, however, as the masked mage rounded on her as soon as he stalked into their periphery. Tendrils like snakes coiled after her, tenaciously reforming even after meeting the wicked curve of her scythe. It was all she could do to keep them at bay while remaining out of reach.

Zenos shrugged off his cloak and the rest of the mush he'd landed in, nostril curling from the stink of sewage. It was worse than even the city’s underground outlet which was foul with mildew and stagnant water. 

Immediately, he sent a spread of knives cutting through the air. Two hit their mark and interrupted whatever malign magicks being channeled, though it barely provoked a reaction from the target itself. The masked mage turned languidly to Zenos as though only just remembered where he'd left his previous opponent. It was then during that moment of distraction that Crow lunged forward, freed of her entanglement with the shadowy coils.

The tip of her scythe tore into the fabric of the robes, flesh and bone caving in to her relenting strike. He was mortal, after all, the affirmation was almost relieving. That was until his hand shot up and detached her from his person, her scythe clattering to the ground along with a spill of crimson.

He lifted her easily in a chokehold, fingers squeezing with strength that he should not have by any right after such grievous impalement. The sensation was terrible, evoking the memories of when she'd veritably drowned in her own blood. Unable to even draw a breath, she clawed weakly at the clawed gloved hand, feet dangling several limbs above solid ground.

“Mnemosyne, it has been an age since I laid my eyes on you. Though placed in such a sad, imperfect shell, your obstinacy still persists.”

She kicked weakly as her head pulsed, vision dimming with every beat of her heart. There that name was again. Whatever it meant, it was surely connected to her guardian and his dreadful guests from years ago.

“I-I’m not–let go!” Crow choked as her eyes fluttered, barely balancing on the precipice of consciousness. 

“Whatever his intentions may be, he was foolish to have brought you back!” his eyes flashed with mirthless enmity, winged pyramidal glyphs blooming over his scowling masked visage. It was so horribly red, like the stain of her ichor over the morning tablecloths.

He brought a dark stone before her, long and narrow as a long fall, and foreboding as the abyss. It seemed to pull her in like the irresistible eye of a whirlpool, cold and empty as though waiting for someone to take their place within. 

“Such sentimentality ill-suits us, but you always insist on being the exception. You and that sky-struck imbecile, Fandaniel.” He forced it closer until she could see naught but the impending oblivion. “We shall tolerate you and your mother’s meddling no longer, now come!”

It was as though she was being peeled apart, layer by layer, all to expose that insignificant, frail little being. Who knew all along that she deserves neither what little happiness she had nor any good that would come her way. Everything, her ego, ib and psyche, was on the verge of being scrubbed clean, disintegrating in the cleansing dark like aether in the air.

Crow wanted to scream, denial vehemently bubbling up as her vulnerabilities manifested in her mind’s eye. The thought of all being laid bare disgusted her, to be stripped down to the most pathetic nakedness, was nigh unbearable. Who was this detestable cur to do something so unforgivable. 

She would not — could not — stand for this insult!

****

The dream was long and languorous, the most pleasant distraction one such as he could ask for. Yet — he rolled, stretching his theoretical limbs like a waking giant — he was being disturbed by an unruly outsider. Naberos, for that was the name he'd settled with after the dark days fell, woke with a sluggish pur that vibrated throughout this adorable but flawed vessel he'd chosen to occupy. 

He took his time doing so, feeling his formless maw smile in amusement. His mistress was violating their agreement, letting her souls be siphoned off when he was still so far away from his needed quota. Her soul was so suffused with such vitality that he could not help but savor it like a cat next to a fire, awaiting the day that he could devour it whole and come to this plane as an all-loving god of renewal and rebirth. The world then would be as one, inside him.

Finally, he opened his eyes, glimpsing at the outside world through the hazy cast of slumber. He snarled at the would-be thief as he attempted to run off with the promised prize. This thief was surprised by Naberos’ appearance, his guard open as he did not expect another to take his mistress's place.

Knuckles popped as they were sheathed with claws, blood coalescing into digits of knives. Dark chitinous strips reinforced the blow like armor even as he brought the vessel’s arm down against the offender. A shower of blood was his reward, deliciously salty against his lips, its tang savory and unforgettable. He was tempted to stay and partake in a meal regardless of her will. But nevertheless, even as he knelt to sup, he felt the cold blade of that gilded man’s weapon at his throat. The staggered pause left his mistress enough of an opening to claw back the reins, clasping Naberos back with iron restraints.

Her will slid over his, using his consciousness like a stepping stool and seating herself once more on the throne of control. She leered down at him in dismissal, assertive and ostentatious even within the realm of her subconsciousness. This was her fortress, after all, and he was only a guest. The leash was tugged upon again and he was forced to obey under the terms of their agreement.

Her will pressed him down like an insistent hand; the beast forced back down to slumber. He obliged, still hungry and still wanting. His hunger sliding like a cold tendril around her asphyxiating touch, the promise of more to come as comforting as a tomb.

****

She felt as though she'd just surfaced from a swim, her vision blurred and her chest heaving from the exertions. Her head spun as she slowly came to, her arms and legs trapped by an immobilizing force. Crow blinked rapidly, alarmed at her state of paralysis; the pounding in her chest akin to the drums of a founding day march, at once astounding and perturbing.

Crow rocked in her seat when she realized she was propped up in a chair, bound so tightly by ropes that they chafed against her skin at the slightest stirring.

“Emperor’s bloody—!” She hissed the expletive aloud, her hands and neck horribly sticky with the familiar sensation of dried blood.

“What did you do?” His hard voice cut through the barely lit room, accusing her of some unsaid sin.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that,” The princess hissed at the shadow of her companion. It'd be more efficient to list the wrongs she hasn't committed. “And why am I tied up?” 

He was leaning against the doorframe, silhouette picked out by the flickering lamplight and sunset. His face was harshly shadowed, a scowl etched into his brows and a frown creasing the corners of his lips. There was a shallow cut at his chin — the only imperfection in a face that was as flawless as the dawn.

“Had I left you be, you would've glutted yourself on that body.” Zenos approached, disappointment spelt plain for her to read. “Whatever new bargain you struck — Did you not pause to think before you act?”

Crow let out an incredulous laugh, a single grating bark that conveyed her resignation and acrimony.

“My body was failing and a bullet was making itself at home in my innards.” She spat. “I would've died in the next three days even without my guts being spilled on the infirmary bed. What else would you have me do?”

The bemusement in his eyes was plain enough, questions abound as he picked apart her words in the intervening silence. The air fell to a stagnant pause, lukewarm and oppressive like a long-awaited suffocation.

“The medicus said I didn't have much time. I didn't have a choice.”

“How long have you known about that defect?” He said, fingernails digging into the palms of his gloved hands. His anger seemed to have lost its sting, poisoning him as it had nowhere else to go.

Her eyes widened fractionally, eyes staring past him as she stiffened against her bindings. He was right on that count, her body was indeed adefective product of the empire.

So why did it hurt so much to hear it from him?

He seemed to realize his faux pas at last, but when he moved to make amendments she shook her head. The mark had been made and it was futile to continue down this path.

“The truth is simply: I wasn't aware of it, I'm sure you know by now that this…body is merely a flawed facsimile. And when need must, I did what was necessary to stay alive. You of all people should be able to appreciate that.” She sniffed, wearing her crooked smirk like a shield.

The ropes fell to her lap then, arms freed of the rope with the dagger she'd tucked against her belt. Her fingers deftly twirled the small blade downward to cut away the rest of the bindings that constricted her legs. She stood and sauntered past him, unwilling to meet his eyes and longer.

Zenos caught her by the wrist before she could draw even further away. “What did you promise in exchange?”

Crow refused to face him, the flush of sorrow flashing hot behind her eyes and cheeks. Though when she responded, she sounded steady enough to her own ears. “A surfeit of aether, as much as I can muster. And…temporary residency.” 

“You’ve contracted a parasite.” He stated sternly, full of disapproval and judgment.

“A symbiosis.” She corrected, snatching her arm away and tapping at the linkpearl embedded in her ear.

Effectively ending the topic, she calibrated to the main communication channel. “Commander, come in. Do you read me?”

[Ksshh–Loud and clear, Your Grace.]

“Then report.” She stalked off, needing space away from her companion’s smoldering gaze.

The prince watched her grow further away from him, her voice thinning as she stood half-hidden on the other side of the floor. He hadn't meant to brand her defective, his chosen words too blunt for a matter so sensitive. Regret, the miring weight of which he was well acquainted with, slid down his gullet with a hard swallow. For a proclaimed prodigy prone to perfection, he has failed yet again to accomplish the only goal he'd ever set for himself: to keep her from harm’s way. He'd used her need for power to further the selfish desire of having her all to himself, even being an accomplice to her accursed summoning rite. 

The Thavnairians had a peculiar idea that there was an invisible tally called ‘karman’ that kept count of a person’s charities and follies. The sum of a man’s action determined his future fortunes and misfortunes, quantifying the sum of his existence into a neat set of principles. Zenos wondered then if this was that same force at work, his ill-will returned to him in its total sum.

He dislodged his sword from the eviscerated mage’s back as he walked past, her voice growing clearer with the closing distance. She turned to regard him cooly, a rust-colored rag pressed to her neck as she concluded the dialogue with the other on the line.

“The legion has arrived.” Crow said, wiping down the rest of her blood-smeared throat.

It was good news, but the sullen set of her face indicated otherwise. 

“Furthermore, Your father’s personal aide is coming to oversee Valnain’s restoration and to escort you back to the capital.” She looked about as displeased as he felt.

Zenos tightened his hold over his blade’s hilt upon receiving the update, acute displeasure etched into his brow line. But of course his father would send one of his underlings to play fetch, unwilling to condescend to admit that his own son had slipped his grasp. He'd likely spun the story to suit a certain patriotic image; imperial or no, a man must serve his empire with pride and excellence — or some drivel like such.

“It seems I won our bargain.” She sniffed, tongue darting out to wet her parched lips. Her victory was neither relished nor celebrated.

“I'm staying.”

Crow blinked. “You can't refuse to go, he’ll have your head.”

Zenos shrugged, nonplussed. “Then he shall find himself wanting for a new heir.” 

“How will you make a case for your refusal?” She pressed, trudging through piles of ashen voidsents and following him down the sagging stairwell.

“You're going to do it for me.” The prince said simply.

His counterpart nearly tripped over the last step, pausing and leveling an incredulous stare at his retreating back. “I will do no such thing! Your father will throw us into the cell blocks for insubordination!”

“I am at your mercy, my dearest diplomat.” His head was tilted in the slightest angle that betrayed an astounding volume of arrogance.

Crow dragged a hand down her face in bewildering mortification; he was referring to a diplomat’s rights to appeal for resources and commandeering of personnel. Such applications are examined directly by the emperor or his trusted aides. It often took weeks to be received and even up to an entire moon for the appropriate bodies to review the process.

To commandeer a prince! She frowned, annoyed at the fact that his plan just might work. 

“Yes, well, you're just lucky that you're too bloody good at this.” Crow gestured vaguely at the ruined city beyond the stained paneled walls.

“War might just be the next best pastime yet.” Zenos smirked and dragged his hair back from his face, untangling the flecks of dried blood from his ochre locks.

“Making messes, more the like.” She rolled her eyes, unable to resist the pull of banter. He was good at that, even when she was in no mood for such verbal jousting. It was especially effective when she was crossed with him.

Once on the ground floor, she began to poke about in the area past the main foyer. The gentlemen lounge was dressed with gaudy velvet drapes, now tattered and shredded by its latest former inhabitants. Zenos trailed behind her all the while, eyes sweeping the heavy-lacquered decadence despite its toppled furnishing.

“Pray tell, what exactly is it that you're rooting about for?” 

“Prisoners.” She shoulder-checked the door connecting to the kitchens. 

Circling the bar island, Zenos edged himself next to her as she stepped back and, with a powerful kick, sent the sturdy barricade tumbling down.

Frightened yelps erupted when they got through, a man even had the gumption to charge clumsily at the prince with a cleaver. He promptly was disarmed and shoved to the ground without Zenos needing to draw his weapon.

Crow slipped past her companion, hands raised with open palms in mollification.

“Peace! We've come to free you,” She glanced over to the row of fly-bitten corpses lines at the opposite end of the huddling captives. Twenty left from those who'd been taken by the insurgents, no doubt the rest had been used as fodder for summoning.

“What's left of you, anyhow.” She added dryly under her breath.

They crumpled in relief, tear-streaked women embracing children though men shot wary glances at them still. Regardless, all of them seemed thankful to be freed of the cloying stench of death that clung to the air of the desecrated quarters. They filed out one by one past Zenos, giving him a wide berth owing to his third eye and imposing stature.

Crow stalked down the row, examining the four bodies that lined the far wall. The humidity did them no favor, skin bursting with pustule — the kind of bodies favored by arch demons for possession and bait to lure in brutish muud suuds.

Their heads slid off easily, flesh parting like overripe fruit against her scythe. Though the summoner mage was dead, she would not leave anything to chance.

“Stop! What are you doing!?” A woman cried out, the lines of her face creased with weariness and alarm. Her eyes were wild and pitiful as she threw herself to her knees before Crow, her body obstructing the path of the princess’ next and final swing.

“Get out of my way.” Crow reached down and yanked at the hindering wench by her arm.

Against her strength, the woman struggled, tears renewing in her eyes. “My husband needs a proper burial, you can’t–please!” she shook with a heaving sob.

Frustrated, Crow looked at Zenos, silently beseeching for his intervention. Surely they've seen their former loved ones transforming before their eyes, yet they insist on preserving their bodies. 

The prince drew his blade, face a blank slate. However, before he could move to unburden Crow of her human shackle, another cowering, scarf-clad woman rushed in to pull the grieving widow away. Her voice hushed as she coaxed her wailing charge along, her head lowering in rapid apology. There was fear in her eyes as she passed, back curling protectively over her fellow captive. The princess listened to the furtive whispers from beyond the kitchen as she lifted her scythe once more, the shadow of her blade rippling over the faces of the unfortunate dead.

They should be grateful that I had bothered at all — she thought, and swung.

Chapter 75

The cracking boom echoed through the firmament, audible even across the malms separating the brothel and the eastern end. The former captives — now more refugees — gathered beneath the eaves to gaup at the black smoke climbing up the firmament. It'd been two days since the rain snuffed out the city’s fires. This was a different kind of conflagration entirely, far more violent and kinetic.

Zenos strode out to the empty streets, the faintest whiff of smoke fanned forth by the sweeping winds. He recognized the cacophony of the explosive, a specific sound that resounded like thunder through the battlefield. An armament favored by the IIIrd legion that was as blatantly a spectacle as the ostentatious Nerva, having the capacity to punch through high steel with its intense detonations.

The legion had indeed arrived.

They'd been ready to set forth with the bedraggled refugees, escorting them to port and connect with the main host.

“By the emperor…” Crow muttered as she stepped up next to him

“It seems that the legion has met the city’s dissidents.” He drawled, nonplussed at the commotion. The city had ceased to hold any surprises, little more than a rubbled stage to host the clash between the imperial forces and the defiant natives.

“It's going to take more than a decade for Valnain to yield any dividend for our cause if this keeps up.” She complained under her breath.

“Were we ever concerned for capital?” Zenos asked in retort, eyes trailing after her straightened stride as he headed toward the gathered rabble.

She gave an exasperated shrug without looking back, evoking an amused chuckle from him. His counterpart was, as ever, one for concerns and contingencies.

“Look at that!” Her voice was focused and beseeching, snatching attention from the ladder of black smoke for herself. “Look around you, the destruction that these rebels wrought to your livelihoods. Your families shattered and your homes destroyed, all done by the same people who would see you all brought back to scrounging for game and forage for your next meal.”

Twenty pairs of eyes looked at her, their faces worn and clothes in tatters from maltreatment. There was a light there, however, a light that could be fanned to bright imperial favor among the population. They were now poor and hungry regardless of their past achievements, accolades stripped by the tragedy of Valnain’s sacking, a desperate lot seeking guidance.

“These dissidents who would see the city burn, take away every comfort you have all in the name of spite.” Crow kneeled and took a young child by the hand, his mother tremulous and nervous as she pressed a ration bar into his palm. “They wish to take the food from your children’s mouths, empty your coffers and see to it that your abode burns. They are jealous and full of hate, and it is only under the imperial rule that you are afforded amnesty and succor.”

She took in their frightened faces, the flock gazing up to their shepherd, and extended a hand to his mother. “In this coming escort to safety, we will protect you so long as you do not stray from the light of His Radiance.

Replacing his mother’s hand on his shoulder, Crow smiled at the weary matron. She turned to the men then, adding the finishing touch to her noble oration. “Remember that these are savages, not your countrymen! They're little more than animals who've abandoned civilization and hate you for the fulfillment you've found under the empire's wings.”

Zenos scanned the small crowd’s glittering eyes, the spark of some misplaced patriotism fostered within them by Crow’s sophistry. A little kindness, a promise of the return to normalcy among turbulent times; was that all it took to dig in one’s claw into the hearts of the people? 

“Find anything you can carry as weapons to defend yourself, take only what you need and we shall depart in anon.” The princess instructed, taking advantage of their stunned compliance.

The performance was impressive indeed as he could hardly recognize the girl he's grown up with. Her capricious and sometimes inimical streak was painted over by a coat of stern gentility, the mask befitting her honorable title as First Princess.

He had little patience for the art of politicking, but even he had to admit that she made for a compelling speaker. 

“Drop that look, you're frightening them.” Crow clicked her tongue, evidently still crossed with him.

Zenos glanced over to the herd of refugees, hearing their whispers and furtive glances from the vieran women within the group. Composed of mostly hyuran, the three stood out with their tall ears and stature. He doubted that fear was the thing that glinted in their eyes and dusted their cheeks with cautious amusement.

The group had relaxed somewhat after getting away from the brothel, the horror of their experience left aside for later considerations. The streets had been positively devoid of any wandering brigand bands, the fighting had likely drawn them toward the east side. The streets leading to the southward port were relatively free of any potential harassers.

“You're still upset.” He stated when they’d paused for a break within a side alley.

Some distance away from the refugees, under the shadowed shade of an alcove, she glowered up at him through lowered lashes, petulance dripping from her reply. “What makes you say that?”

“I've eyes.” He answered, reaching up to nudge a stray lock of dark hair from her cheek.

Crow turned away fractionally, the implicit rejection stopping him even before his finger even grazed her skin.

She let out a capitulating sigh after a drawn out pause, lips pressed into a thin line. “What you said–”

“Pardon me,” One of aforementioned women approached them, hands lacing together with a troubled expression. “But would it be an imposition to ask for your help with the water pump?”

Briefly, their eyes met, whatever moment of reflection they'd shared dissipated into the ether. She made to remove herself from his side, the feathering of his jaw was all that betrayed his mounting frustration at the interruption.

“I'll go.” Crow volunteered.

Several hard twists were needed to get the water gushing from the pump. White and lukewarm from the passing day’s heat, it was still better than naught when splashed over her face. The inane chatter from the vieran woman filtered through only when she was dragging a rag down her arms and neck.

“...Quite handsome fellow, are you together? If you don't mind me asking, that is.” The woman waved her hand sheepishly.

Ears aside, the vieran was of a height with only an ilm or two taller than Crow herself. Her eyes were pale green, complementing her caramel complexion; chestnut-brown curls tastefully tousled as though she'd just rolled straight out of bed; and dressed in a simple homespun blouse that could not hide her voluptuous form despite its russet simplicity. In short, she was quite the exotic beauty that more fitted to be the subject of a sordid tale than among the company of exhausted refugees.

Something reared its ugly head inside Crow, unpleasant and caustic as thought she'd ingested snake venom.

“Well, that depends…” You may not have him, bawd.

Crow wanted to say but stilled her tongue instead.

“Why don't you ask him yourself?” She stood over the bucket as water rushed in, shadows elongating under the setting sun.

“Ah, trouble in paradise, I see!” The woman clapped her hands together, her teeth grinning-bright.

“Not as such.” Crow intoned flatly.

“Well, you know, love is not so much a tug-o-war. Rather a dance with two entwined parties.” The woman slid into a sweeping step, miming the steps to a capital-waltz. “You do not correct a gentleman by taking the lead forcefully. Instead, you move past any mistakes together, as one.”

Two slow steps, two quick steps, she finished one full rotation of the dance. She was poised like a swan, her rise and fall well-timed and smooth even without a partner. Gliding past as though floating on air, she snatched up Crow’s hand with a laugh and dragged her into the motion. The princess stumbled in, finding herself led forth in the tiny courtyard and unable to protest. The air seemed perfume as she was spun, the splash of water overflowing a negligible detail in the moment. The pretty face of the woman, whose name was still a mystery to her, shone like the moon with elated joy. She dipped Crow down slowly like overflowing rivulets, chest to chest as the smell of sulfur invading the redolent moment.

The silvered blade of her dagger prodded against the woman’s chin as her glamor fell away. The succubus had her talons raised, positioned to strike and skewer her through the comely guise.

“Such sound advice from a black widow like yourself.” Crow sneered and thrusted her dagger up, driving the knife all the way up into the hilt. She turned sharply downward as she rose, staking the creature to the ground by its throat

Black blood sputtered from the voidsent’s sealed lips, her bloodshot eyes askance to glower at Crow. It choked out a laugh before disintegrating into ash and dirt.

She dumped the bucket over her head and refilled it yet again, the cold water washing over where that voidsent had touched her. She detested their touch, it was the main reason as to why Naberos wore gloves. Then, she heard footsteps and turned, something heavy being dragged accompanying Zenos’ approach.

A dead au'ri man — the voidsent’s bound contractor — was slumped in his grip, in his other hand was a crudely strung necklace lined with a variety of teeth. 

She wrung the last of the moisture from her bound hair as she gazed up to her companion, the absurd words of a voidsent lingering in her head.

“Did you know…” It sounded ridiculous even before she said it. “That voidsents give quite sound advice on love?”

The look on his face was priceless, at once bemusing and disbelieving. She huffed a wry laugh, striding past with sloshing pail in hand.

When she came back, they were beside themselves with apprehension. They begged and claimed ignorance of the insurgent agent in their midst, agreeing to be searched thoroughly for the telling necklaces worn by the dissident factions. When nothing came of it, Crow determined that they should move on without delay. With daylight rapidly diminishing, Zenos concurred, eager to rid himself of the deadweight of the civilian train. Barely half a day with them and he would rather set them free to their own devices than be further hindered, though she would veto the idea when he suggested it.

“Good public image would do plenty to prevent any more such senseless rebellions, and word of mouth carries best with living survivors.” She was vehemently insistent on delivering them to safety, much to his chagrin.

They arrived at port-side just past dark, finding Crow’s titular Centurion and his cohorts stationed before the gates. He was shocked to see the trail of people behind the prodigy prince, then relieved to spot the princess trailing up from the rear.

“Your Graces, thank the emperor!” He exclaimed, jogging up to meet them.

His helmet was nowhere to be found, wearily paying his obeisance with a bow. He had sustained visible injuries, bandages wrapped over his head, a thick gauze taped to his left cheek to staunch some day-old wound. His skin was streaked with sweat, clearly only just arriving back from the intensifying clash at the eastern end.

“How fares the battle?” Crow asked as the refugees filed past her, led away by Sergius’ helmed legionaries.

“The castrum was breached and half of the insurgency seems to be occupying its surface level. Though we've cornered them, the interim vicinity between the castrum and the legion is infested.” He shook his head slowly, perturbed by what he'd seen while engaged in the skirmishes. “Those monsters showed up a while after we lured the insurgents to the city’s central square. We made a retreat to the east and they pursued only to be hemmed in by more of them. It was only thanks to the arrival of the legions that we still have ten survivors among the two scores that fought.”

“Inform Nael that their leadership is dead, they're a serpent without a head. Now all that is left is to dispose of the body.” Crow nodded to the port. “We will enter the fray ourselves to hunt down the stragglers. For now, retake your post, commander, and ensure the gates remain closed until a messenger arrives to verify our victory.”

Sergius lowered into a bow, signaling to his men of the port’s re-closure. He left them shortly thereafter to carry out her orders.

“The hunt begins, then.” The prince leered to the east of the city where the fighting was most concentrated, the leather of his weapon’s hilt was warmed in his constant, unyielding grip.

The jaws of her scythe unhinged with a metallic snap, hungry for its next kill. 

“Yes.” She mirrored Zenos’ dark gaze. “We shall cleanse Nagxia of the insurgency once and for all.”

Chapter 76

The hellhound let out an animalistic yelp when Crow siphoned the last of its life, tossing aside the creature and sweeping her scythe across the rest of its pack. All four voidsent beasts were slashed down to various degrees, heads, torso and limbs decaying to ash as they fell. They’d been going at it for hours on end and she'd been sustaining her strength on the errant packs of voidsents and their masters.

Zenos was not far from where she was, carving a path of slaughter with his blade. He was a fearsome gale, as fast as he was deadly. He was a font of unending strength, seemingly inhuman endurance carrying him from one skirmish to another. He made killing look sinuously beautiful, an art form wrought from steel and blood.

Crow wrenched her scythe from the wall, her mark dislodged and fell to the cracked street’s rubble. A tanned hyuran who was drenched in unmitigated corruption from his several tenuous contracts with the hellhound pack. He was little more than a skeleton when she'd managed to track him down, barely keeping his own thralls from tearing him to shreds. Foolish and inept, these people dabbled in what they could hardly comprehend.

“They’re falling back to guerilla strategies. They are becoming wise to our intentions here.” Zenos said, wiping down his blade with a pilfered rag — the scrap of some poor sod’s shirt.

“This was the fifteenth, I can't seem to sense anymore of them.” The horizon beyond the jagged row of buildings seemed bright with the limpid glow of fire as she looked to the dark sky. The pitch of the main battle had reached its zenith, and was likely waning even as they hunted down the rest of these contractors.

“We should move to the next street, I'll bait them out alone.” The prince sheathed his blade.

Crow moved to protest but before she could even begin to reason with him, the ground began to tremble as though they were standing on a waking goliath. Pebbles and stagnant pools trembled, their shadows lengthening as the sky loomed a ruddy-red in response to a blinding flash. They both whirled towards its source, eyes widening to see the castrum blooming with fiery nimbuses. The heatwave came next, a ring of smoke sweeping through every maze-like street and wide thoroughfare.

Zenos pulled her in close, his arm shielding her head as he dove behind a outcropping of toppled bricks. He took the brunt of the fall with gravel ground against his lightly armored side, back pressed against their makeshift barrier. A dust storm blew violently against them like the breath of some furious eikon, sweeping up a vast myriad of stones and glass to batter at whoever or whatever was foolish enough to remain in the open. Her ears roared with an all consuming rumble from the hot squall, arms clinging to her companion as though they were being swept back by a riptide at sea. He held her tight against him, an arm buttressing the singular wall that shielded them from being buffeted by flying shrapnel.

The heat faded as soon as it came, the onslaught seemingly finished for the time being. Crow let out a cough, her nostrils taking in more dust than air. Her hand groped about to find his chest still rose and fell with every breath, dust falling away as she moved to sit up.

“Lord’s mercy…” She groaned, feeling his muscles shift beneath her fingers.

She carefully brushed the dust from her brows with the back of a hand, blinking experimentally as star-spots danced about in her vision.

With staggered steps, she wobbled to her feet, using the wall as a crutch. Zenos clutched his head, ostensibly suffering from some degree of a concussion. They were otherwise unharmed apart from minor scrapes and bruises, being so far from the detonation site as they were. The scene around them was bleak, gray with falling dust and slackening buildings. Had it not been for the oppressive heat she would have thought that they’d teleported back to the snowy fields of Ilsabard.

“I thought we had the detonator.” She shook her head, his hand steadying her by the shoulder.

“We do.” He said, taking out the device from his belt bag. “Though it is not the only one out there.”

“They only had the one cache, how could there be…” 

The horror dawned upon her then. The only two others who would have the authority to set off the warheads within the castrum.

Crow ran her hand roughly against the bricks, dislodging one with a violent blow of her knuckles. “Why would Nael even think to do this?!”

Her shoulders rose as she took a deep breath, unable to contain the anger fulminating within her. Everything she'd envisioned for the city, thoroughly reduced to broken cobbles and cinders. The city was ruined by its own people, civilians slaughtered like cattle to fuel the march of a small legion of voidsents, and its infrastructure in shambles thanks to the pilfering and chaos.

“How could he!” The princess shook in her wrath, the possibility of being cheated rising to the fore in her mind. Nael had agreed to hand her the territory, but it was never stipulated in what state it’d be left in. She'd wanted to connect Doma with Valnain, establish trading routes and build capital. Enough to perhaps influence the imperial court from the seat of power in the Far East. By the end of it, she would've been able to constrict trade by sea and land, so much so that even neutral factions like the Hingashi Isles would prostrate themselves for her patronage and mercy. Half of Othard and its seas would've been within the palm of their hands, paradise made true.

It seemed a futile hope now that it, even in its nascent beginnings, was dashed to the rocks, now in little more than smithereens. Zenos caught her hand mid-swing when she sought to drive another frustrated blow, the skin of her fingers already reduced to a red smear after the first scrape. He held her agitated stare until she recollected some fragmented semblance of her composure.

Crow snatched her hand away, face set in a dark rictus. She had plenty of stinging barbs, for him and for every fool, soldier and plebeians in this city. She looked away with her wrist clutched, biting her tongue lest her temper slip.

“Capital can be built, cities restored and soldiers replenished.” The prince began, coaxing her with an easing tug to face him. “This is not failure nor the end so long as we remain steadfast, and so long as you still desire this land.” He knew her fears well, and was even better at mollifying them.

Her shoulders dropped from its terse strain and a weary sigh slipped from her lips, she'd no energy left to even hold onto her anger. Without it, she was bereft of both motivation and perseverance, like a handgonne deprived of ammunition.

“What shall we do now? The city is nigh unsalvageable…” Despondently, she asked. Hope and recovery seemingly so far from reach.

From downcast eyes she looked to him then; her other half always seemed to have the answer even when circumstances were at their direst. He was the indelible pillar that guarded her world from total collapse.

She doubted Nael would remain for the aftermath, ever so eager to reach Aldenard and abandon all else. Relying on Nerva for aid would likely set them back more than they would gain. Moreover, she'd rather skin that detestable man and deal with the consequences than ask him for any help.

“We go back, assess our losses and demand our due.” His grip on her shoulders was firm, fingers pressing aside the arenaceous grit on her skin. The pressure was sobering, his shadowed face a comfort in the dark. “By year’s end, before our return to Garlemald, we shall have the city ready to suit our needs.”

Though she harbored doubts, every thought that came to her only weighed her down like the heft of a yoke, Crow tempered herself to the immediate goal ahead. She pushed aside the worries and troubles of the far-flung future, eyes squeezing shut against the torrid ambient air. With a tentative nod and a deeply drawn breath full of bitter smoke, they began the arduous trek into the still-incandescent plaza that preceded the castrum’s gates. 

****

Stone bricks carved from centuries past rumbled loose the dust that had settled within their bonds, the entire structure groaning like a dying leviathan when the destructive forces of the empire’s weaponry. Even the metal reinforcements, constructed by its latest occupiers, bursted under the fiery heat of the impact, the screams of those being roasted alive above were drowned out by the very structure of the pyramid of governance crumbling. Of the thirty five bodies present within the castrum’s subsurface innards, only she and another soldier remained. Most had succumbed to infection or been crushed by the collapsing ceiling. Metal and stone rained down on their heads in a deadly deluge, it was only owing to her small statue that she'd survived. The rest were not so fortunate, and she could only hope that their deaths were swift. It was the cruel reality of life within the legions, where safety was but a mirage even behind the battlefield.

The prisoner quarters were stable enough by the time she'd managed to weave herself out of the broken thoroughfare. Though from the feel of the unsteady ground and the cracks beneath her boots, it might not remain traversable for much longer.

The old key twisted and the lock released its hold on the stained metal door. These cells were roughly scooped out from a repurposed water drainage channel, always damp and infested with mildew and a malingering sense of rot. For all its technological splendor, Garlemald had always been oddly insistent on keeping their prisoners in more traditional, barren gaols. It made a sort of dreary sense, she supposed, nothing was as miserable for them as the drudgery of the past.

Asahi stepped out, sullen and nervous, casting about as they moved. He looked worn from his time within the damp, unhewn cells, the moldering of Valnain humidity was at its worst within those tiny, isolated spaces.

“What in the bloody blazes is going on?” His voice sounded hoarse, the only water he'd been given was from the drip of musty water from the ceiling.

Before she could answer, the foundation gave another shake, another level falling into itself. The low ceiling buckled into itself, falling section by section as though it was being punched in by some malevolent giant. Hot flames poured in from where the stones were dislodged and they began the run for their lives.

Asahi was ahead, his empty stomach and parched throat forgotten as the heat licked at his heels. Two steps behind was Sisila, a wild look of fear in her eyes. The fire pursuing them was akin to a living beast, stoked by the narrow hallway that has neither splits nor turns.

Sisila had nothing to channel her thaumaturgy through, no staff or metal to focus her aether except— she pulled the pin from her bun. She nearly fumbled the grab as a fiery draft blew her down. Shoulder skidding against the uneven dirt, she gasped as the ceiling came directly for her. 

A torrid puff buffeted him and a sharp yelp followed, the Doman whirling back as the fumes subsided for but a moment. His eyes widened at the troubling scene. A steaming wall of ice was holding back the blaze, only just so. Sisila laid trapped under a slab of rock, pinned down by a piece of the fractured ceiling.

“My–My leg!” She cried out, a cold sweat sliding down the bridge of her pert nose despite her proximity to the glacial barrier.

Asahi looked to the drop behind him, the channel opening was but a tenstep away. He turned back to the mage. Their eyes met for a split second, the pleading distress in her eyes gave him pause, before he turned and ran diving down the ramp that would lead him to the canals below. The fiery torrent came barreling after him as he broke through the water, his world became little more than an eddy of dark rainwater and gushing bubbles.

****

The fumes were thicker toward the castrum, each breath was difficult and set an acerbic taste on their tongue. The gray haze that surrounded them sucked out any moisture on her lips and eyes, but even from this distance Crow could see a great multitude of movements stirring. It was apparent that the fighting was long over by the time they'd arrived, the clangor of orders being issued and carried out reached them before long. They were met with a dreadful sight, a roaring fire that raged like an overcharged fire elemental was in the process of consuming the wuthering pyramidal structure of the castrum. It casted a baleful, lambent radiance over all that neared, a terrible light that singularly focused at the city’s east end. And though the pyre that was formerly Castrum Valnaini still blazed on, it was isolated enough from the colonist’s district to not spread further. Efforts were made to stamp out the flames with water drawn from the city’s canal water, though the powerful sprays from power-hoses held back the inferno.

The ground level gate to the castrum was warped beyond recognition by the warhead’s impact, and further up the blasted brick road, flames still spat back at the black-clad soldiers as they sought to quench the heat. 

None paid the pair any mind, far too occupied with their respective tasks to notice two strays wandering in. Most civilians would be foolish to enter this place, the fear of their occupiers still lingered even after the horrors suffered at the hands of their own defiant countrymen. But ostensibly, clothes stained with blood, black voidsent ichor and weapons by their sides, Crow and Zenos were anything but mere civilians.

He snatched at a legionary jogging past, his question placed bluntly. “Where is the Legatus in charge?”

The man, a hoplon and short sword strapped to his back, staggered to an alarmed halt, towing two pails of dirt as he passed. Crow watched as he floundered with the bucket and struck a stiff salute without the use of his hands, recognition lighting up his features even through the warm ashen fog.

“They convene west of these grounds, Your Grace, ‘bout to send for a search party after you.” He blinked at her then, only just registering her hawkish peer from behind the prince’s towering stature. “And Her Grace as well, of course.”

“Go then, resume your duties.” She bade the hoplomachus as Zenos strode off, the clamor of the organized scramble picking up as they neared a staked canvas canopy.

A cluster of different centurions and piluses were returning and departing, imbuing the scene with an urgency akin to a beehive on high alert. Orders were being relayed, information exchanged as casualty reports and task overviews being delivered. Crow could read the tension on the two Legati as she trailed up from behind Zenos, their snapping orders pointed like the reloading of a gunblade.

Along with Nael, there was another figure who donned a dull blue suit of armor. The circular mantle of his helm picked him out as the newcomer who was overseeing the city’s recovery efforts, and —to her chagrin — Varis’ envoy.

Crow balled her fist tight in a bid to tamp down her flaring temper at the sight of the VIIth’s Legatus. Had they been more careful in rounding up the stragglers in the front lines, none of this would have happened. So much loss and damages had been incurred owing to their negligence. Patience, what little of it that she had left, was required to address the unmitigated disaster that was now Valnain. 

Nael looked on edge, agitated as he poured over the map of the city. His and the envoy’s head snapped to attention at Zenos' and Crow’s approach, falling into sullen silence. Whatever debate they might've been engaged in, it was pushed back by Zenos’ deadpan drawl.

“The legion’s arrival was suppose to quell the chaos, but it seems you had other intentions.”

“We did what needed to be done.” Nael barely held back a snarl, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

The answer felt disingenuous, the words a mere display of obeisance. She looked to the other Legatus as he moved to speak, realizing in apropos that van Darnus had lost his grip on the reins the moment that Regula’s aircraft landed.

“Indeed, need must, my prince. It’s best to cauterize an errant wound before it festers.” The envoy spoke up, arms folded. “Moreover, resources shall be provided for rebuilding so long as you board the next vessel heading back to Garlemald posthaste.”

Zenos glanced over as though he'd only just notice the newcomer. “Ah, Regula, good to see you finally detached from my father’s boot heels. Though I see you miss the taste of it already.”

“He merely wishes to see to your safety, Your Grace.” He implored, entirely unaffected by the trenchant jab.

She now recognized Regula van Hydrus, Varis’s ever faithful right hand. The subtle limb that was often used by his lord to clean up his own mishaps. She darkened; he'd been the one to wrest control from Nael and ordered the cleansing strike on the castrum.

“No.” She spoke up then, voice like the heated wind cutting through the ruminating smog.

He turned, only just then acknowledging her. She held his attention with the imperious austerity, sauntering forward to meet him.

“Your Grace.” He greeted curtly, affording her a nodding obeisance.

“Depriving the legions of a capable commander on the whims of your lord?” Thin gray wisps streaked through her gloves fingers as she waved at the ruined city. “Look around you. In case the severity of the situation is beyond your notice, we need all hands on deck.”

“While the city of Valnain has my sympathy, I regret to inform you that the resources allotted will not be provided if Prince Zenos refuses to return as per instruction from Lord Varis.” He stated without missing a beat to her protest.

Crow hitched a hand on a hip, her mink smile readied in anticipation. “Then you give me little choice but to invoke the diplomat’s prerogative.”

She stepped closer still, face peering up at him with lidded eyes. Had she a serpent’s tail, it would've been rattling in challenge. “I will have your supplies and then some for our troubles.”

Regula reared his head over to Nael, incredulity plain to see upon witnessing the princess' brazen claim. The Legatus of the VIIth made himself look busy, evidently washing his hands of the matter entirely. He'd been certain that these backwaters would bend easily to his Lord's power. By all means, she and the prince should have bent just as easily as van Darnus, desperate to recoup their losses. He'd not expected her to wield a highly obscure writ drafted up from since the days of Garlean expansion in Ilsabard. There'd only been one example of a diplomat superseding a Legatus’ authority, and it was during Thyrus van Lanatus’ insubordination during the invasion of Nhalmasque.

“Need I remind you that you have no grounds to invoke such rights so long as the territory’s viceroy still holds power.” Regula spoke to her as though he was lecturing a petulant child who was involving herself too deeply in the business of grown men. 

“You're correct.” Her eyes glittered with triumphant malice. “However, it is your failure to realize who holds that position.”

The contract that both she and Nael had signed slid forward, power exchanging hands with the flick of an inked nib. Lord — or rather, the duplicitously disguised Lady — van Darnus herself lifted her hand from the binding agreement.

“This–” Regula bit out, his air of calm growing fractious as he whirled to his peer. “I will not honor this. The High Legatus demands his son be returned, willingly or not!”

Crow sat herself down on a stool to draw up a letter to His Radiance. She snatched up paper and pen, arching a brow at Varis's lap dog.

“A pity, it seems you just missed him.”

Bemused, van Hydrus snapped his sight to where Zenos had been only to find unoccupied cobblestone and stray gravel. He thought the prince had been oddly silent, but he'd evidently made himself scarce and fled the scene while the princess diverted his attention.

Crow leered up coyly, taking pleasure in driving a man of such authority to fluster. “Well? You best fetch him then, before I finish my petition.”

And just to twist his failure further in, she chuckled: “Shall we have a wager? If you catch him before His Radiance receives my appeal, I'll happily drop my case and step aside.” 

Regula van Hydrus, patient man as he was, was spurred on with frenzy, whipping the battalion serving under him into formation for a search and arrest mission.

Nael regarded the princess with narrowed eyes through the visor of his helm. “Did you plan all this together?”

“If you refer to the state of the city — no, I have no hand in this unmitigated disaster,” Crow scoffed caustically, leveling her own glower at the Legatus. “The circumstances were merely serendipitous. Had such a time of emergency not taken place, we would've sought out another way to deal with Varis's intrusion.”

“What would we gain from a razed ash pit? After all the trouble I went through to facilitate our alliance.” She added, signing the petition letter with a flourish.

The Legatus lingered for a moment longer on his accusation, then straightened in acquiescence. It was perturbing to witness the pair’s machinations, the way every action made or any words uttered to others seemed motivated by naught but to the benefit of each other. They reminded him of a beast with two heads, both schemers who did not mind dirtying their hands to accomplish their means. Nael — or rather Eula, for it'd been so long since she took up his mantle — remembered such pleasure she took in such a bond with her own elder brother. The world seemed her oyster then, with him as the blade and she the hand that wielded it.

Was it because of her misbegotten sentimentality that she was supporting them?

Eula clutched her helm, struck by the sudden onset of vertigo. The thought was little more than a line cast out to sea, being swept further and further away from her grasp. It was replaced by the sweet song from above, from the gibbous moons glowing through the fire’s diminishing smog.

To Aldenard! Bring cleansing into the savage lands. For the empire, for our family’s honor. — her brother’s voice beseeched. All else, regardless of their import, shrank in the face of his lashing command.

“Are you well?” The question broke the trance like a stone dropped into a still pool.

Crow peered at the oddly motionless Legatus. He had his back to her, with slackened hands and sullen air. He'd turned and seemingly stopped in his tracks as though he was a magitek unit that had lost its previous instructions.

“Yes.” Nael said after a stilted pause, ostensibly coming back to his senses. “Would it be an imposition to ask for Prince Nerva? He was overseeing the fire’s suppression.”

Crow graced him with a disapproving glare and thought about refusing. He'd lost much of her respect in the intervening months, his failure had allowed the city to be sacked by a mere few hundred stragglers from the frontlines. She held her tongue, however, seeing the opportunity to detach herself from this awkward encounter. 

“Of course, my lord.” She agreed wryly —a touch irreverent — and folded her letter into a pocket.

Notes:

Apologies for the belated update, I sustained a blasted thumb ache and could hardly write for the last week or so.

Chapter 77

Crow turned to the roaring commotion from the Tesserarius’ station, her petition was in the midst of being transcribed through the legions communication lines. She clicked her tongue in sharp irritation. With a tap on the officer’s shoulder, she uttered darkly: “Not a letter off, or I'll have your head.”

To her satisfaction, the man nodded solidly, apparently competent under pressure. Tent flap lifting, she made her way to the site of the noise where the blaze still raged on.

Soldiers gave way to her like skimming minnows around a roaming pike as she returned from her task. Though they paid no obeisance, they curved around Crow in a wide berth as they went about their tasks. Their soot-stained faces glimmered with sweat and weariness, eyes directed ahead in focus to fend off the urge to submit to their flagging strength. Today’s disaster had sapped at their dwindling morale and though the day had been won by the legion, not a soul seemed vim with victory.

Everything they'd possessed, beloved items from home and hearth now little more than cinders within the conflagration. The loss showed in their eyes even when they hid behind the shadows of their helms, a tight-lipped remembrance of their loved ones encapsulated in objects now gone. She recalled briefly of the things those bygone letters from Zenos she's held onto for so long, yet she chose to impart nothing even as she caught their passing glances.

 He was here and those tear-stained sheafs only reminded her of the miseries of the past. Moreover, they would be compensated fairly if they went through the correct channels, even without the grace of citizenship. Conscripts were paid well depending on the legion, and Nael was a reasonable sort who would see to the issue in a timely manner. If not, well, it hardly mattered to her since they did not fall under her jurisdiction.

As she neared, her eyes began to sting around the edges of her lids, where the moisture curdled and evaporated against the drift of embers and thickened smog. Here men bellowed and stomped hurriedly with pails of water and bags of dirt. The fire was like a dragon, flaring up in retribution even as they worked to douse its ire. It surged forward unnaturally and within the folds of the flames she spotted it. Just a faint flicker of several mean frowns, full of teeth and pinched eyes. A colony of napalm voidkins, explosive and incandescent in their sheer mass, pushed back against the mortals who dared to snuff them out.

The blaze had been sparked by the legions and were now fattening these bottomfeeders. If left unchecked in such numbers, Valnain could face complete and total erasure from the map in the form of a rampaging progenitor; a conglomerated form of the colony.

Roughly hewn bricks grated against her bootheels as she strode up to the blaze. Pushing through the press of darkly uniformed bodies as her orders to withdraw were lost in the din. She was swimming against the tide of fleeing legionaries, the heat of the inferno had spilled forth beyond their control.

A flame-burnished arm reached forth overhead through the ruined gates, coming down to scoop up a few unlucky soldiers who'd been too slow or clumsy. They were roasted alive within the flaming grasp, the smell of singed hair and meat wafted in with a sickly breeze. Crow scowled up with dagger in hand as she stood before the ruined gates. There was no time for ceremony nor carved glyphs, her voidsent would have to bear the brunt of things.

“Well, greedy thing! I hope you're prepared for a feast!” She muttered before dragging the steel edge across both her palms. Right to left, then left to right, her blade clattering to the heated bricks. She raised her bloodied hands to the growing holocaust of fire and began her press into the heat.

A foreboding rumble engulfed her as thoroughly as the fumes and gushing white flames. Her eyes watered as she fought for every step up the wide, broken stairwell, every shed tear hissing off the surface of her cracked cheeks. The skin of her arms veritably bubbled with blisters and her fingers were little more than charred appendages. The searing pain in her bleeding palms rendered her mute as a colossal amount of voidsents were extinguished. In response, a great arcane circle yawned open like a gate to welcome in the hoard of voidsents, ushered forth by her blood and Naberos’ addled will. It was quite pleased indeed to have responded with such enthusiasm, a boon for such generous offerings. Her ears howled as a vigorous gale flexed the air around her, sucking all that drifted into its chasmic maw. Fire or creatures, her voidsent spared not a morsel from its plate. Each ilm forward was hard earned, the very air cooling with every step she won.

The progenitor, determined not to go quietly into the night, reached for her even as it was being consumed. Its glowing maw wide in a silent scream, fighting against the disintegrating pull. She did not have the voice to utter a Mhachi command to stop the creature as it swung down, her throat squeezed with the parchedness of a barren desert. The stairwell buckled as it took the misaimed blow and she slid off-kilter, barely steadying herself with a knee dug into a small niche of loose bricks.

The fiery limb evaporated to shining aether before it could do further damage, the attack rendered useless as the colonial voidsent was fully devoured. The fire still fanned on though it’d lost its teeth, the choked skies dimming into a smoldering dourness. Crow’s sight was little more than twin slits of fading light as she arrived before a kneeled, swaying figure. The barely discernible body was reedy and nearly skeletal in its haggardness, skin barky like raked charcoal and lit from within by spewing embers. Its mouth, gauping slowly like a landlocked fish, was the singular sign of life that placed it just beyond a desiccated corpse.

The host — she realized in disgust and a wordless wroth flooded her. All this useless waste for naught.

“You….and your petty ilk are mistaken to think that you made a shred of difference.” Crow rasped venomously, her taloned fingers flexing as she pulled them into a fist. “These people belong to us and they’re to be utilized as we see fit.”

“The city, and everything in it, shall live and breathe at my leisure, do you hear?” She raised her hand back and swatted the husk aside, its head detaching as easily as a dried, wilted bud from its stem.

The princess stared down upon the mummified remains, her heart filled with rancor for the insurgency’s obstinacy. This pathetic, dying gasp seemed an apt ending. Zenos would have been impressed at their tenacity, even commend them for even entertaining this last act of defiance before he crushed them between his fingers. But she, cruel in her own ways, would give them no such acknowledgment. The corpse’ brittle skull crunched sharply as she stomped over it on the way down, shadowy wisps drifting off her obsidian carapace skin.

Instead, she would have their lineage and names razed from the annals of history. They would be buried in the jungles they'd so loved, forgotten and branded as traitors to both the empire and their own people.

Crow’s dark cloak snapped behind her like a pennant down the final few uneven steps through the melted gate to the castrum, embodying the vision of a black-clad revenant. Then in a swirl of shadow and smoke, the enshroudment left her. This was a breakthrough, belated as it was, to achieve the form of half-possession while still remaining in the reins of her body. The power had felt right as though it'd been hers all along to assume, she’d only needed the thirst and fortitude to do so.

She looked to her newly recovered hands then took in the legionaries’ stunned faces, ash-smeared and filled with wary fear. Among them, a flash of blue trimmed with stained gold caught her eyes.

“What in the emperor's name happened?” Nerva strode up, his swaggering indignance clattering with every step of his sabatons. Then he made a face at her, managing to portray an odd sort of puzzled disgust. “The witch has grown, so it seems.”

In little more than three moons, the princess was only half a head short from being eye-to-eye with the older prince. 

“An astute observation, ser.” she replied dryly and turned aside to the broken castrum behind her. “I’ve also taken the liberty of resolving an issue you and your militant ilk began.”

“And the city is in shambles for it.” He sneered, his revulsion reflected the common jaundiced view on magicks of any kind in the empire’s eyes.

She saw him for what he was then, hidden behind his haughty mask. The stink of heavy drink tinged the air with every word he spoke, reminding her of Vinia. They were kindred spirits, petty and grasping down to the very strands that made them. He was, in her estimation, little more than a garden snake feigning a strike. How convenient that he neglected the history behind such dark arts. Nevermind that it was the Garleans’ forebearers who’d first reached through the stygian veil out of desperation, he was content to rally behind his contempt for her.

Crow chuckled at the irony.

“Rally your men and search for survivors, I’m sure Nael will allow you some scraps of credit in this disastrous expedition.”

“You overstep your station, savage.” He growled, irked by her counsel despite it being the next logical step. 

She restrained the vicious impulse to disembowel him where he stood. Truly, she wished for this act to draw to a close sooner rather than later, bickering with Nerva was not even on the fifty foremost things she wished to see finished. The city needed to begin its recovery efforts, the streets repaired, damages to be accounted for and calculated.

“Do not make a scene and humiliate the imperial family, lest His Radiance hear of your wine-soaked stupors in Golmorre.” She kept her voice low between them, away from the surrounding legionaries’ earshot, but the threat was as tangible as the very ground they stood upon.

Nerva shook with impotent fury, his gauntleted fist drawing close as though he imagined himself wrapping his fingers around her throat again. She waited with thrumming anticipation, even hoping that he would make the first move. He would lose a hand for it, and more if she had her way in the aftermath. A myriad of ignoble deaths, by accidents or unsavory encounters, had been known to happen even at the finale of large battles. Alas, he stayed his hands as she turned from him, not a blade to be felt in her back.

Crow could not resist the insistent tug of her lips, allowing the sharp crescent of a smile to etch itself onto her face as she simply walked away. 

****

The emperor, the man who’d raised Garlemald from its downtrodden beginnings and unified the continental tribes of Ilsabard, had never been able to deny her anything. Crow tossed the telefacsimile authorization form,  with the regal seal of his imperial office, down to the table before Zenos. He looked pleased after a moment’s skim, able to stay on for as long as she willed it.

She'd found him in the tent set up for her personal use, apparently lost to the sharp eyed trackers of the VIth legion. He'd evidently doubled back to the sprawling, makeshift encampment after slipping their detection. 

“Do you truly think we can raise the city back to what it was before in only half a year?” She wrinkled her nose doubtfully. Wealth and manpower may work miracles, but such things could only bring them so far in such timely constraints.

“We shall lay out the framework and assign a representative with the duty of maintenance.” The prince spun one of his throwing daggers on its point, steel edge boring into the worn wood of the cabinet turned makeshift table. “Preferably someone who has enough wit to follow instructions.”

In his eyes, the question arose. Crow shrugged, a man already coming into mind. “The Centurion, Sergius quo Lanatus, seems as fine a candidate as any.”

The silver invalid by the port came to Zenos’ mind, he disliked how the inferiors flocked to her to curry favor and this would create some distance between her and that grasping upstart. The sod, blandly dutiful and narrow in his principles, would indeed make an adequate proxy while they return to the capital by year’s end.

“He's trustworthy?” Zenos raised a brow.

Crow set her cleaning cloth aside and leaned on an elbow in thought, her tapered lashes fanned low and lips parted only just so. The gesture was incidental but graceful, a still picture striking stark contrast to their shabby surroundings.

“I don’t know.” She finally said, perhaps the only correct answer to his question. “But he is a Lanatus, and you know how they pine to be back in His Radiance’s regard.”

“Good, then we may have use of him.” He nodded, catching the knife on its pivot. 

She looked at him then, wanting to say more. The topic of his words and her choices hung over them like a guillotine blade, but neither were willing to broach the matter with a ten-yalm stick. There never seemed to be an opportune moment, no pause in this storm for consideration.

They heard it at once, clinking armor plates sounding in beat with angry stamps of boots. Zenos and Crow already had their eyes fixed on the tent’s entrance when the canvas flap was torn aside to admit Regula van Hydrus, it was the only hint of ill-temper he allowed himself. Shoulder squared and stance wide, he was ironclad even in defeat.

Crow greeted him with a self-satisfied grin as Zenos observed.

“Good afternoon, Lord van Hydrus.” She drawled, sparing him her lilting goadings.

He followed the glint of the prince’s throwing blade, seeing the emperor’s imperial seal inked onto the missive. He was a good sport as he said nothing, lowering his head sharply at the both of them.

“Our resources…” He stewed on the pregnant pause, jaw working behind his helmet. “Are at your disposal.”

“And will you stay on to help?” The princess asked, a cheek propped on her knuckles as she peered up to him. She looked the part of a cat over a bowl of cream.

The legatus sucked in a sharp breath, finding the patience to answer. “No, Your Grace. The High Legatus has other uses for the Vith and myself.”

“Safe journey then.” The dismissal was plain as she released him from further humiliation. By any standard, the encounter had been relatively painless.

Zenos hummed a noncommittal noise. “Quite uncharacteristically merciful of you to withhold your lash.”

“I know.” Crow sniffed wistfully, looking almost longingly at the empty space where van Hydrus had stood. “I should’ve kept him for longer to watch him squirm.”

“How incorrigible of you.” 

She snorted, rounding on him with her nose wrinkling. “Hello, pot, I’m kettle.”

Zenos breathed a laugh, the tension in his shoulders releasing. He’d been prepared for this to come to blows if van Hydrus was any less gracious in his loss.

Crow watched as he sauntered out of the tent, a dreary tiredness catching up to her. “Where are you going?”

“To clean up.” He turned, a brow arching back at her. “It’s something you should also consider, you smell like a bonfire.”

For the trouble of his honest input, Zenos was assaulted by a sodden flying gray rag. One in which he caught neatly in his hand and slung over his shoulder.

Chapter 78

Words faded in and out of her exhaustion-addled vision, the plush pillow pressed against her back as she blinked against the swelling tide of sleep. By the corner desk of the inn's room, Zenos was still flipping through the finances of the relief and rebuilding efforts. He was accustomed to shirking off sleep, more machine than man with his blade-fine focus. Easily, he did double her workload in a day in clerical duties, but she was the face of the recovery project where her diplomatic veneer was at its most potent. Every smile, every attentive moment spared to listen to the native’s grievances was a calculated move to knead the population into something more pliant. No man or woman was spared from the hard drudgery of digging through rubbles, their hard labor was rewarded by hot meals and warm cots by the end of the day. A fourth of the city had been reduced to flat piles of wet, blackened wood, the rest barely usable as shelters. Mass graves were dug and filled, grim work done by the city’s very own ilk. Widows and mother's aired their plaints to deaf ears, and it was Crow who entreated them. She’d offered them a modest pittance, food and safety, reasoning that getting the living situated was the priority over the dead. Their sullen silence was a kind of begrudging acceptance, faces stained with grief gliding from her memories like a blurry cascade.

Death was a matter of fact in these trying times, the ceremonies that included the burning of musky incense and flower garlands were pushed aside. It was simply impractical to cater to their demands, and these people should be thankful that they were afforded the basic comforts that were given. They were also lucky that they were not among those who’d mutinied while drifting in the Greylic outlet. The people who’d gone rogue were found at sea not two months later, dead of starvation and riot. From what Sergius had surmised, they’d attempted to escape to Thavnair, only to be driven off course by a violent storm.

Oceanic tragedies aside, she enjoyed the sight of buildings rising from the ashes. Though it was awfully tiring to receive petitions from various factions within the city. One thing that was sorely lacking was a clerical department that could lighten theirs and the upper officer’s loads. All who'd been capable from the embassy had either been hunted down by the insurgency or perished by other means.

Crow was a heap in bed, surrounded by reference books and log sheets from the month's progress. She was only made aware of her unsteady dozing when the lamp light next to her flickered off, finding Zenos leaning over her.

“Rest...” He instructed, running a knuckle along the curve of her neck and contour of her shoulder.

Crow curled up as her eyes fluttered shut, the crinkle of shifted papers brushed at the sliver of her slipping consciousness. In what seemed like another drawn out moment, the mattress sank down with a rush of movement. The air on her skin lapped with a familiar silken warmth, the scent of sandalwood drew her to press closer against its source. A sigh breathed against her cheek, the graze of lips tracing over the dip where her mouth began. It was the last sensation she managed to feel before the drifting veil of sleep draped over her.

In the early morning, she woke and found him still in bed, surrounded by the documents she'd been previously looking over. Yonder over to the narrow windows, the blue sheen of daybreak contrasted against the dim golden hue of the bedside lamp. Crow buried her forehead against his waist, draping an arm across the sculpted planes of his torso. 

The hush of paper and a broad hand closing against her back was his morning greeting. She hummed a short, parched note in reply, catching the aroma of darjeeling. His thumb was tracing circles on a shoulder blade when he next spoke. 

“We've another three bells until final inspections.” 

She drew herself up, dark hair pooling by her side, and shook her head. “Nael requested to convene the bell before.”

Prying the cup of tea from him, she sipped at the steaming drink and grimaced. As expected, it was awfully saccharine and sobering.

“Is there another cup?”

Zenos smirked, climbing from bed. “On the tray by the sitting area.”

Crow breathed in the soothing scent of the roasted leaves, somewhat cooled by the time she managed to take in a hearty gulp. The hammering of wood and calls of men sounded in the streets beyond, disrupting the quiet of the still-early morning. The chip, mismatched cup slid against the worn table as she glanced toward the coming day, spotting small streams of cookfires filtering through squat chimneys from the low lying cityscape. Businesses had picked up again in tentative beats, markets reopening with small carts as soon as the relief funds were distributed. The people here were the industrious sorts, keen on surviving another day with a full belly. Hunger was a great motivator, she knew the feeling well.

 She shrugged on a cotton tunic over her thin chemise, trousers and black legion-issued boots to go with it. Many, Zenos and herself included, made do with what could be salvaged after the infernos razed everything they’d brought to the castrum to nothing. She found herself missing the convenient amenities that came with being in a castrum: readily flowing hot water, sheets that did not itch and any meals beyond standard rations. They’d delayed their homecoming for as long as they were able to oversee the city’s rebuilding, but two moons since their due departure date hardly seemed sufficient despite the vast progress made thus far. Updates and reports would be forthcoming with Sergius at the helm, alas, she still had her concerns.

Swallowing the rest of her morning victual, any meal would likely be taken once they board later tonight, Crow could not help but to feel anxious. They did all they could with the time they were given, the city would have to climb back on its own feet. Perhaps in a year or two, Valnain would approach a measure of utility as the port resumed trade. She ran a finger against her brow to ward off the cloying anxieties of the future and felt Zenos’s approach.

She turned before he could draw her in, palms braced against his smooth, broad chest. It was pleasantly distracting, the way his skin was so uncannily unmarred despite his time within the perils of Golmorre. Her lashes lifted as she met his gaze, his arms caging her in as he leaned against the table’s edge.

Pointedly, she laced the drawstrings of his linen shirt close, ignoring the flushed heat dusting her cheeks. All the while, he lowered his face to the crook of her throat where her pulse thrummed, nosing at the smooth, papery skin and taking in her unperfumed scent.

“I do wish the state of our wardrobes were not so dire.” She complained half-heartedly, mind in a roil of thoughts and emotions.

His flaxen hair slid against her clavicle as a chuckle sounded against her skin, his chest shook and his hand traveled up her back. Each stroke seemed to smooth out her trepidations like the ironing out of wrinkles on cloth.

“All will be well.” He mumbled against her neck, the words heavy and reassuring.

She hated how he had the unequivocal ability to read her like an open book.

“All…will be well.” Crow repeated in agreement, the thought of returning home like a spike of ice through her nerves.

****

The markets were a disorganized collection of carrels lined up in rows of two at each side of a wide thoroughfare.

She’d found it among the myriad of salvaged wares, hand raised in signal for a pause as she parted herself from the four-man entourage.The carved white stone of the hairpin was chipped, the tail of the squirrel was broken beyond repair. It had been a cheap little trinket, its bronze length was twisted despite how precious it was to its owner. She cradled it in her palm, mind drifting off as exchanged dialogues drifted to the far periphery. A strange melancholy weighed her down like a bag of stones, shoulder drooping and eyes downcast.

“If I may ask, where did you find this?” The princess asked, raising the item beseechingly to the apprehensive clerk.

The au’ri girl, wide eyed and tongue twisted, took to the legionaries then back to her. She mutely shook her head and took a step back. Crow sensed Zenos’ eyes on her back and exhaled an exasperated sigh. Imperial credits, several times more than what the broken pin was worth, clattered lightly on the counter and they continued on. 

Nael awaited them in front of the renovated embassy, expanded to suit the purpose of the legion. Two additional levels had been constructed within the last half-year, transforming the once-two storied building to a jutting steely pillar in the midst of the upper district. The broken and cracked tiles of the courtyard had been replaced since they had last visited, now in pristine ivory and dressed with twin rows of regal lamp poles. The image of the empire’s prestige had always been in the fore, while the needs of its territories took a secondary role in concern.

Walking through the ornate gates now, however, she could appreciate its austere elegance. The ramshackle hedges had been done away with, and in their place rose spires of fencing. They were pointed like spears, evoking the ostentation and implacable hardness of the legions. Six flat steps led up to the embassy itself, four scrolled pillars bearing the weight of the three symmetrical steel points that decorated its imposing façade. The chains of Garlemald embossed the portico’s geometrical tympanum, drawing the eyes of anyone who stepped close.

A key, passed from Nael to her, now rested in her palm. It was heavy, made from a bronze alloy, its diamond head embedded with a slate of obsidian. The item granted access to the embassy’s vault where most of the territory’s wealth was kept. It seemed an empty victory considering the state of things, but she was determined to make something of Valnain.

“And with this, I wash my hands of this place.” The Legatus said with little ceremony.

She turned the key, closing her fist around it.

“By the by, were there any survivors found in the aftermath of the castrum?” She asked suddenly.

Nael paused, the slight tilt of his head betrayed his intrigue. Concern for conscripts and the like were uncommon among the upper echelon of the legions. When one perished, they were simply replaced like cogs in a machine.

“I did receive a report, though the individual was in a comatose state when they were found thus making identification difficult.”

“Were there specifics on their appearance? Gender or race?” Crow pressed, the hopeful spark in her voice could not be disguised.

“Come now, Lord van Darnus is overdue for his departure.” Zenos cut in with a lightly scolding drawl, though she found the implications behind it pointed. 

Crow caught herself, her mind nearly tripping over as she tightened her outward demeanor. 

“Oh yes, forgive my hindering.” She managed a demure laugh, more chagrined than amused for her faux pas. “Safe travels, we hope to meet you again in Garlemald.”

“And I hope for your support once the time comes.”

Her promise was a vulpine smile. “You may count on it, my lord.”

The embassy was mostly vacant save for a pair of temporary custodians, they paid the imperial pair their due obeisances in deep bows before resuming their duties. Scribes and accountants would be flown in soon enough to assume essential duties, and over time, by the emperor’s grace, the economy would be back on its feet before next summer. It was an optimistic estimation even if all went according to their plans.

Crow shut the door to the administrator’s office, it was to be the main area where the recently promoted Sergius would conduct most of his business. He seemed surprised to be chosen for the seat, but was nonetheless eager for a chance to prove himself. It would bolster his family standing among the court to have a son elevated to a provincial proxy, they’d always harbored hopes of climbing from their low perch within the minor aristocracy. She would ensure that they knew who their benefactors were, and willingly leash themselves to her before she even need ask.

Faith and trust without fear of betrayal — She looked at Zenos as he collected the thick logs books from its shelves; did such things always seem so fleeting?

“Why did you stop me from asking after the survivors?”

He neglected to even meet her gaze, flipping through the slightly singed logbook as though it was a leisure novel. “What good would it do for you to know?”

There were a myriad of things she wanted to say, but all of them would expose the soft white underbelly of her immature attachment to that little one-time handmaid. So she sucked on her tongue, rendered speechless in her cowardice.

“Do not think that your affections are reciprocated, those beneath us will only use your sentimentality to their own benefit. They would do to you what we do to them.” He was cold, the perfect embodiment of an Ilsabardan blizzard, as he sought to instill this lesson into her.

Crow stewed sullenly in the tense silence, feeling like a child thoroughly chastised. But those miserable, languishing days with that governess were far behind her. She slammed the heavy door behind her, its freshly varnished surface shaking at the force of her temper.

The embassy gates, the streets and its drooping, dismal people blurred by like clouds of disturbed sediments in water. She did not run for it would be an indignity to her station, but walked briskly to the infirmary. It was beyond the market street, a half-bell’s walk down to the lower district and over the eastern canal bridge. Her heels were numbed and her breath exerted by the time she arrived, the clouds thundered as she trudged into the gray tiled lobby.

The chirurgeon in charge met her gaze evenly, frown lines etched into his cheeks. He was a leathery pureblood, sun-worn like rationed jerky and gruff, his voice hoarse from prolonged companionship with a smoking pipe. Tobacco soured his breath as he spoke of the patient.

Male, Doman. Still unconscious despite it being a half-year since he was discovered.

With every description she heard, from his sound health to the very fact that he was still breathing and not Sisila, filled her with outrage.

“Take me to him.” She demanded bluntly.

The head chirurgeon gave her a hard look and sighed. Even without escort or retinue, he knew who she was the moment she’d darkened the small clinic’s doors.

The room was as dim as the skies without, the walls painted an old, cracking yellow. A machine, one she was very well-acquainted with, beeped in rhythm with Asahi pyr Brutus’ pulse. He was pale though did not look any worse for wear since he was thrown into one of the cells beneath the castrum.

Crow bit back her sneer, fingers wrapping around the steel rail at the end of his bed.

“Leave.” She commanded without turning to regard the head chirurgeon.

“I cannot, Your Grace.” He simply clasped his thick gnarled fingers in front of him and shrugged. “The Legatus Nael van Darnus issued a final writ before departing: Felon or no, he wished to trial this boy for his alleged crimes and investigate the sabotage that took place before the city’s…misfortunes.”

Her lips twitched and she turned to him, the pressure of her gaze pressed upon him like the caress of a knife. He’d been a battlefield medicus prior to his retirement, and knew the look of a threat when he felt it. Nevertheless, he held his stance, eyes fixed ahead to the headboard of the Doman boy’s cot. 

There was a common phrase in Nagxia: ‘bewary of callow vipers, for they know not to temper their bite.’

It was only when she blew past him that he allowed his guard to drop, eyes darting to the fleeting shadow of her exit. Then down he looked, the metal where she had laid her hand was bent out of shape. The bar had seemed to absorb the shape of her slender fingers like warmed butter, the implication of what that grip could do to an undefended throat was too grim to contemplate.

He lit a smoke in his pipe as the rain came down in a deluge typical to the lush humidity of Nagxia. It was only by the second try that the flame was steady enough to ignite the leaves.

Truly, he could live without ever seeing another high-handed capital-type again in his lifetime.

Chapter 79

She was upset — and likely brooding. 

This conclusion came to Zenos as he followed the sodden trail up the short flight of stairs that led to their modest suite. Small puddles dripped across the floorboards, soaking the plain woolen carpet that stretched along the ground next to their shared bed. Her boots were kicked off just before the threshold of the bathing chamber, flung in a way that hinted at her state of mind.

“Go away.” Her muffled voice sounded through the door before he could even knock.

“No.” He answered evenly.

“Come to salt my wound then?” She sounded morose. It was the last thing he wanted.

“No.” He said again, wrapping his broad hands around the bronze door handle. “I’m coming in.”

The door and lock buckled under his strength and he was past the doorway before she could level any protest. He found her perched on the slate bench opposite of the showerhead, the thin, unembroidered chemise and flimsy shorts sticking against her skin. Her hair had the look of errant seaweed, dark and limp from her jaunt in the rain. A large towel draped over her head like a carelessly donned headscarf, wrapping around her damp shoulders and concealing her countenance from him. She had both knees up against her chest, feet flat upon the narrow stone width.

“You were right.” She buried her nose in the seam between her knees. “Are you satisfied?”

He leaned against the wall opposite her, lips unsmiling. “Of course not.” 

A long time passed before she spoke again, each word sluggish. It was not precisely grief, but she was saddened to know that her diminutive companion was now, beyond doubt, lost to her. She'd valued Sisila for her competence and the modest way she had filled Zenos’ absence while he was away. It had not been sufficient, her loneliness was a beast she forever grappled against, but she was grateful that the lalafellin was there at all. 

“She went back to the castrum on my orders.” Crow muttered, the weight of her ineptitude like a yoke. “Now they're all dead and I couldn't make a difference in the end.”

She shed no tears but did not take pleasure in facing the realities of her powerlessness. If she were to be responsible for another's demise, it would be with purpose. The thought of a mistake galled her, the waste of lives and the loss of someone she'd been fond of had struck particularly deep. 

“I fared no better in Golmorre,” He intoned, stating the information matter-of-factly. He didn't precisely know where he was headed with the thought, but there were things he wanted her to know. “Men died from illness and beastly attacks before they could even see a proper skirmish. Those who survive the bloody fields return as distressed cripples, and enemies who escape carry grudges like proud badges. It is the nature of war to escalate, who lives and dies goes beyond our control at times.”

He loomed close over her, a hand extended to touch the crown of her damp head. “You must not let such losses mire you. There is little use for humanity in the face of ambition, and I know you hold onto that more dearly than you do all else.”

She glared up at him. “Am I to become stone before you approve of me?” 

“What I'm asking is for you to grant me with all your woes and your attention for I, and I alone, will never leave you so bereft.” He beheld her in his all-consuming sight; she would need no others, want for no others. Even in such an untenable state, there was none who could evoke such greed from him.

“And would you have my scorn and my disappointment as well? Defective and tainted as I am?”

It was in her nature to sting him with his own words, his beloved adder.

“You are in body as I am in spirit, and I would have all of you.” 

He was not unaware of his own lack. Any semblance of empathy and benevolence had been long ago scooped out from within him in that long four years in Tchita. The sorrows and plights of others had never scored him as it did others. Even the terrors of the muddy trenches and bloody surgical table seemed merely a mild footnote to be remembered. All he knew was what he needed, and everything he needed was sitting before him in all her melancholic glory. 

“So tell me.”

Crow ruminated on his words. She'd always been fretful that she was a hindrance on him, the one smear in his otherwise gleaming, perfect image. Now he was here, asking for her to heap all her troubles unto him as though he was a beast of burden. 

“I…” She nearly swallowed her words, stumbling over herself in trying to collect her thoughts. After a lifetime of duplicity and omitting her emotions, putting them to words was akin to pulling teeth.

“I was fond of Sisila because she was kind to me and I didn’t think I would grow attached to a mere petty officer, even if she more resembled a wide-eyed pup than a proper soldier.” She felt as though she was unspooling her innards as she spoke in plain words, the need to uphold an image — ever present even before him — was left by the wayside. “And I thought you cruel for condemning my fondness, perhaps even jealous.”

She leaned unto his hand, face downcast like a confessing penitent. “But perhaps you were right. It would not wound me to this extent if I had treated her as I did the rest. It was all for naught in the end.”

Crow didn’t want to admit it aloud, that she’d come to dislike Valnain for it had the audacity to not conform to their plans and her expectations. It all seemed a big waste of effort and time. Yet still she pressed on despite her bitter sentiments, still holding onto the hope that all would be righted in the end.

“The wait will not be a long one.” He said, molding his fingers against her cheek.

Then on a whim, “Is it so terrible to reserve your regard all for myself?” he asked.

“You speak as though I am taking on a spouse when it’s merely servile friendships.” She peered up at him, lifting her chin from his grasp.

His glacial eyes did not shift for even a fraction as he met her gaze, the intensity of his focus like a spear aimed solely at her. The callused pads of his digits reinstated their grip, sliding up to clamp down at each side of her jaw. 

“Friendship, love, lust, any fleeting flight of fancy — whatever it may be — I must confess, I find the thought of you even looking at anyone else loathsome.” 

The note of her laugh was touched with incredulity. “I am not yours to own, you cannot simply take issue with servants or soldiers I favor…” 

She trailed off as an odd thought crossed into her thoughts.

“Did you hate innocuous Andrus as well?” The question needn’t be answered as she saw the affirming stillness in his countenance. 

She'd been so stupidly oblivious, she realized, to his engulfing envy. Even with Andrus, he'd questioned his loyalty and the dubious circumstances of his death now clear to her in full, his every action now seemed tainted by selfishness. The epiphany was white hot like a flame being lit from under her. She pulled herself away as though burned by the contact.

Her beloved companion since childhood now seemed akin to a looming beast.

“It was you...” The hurt in her eyes was condemning, his hands in the manservant's death was a betrayal she could not fathom.

"Why? He was a servant, he was nothing! He was–" Crow sputtered as tears welled up in her eyes. She'd been so fond of him as a servant, brotherly figure — the only one to have looked at her with genuine, guileless trust. In the end, he was reward with nothing but brutality and treachery for his earnest loyalty, and his remains desecrated by her vile, selfish hands. 

Zenos was a fixture before her, immovable in form and feeling. "He was unnecessary, a vestigial thing that would've made you soft." 

Crow bristled, shoulders tensed and fists grinding into the stone upon which she sat.

“Get out of my sight. Go! I want nothing to do with you or you petty jealousies!” She spat, full of venom, and Zenos’ eyes widened marginally at her harshness. The twinge in his expression was perhaps imaginary on her part, a being so frustratingly flawless would not feel a thing against her scorn.

When he refused to budge, she moved to vacate the space instead. The towel was left behind and she slid beyond the bench, shooting up to her feet to feel the cold tiles. She shoved past him only to be caught, his hand wrapping around her forearm like a vice. His fingers dug into her skin as he pulled her back, crushing her against him in a python’s embrace. Her bosom pressed painfully against his torso, shoulders curled as she struggled in futility for purchase.

“Release me!” She snapped like a caged animal, feeling his hand snake around the nape of her neck.

He was a wall immune to her demand, her strength eclipsed by the implacable coil of his hold. He had the nerve to slowly brush at the corner of her mouth with his lips, as though he had all the time in the world to tease and cajole.

The inevitable press of his lips against her was slow but forceful, his grip at her neck like a shackle. Crow felt as her namesake, a bird caught in the tangle, and she was being swallowed whole. A spike of panic stabbed into her as she could not accept the loss of control.

His lips, a place where she'd languished at leisure, now seemed foreign and offensive. As a trapped animal wont to do, she retaliated. The sharp sink of her teeth was no light nip, it drew blood and sent a jolt through Zenos’ spine. The tang of iron flooded their mouths as he drew back, the hot flush on his face was woefully apparent. Their contact had lasted for three seconds at most yet it had left him breathless. His lips throbbed in fading echoes of pain, and it left him wanting.

His eyes glittered as red smeared from his new wound. He looked at her with lidded, drunk eyes, arms slackening. Crow wiped at her mouth, her face scrunched in a harsh scowl as she turned and stalked away.

She did not speak to him in the days that followed. Even within the confines of the airship, she took her meals, slept and occupied her time elsewhere. His counterpart excelled at evading him, remaining illusive as he moved through the monotony of their time in the air. He caught her in glimpses, reading among the crates in the cargo hold or watching the skies silently among the working crew. Their disagreement was palpable enough that it affected those around them, it made their bows and salutes awkward and they made themselves scarce as soon as it was acceptable.

Her acrimony did not wane over the duration of their returning flight, the distance only expanded between them as they departed from the landing bay. The prince could only watch her as she brushed past the crew, the insistent press of his gaze only leaving her when the ornate elevator’s gate slid shut.

Zenos sucked on the closed cut, a twinge of longing and contrition welling within him even as he savored the memory of her enmity.

Notes:

Apologies, reposted for some error correction

Chapter 80

Their return was a quiet one, received by servants and soldiers with minimal fanfare. Crow had veritably collapsed into the nearest bed, too exhausted to think or care about the maidservants’ insistence on a meal. She had managed to push herself for a quick bath and was softly put out like a light before the stroke of midnight.

Her sleep was black with nothingness, restless in the turbulent of stygian dreams. There was little that she could make out until a fiery arrow streaked by. It flew fast and far until it crashed into the dimly glowing horizon. Her eyes seemed to adjust and a low-lying cityscape jutted from the flat border, towers and spires like uneven teeth of some unseen leviathan’s maw. Where the arrow touched, the ground seemed to flash with a ruddy light and that was when she came to know the true nature of the zipping beacon.

 A star — the first of many! Overhead in the dark firmament, where one had crossed, hundreds of thousands followed suit. She marveled at the sight and ran after them, it seemed the antithesis of the auroral ribbons of the Ilsabardan snowscape with its intensely molten hues. They filled her vision to the point of white the blindness and she parted her lips in a sharp gasp upon witnessing such cataclysmic descent.

She opened her eyes with a scant breath held in her chest and the dream faded like a hazy memory. She had her down-stuffed cover in a clawed grip as her mind resettled into reality. Her perturbation was especially acute when she had expected to see the drab abodes of the inn in Valnain. Her sheets were of fine silk that felt smooth against her damp skin, the air tinged with dry coolness that was unlike the Nagxian humidity. A draping canopy above filtered out the snow-mirrored light of an Ilsabaddan morning, gentle and familiar.

Before she could think, the fog of sleep barely lifted upon her waking, she'd turned to embrace the space next to her. She froze then, suddenly upset at herself for retaining that particular habit. 

When the maidservants came in to tie back the curtains and serve her morning repast, they found her rolling an oddly incomplete signet ring between her thumb and forefinger. She slipped it back onto her right little finger as she sat upright slowly, every move she made caused them to tense like alert herbivores sensing danger.

“I'll take my meal abed. Prepare the bath when I'm finished.” She intoned cooly as she received a cup of steaming tea, leaning back on propped-up pillows.

They moved to and from their duties like stiff mechanical dolls, destined for a single track from dawn till dusk. They kept their thoughts to themselves and their eyes low, even their breathing seemed controlled to disturb as little of the air as possible. These identically dressed automatons seemed a world away from the eclectic cast in Valnain.

She thought that she might have preferred them that way. No downtrodden crowds or sneering subordinates, no petitions or complaints to tend to. Nothing to provoke her distaste or endearment, only their detached servitude and necessary obeisances.

The princess sat in the hot water until it was cold, and the maidservants put up no qualms as they stood without her bathing chambers. It was only when she climbed from the perfumed ivory pool within her bathing chambers that they knocked, ears apparently keen even when not in sight.

Three of the four maids curtsied and left once they drained the bath and dried the puddles left behind by their mistress’ exit, the last lingering to brush out her wet hair. Crow’s ears were filled with the sound of the sandalwood comb slipping through the dark river of her tresses, nary a tangle to be found as the violet oil seeped into every strand.

“You've beautiful hair, Your Grace. A pity that you’ve only ribbons and the broken pin to adorn it.” 

Through the vanity’s great round mirror, she saw the princess pause in her restless picking of her ring to regard her, a frown thinning her otherwise full, bowed lips. She then rose from her cushioned seat and sauntered over to the large armoire, mood surly as she dragged open the wide double doors.

“Fetch the black bustle belt from the cabinet’s second drawer.” She bade the maidservant curtly, picking out a loose robe. Most of her old clothes no longer fit, she’d grown too tall and athletic since the year’s past.

By the time the maidservant was buttoning up her cuff a knock sounded at the door. She gave a glance and then curtsied, making ready to answer the call. Crow reached out and caught her by the arm before she could leave to receive their guest, locking her in place with a dire, mismatched gaze.

Her fingernails poked through the uniform’s fabric, sinking into the skin beneath. “In the future, I would that things be done without commentary.” 

The instruction belied a warning, the maidservant had the wit to recognize it and her heart thrummed in her throat. She'd heard many a tale from the others of not only the youngest wintry prince but also the emperor’s favorite. She was young but volatile, temper like boiling oil that was bound to scathe once ignited.

With fear-stricken doe eyes, she nodded and scurried off once Crow relinquished her hold. With a hand over her stays, the princess exhaled a contemplative breath and watched the maidservant return with a silvered tray. An invitation card sat neatly centered, etched with a curling script. She arched a brow, her dourness somewhat lightened like a silver lining among storm clouds. 

A homecoming soirée for Zenos and her, an excuse for her guardian to use the Solarus Theatrum and indulge his penchant for the dramatics. It would be held in four days but she could hardly wait to see him then.

****

The emperor was in office looking a touch gaunt but hale, much to her relief. He sat wrapped in a warm, velvet red robe, white brows heavy as he sat dozing in his wing-backed seat. His hands were folded up on his drooping lapels and cascading beard, chest slowly rising and falling. Behind him, through a great window, a backdrop of snowfall painted a serene picture. It was the only light source in the room other than the standing lamp in the far corner, and near it was a stacked fireplace aglow with a low flame. The burning wood cracked as the sap within popped, filling the pleasantly quiet room with a compelling comfort. It was as though she’d only left for a short moment and was coming back to the same scene from before her departure.

Crow shut the door behind her with a tray in hand, stepping softly to collect a thavnairian wool blanket from the nearby chaise. The aroma of roasted coffee added ease of the space, accentuating the smokey pinewood from the fire. Gingerly, she draped the thick throw onto his lap, making sure to cover his gnarled, overlapping hands. He gave a snort and started groggily, blinking slowly awake.

“Good morn, Your Radiance.” She was by his side, a hand gently clasped against his broad but thin shoulder.

He took a moment, taking several blinks to recognize her. He squinted, lifting his small rounded eyeglass higher. “Were you gone for a year or five?”

The princess laughed as she poured him a steaming cup, even her voice felt as rich as the dark, full-bodied ground to his ears. She was veritably a woman grown within the time of her absence, all heightful grace and fresh faced in the bloom of her maturity.

“Do not tempt me, Your Radiance, I could do wonders with five years in Valnain.”

He sniffed over the porcelain rim, golden eyes looking sharply at her. “And have you forget about me altogether? I think not.”

“You wound me, I wrote you just last week.” She said, pushing the lightly buttered finger sandwiches towards him. It was thinly sliced cod and cucumbers, salted and peppered to highlight the delicate taste of the fresh fish. The imperial kitchens had been through thick and thin to attune themselves to his restricted diet, and they'd done a fine job indeed.

Still, he had little appetite before the first cup of the morning. Thus, passing over the fine porcelain plate, he took up her hand before she could withdraw. His thick, white stache marginally lifted as he smiled, wrinkles creasing as he rasped in a deep timbre. “Welcome back, my dear.”

Crow enclosed his old hands between hers, and for a second, the turbulent of her life seemed to stabilize. If Zenos was the pillar of her world then her guardian was a titan who carried it upon his shoulders.

In the gentle drift of the moment, she could not fathom the reason but a hot rush welled up to her cheeks, and a tear slipped from her eye. A wet sniff sounded when she breathed, the tip of her nose a beet red as she cried softly. Solus thumbed the back of her hand as she pressed a wrist against the damp trails, his patience as unending as the implacable ranges of their homeland.

“Thank you...” She said between muted sobs. “For still being here.”

Notes:

Thank you for reading Coerthan Traitor thus far. With this conclusion, I'll be taking an extended hiatus to retroactively review and revise some part of this (perhaps overlong) story.

If you've made it this far, I'm sad I cannot express my gratitude in anymore meaningful ways. Though I'm only an amateur writer at best, I'm glad I stuck through this project. I want to polish it up as it deserves because Zenos and Crow demands more than half measures!

For now, this project will be marked complete. I'm unsure whether I'll starting a new title for the next arc or using this still but it'll be likely six months or so before I have anything to present you all with, so please take care!

Chapter 81

The coffer-gridded ceiling above her head seemed to go on for miles in the dark, the space made so much more expansive without another presence in the chamber. Crow blinked into the dim, her eyes picking up the subtle shift of silvery moonlight passing into clouds. The air here was dry and cold, faintly smelling of perfume and what she could only describe as polished steel. The hour to rise has yet to come but restful sleep was all but elusive to her since landing back in Garlemald proper. Her dreams, ones of fire and lurid southern air, cloyed at her senses in spite of the chill.

She had resolved herself to put her failures behind her, trying to convince herself that Nagxia would recover and prove a worthwhile investment of all her efforts. Her failures and her losses, the face of amiable Sisila floated up like waterlogged bodies. Her true fate was a frustrating mystery as she was never found in the aftermath of Valnain’s restoration efforts. And before her was Andrus, that adoring, well-meaning fool who'd been so stupidly devoted to her.

Eyes squeezed shut, she drove an impotent fist into the unoccupied space next to her, left empty out of an ill-gotten habit.

The room was far too big.

The First Princess of Garlemald climbed from her silken sheets, the tousled, braided rope of her hair dragging behind her as she rose to her feet. The herringbone wood tiles were cold against her bare soles, sending subtle waves of gooseflesh rising up her back. She gave no ostensible reaction, only shrugging on a robe that had been loosely draped over the nearby vanity bench.

The grown woman looking back at her through the mirror was tired and severe, possessing none of that reputed blooming beauty that her maidservants had gossiped about when they thought they were out of earshot. She was as pale as a ghost, whatever warmth the Nagxian sun managed to impart upon her was quickly drained from her complexion upon their return to the capital. Such was the nature of this home of hers.

The desk lamp lit up and, with a tentative finger, she brushed aside the dark fringe of hair covering her right eye. A bloodshot, crimson sclera stared back, encircling a blue orb that was her pupil — she cringed at the sight. The ghastly result of voluntary possession, giving a powerful voidsent a place in her body in exchange for near-imperviousness.  

The blind, once muddy-green eye had been a source of personal insecurity, a reminder that she was deficient down to the foundation of her physical being. Though its sight had been fully restored, it remained as an ugly reminder still of the ambitious, hungering dark inside her.

The princess turned away in distaste and left the inner sanctum of her sumptuously appointed apartment, slinking past the warm but weak glow of lamplight and into the silent stretch of the lounge. The warmth in the grand fireplace had long been snuffed out and the languorous breadth of smooth leather sofas were bathed in the bluish cast of impending daybreak. Papers, reports from Valnain, and tomes of various statecraft subjects were strewn in organized chaos across the generous low table. It was the center of activity where even the austere space of her bedchamber could not compare, disrupting the frozen stately image of the rest of her abode.

She stacked chopped logs and tossed in a lit match, watching the flames catch on dry wood and taking in the sweet scent of heating sap. The fires were flickering madly, casting long shadows against the far entrance way as they danced. Their restless writhing proved hypnotic as her heavy-lidded gaze fixed upon their most blinding point.

Today was when the soiree would take place. Her formal debut into the imperial court. There were many things riding on this event: securing alliances for political and financial means, legionary reinforcement for the foundation she’d laid out in Nagxia, and lastly, her dignity and secure standing for after a new emperor ascended to the throne.

She felt ill even giving the idea thought, unable to imagine a world after her guardian. He was not simply a father figure to her but to the empire as a whole. His Radiance, the guiding light of a generation, had conquered and enriched a people who were on the brink. He gave Garlemald the gift of an age, a visionary who strung together the disparate groups of tundral Ilsabard and forged a magnificent legacy with steel and fire. Tens of thousands would mourn the loss of him and more still would dread what would come after.

She certainly did.

A log popped and the pile collapsed, sending a flutter of embers floating upwards. The princess caught a glowing mote in her palm, feeling it sear against her skin before cooling into inert ash.

No — she thought, smearing the fine powder between her fingers — all will be well. It must.

****

A lady’s toilette was a crucial process and after an age without, she felt disconcerted by the detailed fussing of the maidservants. They did their task silently and without discussion, a disposition she was pleased by. It seemed her prickly command had spread among their ranks, thank the emperor.

They scrubbed thoroughly with pourous sea sponges and lathered on sweet violet oil on her skin once she was toweled dry, stoic before them even in her nakedness. Two pairs of hands rubbed the scent into her svelte limbs as another brushed at the length of her wet hair, careful but alacritous in their task.

The tightly corseted stylist stood waiting with another two pair of hands, ready to pluck, paint and powder according to the latest trend of the capital. Her hands like well-manicured sausages as she picked up the heating curler from its spot over the flame. 

Crow raised halting hand and frowned at all the pots of colors laid out before her. “Braids, half-up. You needn't do so much as all this.”

“But Your Grace, it is a popular style among the most fashionable girls! Lady Arrecina herself recommends it.” The stylist tittered lightly. “Besides, a bit of rouge will hearten up your complexion just so!”

The maidservants sent nervous, darting glances between the unmoving princess who sat at her vanity bench and the clucking stylist. They watched as the ample-crested matron nigh endlessly spoke over the cheek powders, the crushed pearl, the lip-staining paper from the east.

“Rather stoppered up, aren't you? Come now, Your Grace, nervousness is of no issue. Girls of your kind never know what suits them, though they all turn out well enough after I'm done with them! Just so, I think wings of red would bring out your eyes quite delectably.” 

She neared the unreadable imperial with a pot of mentioned rouge and they winced in unison as her wrists was snagged in the princess’ vice grip, a feeling that many among them has heard about.

“If you come near my eyes,” Crow began sweetly. “I'll have your fingers served to you for tea”

“Why I never! Agh!” The stylist squealed as the nerves grew taut with a twist and yanked down to meet the princess’ eyes.

“Moreover, my kind do not appreciate being painted and curled like the preening trollops of court, so do as little as you need to and in silence.” A red, bloodshot eye peered through the cascade of wet, black strands to focus on her. She found herself at once disgusted and mesmerized by the mismatched gaze, her voice lodged like a stone in her throat. 

“Speak only as necessary, do you hear?” Her warning was as mellifluous as the keening rasp of steel against stone.

The stylist's thick lashes flapped in rapid blinks and she lowered her head, averting her sight from the princess’ unreadable stare. She nodded once and silently swore to herself she'd never return here.

Crow’s iron fingers uncurled from the stylist’s arm and the latter wrenched away, the edge of an agitated sneer just visible through her vanity mirror. The rest of the session was quickly concluded with light work to her complexion. Little else had been done but she appeared more fresh-faced than the specter from this morning. Her artfully stained lips stood out like blood against snow against her skin and raven dark hair, coiffed simply in the fashion popular during the era before Arrecina’s reign as unofficial mistress of court — prior to her heretofore exile, that was.

Crow had seen this style before, from a figure whom she'd admired and walked past many times over the intervening years since her death. Out of spite, the stylist had attempted to make her seem outdated but she was pleased by the result. She brushed at her fringe to properly cover up her ruddy, blighted eye and peered at her reflected self. The knowledge that this resplendent stranger in black was now who she really was settled uneasily into her mind’s eye, her pitiable frail self now little more than a too-sharp memory.

She allowed a maidservant to slip a gray, fox-trimmed coat up her arms and tugged on her gloves, turning to the stylist before she could flee. A heavy silk pouch was dropped into an awaiting maidservant’s hands before the princess spoke, there was a generous surplus in there for her expedient service. The other woman was rooted to where she stood with the imperial’s sharp eyes upon her, her equipment yet to be fetched and moved by the servants.

She'd leave it all behind if she could, to quit herself of this evil room.

“Silence is golden, would you not agree, madam?” For the first time since her day had begun, the princess smiled.

Notes:

Decided that it'd best to continue this arc to its conclusion, better to keep those who are interested updated here :) Sorry for the long break and thank you for your patience!

Chapter 82

Solus produced a hand chronometer from his coat’s inner pocket and furrowed his brows at the ticking hands, giving an impatient stamp with his cane against the polished hardwood. Next to him stood Quintus van Cinna, his aide and Legatus of the Ist Legion, dutifully keeping his Lord company as they waited on the youngest member of the household.

“She's taking a while.” Grumbled the old emperor. They were running late.

“One shouldn't rush a girl through a momentous occasion, Your Radiance. Carosa herself had arrived at her down debut half a bell late and she was–”

“Beautiful.” His Lord finished for him and Quintus followed his gaze across the length of the foyer.

The arching, regal corridor served to frame the First Princess’ approaching form. It had been two years since he'd laid eyes on the girl, now fully grown into womanhood. From how she appeared to the easy grace in which she carried herself, every motion indicated a simple dignity that reminded him of his beloved late niece. Her hair was styled in the very same way and she broke into a smile when she reached them.

“You were not waiting over long, I hope?” Crow said with a winsome grin, sharing a knowing glance with Solus.

He replied with knitted brows and mild exasperation, even as his aide gave an encouraging cough.

“No, my dear, not in the least.” The emperor acquiesced with a drawn out sigh and Quintus gave a gruff chuckle in turn.

“And…?” The princess trailed off expectantly.

Solus softened, his heavy white beard lifting as he graced her with his approval. “You look marvelous and nothing short of it.”

She leaned over and pressed a kiss against his cheek, no longer the small girl to whom he had to stoop to receive such affections.

Quintus swallowed, quietly reliving the night of chaperoning his niece to her own first social function. She'd been a golden presence to which no room could do without. It touched him in an inexplicable way to be able to recall such an event in sharp clarity and perhaps vicariously experience it again through the emperor and his beloved ward.

“Are you well, my lord?” She turned to him, flaxen hair turning raven-dark.

“Ah, my eyes are merely tired, Your Grace, burning the midnight candle in my service. Do not mind this old man.” He scratched at his thick white brows, grinning wistfully.

“And are you remaining here?” The princess blinked, taking in his simple array of partial armor plate and long coat.

Quintus nodded slowly.

“I am to play housekeeper until His Radiance’s return, alas. Think not of my plight though and enjoy yourselves.”

The emperor made an indignant noise and rolled his golden eyes. “I expect an organized stack of reports from Aldenard when we return.”

Quintus leaned close to her and whispered behind the back of his raised hand in mock-conspiracy. “He becomes more of a tyrant the older we get, I tell you.”

Crow was forced to stifle a laugh before the sharp stamp of a walking cane sounded. 

“Enough dawdling. Come, my dear, and leave that geriatric rogue behind.” The emperor griped as he shuffled out to the awaiting long, glossy vehicle and its accompanying attendants, boots stomping through the falling snow.

“It is good to see you again, Your Grace.” The Legatus nodded as she passed.

He had always been an inconstant, flitting presence in her life, his role of a Legatus keeping him well-occupied, but never once had he ever failed to treat her with utmost deference and consideration.  He was a competent advisor to the emperor who welcomed and appreciated her in his small ways, a true rarity in character that could not be overstated.

“Likewise, ser.” Crow answered earnestly, gracing him with a light chuckle before tugging her collar higher as she passed through the main hall’s egress.

****

Crow’s mood was at an upswing as she and her guardian shared light discussion regarding topics of court. Well, rather, he griped at the neediness of the aristocracy and their seemingly endless petitions for expanded trading rights and she listened. Every bit of information was useful, and she was happy to keep tally about who was in favor and who was not. 

“Perhaps you’d like to take over since you’ve proven to be such a deft hand with all this nonsense, have a try at herding the unruly masses, eh?” The emperor said with a heavy brow lifted.

Crow shook her head with a laugh. “Oh no, Do not try to unload your leftover burdens to me, Your Radiance. Though I can think of a few names who’d jump at the opportunity so long as you also hand over the crown.”

Solus gave a dry harumph that doubled as a sneer. “And watch decades of my toil and hardwork be laid to ruin? I think not. No, my dear, these lots shall remain where they are so long as I draw breath.”

“May you do so for decades more, then.” She said with a grin, not forgetting his promise of longevity to her.

A minx-gleam shone in her gaze as they passed through the black and white landscape of the high aristocratic sector, its snow-laden streets lined with austere and decadent townhomes four-stories tall and four-doors wide though still closely knitted compare to the expansive estates without the capital.

“Though if I may be too forward…” She paused as though seeking permission, leaning forward with fingers clutched under her chin. “Who would you pick to be heir apparent?”

Solus let out an exaggerated groan, rubbing his temple peevishly. “I’ve had Quintus hounding me on this matter, not to mention others on the senate, I’d rather not have a pall be cast over my mood before the soiree, my dear.”

Sufficiently chastised, Crow made to pout and avert her gaze, catching the sight of the approaching theater house through the lightly falling snow. They’d arrived in good time before she could weasel into his good graces for an answer, much to her dismay.

The emperor drew his sable-furred coat close, complaining of the cold and belligerently waving off the steward who’d stepped up to help. Crow gathered the hem of her dress in one hand and ushered aside the mortified doorman, whose right calf had received a good thwack from the old emperor’s cane. After a brief sweep in from the frost, they made their way into the warmly lit, heated receiving lobby.

An attendant detached from a side hallway to show them the way up to the ballroom where every guest was being entertained as they waited for the emperor’s arrival. Up the grand stairwell they went, their pace set at regal steadiness. Her guardian was walking surprisingly well in spite of his advanced years, the sight heartened her well.

The heavy mahogany doors swung back to release bright crystalline spears of light from the dripping chandelier overhead, the air light with murmured conversation, drifting notes of music and the scent of flowing wine. 

“His Radiance, light of our empire, has arrived!” Trumpeted the herald stationed by the side of the entryway.

As though choreographed, the room ceased all activity and every lord and ladies lowered into a deep, reverent bows and curtsies. Crow herself had dipped into one of her own, head tipped forward in respect to him.

A solemn moment passed before Solus nodded in acknowledgement.

“Rise.”

All did as one, and they hung in anticipation on his next words.

“I am gladdened to see your faces here tonight as we celebrate the homecoming of the youngest members of the imperial family. They've done us a boon in the south in affirming our hold in Nagxia, expanding and continuing our noble purpose of enlightening the savages.”

He gestured to a head within the crowd and they parted to reveal the impressive figure of Zenos, clad in imperial black and accented by gold lapels to compliment his fair, silken complexion. He reached out to his ward next, clasping her hand against his arm.

“You both went away as children and came back magnificently in your maturity.” He looked at Crow as he said so, regal in his pronouncement.

Was that a glint of pride she saw in his eyes? — she lowered her head once again in gratitude, feeling the room’s assessing eyes upon her. They were pressing and curious like unknown creatures veiled behind a thicket.

“Make merry, enjoy!” His pronouncement done and over with, the emperor waved his assent as he beelined to his private box, no doubt wishing to clear of the cloying masses.

Crow breezed alongside him as the gathered people parted reverently like a divided sea, feeling the pressure of a pair of particular eyes hot against her back. She was in no mood to speak or even grant him the acknowledgement of a brief glance.

“It is your debut, so go and take part.” Solus insisted as he stroked his long beard, settling his creaking frame into the lavishly endowed armchair. By a small table by his armrest was a set a tray of steaming tea and savory egg custards, curtains drawn close by the distinguished balcony for discretion — he often preferred his meals without as little company as possible.

“You're fretting over nothing.” Solus took a sip of the dark assam brew.

“It has been awhile since you've set foot out.” She settled in the smaller accompanying seat. “And I'd rather serve you your meals myself rather than – well…”

Crow glanced over to the attendant, noting his face. The man kept a carefully neutral mask, ready to be of service at any moment. Should anything untoward were to happen, it'd be his head that would roll.

The emperor grunted a laugh, pointedly setting down the cupware. “Wrinkles will set in if you worry too much, my dear. But conduct yourself with some restraint out there, hm?”

He’d ignored her protest entirely.

She stood upon hearing the firmness of his dismissal and tried her best to withhold a drawn out sigh. “As you say, Your Radiance.”

Chapter 83

The nape of her neck was adorned with a small bow, the single delineation in the flawless expanse of her bare back The dress was modest in the front yet conforming to her lush figure, and the back left a canvas that invited the mind to wander. Lately, as her scorn stood unwavering, he was sustained by the recollection of his fingers coasting down that silken contour. His patience thinly extended by their time spent under the press of the Nagxian summer, nary a moment of rest from their restoration efforts.

Now she would not even look at him. Her absence was a punishment in and of itself, all for that nothing of a manservant. The prince wondered how long this battle of attrition could last before they found themselves needing one another again. She required him as means to escape this golden cage and he needed her for the maintenance of his own sense of self, the harbor beyond the sinking muck of banality. She would find no ally of the same caliber here, not in the diffident Lanatus couple. The lowly house was ill-favored and disregarded by most, even after its heir and current Lord had taken an affluent elezen lady’s hand at the behest of his Legatus, Noah van Gabranth.

The old lord stood with his wife in arm at a nearby wall, edged to the outskirts by greater members of the peerage. The three shared quiet conversation and something evoked collective amusement, a jest perhaps. Shame that he couldn’t see her smile.

Zenos drifted closer once more but was caught against another cluster of tittering aristocrats. He'd been slow in his meandering advance but steady and slyly outside of her periphery. It was almost a dance, one in which only he was privy to.

He gave another perfunctory response to a question, something about trading in the south. This world opened itself to him like newly sliced flesh, bearing its own innards to him for measurement. They hung on his every word as he painted the rich capital to be reaped down in Valnain’s port side, the silks from Doma, the lacquers from Ul’dah and even euphoric lachryma powder from Hingashi. The fleet of merchant ships were not so inclined to be raided by pirates as they flew under the banner of free trade. Though it's not always a guarantee when passing through the Rhotano sea. The salty Limsan wretches were a greedy lot even after their supposed reform under their new admiral.

These lot need not know that, however.

Those around him seemed hungry for the opportunity to export to the western continent, to line their pockets and see what could be made from imported raw materials from Aldenard. All around him they glittered, a few lords ringed in gold from Rabanastran mines and a handful of ladies with their silver-wrought jewels from Doman quarries. They were always eyeing for more, and so he drew them in with the promise of greater wealth.

All this he did for her as Valnain would swell with new investors. She would look upon him again, in time, with the same trust and affection she once did.

“Your Grace, if I may have a moment.” a prying, cultured voice asked.

Zenos took his sweet time in acknowledging this new botherer, first draining his stemmed glass before turning to regard him.

“If I may interrupt — your father requires your presence, my prince.” Spoke the diminutive messenger, his pallid face like risen dough with two dark beads of currents pressed into it for eyes. He recognized the mayor of the commoner sector, a staunch and rich ally of his dour father. His name, however, escaped the prince entirely. 

Zenos drew in a wry breath. His father had been here briefly after his arrival, but neither had made the move to speak to one another. He wondered what nasty surprise the High Legatus had in store for his errant son.

The prince frowned and handed his glass to a passing attendant.

“Very well.” 

****

Lucius goe Lanatus was a serious man and it seemed to her that the apple did not fall very far from its tree. Though lacking a third eye, Sergius was stamped by this man from their build to the way they held themselves with modest restraint. He was but an older model of his youngest son, who, by her hand, had been promoted well beyond what he could've achieved in a decade serving as a provincial centurion.

“I can hardly mistake you for anyone else, Lord Lanatus, your son looks as though he is your younger sibling.” Crow beamed pleasantly.

“I'm too gray to deserve such compliments, Your Grace. Moreover, we’re grateful that he proved to be reliable in his duty to you and the empire.” He inclined his head in formal gratitude.

Sergius must have written to his lord father, informing him of her efforts and their bid to stabilize the region. Once invited, they gladly came to express their gratitude to Crow for elevating a scion of their house to a position of significance. House Lanatus had once been in a severely precarious position after Lucius’s father, Thyrus, bucked at the emperor’s authority. Their ensuing climb back into favor had been an arduous one, to say the least. In spite of their long fall, they'd returned with a modicum of respect to their name after Lucius put himself through the gauntlet under the IVth legion.

“He's deserving of his current rank as acting-viceroy. It was thanks to him that the citizenry within Valnain was able to remain safe from the destruction, his preservation of the port also gave us some leeway to begin recovery efforts.” Crow could hardly exaggerate his usefulness in that tiresome affair. Even Zenos had quietly set aside his doubt once Sergius presented them with steady results in infrastructural repairs. “But I think he does have a talent in bureaucracy as well.” 

“He'd always been one for the books, unlike Menenius.” The lady Lanatus, long of ear and as slender as Crow, glowed with a mother’s pride.

She was five years her husband’s senior and had come with a son of her own from a previous marriage, who had by now achieved his own notable rank as Noah van Gabranth’s chief intelligence officer. 

“Ah, Sergius spoke briefly of him. He seemed fond of his elder brother from the way he spoke of him.” The princess concurred politely, remembering the sheepish manner he's broached the topic of his family. That was the first time she'd seen him smile in full, brimming with such familial contentment.

The Lanatus patriarch cleared his throat. “I hope His Radiance is pleased with the progress in Valnain.”

It had come to this, finally, after they were through with the pleasantries. Crow maintained her mask of insouciance and nodded.“He is, rest assured.”

“He’s given his blessing for Sergius to be my proxy as well while further plans are made to assist Lord Gabranth in efforts to secure Dalmasca Superior.”

“Ah, good to hear that the emperor is so steady in his vision.” He seemed relieved that his son’s position would be maintained in the long term. “I hope Sergius will not disappoint, Lord Noah is a fair man but he is meticulous and has rather stiff standards.”

“I understand that he was once your Legatus, was he not?” Crow flicked her eyes to his lady-wife, her grin growing coy. “And the one responsible for your love-match.”

The older elezen woman had the grace to look down demurely, she was still lovely even past her prime — a retiring bride who was still besotted with her groom.

“Love-match? Well, I wouldn’t go so far…” She laughed.

“Darling, you wound me.” Lord Lanatus turned to his wife, a wry light in his sharp eyes..

Crow chuckled.

He straightened after a moment, brushing the fluster from himself with a pat on his maroon twill coat. “Rest assured, Your Grace, Lord Noah would be receptive to an auxiliary unit from Valnain. In fact, I shall recommend you to him myself!”

The princess glowed with appreciation as she felt the string of her connections lengthen and began to weave itself.

Chapter 84

After an opportunity to eat, drink and mingle, the hundred or so guests and their families were directed to the richly appointed opera hall. The ceiling hung heavy with crystal chandeliers like a ripe vineyard in summer, each wall was honeycombed with ornately wrought balconies and, most importantly of all, the grand stage where the curtains soon rose. The orchestral music crooned its opening notes and a serene light illuminated the scene like the rosy fingers of a southern dawn.

Crow leaned fractionally closer, her attention firmly fixed on the entering actors. The performance, one of Jeromis cen Lexentale’s classics, was about a land of seven kingdoms that warred and struggled against one another for territory and power. 

A king, she saw, sang a dark war dirge and summoned a fiend to gain an upper hand over his rivals. Through cunning betrayal by his vizier, he was murdered in a conspiracy. The demon consumed his subordinate, the treacherous vizier, and aimed to destroy the human world.

The act soon moved on, with the introduction of seven graceful youths bearing stones of power. They garnered resistance in each kingdom, gathering allies and backing of each monarch from each land to stand against the tyrannical demon who now stood as the primeval power of the continent.

Crow glanced over to the emperor; the plot danced on a certain edge that would make most rulers pause. Whether imagined or otherwise, the allegory was rather thinly veiled.

His posture laxed against his high, wing-backed seat, nigh unreadable to her especially in the dim lighting.

There was love and there was loss, wherein six of the united seven sacrificed themselves to defeat the villainous outsider. The one youth who survived went on to become the true emperor of the continent after the other monarchs submitted to him peacefully in a bloodless unification. He became a wise and benevolent founder of a great dynasty, canonizing his late allies and elevating the stones into objects of holy importance. It was all rather honeyed flattery or pinching criticism depending on how viewed it.

A loud round applause rose as members of the philharmonic stood. The actors all lined up as well, taking off their feathered hats and gilded crickets as they  all bowed in unison. Crow turned to hear her guardian giving his own applause and found herself adding in to the ovation, albeit hesitantly.

She supposed no ruler should be so fragile as to take offense to the arts.

“How did you find your first play, my dear?” Solus asked as the attendant made to close the blinds of their box.

“Do you…” Crow mulled on the question a moment longer, unsure if it would make her seem foolish. “Do you always allow playwrights such generous license?”

He rasped a laugh. “No, no ruler in their right mind should.”

“Then…why–”

“Let me ask you, my dear: am I the demon or the unifying hero to you?”

She flushed, startled by the question and appeared to be at a loss for words.

Solus waved as though to clear the air between them. “Be honest now, nothing shall go afoul between us.”

Reluctantly, the princess tugged at her sleeve as she spoke.

“The citizenry, the true blooded Garleans, would see you as the unifier. Those in Ilsabard face massive improvements to their quality of life as industry developed and supply and demand grew. However…” She thought back to the conditions of the slums in Valnain, far bigger and destitute than even the poorest districts of the capital. “Those in more recently conquered territories would begrudge the empire’s flag in their soil.”

“They’d have me strung up and flogged, you needn't sugarcoat it so.” The emperor stroked his cloudy beard, lidded eyes creasing as he was drawn back to the days of conquest and bloodshed.

“There is a time and place for clemency and generosity, likewise with cruelty and a hard fist. Knowing which to correctly employ in the moment is what defines an efficient leader.”

“They are tools, then.” Crow concluded. “Just like your tolerance of Jeromis’commentary.”

Old Solus chuffed in approval, his golden eyes sliding over to her. 

“The arts, my dear, is no different. Moreover, it may just be far more persuasive than a fleet of warheads in the long-term.”

“Time and place.” She echoed in a contemplative whisper as she traced the ring on her little finger.

“If only the rest of them understood it as such.” The emperor muttered under his breath, soon straightening himself from his upholstered seat.

“Are you leaving already?” Crow blinked.

“Lest you forget, I am–” Solus unfurled himself, audibly cracking by the joints. 

“Ough...old, my dear.” He finished with a low, complaining groan.

“Shall I come with you then?” She shot to her feet, her hand extended preemptively.

He rolled the golden head of his cane in his gloved palm, easing her with a loose wave. “Go, mingle, enjoy. Let this senile goat rest his bones in peace.”

She smiled a little, less resistant to his instructions this time. Having tasted the social scene, she was curious for more and was loathed to retire so soon.

“At least let me escort you out, Your Radiance.”

“You'd be the only one to do so — those ingrates.” Solus snorted sourly, knocking the fumbling attendant in the knee with his cane. To his credit, the poor cad held in his pain well and managed to get the heavy oaken door open.

****

The First Princess was on her way back up the stairwell when a flirtatious giggle caught her ears. It bounced off the marble walls and echoed along the vacant corridor to her right, down where the staff had purposefully kept away for the sake of private assignations. It was a sectioned wing where performers and their sponsors could discuss matters behind closed doors, in whatever manner they so choose. Without further preamble, a painted, paneled door swung open and an addled Nerva dragged out a pretty thing by the waist, her skirt disheveled and ample bosom nearly spilling free from her tight bodice. The actress, the one who'd played a minor role as the unifier’s queen and had no lines to speak of, was grinning ear to ear and batting her lashes up at the prince. 

Crow turned away from their indecency and would have been successful in her withdrawal if Nerva hadn't noticed and called out to her. 

He croaked the syllable of her name. “Croooow, dear, is the princess late to her own— her own ball?”

She whipped around, eyes flashing like the crack of a whip. The actress, libertine though she was, had the wherewithal to shy away from that look.

“At least have the common decency to get back into that room.” The princess clicked her tongue at them, lips curling.

“You're one to talk, curl– hah!” He hacked a laugh as though whatever he had to say was golden comedy, word slurring. “Curling yourself around Varis’ boy like ivy.”

“Snake.” He spat, his grin smearing into a sneer. The actress under him winced as his blunt nails dug into her shoulder, jostling her against his broad form.“See that thing there, sweet? That there is a stain on our empire’s prestige — she and her kind.”

Crow bristled, slighted by his derisive label.

“Nerva!” A shrill cry cut through the air, stilling Crow’s tongue before she could give voice to her venomous retort.

A mass of gaudy, deep magenta brushed past her, pale fingers extended. The sharp slap sent the actress stumbling back three paces, her yoking arms around the prince’s neck were dislodged with fearsome expedience.

“Off! Begone!” Arrecina snapped, her shock of white hair piled high and adorned with a myriad of golden pins and silk flowers as gaudy as her gown.

The actress fled with a teary gasp and Crow was rooted next to the bannisters by secondhand embarrassment. It was a scene straight from a novel she'd probably once read as Arrecina ushered her sodden son back into the fray of the ballroom, bading him to seek out her personal attendant for a sobering tonic.

Nerva slinked past her, a man of more than thirty winters thoroughly chastised by his gaunt banshee of a mother. Crow made sure he caught her ill-disguised laugh, hidden poorly behind a polite cough.

“Well, I must say, that was an uncouth sight, wasn't it, love?”

It took a moment for the princess to register that the old matron was speaking to her. The endearment managed to sound both saccharine and disdainful when spoken in that lilting, cultured tone of hers. Her thin hands worked like spiders as they straightened and neatened her slightly skewed sided bustles and sleeves.

“Not at all, Your Grace.” Crow responded, matching her falsetto sweetness. She wanted nothing more than to walk away right this second and never have to speak to this webspinner again.

Though her poisonous plot had been swept under the rug, she'd been exiled to her estate and forbidden from entering court for ten years. This year, credit to Crow’s ongoing streak of misfortune, was the expiration year of her sentence. She had returned only to show how much she'd withered over the intervening time, what beauty she had possessed in her portraits were now only a spare echo.

Crow could see the sinew of her throat worked as she neared, the deep purple shade of her lips like a bruise against her powdered face.

“If Nerva could only be so marketable as you, I would be far more at ease for his prospects.” She cooed. “So supple and beautiful, though your hair…”

The princess stifled the urge to cringe away when she felt those manicured claws brush against her tresses.

“A shame that it's so sparingly decorated, and so old-fashioned.”

She would know much about being old, Crow thought sourly.

“I wouldn't wait too long, though, pretty flowers like you are wont to be frail and wilt early. Carosa was the same way, you know. Poor thing.” Arrecina had nothing remotely resembling pity in the way she spoke of her late contemporary.

“You are so compassionate to say so. Though pretty flowers, so I've been told, are prone to have thorns and far more enduring than one might suspect.” Crow replied with a coy simper. “Unlike the odd barren branches here and there that grow brittle and become unsightly hindrances.”

The matron’s blithe demeanor dropped as the princess met her unobscured gaze. Her puckered lips and shocked, peeled eyes accompanied the startled wordlessness that now descended blessedly between them.

“Pardon me but I must attend to the crowd His Radiance has left behind.” Crow dipped in a sweeping curtsy and left to enter the festivities held in honor of her service.

Flowers — the princess rolled her eyes as she turned away — what nonsense.

Chapter 85

Hosted in a long, rectangular ballroom, the soiree was already in full swing once the emperor departed. Crow saw the wine flowing freely from a pyramidal tower of stemmed glasses, personally refilled and restacked by an attendant. Decadent platters of cold northern delicacies like smoked halibut and salmon roe, snow fungus caps spread atop roasted ovibos veals and even hot-house vegetables baked with soft brie cheese into bite-sized morsels, were being offered and doled out by the wait staff. Fresh foods in midwinter was not the only luxury afforded to these glittering lot, however, as some were partaking in heady drags of spiced tobacco through long wired pipes connected to a central apparatus — ‘shisha’ as the Ul'dahns called it.

Father had left and his children were wont to indulge, so to speak — Crow thought with a wry roll of her eyes as she descended to the main floor.

The light croon of an octet, a downsized fraction of the orchestral band from tonight’s theatrical feature, resounded through the room in accompaniment with ebb and flow of polite chatter. She tore her eyes away from the far corner where the smokers lounged to survey the crowd and saw knots of conversation forming as before.

A head of gold towered above the denizens of his gilded hall, flowing tresses left free and unadorned slid against his handsome face. Zenos, she saw, was entertaining a loose circle of older aristocrats in his typically taciturn fashion. Always a man of few words, he seemed particularly reluctant to part with more of them than necessary. Crow looked over and spotted the young Garlean girl, some mousy, pretty thing that could only sneak glances over to him in her awkward shyness. It seemed they all had been quite eager to offer up their daughters on silver platters to a potential ascendant to the throne. 

She could feel the faint sneer mar her lips before she quashed the unformed thought altogether. Besides, it might even be advantageous for her purpose. 

More funds to funnel through her coin purse, man-power at their disposal and political connections to use at will.

Try as she might, there was a cloying stone in her throat that stubbornly remained.

His eyes met her as she caught herself staring. They shared the moment briefly, lingering before she tore her gaze away. She was still rightly crossed with him, more than she can put into words. Though, if afforded the opportunity, she'd have more than a few sore words to dole out.

Crow melded into the merriment though she never could shake off the feeling of his watchful presence at her back. She stood at the edge of each circle, smiling behind her glass of fine vintage. Whenever she moved to add to the topic at hand, another voice seemed to pipe up before she could even part her lips.

“On the topic of trade, why Yanxia and Nagxia– oh I see, your daughter’s recital…”

“Taxes are too heavy in the port of Yanxia? Why, Valnain might be a perfect alternative– ah, if you must go, it can't be helped.”

 The first few interjections seemed accidental, then it grew coincidental, but eventually she realized she's been cut off at every turn to speak. No one seemed to want to address her either, their polite veneer tensed with a kind of hostile anticipation.

Belatedly, after twenty minutes lingering at her third knot of socializing aristocrats, she grew to understand the embarrassment of her situation. She, First Princess or not, was entirely unwanted by the pure-blooded peerage. Her face grew reddened with the utter humiliation, the indignity of being ignored and undermined was nigh unbearable. Without the company of His Radiance, these arrogant wretches were uncowed and thoroughly unimpressed by her. The Lanatus head whom she'd been speaking to had long since departed from the hall, likely wisened up to their estimation of him and his wife — unlike her.

Her cheeks stung with shame as she felt the glass crack beneath her fingers, sidelined in every sense of the word by those that hinged everything on the blood in their veins and the eye on their foreheads.

“Well, look at you.” The last voice she wanted to hear piped up behind her. 

Crow turned from her glaring at the tower of glasses. She'd hoped to topple the entire thing without touching it through will alone, and watch them all be splattered by their own decadence.

“Have you finally realized your place among us?”

Nerva — because her misfortune was unending of late — appeared, his sharp chin angled haughtily as he needled at her. He was more sober now, his vindictive streak sharpened to a stake to hammer down on her for witnessing his humiliation with his mother.

Her stern silence, near boiling over, told him all he needed to know. His laugh grated at her pride like a pumice stone over burned skin.

“Poor thing, it took you this long to learn such an obvious lesson? Oh come now, did you know you look adorably ravishing when you're angry?” 

He reached out and snagged Crow by the arm, leaning in with a broad grin as though he was sharing an amusing joke.

“Let me enlighten you further: nobody here will ever acknowledge whatever puny achievement you think you've earned. You may dance and stand on your hind legs and imitate us but, make no mistakes, you're little more than the family’s pet.”

She jerked irritably in his grip but before she could create some space between them, the clarion ring of struck glass rang out and Varis made his entrance. The gathered crowd parted instinctually around him, forming a wide and loose oval. Two figure accompany him, a young pretty woman in spring green satin-silk and a barrel of a man whose face reminded her of pressed dough.

“We gathered here today to celebrate my son's success in Nagxia, but that is not all there is to celebrate on this occasion.” The High Legatus paused for gravity, his face showing not an ounce of the jubilation mentioned.

“I wish to announce his engagement with the lady Domitia fae Volerus.” 

What?

The words barely registered in the moment, and when they did something inside Crow shrank back violently in recoil. They echoed in her head like a broken record, wriggling like worms that she wanted to scratch out from her ears. The ground beneath her yawned open like a chasm as the music picked up again, she felt as though she was sinking into the floor.

“Come and dance…Princess.” She faintly heard the words uttered to her by Nerva in that mocking voice, feeling herself be dragged to the forefront like some barbarian to be displayed to the gentile crowd.

Time melted into something sluggish and she realized she'd been saying something over and over. Her eyes picked up the figure of Zenos next to his newly betrothed. Her hair was the color of dried roses, curled and piled high as was the fashion, pretty as a blooming maiden could be. She looked to Crow as she was tugged to the fore, chin proudly lifting in her beaming visage as her eyes narrowed knowingly. Even without a word uttered, she was deft at showing her triumph and contempt.  

The princess sucked in a quivering breath as she struggled against Nerva, shouldering against scoffing aristocrats who were in their way.

She didn’t want to be here, to see them. Not Nerva, not Varis, not Zenos, not anyone!

 “ No. No! — let me GO!” 

A strained strand audibly snapped within her and she shoved Nerva away, sending him barreling backward into the edge of the gathered crowd. Her tormentor for the night took down a couple with him as they failed to evade his stumbling advance, a tangle of limbs and fabric billowed, followed by a sharp shriek from the woman.

Whatever high mood that had filled the atmosphere had promptly deflated as all heads turned to peer at the source of the commotion. Even the music had drifted to a halt as the musicians stood on their low stage to crane their necks over the heads of the aristocracy. The break in the building tension was stark as their collective gazes drifted from the toppled trio over to…to her.

The princess, in spite of her galloping heart, stood frozen as she realized the major faux pas she'd committed. Their eyes like a thousand prickling blows upon her skin, filled with alarm and disgust. Such judgement was deemed fitting for an ill-behaved savage that had lashed out against their benefactors.

What use of all the things she’d learned about statecraft and warfare when placed upon a field where neither was relevant? All that valor and bloodshed, nights spent contriving and devising the recovery of a city, were useless ashes in the face of such immediate castigation.

A tremulous breath escaped her as her sight settled on her childhood companion. They always seemed to find one another, like a compass needle to its northern point. Together since before she could form memories, he was a fixture that was as constant as the snow in Ilsabard.

But being subjected to that cold, drawing gaze now, she could hardly stand it.

Crow fled the room at a brisk walk, her skirts and her ragged dignity dragging behind her. The aristocratic peers cringed away from her, opening a path to the exit. They were afraid that her display of barbarity might catch upon them, disease as it were.

The prince slid his gaze to his father who had capitalized on the event to announce this sham, watching him preen at the shame of his beloved companion. It was a rare thing to see the High Legatus smile, it was only to the detriment of others that the expression would come about. As though in appreciation of the debacle, his father gave his wine a swirl before turning to him, a warning in those narrowed, leonine eyes.

Zenos brushed past the simpering caricatures of his father’s two latest pawns and cut through the loose hedge of spectators, his glare were like pinpricks to the back of the prince’s head. Zenos ignored it as he did much else and left them all behind to follow her.

****

The Prince kept a thirty pace distance behind her and watched as she slipped past the heavy velvet drapes and into a small private balcony. The curtains fell in her wake and he heard her hitched breath and heavy sigh, the sound quivering and vulnerable.

The swelling silence between them dragged on as a chill without faned in. He waited for another tense moment then shifted to lift the curtain, impatient to meet her.

“Leave.” Her command was just as wintry as the air beyond, stopping him just before his finger felt the velveteen folds.

“Come back inside.” He bade, the wall between them expanding.

“Don't you have other pressing matters to attend to? Go and allow me my peace.” she bit back acidly.

“You are upset…about the betrothal.” 

“Don't be so conceited, you're not my only problem.” The light tap of her nail against cutstone railing reached him, her temper growing shorter with each sequence of their drumming.

Zenos rolled this new label in his mind. Problems, to his other half, are things to be examined and solved. Never ignored. 

“Problem, am I?” He muttered.

He could envision her narrowed eyes, seething at his tone through the dividing curtain. 

“Yes, a big problem! A jealous liability who killed my aide and caused me nothing but heartache.” She snapped suddenly, provoked as he had desired.

“You'd feel so for a wretch whom you'd fished out from the cells? A simpering fool who scraped and bowed at your every whim while spying on you on another's behalf?” The prince clicked his tongue.

“It was His Radiance’s command, even we cannot turn aside that. What can a destitute guard do against that?” She deflected, he could feel his own ire rearing as her voice grew weak at the mention of that fool-manservant.

His fingers dug into the fabric, his expression stiff with glacial-anger. The curtains were torn aside as he cut through the space between them. The bruised dusk beyond the theatre was stippled with blooms from city lights, cold air stinging his lungs as he breathed in his own umbrage. She was before him now, as pale as alabaster stone, seemingly cut from a single block to bear a terribly forlorn beauty, the flush of her face red not only from the cold.

She was on the verge of tears, but he, caught in his own irritation, ploughed on without care.

“How can you be certain that the emperor was the only one he'd been reporting to? No other letters to be secreted to another conspirator?” The question seemed to pierce through her. For all her righteous anger and his bloody hands, she knew he was right to question that man servant's loyalty for no servant could be completely trusted in the imperial palace.

They'd paid the price for that once, her extinguished life and his grief so heavy that they still dragged like chains at their ankles. It was what tied them together, after all.

“He would have made you dull and pliant had you grown over-fond of him and soft as the rest of the herd here, blind to the knife in the dark.” That version of her would not have survived Valnain. The arrow she had taken when he found her again would have killed anyone else. Had she not struck a vile pact with that dark creature of hers, she would have–

He quashed the thought, jaw feathering.

“It was a blessing to us that he died, and I would do even worse if it meant you would live.” Zenos said gravely, the admission revealing the true extent of his remorselessness.

Crow stood stricken, her chin raised, her prideful dignity upheld solely by the rise of her fury.

“Get out of my sight.” She hissed with enough venom to rival an asp. “Take comfort in your new doxy’s lap and let me not see you ever again.”

His knuckles were white, frustrated by the implacable barrier she’d erected between them. The betrothal had been sprung upon him like an ambush, catching them both unaware. It was what his father had contrived to drive a rift between them, but she would not listen to what he had to say when her blood was still high from the night’s humiliation.

He turned his broad back to her and forced himself to walk away, one step in front of the other. It would be the last he would see of her for a miserable while.

She made herself scarce after that, and he'd heard from a steward of the frightened maidservants who were chased out by uplifted furnishing, burned books and shattered records. He could only imagine the havoc her temper had wreaked on her chambers and study.

In the long days ahead, it was all the prince could do to sustain himself on the idle time they’d spent in Valnain; of slender limbs and smooth, dark hair; cunning eyes that plotted and lips that smiled only for him. Sometimes when the nights are at their quietest, he could almost hear a faint drift of familiar music down the somber labyrinth of the inner palace.

Chapter 86

Solus tucked a stray strand to the back of one of his ward's delicately pointed ears. The girl of yesteryears, now a grown woman, had her head on his knee and was firmly sulking. With knees drawn up to her chest under her plain nightgown, she sat sullenly at his leg by the blazing fireplace. She would not tell him the reason for this late visit but her watery eyes and pursed lips told him much, if not all.

It seemed that the children’s conflict had interfered with the boy’s unspoken duty to guard her from the subtle cruelty of the court.

She shifted under his straying fingers.

“Will I…ever be forced to marry?” She asked suddenly, the question jarring him from his slow descent into a sleepy stupor 

“What?” Solus blinked, a white brown arching. “There’s no need for you to consider such nonsense.”

She turned to look up at him, knees folding aside sweetly, a glimmer of some surprise in her ostensible blue eye.

“Truly?”

The bonds of marriage was something the politically endowed wretches used to further their purpose and positions, something to do with daughters whom they had little use for since he'd mandated a patriarchal system. The practice had its origins in the proto-garleans and all he had done was drag it to the forefront to ensure future iterations of himself could come back into power. He saw little need to bind his Mnemosyne to another formally, not when she vied for him so dearly with their current bonds as guardian and ward. Her soul called to him still even after all those long eons apart, the romantic notion briefly laid low the cynic in him.

“Yes, truly.” He nodded indulgently.

“Why?”

He nearly sputtered at her relentless inquiry. The paragon named Emet-Selch, for all the centuries of wisdom under his belt, had failed to foresee an adolescent’s fluxing inner turmoil. 

Solus stroked his white beard slowly in a bid to buy himself a few moments of consideration. “Ahem, well, my dear… I– why the sudden fluster on this matter?”

Answering a question with another — he withered inwardly at his lack of inspiration.

“Zenos is now betrothed to some– some– “ Crow sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “Some girl. And I have no doubt that Lord Varis will hurry the affair along to have him under his thumb, keep him tied down with matters of marital obligations. I'll have to leave for Doma alone even though we've been planning for this for so long.”

Ah, was that all?

The old emperor kneaded at his brow. “Is that what's upsetting you?”

It was apparently the wrong thing to say as she looked at him as though he'd thrown scalding water on her.

He put out a patient hand before she could start. “That boy is of an age where such things are appropriate. I myself and Varis were even younger when we were married and had our issues, it is a matter of lineage and the continuation of not only our bloodline but also the dynasty.”

“So then does that mean I’m ineffectual in matters of family and dynasty if you deem marriage unnecessary for me?” She was kneeling now, back ramrod straight with her hands clutched tight in her lap. 

It was just so that she would twist his words.

“My dear, the boy will be in Doma with you in time.”

“Varis will not allow Zenos to slip from his grip again!” She pressed, colors rising to her cheeks.

The emperor frowned, creases sharpening around his sunken eyes. “He shall be wedded and bedded and on his way to Doma with a legion once he's finished with all that. Take some time in Kugane if you must–”

“Why not me?” She cut in, a pleading note entering her voice.

He saw that undeniable ache in her that he'd ignored for so long, the sweet pining of a girl so full of love and naivety. He had thoroughly dismissed it, reasoning that the experiences of this life would hardly matter once she regained her memories. Whatever torch she carried now would be extinguished. It was inevitable and he needed only time to prove it true.

“No.” He uttered with implacable finality.

“Why? We were raised together. It is not so strange that I would– that perhaps we would–” Her tongue grew leaden as she warred against herself, between the yearning she held for her companion and her anger against him.

Crow climbed to her feet, fingers digging into her sides. “Am I deficient somehow? Is it because I have no value or anything to offer this family being what I am?” 

A tear slipped down her cheek as the silence between them stretched endlessly into the dark. The fire was now a dull pile of embers, as burned out as this tiresome talk.

“It is late and you are not yourself. Go, return to your quarters.” He bade.

She was at the door when she turned back to him, her fingers gripping the cold bronze handle. 

“I do not think I will ever be myself again.”

Solus sighed as the door was swung closed softly by the posted praetors.

She always had to have the last word — some things never change.

****

‘Upset’ was a word lacking the range and nuance to describe the roil of ugly sensations writhing inside her. An understatement to the anger and betrayal she felt at everyone and everything. The emperor for his blatant dismissal of her, Zenos for his jealous idiocy, Varis with his vehement animosity, Nerva and Arrecina for their crude backhandedness. The aristocracy as well for having the audacity to edge her out, all because of something she couldn't help. To engage with her was something only the pariahs like the Lanatuses would do; even as the least significant member of the imperial family, that fact the pill was bitter to swallow for her.

Someone like her, with no third eye and the penchant for magicks — an art which struck fear and disgust in any true Garlean. Perhaps she was also an outsider, far more than even the Lanatuses.

“Isn't it all so unjust?” The princess exclaimed, rounding on the only other person in the padded room, the pliers in her hand flecked with red.

A sob was her only response, muffled through the cloth gag stuffed into her mouth. The conversation was rather one-sided but it was honest and open regardless.

“If I cut you open, you'd have almost the exact same blood and inner-workings as I do! Garleans, elezens, hyurans, what have you, we're painted from the same brush, are we not?” She smiled abstractly at her guest’s swollen and bloodied fingers, raw and without their nails. “Well, you're missing a few bits here and there, but you see my point, don't you, Vinia?”

They sat facing one another, Crow on a backless stool and her former governess in an iron-strapped seat. The room was emptied of any furnishing save for a seatless steel throne and a bucket positioned directly beneath. For the past two years in her absence, twice a day, a maidservant would come in to feed and water the tongueless sow, practically luxurious accommodations when compared to the merciless conditions at the cell blocks.

“I think it’s condescending, even if they have my best interest in mind — and before you ask whom — it’s both His Radiance and Zenos that I'm crossed with.” She thought back to the frustrating moments from two evenings ago.

“Men.” She concluded in her exasperation, half-heartedly browsing the tray of sterile instruments. One can't be too careful, death from blood poisoning and corruption was all too common from even the smallest open wounds.

“You must know the feeling, being so thoroughly abandoned by the Varros like this — your own kin, imagine that.” It did not take long for the minor house to cut their losses after Vinia was placed under arrest, the whole affair of Crow’s poisoning was swept under the rug discreetly though not without its proper sentencing. As a whole, the Varros had tumbled down just before rock bottom by clinging onto their son, Valen sas Varro’s contribution during the sack of Ala Mhigo.

The princess selected a fine needle, pulling it from a loose bundle. The iron chair, staked to the floor, rattled audibly from her captive’s struggle. She'd had too easy of a time here, placidly bound and without a firm minder to inflict appropriate retribution. 

“You know, I never understood why you hated me so much. Though in hindsight, I was a rather mulish charge.” The first needle slipped sharply against the inside of her left knee, extracting a throaty moan of misery. The other provoked an ever pitched noise, growing more animalistic in its height. 

Crow tapped the needle head, producing involuntary twitches from Vinia even as she tried her damnest to tear away. It was good to know that she retained the wherewithal to feel every onze of agony Crow could deliver.

“I wonder if it was because of my terrible character or my inferior savage blood.” She gripped at Vinia’s forearm and jabbed a silver needle into the prickling point at her elbow, an inching jerk soon accompanied her hitch cry. “I suppose it was both, the latter then the former soon after.”

“Seems like an overreaction to poison a child for it though.” Crow muttered dryly, dropping her hands to her knees. “Pureblooded colonists aren't as prejudiced as those of capital stock, you know. There's a beauty in tolerance, even to those under your bootheels.”

She wiped her hands against her rough apron and stepped back to admire her work. It was a minimal day, her mind had been elsewhere so she had no appetite for her typical brand of vindictiveness. With apron and gloves still on, she beelined from the appropriated workroom and closed the door behind her. The anticipation of her return would keep Vinia on edge for a time after, that itself was an artful exercise in anxiety.

 There wasn't any need to lock it since frostbite had long taken Vinia’s ability to walk, her legs mere stumps from the knees down. The amputation had been more chore than pleasure when she was first moved from the cell blocks to the palace dungeons, but the medicus on duty knew how to keep his tongue still and his hands busy. He'd done a fine job in keeping the wounds clean and her captive alive in the intervening years.

“Clean her up in three bells and no analgesics, you hear?” She shed the outwear, dropping her gloves into the waiting arms of the medicus. He bowed in kind and disappeared into his assigned office.

A folded envelope sat neatly at her lounge table waiting for her return, its front conspicuously stamped with the half completed seal of their signet rings. She clicked her tongue, annoyed. Either a servant had been ordered to leave this here or Zenos himself had sauntered in and left this for her. 

She tossed it aside with pointed irreverence and went about her business with other matters. General reports from Valnain, graphs of finance flow from Doma and more trading proposals from the mercantile guild of Nagxia sent to her by Sergius. She then took her supper alone, had a glass of wine, sent for a bath, took that bath and then sat in confrontation with that envelope right as midnight struck.

“Bloody presumptuous arse.” 

Crow snatched up the letter and tore it open as crudely as she could.

‘ My father plans to arrange for that woman to be moved into the palace in a week’s time.’

No sign off.

She flipped the paper.

Nothing.

‘That woman' — at least he had the sense to word it palatably for her.

A repeated read only served to deepen her aggravation. As the sole imperial female occupier of the inner palace, she was obligated to serve as hostess and make nice with long-staying guests and new tenants.

A single, grating syllable came to her, one that truly encompassed her feelings on the matter and must be uttered aloud with the utmost exasperation and emphasis:

“ Fuck .”

Chapter 87

Leather tasted like old tanning chemicals and dust in between her teeth, though it hardly registered as Crow grinded her jaw silently in agony. The knife bit deeper into her thigh as she finished the final glyph needed for the ritual, cutting like ice into the supple skin. A tear squeezed free from her left eye and she let out a shuddering exhale through her nostrils, a touch of relief and trepidation mingling against the cold chill running down the nape of her neck. 

Blood ran down in rivulets from the cuts, carving a red path down her right leg and pooling against the seamless marble tiles. The vanity bench gave a creak as she leaned forward, watching in muted fascination as the crimson stream gave way to tar-black streamlets.

The stygian liquid bleeding from her wound flowed forth with purpose, sloshing forth in splattering waves to eventually form a curled, fetal reptilian shape. Its wings still wrinkled and folded from its horrific birth, a single red eye cleaving its snout in half.

She spat out the leather but and scratched absentmindedly at the already-scabbing wound, its recovery somewhat slowed by the partial expulsion of the voidsent.

The creature was the length of her hand, small and slender with its dagger-tipped tail and swanning neck. A violet, forked tongue flicked out from between its bruise-hued maw to taste the air as it stretched itself into being.

“What, did your intellect also split along with your form?” Crow clicked her tongue in chagrin, dreading the thought of revising the ritual and going through the pain of it all again.

No, merely an inadequate vessel. 

The reply rang out in her head in the tone of a guttural, ill-used voice. It was nothing like Andrus who had a light tinge of Rabanastran in his accent.

“Forgot your manners now, have you?” The princess crushed her will into its diminutive mind, digging fast into the primordial mind beneath.

The wyrm-like sliver of slick shadow had snaked its way up her calf and now jerked its long neck back in recoil when it felt her reasserting herself into its consciousness.

Of course not, mistress — Naberos crooned back through their entwined bond as master and servant — I simply cannot serve you to the capacity I had been able to prior to taking this…inferior form.

“I rather like our arrangement when you were unable to speak, actually.” Crow sniffed haughtily. “But unfortunately for your bodily autonomy and my peace, I require a spy and not a manservant. You'll do well enough with what you're given.”

It watched her with that glistening scarlet orb of an eye, its slitted pupil narrowing in discernment. 

Surely without that man, you'll need someone to comfort you. See to all your wants and nee—

Crow’s fingers closed around her diminutive thrall, a silent snarl curling the corners of her lips.

“I've allowed you too much license if you think yourself fit to comment on my relations.”

Small claws scrabbled against her fingers and wrist for purchase. The ineffectual scratches brought back feelings from those morbid days of her childhood, where avians within the solarium were subjected to the mercies of her juvenile wonder and experimentation. Naberos, now little different from those hapless creatures, squirmed against the iron prison of her grip.

Crow tossed it into a bejeweled box and locked it for good measure. She barely flipped down the latch before a sharp scream resounded behind her, followed by the shattering and clattering of dropped platewares and silver cutleries. The sound repeated again, vocal chords shredding through her finely tipped ears.

She lifted her head to look into the tall, looming mirror before her and saw the stupefied distress written all over the girl’s pallid face.

Must have been all the blood that got her so riled up. She had kicked the carpeting aside and now the iron tang filled the air as much as it seeped into the tight seams between the tiles.

“Are you quite finished?” The princess drawled flatly.

That seemed to sober the girl up as she clapped trembling hands over her face.

“Put a rag to the mess,” Crow glanced down to her remains of her evening’s repast. Roasted quails and some sort of wintergreen salad that were now laying prone in a congealed mess on the cold floor. “And tell the others to prepare a new tray–”

The maidservant ran off before she could finish her command.

Crow sighed — new gossip to make the rounds, she supposed. Fortunately by the time she returned from a scalding soak, the blood was cleared away, the carpet replaced to its original place and a duplicate tray of her previous supper-to-be was left still piping hot on her sparsely populated vanity. Imperial servants may be a loose-mouthed lot but their expedience could never disappoint.

Leaning over her silverware, she rapped against the bejeweled box with pointed knuckles. Peace and privacy at last. 

Naberos’ flat tail slid free from the sliver of space between the box’s lip and lid, soundlessly unlatching the lock with a deft flick of its prehensile appendage. One red eye blinked at her from the narrow shadow, waiting. 

“See? You’ll warm up to this form yet.” She teased acidly, mouth curving into a feline smirk. “Now, be quiet and listen — you might find yourself enjoying the upcoming task I have in mind.”

Chapter 88

Canary yellow was the last color Crow expected to see within these somber halls, yet here it was on the flaring mantua of rich brocade of the Volerus girl. She stood out among the rich red velvet draperies and dark lacquered boards like a painted lemon. Her father dressed just so to match, his golden embroideries glittered brightly even under the wan skylight from overhead.

“Welcome to the inner palace, I’m to be your hostess for the time being, and I will ensure your transition…” Crow trailed off as they breezed by, her brows rising higher with every step they took past her without proper acknowledgement.

She flicked her sight briefly to the servants who were wide-eyed in the face of such indecorum. The steward who was directly in charge of their accommodations skidded forward, his eyes communicating a controlled measure of his alarm as they met hers.

“We thank the Emperor and the High Legatus for their generous allowance and welcome.” Mayor Volerus spoke as his daughter gave a pretty curtsy, their backs turned to Crow.

She pursed her lips, caught between a sour grimace and a polite smile — so it would be like this then.

They seemed to bear the impression that their pure blood trumped whatever respect she was owed as an imperial. To those such as them, title or no, a savage did not deserve the merest speck recognition.

The steward looked to her for further instructions, nervously glancing between his mistress and these new guests. Crow pinned a blank, simpering stare at the impudent pair, waiting with her hands clasped. The room seemed to hold its breath as she stood stock-still without issuing further instructions, all twenty-one members of the factotum caste shrank inwardly at the underlying tension of displeasure radiating from the First Princess.

Crow had all the time in the world to stand and wait alongside them. She let the moment drag on in suffocating silence, gaze narrowing.

Reluctantly, spurred on by the discomfort of a paused audience, Mayor Volerus followed the line of sight of the steward to the tall figure standing behind them. To her distinct pleasure, he gave a stubborn cough and made to usher the servants to their task with a subtle straightening of his velvet lapels, receiving futile results as they refused to budge. None here may hold any affection for Crow, but most — if not all of them — knew the emperor’s displeasure when it came to the ill-treatment of his ward.

 His daughter shifted on her feet and finally deigned to turn to examine their waiting hostess. The imperial family’s pet savage looked like an overly tall vulture to her, clad in her black silks and loose, undone hair. The indecency of such style would bring about embarrassment to any proper lady of court, but evidently, those of her ilk had no such sensibilities. She wouldn't have the gumption to show herself had she been in the savage princess' shoes after that last debacle that happened before the first dance could even take place. Domitia was still sore about that, shamed in her own way after her betrothed went to go chase after this gloomy harridan.

They stared at one another across the throughway as Crow held her unwavering vigil, amusement dancing on her lips. 

With great chagrin, Mayor Volerus bobbed his dough, double-chinned head in acknowledgement — an entirely insufficient gesture of deference, but one that seemed to cost him greatly. 

“And you as well, Princess.” He finished his previous sentiments curtly, pretending as though no disrespect had been committed against her dignity.

“Such gracious guests you are.” Crow answered, her facade perfectly saccharine.

Then, with a wave from her, a servant stepped forth with an ornately carved wooden box in hand, its surface dancing with intricate scrollwork of vines and birds of paradise. Made of fragrant sandalwood from Valnain, it contained various luxuries found only in the farthest reaches of the south: perfume, pearlescent jars of fine creams, jewels, ivory combs and a lick of ill-luck.

“Housewarming gifts.” She crooned with all the grace she could muster, appearing every bit the princess full of gentile mercy one could expect. “The servants will bring in your belongings and get you settled in anon. In the meantime, would you care for a tour?”

****

The inner palace was stately in its choice of dark and rich colors, where red draperies, black marble and gold-chased filigree met in geometric splendor. Glass of illusory qualities above bent the natural light of day to shine into corners and hallways where they ordinarily would be unable to reach. There was an airy quality to the sheer openness of the corridors, each would allow six men to walk through shoulder-to-shoulder without difficulty. Though gradually with every turn, the breadth of their lushly carpeted path seemed to grow narrower and dimmer. The space grew no less sublime as the gilded sconced lamps exuded a golden glow of light, vases of well-kept lilies and violets lining the occasional side tables that appeared.

Every set of doors they passed were wrought with polished bronze wreaths and muted nephrite inlays of carved irises. They swirled and curled to form the crest of Garlemald itself, the emblem artfully contrived by some talented hands from decades past. Behind the glass of the inner corridors lay several shelves stocked with specimens of taxidermied birds, insects, deep-sea novelties that were more nightmarish than fascinating to Domitia. Her father, though, seemed quite taken with them, even lingering by a delicately assembled skeleton of some massive avian beast that stretched on for nearly thirty places. Domitia could not help but to think this place labyrinthine, a maze to trap and swallow its guests as they traversed its sumptuous innards.

Their guide, the princess, spoke softly but her voice still managed to carry itself down the winding tour owing to the stretching height of the soaring ceiling. Though there was no more daylight to be had, the structures overhead grew even more decadent the deeper they went, bronze framing stretched and overlapped with one another, bedecked with subtly shifting colored glass like the canvas of a butterfly’s wings.

The austere geometric style of the outer paths gave way to an elegant, sprawling love letter to the fertile ancestral home of Garleans of eld. Opaque, deep tones of crimson and black gave into translucent hues of greens and lilac, a change that was astonishing to realize. Still, one would need a map to make heads or tails of this place, for the sharp corners and corridors were misleadingly similar past the point of their aesthetic transition.

“As is well-known, His Radiance bears a love for the natural world alongside the arts.” The princess began as she led them up a grand stairwell, its walls lined with the portraiture of every member of the imperial family. 

Domitia lagged behind her father as they passed the gilded frame of the youngest prince. His pale lashes and bowed lips held the same artful handsomeness, lending a delicately feminine quality in contrast with his icy, rigid eyes. Indeed, the youthful face of her betrothed stared back with unsmiling indifference, straight ahead across the step to its counterpart. A sour caricature of a gloomy elfin child glared back at the venerable lady, provoking an irritable sneer that was quickly wiped away. She moved on quickly, pinning an inward reminder to herself to order a change in the order of the portraiture once she came to her position.

The dull tone of the savage princess' droning drifted into range as Domitia resumed her steps back by her father’s side, a plaintive sigh leaking from her parted lips.

“–he began with the outer radius and completed the solarium little more than twenty years ago, and it remains the crowning jewel of the inner palace.”

The breath transformed as it left her mouth, taking on a note of awe as Domitia and her father stared up at the massive, imposing facade of glass and bronze. An abstract vineyard of reaching vines and bulbous blooms shone iridescent before then, its width spanning half of an entire floor of the tower-palace. Behind the rippling patterns of tinted crystal hinted fronds of greenery found nowhere else in tundral Ilsabard, their vibrant, lush silhouette rare even to wealthy capital-born aristocrats who could — at most — only maintain a small botanical hothouse for their own leisure. Suitable soil varieties and the expertise to care for such verdant luxuries were in limited supply in Garlemald proper.

Domitia neared and peered through the wide hinged entrance, her hand grasping its handle. Several blooms flowered within, cheery daffodils, blood-bright camellias and neatly arranged violets lined the ivory path. A redolent scent of greenery drifted to her like a foreign perfume along with a vague warmth from the temperate air within. She could envision a banquet under the evening sky, lit by golden lamplight and celebrated by the cream of the empire. They would bow and give obeisance to the future crown princess, her name like ambrosia on their tongues. 

“Father, do you think the engagement banquet can be held here? Lord Varis could perhaps–”

A hand shot out flat against the glass, the savage princess closing the distance in less than a heartbeat the moment Domitia’s fingers wrapped around the polished bronze handle length The dark stature of the emperor's pet loomed over her, both their simpering masks had fallen by the wayside.

“It would be best if we end the tour here, the solarium is quite a walk and I'm sure you'd want some rest before supper.” Crow smoldered with lurid anger, her restrained insistence causing the pomped and powdered chit to snatch herself back.

Domitia met the savage's only discernible eye, smiling as she saw her ruffled edges and fragile facade cracking.

Not so prim and decorous now; this place obviously meant something to her, and Domitia was determined to uproot that attachment and use it to drive this creature out. She would not tolerate a barbaric face in this new home of hers.

Her father, sharp-eyed as ever, had seen the same weakness and nodded; he'd gleaned enough for today as well. Producing a golden pocket chronometer from his coat, he nodded in assent.

“Come, daughter, we have much to discuss.” Mayor Volerus said, then glanced over to their frowning hostess. “We're glad to receive such a detailed welcome.”

Not a hint of gratitude could be heard in his words; her nose flared delicately as she reined herself in.

“Well-met and well-come.” She replied to the already departing pair of condescending father and daughter.

The First Princess followed behind them to the stairwell, watching their descent. In trying to protect the solarium, the singular scrap of her childhood that remained unspoiled, she had accidentally revealed a sliver of soft underbelly. 

She grew flushed with indignation as she turned, finally allowing herself the leave to let go of her forced veneer of hospitality. Her tethers were slowly growing untenable, and she could feel something coming loose in the murk of her own acrimony.

Chapter 89

Crow’s steps were light and appropriately brisk, but at the same time, unhurried. She was being formally summoned by the emperor to convene in his office in the outer palace, a call for business that concerned matters beyond her personal frustrations. Her bustle dress today was tight and cinched to create a wasp-waisted silhouette, the violet bustle draped around her skirts in overlapping swags to coyly accent the laced underskirt beneath. The gown was deceptively simple but had required much care in terms of arrangement. It was a modest style but had gone out of fashion within court a decade back. 

It had been prevalent during Princess Carosa’s time — an era that highlighted simplicity and elegance in fabric choices, minimal jewels and loose, flowing hair. Such combinations would, in recent times, seem drab when compared to the generous, crinoline-framed hooped gowns and high-piled pompadours popular in court. In spite of recent happenings, it felt good to be back in the capital, to wear things as she pleased without concern for the sweltering weather. The taste of the court, though, left her sorely wanting.

She slowed in her pace right before her destination upon spying a familiar armored figure. Nael van Darnus stood straight before the entryway of the emperor's public office, ostensibly carrying a thick metal case that was locked and sealed along with a thick folder.

“My lord Legatus, punctual as always.” Crow crooned sweetly, remembering the deal she'd made with this jester. 

“You look hale, Your Grace. The capital suits you better than the countryside.” Nael — or rather his sister in disguise — greeted in return.

The true Nael had likely died some time ago, along with the patriarch and the matriarch of the house. Crow wondered if their demise were circumstantial or…

“I trust that I will have your support on this proposal?”

She blinked. “And what is it that you're proposing?”

“The renewal of the meteor project. With it, we will untether ourselves from our reliance on ceruleum! Should we succeed, this shall grant us a nigh unlimited reservoir of power.”

“And from whence do you think its source?” She began with a dubious note.

“Why, none other than Dalamud itself, as discovered by the late venerable Midas.” Even the voice modulator in his helm could not even out the pitch of excitement in Nael’s falsetto voice.

To disclose such information openly — he was more deranged than when she last saw him. Nevertheless, she would like to rid herself of this owed favor sooner rather than later.

“My lord, I cannot make promises when it comes to His Radiance’s final decision, only to give my opinions and support of your endeavors.”

The Legatus of the VIIth seemed to reined himself in from whatever fervor that had been building up, much to her relief. 

“I understand,Your Grace. There is only so much you can do with your endowment.”

Crow paused, her unblinking gaze meeting the visor of the Legatus' helmet. The moment plunged on interminably until she broke into a smile.

“You're welcome to go in alone and make your case if you think low of my parameters.” 

Another awkward moment of deliberation from Nael followed, accompanied by a shallow bow. “It seems I misspoke, forgive me, princess.”

She wanted to ask if the final screw bolting his head together had come loose all the way but was interrupted by a steward opening the doors. Her eyes flicked from one corner to the other in exasperation.

“It won't do to keep His Radiance waiting, so shall we?” She nodded to the tall entrance, inwardly hoping for this all to finish in post haste.

****

To build on top of what the late Midas nan Garland had discovered and designed, that was the long and short of the Legatus’ proposal. Bozja had been a territory of significance in Northern Othard, now reduced to a bleached wasteland occupied by hardy, vicious denizens of stone and aether. Crow let Nael take center stage to make his case, watching impassively without comment on the sidelines.

“There would be little cost to us, Your Radiance! And if the consequences were to repeat, the Eorzean city-states shall be crippled by the devastation. Moreover, the benefits, should we succeed in drawing power from the satellite moon, would be nigh unending for the empire.”

The emperor drew in a pointed breath, his doubts at Nael’s promises were plain to see. 

“And what if the Eorzeans are spurred into full war against us when we do not have a steady foothold in Aldenard? The sheer number of intellect lost in the single stroke likely set the empire back by at least a decade.” He gave a gruff sniff.

The plan was perfect for his means to extend his role here, a more pristine spark to set off a devastating chain of events he could not ask for. If Lahabea and Elidibus wanted devastation, they shall have it, so long as this would keep them from nipping at his heel for his delay in retiring this role. Success or no, the scale of continued turmoil that plagued this realm would be ongoing.

“But Your Radiance, it would be foolish to–”

“What the good Legatus means to say, Your Radiance,” Crow cut in bluntly, knuckles rippling as she flexed her fingers in stifled consternation. “The drawbacks are negligible when you consider the immense gain, what the late Midas contributed was more than enough to be built upon by other contributors to eliminate the risk of a second Incident, isn't that so, Lord Darnus?”

Neal straightened like a dog on its hindleg, glad to be thrown a bone.

“And who are these contributors?” The emperor prompted.

Crow pinned Nael with a prodding look, to which the latter produced a list and documents procuring the service of Nero tol Scaeva.

“The primary consultant. With his excellent track record, I am assured of his expertise with the necessary theories and technical contrivances of the late Lord Garlond.”

Solus unrolled the documents and glanced over them, inwardly wishing that he hadn't sent Quintus to tour the provinces in his stead.

“If I recall, Midas had a son — was he aware of the continuation of his father’s final legacy?”

“He turned down my offer, Your Radiance.” Nael shifted subtly in mild discomfort. “And If I may speak freely, sire…”

The emperor waved in wordless acquiescence.

“Cid nan Garlond had sequestered himself after his father’s death, he seemed to grow increasingly disillusioned with the state of things.”

Languid in his way, Solus steepled his fingers.

“You sense possible…dissatisfaction?”

It was phrased as a polite inquiry but was anything but. There were many euphemisms for defection and one the emperor chose was the most gentle turn of phrase. Losing Midas nan Garlond’s only heir would be a blow to the empire. Even in early into his academy days, Cid nan Garlond had devised communication cores in his father’s mechanical warmachinas, improved upon the method of ceruleum extraction with hydraulic theories and discovered a method to desalinate salt water, something highly crucial to coastal provinces for the empire's supply of potable water. His renown only grew thereafter once he came under his father’s direct employ, though remained a recluse from court life and even more so after Midas’ death.

Regardless, the discussion was derailing and Crow made to intervene.

“Perhaps a wellness check can be recommended for ser Garlond, invite him for as a guest into the inner palace.”

Solus raised a white brow at her suggestion. “Oh? You wish him here?”

“What better to soothe his dissatisfaction by showing what the best that empire has to offer.” She shrugged, tamping down the greedy swell within her.

A moment of rumination slinked by before he nodded. “Very well.”

“I shall attend to him myself.” Crow smiled prettily and smoothed out the valanced front of her dress. “At anyroad, shall we veer back to the topic at hand?”

“Nero tol Scaeva.” The emperor drummed his gloved fingers against his broad mahogany desk, too many faces and too many names to accurately put to them all. “Remind me of him?”

Nael met her with a look, and she gave another shrug; she hadn't a clue who Nero was either.

“He was a schoolmate of Cid nan Garlond, purportedly a genius as much as Midas’ son was. The latest airship weaponries, flight navigations and formulas for incendiaries used during…well, during the empire's ingress into Mhor Dona was attributed to him.”

Crow repressed a wince at the mention of the failed campaign. It was more a sore spot for Varis, who had been in direct charge of the operation, but it was still unwise to mention it to the emperor.

Where had that confident negotiator in Valnain gone?

“He sounds like a deft mind as a consultant, doesn't he?” She commented, beaming at her guardian.

“I suppose he does.” Solus muttered, gray lashes lowered. “Deliver every planned detail before evening on the morrow and we shall further discuss arrangements.” 

Men, warships, armaments, materiels, every bit must be doled out and weighed correctly. Yellow eyes flicked to the pleased figure of his ward, taking in her subtle nod of gratitude. The grinding duties of this role he tolerated, all for her.

Nael bowed low, muttering rich obeisances that he had little wish to hear. Yet, need must and he nodded along anyways in time with protocol.

“My dear.” He called out after her once everything was said and done with.

Crow made to follow Nael out but was caught on his call. She turned as the door was shut behind the exiting Legatus, finding herself now in the direct path of his gaze. That look was something Zenos had inherited from him, the influence of his great grandfather had left indelible marks on the prince without either being aware of it.

She strode up to him, hands primly laced in awaiting patience.

“I heard of your efforts.” Solus tapped absentmindedly at a ledger’s spine. “I would not lie and say I had expected things to go as well as they did, but I believe some praise is in order.”

Her lips did not lift, not even to teasingly take offense at his low expectations. Her previously good humor had been affected, a persuasive front for the sake of Nael’s appeal.

“You have been a model lady of our home, your attention to their comforts is commendable. Well done.” He finished.

She gave a perfunctory curtsy, her expression frozen in inscrutable neutrality. It had been more than a week since they'd spoken face-to-face, evidently her feelings remained unchanged on the matter they'd previously discussed. Her nebulous standing and purpose in the imperial family upsetted her far more than he had anticipated.

“May I be excused, Your Radiance?” Even her inflection bore no interest for his approval.

“No.” The emperor rolled the obsidian body of his fountain pen between his fingers, examining the sheen of its polished body. The instrument, its ink, the papers surrounding him, all little more than fetishes that represented his seemingly unending obligations. “Your petulance regarding Zenos’ affair — do you not think it has gone on for long enough?”

Crow drew in a stiff breath, chin incrementally lifting in defiance. 

“I came asking for your intervention and you turned me away.”

He firmly placed the pen down and squared his shoulders. 

“His marriage is a necessity where matters of the heart are irrelevant, do you not see that I wish to spare you of such a fate?”

“Do you truly mean it when you claim that you only have my best interest at heart? Or do you want to preserve the purity of your blood?” The accusation in her eyes was clouded with vague uncertainty, and a questioning of his true motive.

In some ways, he was worse than the buzzing gnats of court. She at least knew their stances and opinions when it came to her, the clear disdain on display was easy to understand. The emperor, however, was entirely opaque and unfathomable in his intentions. She wished he would just denounce her like the rest and tell her that he'd taken a savage in on a whim, nothing more than a beast on a leash for his own amusement. It would hurt her irreparably but she would be able to gasp where she stood under his purview.

If not a daughter, if not a pet, if not an indentured slave  — what was she to him and to this family?

“I’ve given you a lavished life, territory and license to do as you see fit thus far. I entertain your mischiefs and ambitions to your apparent detriment.” He was apoplectic, leonine eyes flashing, and his voice remained even like the calm before the storm. “It is high time you learn that you cannot have everything you desire.”

A grating sense of deja vu caught at her; this was just a replica of their previous disagreement. His deflection, her stubborn defiance and questioning frustrating him. She surmised that a condescending dismissal was not too far off now.

Crow turned from her guardian and marched from the stately space of his public office, her face rigid with inimical disappointment. The matter of Zenos’ marriage had become a secondary concern, nearly negligible when it compared to the true question she was asking the man who'd raised her.

“We are not finished!” His bellowing demand hounded after her.

Crow yanked open the narrow, double-doored entrance, startling the presiding steward. 

“I've heard all I need to!” She exclaimed without looking back.

The man stumbled ahead of her long strides and flung open the door just in time for her exit. She slammed the doors close behind her, shoulders curled as a shuddering breath escaped her.

“I never thought I'd ever see you angry with him.”

Her eyes snapped the fore to take in the pristine figure of a certain prince, a hand loosely tucked into his fine woolen trouser’s pocket. He was clad in a white long coat, cufflinks gleaming with colorless diamonds, his long, gilded hair shining brighter than even the golden embroidery of his lapel. Crow frowned at his perfect form, stifling the urge to worry at the tresses falling over her shoulders. He made everything seem effortless, intangible to the dragging muck of life’s struggles.

The man who was the beginning of it all. The troubles and answers to her life’s trials, every sweet and dire moments encased in the august form of one Zenos yae Galvus.

The princess straightened from her lean against the shut doors, fingers clawing into the side of her once perfectly coiffed dress. Then she let go, lashes lowering from her glare as a bitter smile tugged at her lips.

“Your timing is vexingly impeccable.”

Chapter 90

A shadow, no bigger than the wooden box it had resided in, slithered into the dead of night. Its tongue flicked from its smooth maw to sample the surrounding air and tasted the cloying, redolent aroma of the bedchamber. The perfume was bitter, heavily coating its tongue like oil as it slid from the gilded vanity. The room was ladened with an assortment of heavy trunks and ribbon-strapped boxes, but rather neatly stacked against a far wall opposite of the canopied bed. The curtains were drawn around its sleeping occupant, barely a sound but light breathing within the dark.

Across the carpet it crawled, preternaturally silent as it made its way up one of the gold-chased posters and gazed down upon the room’s new inhabitant. The girl was diminutive compared to its mistress, curls tucked under a silken nightcap to keep her hair from growing tousled through the night. Sleep was a pleasure it can no longer experience, the dark flood had taken such ability among its kind long ago. Naberos' craned its lengthy neck in closer observation, spotting the sliver of her mouth open.

Within moments on quick, light traipses across the down-stuffed covers, the creature was perched upon the girl’s chest. It gazed down at her pretty face and parted lips, slender neck engorging with bilious spittle. With a lurch, it dribbled a vile glob past her tongue and into her awaiting throat.

Domitia sat up suddenly from an unpleasant dream, her chest strained from bearing an unnameable weight. A sour taste tinged at the back of her tongue had her ringing for water, shortly thus a distant lamplight came on and her eerie solitude was broken by a maidservant.

“Will there be anything else, my lady?”

Domitia furrowed her brows as she washed down the unpleasant taste of poor sleep.

“ ‘Your Grace.’ ”

“Beg your pardon, my lady?”

“Address me by ‘Your Grace’ henceforth.” She reiterated tartly.

The maidservant paused but did not wish to upset her new mistress, then nodded. “Ye–Yes, Your Grace.”

“That is all.” The lady waved her dismissal. “Leave the water and go.”

Sleep only just settled back on Domitia before a loud crash startled her to wakefulness once more. She shot up from her bed, this time in great alarm. Fumbling in the dark, she swiped for the light and missed several times before managing to find the switch. Her panic climbed with every moment in the stygian dim with nothing but the low howl of glacial winds to fill her ears.

“Maids! Anyone?” Her shout rang out two more times until the same maidservant rushed back in.

They looked down to see the crystal decanter and accompanying glass scattered in pieces on the marble tiles, water soaking into the rich beige rug at the floor of her bedside.

The maidservant bent down and began to clear up the sharp debris, all the while flicking wary glances at lady Volerus.

“Did you have a bad drea–”

She tried to assuage the lady but the look on her face snatched the offer of comfort from the maidservant’s tongue. The girl lowered her head in silent apology and resumed her task without further comment.

Sleep was an impossibility from then on for Domitia, her nights were filled with macabre imagery of beasts writhing her. They were like worms with snapping maws, nesting within her belly and bursting open. She could only scream all the while, eyes bulging and uselessly paralytic as she was subjected to horrors upon horrors.

A dark wraith draped in ragged wings hunched over her headboard, its grin unnervingly white and pointed. Even as she clawed to consciousness, the acrid, oily coating at her tongue grew more prominent with each passing night.

It tasted, she imagined, how the rotted dredges of a corpse would — she jarred herself from the thought. She'd never seen a dead body before much less imagined how it would taste .

“You look terrible, daughter.” Domitia grimaced at the criticism, hiding it behind the porcelain rim of her teacup. The days were blending together and it felt as though she'd been here for a decade in spite of it being only five days into her stay.

“At the risk of sounding superstitious, father — I think this place is cursed.”

Mayor Volerus gave his daughter a thorough once-over, disliking her sunken eyes and sallow skin. He'd contributed sums the size of a citystate to usher her up to this point, it was disappointing that she was doing so poorly under the pressure of her engagement.

“Don't be ridiculous.” He shook his head. “The transition from home is difficult, but there is no cause for you to become so lax.”

Domitia imagined the teacup handle breaking off under her grip. He was always like this when she appeared anything less than her best, ready with his editorial comments and sour judgements. ‘Constructive inputs’ he would name them.

“I will resolve to try for better.” Domitia responded, wishing to end the incoming trade before it could pick up momentum.

“Do not try .” Her father turned from his examination of the mantle's scroll work. “ Do. ”

An envelope slid next to the lukewarm teapot towards her father, and she marshaled herself in spite of his scolding. “I've received permission from Lord Varis to have my friends over for a luncheon.”

He picked it up, unbothered to unfold it for even a skim. “And where are you holding this event?” 

She shifted under his narrowed scrutiny. “The solarium, as per your instruction.”

He brightened, wearing the facade he presented to the masses during speeches and in the presence of his betters. 

“Oh? Well done!” He lingered in thought as he sat down across from her. “Who will be attending?”

“Dame Mira, lady Octavia, Madam Castia, lady Alba and Comtissa Martina.”

“Rather intimate.” He pushed, always one to value connection over any true bonds of friendship.

“Merely establishing candidates for ladies-in-waiting.” She countered.

“Ah.” Mayor Volerus allowed, then as though telling a private joke. “You shall invite that sully-blooded dredge as well, won't you?”

Domitia’s expression twisted as though she'd tasted something awfully unsavory. “Must I?”

Her father sighed one of his telling sighs, the prelude to a lecture or some life lesson he wished to impart upon her — for better or otherwise.

“A future empress must delineate boundaries to those beneath her lest they mistake her mercy for weakness.” He expounded, thick hands sharply grasping to punctuate his point. He finished with a squeeze of his grip, a sneer creasing his face. “It’s always best to show a savage where she stands as soon as possible.”

Hardly a challenge with the way the princess’ veneer had crumpled under her slightest provocation. She leaned back, what little she had to look forward to now spoiled to serve his ends.

“As you say, father.” 

****

The swimming pool of her childhood had been converted into a large decorated pond some years ago owing to its disuse. Large heads of blue water lilies bloomed serenely among the drifting spotted carps, each as long as her arm and twice as thick. They lazed beneath green brims of the leafy pads, only scattering as she approached the water’s edge. Outside a blizzard raged, snow whipping about in a frenzy as a gale scraped like talons against the unyielding glass of the solarium. The juxtaposition was notable — striking even had she not been so occupied with thoughts about her current company.

“I should push you in again.” She pondered aloud. “Though I doubt the fishes would appreciate your presence.”

“Oh? And why would you care about how they'd feel? you're only ever angry when someone else comes along and ruins your sport before you can decide on what to do with them.” Zenos retorted with a glint of knowing amusement. “You've never liked change that's outside of your control.”

For all its beauty, she did hate the pond. The emperor had approved the restructuring and she'd only gone along with his idea because she could not come up with a good case against it.

Crow flushed and could only level her dagger-gaze at him from across the distance.

“And are you truly content to submit under such changes? Your betrothal?”

The prince shrugged and paced the length of the pond, he made short work of the distance between them with his long strides. “I pick my battles when it comes to things that cannot be resolved with a blade.” 

“So the slaying of my manservant was a non-issue to you?” She seethed, straightening like a rearing asp.

“I have given you reasons — good reasons — on why I did what I did.” Zenos gave no ground, his faint smile falling away to a cold determination. Then his shoulders slackened marginally, eyes closing as an admission came to him. “But… I did not consider your thoughts on the matter. It is an oversight that I regret.”

Regret — the concept seemingly foreign to someone as unerringly flawless as he was. Crow could hardly credit the idea that he was capable of such rueful retrospect, let alone offering remorse to his actions.

She breathed out a laugh, the note heavy with disbelief.

“You ask for my time to offer up such a meager apology, do you think words and the scenery of bygone childhood can undo your flagrant actions?”

At that, the prince smirked, produced a small booklet from one of his coat pockets and offered it to her. Crow stared at it dubiously but before she could question him, a collection of titters sounded from farther off, catching her startled attention. She hadn't known anyone would be visiting today; without permission of an imperial, guests cannot enter the solarium. 

He took the opening in her guard to lean in closer, the sharp bergamot scent of him overpowering the verdant musk of their surroundings. His voice low against her ear as he spoke, large hands claiming hers to mold against his leather-encased votive offering.

“You should know by now that, where you’re concerned, I always have more to give than just empty words and pretty baubles.”

He had her in his grip still, lifting the back of her hand up to his lips as the intruders drew close. The kiss lasted far longer than it should, those half-lidded blue points smoldered with earnest savor even as they beckoned to her.

Crow willed herself to break that bind gaze and, around his imposing frame, glimpsed a company of women rounding the trimmed hedges. Among them, she recognized, was Zenos’ betrothed in all her stricken glory. The women around her had sobered from whatever jest they'd been sharing and now looked on with wide-eyed shock as scandalized spectators.

They probably looked like lovers meeting at some secret rendezvous, with his pining touches and her surprise worn so starkly on her sleeve.

This, she realized, had been a demonstration. How far back since he had planned this, she could not even begin to guess.

Impeccable timing indeed, Crow thought dryly.

Chapter 91

 Crow would rather be in the stinking pits of a trench than among the squeaking gossip mongers and their obsequious laugh. Every comment made was meant to flatter the ringleader of this cavalcade, every critique served to heighten her already-inflated sense of self. This was her stage and even Crow was subjected to it under the arbitrary but stringent rules of high social etiquette.

Zenos, for all his espousal of dedication, had slipped by the curtsying gaggle without a word. They glanced at him through heavy lashes, fans fluttering in some wordless attempt to snag his attention. Domitia herself, though, had maintained her pride and made no attempt to cling. Crow seemed like a libertine in comparison, the mark of his lips was an invisible brand on her skin.

They circled one another as the princess approached. She saw the dark shadow under the titular betrothed’s eyes and smirked at the sight of them. The venerable lady’s face powder only barely hid the poor rest she'd been getting, and nothing could help the visible tiredness weighing down her poise. 

“My lady, I trust that you're settling in well?” She had mustered a fine front though, Crow had to admit. Her sleeves were puffed to the size of mutton legs, beaded by seed pearls, damask silks encased her wide skirt, lending an ostentatious shape that demanded attention. Her minions, five women that were lesser simulacrums of her, crowded behind her in a loose semicle and completed the pack.

Domitia fey Volerus raked her eyes over Crow, from the hem of her plain, outdated bustle dress to the vulgar way she wore her long hair. “Well enough, Your Grace, thank you for asking after my humble self.”

She slipped past the six of them, the smooth leather of his offering like a slab of enigmatic heat in her hand.

“Did you perchance receive my invitation, Your Grace?”

Crow halted, inhaling a breathful of patience. Her thumb rubbed against the cover as she turned, burning in her impatience.

“Invitation?” Her beaming regard was saccharine. “The emperor had my time, I'm afraid. It might have missed me as I was attending to him.”

“Ah, how serendipitous that we should come across one another; invitations are best extended in person, wouldn’t you agree?” The chit had the gall to touch her. Just her fingers against the sleeve, it was enough to spark her aggravation.

“We were on our way to a midday picnic, but, you see, it seems we're lost.” A whip-thin woman, her mousy hair twisted in a high mignon with drooping yellow pearls at her ears, chimed in.

“Alas, Comtissa Martina is right, we’re woefully directionless among these lush environs. It's only by luck we stumbled upon you, Your Grace.” Domitia concurred.

There was only one place where a picnic might be held here, and it was a place highly difficult to miss. The manicured lawn with fine carpeted grass was a mere ten-steps from the moment one entered the Solarium. It was where Zenos and her often played as children. Atop large swathes of canvas, they had rolled out toy soldiers, maps and waxen crayons to dream about adventures. 

The grass was still soft and the flowers went on bearing their colors like territorial pennants, but it was difficult to swallow the sight of these outsiders trampling over the memories of those halcyon days. They plucked at the blossoms to pin in their hair, ate sweetmeats and poured libations to their own vanity while perching on their silver-wrought chairs.

Crow stood watching with a hand gripping the back of one of these ostentatious seats, unable to bring herself to settle in among them. She was acutely aware of her awkward stance, caught between wanting to abscond and needing to save face. She was a snared bird, not so different from the creatures caught in one of her old makeshift traps.

“So, Your Grace, what business did my prince have with you?” Domitia said as she scented her wine.

Bracketing her, pressed close like cream-pilfering cats, two of her accompanying ladies vied for Crow’s next words in spite of their feigned inattentiveness. They seemed veritably poised to pounce even as they giggled and sipped delicately from their stemmed glasses.

There was a challenge there, phrased plainly to establish possession. She’d barely spent any time with her supposed betrothed and yet still dared to lay an arbitrary claim to him. In simple terms, Domitia was marking her territory like a bitch in heat, no better than the stray mongrels in the slum streets of Valnain in spite of her laced petticoats and polonais silks.

Crow plucked her hand from the silver back of the embroidered seat, opening the pages to see bars of climbing notes to a long, languid suite that she did not recognize. It spanned more than a dozen pages and was dizzyingly rapid at a glance.

“Something written for us to enjoy, in our own ways.” The smile she fitted on was small and secret, eyes lowered in familiar affection when she felt anything but.

Zenos had never been one to use such small booklets to archive his works. He'd treated this pastime as he did most things; unfussy to the point of negligence, ink put to loose paper and stored in a forgotten drawer somewhere in his chambers. Moreover, by now, she'd memorized most of his compositions, sometimes tapping to the rhythm offhandedly in thought if she wasn't mindful of herself. So why had he felt the need to jot all this down for her benefit?

“He dotes on you so! You're like a sister to him, no?” Lady Alba clucked as she attempted to steer the conversation, her query punctuated with a disapproving snap of her fan. “Such closeness is…well, it may cause misunderstandings.”

“My family were wont to keep the male heirs and girls apart.” The comitissa concurred. “It's highly inappropriate for the girl children to be raised so loosely, it leads to questionable conducts.”

The women slid their glances to the princess, who still refused to sit amongst them. She likely thought too highly of herself for their company. The Comitissa was a woman of middling rank who was sallow and compensated her lack of natural looks with strings and bands of rare jewels, she commanded none of her husband's affections who kept a mistress in the lower aristocracy district. Lady Alba had fallen for an legionary engineer and maintained an affair with him outside of her loveless marriage. One could likely guess the reason for her unfaithfulness when one learned that her groom was barely able to stand without the assistance of a cane during their matrimonial ceremony, his back stooping with eighty decades hung over his shoulders. These women had vested interest in Domitia’s betrothal, whether to live vicariously in wedded bliss to an ostensibly perfect man or seek his attention later down the line as a paramour. 

At this very moment, however, such notions were far away. Their attention was solely on the task of pressing her face to the proverbial earth. Putting the muck where it belonged, she supposed.

Crow let out a low, bitter chuckle.

“I suppose you could bring the issue up to the emperor in retrospect, though as you can see, neither of us are at such tender ages anymore. Though perhaps he might thank you for your criticism — shall I relay it to him?”

“No, we merely meant–! It's just the fashion and proper methods!” Lady Alba grew flustered at the idea of criticizing the emperor.

No proper citizen would dare level such doubts against His Radiance’s judgement on any matter, at least not aloud where anyone might overhear.

“She won't have his ear forever, you know.” 

Crow slid her attention to the Volerus girl who'd finally deigned to join the fray herself.

Domitia turned to Lady Alba and leaned in as though to pass on some quiet morsel of gossip. “Harlots of their sort usually fall out of favor once they're used up.”

“Oh! My lady! The mere suggestion of it!” Comitissa Martina’s culture tone sounded suitably scandalized.

“I'm only worried, is all. Who knows what kind of lascivious persuasion happens behind closed doors, she is His Radiance’s caretaker, after a–”

The chilled wine splattered over the rosy, powdered cheeks of Domitia, cutting her off with a sharp squeal. Her bodice dripped with dark red zinfandel, the exquisite body of wine mingling poorly with her overly sweet perfume. Her string of peridots, each the size of Crow's thumbnails, were stained red by the burgundy splash. The galena in which she'd lined her eyes melted away in black streams, the sight sent a faint but satisfied smile to the princess' lips.

“Alas, my hand gained a mind of its own there.” She nearly hissed at the three, struggling to maintain a pleasant veneer.

“How dare you! Barbaric bitch!”

Domitia had quite the temper, so it would appear. Even her two minions flinched back when she exploded to her feet.

“Lord Varis will hear of this, and you'll rue everything!” Domitia bellowed her outrage, clawing for a stemmed glass.

It would be a lie to claim Crow did not feel a slight thrill of apprehension at the thought of his involvement, but what's done was done and she could only prepare for the worst.

Crow picked up her skirts, and narrowly dodged a stream of thrown wine. Returning fire was evidently not beneath the oh-so-ladylike Volerus. A laugh of disbelief escaped her; this was a small token of catharsis for her recent humiliations, directly or otherwise by the hands of this errant cast of characters.

Her imperial dignity was left by the wayside for the moment.

“Barbaric?” She clutched Zenos’ book to her ample decolletage in feigned offense, ensuring that it was in clear view from Domitia’s vantage point. “I'd rather not hear it from a future breeding sow.” 

That elicited indignant gasps from the other three who had rushed back from their gentile game of croquet on the grass. 

She caught the next thing to fly at her and poured it out to a glass when she made it back to her chambers. The bottle was still half full and a touch dry, but excellent nonetheless.

Chapter 92

The stifled cough of laughter came unbidden to Zenos when he'd overheard a aide whisper of a certain incident in the Solarium to his great lord father. His apparent mirth provoked a low, irritated rumble from the High Legatus, his belligerence emphasized by the deepening lines of his scowl. He had been summoned and arrived shortly before the servant had made his appearance, interrupting the appointment with a flurry of hushed words and exasperated gestures.

Tidbits of it managed to float their way to the prince, a wry smirk settling on his flawless countenance as he heard of Crow and her incidental exploits.

Truth be told, the engagement had come in a most serendipitous time. It gave him a chance to reclaim his seat in the heart of her goodwill, if not her immediate affections. By nature, she was not fond of unforeseeable change, and the betrothal came crashing in like a derailed train carriage.

Fortunately, he was no longer the designated enemy to her. Instead, his father had unknowingly lifted the yoke of enmity from him and donned it as he strove to shore up his power for the inevitable power struggle to come. The emperor would never abdicate, likely passing on before the idea of relinquishing the throne would ever be considered. In this regard, he was different from his known forefathers. Influence over the masses, over brimming wealth, and even his potential claim to the throne one day hardly mattered to Zenos. The jesters at court and the populations of the empire at large were but pieces to be moved en masse. And at the center of the ludus board was her, his empress piece, her whims driving his mind to contrive and his hands to weave the world for her.

His father had gleaned a fraction of this obsession and had dangled the promise of her well being in exchange for the prince’s obedience. Zenos had acquiesced to use the engagement for his own ends, biding his time in relatively placid contentment and watching for her next move on the board.

And came it did, in a highly amusing and unexpected way.

“Twenty years of age, an unmatched debutante at court and she still managed to be dragged down to that wretch’s level.” His father seethed, his yellow eyes looking through him and towards the distant inner palace. “You were there yesterday, why did you not lift a hand to defend your betrothed?”

Zenos raised his shoulders marginally in a careless shrug.

“No invitation was forwarded to my sorry self so I thought better than to intrude.”

His father knew this, of course. Every movement and action Zenos made was heavily scrutinized, tracked closely by servants and guards alike. He was the hand who puppeteered a majority of the factotum caste here, a finger in every coin purse and opinions from here to Ala Mhigo. Men, women and children disappeared and resurfaced as corpses at a mere word from him, decisions upon decisions stitching together the tapestry of his future dynasty.

Varis had always been a self-aggrandizing man in spite of his austere facade. Every battle won were turned into polished bronze medals, each brilliantly burnished even under the gray afternoon light leaking in from the arching windows.

The Volerus were but gnats that floated lazily in his father’s orbit, but it must be said that the girl that had been arranged for him was not without spine. 

Zenos reached casually into his jacket pocket, the smoothly cut jewel and its gold chain caressing against his knuckle. He ran his thumb along its blunted edge, the shape of the teardrop clear in his mind’s eye. The memory of her clasping it into his hand and bidding him farewell in Valnain lingered like a faint sweetness on his tongue.

A ghost of a smirk traced over his bowed lips as gilded lashes lifted to regard his stone-faced father.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your summon?”

They silently circled one another as Zenos stepped before Varis, wills clashing as they came face to face. They've been seeing one another too often of late and neither were happier for it. The tension between one moment and the next tightened like a taut garrote, then Varis curled his fist against the flat surface of his wide desk and finally deigned to speak.

“Sit down and listen.” He spat with no little disdain. “It's about Titus and his ilk — there's finally been a breach.”

****

 Most of the furnishings were draped in white canvas to shield the delicate embroideries, leathers and polished wood from the degradation of disuse and time. It was apparent that someone was still assigned to clean this wing, however scarce their efforts might be. The floor was relatively free of dirt and debris but the intricate molding along the wall panels and window casings were sprinkled with visible dust. Airy motes were stirred into the air and swirled in a momentary storm when Crow pulled off the cloth that sat over her old harpsichord. The bench was smaller than she remembered, it felt impossible that two children had once shared it.

The canvas lay discarded in a haphazard pile at one of the instrument’s slender legs as Crow eased herself down to the keyboard. Her fingers traced over the ivory keys and pressed down, producing a flat note that made her frown. She tested the rest and to her surprise, only a few were off-key. She lifted the lid and found the tuning lever tucked right under an empty space, the rest was easy enough by ear.

She flipped through the booklet Zenos had pressed so insistently to her, unsure if she could play something of this difficulty. After being so out of practice for so long, it seemed almost insulting to give her something like this to decipher.

Crow squinted and began to slowly pluck out each note, ignoring the shredding pace indicated at the bar’s beginning. From one section to the next she played, ushered on by an inexplicable dawning sense of familiarity. The discordant melody it produced seemed offensive and she could hardly believe he had penned this. It sounded more like a spasmic code than any respectable composition.

She paused, the epiphany descending upon her like a coldsnap.

The collection of mismatched notes reminded her of the basic cipher they’d invented as children, based on the secret codes used by soldiers from centuries ago even before the old Garlean Republic was formed. The code was written in dots, positioned in certain ways to depict letters and, when raised, they can even be read in complete darkness.

A softly casted shadow shifted slightly from beneath the shut doors, catching Crow’s attention as she reached up the music desk to turn another page.

A laugh escaped from under her breath; she was flattered to have been assigned a spy.

It could be one of the servants who'd been sent on this task, anyone of them desperate enough for an extra pittance. The imperial family was indescribably wealthy but there were tens of thousands under their employ, the median income of those at the lowest rung was only just enough for a small personal indulgence per year once the basic toiletries and needs were calculated. But those born in the capital had a taste for creature comforts, she knew this well for she was one of them.

Crow traced over the dried ink, fingers grazing against the pleasantly smooth texture of the paper as the message unfurled in her mind. Never did she think that this tiny bit of make-believe would have its use.

However you go about it, call for an audit of the Volerus and the Apatus’ finances.

Apatus? — the family name was entirely unfamiliar to her, and she was as learned as one could be on notable families of the realm.

The more she deciphered, the more questions seemed to arise from his clandestine message.

There is a large swathe of funds not accounted for. Merchant purchases that have no goods to show for it. Dig deep, any leverage against my father may hinge on your efforts alone.

Puzzling over his secreted advice, Crow rose from the bench and sent her one-person audience fleeing like startled game. The doors swung open, hinges creaking to overshadow an injured yelp that sounded down the long, unlit hall. 

The princess made her way down the corridor with unhurried steps, her hard-soled heels sounding sharply against the bare marble tiles. A downed figure, dressed in the uniform of a maidservant, sobbed as she unsuccessfully tried to regain her footing. A sticky tendril of shadow had snagged and ripped into the skin of her calf, lacerating the limb and rendering its victim lame.

“Aren’t you supposed to be keeping your eye on that minx?” She glared daggers down to the shredded leg where the coiling strands seeped even further into the bloody wounds. The maidservant let out a painted cry of alarm and made another attempt to distance herself to no avail.

She reminded Crow of the flies that were stupid enough to fall for the honey-tar sheets common in Nagxia.

“I-I was only passing through, Your Grace!” She trembled with her watery voice, her excuse as convincing as any other. “Please!”

“Yes, passing through a cul-de-sac wing.” The princess narrowed her gaze down to the maidservant. “So, who put you up to this?”

Her third eye gleamed under the sunset glow, catching the final ruddy light of sun that was almost as red as her ruined leg. She gave another wet sob, the pathetic performance belied a calculating side to her. Such things were common enough here, servants who would lie, spy and cheat their betters in small ways to enrich their own lives. But only few have ever gotten caught this badly.

“If you tell me, I might consider letting you walk away.” She offered with a goading tilt of her chin while still looming over her eavesdropper. 

Another stuttering sob sounded in turn. The carrot dangled seemingly to no avail.

She hated when they shook and jibber, too caught up in whatever imaginary torment they might endure. Reaching down, she tilted a wet chin up and was met with watery hazel eyes. Her fingers slid gently like a caress but the cold promise in her eyes was merciless.

“If you do not find your tongue soon, I'm afraid you'll find yourself rotting with the furnishings here.” The threads of tendrils dug in deeper as though in demonstration, extracting marrow and blood that it'd been deprived of for so long.

The maidservant’s jaw worked uselessly, eyes wild with the freshly wrought agony. She would have fallen face-down to the hard tiles had her face not been gripped in the princess’s stern hand.

“–egatus! The High– please!” She worked through her leaden tongue, her will crumbling like cracked porcelain.

“And what did the High Legatus expect from you?” Crow was vindictive in her amusement. The maidservant vied precariously forward, barely held up by her weakened arms and her captor’s touch.

“T-to keep track of your comings and goings…and–” The girl hesitated, stifling a hiccup. “And report back…should you and His Grace ever convene.”

“Why did you not go back to your master after my meeting with Zenos?” Crow cocked her head, her smirk almost knowing even as she asked her next question.

“An extra stipend…” The maidservant had enough shame to avert her eyes. “For–for whatever additional information I could come back with.”

“Greedy, unlucky girl.” The princess chided mockingly, retracting her touch to let the foolish chit fall.

The maidservant collapsed but immediately clutched at the hem of Crow’s dress. “Please, Your Grace, I meant no harm! I–I needed the money for my father's care, he's an injured retired soldier and I am the sole earner of my family.”

“If I…if you could ensure his comfort even without me, I would be content to submit myself to whatever punishment you have in mind.” She bowed her head in submission, mercy seemed like an impossibility when it came to the savage princess.

Crow smiled and reached down once more, but this time to the maimed leg of the sniveling maidservant. Between thumb and forefinger, she plucked up a black strand of shadow and peeled it back from her skin. Like a vines being weeded by the hands of a dexterous gardener, the mysterious blight separated from her calf with a ripping sting. Though it hurted far less than the searing, spreading agony that had set her bones and muscles on fire. The maidservant could not help but be overcome by a wave of dry nausea after its expulsion from her limb.

She heaved sickeningly though her empty stomach had nothing to expel save for a nasty sourness and a dizzying ache.

What dark vileness had caught her here? — the maidservant gave a shiver as she dated a glance up to her tormentress.

The princess played the shadowy strands along her slender fingers, its cilia-like tendrils forming into uniform legs and a serpentine body. A disgusting, cycloptic reptile blinked its bloody eye down at her, its apparent mistress attention trailing suit.

“Now, I think I'll have your name.” Her sultry voice washed over the maidservant — a serpent’s croon as it flicked its tongue over an envenomed mouse.

Chapter 93

One by one, something small but essential went missing everyday. At first, it was a comb she'd been fond of, then teeth whitening powder, three rings and even one of her corsets. Domitia had struck a personal maidservant with accusation flying, so sure that the savage wretch had manipulated them into stealing from her. She'd sent them away and demanded replacements, five new girls came in and yet things did not change. She had nothing but pointed abuse for the inferiors around her, her silent paranoia growing every time she saw them handling her belongings.

Even the handkerchief she'd been embroidering, the emblem of Garlemald to garner some affection from her betrothed, was not safe. Three days of needlework for nothing. It had been bad enough that things of her trousseau were disappearing, but she hadn't even finished with the damnable scrap of silk.

Her health was faring terribly as well and she had suspected poisoning. That theory came to nothing as the new girls were made to taste everything brought to her. Night-terrors frequented her mind as she tried to find some reprieve in sleep. She often went without rest for days, only to collapse and feel trapped in her own body as a crippling paralysis entered her inert limbs.

Terrifying visions swarmed her during these moments, their devilish forms spreading tattered wings and preparing to feast upon her. She could only watch as the horrors peel back her skin and bury its hungry maw into her steaming entrails. Then at once, she shot from her bed with a choked cry and the day would begin with fresh miseries to bestow upon her poor head.

Life was currently nothing short of an utter torment and her father still refused to write back, even when she begged to return home until the day of the wedding. He had insisted on her stay here when he last visited, to acclimate herself to this palatial curse. This would be her new home, after all, and she would be here for the rest of her days after ascending to her position as a princess-consort.

Domitia dragged a hand over tired face and reached up to the dainty necklace at her throat — a gift from her late mother —only to find it missing. The scream she let out could all but shatter glass.

****

Crow lifted the perfectly embroidered cloth and arched a sleek brow at her thrall. It was seated on her vanity table, a lump of darkness curled like a pleased feline atop a small locket and delicate gold chain.

“Resorting to petty theft now, are we?” Crow said dryly. “Is it not enough that I allow you to siphon aether from her?”

It’s never enough, you know that — it had the audacity to curl its tiny maw into an approximation of a grin.

She snorted at the grandiose voice echoing in her head. “Have your fun but do not neglect your duties. Has her father visited of late?”

She had washed her hands with the comings and goings of Mayor Volerus, delegating that duty to her minion instead. Peering into House Apatus was consuming her time now, and she'd just received a reply from House Lanatus’ matriarch. 

She thumbed the unopened letter, appreciating the prompt answer. Out of favor they may be but they were an old guard that stretched back to before the empire’s founding, their roots were deep and their records were unlikely to be censored unlike official imperial records.

No, she still scratches away at her papers, looking miserable all the while — Naberos’ tail flicked with malicious glee.

The voidsent was gnawing away at the girl’s energy and psyche, inflicting upon her some mental unpleasantness. Crow recalled the scathing insult leveled her way by the impudent sow and any pity she might have felt was instantly washed away.

“And did her father write back?”

Why should he when all her letters were stolen before it could be sent out?

The princess stopped, an impressed little note humming from her sly, upturned lips.

“I give you too little credit perhaps. Now, where are they?” she tossed the scrap of fabric aside, arms akimbo as she stood over the puny creature that was her voidsent.

Naberos' slinked over to the left end of the vanity and pulled free an unused drawer. It slithered inside and Crow followed with a hand. She heard its claws scratched at the ceiling of the tiny boxed space, her neat nails just barely finding the tiniest seam. It took a certain amount of finagling before she pried the lid free. Astonished to feel folded letters falling against her fingers, Crow gently produced the small stack from the hidden cavity. She hadn't been aware that there was such a hidden compartment even after years of being the sole occupant of this apartment.

Sifting through them, the princess gleaned nothing but mundane recounting of Domitia’s complaints regarding her current residence, the drab days and dull people that shuffled back and forth in their duties. There was even a one detailing the day things came to a head between them, described with the expected prejudice and vitriol:

‘– and that savage had the audacity to toss wine in my face and fled the scene after practically throwing herself on the prince. She is a creature of low character that taints everything she nears yet manages to cling onto the emperor’s with her repulsive wiles. Dear father, can you not leverage the High Legatus’ debt to rid us of her?

Do this if you love me at all, I cannot endure the presence of such a vile-bred thing under the same roof as us.

Your loving daughter,

Domitia.’

So then the campaign in Valnain had cost Varis dearly, far more than either she or Zenos had anticipated. The entire affair reeked of fraud and it did not take a sage to piece the hints she'd been given together. Crow slid the letter opener into the Lanatus wax seal and paced the generous length and breadth of her bedchamber as she read.

The matriarch kept the pleasantries brief, then proceeded with her answer: ‘– I had forgotten that you were not here for that particular scandal, Your Grace, but worry not. House Apatus is a very recent addition to the low aristocratic ranks, the very first to have bought their way into a title rather than by the traditional way of marriage or elevation by our Lord Galvus.

It had caused quite the stir and the case was presided over by the emperor himself in court. The long and short of it is that House Apatus would gain the lowest rank of a Baron and the buying of titles would be allowed, though the merchant would be gently forced into exile abroad and the buyer demoted thus. Rather harsh, as you may well see, but it would grant entry to the very wealthy access into our ranks. Praise to the emperor for his excellent sense for compromise.

The Apatuses are a prosperous but withdrawn lot and we've only seen their patriarchs face a handful of times during the proceedings. Nobody has ever seen him since, nor his family — bachelorhood notwithstanding.

At anyroad, do consider my invitation for tea. I can't help growing an affection for your company and I'd be honored to host you.

Sincerely,

Sennia Lanatus’

Crow was unexpectedly grateful for the invitation, so starved was she for kindness in recent life that this little had startled her. A ghost of a smile traced itself onto her comely face and she seated herself onto her bedside.

Folding the letter back into its envelope, she realized truly missed having someone to share rapport with. It was a rather strange thing to admit to herself, such weakness in going without a trusted half.

She stood and turned but even the voidsent was gone, likely slithering back to its post. She felt as though been gritting her teeth since her return, scaling some impossible cliff alone.

The people whom she held dear seemed to fail her at every turn, and her guard was raised higher in answer. At what point would it be enough to stave off the proverbial knife Zenos had spoken of? 

Crow doubted that he could give her a definite answer.

Notes:

Here is my bsky for art and update notice for this fic: https://bsky.app/profile/cascanor.bsky.social

Chapter 94

In juxtaposition to the capital, her efforts overseas were going swimmingly well. Sergius reported that Noah van Gabranth had accepted their offer for reinforcements and agreed to expand trade further between Rabanastre and Valnain as soon as Dalmasca Superior was stabilized. The port-city itself was slowly flourishing under her careful administration, even from afar. Sergius was applying her instructions to the letter and seeing to the maintenance of structure and order. It was safe to say that Valnain was steadily getting back onto its feet.

Crow laid down the reports and stretched herself out on the couch, cat-like as she languished in momentary contentment at her success. 

The doors to her receiving lounge swung open without notice and a certain prince stepped in, sleek and golden as he always wont to be. She sat up, the pleasant moment ruined.

He swept in, eager like the north wind.

“Would it be so detrimental to your wellbeing to send words of your coming?” She paired her complaint with a withering look.

Zenos shrugged with a wry smile as he approached. “Rather not, I happen to like my clothing unstained and dry.”

He must have heard about that little scene.

“She deserved every drop.” Crow preened, running a fine finger against the back of her couch. “ And you should thank me, I dare say that it’s an improvement even.”

The prince placed his hands on the very same ornate edge, leaning down fractionally to catch the vague scent of violets from her. “Of that I have no doubt, though my benevolent father seems to disagree. Especially when she's accusing you of theft.”

“Theft?” Crow withdrew her hand and examined her clean, neat nails. “Me? On what grounds?”

He graced her with a knowing look; he knew better than to believe her feigned obliviousness. “It is all by word of mouth, no proof, no witnesses. But my father is, of course, taking the opportunity to discredit you for posterity. He may be focused on his efforts to shore up support, but he loathes the idea of you gaining more foothold in the empire.”

“I'm flattered to be such an obstacle.” She wanted to be as far away from the High Legatus as possible on any given day. But, ever the territorial miser, he’d suddenly deemed her a worthwhile target.

“Nevertheless, they would likely plant the evidence or bribe a witness if they could, I'd err on the side of caution if I were in your position.” Zenos warned, blue eyes tracing her reclined outline. She was in a corseted shift today, the pale cotton unshaped by the usual ensemble of petticoats and under-trappings. It had been a fair while since he'd seen her in such a stage of undress, his enjoyment of the sight was kept tightly under wraps.

She eyed him then flicked her sights to the doors. “Is that all?”

Zenos gave a dry exhale, somewhat a laugh and a scoff. “Of course not, they're summoning you.”

“What, am I being put on trial for petty theft?”

“Of sorts, but nothing so grand. Think of it as a family gathering.” He drummed against the varnished wood and embroidered upholstery.

“And they sent you, of all people, to deliver the missive.” She deadpanned.

A loud series of knocks and in came a steward, formally issuing a written summon on a silvered tray.

“No.” Zenos drawled as she lifted the card from the servant. “But you know that I loathe to pass up any opportunity to see you, for better or for worse.”

Crow glazed over him with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “Ah, how kind of you to be the herald of my misfortunes.”

He offered an arm to her once they were both at the entrance of her apartment, a brow raised expectantly. Crow entertained the thought to ignore him but eventually relented with curt huff. She supposed he had earned himself a little grace from her after delivering that tidbit of caution.

“How does it feel to earn a slap on the wrist?” He began as they strode down the grand stairwell, past the imperial portraits and trailed the winding path of the lower residential levels. “Such scoldings in this family are rare indeed.”

“This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't worried over my hand like that, you beast.” Crow muttered derisively. “That doxy of yours is as green as Golmore with envy.”

“I would have done worse if you'd let me.” His mirth was immensely obnoxious. The slight crinkle of his grin inflamed her, sore as a rash.

She tried to wriggle her hand out from the crook of his arm but was promptly caught in her retreat. Zenos clasped her fingers tight against him even as they crossed into the outer palace.

“All that did was make my life more difficult than it needed to be.” She said through gritted teeth as they stepped onto the central elevator platform.

Zenos chuckled. “What matter? The jealousy of a court lady should be nothing next to what we've been through in Valnain.”

“Obtuseness does not become you.” Crow retorted, finally managing to pry herself free from his arresting hold as the platform came to a smooth halt. She smoothed out her silk-gossamer dress before turning on him. “The message, the prying, the fact that you're here. It is one thing that we might share a common aim against your father but do not mistake that we are on the same side.”

The prince watched as his counterpart strode off with squared shoulders. She had left him spurned and wanting once more, and he felt himself straining at the bit to chase after her like the hungry, unruly hound he felt himself becoming whenever he was in her presence.

Zenos lapsed back into his typical dead-eyed indifference, his mocking levity scattering to grayness as soon as Crow was gone. 

****

A slender white finger leveled in her direction, the accusation clearly stated for all in the room to hear.

“My late mother’s necklace, my clothes, everything that has gone missing, I am certain that she is behind all of it.” Domitia was clearly determined in her paltry crusade, a frantic light shining through her tired eyes.

Things had deteriorated for her in appearance and health, the apparent droop of her shoulders and slight gauntness of her features were sharpened by her usual repertoire of lavender powder and pink rouge, neither did a fair job at disguising her sickly pallor. A fortnight was apparently all it took for the girl to lose her rosy flush and spring-maiden countenance. Naberos, ever the insatiable little monster, had done a commendable job.

They had all assembled loosely in the lavished personal drawing room of His Radiance as wet summer slurry pelted the windows from without, a fire crackling to battle the cold and vaguely damp discomfort hanging heavy in the atmosphere. Crow stood in opposition to her accuser, behind the seated emperor with hands clasped in prim fashion. Beside Domitia was her father, the disapproving Mayor Volerus, who just today showed up in haste when he had caught wind of the sordid tales of woe from his daughter. Overshadowing them both was the High Legatus himself with a hard scowl that seemed like a permanent fixture on his harsh, unhandsome face. Three presented a neat opposition to her, who only had the dubious aegis of the emperor’s favor.

Zenos had slinked in behind her and was observing by the far wall to her right, more a disinterested spectator than a proper part of the jury. Presiding over this debacle of familial disharmony was the ever-suffering patriarch and emperor, who looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else but here.

Crow cocked her head in turn, unperturbed by the allegations. “Are you sure a servant hadn't simply misplaced your things?”

The Volerus girl glared daggers at her, perfect teeth gleaming as she spat. “No! My room has been searched thoroughly, and my staff replaced since you’ve filled their ranks with useless dolts who can't perform even the most basic tasks. There is no other possibility, you can be sure of it, my lord, Your Radiance.”

“You're still sore about our petty spat, I understand, but there needn't escalate it to such length.” The princess shook her head. “If you wish for an apology from me, we could have discussed this in private rather than dragging in uninvolved parties.”

“Apology? What care I for that? All I wish is for my things to be returned and you punished for your transgressions!” Her voice grew pitched with frustration, the tension in her neck growing pronounced as she practically exclaimed her demands.

Crow made to reply while wearing an appropriately offended but vulnerable facade to the harsh words thrown her way, but was halted by a raised hand by her guardian, 

“And do you have proof of the theft?” Solus stroked his beard in thought, raking over his grandson, Varis, and Mayor Volerus with a dubiously raised brow. “A list of the things missing even?”

As though on cue, Mayor Volerus produced a stamped scroll from his side pocket, unreasonably ornate for some itinerary of theft. Crow watched in half-lidded exasperation as he shuffled his way over and presented the list with a bow.

Her guardian seemed to be short on patience as well, plucking the list from the articulate hands of the Mayor with informal curtness.

The Mayor puffed up like a smug, inflated bird.“As you see, eight items of high value has disappeared from my daughter’s possession, one of which is a priceless heirloom belonging to my late wife and her mother, Lady–”

“I am literate and still in possession of a pair of eyes.” The emperor cut in before the Mayor could unroll one of his grand, impassioned speeches, his keen eyes trailing down the list and its details at a pace that would put any scholasticates to shame. “And what about the First Princess that drew this sudden suspicion?”

Domitia visibly fumed. “She's the only one who would have cause! No respectable member of the imperial family would stoop so low as to squirrel away another’s possession. And she had the gall to call me a–”

“My daughter is in heartbreak over the loss of such a sentimental item, forgive her outburst.” Her father curled an arm around her shoulders, the gesture meant to silence more than to mollify. “We've replaced the servants yet more went missing, and, considering her reaction thus far to my daughter’s betrothal, the only one with the motive of a saboteur would be…”

He gestured to Crow, the dismissive wave of a hand as one would direct to a particularly disliked object in the room.

“Have you questioned the servants before bringing up such distasteful accusations or is this just an act of some twisted prejudice?” Crow crossed her arms.

The Mayor sniffed, the expression of derision souring his doughy face. “Your kind aren't exactly known for their loyalty, are they? That widow, prior to becoming a Lanatus, had the gall to remarry immediately without observing a period of mourning for her late husband. Opportunists, the lot of you.”

Crow bristled — What did the actions of others have to do with her?

Moreover, that marriage had been sanctioned by the late Lucius van Gabranth and the emperor himself. 

“So you admit that this sham is based on nothing more than your blatant bigotry?” The princess lightly scoffed, brows furrowed.

“The First Princess makes a fine point. If you're unable to produce evidence to go with such allegations, then the matter will be dropped without further protest.” The emperor concurred, seemingly eager to be done with this altogether.

Varis stepped into the glow of the fireplace, so imposing was his figure that the light could not illuminate his enshadowed face. His yellow eyes, a pale echo of his grandfather’s golden gaze, seemed to spear through her. His animosity and disgust remained undiminished through the decade since they saw one another. This was a man who resented her truly, deeply and completely, and she could not place why that was.

“We have a witness.” He said and indicated to the guards by the far entrance with one of his broad hands.

They obeyed like automatons, opening the doors to admit a maidservant. The garlean girl looked the same as any other uniformed staff, gray capped and red aproned. She curtsied and kneeled before them, her sorry head bowed in submission.

“Go on, girl, speak.” Mayor Volerus nodded.

She was a little gray, mousy thing no taller than Domitia, her back was curled in obeisance and her expression was sheepish as she began. “I am a maidservant assigned to Her Grace, Lady Domitia. One day when I was going about my duties, I was told by one of my fellows that I was being summoned by the princess. When I came to her, she placed a ring into my hand and bade me to steal from my lady. When I refused, she cursed at me and threw me out, threatening that if I told anyone, she would have my life.”

“And you are so brave to come to us in spite of her.” Domitia, who had been barred from speaking by her father up to this point, praised the maidservant with her honey-drenched voice.

Crow, who had wordlessly stepped forward amidst the so-called confession, now shuttered her eyes as she wore a contemptuous smile. She had never seen this poisonous little worm in her life, much less attempted to bribe her. 

“Pray tell, what did the ring look like?” The Mayor pressed.

The chit blinked up at her, seemingly stupefied by the simple question.

“It looked like – why, it was gold and had a dull, horizontal red stone embedded within. There were carvings, an emblem, I think, on its facet.”

Her eyes were casted downward as her shoulders shook with quiet laughter. She had only one ring in her possession and it was one part of the twin she shared with Zenos. She could feel his eyes at her back, hear the unspoken words between them: I warned you, did I not?

“You have such a ring, no?” Mayor Volerus prodded imperiously. 

“Do not attempt to lie your way out of this, we've seen it when you were play-acting as hostess to us.” Domitia chimed in, a sneer wrinkling her nose.

“As punishment, I propose that she should be stripped of her authority over Nagxia.” Varis announced, rounding on the emperor. “It will be reinstated in time, perhaps, should she show sufficient remorse.”

“Yes, another, more worthy candidate might be installed. Perhaps Lord… or…”

The world sank into a muffled, watery depth, a deafening keening overtaking her hearing as she heard them cut and divide what she'd sacrificed so much for. She had bled and contrived and labored to earn Valnain yet Varis, ever the vindictive scourge, was trying to take back what he thought should rightfully be his.

She suddenly realized why he hated her so passionately — for the same reason why he had resented and abandoned his own son.

He had perceived her as a thief, not some common pilferer of material baubles or territory, but of the admiration he thought he deserved. Firstly, approval of the emperor and secondly, whatever imagined bond he might have had with Zenos. He had blamed his late wife’s affliction and eventual demise on his son, but that did not stop him from thinking of his only heir as little more than an object that he had made and could eventually reclaim whenever it suited him. 

As she understood, they had taken from him their regard and given it to her, and that was unacceptable to the vehement Varis yae Galvus.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense, my dear?” The endearment sounded like condemnation to her.

Her shoulders rose, lips bent in a rictus.

“You, Lord Varis yae Galvus, are the most insecure scrap of a man that I've ever had the displeasure to know.” Crow said suddenly, chin high in challenge as she rounded on them, on that intolerable tyrant.

Her proclamation had ripped through the buzz of premature victory. Even the emperor was lifted from his grave rumination, the burden of mediator and judge momentarily thrown off by sudden bemusement.

Like a stone-hewn door, the heft that was Varis turned, belatedly realizing that she was addressing him directly.

“Deep down, you know you'll never measure up to His Radiance even if you assume the throne nor will you ever earn his respect because you fault children for things they cannot help.” She ploughed on, her heedless outburst intensifying with every syllable tumbling from her lips. “And for that, I'm sure your late wife would have come to hate you as much as we do.”

The room was stunned into frozen passivity, though in opposition, Varis was a waking giant as he came at her. Lighting cracked across the stormy sky without, illuminating the backhand poised in violence above her. A clap of thunder boomed as she was yanked back and Zenos recoiled in her place, struck by the closed fist of his vengeful father.

She had not seen him move from the far wall, nor she did not recall herself falling to the fine woolen rug. Everything had played out in a series of disjointed snapshots in her perturbed vision.

It was all Crow could do to stare at the broad, white canvas of Zenos’ back as he listed obtusely rightward in vertigo. Her eyes then trailed down to the immediate motion of something tiny falling to the ground. Two drops of blood spotted the fabric, tiny spatters that were hardly visible in the woven dark, geometric patterns. His father had not held back, and Crow paled at what those gleaming rings could do to a face.

Domitia screamed, the note so raw and high that it shattered the volatile tension.

“Father,” Zenos drawled calmly even through the glut of blood from his cut lips and cheek, blue-fire eyes burning against his affectless sire. “don't you think you've done enough?”

Chapter 95

Fussing, Zenos thought, was never something Crow was prone to, yet here she was with a medic kit between them. She had insisted on treating his wounds herself, bading the medicus to stay on standby as she cleaned and stitched up the deep gash. At such intimate length, he was able to take in the furrow of her sleek brows and the smooth bridge of her nose. Her lashes were dark and long, feathering her cheeks ever so slightly with every blink. He caught every shifting minutiae of her lovely face, down to the deep red sclera that was often hidden by her dark, side swept bangs.It was temptingly crimson, his fingers itching to sweep aside the section of fringes to glimpse at the entirety of her junoesque visage.

It had been a view only he was privy to when they were holed up together at their makeshift residence in Nagxia, when she was caught in deep slumber. At this moment, however, she was anything but at peace, her lips drawn into a tight frown as she once more dabbed disinfectant across his cheek.

She beckoned for the observing medicus with a flick of a finger then proceeded to pack the equipment away. The entire event of his treatment has lasted less than half a bell as she was unexpectedly deft with the hooked needle.

“The wound is somewhat deep, though scarring will be unlikely if all goes well.” the medicus blinked at the well aligned, continuous stitches. “These are exquisite sutures, Your Grace.”

“Plenty to practice on when you're in a city in upheaval.” Crow bit out dryly as she recalled the slapdash bouts of field surgery during such anarchy. The medicus coughed out a nervous laugh as she pressed an adhesive bandage to Zenos’ cheek to finish, then another for his splitted lower lip.

She returned his kit and sent him off, easing back to the only long couch of Zenos’ grand apartment with a deep sigh once the doors creaked shut.

The prince watched her and had not uttered a word as she had bade him — she didn't want to have the needle slipping.

She sat facing him with a leg folded between them, a temple propped daintily against the gilded backrest. “Why did you have to intervene like that? I’m grateful for the heroics but injuring yourself in such a way is…”

“Unnecessary?” He suggested with one of his lopsided smirk, the ghost of an indent tracing the corner of his bowed lips. It was where she could see His Radiance in him, alike in some ways with his forebears but entirely different in others.

“Reckless — Your father may have not held back for me, but I wouldn’t have needed stitches.” Crow breathed an acrid laugh, fingers lifting to trace over her own cheek. Owing to her voidsent, this tainted body had its advantages. “The pain would be momentary at best. Besides, isn't that what pariahs deserve?”

He met her gaze. “Had he managed to lay a finger on you, he wouldn’t make it out of that room alive.” 

At that, she gave a rather unladylike snort. “His Radiance isn't wont to execute one of his heirs over something like that.”

“No, but I would have ensured it.” All mirth had drained from him and he spoke with chilling certainty.

Crow blinked in belated understanding.

She had seen him kill in Valnain, recalling the utter ease in which he went through the motion of running through screaming bodies. There was no enjoyment in the act for him, not enough of a challenge in extinguishing insignificant little flames. His father, however, was a veritable inferno. Built like a slab of stone and martially skilled in his own right as the High Legatus, commander of the legions, he was a ferocious warmonger if not a cunning one.

A simper escaped her, one rooted in disbelief and what she could only surmise as endearment. He, for all his murderous envy and indifference, had meant every word and bravado had naught to do with it. 

The space between them grew taut as she eased herself close, a hand pressed on his thigh for leverage. They were nose to nose, lashes lowered as she whispered to him.

“Such a thing merely for my sake?" Her lips only a hair’s breadth away from his. "Careful, I might just I'll hold you to that.”

Zenos closed the gap and sealed the space between them. There was a desperate hunger that seared indelibly into her by the kiss. A shuddering, relieved breath fanned against her skin as his broad hand closed around her shoulder. He had leashed himself for so long and what slight touches he had stolen from her were paltry comforts when compared to this.

His lips moved against hers, veritably molten in their need to feel every ilm. Crow sucked in a quiet but sharp breath as he tugged her closer, arm wrapping around the narrow of her waist. She slid a hand down the muscled length of his arm and brought his hand up to cup against the generous curve of her breast. That earned her an approving rumble and he fell on her like predator on prey.

Back when she did not spurn him like she did after their return to the capital, he had been patient and treated her as though she had all the time in the world to set her own pace with him. But now, it seemed the reins had been wrested from her and he was determined to have what he'd been deprived of, no better than a starving beast. 

A trail of kisses climbed down the contour of her neck as his sly fingers managed to pry free the blushing apex of her heaving bosoms from the confines of her dress. His other hand was no less busy, grasping and pushing away the hem of her dress as it slid up her creamy, toned thigh.

Crow buried her fingers into his golden crown, tugging him back to look up at her before he could close his mouth around the pink bud of her breast.

“Is this what you sought for? The vagaries of female flesh?” She sneered.

Zenos grinned unabashedly, licking his teeth as though he'd been dining on the finest ambrosia.

“You could be a man and it would make no difference to me.” He breathed, reclining his uninjured cheek against the plushed pillow of her breast. “All I need is for it to be you.”

A blush bloomed in her cheeks, and a begrudging flutter thrummed in her chest at such an unexpected confession.

A series of knocks sounded from faraway, piercing through their lust-addle haze. She pushed and he relented with sluggish reluctance, hasty hands readjusting her own rumpled dress. Zenos stood and smoothed out her disheveled hair, relishing her allowance of his fingers weaving through her dark tresses.

“We carry a writ ordered to Her Grace, the First Princess, by the emperor!” Called out the herald from behind the door.

Crow drew in a sharp breath as she looked worriedly to the double-doored entrance.

His hands trailed down to cup the heart-shaped crest of her face. There was no time for extended assurance, for nothing but the hard surety of his icy gaze.

“All will be well.” He rasped, the words anchoring her.

She looked at him, tamping down her inner doubts.

“I know.” She said, turning from him as she waited for the declaration of her chastisement.

They came without further delay, the herald gave another courtesy knock before Zenos beckoned them in with a curt word. A small retinue of four armored guards assembled behind him, their gunbladed poleaxes pinioned with the imperial family crest. Not just any guards, she realized from their sleek black armor and snarling helms, but praetors who served directly under the emperor as personal guards.

“His Radiance, Solus zos Galvus, emperor of Garlemald, sentences his ward, First Princess of Garlemald, to a half-moon period under house arrest. No outside communications may be sent or received and visitors and servants are only available under limited restrictions.” The gray clad herald paused for effect, then sharply inhaled before continuing. “Furthermore, her authority over Nagxia, including subsidiaries of Lea Monde and Valnain, will be handed over to His Grace, Prince Zenos yae Galvus until declared otherwise.”

Said prince and Crow shared an incredulous look. The emperor seemed to have come to a compromise regarding the territory and she, though not pleased, was relieved at the decided alternative.

“Have mercy on Sergius, he's got enough on his plate.” She said as the praetors neared, the jape obscured her nerves and belied only by her anxious tugging at Zenos’ little finger. She was restive and her hands were clammy with nerves but her composed mask was well-maintained even if her body language told him otherwise.

A smirk tugged at him, his hand engulfing her for the briefest squeeze. “No, I don’t think I shall — not one for subtlety like you, I fear”

Fingers parting, Crow huffed out a dry, incredulous laugh as the praetors encircled her, each man like a wall to obscure her from his line of sight. Zenos watched in deep displeasure as the servant bowed and ushered the escort party out, the shutting doors echoing in his ears in spite of the herald’s polite wake.

Notes:

Thank you for reading~
Welp see you guys in like 1-2 months~ Gonna take a small break from writing a bit to do more art of these scenes

gonna be posted here likely:
https://bsky.app/profile/cascanor.bsky.social

Chapter 96

It took a mere three days into her penance for Crow to realize what it truly meant to be caged. Without updates and regular correspondence from Valnain, she was left with her own thoughts and gnawing worry for company. The agricultural plans had cleared a swath of the jungles nearby for cultivation, the food program to bolster the population, stipends and housing for laborers and artisans — she had taken to literally sitting on her hands to prevent herself from biting into her nail beds. The worries were endless without even a shred of news from Sergius, whose reports came every three days in the early mornings.

The spoon hovered before her lips, its liquid content leaving a briny aftertaste of fish. It reminded her of the sour fish stew served in Valnain, spiced with dried chilies the size of her thumb. Things had never been simple, but at least in Nagxia, she was allowed a great deal more autonomy and authority. Perhaps she just missed the sun on her skin, and the time spent head down over the running of a city next to her pest of a childhood companion.

Crow swallowed another bite, retracing the port-side streets in her mind’s eye. It had been the first time she'd seen the ocean, its bustling quays and lined docks seemed so impressive to her at the time. She wished she could have visited Lea Monde in its past glory, but the once thriving metropolis was reduced to little more than a shrunken settlement owing to the merciless waves of warheads that had rained down upon it.

She should have insisted on joining the expedition into Golmore, maybe then those pestilential insurgents wouldn't have made it past the defense line.

No, it wouldn't have made a difference — Crow shook the thoughts aside, draining the last of the consommé soup.

Servants came and went three times a day on the dot of nine, two and six for each of her meals, their heads were often bowed and their silence only made them seem like indifferent constructs set to specific tasks. It was also useless to try to issue commands to them for they would bob their sorry heads in apology and traipse away as though they were attached to railways.

Still in her night dress, Crow slid from the small dining area and slipped into the attached study, browsing through the books that were still available to her perusal. The subjects were utilitarian and historical in nature, from foreign economics that expounded on the virtues of a star-wide trade system to the detailed lineages of the empire. She lifted a rather innocuous looking tome from the unread pile on her centered desk, its brown leather embedded by a myriad of attractive scroll work popular in recent time. 

“A Renewed Map of the Empire’s Most Eligible.” She mumbled, the title both ostentatious and unfamiliar.

Crow supposed she had nothing but time now, what better to spend it on than to search and scheme.

At length, the princess threaded through the span of her sprawling apartment, ravenously flipping through the pages that traced through each aristocratic family. Their bloodlines branched, entwined and reached as far back as a century ago, and then some with a handful of additions along the way when the emperor elevated his loyal supporters to noble heights after his ascension.

House Apatus was nowhere to be found until less than a year ago, listed under a small and derisive footnote of: ‘Newblood: Barony of Apatus — formerly Marquisdom of Gessus.’

‘Owing to financial ruin, the scions of the now-defunct house was forced to relinquish their ancestral nomen and estate to the wealthiest bidder. Moreover, in a decisive twist, they have leveraged their newly obtained status to garner support for Lord Titus yae Galvus.’

Titus? Crow scoffed.

As much as she disdained Varis, there was no denying he had a far stronger claim than his uncle. Being the High Legatus, he had the majority of the legions under his command, and the ability to enforce martial law should anything untoward happen to the emperor. Only hard-line traditionalists who believed in the primacy of seniority would put all their support behind an ineffectual ninny like Titus.

Unless they were gunning for Nerva to become emperor? — she curled her lips in disgust at the thought.

The only thing standing in Varis’ way currently was the capital to bribe, threaten and steal, for support in Garlemald proper did not tend to come cheaply.

She tapped her chin, contemplating upon the information available. The sole head of house Apatus supposedly exists, but according to Lady Lanatus, he was elusive and withdrawn. Though with the advantage of wealth, like those of the Volerus, one could veritably prop up a strawman for any endeavors. There were just some things she had to confirm for herself.

Crow threw aside the book and briskly made her way into the dressing room. Rummaging through her dresses in the armoire, she reached under all the laces and ruffled hems to pull out the plain teakwood chest from Valnain. The maidservants hadn't known what to do with the things inside so she'd squirreled it away in between all her newly bought attires.

The old cloak she'd worn in the fray was neatly folded and laid abandoned in the chest’s corner, topped by her arm-length dagger. These within were the only things salvageable after the destruction of the pyramidal fort, which was a pity since she'd spent so much coins in the markets district. 

She reached over the pouch of myrrh resin and a deck of slightly singed playing cards to grasp at the hilt, lifting and unsheathing it from its hide scabbard for inspection. Zenos had taken to sharpening it himself after they were settled in their little room. 

He had looked almost content with nothing but a jug of water and a slab of whetstone, their quiet japes and conversations under the dim oil lamp seemed to have originated from a different, more contented lifetime.

She placed them within easy reach, wrapped tightly and hidden in her negligeé drawer. By supper time, the praetors showed up for daily inspection alongside the maidservant carting in her meal. Crow stood with her arms crossed as they combed through her quarters one fulm at a time. From bedchamber to study they swept with fine meticulousness. All this was in the effort to ensure no outside contact would reach her or vice versa, no way to circumvent the emperor's orders to snatch her way back to her position in Nagxia.

The emperor’s punishment to her, though not as harsh as some would like, was nothing if not rigid and exact in its execution.

As her guardian, he knew her quite well — she thought as she raised a brow at a praetor guard eyeing her dressing room, the man had the grace to look her way and have an awkward cough before moving along to her study.

And at times, she had to admit, there were things that even her smiles and petulant tears could not pry from him.

Crow placed down her fork and drained the rest of the mild orgeat, the wine-marinated orvibos veal and new popotoes had been tender and well seasoned with sage-salt and pepper. She waited until the servants came and cleared away the dishes before eyeing the wall chronometer, her legs carrying her across the room within less than a dozen long, quick strides.

Her high-necked night dress fell quickly to the ground and was kicked aside, revealing dark trousers, thick woolen blouse, and pulling on gloves that would shield her from the biting Ilsabardan chill. In less than three minutes, she was twirling the dagger’s hilt in hand and gave one last look back at her apartment. She was about to flout His Radiance’s command, something never done before in her life. Crow grinned and slashed through the fabric of reality, ash-stained cloak sweeping as she slipped away quietly into the night without.

Whatever he would not grant her, she would take for herself — punishment be damned.

Chapter 97

The cold touched her deeply even through the layers tucked beneath her clothes, even the lightest breeze caused gooseflesh to rise along the covered nape of her neck. It had been a trial to even get down to the base of the palatial imperial tower, its structure was impenetrable against the howling gales that battered it on the daily. Everything beneath was shrouded by a curtain of white, reducing her ability to travel down to no more than twenty fulms at best. She had to brace herself against a steepled tower in order to not be blown off, even as she carved out another portal and leapt through. Against such inclemency, the lukewarm claustrophobia of dimensional transport was almost a comfort.

A sheaf of snow slid from the ledge when she brushed it aside with the toe of her boot, the plunge below was steep and solid ground was within sight. She pressed herself against the frost-stained glass panes and glanced to her left, then right, wary of any incoming servant or guards that might sound the alert of her flight from confinement.

And lo, their eyes met.

Zenos was staring at her, his icy-blue eyes wide in shock. His attention then snapped to whatever was behind him as though someone had spoken, his hands working quickly to slam the curtains shut as he whirled. Crow realized she was beaming when the cold hit her teeth, blood rushing in her veins at the thrill of being caught.

She was half tempted to linger and listen to whatever was happening on the other side, but the glass was too well insulated for even her keen ears. So in turn, she proceeded without further delay, diving through the slashed portal and making landfall with minimal fuss.

The imperial palace’s fortification was tightly patrolled, with guards lining its many entrances and high steel bastions. It was a beautiful display of coordination and discipline, leaving little room for most intruders to skulk about. But she was not most intruders.

Crow slinked under the cover of night, the slim, waning moon lending only the merest light to her path. It was where her hideous, crimson eye came into use, pupils dilating to take in her environs. 

A guard was coming towards the alcove where she stood, the focused beam of his lantern light melting away the darkness. Just barely, as quickly as she could manage, Crow squeezed herself against its flattest wall and cursed silently.

The legionary gave a long yawn as he passed through the pitch, seemingly none the wiser to present company. She retraced his steps and could see the distant majestic gates. Tall as they were wide, each point wrought with gilded tips as they stood eminently over the aristocratic district below. The delineation between the imperial family and those beneath them was made clear in both the physical and metaphorical.

Crow narrowed her gaze through the pale sleet. The sight between the gaps was all she needed. Another swift cut into air and she was beyond palace grounds.

****

With her cowl drawn up, she was but a faceless ghost among the streaks of household servants, who were animatedly speaking to one another and going about their errand on their master or mistress’s behalf. The shops lining the streets were advertising their wares with decorative signages, and their entrances, though shut to ward off the cold, were lit from within by warm, inviting lights. Their bay windows were lined with a great myriad of products, ranging from sweetmeats to boxes of imported tea. The night was evidently still young as fashionable eateries farther down the road had many parties come and go, filling the air with faint laughter as they gathered themselves into their awaiting vehicles.

All the while, diligent automated constructs kept the roads cleared of the descending snow, their wide, shoveled limbs tailored finely for the task.

The nights here were organized yet no less boisterous than its southern province, who were crushed against one another in a boisterous press of humanity and commerce. But unlike those who rose and close with the sun in Valnain, the shops here remained open for longer owing to their brick and mortar structure yet fewer in variety. Businesses ran for longer and trade flourished in spite of the inhospitable cold.

Life would always find a way, she supposed as she veered past a lamppost and into a dim alley. The smooth pavement gave way to more roughened cobbled tracks as the remnants of the old republic’s footpaths were revealed to her. Crow had seen the layout of the city nearly all her life, knowing its semi circular layout that gridded itself like the strands of a spider’s web. The imperial palace and this district was built atop the old Garlean metropolis, two sections at a time. Meanwhile the civilian districts were newer, possessing none of the charming prestige of the old world — or so she'd read, having never set foot so far.

More than these sparkling facades, however, it was these old streets that she most appreciated. Those that winded and criss-crossed with so many others, connecting and facilitating the more lurid elements that fed the curious appetites of the aristocracy. Out of sight of the common sentinels of the main thoroughfare, they felt like an entirely different world in and of themselves. No matter the city, no matter the continent, all ambits of civilization seemed to possess a murky facet.

Under the hanging, glowing crystals of some fortune-telling fraud, Crow unfurled the small map she'd snuck out with and sighed. To her dismay, it was a rather outdated copy as new buildings had been erected since these streets were put to paper.

The small booth window, attached to what seemed like a back alley home, opened and she snapped her eyes to the diminutive, veiled figure. A musky scent drifted from within and she recognized the refined aroma of burnt sandalwood, invoking the image of Valnain in her mind — of indolent nights and chirping crickets, shoulders pressing close and lips–

“Well then! Would you like your future read?” Her voice was high as she beckoned to Crow with cards shuffling expertly in her hand.

Crow took in the horns jutting from the cloth that hid her face; her kind were a rarity in the capital.

“Take your spotty guesswork to someone who'll pay for them.” She muttered and turned away, not willing to waste time nor coin on charlatanry.

“Spotty? Guesswork?!” The au’ra yelled after her, drawing sporting giggles from the cramped and dimly lit brothel across the narrow, uneven street.

“Wouldn't pass ‘er up if I was ye! She's quite accurate, ye know.” One of the girls, a redheaded hyuran, from the small second floor balcony called down. Somewhere in the distance, someone gave a hacking cough and spat. 

Soured by the attention, Crow returned if only to quiet her down. She raised the small map to the irritant’s face and hissed, making sure her hood was pulled well over her head.

“I'll pay you to tell me where this manor home is and for your silence.”

“And a reading too?” She had held onto that slight like a hound to a bone.

Crow glowered and shook out a handful of coins from her pockets, not bothering to count them. “Make it quick.”

The charlatan exclaimed delightedly at the amount on the booth’s table between them and made to sweep them into her coin purse. However, before she could lay a finger on the generous pile, Crow’s hand descended forbiddingly and cut off her reach for the generous sum.

The princess’ smile was an easy, plain thing. “But first, my directions, if you will.”

Chapter 98

Two customers within a bell of one another showed up at her booth, it would have been a serendipitous occurrence had it not for the fact that she was being held by her collar and nearly dragged from her window. The fortuneteller was terrified for her life, that was until she came face to face with the man who had rescued her in Valnain!

“It's you!” She cried out, lifting her lopsided circlet and veil from her face.

“A woman likely crossed path here, dark haired with a beauty mark at the left corner of her mouth.” Zenos pressed, lifting the fortuneteller incrementally higher, his patience shortening with every second. “Tell me where she went.”

“D-Do you not recognize me, ser? I guided you through the underground cisterns.” She pleaded, balancing between keeping her neck intact and her promise of silence.

It was just as well that she was speaking to a wall, this one just so happened to be made of muscles and clad in a fine, thick woolen cloak. His grip tightened on her collar, mouth forming a grim line.

“Handsome ser, if you lend me your ear, I’ll tell you where your lady-friend went. That one has gotten her lips sealed by coinage.” A redheaded girl atop the balcony crooned, the rest of her colleagues had since retreated from view.

“Close the window, Lane, you're letting the heat out.” A woman with feline ears pushed in, tail flicking.

Zenos produced a sagging bag of coins from his inner pocket, its content clinking tantalizingly as he tossed it up with a casual swing of his arm. Lane and the miqo'te woman caught it and peered into the heavy embroidered silk pouch, their eyes glittering like two sets of gems. 

“Are you sure you won't spend some time warming yourself with us for a spell, handsome ser?” Asked the miqo’te woman, slender shoulders baring. Zenos glared and tugged up his hood in turn, the gesture of a plain rejection. The hyuran named Lane sighed as her colleague turned up her nose.

“She went a quar’er malm straight down the alley, turned left, then right all the way to the lo’er aristocratic district. Is all that one said.” She jabbed a finger down to the fortuneteller. “An’ she was told to give the opium dens a wide berth, too many sleaze to trip o’er.”

Zenos dropped his captive like a sack of popotoes and stalked off, apparently satisfied with the information. 

The au’ra righted herself with a groan, her cards had slid all over her booth and her blouse horribly rumpled. Her neighbors had apparently made a lot off of her unwillingness to speak, but they did save her hide.

“Much obliged.” She said dryly up to the women.

They blew her a kiss and shut their window, their giggles muffled by frosted-over glass and steel. They were no doubt scheming on how to spend their latest windfall. 

The fortune-telling au’ra counted her coins as she ruminated on the day’s event. The tall elezen woman — who had left before she could even fully lay out her tarot deck — seemed to have her eyes and attention straying so far ahead of her. And that man who she had met in Valnain, he was in a hurry as well in hot pursuit. Back warmed by the heated metal stove behind her, she turned over the only three cards she had managed to place down to reveal the lord, the lady and the spire.

 “I see, so she was the one you were chasing after.” She smiled ruefully. “And so the course is set in its star-crossed path.”

****

 Pressed for time and against the suggestion she was given, Crow decided to cut straight through the low-sunken establishments lining the cobblestone street. The path had grown wider now, even opening to a small plaza that was hemmed in by residents of common debauchery. A faint, sweet haze drifted in the air and drooped, bundled figures staggered to and from one den to the next. In the formal writ of law, opium was illegal in Garlemald and anyone caught with them would be spending a lifetime shivering in a cell. The harsh sentencing discouraged the average man from partaking, even speaking of the substance could earn you a raised brow and a visit from the local constabulary. 

In practice, however, things in the aristocratic district were never so simple. A small section was allowed to remain standing where the aristocracy could frolic, so long as they kept their lips sealed about it. It was both an allowance by His Radiance and a blade he held over their heads. Coins traded hands and records were kept in tight ledgers here, leverage for when anyone was stepping out of line. Pseudonyms were common enough but those were flimsy defenses at best against the implacable reach of their nigh omniscient emperor.

In spite of the reputation of these salons, wedged between the commerce district and lower aristocratic residences, there was not a soul who was left laying in the cold. Most knew better than to let themselves go that far, but for those who did, their saviors came in the form of hired hrothgan muscles who would come to collect their insensible charges from the frozen street corners. It was a death sentence to be caught out here in a frost storm, or even a bout of heavy snow. These bestial-featured men no doubt begrudged their duties, but were paid well to rescue their wealthy clients from a chilly demise.

Crow caught the rise of faint laughter as a door swung open from some dozen steps away, a paunchy figure accompanied by two women and a man trundled over to the low gilt gate of a flesh house. Under the inviting lights exuding from the tall windows, Crow managed to discern the fur-coated, rotund man in between the svelte trio.

It was Domitia’s father, Mayor Volerus. His vast appetite for personal indulgences was made apparent by the company he chose for himself.

This must be where he visited to escape his daughter’s complaints, Crow thought venomously.

Unlike house Apatus, where she’d been intent on, she knew exactly where the Volerus estate was located. It was farther east and, for a home belonging to someone who ranked among the lower aristocracy, could rival even some of the more sumptuous estates surrounding the base of the imperial palace.

When the opportunity was presenting itself to her so plainly, who was she to deny it. Crow set a brisk pace to the Volerus estate, thoughts racing ahead.

The manor sat within tall, wreathing fences, surrounded by manicured firs draped in white. Even among the dignified homes belonging to the genteel class, the Volerus estate sat dominantly like a hunk of stone among the uniform grid of the district block. It was loud and ostentatious with its black steel columns, topped by an enclosed deck and laurel-wrought railing. A pair of guards were stationed directly before the front entrance where other homes were bereft of similar benefits of security. It was a flaunt of their recent elevation in status — Crow narrowed her scrutiny, pushing aside her inherent bias. There was something more besides. More security merely meant one had something to protect, or to hide. 

With his precious pawn of a daughter holed up in the imperial palace, his late wife long gone, Crow doubted these extra watchful eyes were for any person’s sake while their master was away.

She kept herself low against the roof of a neighboring home, boots digging tight against the steel roof beams. Unlike Valnain where they had used cooling ceramic tiles to cap their buildings, Garlean structures were far more difficult to find decent leverage upon owing to their smooth, rust resistant qualities. Snow, evidently, was just as corrosive as the constant cycle of rain and shine, and thrice as heavy. 

Her sight could only go so far even with the clarifying quality of her preternatural right eye. Crow strained her body up and across the bulk of the roof, snow sloughing off as she moved.

“Someone there?” The question came from a passing patrol, carried faintly upward as it was muffled by the sodden snow.

Crow gave her it no mind and slashed open a portal — the side of the manor will have to do.

Chapter 99

The air began to sting her lungs as her nightlong exertions caught up to her, the overuse of long distance transportation left her head feeling too like and her stomach running empty. Crow stood underneath a side window as her sight meandered up to the second story.

She was hesitant to plunge further into reserves lest she be drained and left with no way to sneak back into the palace proper.

With rising consternation, she tested her fingers against the cold, steel side beams. As she suspected, the gloves did not grant enough friction for her to gain enough purchase.

“Emperor's eyes.” She cursed under her breath as she pulled off her gloves finger by finger. “This place better have something worth my time.”

One frozen pull at a time, Crow scaled up the side wall, brushing aside shelved snow in spite of her reddening digits. Precariously hanging with a wet hand, she plunged her knife between the frames, jiggling hard for just the tiniest gap. She negotiated viciously but silently with the lock, cold sweat slipped down the nape of her neck as she managed to eke apart the small mechanical latch.

The pane swung inward quietly on smooth hinges, thank the emperor, and she slipped in without further fuss.

Crow found herself inside a lady’s parlor, a sitting room with plenty of window-light for dainty needlework, reading and writing. The furnishings, however, resembled her former wing, draped in the protective white canvases of disuse. A portrait was left uncovered, the draping deliberately left aside and abandoned as though someone wanted a last glimpse of the painting.

Crow stood before the low mantle and took in the simple polished wood frame, a scarlet haired woman with a rosy, swaddled babe in arm. Even the painter was hard pressed to disguise the sickly pallor of the woman, her unsmiling countenance told a wordless story of resignation and deep melancholy.

If this is the lady of the house then that sour faced lump must be Domitia as a newborn, Crow determined.

“What an ugly child.” She wrinkled her nose up at them.

Being within the house had warmed her somewhat, though the dreary gloom of the room did not lift with the cold. She shut the window quietly and made her way to the exit. The house was steeped in slumber and all the servants had likely retired to ready themselves for an typical early morning. Still, with much care, she carried her sodden boots and skulked along the upper wing.

It was a far cry from the palace in size but was a foreign space regardless. She spent a good ten minutes opening doors and peering in, finding nothing but guest rooms and even Domitia’s former chambers. After the last room was checked — her hopes for a quick search were dashed when a linen closet revealed itself — it was decided that she had to see herself down to the lower story.

The front foyer was not lit but she caught a trickle of conversation further down the left path. Likely a steward, or some household equivalent, still awake and about as he waited for his master’s return. The other was likely the cook, or some midnight trust between fraternizing servants. She only hoped they would keep themselves busy and out of her way. It would be messy to wet her knife on more than ice tonight.

A double doored archway appeared at the far right end, capping off the wing with a small central square. Two other doors flanked its sides, leading off to other rooms. The main center door was locked when she tried it — an exasperated roll of her eyes and another silent curse.

Nothing was ever easy, was it? — Crow griped inwardly and slipped herself into the left room.

She froze as she registered a figure mid-climb as they eased a broad shoulder through the broken window. What were the odds of two thieves gunning for the same home on tonight of all nights?

Crow adjusted her dagger grip and lunged, intent to kill and silence this unexpected factor in her impromptu break-in. To her astonishment, her swipe for the throat failed to find its mark as her hand was caught and summarily halted.

She bristled, ready for violence, until her fellow intruder eased back his cowl with a casual flick of a finger. Zenos stared back at her through the dim, a shushing finger pressed against his own lips. Her outrage was all in her wide eyes and wrinkled brows.

“How did you find me?”

His answer was pitched low. “The local patrol isn’t wont to turn down good coins and a sincere threat. Claimed to suspect a slinking burglar sizing up the houses.” 

Inwardly, Crow chided herself for her carelessness.

“He’s resting somewhere now, hopefully to wake before he catches his death.” He shrugged, reading the consternation on her face.

With great reluctance, she turned her back on him and scanned the empty room. Behind her, the window slid shut quietly, cutting off the fanning chill. A door, she spied, across the room, angled diagonally. A closet or a connecting entrance, she determined as she crossed the space to give it a discerning try.

Locked — No luck, again.

She scanned the adjacent mantle with Zenos closing in behind her, hand hovering over her knife to jam into the lock. She turned to see him reach up to the top of the doorway and swept across with his fingers, lifting a spare key from its place. 

Pointedly, she plucked it from him and pushed through into the adjacent study. Cooler heads had prevailed in spite of herself, for now.

The air smelled of paper and wood as she scanned the shelves and large oak desk. Zenos leveled his finger at the desk and immediately began to peruse through the books at the far end by the entrance.

Crow set down her shoes and sheathed her dagger by the thigh strap, hands combing through documents still laid out in the open. She was seeking ledgers, financial documents, anything to indicate underhanded dealings. 

Nothing but plans for propaganda and drafted speeches met her scrutiny. Wasting no time, Crow immediately shifted down to the drawers. One had ink pots and expensive gilded stationery, another had naught but unsigned checks and household inventory records. His desk was as clean as a blank slate, much to her chagrin as she searched within the fourth and final drawer. 

She glared holes into the wood, disappointed by a wasted trip and ill-used time. Until, that was, she thought back to the slyly hidden compartment in her own vanity.

On a hunch, just because it would be where she would hide her own dirty dealings, Crow reached into every opened drawer and ran her hand against every side wooden facet. One by one until her hand brushed against a tiny knob and the very back of the drawer.

She drew in a sharp breath as a thrill of discovery shot through her. She pulled on the secondary storage box and reached in deeper, slender fingers feeling the fine ribbing of bound paper and leather cover. A triumphant gasp escaped her and she lifted the small ledger for inspection. 

Crow felt Zenos’ questioning eyes upon her and straightened to meet his gaze, her hands already eagerly flipping through the pages. Rows of exorbitant funds were listed, assigned under various labels including Apatus. Curiously, she also spotted a familiar name: ‘Flavius M’.

The transactions were incoming, meaning Flavius goe Marius had more interest and influence in court than she initially realized if the Volerus was a benefactee or investor of his.

Coincidence? No, this is only another thread in a conspirator’s web. Evidently, the Volerus were not the only ones vying for influence on the next emperor — Crow thought, making no attempt to disguise her disdain for the current viceroy of Doma. 

As for the rest, it'll have to wait as distant, drunken titters reached them from the front of the manor. The household steward was still awake since last she'd heard him and he would no doubt rouse a few of his subordinates to help cater to whoever had just shown up. Their option for exits just became severely limited.

She glanced at the chronometer tower by the far left of the room: nearly half-past eleven. As much as she wanted to continue to dig, it was time to leave.

Crow slipped into her boots as quietly as she could manage and signaled to her impromptu partner-in-crime. Ignoring the blurring edges in her vision, she drew her dagger in preparation for their departure.

Stowing away a dark folder he had been scanning through, Zenos made his way over to her as she opened another one of her uncanny gateways. Barring a few surreptitiously confiscated items, they had made sure to leave things exactly how they'd found them.

The warm envelopment spat them back out into the biting cold. He was first to land, immediately scanning the area for incoming patrol. The streets were uneven but stamped with tracks of previously passing legionaries, good enough to camouflage their own trail.

The portal wavered and Zenos straightened; she was taking concerningly long to arrive. He took a step forward, a heartbeat away from reentering the pulsing unknown to search for her before she came stumbling out in a flurry of cloak and braided hair. Right into him she crashed, his arms curling inward to brace her against her vertigo.

Crow felt like a drained water skin, the hollowing hunger for her — or Naberos, rather — lack of aether was punishing on her body. She pressed her forehead against Zenos' chest, curling herself against his warm mass as she gave a shiver.

“Can you walk?”

She shook her head, fighting against the dull thud of her pulse as it pounded into her ears. It was all she could do to stand on her jellied legs and hold the growing migraine at bay.

There wasn't even enough energy in her to protest when he swept her off her feet and carried her over a shoulder. It was, by far, the most humiliating way she'd ever been transported.

The headache washed over her wave after painful waves, leaving her stomach churning with every step she could feel him taking. She drew in a breath and winced, the cold air crystalizing the moisture in her nostrils. Difficult to say whether she preferred the humid, cloying heat of Nagxia or the algid freeze of Ilsabard.

“Emperor’s eyes.” Crow muttered in her delirium, then swallowed uselessly to keep her dinner down. The ground was a blur of colors and her eyes spun as her mind attempted to make sense of what was passing through her vision. 

“You're mumbling.” Zenos chortled and laid her down to the narrow bed.

Crow curled up into the thick covers and gave a shiver in spite of the settling heat of the room. The trip was too short for them to be back at the palace. The air smelled of heavy perfume and disappointment, and the creaky floorboards accompanied every footsteps. Vague murmurs sounded elsewhere, too far away to be made out but close enough that it filtered into the room.

She opened her eyes to look about. Naked heated pipes lined the wall, a small writing desk was placed under a window right behind where Zenos sat. He had turned the small iron-backed seat around and was watching her intently. 

“Where are we?”

“A brothel.” 

Crow thought of the sheet she was laying on and squinted in dismay and disgust. Twice in her life she'd set foot in a whorehouse, and that was twice too many. 

“Do you think there's a good chance that they change the sheets after their…business concluded?”

He gave a vague, amused glance at the thick, but fading coverlet. “Let us hope.” 

She sat up slowly and disentangled herself from the covers. The immediate need to find a rest stop was great, she understood, but did it have to be a whorehouse of all places? Her limbs ached with the echoes of exhaustion as she moved, the headache pounding her skull resounding with every beat of her heart.

“I just need something to eat and drink, my aether is depleted.” Crow clutched her head.

“It was foolish to play delinquent. I had a guest during your impromptu visit, you could have been caught.” He put up a placating hand before she could retort. “But I did suspect you would pull something like this, just not as soon. I could've helped you prepare if I'd known beforehand.” 

“A territory was stripped from me, your father sicced his pet thralls on me and His Radiance hasn't been sympathetic to my plights of late.” Crow kneaded her temples and brow ridge in an attempt to soothe the unceasing pounding, watching Zenos as he made his way to the entrance. “I can’t mope about in my tower and wait for a charming lord’s rescue”

“Plan better next time then, if you were going to leave me out of it.”

She let out an indignant scoff.

His reprimand stung her as she glowered sourly at him through the shadow of his hood. He shut the door and left her to rest and sulk for a while, feeling impotent in her drained state.

The stew, if it could be called such, was at least hearty and filling. The paltry meal placated her temper for now, soothing the dull, hungry ache of her body with every bite. She bit down on another chunk of overcooked root vegetable and tore off a hunk of black bread with enthusiastic gusto. It was stale but soaked up and softened with the thin broth. They conversed as she ate, the night drifting with vague noises without but unlike the palace, the walls here had no ears.

“Nerva is now head of the senate, you say?” Crow said in between swallows.

“It is to be announced soon, my father suspects the usual route of bribery and calling in old favors.” Zenos leaned back on the seat, the muscled contours of his forearms sharpening as he crossed them. 

“Hopefully those old bloodsuckers will do us a favor and siphon the life from him, that’s all they’re good for anyways.” She sniffed, lifting the scratched metal cup to her lips and drank deeply.

“The senate isn’t as ineffectual as you might think, they hold the second say after the imperial family. Nerva will be capable of a lot more as a member of both parties, especially if Titus ascends the throne.” 

The second son of the emperor was infamous for his weak will and preference for a soft, fine life, unlike his late elder brother. His one and only attempt at a military campaign had resulted in the catastrophic massacre that even had Varis public condemnation, though Crow suspected that was more for the sake of appearances than any true sense of empathy for the Southern Othard killings.

“Nerva would be emperor in all but name, along with his banshee of a mother.” The princess grimaced. “I doubt your father can move against his direct benefactor, not when his campaign for support is on the line.”

She flipped through the stolen ledger’s pages back to the general time of the title’s purchase, eliciting a wry chuckle as she read the tale told through logged numbers. The Volerus and the Apatus might as well be one in the same house since the Mayor had made the scandalous purchase by proxy. Unless explicitly allowed by the emperor, possession of two titles was quite illegal in Garlemald — a law that was established to keep the aristocracy from overreaching their bounds. Furthermore, playing for both sides might ruffle plenty of feathers in the political sphere. He was not alone either; she slid a finger through the pages and observed the latest recording. The viceroy of Doma was supporting him in the shadows financially with profits from the flesh trade in the East.

They were looking for a surefire way to entrench themselves into the imperial family, by marriage or by coin.

“One has to commend the Mayor for his ambition.” She muttered.

“Careful, you sound as though you might just admire him for it.” Zenos chuckled, enjoying the keen glint in her eyes.

“Nothing wrong in applauding for a pig when he gets on his hind legs to dance.” She shrugged.

The prince conceded with a huff of amusement, then produced the stolen folder from his coat. Crow raised a puzzled brow at it, then looked to him.

“And what’s this?” She asked as she lifted it from his hand.

“You recall the labor shortage in the city?”

She thought back to the newsletters she’d read days before her confinement. The article had been small but still held a slot on the front page. Something or another about the ceruleum rigs having trouble filling its worker slots, enough to threaten the city’s supply of energy reserves. It was a risky occupation reserved for the lowest in the city’s hierarchy — non-pureblooded workers who were vying for a chance at citizenship, but could not serve in the military. In theory, this should not be happening as many from poorer territories would come to seek better opportunities and improved quality of life. 

“I suppose.” She mulled over the numbers, reading the jotted down locations. From Garlemald to Doma, titled ‘lumber F’ and ‘lumber M’ followed by numbers as though they were shipped in batches. 

Garlemald, with its barren tundra wastelands and looming white mountains, did not export lumber.

“Garlemald? To Doma?” People — she realized — they were shipping people and disguising them as shipments of wood, of all things. And the suffix of F and M likely determined the gender of the poor wretches who were caught up in this scheme.

She grimaced in distaste as she remembered what Flavius goe Marius’ primary wares were. “So, they’re spiriting citizen hopefuls off to be traded as commodities.”

Slavery, defined by the act of coercing or forcing a thinking sentient being into indefinite one-sided servitude, was formally prohibited in Garlemald and its vassal cities after the unification as a gesture of good intent by His Radiance. Outside of Ilsabard and within its subsequent territories, however, everything was fair game so long as the market didn't encroach on northern imperial grounds. To siphon the workforce from the capital to the point of risking its energy stability was severe enough to warrant an investigation.

She wondered if His Radiance knew about this chain of corruption.

“How far does this go?” Crow shut the folder, its dreadful weight keenly felt in her hand.

“More than one might initially assume. Before our little incident, my honored father spoke of his suspicion, Nerva and his ilk might be invested as well in this ‘breach’ — as he called it. He wishes to prune and uproot this trail before this impact spreads beyond the ceruleum rigs.”

A harsh note of laughter sprung from her, incredulous by the notion. “The High Legatus? Having a heart for us piteous savages?”

“You know better. It is the empire and its stable longevity as a whole that he cares for.” Zenos scoffed and shook his head. “But he's willing to turn a blind eye so long as it benefits his cause.”

She sniffed. Typical. But in this, she saw an opportunity. To destroy the Volerus is to also destroy the Apatus, thereby crippling Varis and Nerva in tandem. It was a vindictively delicious parting gift before she made her exit to Doma. The viceroy there would likely be nonthewiser to the dismantling of their plans.

With decisions made, Crow set aside the empty bowl and glass, the tray clinking as she slid off the small cot. She stretched to her full height, mind still working to craft all these moving parts into some semblance of use for their plans.

She rounded on him with a sudden inspiration. “This trafficking case would be our ‘good reason’ to step into the Far East. In fact, request for a legion.” Her eyes flashed. “The emperor would not deny you a reward for such information.”

“I wasn't aware we needed a good reason to do anything. ” He could see her already diving headlong into her schemes. 

Zenos stood as well and leaned in ever closer over her, amusement dancing as his bowed lips curved into a reproachful grin. “Moreover, what happened to doing this for the good of the empire?”

Crow laughed, the sound dusky and beckoning.

“Everything needs a good reason to justify its doing, otherwise people would make a fuss — Voracity notwithstanding.”  She slung her arms over his shoulders, her breath fanning against his throat. She yoked him with her weight as she pulled her body flushed against his. “And mind you, I do sympathize with these victims’ plights, but altruism without benefit is just a waste of time.”

She hummed, the sound meandering down the apple of his throat with her pale lips. “Ask His Radiance, for my sake. We do need manpower if we’re to go to Doma…lest you prefer this clandestine dance of cloaks and…daggers?”

Her teeth pinched at the skin of his neck in a chiding nip. 

The sensation provoked a sharp breath from him, shoulder curling at the spreading sting of his nerves. It was all he could do to resist the urge to throw her down to the bed and have her then and there. She smiled at the quick canters of his heart then slammed the folder and ledger against his muscled chest, forcing a sudden backstep from him as she pushed away. Crow slipped from the room but then turned at the doorway and he caught her tongue flick across her lips.

“That’s for the scolding.” She teased.

Zenos daubed at the skin of his neck, finding the high-necked collar pulled down. His finger came away with a faint smear of blood that was no larger than the length of his fingertip. He gritted his jaw and stolidly ignored the rising flush of heat at his throat.

Chapter 100

Dawn was up on them when she finally made it back to her wanly lit apartments, frost-stiffened hands peeling off the snow-stained travel clothes from her body. Thankfully, it was too early for maidservants to come by for her morning rituals of breakfast and bath. For now, it was too risky to have them laundered, so she hid the dirty articles in a vanity drawer for later disposal. Then a hot, sobering bath, the steaming water and scented oil soaked into her tired limbs to the point of total relaxation.

Not so long had passed before she fell asleep in the tub, Crow was woken up by a maidservant and the water had grown lukewarm by the time she came to. She shrugged into a gossamer gown with the help of the servant before dismissing the accompanying meal altogether.

“I'll be spending time in bed for the day. Come back at luncheon.” She waved the girl away and closed her bedchambers off with a resounding slam.

Naberos was waiting for her, slithering out from a crevice in the fluidly carved nooks of her tall vanity mirror. She was thoroughly exhausted by the night’s exploits, that much was true, but sleep can wait.

Crow plucked the servants’ scheduling list from its maw and examined it keenly with a pleased smirk. “Well done.”

She retrieved Domitia’s locket chain from the secret compartment in her vanity and watched as it dangled between her fingers. The golden case, set with small, twinkling diamonds, opened to a miniature reproduction of the portrait she'd seen in the Volerus household. The same tired, resigned face of a miserable wife with a pinched wrinkle of a baby. A baby who grew up and was afforded every respect and dignity allotted to a woman of pure Garlean aristocratic stock. 

Whose simple accusation had almost destroyed everything she’d worked for had it not been for the emperor’s evenhanded mercy.

The frame was a dainty thing as she plucked out the painting within, and crushed it in her fist. She would have to throw it in the fireplace later, something so small would leave no trace.

“You've started all sorts of trouble for me by stealing this.” Crow glared at the voidsent.

‘Thousand apologies, mistress.’ Naberos seemed smug even as it ducked behind the mirror, its arrow shape-head peering from around the gilded scroll work.

She rolled her eyes and let out a weary sigh. “T’was inevitable with Varis and his minions, it was this or something else eventually.”

“ At any road, I want you to bring this to our little eavesdropper and slip this to a certain colleague of hers.”

‘ How can she be convinced?’ Regardless of his mistress’ authority, Naberos cannot imagine the little spy would be compliant after her vicious maiming.

“Well, you claimed to want a new vessel, did you not?” The princess lowered the jeweled trinket down to her vanity desk as her thrall slithered down its perch to receive it. It climbed over a powder box, tails curled with interest. Its singular red eye glittered with malevolent glee as it took in the envisioned plan within her mind.

She ran a finger down its rippling spinal ridge, wisps of smoky shadow wreathing from the voidsent’s half-tangible scales. 

“Be sure to leave no traces.”

****

Everyday was a rush of chores and duties that involved dusting and scrubbing and endless folding of linens sheets. The Imperial family, though numbering less than five members within the palace proper, demanded nothing short of absolutely immaculate cleanliness. The rugs must be replaced every six moons to be cleaned, the furniture thoroughly dusted and polished every month, the beddings changed every fortnight, and the fireplaces emptied and restacked with precisely three logs every night. These were only a handful of chores to be had for the rotating shifts of servants whether it be day or night.

This strict regimen was applied to every occupied apartment and receiving halls, including guests, but that was a different set of staff altogether. Her duties lately have been made more difficult since the sequestering of the First Princess. It was difficult to carry out her duties of dusting the drapery and replacing the flowers even when Her Grace was shuttered in her study or bedchamber. Her close brush with death seemed only yesterday and she carried out her task as quickly as she could, not willing to risk another encounter with the vile witch. Whatever she did to earn her place in this decadent prison, the punishment seemed all too good for the likes of her.

 Inis had caught only the briefest trickle from the discussions between the stewards and the head maidservants. Something about the theft of a precious heirloom and an outburst from the one who had supposedly taken it. The two witnessing guards had been terribly spartan with the details, having been issued a gagged order on the pains of imprisonment. 

She had a bad habit of listening in on things that were meant to be private, one could even say she had quite the talent for it. Inis scratched at her scarred leg through her stockings as she sat down to her narrow cot, the memory of the First Princess’ so-called mercy was still alive and well in her nightmares.

She had stemmed the bleeding and stitched Inis’ leg wound close with her abhorrent magicks, leaving behind unspoken menace and threat.

Lord Varis’ aide had not approached her in some time since, after she'd last sent in her last report. After she had heard of the familial conflict, she understood why the High Legatus had taken to dismiss her use. She was not needed when Her Grace was already so heavily surveilled, at least for the time being.

Inis thought back to the lie she'd told, about a war-crippled father and hard times, and felt not a wit. She’d claimed worse to get by, such was the way of life when one was raised under the iron-hearted institute of northern provincial orphanages.

All Inis had known since her sixth winter was grinding discipline and the thin blankets and mattress shared between half a dozen other children. The accommodations in the imperial palace were luxurious in comparison, her own cot and pillow, heated pipes and three hot meals a day. They even paid you fairly here, a stipend larger than anything one can earn running random errands and delivering back alley goods back in Nhalmasque.

As good as things were, it never seemed enough. She was not even a tenth of the way to her saving goals even after two years of service. Moving somewhere warmer had always been her aim, trying her luck outside of this frozen waste of a continent. Even the bribes had not been enough to nudge the total of what she had earned past the halfway mark. Trips abroad were expensive, starting anew abroad even more so, especially when such things were no longer subsidized by the upper crust.

Programs to bolster colonial populations down south had long ceased since the Barheim Incident in Rabanastre. The empire was hesitant to endanger its citizenry when anarchists were so bent on usurping the peace brought about by the legions, so the emperor had decided to direct efforts to fortify imperial stability overseas. At least that was what the capital newsletter claimed.

It was really all too bad. She hoped the empire made progress in Aldenard, the weather there was purportedly like paradise when compared to the harsh climes of Ilsabard. Inis allowed herself to daydream for a moment, arriving in a foreign land as a rich young woman who had no past and a beautiful dress bought with endless wealth. She would be the talk of the town, shining and bright — nothing like that vile witch of a princess, who had everything she wanted.

The world was a terrible and unjust place to have a savage sitting pretty in the lap of luxury — Inis thought sourly, her calf itching again.

Having finished her undressing, the maidservant laid back and rolled over in the dark, the chorus of snores from her three other bunk-mates invoked nothing but irritation. Her hand slipped under the under-stuffed pillow and she started. Hard metal met her fingers as the outline of a rounded object formed in her mind through touch. The muffled clink of a thin chain scraped against the flaxen fabric of her pillow case. The chain was long and tangled between her fingers, tiny, intricately faceted stones laid embedded against its rounded edges.

Inis swallowed thickly as she wrapped her hand around the trinket. She sat up and pretended to saunter tiredly to the door as though she was making a late night visit to the privy. Scores of doors passed her by, each room was a cramped dormitory that housed four to five members of imperial servants. The stark, plain tiles were cold beneath her bare feet, doing nothing to insulate the factocum caste against the chill within the long, unflattering buildings that was the servant’s barracks. Each flat, utilitarian complex spanned fifty fulms long and twenty fulms wide. All of which were stacked with three stories a piece and squared away from clear view so to not disrupt the grandeur of the imperial tower. As for the facilities, they were maintained by its occupants even after their long, tiring shifts within the palace proper.

‘Labor for the empire is labor for the self.’ so went the motto, every words drilled into them after the rigorous training and getting by the heads of staff.

 She kept a steady, calm pace, nodding in a feigned haze as she passed by a retiring nightguard. The trinket, whatever it was, wherever it came from, felt like a heavy lump of coal in her smock’s pocket.

After a second check on the lock, She lifted it by the chain up to the bare privy light, each white diamond sparkling like stars even under the unflattering fluorescent beams.

Though she was no goldsmith, Inis could feel between her fingers the weight and value of unadulterated gold. Or close to, anyways, having never owned something this precious in her life.

“Emperor be blessed.” She murmured under her breath. 

With this, she could perhaps venture forth with more than sufficient funding. Even afford a small cottage somewhere peaceful, perhaps Locus Amoenus, the ancestral lands of plenty. No more shabby leftovers from an overfed lord’s table or berating from a steward.

Inis turned the trinket this way and that, admiring the metal’s glowing, golden hue and lily bloom filigree, skillfully teased nearly to life by some talented hands.

Her finger found the delicate latch, cleverly wrought to twine about each other like stems. They parted easily with a twist and the locket sprang open. She puzzled over the blank darkness pooling at its center, her brows only managing a wrinkle together before it gave a ripple. And struck.

Inis, caught off guard by the living cruor within, dropped the locket with a clatter, her feet clumsily tripping over themselves as she scrambled against a tiled wall. She clawed at her mouth at the gelid, slippery coil of something slid its way down her throat. She let out a choked moan, her throat working uselessly to expunge the thing that was pushing itself into her gullet. She felt the prick of claws that tore at the slick insides of her cheek, and her throat grew raw at the sensation of rough, doing scales. With a panicked hand around her throat, she doubled over in an attempt to wretch up whatever monstrosity that was working its way into her.

She felt the thing slid past the opening of her throat and was lost to her, plunged beyond her reach into the cavity of her innards. Inis stumbled back and tripped over the ledge of the privy, nausea rising like an implacable tidal wave. Her body swung off kilter as she fainted and the back of her head bashed a bloody streak against the shelved wall behind her. The clatters of fallen bottles of communal soaps, brushes and metal trays were muffled as they landed on her prone form. What noise they did emit, however, went unheard as the night drifted on in unattended silence.

The body woke with an epileptic start, eyes snapping open after a momentary twitch of a jolted finger. It climbed to its feet with clumsy mechanical limbs as the voidsent within familiarized itself with this frame. It had to relearn much of mortal motor functions, but lessons previously gleaned were easily remembered as it reacquainted itself to the nimbleness of articulate hands. This one was smaller and not as sturdy as the one previous, it would have preferred a male shell over something like this. But it had what it needed, every morsel of entrails would be savored and hollowed out over time as the voidsent grew to fit this new glove.

A gleam caught its eyes as it was examining its new hands — the locket. Naberos plucked the golden thing from the ground but as it lowered itself down by the waist, a wet, still-warm rivulet ran below the shell of its right ear. It lent a curious hand to explore the back of its head, finding a deep gash had opened. The lengths of hair in the surrounding vicinity was stringy and wet, clumping together in thick strands under its roving fingers.

‘This will not do, not at all.’ The voidsent thought. Its finicky mistress, with all her constraints and decorum, would not be pleased to see this frame in such a state.

Its first step was a loping stagger but after each subsequent swing, its legs eventually gave way to a smoother gait. It made its way out from the privy closet and bee-lined to the designated dorm room. 

By design, there were no locks on any of the doors within the servant’s quarters. Instead, personal belongings were kept in assigned lockers no bigger than a box in the adjoining communal hall. The bare but clean space of each domicile were as impersonal as it could be, four bunk beds meant for rest and nothing more.

Naberos glanced about discreetly and disappeared inside. It yanked on the light string to find the spartan room empty, just as its mistress had said. These sets of servants were assigned on night duty and would not return for another handful of bells.

It casted about with the locket in hand, unable to discern which bed belonged to the intended recipient of the pilfered trinket. A strand of gray hair laid on the pillow of the left bottom bunk, giving it the hint it needed.

The locket was promptly stuffed under the mattress, a planted piece of evidence that would ruin anyone caught with it.

Naberos made its discreet exit, sauntering off into the cold night with dead eyes and twitching fingers. Back to the palace proper, back to its mistress.

Chapter 101

The voidsent, in its latest servile guise, submitted the letter of confession to the steward, who brought it before the emperor's aide, Lord Quintus van Cinna, who then inspected the letter and read it aloud to his own lord.

Solus ran a dry hand across his brow in consternation. So the play continued despite his attempt to end it as amicably as he could. He was aware of Varis’ underhanded play, using the accusation of the Volerus girl to incite punishment upon his ward. That fop never did like being outmaneuvered, but always prone to underestimating those he thought beneath him. Crow herself was not blameless either, her outburst after being cornered had only served to inflame the situation. And he had to admit, even with words alone, she knew where best to strike to inflict the most damage.

The emperor, for his part as mediator in this petty conflict, did what he could to accommodate all parties. Varis and his ilk had the upper hand but, out of his deep affection for his ward, Solus was disinclined to drive an even deeper wedge between her and himself. The boy’s current dominion over Valnain was a concession, one in that caused his vehement father to smolder in dark anger. Varis had never been one for compromise, a poor trait in any future monarch.

Crow had the grace to bear her punishment without protest, or so he'd thought until this letter came along. The confession from a maidservant, claiming that she'd witnessed one of her peers squirrel away the missing heirloom of the Volerus girl. 

What a drawn out mess — Solus griped inwardly.

“What do you think, Quintus?” The emperor leaned against one of his armrests, old bones creaking like petrified wood.

“Might you send guards to search the servant’s quarters?” The Legatus of the Ist suggested, folding the fine-grained papers nearly.

“Yes, yes, an investigation and all that.” He waved dismissively. “What I ask for is a cessation to this– this petty feud. At least until I'm dead and buried!” 

“Your Radiance, forgive your devoted servant for saying this but,” Quintus coughed stiffly. “It'd be easier to ask for the immediate unity of the continents.”

Solus glared at his aide.

“Helpful.” He said dryly.

“If the accusations and subsequent witnesses were false, this presents an opportunity for reconciliation. Perhaps you could make them convene and put aside their differences.” Quintus was very well aware of the recent arguments between the emperor and the princess, over her legitimacy and the marriage betrothal of his great grandson. At first, he'd sided with Varis and let things progress as they should. But the High Legatus was never satisfied with only one victory. He had reached out to attempt to fleece her of authority and dignity after a rout between the princess and Zenos’ betrothed.

 The prince, pity for him, was caught between the difficult tug-o-war of familial duty and personal desire. Nevertheless, he remembered the way the boy had lashed out years ago when Quintus encroached into his space. His levelheadedness belied something vicious. He'd gotten better at hiding that jagged streak as he reached his maturity.

If the emperor’s ward were to marry his great grandson, the purity and legitimacy of their dynasty would be jeopardized. Not to mention Varis’ vigorous protest. And as Zenos’ own sire, he held the right to arrange his progeny’s affairs without outside intervention. In this, Quintus could see the High Legatus’ own hypocrisy when he'd married then-lady Carosa against his mother, Princess-consort Hypatia’s wishes. By such time, Prince Lucius, his father, had passed on and Varis’ fate was his own to decide.

He wondered what his lord had expected when he raised two children of different gender, blood and race side by side. By his own estimation, they'd been bound by the hips since childhood, close as two children of different stock can be. And much to the chagrin of His Radiance, their bond had grown beyond the threads of juvenile friendships and into something more typical between a man and a woman. Now there was heartbreak and spurned feelings abound, an all around a chaotic affair of tiresome proportions.

“If it is only between Lord Varis and her,” Quintus mused. “Perhaps marrying Her Grace off and giving her peace from court life might be prudent.”

Solus chortled snidely, rubbing his brows as he spoke. “She’ll geld her husband and march her way back with a rebellion in tow — and the boy, who bloody knows what havoc he’ll wreck in court.” 

Quintus saw the hesitation in his liege’s excuses but held his tongue. The emperor was fond of the First Princess, loved her even, such was true since the day he had held her in his arms. Powerful men like him were wont to hold onto things they held dear. From beloved daughters to their grip on power, and to their last breath if they could help it.

“Well then, there is only one road laid out for you then, Your Radiance: you must pick a side, for better or for worse.”

****

The hearth breathed a weak plume of embers as Crow prodded the flames with an iron poker, its full, ruddy light casting harsh shadows against the planes of her grand apartments. She turned to the sealed entrance of her arrayed abide as a series of knocks rapped sharply against her receiving chamber’s doors. It was the sound she had been expecting after being shut inside for the past six days, restless and pacing like an impatient beast. A cage, no matter how gilded and lavished, was still a cage.

“Enter.” Her permission was a mere formality, not a requirement. Not when she was the prisoner.

A steward pushed through the doors, squinting into the dark as he sketched a bow to the burnished outline of the pariah princess. 

“The emperor requires your attendance, Your Grace.”

“But my sentence has yet to expire.” The dark room hid the faint, sardonic smile she wore.

“It involves the issue of Lady Volerus’ heirloom. Beyond that, I may say no more, Your Grace.”

At once, the fire was put out by ash thrown atop, plunging the abode into a bruised darkness. He heard the whisper of her footsteps and stood aside, head lowered and eyes averted. A secondary set of feet followed closely behind her — a lady’s maid, he guessed, but did not recognize her face when he chanced a look.

Burgundy haired pinned by a bun and a red cap over the back of her head, the pallid maidservant was more revenant than girl. Her eyes were glossless and rimmed by bruised shadows, like a porcelain doll that had long been abandoned. She gave a slow, measured turn of her head and met his scrutiny blankly.

“Where are we to gather?” The question from the princess snapped the steward from his disturbed reverie.

“This–this way, Your Grace.” He tried and failed to cover up his fumbled words, drawing ahead to guide them.

Crow swept a hand to her latest retainer, bidding her to wait without. The steward swept into another bow and shut the door in the princess’ wake. He glanced back nervously before he trailed back to his other duties, feeling piercing eyes boring holes into his back all the while.

They met each other face to face after nearly a week in the sanctum of his personal office, one waiting for the other to breach the strained silence first.

“I did suggest for you to search the servant’s quarters.” Crow said, arms crossed.

“It has been found and you are vindicated.” Solus concurred with a heavy sigh.

“And will the High Legatus weigh in on the matter?” Crow pressed. “And dare I hope for an apology?”

He gave her a look of warning. “Let sleeping dogs lie, my dear.”

“Now, Zenos came to me with interesting news regarding the illicit transport of the capital’s workers.” The emperor continued, sifting through the documents before him. He came upon what he was looking for and tossed it lightly to the far end of the desk where she stood. “I assume you were the architect of this discovery?”

She examined the compiled documents. Zenos had polished the information and categorized them into a chronological timeline within the last three days, the information was even easier to go through than before. He was an obnoxiously talented scribe and bureaucrat.

“He may have hinted at something and asked for my input, but my contributions are little more than footnotes.” She relented somewhat with a guilty simper. It was better than an outright lie.

Her guardian assessed her skeptically, long, jointed fingers running through the silvery trail of his long, ivory beard. The boy would never do anything without her bidding, much less draft up something so scathingly detailed. He had then asked for a legion in return, the second largest force held in reserve: the XIIth. 

He gave a gruff harrumphed, letting her half-truth off with a mere doubtful huff.

“What will you do with House Apatus?” Crow probed lightly, allowing herself only a measure restrained interest.

“A discreet audit is in order, then we shall see what skeletons come tumbling out.” The emperor steepled his beringed fingers.

She decided to test her luck further. “Will Zenos be put in charge? It is his findings, after all.”

“The decision will be made known in two days, over supper.”

Crow wore a tiny frown, the expression putting the merest mar on her pliant countenance. If this was his olive branch, then she had no other choice but to accept it. She dipped into obliging curtsy, dress fanning artfully as she lowered herself in obeisance. 

“But of course, I thank you for the invitation.” 

Chapter 102

Sterile lights flickered audibly within the holding cells beneath the imperial tower, causing the Medicus to look up from his reading. He stood and peered out the thick glass window of his office, unnerved by the unusual surge. The steel-lined corridors were dimly lit by efficient fluorescent panels, managing to evoke a maligned, clinical dread to any who would pass through. There were hardly any visitors to this dreary level, even the patrols only made the rounds once a week. It seemed only he had the constitution to withstand the crushing boredom and constant cries from the only prisoner here.

Another sob reached him from the to the immediate left of his office. Two prisoners, he amended inwardly. A maidservant had been placed here on temporary arrest until the imperial family decided a suitable sentence for her. Theft of imperial property and perjury were her crimes, or so he'd heard.

Seeing nothing amiss, he slinked back to his flat-cushioned stool and squinted down to his incomplete research. It was then that the lights gave another tensed flicker and promptly died. He'd heard about the rolling blackouts happening in the civilian quarters, but never would he suspect such outages could affect the imperial palace itself. 

Red lights flooded the area suddenly, his vision readjusting to the ruddy glare. 

Ah, the emergency generators. He nodded sensibly.

The sobs grew higher in intensity and the Medicus gave an annoyed sigh. He slipped on his old legion-issued ear mitts and plugged it into the worn turntable on his desk. The soothing plinks of pianoforte played as he laid his dejected head down against the cool metal desk’s edge.

His eyes shut, his thoughts restless, the Medicus was willfully blind to anything outside the immediate space of his sealed office. The high steel door behind him was manually accessed, admitting a diminutive figure dressed in a servant’s uniform. It used its newly acquired hands to test the door of his office, the ilms-thick glass unwilling to give.

The mistress had given it orders but did not explicitly forbid it from indulging. It tried again with a push, but found a keyhole where the number pad should be. Disappointed by the lack of access, the voidsent was forced to move on.

It entered the manual keycode to the designated cell, knife in hand to free the one trapped inside. The wretch within was a sight to behold, strapped to an iron, seatless throne. She, Naberos determined after some time, was without legs, all the way up to the joints of her knees. Ruined fingers quivered, each foremost knuckle was bandaged yet still bled. She emitted a sour, wet wheeze with every breath and Naberos saw her naked gums every time she took in air. Whatever hair remained on her semi-plucked head stayed on as airy gray wisps, unevenly spread out and patched with old scabs.

Every trace of her skin, from head to stumped legs, was marked with creative cruelty. It was an ugly, breathtaking sight that told a tale of depthless vindictiveness.

The voidsent stepped forward with outstretched hand, and grasped at the scarred wretch’s face almost tenderly as it would a lover. 

A pathetic whimper escaped her cracked lips, weak and exhausted. It silenced her with a soft hush, drawing closer. It angled itself over her and opened its mouth, allowing a drip of black bile to pour free. The knife was placed into her weak, limp hand as it began to fill her.

The poor thing began to sob, tears trailing down her milky cataract-ridden eyes. But she submitted without further protest, likely sensing that her end was nigh. She would be part of something greater than herself and free from her physical torments, as a final breath.

As mindless, delectable aether.

The rickety maidservant fell back, limp and empty as an abandoned husk. Naberos twisted, displeased by the abused vessel it was given. The tendons were stretched and ill-used, but it would make do, for now.

Under the ruddy light, it climbed from the soiled throne and slid to the ground. It writhed on its belly as it stabbed into its own stumps, allowing for the free flow of black ichor. Tendrils slid forth in place of legs, propping it gradually upright.

Dismay reverberated through its thoughts as it found itself still weak. A high sob sounded through the adjacent cell; the maidservant it had framed for the theft of the locket was kept here, it remembered.

Naberos slid its cruor-slicked hand over the panel and the door unlocked, the knife in its hand glinting under lurid red light.

****

Servants and stewards traveled about with candles and placed kerosene oil lanterns at every intervening console table down the long, winding corridors. Crow waved aside a light when she was offered one, annoyed at the timing of everything. The incremental black out was prudently scheduled in order to save on ceruleum fuel, since an accident had occurred in the plumbing fields during an especially ice storm. They were already short on manpower and this only placed a greater strain on the system.

In the creeping chill, Crow could almost see her breath. It took an immense amount of energy to keep the tower heated with the high altitude of the inner palace. More than anywhere else within the imperial tower, it was the place that needed the most fuel to keep warm.

She arrived before Zenos’ apartments and knocked sharply, the only source of light was the wan glow of the polar day without. A moment passed and she tapped against her elbow with an impatient finger.

The door opened and he was leaning over her, lit lantern held aloft. Crow narrowed her eyes but gave no ground, her vision adjusting against the additional light. 

“We're going to be late.” She chided even as he took up her hand.

Zenos pressed his lips to the back of her fingers as he met her gaze. “Lead the way.”

She was as tense as a drawn bow, he could feel. Her grip on his elbow was emphatic and she was sullen, positively radiating with untenable energy as they crossed through the central foyer. 

Her hand then trailed down the length of his arm and she led them suddenly off the main path. Zenos waited as Crow lifted her eyes to him as they stood to the side of an arched alcove that boasted a detailed bust of the emperor. Its face was shadowed and beyond the wan light of a nearby lamp, he could hardly see anything beyond the vaguest outline of his great grandfather's lifelike profile in his periphery.

“Listen,” She said, fine fingers running along the back of his hand. “In spite of what happened recently, it would be best if we do not bring up the whole ordeal with your father and his ilk. Everything needs to go smoothly. I– we need it to”

He raised a brow. It was unlike her to be so wary toward his conduct. 

She wants to keep the dinner as pleasant as possible, likely wanting something out of it. 

“And what is your aim here?” He asked.

“I want you to be put in charge of the upcoming investigation into the trafficking case.” 

He paused a moment in consideration, sight lingering on the bust behind her. “I would be surprised if there was another candidate to be named, since I am the one to bring these details to him.”

“Nothing is for certain, not with His Radiance.” She tugged on his fingers absentmindedly, nerves getting to her. “I want to go to Doma, but we need more than what we had in Nagxia. The viceroy will not be pleased to be unseated and currently, we sorely lack the numbers to go toe to toe with him.”

The prince slipped his hand from her nervous fidgeting and gathered her up by the shoulders. His eyes flashed as a faint smile shored them into narrowed crescents.

“That is what I am here for, should he take issue.”

She gave him a dubious look and looped her arm against his. “One man against the entire forces of a viceroy? Not even you can manage something like that.”

“Ah, don't count yourself out now, I expect you to put in some effort as well while I'm knee deep in bodies.”

She elbowed him, suppressing a wry smile.

They resumed their trek to the supper, their conversation tinged with a bit more levity.

Chapter 103

The stygian dark was thick and cloying as Domitia lifted the length of candle up to light her path. The cold was seeping in and it was all she could do to wrap her shawl tighter around her to stave off the cold. The maidservants had scampered off to light the fireplace and prepare her dress; the emperor had extended an invitation to supper with him in the upper floors. It was the opportunity she'd been angling for since the very moment she'd been pressed into taking up residence here.

She caught sight of her own half-lit figure in the mirror by the vase of decorative flowers and was startled, staring in dismay at the heavy shadows gathered below taut cheeks, her tired eyes and sallow complexion worsening by the week. This place had done naught but taken from her, sapped her of her vigor over the course of a moon and gave back nothing in return.

She gripped the locket nestled at her throat. The trinket had been retrieved from the very same girl whom Lord Varis had brought in to bear witness against the savage. She was not fool enough to believe in such coincidences, but in this madhouse, the tides flowed with whomever had the emperor’s ears.

Little wonder that the savage bitch veritably had the run of the palace.

She watched as her reflected visage morph into a sneer, feeling the blood boil in her veins as she thought of the wretched, dark vulture.

The large gilded doors of her chamber swung on squeaking hinges, then shut with a quiet click. A maidservant finally returned to help her with her ensemble for the evening, if not, a good slap was in order to set things back on track.

Her temper was high of late, set off like a spring trap for the rats that scampered about. She'd been having nightmares filled with them and so ordered the servants to set some about. She had seen these pesky creatures from the corner of her eyes, just when sleep was on edge to take her. A long, black tail and a sloping neck, accompanied by the scratching of little claws on marble tiles.

Not rats, but what else could they be?

Click-click-click-clack–

Domitia startled and casted about in the dark, her candle striking its lone vigil in the caliginous chamber. The wind howled without, whistling some forsaken tune against the immotile tower of the imperial palace.

“Who is it?” She called into the shadows and made her way over to the entrance. “Did you find the cream bustle dress?”

“Or at least get a fire going?” She snapped, rubbing a chilled hand over her arm. No reply was forthcoming, yet she heard a shuffle by the center mantle.

Useless, the lot of them!

She edged toward the silhouettes of furniture, a hand groping over the curved back of a chair then to the sloping frame of the divan before the unlit hearth. Her chest thrummed with unspoken nerves, the singular flame on its wick flickering with every incremental tremble of her grip.

Domitia swallowed.

“Is that you, Ana?”

A shadow broke from the mass of the fireplace, limned faintly by the fading light of the polar day. She flinched and took a back step from the falling object. 

Was it an object? Her eyes were deceiving her perhaps for she saw the shape of humanoid limbs and even the vague outline of a head. And the merest glint of teeth.

Click-click-click.

She had taken to calling them rats, for what else could they be?

As though driven by instinct, Domitia found herself on the back foot as the sound drew nearer. An alarm was sounding in her befuddled mind, urging her to get away. To be anywhere else but here.

She backed herself up against the chair she'd previously passed by, heart caught in her throat as something scrabbled into the light. At first fingers, stumped and poorly bandaged, dragging trails of unknown slickness. Ragged arms scored with countless wounds strained to drag the rest of itself — whatever it was — across the stretch of veined marble flooring.

A glisten of teeth and gum snapped to emit the disarming click click click that she'd heard. The rest of its face — Domitia could not say as she turned away, her tremulous hands dropping the candle as she stumbled back. The room plunged into darkness as the flame was snuffed out by its tumble onto the cold ground.

A sob escaped her as she turned to run, having only a nebulous notion of her chamber’s layout. Her shin banged against something hard, and her nightgown caught against something she couldn't see. Her mind conjured the yellowed, squared teeth snatching at the frilled hem of her gown. Ceramic shattered somewhere behind her and the slosh of spilled liquid hit the tiles, a breath caught in her throat from the lingering ache at her knee.

It was a terrible scramble as her hand groped in blind panic for the door handle.

her breaths came quicker and when she finally managed to fling one of the doors open, a tendril of slickness wrapped around her ankle. 

Domitia jumped in her fear-blitzed flight, ripping herself away in a clumsy bound. The barely lit hall yawned open before her as she fell into a tangled spring, steps echoing in the emptied corridors. Within seconds, she heard the doors clattered open behind her and she could not bring herself to look back, only hearing the accursed click click click of that gnashing, unerring maw. It was how she knew it was on her trail, the clatter never letting up like a haunting. Though this was all too vivid, the stabbing pain at her ankle too real to be the doing of an apparition.

Where are all the bloody servants?

“Is there anyone?!” She called out, but her voice was lost to the still, unknown darkness.

Suddenly, between all her disarrayed thoughts, she remembered the stairwell that led to the imperial residence. Domitia heard the slithering tendrils as she made a sharp turn, throwing herself low behind the stretch of displayed artefacts. She, in her humiliation, crawled on all fours as she hid behind the low wooden platform that held up the collection of skeletons. 

A wet slap of an appendage against glass gave her a terrible start, and she let out a tiny gasp. The clicking began again and she knew she'd been found. 

Domitia, once a debutante and eminent lady of the imperial court, haphazardly picked up her skirts and fled.

Past the enormous avian skeleton she ran, through the corridor that would lead up to the Solarium. The thing behind her gave a surge, all slithering limbs and tenebrous madness. A long, miserable moan pursued her as she arrived at the base of the stairs, each side flanked by sets of portraits of the imperial family. Their sullen faces seemed to glare down at her as she climbed the rising steps in terror-struck haste. 

She half-scream, half-gasped as she scaled the carpeted stairwell, each step felt as though she was scaling up tractless, melting snow. Then she heard answering steps and voices beyond the corridor, salvation from terror a mere tensteps away.

Her slipper caught on the hem of her gown and she slid. The backslide was brutal on her thinning form. Her collarbone and thighs slammed against the corner of the steps as she fell, body recoiling from the impact. She rolled like an unmoored log down a hillside, head colliding against the banister. She came to a stop at the base of the stairwell, trembling like a wounded bird as she gasped out a ragged breath.

The thing, an amalgamation of nightmare and wounds, dragged itself towards her with an unsteady gait. A trail of sluicing tendrils and blood was left in its wake, filling the air with the saccharine stink of corruption.

Domitia sobbed as she sank into terrifying oblivion, eyes squeezed shut while she waited for her own impending demise.

Chapter 104

The three of them sat bracketing the glowing candelabra around the intimate setting of a round table. There were four place mats and immaculately gilt plates set out, each completed with their own polished, scrim-handled silverware, though the last occupant was nowhere to be found even after the second course came and went. She picked at the white fish ceviche sparingly, managing only a few bites along with the artfully arranged watercress. Zenos had cleaned his place neatly and now turned to where her attention lingered even as she made small talk with the emperor.

“Pray tell, Your Radiance, who was to be our missing guest?” 

He evidently had no qualms in being direct. Crow politely daubed at her lips, and smiled. She could very well guess who the seat was reserved for. 

Their emperor gave a sidelong glance at the empty seat, his beard drooping as he frowned.

“The Lady Volerus seems to be running rather late, what a pity.”

What a coincidence, the princess thought, amused at the serendipitous occasion. She could feel the reverberation of her voidsent’s movement beneath their feet, its presence traveling from the guest quarters to where the main stairwell was located

“How gracious of you to invite her to dine with us.” Crow said, nonplussed.

“It was high time that the future generation make amends and move forward together.” The emperor put down his silvered fork and straightened in his seat. “I, for one, would like to see the three of you in harmony before I pass on the throne.”

Crow wore a thin-lipped smile and Zenos took a slow, mechanical sip from his wineglass. The atmosphere grew stifled and neither of them wished to broach the topic further.

“How is the wine?” The princess asked, hastening the conversation along.

“An adequate red vintage from the south — which reminds me; Lea Monde has taken my offer to help expand their vineyards and wineries,” Zenos cast a long, meaningful gaze at her. “Perhaps soon, a bottle of Valens won't cost a small fortune to sample from.”

“Very shrewd of you.” She scented her own glass then samples it with a small sip, her irritation smoothing out by the momentary digression.

“And what of Sergius sas Lanatus? He is serviceable?” 

Zenos thought of his correspondence with the proxy. His letters were nervous, more formal than the direct, factual style he'd written to Crow. The letter-replicas she'd given the prince for reference were filled with detailed instructions to the de-facto viceroy, keen on explaining every result she was intent on producing. Zenos had not been as precise, preferring to gauge the Lanatus proxy’s abilities before settling on an edict. Lea Monde’s recovery was his test, and a difficult one at that, but there was little to lose when the once-prosperous capital of Nagxia was already at its lowest point to date since its fall to the empire.

“I suspect he fears me, going so far as to even compare me to you,” Zenos nodded to the emperor. “Though perhaps it was a diffident attempt at flattery.”

Solus harrumphed behind the square of his linen napkin. “In what way, pray tell?” 

“He claimed to appreciate my patience in allowing my subordinates to come into their own, much like the later days into your northern unification campaign. ” Zenos smirked, brows creasing in wry amusement.

Crow scoffed indignantly. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“A subtle critique to your leadership style, if I could hazard a guess.” The prince supplied readily. “You’re prone to over-management.”

“And I fear you're overeager for results as well, my dear.” The emperor chimed in. Crow flushed and hid her petulant pout in her crumpled linen napkin. 

“While I'm glad to hear such keen observations from my nearest and dearest, there is another matter I wish to discuss. ” She interjected her critics, huffing pointedly. “Your pending decision, Your Radiance, regarding the investigation.”

The emperor sobered from his eupeptic mood at the mention of their previous discussion. Wreathing his heavily ringed fingers together in solemn contemplation, Solus regarded both his charges.

“Recent events have been trying, as you well know, its effects rippling through our power grid even as we speak. In the face of such blatant disregard for the law of the empire, I wish for the two of you to oversee the uprooting of the ongoing corruption overseas in the Far East while I excise the rot in our home soil.” He gave them both a meaningful nod. “After the celebration of Zenos’ betrothal, you shall jointly travel to Kugane in Hingashi, where viceroy Flavius goe Marius is stationed and subject him to strict scrutiny. Though it shall be under the pretense of a rumored rebellion in Doma to not stir up suspicions.”

Crow gave a polite cough. “The both of us jointly, sire?”

A knowing gleam entered his gaze, wise yet indulgent. “Zenos shall head the twelfth as its Legatus and you his tribunus, you shall jointly preside over the territory.”

“We shall be given free reign to do as we see fit?” The prince prompted, feeling Crow’s hand slip into his from under the tablecloth. This was everything she had hoped for; he felt the emphatic pressure of her delighted fingers.

Solus gave a sweeping wave, his long sleeve sloping against the table's linen edge. “So long as it falls under the perimeters of the audit, you shall be endowed with the power to seize and delegate as necessary.”

“And you will require reports every moon?” Crow tried not to sound too pleased, her thumb grazing over Zenos’ callused knuckles.

“On the final day of every week, I want to be kept apprised on any and all developments no matter how minor.”

Her heart swelled; what His Radiance taketh, he also giveth.

“We shall not fail you.” She bowed her head low, the corners of her lips quivering against the grin that would break her mask of gracious calm.

****

A round of aperitifs came in the form of mildly fermented thumbfuls of kvass — a popular drink of Western Ilsabard made from old rye grains, malt and yeast. It was light enough for the emperor’s current dietary regime and served as a palate cleanser for the half-eaten blind dish course, which none other than Zenos seemed to favor. Light conversations were shared between he and Crow, with the latter doling out bits of minor hearsay she'd picked out from her previous written exchanges with the Lady Lanatus. The emperor, for all his wrath from decades ago against Thyrus Lanatus, could hardly remember the fallen family. They had kept their heads low for so long that he'd forgotten them entirely. Nevertheless, true to her word, Crow managed to put in a good word for her first allies at court, and then some.

Before long, just when they were expecting the main course, a steward entered on harried steps, bending down beside the emperor to whisper into his ear. A puzzled expression overcame him, which in turn caused Crow and Zenos to share an odd look with one another.

Solus cleared his throat, a grim expression overtaking his countenance.

“It seems Lady Volerus has sustained a bad fall.” 

A glint of fury flashed in her eyes in spite of her beatific state, barely surfacing for just an instant. But Zenos had caught it, which meant the emperor did as well. He nudged the toe of her light slipper in silent reminder and Crow seemed to school herself at once, giving nothing away. 

“A fall? How does she fare currently?” She wrung her fingers and gave every indication of worry.

The prince heard the perfect concoction of concern and care in her tone — color him impressed.

The emperor shifted slightly in his seat. He, knowing full well of her fraught relations with the bride-to-be and her propensity of vindictiveness, could not quite determine whether his ward was entirely innocent of wrongdoing here. As for the boy, he seemed entirely detached from the sudden news of his betrothed’s misfortune.

“Her condition is stable but several injuries were sustained.”

Crow contemplated the look she’d caught on the emperor’s shadowed countenance. If given the chance, she could finish the stupid chit with her own hands, but as things were, she did not wish to push her luck and upset her guardian. A certain brand of diplomacy was required in dealing with him and the Volerus wench, one with delicacy and the other forcefully, if need be.

From her seat, the princess stood and rounded the emperor’s high backed chair. She lifted the thick, fur-lined throw cover from its place and met Zenos with a coy conspirator’s smile.

The prince sucked in a breath and got to his feet, hiding his laugh behind a papery exhale. He sauntered out with a muttered excuse and she lowered herself down to cover her guardian’s lap with the soft fur, kneeling as she tucked the hem between his sides and the armrests.

His Radiance grunted as he laid his hands into the warmth of the extra layer, his downy white brows drooping into a weary grimace. In frank scrutiny, he peered at her from beneath his furrowed brows.

“I know that look.”

Crow clutched her pearled throat with a pale hand, candlelight flickering against her skin as she feigned offense.

“Whatever do you mean, Your Radiance?”

“Out with it — what is it that you want?”

He waited with knuckles propped pointedly against a liver-spotted cheek.

She sighed in resignation.

“I have thought about what you said, and perhaps I am willing to give peace a chance.” She vied forward, poised like a supplicant at his feet. “Given that plans for supper fell through, I wish to take the opportunity of the lady’s misfortune to extend a conciliatory hand.”

“Meaning?” He pressed, still gauging her true intentions.

She laid her head against the armrest, as amenable as an ideal daughter ought to be. “Meaning… I would like to oversee her care, as I did with her initial welcome into the inner palace.”

The emperor blinked.

“You would?”

Crow nodded, plying her voice in honey and ignoring the disbelief in his tone.

“Regardless of my personal qualms, her engagement soiree is in a week and I'd be a poor lady-of-the-house to allow a guest to take ill before such a momentous date.”

“Hmph – she won’t happen to end up like that thing you keep in the cells below, will she?” He sniffed, nose wrinkling in disgust.

A thrill flashed by and she let the embarrassment pass through her countenance, lashes lowering reservedly.

“Why, you shouldn't judge a lady based on how she spends her free time, Your Radiance. Though I assure you, Vinia is more than happy with her current accommodations.”

He'd heard dire reports of the former governess’ treatment, the cruelty displayed was an excessive exercise in sadism. It was a miracle, in fact, that the wretch yet lived.

The emperor rubbed at his long white mustache. He'd said nothing against the betrothal simply because there was no reason to intervene beyond Crow’s plaints of adolescent heartache, but he did insist on keeping this newfound peace. And if the Volerus girl somehow meets an unfortunate end… well, there would always be others — other women, other potential brides, other vessels — to continue the imperial line.

In the end, he was never able to deny the one most prominent in his heart anything.

He sighed, the sound low with reluctance. “Very well, but I expect her to be as hale as she can be for the event.”

The lineament of her beaming visage could illuminate the currently-lightness inner palace all on its own.

She pecked him on his taut cheek and trailed after the boy, no doubt to gloat about her twin victories over him. 

Caretaker, indeed.

Solus withered in his seat and waved away the next course; he'd be right crossed if the girl showed up in a casket for her betrothal dinner.

Chapter 105

A slap and a spoken word of power was all it took to dislodge the voidsent from its temporary vessel. Crow seethed an acrid curse, her anger exploding like wind from a smashed bottle. The creature splattered over the dark marble tiles like a smear of ink while its humanoid vessel laid inert on the ground. Tendrils curled like sentient vines to reform its smoky serpentine shape, its singular red eye indolently drifting from the aftermath.

The princess stepped over the prone corpse, the train of her dark dress slid over the maidservant’s sightless gaze like a death veil, and scooped up the stunned eyeball before it could fully reform.

“You just had to toy with your food, didn't you?” She held the crimson orb between thumb and forefinger, a derisive sneer curling her lips.

‘The guards, they came for the commotion when she–’

“Yes, when she fell right outside our doorstep.” Crow hissed. “You should've struck and be done with it. Instead, you had to have your game.”

‘Another chance, mistress. She's already broken, I can finish the job.’ Naberos’ eye gave a roll, quivering with both fear of its mistress and anticipation of yet another meal.

“Not while His Radiance suspects my hand in the matter.” She held up the eyeball, its arterial sclera meeting her azure gaze. Naberos’ pupil narrowed into a trenchant slit in turn, assessing.

‘ You’ll have use for this diminished form yet.’

She despised its certainty, but nevertheless agreed.

“In time, perhaps, but this arrangement has run its course.” 

Its voice reverberated in her mind, crowding against her own thoughts. ‘ ...Very well, then. Return my fragment.’

The eye tasted of salty blood and smoke as it slid onto her tongue, and within moments, she had swallowed her thrall with a sound gulp. Incorporeal tendrils, shadowy remnants of its wyrm-like body, had barely slipped past her teeth when she turned towards the rapping at her study’s doors.

“Ser Aulus jen Asina requests for your company, Your Grace.” A maidservant informed her through the door.

Crow paused and glanced down at the abandoned, hollowed-out body of her former eavesdropper. 

Who was Aulus again?

The name was familiar. She thought of his title: jen — a Medicus. The Medicus whom she'd left in charge of the now-dead Vinia. The one who, some years ago, had been laughed out of court for spouting his insane theories about pure-blooded Garlean and their capacity for aetherial manipulation.

Ah. That Aulus .

Wearily, with fingers kneading at her temples, she answered. “Yes, show him in.”

He slinked in with his shoulders hunched, his side swept mop of muted violet hair hung limp to obscure his eyes. A pair of old eyeglasses — with a tiny dent on one side, she’d only just then noticed — sat precariously on his straight, rigid nose. He gave a stiff bow, the unkempt coat of his office wrinkling as he bent.

He was the most pathetic sight she had ever laid eyes on in a while.

“Your Grace.” He pursed his lips, tongue setting them as though a coat of moisture could bolster his failing confidence. “I came to submit my resignation.”

He seemed entirely unperturbed by the body at her feet, too consumed by his own vague despondency.

Crow blinked. “And why is that?”

“The one you left down in the cells, and the maidservant awaiting her trials… they– they’re both dead.” He stuttered, shrinking into himself even further.

She cocked her head, expecting more noise, more distress and a scramble for explanation. As far as she could surmise, he seemed entirely prepared to bear the brunt of the losses, though they were hardly losses at all in the grand scheme of things.

“Is that all?” She chuckled, rounding the corner of her desk.

Aulus promptly followed to stand right next to the corpse, hand imaging through one of his pockets to produce his letter of resignation. She plucked it from him, only half-skimming the sorry sentences on the sheaf.

“I’ve read your…provocative research in passing, you know.” She began, looking up from the paper.

He drooped like a parched stalk of weed. “It is ridiculous, so I've been told.”

“Zenos was the one who chanced by it after sacking some bureaucrat and, truth be told, we thought it had some merit.” She brightened, her smile dappled with interest. “I was not aware that you were the same man responsible for such fascinating hypotheses.”

The Medicus seemed too stunned to even form a response. His mouth was agape and he didn't know what to do with his hands. They hung between him and the edge of her desk, shaking like steel slats in an ice storm. After a long moment, he seemed to muster up a modicum of equanimity.

“Do with me as you will, but I would be grateful to not have my life's work mocked, not even by a member of the imperial family.”

He had spine — she had to give him that.

She softened, appreciating the steely will behind his limp, intellectual facade. “You misunderstand. In fact, in our opinion, the nascent field of bio-genetics has vast, unplumbed potential. And you were a geneticist from the top of the academy, no? Your work abstract mentioned the editing of the Garlean genome.”

“You’ve read through it?” He was slowly realizing her earnest curiosity, straightening with something akin to hope.

“I received a thorough summary; Zenos was intrigued, to say the least. You truly think a Garlean of pureblood stock can cast magicks as well as…well, someone of my persuasion?”

At the mere talk of his work, Aulus regained some life in his poise. His gestures grew animated as he waxed on his theory. “Yes! The modern Garlean cannot wield aether due to a genetic mutation that diverted us from the hyuran ancestry! It's why we were driven out from Locus Amoenus by the sav– ahem, but imagine if the capacity for magicks and magitek were in the hands of our forces! We would be able to fulfill the emperor’s dream of unity and civilize the world within two, or even three generations.”

The emperor’s expansionist policies did not quite interest her so much as her counterpart’s intrigue for this outlandish researcher’s theory. Zenos had told her once of his encounter with his erstwhile corvosi tutor and how it had ended. She was initially unnerved, owing to the fact that he could have died from the side effect of forcing aether out from a body that could not channel it. But Zenos did the impossible, if only briefly, and he had held a quiet but vested interest in such things since. 

Before Aulus finished his impassioned raving, Crow was already penning a short card of introduction, her elegant scripts flying across the fine paper stock. Stamped and sealed in a small envelope, she extended it to the Medicus, cutting him off before he could begin his tirade again.

“Seek out Prince Zenos and give this to him.” The neat, ivory rectangle between her fine fingers shone like a golden ticket.

The sheer wonder and disbelief that overcame the Aulus was something to behold. He seemed a changed man from their brief discussion.

“By the emperor! I'm grateful, Your Grace, truly.” He took and held it as though it was a precious lifeline. It may very well be as far as Crow knew.

He turned with a veritable spring in his jaunt.

“Wait, before you go.” A note of uncertainty entered her voice, and he turned.

“Do you think, once given a level playing field with magicks, Garleans would come to…” She ventured briefly before coming to a firm pause. 

She shook her head slowly. “No, nevermind.” 

The prejudice of man is not something even magick may correct — Crow thought as she ushered the researcher out with a pleasant smile.

Even a pariah such as the pathetic Aulus could garner more respect than someone like her if ever given the opportunity. But he was not her problem to sort out anymore.

She gave the small bell on her desk a neat ring, calling for a maidservant to tidy up the lifeless shell that was still prone on the ground.

****

Bruised violets and scarlet hypnotic patterns plagued her swimming vision and arched ridges connected rough, floating shapes in the far reaches. A sky, she realized, was dotted with islands that were casted adrift in a vast, changeable space.

Around her were creatures, milling about in stupefied, bestial haze, each unique in their own horrendous form. Some, amorphous and multi-limbed, loped aimlessly until they fell upon each other in writhing violence. There was no clear, conscious drive to their existence, only mindless instinct and urges. One of them, a thing of eyes and waxen ooze, gave a gurgling cry as it was torn asunder by another stag-like miscreant. Its shrill shrieks only invited others to partake, heedless of its suffering.

Everywhere she turned, the herd gradually descended into an orgy of carnage and consummation until there were but a handful left. The five of them circled one another, angling for any opening, each an apex creature in their own right.

The first, a two-headed jackal with anguished masks lining its pelt, lunged upon its neighbor. Another, bulbous-bodied and spider legged, clattered in turn, striking with hooked fangs hidden beneath its quivering underbelly. Just so, the five clashed until the last creature remained standing, covered in the viscera of its peer.

Tendrils, limned with black and crimson, crept up to the feasting victor and lashed out. The bestial jackal snarled and fought back with claws and Herculean effort, yet all its effort was for naught as it was strung up and torn apart. Black blood splattered as the thing was disemboweled, mixing with the pooling ichor below. A shadow rose from beyond the edge of the islet as dozens upon dozens of countless tentacles closed in and cleared through the slaughter. It picked through the remains, seeking only the best morsels to collect from.

Domitia felt her intangible neck veer up and what she saw sent her reeling. She opened her mouth to scream, to do anything to expunge this unremitting terror from within her.

A cold cloth was pressed against her forehead when she startled awake, half blind by the glare of the morning light.

“Good morning, my lady.” A maidservant, Ana, greeted her delicately, her fingers clutching the icy compress over her forehead.

The clinks of metal knocking against glass pulsed against her pounding head, and she let out a weak, miserable groan in answer.

“She is lucid?” A familiar voice sounded beyond her blurred periphery.

“Yes, my lord.” Ana answered and turned, pouring something pungent that pierced through Domitia’s clouded state. “Here, Your Grace, drink this.”

The sherry glass, held up to her face, was filled with a milky liquor, smelling sweetly pungent and alkaline.  It was a familiar odor from her childhood, accompanied by the image of her drowsing mother on the divan.

“Father?” She shifted her head to look at him, but was stopped by the sharp stab of pain in the back of her neck.

“We'll talk after.” He said, his displeasure audible. She knew that tone well for he was in one of his moods.

The upturned bell-shaped rip tipped against her lips and she struggled to swallow. With some difficulty, she choked down the concoction and casted her eyes about.

Her right leg was wrapped in a thick plaster cast, tightly bandaged and left elevated atop a small wooden support that resembled a stool that has a round, indented seat.

Mayor Volerus edged closer, waving aside the maidservant. “Now out — I wish to speak to my daughter alone.” 

Ana was leaving and it was all Domitia could do to hold herself back to calling after her. She swallowed thickly, pallid face pressed into a grimace.

“Father, I–” She began the moment the door clicked shut.

“What is the good of your womanly wiles when you cannot even use it to your advantage?” He cut her off, his round face pinched like a twisted cloth as his displeasure mounted. “And now, look at you!”

He sharply gestured at her broken ankle and bandaged head, which throbbed with every syllable he uttered. 

“All that work only for your clumsy paranoia to lead you astray, I doubt the betrothal dinner date will hold unless we cart you in like some slow-eyed bovine.” He was sweating now, rubicund face damp like after one of his romps with the pleasure alley wares.

Was that all she was to him? Market-ware to be traded in for influence and gain?

“The prince does not care for me, father. I haven't seen either hide or hair of him since the theatre.” Her throat vibrated with thirst and her voice was a creaking ruin. “It’s her that he pines after — you've seen how he was willing to brave Lord Varis’ wrath.”

“Then it is up to you to seek him out! You should have slipped into his room and bare yourself to him if need be!” Her father snarled, jowls quaking. “Though it is too late now, lame as you are. At least you won’t be able to abscond from your new home, unlike last time.”

It was like him to bring up her attempt to elope from their home. She'd been young and her mother had just died, her resentment bubbled to the surface against her drunken father. To her, his words had been harsher than his hands; punitive punishments was something that was reserved for his late wife. He wanted her pristine to sell her off to repay his debts, to a husband preferably, lacking that then to a wealthy brothel. Needless to say, her abscondment had ended in failure and she was brought back on shaking limbs and hollowed stomach. It was the one time he'd shown her his full wrath.

But even now, even with a husband who will never spare her a glance, she was desperate to escape his ravenous cruelty.

Domitia turned away from him, the opiate tea had numbed her well to her pains. “What does it matter? The wedding date is set and we are to be married.” 

“You ignorant girl, what good is a marriage if it isn't fruitful? If you fail to provide, then all our efforts will be for naught!”

A means to an end, that was all she was to him. Whatever success he found was credited to their joint effort, but whatever failure that was sustained was blamed on her and her inadequacies. Her mother had wasted away in that opulent house. She had died an insensible woman, addicted to delirium and euphoria brought about the opiates her father had used to leash her and her once-wealthy family. Theirs had been a marriage of gains and losses, equity picked through by harlots and scavengers. No love, no dignity, no honor — and she was headed the same way.

“Is that what you thought of mother as well when she passed, leaving you bereft of a male heir?” She bit out, flushed with shame and defiance.

The shadow of a raised hand fell over her and she braced herself for a blow. It usually came when she grew a touch too willful for his liking, and her mother was not here to take the brunt of it.

“That insolent mouth of yours will be your ruin one day.” Mayor Volerus bit out, hand itching for reprisal. But he restrained himself with a decorum reserved only for the austere sanctity of the imperial palace.

Her father had resented the fact that she was not a son but never did he bother to entertain the prospect of remarrying. His misadventures with whores, drink and the opium dens had left him with a stained reputation and presumed impotency. No decent family would dare let their daughters near him and no widows with any self-respect would give him the time of day. His wasteful habits had left their once prosperous estate on the verge of financial ruin, and her own marriage prospect in the gutters.

The matter of Lord Varis’ own financial woes had left an opening, one where their benefactor had sought to use to his advantage.

“It would be prudent to leave the lady to rest now, ser.” 

The door to her bedchamber opened on silent hinges to admit an unexpected face. She was garbed in imperial black, tall and imposing as she made her approach.

The First Princess towered over Domitia’s father as she stood waiting by the foot of the bed.

“What are you doing here?” He glared at her, his deference for the imperial family precluding the emperor’s ward.

“As the only lady of the house that is present, I am charged with her care.” She rolled her long necklace of stringed pearls casually between slender fingers as she spoke. “At least until the engagement soiree.”

The Mayor sputtered and Domitia could only stare in disbelief, unsure which of these two villains she would prefer.

“You cannot just barge in and declare–”

Something baleful flashed in her sultry features, beauty drawn back to reveal glistening animosity. “It is by the emperor’s authority that I am here.”

Taken aback, her superseded father had no recourse other than to tuck tail and flee with as much dignity as he could muster. And in a fleeting moment, there were only the two. They then regarded one another, a knowing simper broke through the princess’ pale mask as she took in her erstwhile accuser’s dilapidated state.

Had she overheard their exchange? 

The princess smoothed a hand on the shallow cant of the foot board, head cocked like the bird of her namesake. 

“I look forward to our time together, my lady.” Her voice was dusky and terrible as she regarded her bed-bound counterpart.

Domitia blanched.

Chapter 106

Aulus jen Asina had once been a proud and prominent graduate of the magitek academy. There was a time when every door of opportunity was open to him, every aristocratic house competing to sponsor him and his endeavors. Until, that was, he presented them with detailed theories mixing Garlean with magicks, the foul art practiced by the lowly barbarians outside the empire.

It was no coincidence that every civilization who made use of magicks progressed hardly at all in their advancement. The forested Gridanians, the warlike Ala Mhigans, to even the Domans and Dalmascan, each city-state stuck fast to rudimentary ways of life similar to their ancestors of centuries past. They may spring life from dirt with a finger, set fire to a field with a gesture and even conjure walls of rocks instantly at will. But such can be done with Garlean progress, bigger, better and even more potently, as some would like to believe.

What the educated fear, when it came to magicks, was not the common superstitions held by the lower citizenry, but the degradation of progress. In his naysayers’ mind, Garlemald as a whole had gotten so far without such intangible drivel such as aether manipulations, there was simply no need to risk their march of progress for some tricks of smoke and mirrors.

Indeed, it was fear that stood in the way. 

Fear that had slashed his findings and killed his nascent research in its cradle.

Aulus had more faith in his emperor than those paranoid old coots in the senate and the shortsighted, callow idiots in the aristocracy. But in the end, he had never been able to catch the eye of His Radiance with his work, alas. However, it would be soon that his star would rise again, and he was willing to throw away everything in the name of such progress!

That was…if he could locate Prince Zenos. He was not in his personal apartments as per the princess’ instructions.

His Grace did not keep an aide like his forebears, thus it made the task of finding him rather difficult. Aulus thought to return to Her Grace but did not wish to appear inept. He had thought her a violent savage, having borne witness to her propensity for torture. But he was beginning to view her in a new light. Her Garlean upbringing and instilled education might have taken precedence over her base-born nature, but that side might only be able to remain suppressed for so long. Which might explain the prisoner she kept — an outlet, like how corruption needed draining from a festering wound.

“You there! Ser!” Aulus called out to a distant servant as he veered from the imperial library. His misadventure to find the prince had led him nowhere and the head librarian coldly turned him away even after he presented his credentials.

A steward in black, maroon tie at his starched collar and a silvered tray in arm packed with medical supplies, turned. He eyed the researcher up and down with suspicion until he spotted the steel-plated identification badge.

“May I help you?” The man asked archly

Aulus swallowed his irritation and flashed his sealed introduction.

 “I have a message from Her Grace to Prince Zenos.”

The steward had the gall to appraise the waxen stamp and gave him a doubtful look before straightening.

“Well, you’re in luck then, follow me.”

They navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the levels below the inner palace, passing through the busy kitchens below where the imperial family’s meals were meticulously planned and prepped. Then came the cleaning and laundering chambers where the acrid smell of soaps, lye and bleach wafted about freely, steam drifting from the washer rooms and washer woman with rolled up sleeves scattered about in their daily duties. Aulus had narrowly dodged a harried girl with an armful of sheets rumpled before continuing on behind his guide. Further still were the storerooms which held astronomical tonzes of shelf-stable goods like grains, beans and fruits, both dried and canned. There was too much for the imperial family and their servants to use even on a daily basis. Rather, this was a kind of reserve sequestered away in case of hard times. 

Famines were common not even four decades before, when the conquest was still in full swing. Resources were stretched to their limits and many people did not wake once they closed their eyes to dream of a hearty table and full larder.

After the handful of years spent in frozen drudgery and hunger, once tributes and trade routes were firmly established in conquered territories, many who survived the harsh privation found themselves enriched. It was soon after that the capital, and indeed the rest of united Ilsabard as a whole, found themselves to be among a growing middle class.

Still, as breaks between blizzards were wont to be, peace times do not tend to stay for long. And though often credited to the emperor, it was in fact the princess-consort Carosa wir Galvus that campaigned for the granaries. Purportedly, prior to her marriage, she hailed from a destitute aristocratic family that had neither land nor funds, only their long lineage and breeding to cling to. As such, she likely had an inkling of what a hollow belly felt like and was kind enough to think of the less fortunate when she established the reserves.

Aulus had glimpsed her portrait in the national newsletters before, though not so after her untimely quietus. Though at least she’d left a well-reputed legacy and her son, who was now a famed dissident queller.

After passing through a metal catwalk that hung over the gargantuan pool of Corvosi barley, one of three that also contained Dalmascan wheat and Doman rice, they stopped before a side storage room. 

The steward knocked twice on the heavy metallic door and spoke.

“A messenger comes for you, Your Grace.”

A dull thud and a grunt followed. 

He couldn’t imagine such a rude, guttural noise coming from a prince.

“If you're here on my father's behalf, tell him he can wait till I'm finished with this fly. His tongue’s been nicked." Came the muffled but cultured reply. 

Ah, so he isn’t alone — Aulus thought, the fact somehow was not as comforting as he thought it would be.

“I was informed that it is from Her Grace.” The steward declared.

A moment passed before something heavy and metallic clattered.

“You may enter.”

They met then, and all Aulus could spot was the blood faintly speckling his chin and the stain on his fingers. Prince Zenos was a statuesque man, his strikingly good looks was highlighted in sharp contrast by their shabby, gray surroundings. He stood over some poor, pulp-faced sod dressed in manservant's formal garbs, his handsome face was blank as still-water even as he rubbed the sticky cruor off his knuckles with a gray rag.

Aulus found himself unable to meet the prince’s gaze, the pressure of which pressed down on his head like an invisible titan's thumb as he bowed.

“It is my great honor to meet you, Your Gra–”

“The message.” Zenos interjected; if his face gave no hint of his apparent impatience, then his curt manner did.

Aulus produced the sealed letter from his coat pocket, his displeasure at being interrupted further thinning his reedy lips. With one smooth motion, the prince snatched and opened the envelope and skimmed through its content. The steward who had escorted him shouldered past Aulus and set down the silvered tray on an unoccupied bench. 

The researcher glared at his erstwhile guide before casting about the dusty space. Shelves of canned goods were stacked in uniformed rows against the walls, and rough burlap bags of label dried goods sat neatly atop one another at ground level. He counted a dozen rows in all, filling the storage room three-quarter way through. Then, more cautiously, he flicked his eyes to the slumped figure behind the prince. Bound to the chair by steel shackles and looking at though a legion had tramped over him, the manservant was ostensibly out cold.

The storage door slammed shut behind him and the researcher started, his heart jumping to his throat. The steward had been dismissed, or left on his own accord. Regardless, he could not help the feeling of being trapped.

“My work is not so fine as the princess’, would you not agree?” His Grace leaned against the bench and laid aside the introductory missive, his mood marginally improving.

Aulus shifted nervously on his feet. “She has a talent for it, Your Grace.”

“Aye, she does, but she still bears a softness for useful things.” The prince concurred, his gaze once again pinning the researcher down. 

“And so stand the question: are you useful?”

He stiffened at the probing question, sensing its underlying menace. His next answer was carefully phrased, delivered with a deeply bowed head.

“I am your devoted servant, but only if Your Grace allows me to be.”

The prince considered the answer, letting this latest spectator hang upon the edge of silence. The man, though cringing and willowy, was as clever as Crow had claimed. He appreciated a touch of intellect in his subordinates regardless of their perceived cravenness. Though the simple fact of his presence here had put the aforementioned accusation into doubt.

Zenos chuckled, his attention redirecting to his bound captive with an indicative nod. “Then fix him up and we shall discuss your future in anon.”

Chapter 107

The long white fluorescent lights droned overhead, wanly casting a sickly hue over the already pallid, beaten man. His short, even fringes were damp with coagulated blood, swept back to clear a path for Aulus’ careful tending. An assortment of bruises lined his jawlines and cheek, peppered by beads of dirty sweat. His black eye has swollen shut and a trail of blood dribbled over the engorged mound from a cut on his forehead. He was slack, out cold, and it was all he could do to breathe and hover between sweet oblivion and flashing pain.

He sucked in a reflexive hiss and winced, the air whistling through the newly made gap between his rattled teeth. He'd been lucky to still have most of his teeth intact. Aulus wiped another round of menthol disinfectant and pressed an adhesive bandage against his forehead. The cut had been shallow for the prince only wore one ring upon his right thumb. 

“If I may, Your Grace, what has this man done to earn such…punitive consequences?”

Zenos lifted the brass knuckles to the light and gave it another rough wipe, his back turned from the disgraced researcher and his captive.

“A spy — and a rather incompetent one at that.” He answered absently.

The only political faction well endowed enough to challenge the High Legatus, Aulus surmised, was his uncle, Prince and presumptive heir Titus. Both sides were so far caught in a deadlock rivalry that had solidified into a cold conflict. A war of secrets and information where more clandestine methods were employed, though it was not without its own kind of violence.

It was evident that Prince Zenos was both sentinel and interrogator for his own father; A keener hound with a sharp nose and sharper teeth to root out the ferrets couldn't be asked for.

Considering his meticulousness with his tools, Aulus wondered if he enjoyed the work as well.

“Tell me about your work.” The prince demanded suddenly, startling him from his thoughts.

Aulus found the hairs at the back of his neck standing erect when he heard the prince’s voice, a mere fulm from him. He hadn't heard the man move, not even a step had sounded when the prince had shortened the gap between them.

He cleared his throat nervously. “I am– I was a geneticist who hypothesized that pureblooded Garlean may be able to utilize magicks. A feat that is, as of now, impossible for us as we're innately averse to aether control owing to a genetic mutation from perhaps eons past, but with the right tools and resources, I believe that it is entirely possible to correct this biological error.”

Zenos drank in the information, remembering the wiry Corvosi who was his first kill. The bright blood spray that had followed the flashing slash, permeating the air with the salty tang of iron and disappointment. “And what consequences can be expected if a Garlean attempts at magicks?”

Aulus straightened and turned to face the imperial, jolted by the very idea. “The Garlean physiology, in its unaltered form, isn’t made to handle such energetic flux. Why, they’d die from the shock of channeling aether, Your Grace!”

The prince answered him with an enigmatic smile, pale eyes hinting at something Aulus had yet to grasp.

Wouldn’t they? — He thought, a sudden pall of doubt eclipsing his certainty.

“After I am finished with our friend here, you may have him.” Zenos said, sliding his fingers back into the warmed metal and giving his fitted hand an experimental flex.

Aulus' jaw worked and he paused midway through a bandage loop, so caught up in what he’d missed that he could not stop the gormless question from slipping: “What… what for, Your Grace?”

Deservedly, the prince looked at him with lifted brow as though he was a particularly thick dullard. “Your first experiment, of course. A facility and resources will be provided for you in anon. Anything you need, simply list them and submit it to me personally for approval.”

Hands and feet firmly planted to the tiled flooring, Aulus prostrated himself before the prince as a fervid grin stretched across his face, the fire of his snuffed scholarly desires once more igniting.

 “Thank you, oh thank you, Your Grace! I shall be at your disposal as long as you desire — for the rest of my days if need be!” 

He could kiss the prince’s boots if His Grace would allow it of him. 

****

Once a day on the eleventh hour after breakfast and before midday tea, Domitia was graced with the dreadful presence of the savage. She would show up with a bitter concoction of pain medicine on a silvered tray, her baleful, cobalt eye watching Domitia’s every move as she stirred honey into the cup. She would leave soon after, never waiting to see if her charge dared to imbibe. Domitia had suspected that it was poison, but soon gave in when the pain at her swollen leg grew too great to endure. One the second day without the analgesic, she’d been on the verge of tears before weakly asking for her medicine, giving in before the maidservant could wordlessly whisk it away.

Today, she’d been an hour late, leaving Domitia to wonder if the medicine would ever come. The dull throbs of impending agony threatened her with every passing minute as the previous day’s dose ran its course. Her insides felt as though they were boiling, her vision swam and the air felt muggy against her heated skin. She was sinking into a miserable pool and had not even the strength to call out for help.

She watched the door as the chronometer on the wall ticked by, her neck too stiff to turn to anything else. Burning with anger as much as she did with fever, Domitia silently wished ill on every servant here but reserved the most of her venom for the First Princess.

A damn plague on all of you, I’ll haunt the palace and see you to your deaths personally ! — She seethed even in her delirium, drowsing uneasily in a haze.

It seemed an eternity before the door swung open and a white-draped cart rolled in, pushed by a plain-face servant girl. Atop its white-clothed surface was a tiered, fully stocked sandwich stand, a painted, steaming pot of tea and two cups. The savage was in a lilac gown today and a sickeningly sweet scent of violets caught her nose as she swept into the room after the maidservant. Domitia followed her vile caretaker with dreary, lidded eyes as she came to preside over her by her bedside.

“Oh dear.” A hand, begrudgingly cool and soothing, pressed against her forehead. “You’re positively feverish.” 

She had the audacity to chuckle, the bitch.

The hand soon pulled back and she was left to wallow in the sweltering confinement of her skin once more.

Crow smiled benevolently down at Domitia as she laid a cold compressed against her forehead. She wished she could leave her to die, or better yet, poison her herself. Alas, The emperor would know and he would be extremely displeased for it. She was loathed to risk his anger, knowing that he would not be so lenient in his next punishment.

If only her voidsent did as it had been bid, then this predicament would not have happened. 

The princess tipped the medication slowly against Domitia’s dry, gray lips and uttered a curt command.

“Drink.”

The girl’s verdant eyes narrowed even as she drained the tiny sherry glass, full of suspicions and reluctance. She was right not to trust her. However, Crow could not place whether her distrust and hostility stemmed from general bigotry or personal resentment. 

She supposed it did not matter. Hate was hate regardless of its source.

The maidservant unfolded a small, rounded wood table, then lifted a chair from the nearby writing desk and set it down by the bedside. She then arranged for a cup, placing it down on a laced daily mat alongside a matching plate. Even from this distance, Domitia could see the delicate lapis handle and tiny painted golden birds dancing across the bone china.

Crow took a seat, arranging her samite shawl around her arms to lounge richly across the small armchair. “Owing to my tardiness, we’ll be having lunch in each other’s company. I hope you don't mind.” 

Domitia graced her with a withering look. The platitude was delivered with such smug languor; she must have known what suffering she would inflict on her charge by simply being a little late.

Before long, the medicine was taking effect and she felt herself relax as she soaked in the cool relief of the compress. The tea was fragrant and nearly overpowering as it was poured, but it was all she could do to close her eyes and chance for a bit of rest.

The tray table was set rudely over her and Domitia’s eyes snapped open.

“You should have something as well before taking your rest. Your body needs fuel to heal.” The savage’s tone was saccharine as she motioned for the maidservant.

A bowl, heaped with millet kasha and mushed pumpkin, sat steaming over her lap. The maidservant held a spoonful up to her and the lady recoiled.

“Peasant food? Don't you have semolina and jam or guryev and fresh fruit?”

Crow dug into her three-layered coulibiac, a savory, puff-pastried crust pie stuffed with a variety of mushrooms and spiced fish, and twisted the tines of her fork through salmon and sturgeon as she watched her charge squirm.

“A princess-consort-to-be shouldn't be so picky. In Valnain — and anywhere else, to be frank — people are happy to receive a ponze of rice or flour and half a dozen dried, salted fish as rations. Alongside whatever they can grow or forage, you'd be amazed how far they can stretch such limited quantities. ”

The coulibiac was excellent, a faintly sweet crust combined with flaky, still-moist baked fish and savory herbs. She may have disliked many things here but the food never disappointed. It was difficult to think that she had once been extremely food-aversed, owing to Vinia’s poisonous hands. 

“Take it away, I want to rest.” The maidservant glanced nervously to Crow as Domitia turned her head away.

The princess clicked her tongue as though she was addressing a difficult child. “You should eat, the emperor expects you to be in good shape before the engagement soiree.”

She's tired of expectations, of commands about what she should do and nitpicks about all her faults and mistakes.

“Why are you doing this anyway? I thought you didn't want the engagement to go through!” Domitia hissed and swatted the spoon away, the flare of her temper bringing sudden energy to her sapped limbs. “Emperor’s eyes, leave me be! Get out and go back to whoring yourself to the imperial family.”

The ivory-handled utensil flew to the carpet, spilling its content on the hem of Crow’s silken gown, then clattered noisily against the marble tiles. The maidservant was gauping, mouth working like a fish out of water, her feet rooted to the ground in shock.

“Out.” The princess commanded stoically, her sight fixed on the orange stain on her dress. The thin veneer of cordiality she had worn melted away like spun sugar under heat in the face of Domitia’s rising temper.

The maidservant swallowed and met Crow’s eyes. The protest in her showed for the briefest second before being summarily cowed by the implacable threat she found staring back at her.

“I…will be outside, please call for me should you need anything.” The maidservant said, each word firing hastily as she briskly fled the scene.

The headmaid had cautioned her against leaving the room unattended, but whatever reprimand she would receive from her superior would pale in comparison to this brewing storm.

One of the doors, coffered and lacquered, shut quietly, a prelude to the expanding quiet in the room. Then muffled taps against upholstery reached Domitia’s ears and she could feel the pressure of the savage’s gaze intent on her.

“If you think I plan to poison you, then you're mistaken.” Crow chuckled and reached down to the tumbled spoon.

She gave the utensil a quick polish with her napkin and stood, setting it back into the congealing bowl of kasha.

Domitia was ignoring her, averting her gaze haughtily. One could hardly guess she had two years over Crow with how she was conducting herself.

It was clear that she was miserable in the imperial palace, yet insisted on staying to see the engagement through in spite of the risk to her life. It was not infatuation, as far as Crow knew, she'd hardly sought Zenos out over the course of her residency here. And whatever she'd felt for him had worn away, ground down by her confinement.

She looked halfway to the grave already. It would be troublesome if she were to die now under Crow’s care.

“I suppose I'm doing this for the sake of my own satisfaction.” The princess admitted as she stirred the millet, then spooned up a neat mouthful of the yellow-orange slop.

Fingers like vices latched onto her neck just beneath her jaw. Domitia started, alarmed by the sudden pressure to her windpipe. They were squeezing harder with each passing moment, constricting off air from her lungs with seemingly inexorable force.

She batted at her caretaker’s wrist, even managed to dig her nails into the princess’ skin. Her efforts were to no avail, however, and she felt the blood rush to her face. Her eyes bulged from their sockets and it was all she could do to eek out a wordless squeak — her futile attempt to call the maidservant.

“It is my desire to see you hale and pink with health again, my lady.” The princess explained, lowering herself to her charge. Each nose to nose. “All so that I may have the pleasure to tear you down myself. I want to see you trampled and low as you saw me when you all gathered to engineer my humiliation."

The hiss in her ears was filled with black venom, conveying a world of unremitting honesty. This was revenge for the accusation, she realized.

 Crow leveled the spoon to Domitia’s mouth, edging the kasha to her lips. 

“So you'll eat, won't you? For your sake, and mine?”

Her mouth opened even as a choking creak escaped her tightened throat, and the brutish savage pushed the food into her mouth with unrelenting efficiency.

“When I release you, you'll swallow. Or I will ensure that your leg will heal crooked and cripple you for the rest of your days, understand?”

With all of her draining strength, Domitia gave the scantest nod.

Crow pulled back and Domitia held the food in her mouth, drawing in air from her nostrils lest she spat out the mush on her tongue. She managed a hard swallow and gauped like a landed fish, drinking in sweet air with both apprehension and relief.

The princess dropped the spoon into the bowl of millet then examined the crescent marks on her skin, each deep and red with Domitia’s desperate fear. She smirked and sauntered to the bedchamber’s entrance, running slight fingers over them as they closed. She turned with her false mask of serenity still donned, the horrors of her cruelty neatly tucked under all that lush comeliness.

“I'm glad we've come to an understanding, you and I.” She opened the door and ushered the maidservant back in. “I shall be back in anon after a change of clothes. Can't have the stain set, it'd be a terrible inconvenience for the washers.”

Domitia did not think she cared a wit about the troubles of the imperial laundresses. Damnable monster.

Still, she ate the kasha and gave the maidservant no further grief. After all was said and done, she casted Domitia a troubled, pitying look in turn and gently tended to her leg and helped her sit up for tea. Something told her that many of the girls who worked here were well aware of the lash of the savage’s temper.

Chapter 108

At a slow meandering pace, Zenos trailed along the dimly lit hall alone with written confessions in hand from his time with the mole. The corners of the sheafs were slightly stained with the faded brown of old blood but his father would have no cause to complain. He had always carried out his role dutifully, if not begrudgingly, as sentinel and inquisitor of his father’s faction. They all seemed to think that he had a nose for detecting betrayal and the talent for sniffing out unrest. As though it was a difficult thing to glean the tension in the hands, the stench of their nervous sweat and the various subtle tells of a liar. It differed from man to man, but tells were easy enough to pick up through simple observation. Nerva preferred deploying men to them as he was of the opinion that the opposite sex has no skill in espionage. His attempts to spy fared poorer for it, but Zenos supposed that it was a boon to him.

Pain — or rather, the subtlety of anguish both mental and physical — helped him extract confessions. Whether they were true or not, Zenos could hardly care less.

The glass ceiling above swirled with darkening clouds; there would be another black out tonight and the incoming ice storm had not been forecasted. His visits with his father were unfailingly aggravating in spite of his even-heeled facade. They'd never seen eye to eye, but after the incident where things had come to blows, their relations had crossed from strained to plainly hostile at every turn.

It would be a good excuse to see her again after this. Her presence was bracing and her ambition gave the needle of his compass direction.

He pushed into his father’s apartments, ignoring the flanking guards who had long given up on any pomp and ceremony of announcing his entrance. On the short cross through the small foyer, a woman nearly collided into him had he not smoothly pivoted aside.

“Thousand pardons, Your Grace.” She muttered glumly through the handkerchief pressed to her face, managing her words steadily even through wet cheeks and trembling chin.

The first he'd noticed was her hair, the color of straw, then her watery blue eyes the shade of a tepid sky. Her clothes were somewhat disheveled as though shrugged on in haste, but they were the raiments of an aristocrat with all its damask fineries and stitched pearls.

She bore a glancing resemblance to his own mother, unlike the ones who had come before her.

Zenos gave a frown and turned from her, the barest hint of disgust showing through his implacable mask. His father's dalliances were of no concern to him, but the women he chose were insulting to his mother’s memory.

He could feel her eyes on his back as he turned and left without a word, pressing on into the sanctum proper.

The space of his father's abode was lavishly appointed with upholstered furnishings of black lacquered wood and embroidered red silks. The fireplace was alight with a fresh flame, just stoked by one of the aides. Above the mantle, where it has always been, hung the life-like portrait of his mother. The artwork had been painted in commemoration of their union, his father as severe as ever but his arm was slid around the hourglass figure of his serene, bridal mother. It was a time before his conception, where his father had likely been the happiest in his joyless life.

A couple more contrasting could not be paired.

Said joyless man sat rigidly on the long couch, nursing a drink of dark wine from his wrought goblet. Even in a state of rest, he never seemed capable of relaxing.

“That makes how many of them now? Six?” Zenos sneered coolly as he tossed the stack to the wide, obsidian sitting table. It was the first time he'd bothered to voice his opinion on the matter, spurred on by a roiling agitation that had been accumulating with each time he caught sight of those poor replicas.

“You'd do well to keep your nose out of my personal matters lest you wish for a matching wound to your other cheek.” His father said with equal acrimony.

The prince clicked his tongue in distaste. “How prickly of you. Does a son not have a say in the candidacy of his future mother?”

At that, his father gave him a smoldering glare full of warning before refilling his cup with the gilded decanter on the table. 

“They’re well compensated for their troubles, the tears subside once the coins fill their coffers.” His father drained his goblet with a deep gulp. Savoring things slowly had never been in his repertoire.

Rankled by the remark, Zenos turned and made his way out. “You have my latest report, if there is nothing else–”

“You are not dismissed, boy.”

Reluctantly, even with a hand on the ornate brass handle, he stopped.

“I was made aware that His Radiance found out about the Volerus’ dealings. And he has assigned you to lead the twelfth legion with that savage as your tribunus.”

His father had belatedly managed to put two and two together, how commendably sharp of him.

“Pray, dealings?” Zenos gave an easy, arrogant smile as he leaned back on his heel to face his father. “There are rumors of a rebellion in Doma, our records prove that we're efficient at quelling such matters. His Radiance is merely skilled at delegating tasks to the appropriate talents — the one thing you two seem to have in common.” 

His father looked at him for a long time, yellow eyes attempting to cow him into some ill-conceived confession. But he was not one of his father’s simpering sycophants nor was he a young boy without power any longer.

“The profits would have given us an advantage over our enemies, victory would have been certain before the year even passes.” The High Legatus rumbled darkly. “If I find that you or that stain had anything to do with this disruption, I will spare nothing to tear you asunder, son of mine or no.”

Zenos wondered if his father knew about the Volerus’ double handed support of both his and Titus’ factions. House Apatus had only been a means to an end to funnel funds to his father’s adversary, their estates were vacant and the scarecrow who'd claimed to be the baron had long since fled the capital.

He returned his father's hostility with a flat look of his own, bristling at the threat. “How appropriately paranoid of you to say so, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

From beginning to end, Varis would never be able to find even a trace of their involvement. He and the emperor had ensured that any mentions of them were stricken and blank from any and all records of the investigation. 

His father was a creature of discerning instinct, but no matter how correct he may be on his hunches he could never prosecute them without due evidence. Nay, his vaunted pride would never allow civil and familial strife to be displayed so blatantly. Still, underhanded methods were not beyond him, and it will be something to be wary of going forward.

The prince chuckled, the smooth trickle of his laugh was soured by disdain. “While your threats may daunt others, father, do not think this son of yours is without teeth — loyal as I may be.”

His father gave a dubious grunt. “And to whom does that loyalty lie?”

Zenos gave a jackal’s grin, swept into a sardonic bow and made himself scarce, taking care to slam the door as hard as his swift exit would allow on the way out.

****

The newsletter rustled as Crow turned to the next page, her pen scratching ceaselessly against a small booklet on her lap all the while. Her voracious eyes devoured each sentence they raced through, halted only by her detailed note taking. Prices of rice, salt, palladium and aethersand had been steadily increasing over the years. The two former were not so crucial commodities, but the latter were raw materials essential to part production of magitek automatons. The viceroy of Doma was in a position to set the prices as he pleased, being the only source for aetherially charged sand and the mentioned ore.

Is it supply and demand? Scarcity or greed? — she jotted her thoughts down, inked nib jabbing into the pad.

“Don’t you do anything else with your time?” Domitia complained, hands fiddling with the empty embroidering hoop.

Crow lingered on her notes, half a mind still deciphering intentions from plain ranks of numbers and labels. “I happen to enjoy this, alas.”

“Bully for you.” Her charge replied, picking through the colored threads laid out in a box beside her. “What exactly is ‘this’ and must you do it here?”

There were innumerable things she did to keep up with the sociopolitical trends of the various territories and provinces of the empire. She tracked prices of essential goods, reviewed past patterns of wars and how even the most minor of skirmishes affect trade routes. Violence often threw any given region into flux, destabilizing its economy and risking starvation for its local inhabitants. It was a threat, and threats were but mere tools to bear down on disgruntled subjects. Yet, for all her plans and theories, she felt the carved hollowness of once having real influence. The ability to issue commands and watch a region grow or reel from its impact was something she'd come to savor and miss.

“Merely spectating the world through numbers. Something to pass the time.” Crow leaned on an armrest and flicked her sight to her charge, tapping the gilded end of her nibbed pen against the page. After her declaration of malevolent intent, she had decided to take a closer approach to monitoring her charge. It would not do to have something untoward happen, at least for now when she was at risk of bearing the blame for any such misfortunes that might befall upon bedridden Domitia.

  “I suppose you’re not in the mood for company?” She asked.

“Not yours.” Domitia said bluntly, balling a scrap of silk up in her fist.

The princess barked a laugh.

“No one else seems very inclined to visit you.”

“That’s because you've turned all away.” Her charge scowled bitterly at her.

Crow blinked then broke into a grin, teeth glistening. 

“You'd be surprised to know, I haven't uttered a word against having visitors.”

Suspicion lacquered Domitia’s pretty face. It gradually morphed into a clarifying despondency when she read the plain-faced truth in the princess’ eyes. It was like watching sweet sap pour from a wounded tree.

Crow shrugged, glutting herself on that crestfallen expression. “It must be disappointing to know that you've been left to the wolves.”

Her lily-livered father had not returned since being told off, and none of the courtiers who had been buzzing around her ever made an attempt to visit.

The inner palace was a cloistered, private abode where little news would escape. Though through her father, her injuries would've been made known to garner pity and gifts. Crow wondered if he'd decided to hoard them to himself.

“You must be so satisfied.” Domitia bit out, her face flushed and her eyes red-rimmed with the threat of tears.

Dear me, now I feel a little bad — Crow thought with a wry simper.

“I take no credit for your greedy father or your facile flock of dullards. But yes, it is a little amusing.” She leaned back on her chair.

Domitia visibly fumed but her anger was impotent and had nowhere to go. She was, in essence, a piece on the board that was locked at an impasse. Crow couldn't very well snuff her out for now but neither could Varis nor Mayor Volerus move her in any meaningful way. The constricting feeling of helplessness, unable to grasp the reins of your own fate; she was quite familiar with that particular brand of frustration.

A servant minced in with a tray of medicine and hot tea, on the eleventh bell on the dot. Her face lowered to the princess’ delicately pointed ear to deliver a missive in whisper but neither of their expressions gave anything away.

Crow rose to her feet, snapping her notes shut. She gestured casually to the pile of books left at the foot of her chair.

“Rather than sorting and needling aimlessly about, why not have a go at these? Books make better companions than people, after all.” 

“Begone already.” Domitia grimaced.

“You are quite welcome to keel over from boredom, it'd be quite the favor to me at anyroad.” The princess suggested as she filed her way to the entrance, parting from the chamber with an insufferable smirk. 

The medicine was bitter and tasted like acrid chalk that forced her to swallow the retort that had been sitting on her tongue. The door shut and she was left with the maidservant who visibly eased at the imperial’s departure.

It was only when the maidservant vacated the chamber and she was left to her own company that Domitia allowed herself to cry. She had known they were vapid but to think that no one would deign to come to her at her lowest moment, even her father had abandoned her once the arrangements were secured. 

She threw her embroidery hoop, and then the entirely useless carved box of needles and threads. The distance it traveled did not even encompass the large bed, her strength was pathetic and her anger was stoked all the hotter for it. 

Why had this happened to her? Marriage was supposed to be an escape from her father’s hard hand and dredging vices, yet it seemed like an even worse lot.

She reached over, fingers barely able to graze the books the maidservant had moved to the nightstand. She gave a crude grunt of frustration and swung her hand wide, knocking over the short tower.

She was now even more graceless than that wanton savage. She gave a hard sniff, breath stuttering as her wobbling, watery vision landed on the only remaining tome on the stand. 

“Bloody harridan.” Domitia muttered, wiping away her wet eyes and snatching up the leatherbound covers.

‘Campaign and Conquest: The Continental Trails of the Greats’ — She skimmed, unimpressed by the dry header.

Yet she still opened the page and dragged her eyes unwillingly along the stoic recounting of history. Before she realized it, she was absorbed by the crests and falls of men and women both noble and based that had come before. Some of them were lowborn, others descendants of dynasties from eras past. Their deeds were at once malign, merciless, but also benevolent and audacious.

And it relit something in her over the days she spent perusing its content. The yearning that had once been crushed by her failed attempt to escape was once again alive, if only as a smoldering ember. Her mind spun and spun like the coil of a spindle, eventually fixing on some distant idea that shone like gilded threads.

There was hope yet, perhaps, from her fate.

Chapter 109

When Crow returned to the commodities space of her apartment, she had not expected the space to be empty. The fireplace was dark and the heavy drapes were opened to let in the wan light from without. The long, velveteen couches were unoccupied, strewn with unfinished books and maps just as she had left them. Her narrow slippers tapped lightly against the seamless, wooden tiles as she made her way to her bedchamber.

There she found him, laid back on the bed yet his boots were still firmly planted to the ground. It was as though he'd waited for a while before resigning to rest. She eased herself down next to him, her soft organza dress rustling and lapping against the wool-clad shape of his well-formed thigh.

Crow leaned over Zenos, lashes lowered as she took in the fading gash as his cheek and the darkening circles under his eyes. Decent sleep was as elusive to him as spring to their far northern climes.

“Has Varis been working you to the bones?” Her dark hair feathered against his arm. 

“As ever, alas.” He said, fingers lifting to catch a cascading length. His eyes remained shut, his voice pitched low with the husk of sleep.

It had been five days since they had caught any hide or hair of one another, occupied with tasks that had seemed important in the moment.

His silence seemed sullen. She could read it on the firm line of his lips and the awaiting tension between them.

“Is there aught you wish to speak of?” She asked tentatively, lowering herself down next to him. 

The bed, her bed, was generous in its dimensions and the expanse of the silken sheets was a sea of embroidered gray surrounding them. Crow took in his patrician profile, her eyes tracing over his aquiline nose and long, elegant lashes. 

He rolled to his side then and reached over to her, arm draping over waist in a dredging embrace. A small noise escaped her as she was dragged against him, her form  enveloped in the encompassing squeeze. She felt his nose and lips against the crown of her head, her own cheek and ear pressed to the rhythm of his heart. There was a quiet urgency in this unexpected tenderness that she could not quite place.

“I would that you know…” He lingered, showing a rare moment of hesitation as he felt for his next word. “That you’re quite irreplaceable to me.”

“Haven’t gone soft on me, have you?” She teased, cold fingers sliding against his arm. 

His sentimentality puzzled her, so sudden and sweet like a heady rush of heat in winter. She wondered what had occurred while he went about carrying out his father's biddings.

 She did not know how to comfort someone effectively, and was aware of her callous pride and cruelty. They were her sword and shield, wielded every waking moment against familial difficulties and potential betrayals. But in moments such as these, she found herself thoroughly disarmed. 

Nevertheless, Zenos was also not without his own razor edge, capable of slicing open anyone who came too close. They were ornate weapons, tempered hard and decorated by their upbringing. The difference was that he was the glorious ceremonial blade and she the flawed, foreign design His Radiance brought back on a whim.

Yet here they were, body to body and he was no more than a man who adored her in spite of her shortcomings. For all he had done wrong, had he not repaid for his mistakes tenfold?

The thought soured her. Her affection and favor was not to be bought and traded like coins and trinkets.

“You still need me, don't you?” He asked, voice cutting through the stretch of wordlessness between them.

Though poised steadily, it was a genuine question without the usual bite of dryness or sardonic wit that he was prone to. He sounded — dare she even think? — vulnerable.

The thought stopped her doubt-filled urge to deny him dead in its tracks

She, in fact, did need him in her endeavors. His prestige, his unrivaled talents and his cunning acumens, all hers to direct as she pleased. He was utterly sworn to her as like a loyal knight or a well-trained hunting hound. All she needed to do was tell him what she wanted and he would strive tirelessly towards it for her sake. But there was more beyond that for he was not a tool to be used then discarded.

Crow remembered their childhood, those halcyon times of bygone days. The sweet years spent together viewed through the rosy lens of a kaleidoscope. What she felt for him, and vice versa, was too intermingled and deeply rooted to tell apart. Where did devotion end and necessity began? — Was an answer even wanted?

Her forehead was pressed against the shelf of his collarbone, fabrics rustling as she ran a hand up the smooth valley of his waist.

“I'll always need you.” She replied, slamming her guilt over Andrus into a box and locked it shut.

Forgive me — she prayed with shuttered eyes pressed against the intoxicating scent of him — but we are two halves of a whole.

Chapter 110

The scratching of pen nib against paper sounded between Crow and Domitia. Brunch that morning had concluded with a round of coffee, the bitter drink in which Domitia could not stand. Crow sipped delicately at the fragrant mix of cream and roasted beans as she listened with half an ear.

“How much was a shipment of barley in the 22nd year of our Lord’s rule?” Domitia asked, hiding the opened pages against her chest.

“And what entails a shipment?” Crow frowned. “Quantity? And from where?”

“No hunts! Answer the question.” The lady tilted her chin in a challenge.

Crow gave her a flat look. “This so-called game is of your contrivance, I’m only entertaining you.”

“Hm, shame, seems like my father was right — savages truly haven't a mind for numbers.”

The flat look turned derisive, her pen pausing in its writing and began to bleed black onto her pages of observations of Doman trading trends.

“Your father is a spineless cretin. Do me and yourself a favor and cease parroting him.” She retorted dryly.

Barley was typically sourced from Locus Amoenus, usually part of a tributary tax levied upon every territory. In modern day, at least thirty tonzes of barley alone would be making their way to the capital annually. Taxes back then were higher at the height of the empire’s expanding reach, and the legions would have also paid merchants quite a bit for foodstuffs to feed their men. No, that was redundant, she only had to account for how much a single shipment was worth in capital coinage.

Crow hated that she was even playing along, but her pride and the urge to prove this goading little chit wrong refused to let her off.

“A single moon’s shipment of barley… twenty six thousand solirs, I suppose.” A small amount in the grand scheme of things as the imperial household’s total budget was two million solirs annually. Crow herself commanded nearly two hundred thousand and likewise for Zenos. Varis was allowed five hundred thousand solirs in addition to the generous allotment that came with his rank as High Legatus. The emperor kept his own personal accounts and the exact amount remained a mystery to her.

Most people would see perhaps a handful of gold-minted solirs in their lifetime. It was not that they were destitute, most could afford to live comfortably on a few thousand dupons a year as prices of goods in the capital were carefully monitored and adjusted according to edicts issued by imperial accountants. Such orders were inspected by the emperor before taking effect, of course. Attempts at embezzlement were not unheard of, alas.

Domitia peered down at the copy of records and made a face. “You're two thousand four hundred and three off the mark.”

Crow rolled her eyes, resuming her study. “Next question? Or are you satisfied?”

They've been at this for the last bell or so, sniping at each other between Domitia’s quizzing questions. Neither seemed happy in each other's company, but they spoke nonetheless and found a strangely antagonistic camaraderie together.

Domitia closed the record replica and wetted her lips. “What is it like being abroad?”

Crow huffed a laugh then leaned back against her seat, her elbow rested loosely on the seat's plush armrest while her other hand cradled the notepad she'd been stippling away at. “What, papa dearest never let you fly off anywhere?”

Domitia grimaced, tossing aside the book. “No, actually. He’s not one for traveling.“

“That's too bad. He could benefit from a bit of worldliness.” The princess muttered derisively, her gaze caught on the half-hidden anticipation on Domitia’s face.

Her curiosity was genuine, Crow realized with muted surprise.

“At any road,” She continued. “Nagxia was, and remains to be, a cursedly humid province where the heat is a physical force bearing down on you the moment you step off the transport craft. The morass of dark-haired, long-eared, and horned people there wear wide, conical hats woven from straw to ward the sun off and their clothing are combinations of loose or bound cotton shifts. The nights are tepid, inundated with bloodsucking needles on wings and veritably deafening crickets. Incense is burned to ward those nasty buggers off but such things are hardly of use when you're out and about.”

“What of the jewels and scenery? Paint a scene for me.” Domitia pressed, growing far more engrossed than she had initially let on.

Crow raised a brow, wary of the friendly shift.

“The land is choked in greenery, from the mossy streets to the mountain ranges that split Othard from north to south. The ores in these mountains are rich, especially in Dalmasca Inferior. Precious stones and conductor metals are mined, shipped to Landis for refinement.”

“You're bordering on boring again.” Domitia yawned.

“That's because these things are important to me.” Crow sniffed. Her shallow interest had been too good to be true. “If you want to find out what Nagxia is like firsthand, then maybe you should do us all a favor and demit from the engagement. Time abroad would do well to fill that empty head of yours.”

“If you think every woman has the freedom to pick their destination like you do, you're far more blind than I gave you credit for.” Domitia sneered. “Just so when your legal adopter is the indisputable ruler of the empire.”

Crow laughed suddenly, the throaty thrum panged bitterly against Domitia’s ears.

“The irony is simply too good: You, Garlean pureblood and nobly born, are complaining of your rigid, narrow destiny to me, a supposed pet savage and the pariah of the imperial household. We all have our own little plights, don't we?”

Domitia flushed. “Maybe you'd be better liked if you knew your place.”

The laughter trickled to a stop as Crow leaned further against her hand, forehead pressed against her palm.

“The only savage that is well-liked is a useful savage. And, at the moment, if you haven't noticed, I'm a bit of a layabout in the eyes of everyone.”

“Aren't you?” Domitia said, crossing her arms haughtily.

“And whose fault is that?” Crow snapped and straightened in her seat. “I was rebuilding the entirety of Nagxia and its trading routes, not to mention bolstering the clearance of Rabanastre from unruly elements with manpower. Ah, but what do you care for what happens with the dredges. With one word from the likes of you, a savage, even a useful one in decent standing with her lord, could be stripped of all she had striven for.” She stood, looming over her charge with a lopsided smirk. “But they only expect two things from you now.”

Marriage and children , it'd be a miracle if the latter ever happens — Domitia thought, her pallid face drawn tight like the squares of silk stretched over her embroidery hoop.

“Indeed, it's hopeless for you.” The princess chuckled. It was as if she could glean the thoughts directly from Domitia’s mind. “You’re destined to waste away like one of those frail songbirds in the solarium.” 

Her minder leaned closer, her one unobscured blue eye narrowing. One of her hands had slid down the length of Domitia’s elevated cast, fingers curling around its bandaged circumference. One wrong move away from a strike, her shadowed face resembled a waiting snare.

“I’ll see to it myself that you do, rest assured.”

Whatever spare, momentary illusion of companionability they'd shared was now laid aside, revealing the plunging dread of Domitia’s future. The pain in her leg, dulled before, pulsed with an acute ache in tandem with her thinly veiled distress.

****

Nearly a fortnight had passed and her cast was inspected and rewrapped. It was now lighter and less cumbersome, but the Imperial Medicus had advised her to wait before attempting to move about on her own. Still, she looked hopefully to the titanium-silver crutches propped against her bed poster, mobility was a possibility.

Recovery was slow but, in spite of her threats, the princess had seen to her health with an exacting — if not merciful — hand.

Domitia had remained precariously optimistic, straddling the fine line of survival while being at the whim of her harpy-caretaker and whiling away the boredom of immobility.

That was until the procession rolled in behind the princess.

The wheeled chair was a contraption wrought from high steel with a plush back and cushion. Its spokes were gilded, curled vines that capped over rubber rims meant to ease tension from any unforeseen bump on the road, the armrests seemed comfortable but narrow, disallowing prolonged idling. It looked far more ornate than any of its common cousins found in the hospestus in the city, custom made just to fit Domitia’s slight frame. 

“A gift from His Radiance.” Crow said by way of an explanation, seeming entirely nonplussed.

A rather unpropitious gift. He seemed to be under the impression that she'd be chair-bound for life.

“My leg hasn't recovered enough for proper movement.” Domitia frowned, thumbing the book in her lap.

The princess was indifferent to her protest, plucking an invisible thread from one of her immaculately embroidered sleeves. “His Radiance cordially invites you for luncheon; you cannot decline, alas.”

Domitia paled as several maidservants filed in. They lifted her and the pain was difficult to describe in spite of the analgesic medication. One had her by the armpits, two by her sides and two by her thighs and one for her lame leg. It was futile to protest and she feared struggling might only prolong her suffering. It all happened in the mere spam of a minute but Domitia had felt every long, agonizing second of the shift.

It was a small comfort that the chair was already reclined and her leg was supported well by the horizontal footrest.

All the while that bitch had watched with muted satisfaction. Even her pain had ceased to evoke anything more than a vague smile from her.

By the time she was situated, Domitia was left seated and panting, momentarily incapable of speech. 

“Don't look so relieved yet.” Crow said, drifting from the bedchamber in her peacock-green satin. “We've still the stairs to ascend.”

One of the maidservants, bless her heart, pushed a fresh glass of medicine into her hands.

Four imperial guards lifted her, chair and all, up the steps. They made an attempt to keep the journey even, but their efforts were futile and she paid dearly for it. Despite the extra dosage, she still had to grit through the pulses of hot pain radiating from her broken leg.

When placed back on solid ground, one of them had accidentally lost his grip and the ilm-high jolt had set her teeth on edge. The princess had said nothing all the while, not even a halfhearted reprimand before dismissing them. A maidservant took over the task of her mobility and she was all the gladder for it.

Crow paused before the entrance, hand lingering on the door handle as her eyes flashed in warning. “Try not to speak unless you're spoken to.”

Relief flooded Domitia when she saw a ramp had been placed against the short four steps, allowing her to be easily wheeled down to the sprawling green lawn. An oblong trestle table, dressed in a tassle-edged white cloth, stood amidst the pleasing greenery. Bird song sounded from some distance away, filling the spring-warm air with life. Two figures were already seated with the savage just settling in ahead of her. 

The emperor and her betrothed, Prince Zenos, sat facing one another with a spread of savory pasties, buttered rolls and soft cheese between them. To its left, from her vantage, was a thick-stemmed bowl that held delicate rounds of milk aspics molded to look like flowers. In front of Crow herself were four stuffed game hens, their skins wafting a smell of anise and cardamom, and lastly was a dish of solianka, a trio of mushrooms in a rich beef broth, capers and Vylbrand olives.

 She was the last to arrive and was set next to her betrothed. She managed a polite apology but His Radiance seemed in good humor and only smiled as he was poured a fresh glass of Landis vodka.

“Your Radiance, serving solianka is not an excuse to drink.” Crow sniffed fussily when the alcohol made its appearance.

“We've a guest, my dear, and I'd like to drink to her health.” The emperor said, lifting the silver finger-lengthed shot glass. “To our bride-to-be.”

Zenos and Crow, unsmiling, raised their own filled glasses. Domitia, unaccountably abashed by the sudden intimate address, mimicked the table and they all took a drink in varied measures of enthusiasm. The emperor, for all his gusto, restrained himself, the other two tossed back theirs in one swallow and Domitia managed to wet her tongue but grew wrankled by the taste. 

She never had a taste for strong liquor.

“So tell me how you fare, my lady.” The emperor began, his mottled cheeks and cloudy beard lifting in a smile.

Crow had only eyes for her food but wielded her knife pointedly as she dragged it through the body of the stuffed hen. Its ribs sprang open and the spiced cabbage and onions came spilling out in a placid heap. She picked and sliced until it was all finely divided, arranging every bite of dark and white meat with a bit of the stuffing and setting the cleaned bones aside.

“Her Grace is a fine caretaker, she's even been keeping me company for the last week. Though I might have snuck myself a book or two from the stack of books she often leaves behind.” Domitia’s false smile was a winsome thing, if not a touch forced.

“Ah, is that where you've been of late?” Beside her, Zenos spoke. His voice was a crooning timber, it seemed to run itself along the curves of Domitia’s ears and she had the irrational compunction to hold her breath.

“Don't be jealous, you're likewise busy.” Crow replied archly, exchanging the emperor’s sparse plate with the one she'd prepared.

“Perhaps I should try breaking a limb then.” He said, the hen on his dish gave a sickening crack as he broke through its thigh.

Crow let slip a laugh, stifling it behind a stark napkin. The single note of her amusement was light and genuine, unlike the harsh, sardonic sounds that she'd grown accustomed to.

“And what have you read on?” The emperor cut in after a few bites of his meal.

“World histories and economic records, I found them all to be quite interesting and informative.” It was true for the former topic, but the latter never failed to put her to sleep.

“I see, so she hasn't found your stash of romanticas, has she?” Solus turned to his ward with a sly chuckle.

Crow hid her embarrassment behind a sip of water.

“I haven't touched those since departing for Nagxia, Your Radiance.” She said, quick to correct his teasing.

The lull of conversation drifted on and the emperor was generous with his amiability. Domitia responded in kind and grew confident enough to turn to her tablemate.

“And what was military life like for you, Your Grace?” 

The prince, who by then had finished his hen in marked efficiency, directed his indifferent gaze to her as though he'd just noticed her for the first time through the meal. He towered over her even when seated, and gazing upon him was like looking into a glacier. Proud, cold and utterly uncaring. And as glaciers were, he was beautiful, gloriously so with his golden visage and piercingly icy eyes. But this was a man who would never love her.

“It is adequate.” He answered curtly.

“You are intent on Doma soon, are you not?” She pressed, affecting a sigh.

“I am, for the foreseeable future.” Zenos answered, his sight already leaving her.

“Ah, I see that the couple wishes to discuss their future together. A stroll would be in good order after such a meal, why don't you two dally along.” The emperor suggested, impressing his will with keen force in spite of his pleasantries.

Zenos met his great grandfather’s gaze, and acquiesced with irritated reluctance. He rose to his feet with a frown on his often immutable expression.

Domitia turned with a pleasant simper. “If His Grace could assist–” 

If looks could kill, she'd be dead where she sat. Across from her, Crow wore a deceptively placid mask, inscrutable in its neutrality. But her gaze was dreadful and glittered with malice, just like the night Domitia had been hunted by that monstrous apparition.

She swallowed nervously as the emperor ushered them away with a light wave, then motioned for another glass of vodka to be poured.

With them gone, Solus no longer wore any such cheer as he leveled the glass of liquor before his ward.

“Drink.”

Crow narrowed her gaze at him.

“I command you to drink.” He repeated.

It was only then she took the proffered libation and swallowed it in one go.

“She's alive and healthy, as promised. Just in time for the soiree.” Crow said, slamming down the glass against the tablecloth.

“Against my expectations, I’ll give you that.” Solus admitted with a stern nod.

“Why did you send them off together?” Certainly to vex her, no doubt.

“I did so because you looked about ready to lunge across the table for her throat.” The emperor resumed his meal, managing to finish off the rest of the morsels she'd flenced clean for him. 

Temper or no, she demonstrated great care for him, more than he likely deserved for putting her through the events of the past moon. The ruined banquet at the imperial theatre, and the loss of Nagxia were two blows she'd weathered admirably. The third and last would be the upcoming engagement soiree. Zenos would need to return from Doma for his own wedding but she would be occupied on the stage of Doma and Hingashi to become upset at issues beyond her territorial shores.

So many plans were delayed owing to his whims, but he had assured Lahabrea that the western continent would meet its ruin soon enough.

 Her frown soon resumed as she stared acidly down at the flower-shaped aspics and stirred absently at chanterelle bobbing in the dish of broth.

“You put so much meaning in your legacy, this machine you’ve built — was adopting a savage the one indulgence you allowed yourself?” 

She was nothing more than a purposeless outsider, taken in on nothing more than a personal whim. Truly, what difference did she have with a common pugnis? Try as she might to deny it, ‘Imperial pet’ seemed pathetically apt to her now.

“Believe and feel what you must, but know that this so-called machine and my favor has benefited you far more than any pureblooded Garlean in this empire.” Solus regarded with gilded, reprehensive eyes.

In short: know your place lest you be cast aside. — Perhaps Domitia had been right on that count, she’d be better received if she would keep her peace until all this was over and done with.

She grew silent at his chastisement, but her gaze remained severe.

The silvered utensil clattered against the porcelain as Crow let it drop from her fingers. 

Her bid to forestall the marriage was futile in the end. She was finished here, and defeat had never stung so egregiously as it did now.

It was time for her to concede. 

“May I take my leave?” She asked, masking her despondency with aggravation.

Solus waved his ascent. She would understand, he reasoned, time away would do her well just as it did before.

The emperor sighed as he turned from her retreating figure. Be it father or friend, he seemed a failure in both present and past.

Chapter 111

The solarium was a manicured paradise amidst the pelting snow and ice without, with foliage and flowers in bloom all year round in a myriad of colors and shapes. There were species of plants that bore flowers in the shape of flying cranes, clustered spheres of baby-blue flowers that drank in the artificial lights beaming down from above, reaching lilies brushing against her shoulder as she passed. But as verdant and rich as this garden was, it was perfectly unchanging owing to the efforts of the teams of groundskeeper and gardeners to ward off blight and carefully selective breeding between the floras and winged faunas.

They were trapped here, groomed to be the same frozen specimens as their overseers willed them to be. She couldn't help but to feel some sort of kinship with them, though her fate was yet to be set into stone.

“I think I must apologize for all the trouble that has taken place.” Domitia said as she was wheeled down the granite-bricked path. 

The silence was an encompassing thing between them as they traversed the set walkway, meandering for some minutes until they reached a tiny meadow bracketed by a thin copse of trees. He pushed her to the edge of the private path then stepped around her with hands clasped behind his back.

“I concur, you've been a costly inconvenience since your arrival upon us. But save your apologies, they matter little to me and they likely will mean even less in the future.” 

His ability to wield his indifference like a weapon was astounding.

Domitia's lips thinned but she held in her improprietous thoughts.  “What do you mean, Your Grace?”

He looked down his nose at her, beautifully austere even in his impatience. “The marriage, should you survive til the set date, will never be consummated. You may keep companions to suit your needs and do as you see fit for I do not plan to return or bring you with me to Doma.” 

The prince was at least being blunt about his intentions.

“So I am to be a wife in name only, then? No children and not even the barest shred of dignity in monogamy?” 

“Do not misunderstand; to me, you will not exist at all.” He corrected affectlessly.

Domitia laughed in spite of herself, the impudent trickle of disbelief pouring from her mouth like a chuckling stream. 

“I will be frank, Your Grace, she is the most adversarial creature to have ever been brought to court. As hard to embrace as a poisoned bushel of thorns, yet you would love and choose her over your imperial duties?”

“It is not for you to understand, but I would impale myself upon her a thousand times over before I lose her again.” Zenos clenched at the air between them, knuckles drawn starkly white. “And should any stand in my way, be it you or my father…”

She knew little of their history but caught the merest gleam of unbridled reverence in those unfeeling chips of ice that were his eyes. Love was perhaps too tame of a word for what roiled beneath his inscrutable mask. Obsession, she thought as she assessed him nervously, nigh fanaticism that would make any of the savage eikon-gods of Aldenard envious.

“In all honesty, I want no part of our upcoming nuptial either.” It felt treasonous to admit it, but it had been something that was hanging over her.

She had been poised to throw herself into this life, submit herself into the imperial fold as a means to escape the ball and chain that were her father's vices. He was no great man but his love for drink and whoring only brought out the demons in him. Since coming to the inner palace, the bruises on her skin had faded but her health fell into a steep decline. Her joints ached, her appetites shrank and she was a shadow of her former self. The Medicus had diagnosed stress from a new environment and prescribed useless supplements that barely worked. She digressed, this place felt no better than miseries of home, only bigger and lonelier like a golden labyrinth meant to keep a prisoner. How its inhabitants could stand the weight of its oppressive air was beyond her.

Her groom-to-be, whom she'd initially been ready to love or at least cordial with, was little better than an opaque statue. He was finely wrought, beautiful but cold as any block of stone from the southern quarries. His unfeeling eyes only seemed to light up with some semblance of life when the savage family pet was near. Men of power tended to gravitate to the improper and the exotic. Thus was his flaw, she supposed.

“I propose a bargain, one that would give us both what we want and the annulment of this farce.”

Zenos circled her, assessing her like a hawk to its prey. “And what is it that you want?”

“I want to be free of my father, not only that but also of this yoke. My marriage prospect was already abysmal before, my father will likely string me up for any dog that would have me for cheap if the engagement is to fall through.” Domiting wrung her clammy fingers, even discussing this aloud placed her nerves on edge. “I want to start again elsewhere where no one would know who I am.”

“You are a Garlean bred true, they will spit in your wake behind your back should you venture from Ilsabard.” He said, easing his back against the thick trunk of a maple and crossing his arms.

“Be that as it may, distant scorn from strangers is better than the intimate pain of a father's blows.” She countered, digging hers into her long sleeves.

“He beats you, does he? We have that in common, at least.” Zenos chuckled, tongue briefly tracing over the still-healing skin of his split lip.

Domitia had the grace to look ashamed. The events that had transpired that had been a sore spot for all parties involved it seemed, some more than others.

“Very well, you'll be wanting capital to restart your life elsewhere and I shall provide it along with the transport you’ll need for a hasty escape once the maelstrom begins.” The prince said, eager to cut to the meat of the deal. “In exchange for such allowances, you'll listen and obey until the time for your flight from Garlemald.”

Domitia straightened, wary but hopeful. Never in her wildest dreams did she ever think this would work.

“I want the sum and a non-beholden clause put to paper. We shall part cleanly and succinctly."

Zenos hummed, the noise at once ruminating and impressed, a smile tugging at the corner of his bowed lips. “It seems I’ve misjudged you, my lady.” 

Chapter 112

Peace in the imperial family seemed like an impossibility at this point, but peace had never been something any of these sycophants were after, Solus supposed. Power and wealth bred disparity and, when leveraged correctly, could be tools to bring worlds to heel. That is if the one who wielded it had the patience and cunning for it. Both of which were woefully in short supply in his ever-noisome grandson despite his attempts to prove himself suitable for the throne.

Solus aimed a withering look at Varis, who had timed his visit immediately after the disastrous gathering in the solarium.

“Is there any particular reason for this impromptu, unscheduled visit?” He had to tear his attention away from the latest territorial taxation adjustment to Locus Amoenus to lour at the imposing figure of the High Legatus. Even without his armor and with some fulms between them, he was a tall slab of a man. His jaw was set and his stony face was etched into a determined frown.

He wants something, of course — Solus breathed a long exhale through his nose.

“Indeed, it concerns Zenos. Our concern, to be exact.” Varis began, his tone ever-severe.

Solus quirked a thick white brow in bemusement. “Go on.”

“How can we be sure that the boy will return to perform his marital obligations? Or an heir will be produced at all from the union?” He frowned sharply, the expression hardening his dour countenance even further. “By indulging endowing him with the rank of a Legatus and indulging that ward of yours, you’re giving him free rein to buck his obligation to the legacy of the imperial family.”

“That is true," Solus agreed. “But there are no laws against sending the bride to him should he renege on his duties”

“That is not the crux of the matter, you of all people should consider how his reticence will impact the longevity of this empire!” Varis countered through clenched teeth.

“You speak as though you and yours are the only living heirs to the throne.” The emperor ran gnarled fingers down the generous length of his snowy beard, a warning gleaming in his golden eyes. “Unless you already have designs to seize the throne before my passing?”

Even his obstinate, suspicious grandson gave pause at that. Being suspected of treason, even in jest, was a grave matter indeed.

“All I am suggesting is that you have some restraint when doling out indulgences, especially when they put the future of all you’ve built into jeopardy. If not with that girl then at least when it comes to Zenos, for he is my son!” 

“The son whom you abandoned only to whisk him away in unpredictable intervals, then leaving him at the doors of others when he proved himself unmalleable.” Solus rebuked, finger tapping impatiently

The High Legatus’ momentum seemed to stutter as he took a step back in recoil, lips pressed in a grim rictus. It was the closest Solus had ever seen Varis wounded.

“I will not be judged by you for that.”

Fatherless from a young age, Varis had once clung onto him for guidance and modeled his entire life on the embellished history of Solus’ conquest, only to later realize how cold and indifference his grandsire was to his fledgling achievements. His firstborn had died, and something had gone with him for a long time. He had been unprepared to be the recipient of such unweaned adulation, the lingering, all too human grief like a dark pall, too thick to be pierced by the fragile affections of a boy who did not know any better.

He had no excuse for it, but the shrunken hollow in his heart was filled with someone else now and he had none left to spare for those whom he’d spurned.

Solus drew in a weary breath. He did not have the energy to contend against further strife.

“So be it, then. I will summon my ward back when the time comes; the boy will not be able to refuse then. He will oblige his marriage lest I grant the Far East to someone else.”

Varis seemed to have more to say, more bitter bile and aches to bring up, but held back. A solution to his issue was granted, for now. And to the question of the production of heirs; there was more than one way to skin that particular coeurl.

****

A small, rational part of herself laid out the small victories she had managed to reap even as she tore the contents of her wardrobe down, blind to chaos and only finding meager satisfaction in the raw physicality of her tantrum. Her hands reached for anything she set her sights on, the latest being the collection of bottled perfume contained in artful little glass vessels. Their clashes against the mirror of her vanity elicited rippling shatters that left the once-polished surface in pieces. Flecks of glass and silver rained to the wooden tiles and velvet bench, glittering like ice as they bounced off the ground.

Her jewels were next, all the gold, platinum, diamonds, sapphires and amethysts as worthless to her as the debris that littered the ground. The clogging mixture of scents rose not long after, drenching the prone fineries and filling the air with a sickening sweetness that would make heads spin.

The marriage meant nothing, would lead to nothing — so why did she raged still, to swim against the current and rile herself up over it?

Her mind was oscillating between distress at the impending engagement soiree and impatience for the departure to Doma. It was a discordant medley of anxiety, emotional anguish and torturous anticipation that vied and choked at her. They coiled and wrung at her chest, like constricting roots that threatened to burst her heart should she even give it more than a minute of thought, all vying to be unleashed somehow.

But with Doma so close at hand, she was trying her damnest to behave. The usual bloody reprieve was kept at arm’s length, and servants were a skittish lot who came and went in hasty herds. The maidservants assigned to her all knew what excuses to make and cues to read when she was in a mood, and gave the wing a wide berth unless serving meals or dressing her in ranks of five or more girls.

Crow huffed and scrubbed at the torrid welling at her eyes with a lace-trimmed sleeve. Her own reflection shifted in a broken kaleidoscope, displaying an irrationally teary visage that was entirely foreign and unbecoming. 

A knock sounded at the shut entrance of her bedchamber. Supper had long concluded, taken alone before she took a rough hand to her possessions.

“What is it?” She called out, voice sounding too nasally and quavering for her liking.

“His Radiance requests for your attendance, Your Grace.” The muffled voice of a maidservant answered.

“Tell him I’ve retired for the evening and wish to not be disturbed.” She sniffed, scowling at the thought of his recent dismissiveness.

A pause, then a touch of urgency followed. 

“I am told that it is an urgent matter, in regards to His Radiance’s health.”

His health? Crow peered dubiously at the door.

Something as pressing as the wellbeing of the emperor would include the accompaniment of a steward, perhaps even Quintus himself would have come to inform her as she was once his former primary attendant during that uncertain period.

A faint, dark stir within the reflected shards on the floor caught her suspicious eye then, just beneath the flowing trims of her bedding. Some knave was despoiling the private sanctity of her bed chamber and she’d been too wrapped up in her wallowing to take notice.

The nerve! — her fingers itched for a weapon.

With guarded steps, she approached the door, laying a hand on the polished brass handle. Her other hand reached for one of her old books from an end table as she swung it open. A dark, tall shape lunged forth the moment the entrance sprang wide enough, the steel tip of a dagger driving deep into the leather-bound pages and then through, managing to cut into her bodice. Crow was forced on the backstep, not wishing to provide her would-be assassin enough momentum to do real damage — any wounds dealt might not be fatal, but she was not beyond incapacitation.

She twisted the blade aside, disarming her attacker. The blade clattered aside with the tome, leaving her hands likewise quite empty. Her leg flew up, knee catching an open flank but it failed to disrupt the incoming tackle. In the melee, the assassin managed to produce another sliver of steel and opened a gash on her thigh. The smear of her own blood on the pristine sheets made for quite a contrasting sight as she clawed her own dagger from beneath the pile of pillows, parrying the next strike that was aimed for her throat. 

Pinned between hard knees, Crow snapped her teeth viciously and rolled aside, taking the length of steel into her shoulder as she lashed her own steel out. It caught solidly on a flesh, spraying hot blood against her chest. Her attacker’s ichor steeped against her own wound as she sat up, eyes trailing to the very same piece of mirror that had informed her of the hidden peril beneath her bed. She had mere moments to register before the next attack came, the sword stabbing through wood frame and mattress with ilms to spare. The room exploded into feathers as the blade slid through, Crow pushed the corpse off her to scramble from the weapon’s path. The steel caught and she rolled from the bed, getting to her feet precious moments before her second would-be killer could fully extract himself from the confines of her bedframe. This one was fast but she was faster still and she drove her dagger into his eye with a snarl, his clumsy thrust grazing her bodice. It was only later that she realized that it had also parted the skin beneath.

Crow panted, casting her sight about warily as she wrapped shaking fingers around the plain handle of the embedded knife in her shoulder. The steel was lodged deep into where her collarbone overlapped with the beginning tips of her ribs, cutting to the bone. With a wrench and a pained groan, it flew free to the glass-littered ground, another metal bauble for the pile, she supposed. 

The slash at her thigh went deeper than she thought, but it was already knitting itself half-way closed by the time she limped herself through the length of her cursedly expansive apartment. 

Faltering steps grew steadier as moments passed and she was soon running in her sheared, ruined gown most of the way to the southern wing of the imperial residential floor. Uncertain of further pursuits, she had fled her abode, leaving behind a lurid scene of fury and murder that was certain to give the maidservants the scare of their life. Crow banged on Zenos’ apartment entrance after trying the door to no avail, her pallid face drawn tight from bloodloss.

Light flooded the dimmed corridor, the bright sliver growing like a beacon of relief as it widened. She lurched through the threshold, long locks of her dark hair sticking to her neck and chest from the glaringly conspicuous adhesive that was the drying blood. Her stomach roiled and twisted painfully, her tongue parched and rubbed like sandpaper against the hard palate of her mouth; Naberos wielding its gluttonous lash in demand for the dark miracle of her implacable vigor.

Crow slid against the inside of the door, delirious with the sudden and violent onset of hunger as she took in Zenos’ alarmed rictus. He was speaking a rapid-fire of words that she could hardly discern, her mind too focused with the task of keeping her jellifying legs upright. 

Her sighed syllables were husky with exhaustion as she peered up at him through bloodshot, half-lidded eyes, both as red as the stains on her throat and exposed leg. “Emperor’s eyes, I’m bloody starving.”

Chapter 113

What a sight she was, the peacock-green gown she’d worn the day before was drenched black with blood, its skirt torn asunder no doubt by a slash of steel edge. Zenos’ dismay was nigh palpable upon his first glance over the bloodbath that was her appearance. His eyes had darted from one splattered over another as he steadied her swaying form. It felt surreal to see such a mess only to find no injuries to speak of, but when he ran his fingers over her where her wounds should be he found only smooth, unmarred skin. 

He said nothing despite the burning urge to question her; to know what had transpired so he may quash what had caused this. But he knew the price of her bargain better now, the ravenous toll she had to pay to stave off terrible perils. 

Instead, he silently poured her yet another glass of wine and rang for a night servant on duty. Soon, within a quarter-bell, two dishes of cold ham, pickled chicory stalks, a whole loaf of black bread and a hearty bowl of borscht arrived at the door. Zenos lifted it from the manservant’s hand directly, obscuring the view into the apartments with his imposing stature. The servant, in spite of the bloody hand print at the threshold and the sheer rarity of the prince’s late night calls, held up his pretense of normalcy and bowed out without breathing a word further after bidding his lord a good evening.

Crow laid down the wet towel she’d been wiping herself down with and broke into the warmed bread as soon as Zenos set down the tray before her. He pushed his own dish at her, pairing it with a prompting look.

“Assassins, if you can believe it.” She said, brushing her fingers clean of crumbs and accepting the extra portion.

They were seated in his own lounging room, the space that equaled hers in size but had none of the personal effects dotting the length of the long couches. The shelves are lined with uniformly sized books, their pages devoid of content for they were but decorative borders to enrich walls of mounted shelves. Even the cushions at her arm seemed to have never been displaced, the slightest layer of dust dulling their embroidered borders. This was a space that was richly furnished yet saw little use from its sole occupant, like a perfectly arranged scene from a stage play. 

“How many?”

She took a deep dredge from the cup, sighing as the invigorating sweetness of the wine seeped into her tongue. “Two, as far as I know, clad in black.” 

Zenos remembered that woman who had been her occasional shadow. “Your mentor?”

Crow shook her head. “No, after what they’d done, I doubt they would risk their lives coming back. Moreover, they aren’t so sloppy.”

Attempted regicide — she could not fathom what drove Drusilla and her grandfather to such treason.

“Likely suspects are close to home, I think.” She thought aloud, ruminating over the rim of her cup. “Mayor Volerus isn’t wont to be so bold.” 

“My father, on the other hand, is .” Zenos tossed a blanket over her shoulder and sank himself down on the same couch. “I can’t quite say whether he’s leaving us a warning or earnestly trying to take your life, however. ”

Crow snorted a sardonic laugh. “Should I be flattered?” 

He gave her a flat look. “You should be wary.”

“This should be an overly familiar dance to us by now, shouldn’t it?” She chuckled, prodding at the single herring left on her plate. “Only this time, I won’t be going down very easily.”

“You’re being too cavalier about this.” He warned.

“Perhaps, but I am tired.” Crow announced as she shrugged off the warmth of the blanket and stood, her mood for conversation evaporating. “And I want a bath then some well-deserved sleep.”

“Sleep here then, stay until we depart for Doma. There’s no telling how far he’s willing to go once he’s set his sight on you.” Zenos rose with her, his broad hand running down her bare arm. The dress had been long abandoned, leaving her in a thin chemise, the frail, white fabric little more than an undergarment against her stained, ruddy skin.

In truth, his heart had nearly stopped dead in his chest when he had come face to face with the grisly visage of her. The blow of fear and wonder he felt at her appearance was a jarring concoction; he had found himself momentarily reliving the desolation of her death but was simultaneously captivated by how radiant she’d appeared in such hematic crimson. She was resplendent in her unerring obstinacy against death. He could always trust that her presence was the singular constant in his life, and she had come to him in one of her most dire moments.

She needed him, and he was ever one to place her needs first.

Crow gave him a cocksure smile, lidded mismatched eyes glittering with mischief as she leaned in close. “My oh my, is the groom-to-be courting scandal right before the celebration of his engagement?”

To her utter shock, he scooped her up in one sweeping motion, his pale blue eyes flashing with something that made her blush as she clung to him for purchase.

He nosed at her temple, lips tracing a shell of one of her long, delicately pointed ears. 

“I’d like to do more than courting tonight, if you’re willing.”

****

Courtship — a prim and proper concept that was still practiced among the aristocracy. Even within arranged unions, the formality was still observed in hopes of fostering some cordiality in the future parties involved. They were formal outings, appropriately chaperoned and participants were typically fully clothed. Neither of them were such with Crow barely clad the delicately translucent fabric of her cotton shift, her skin prickling with gooseflesh once she was let down onto the smooth limestone tiles of the bath chamber.

Her back was to Zenos as he ran his hands down the length of her arms, his height over her allowing a delectable view from over the smooth slopes of her shoulders. Twin points greeted him as he tugged surreptitiously at her neckline, the spattered fabric sliding past the zenith of her bosom to reveal naked skin. All the while his teeth grazed along the length of her ear. 

Past the bracing volume of her bust line, the shift fell easily to the ground into a soft pile at their feet. Crow then shifted and fell flushed against his still-clothed body, a dragging finger hooking into the collar of his shirt. On her tip-toes, she vied for his touch even as her finger snapped free the gilded rivet-buttons one by one.

Zenos wrapped an arm around her, feeling the impressing suppleness of her breasts against him as he reached back to the faucets. Crow’s eyes fluttered shut as she slid a seeking hand under the fabric and found the warm, firm mound of his sculpted chest, steaming water cascading behind them as he leaned down and captured her lips. Their kiss was a long, languid meld of heat and yearning as all the time in the world would be held suspended under the weight of night and their need for one another.

Her other wily hand had worked free his belt and was now in the midst of toying with his breeches, running curious fingers over the pressing curvature. His arousal was copiously obvious, straining against the confines of the woolen pants. Steam from the filled tub fanned against them as she trailed love bites down the contours of his neck; the valley of his broad chest and past the ladders of his sculpted ribs. His breeches slid lower ilm by ilm, the meandering progress was delectably agonizing. On her knees, legs folded atop the plush bath carpet, she nuzzled against the tent of his groin as the fabric was finally peeled back — Crow gasped.

Chapter 114

Zenos cupped her cheek as she ran  her sinuous, lustful tongue against the length of his member, experimentally taking in the taste and texture of him as she gauged his reaction. Though the rounded head of his cock fitted comfortably in her mouth, she was uncertain about the rest of it, however. Her gaze flicked up to catch the addled furrow of his brow as she ran light, teasing licks against the velvety skin like a coeurl lapping up cream.

His hand soon trailed to the back of her head, guiding her to take in more of the girthful length. Zenos sucked in a breath through his teeth as he felt the slick and warm confines of her mouth close in, his cock only halfway in before he felt the back of her throat. She tried to retreat, only to find herself firmly had by his unrelenting hands.

“Breathe through your nose in time with the rhythm.” His hips began moving slowly and she braced herself against the ledge of the ivory tub with a hand.

The pressure gave way to something heady, her mouth thick with saliva and his slick member. Her hand traveled down between her legs and found herself damp with want for him. This act was for his pleasure physically but she felt herself aroused by the thought of his bare, lurid self so exposed before her.

Her tongue snaked its way down the filling length, tasting the slight saltiness and scent. The smell of his manhood made her feel heady, a blush burning at her face as she took him with her mouth.

Slowly, with a pleading groan, Crow eased back against his hold. He relented this time, her lips parting from his length with a sharp gasp. A drooping strand of saliva hung between her mouth and the mauve head of his glans, the sight somehow seeming even more salacious than the act itself.

Zenos brought her up and began raining kisses down upon her neck and shoulder, his hand tracing circles down the jut of her hips. His left hand drifted north to cup at the generous curve of a breast, palm kneading softly as he rolled a pink nipple between his rough fingers.

She squirmed under his ministrations, his still-standing arousal hard against the small of her back. His right hand, the wicked thing, had gone south and slipped right between her legs. There, it found something small, tender like a half-formed pearl.

A moan escaped her, half in shock, half in pleasure, as he set a gentle, constant pace in his strokes. Crow, though familiar with the female and male anatomy through her education and reading, had never found the time nor urge to explore the depths of her own body. It was difficult to fathom that a tiny bundle of flesh could veritably jolt her off balance so acutely, sending her hips bucking against such delicious sensations. Toes curling against the tile, Crow’s back tensed against the warm, hard plane of his torso. She clung onto Zenos as her world unraveled, strand by snapping strand as his touch grew more quick and urgent. 

A strange, pressing pleasure was building within her and her melting legs, and it was all she could do to hold onto his arms as her world grew blank and insensible.

“Wait– Zenos, I–!” 

Her lower stomach gave a tingling squeeze as a stream of liquid spurted from between her legs, her mind reeling from the tidal rise of a climax. He continued mercilessly, ignoring her squeals of protest, her head thrown back against his chest as she whined like an animal in heat.

It felt– it felt like — he kissed her temple, a throaty chuckle thrumming against her back.

Crow was utterly mortified.

“I– that was–” 

In the wall of mirror across from them, she saw Zenos lift a wet finger to his mouth and licked it as though it'd been dipped in honey.

“Congratulations on your first orgasm.” He sounded insufferably proud of himself, blue eyes shaping into mischievous crescents.

He ran his hand down the tight, slender curves of her body, one hand leaving a slick trail in its wake, and pivoted them both to face the still-steaming tub. His breath was caught at her ear as he leaned down, the timber of his voice husky with suggestion.

“Shall we before the water cools?”

Bubbles foamed up around them and Crow leaned back against the muscled wall of Zenos’ chest. The heat felt good against her and so did he. It'd been a very long time since they shared a bath together, not since they were children, but they fell back easily to a wordless, natural rhythm.

It was all too short-lived, however.

“It is surreal to think that after tomorrow, you'll be a bound and claimed man.” Her head lolled against his broad shoulder, black hair swaying like reeds in the lapping water.

And not mine — she trailed her fingers down the streamlined contour of his arm by the tub’s ledge.

In answer, Zenos gathered her up into his embrace, stirring up the scent of citrus as he ran his lips down the curve of her neck. He wanted to hear nothing of the morrow, only to lose himself in her, in the moments between seconds as they entwined.

He sank his teeth against her skin, the tender flesh bitter-sweet from the scented water. Crow hissed at the pain, squirming as her fingers sank into the meat of his thighs below.

He'd been restrained his whole life, biting on a bit he hadn't known existed when it came to her. Whenever he took his pleasure by hand at times, out of necessity, his mind never failed to tempt him with the thought of how she would look under him, aching with need and pleasure. More than a year spent together in Nagxia, in a bed with nothing separating them but his will and her thin nightshifts, had left his appetite wicked-sharp with desire.

“I want none else but you, now and for the rest of the years we've left on this star — with or without the threat of impending matrimony.” 

Those words, had it come from anyone else, would have sounded insincere, sentiments tossed carelessly out to comfort a paramour. But Zenos had never faltered from his loyalty even when she'd thrown him aside and leveled cruel jabs to cut him in her moments of hurt.

“You shouldn't have said that…” Crow let out a shuddering gasp, feeling his hand slip between her legs once again.

He nosed at her jaw, humming his pleasure against her skin. 

“Why is that?”

“Because– because it’s already too hard to bow out with what grace I have left!” She bit out as she squirmed away from those stirring, deft fingers.

She rounded on him, water cascading off the tight shapes of her form as she rose from the water.

“Though we may be beholden to one another, I refuse to play second fiddle as a prince’s mistress in the public zeitgeist.” Even she, a savage and low to the eyes of the court, still possessed an unimpeachable pride and dignity afforded to her as the First Princess. She would sooner fall upon her sword than allow them any more ammunition to use against her.

Strong arms wreathed around her legs, shoulders cording as he pressed himself to her knees — a supplicant before his graven eikon. His brows were lifted, eyes heavy with worship as he clung to her.

“It shall never be my intent to subject you to such disgrace, you have my word.”

Crow cocked her head.

His betrothal, the soiree and  the looming threat of marriage in the near future — it was all inevitable.

Wasn't it?

“What are you planning?” She asked, frowning in disapproval; she did not like being kept in the dark.

Zenos’ smile was a wicked thing, the bow of his lips etched with unspoken roguery. 

“Knowing that it'll play out in your favor, why not just sit back and enjoy the show?” His mouth brushed past the mound of her groin, the heat of his breath washing against her inner thigh.

This time, it was his tongue that found that bundle of flesh between the petals of her folds, his encompassing, insistent hands sinking against her rump as he buried his face between her thighs.

“You're so…” Crow sighed hotly, knees giving in further with every devious lick he took. Within moments, she could hardly hold herself up, barely managing to brace herself against his shoulders. Her mind fumbled for words as she slipped her fingers into his damp, dark-gold locks. 

“So damnably incorrigible!” She groaned.

The ripple of his muffled laugh bordered on a purr, and it was all she could do to bite back a pleading moan as he drank her in.

Notes:

seggs

Chapter 115

Zenos could hardly keep his hands to himself, nor did he want to. Her skin was a flawless alabaster canvas scented with bergamot and something else that was entirely her. He had spent his entire life cherishing her, his bird of a feather, and every moment was a pleasure and a trial for how could anyone resist the swan-like curve of her neck, the sculpted planes of her shoulders nor the drawing temptation that were the dimples on the small of her bare back.

Crow turned with the towel pressed against herself, modesty barely preserved by the hem of the damp cloth.

“Are your shirts still kept in the closet room’s armoire?” 

The prince trailed beside her as they crossed into the bedchamber, hair still wet and bodies faintly damp from their cleansing tryst in the bath. He wrapped an arm around the narrow of her waist, halting her mid-step with a Cheshire smile.

“A shirt? Whatever for?”

She pinned him with a flat look.

In answer, his arms snaked around her completely, drawing her into the imprisoning hold of his embrace. 

“If it's the chill, then I'm all you'll need.” Kisses traced down her neck once more, ticklish and solicitous.

Crow pressed up against him like a pleased feline, sighing her contentment as he pressed his suit. She felt him harden at her response, the impressive length rubbing against the round of her rear. Her fingers dragged through the damp, ochre tresses, mouth brushing against the shell of his ear as she spoke.

“I meant that for after we’re finished.”

He paused, strong, slender fingers squeezing around the supple shape of her hipbones.

“Dawn will be along before I'm done with you.” He rumbled, molding her rump against his erect member.

Crow blushed as she realized what kind of predicament she'd just inadvertently stumbled into; endurance, she remembered belatedly, was ever his forte.

In a sweeping series of insistent hands, heated meeting of lips and raked-aside bed cover, Crow found herself pinned on his bed beneath him. His mouth moved from her lips to close around one of her breasts, a pink nipple disappeared between his lips with a trail of two small reddish bruises left in his wake. She hissed as she felt him roll the bud between his teeth, enjoying the aching pleasure brought on by his ardent measures. His hands were nary better, roaming her body like sharks prowling calm waters. It was as though he was trying to imprint the feeling of her form into his very mind through those eager fingers.

His finger dipped lower between her thighs and stirred at that delectable bundle of nerves. Crow felt Zenos smile against her skin as she arched her back, her composure unraveling with a lip-bitten whimper.

And then she felt a finger slip into her, flesh parting curiously as the slender length slid forth. His hands worked in tandem, one distracting her with its even, pleasurable circles over her clit, and the other exploring the freshly parted folds inside her.

She gasped as his finger pressed against the ceiling of her walls, prodding at a spot she hadn't known would provoke such a reaction. Alarmed, she reflexively tried to shut her legs but Zenos gripped at her thigh and they remained open against his unerring strength. Crow was helpless as his finger pumped in and out of her, the mewling notes of her insensible pleas peeling away his own patience.

It was not long before her hips began to buckle and her walls clenched around him as she came, her loins and his finger glistening with her arousal as he pulled his wetted hand free. Zenos met her gaze as he tasted her with an emphatic lick, savoring it as a man slaking his thirst. Her bosom rose and fell, her pointed ears and cheeks bloomed prettily with the exertion of climax. It was a sight to behold and all of it was his doing. 

Crow looked at him through her pleasure-addled haze, she bit her lower lip as she contemplated him. He was crouched over her like a dog with his precious bone, his handsome visage, often schooled with indifference, was now wrought with visible want. It made her want to push him over the edge completely, just the slightest nudge and he'd be untethered from the mannered coils of their upbringing.

She laid her arms over her eyes and eased her legs to him, her heart racing with her sudden boldness as the cool air tingled at the wetness of her folds. 

“Be gentle, won't you?” She breathed.

Zenos felt his throat go dry with need; there was no going back now.

Pliant thighs slid against the beams of his dredging arms. Crow felt his member slick against her folds; it seemed impossible for something of that girth and size to fit inside her.

She bit down on her lip as Zenos leaned over her and felt herself being parted. In one stroke, his hips pistoned into her and whatever air she had held in her lungs were drawn out by the impact. 

The pain she'd expected was barely a sting but her insides were indescribably full with him. Crow let out a shuddering sigh and reached up to draw him closer. 

What was Doma or her ambitions? What was tomorrow when he was the only thing she needed.

Zenos lowered himself to her arms, his hips moving languidly as he soaked in her heat. Her moans grew from tiny gasps, seeded by his slow, generous strokes, to dulcet notes of fervor. His forehead laid against hers as they moved in time with one another, breath mingling as she uttered his name like a prayer.

Zenos…Zenos…Zenos!

The two syllables of his name sounded like praises when they came from her lips, and it was all he wanted to hear from her.

“More!” She moaned pleadingly to him, and — by the bloody emperor — it was all he could do to comply.

He gathered her in his arms and buried his face into the supple valley of her bosom, his hips thrusting wetly into her delectable tenderness. Crow was all but a sopping mess, her legs tightening around the small of his back as he drove into her. She clung against him, nails digging into his shoulder blades as the intensity of it all grew too much for her. For the third time in the night, she came, each wave bringing her higher to dizzying heights of ecstasy.

Zenos felt the squeeze of her lurid walls around his cock and it sent him into a frenzy. She cried out when he surged further into her, sheathing himself to the hilt with each plundering thrust. The onslaught seemed to go on and on with her at his impassioned mercy.

Dews of sweat dripped down their joined forms and seeped into the sheets. She was a veritable font, succulent from beginning to end as he pumped into her. Zenos ran his tongue down the column of her neck, growling with need as he bit down. 

Crow panted as she felt the length of him pulse inside her, the sting of his teeth seemed like a mere secondary echo by comparison. Her hips seemed to possess a mind of their own as she ground against him, embedding him further inside her as he unraveled.

They laid entwined together under the cover of lifting dusk, his maw buried against the crook of her neck. Zenos drank in her skin and her scent as he filled her to the brim, his appetite for her barely scratched even when dawn was fast approaching.

Crow shivered as he slipped free from her a few heartbeats later, the hot gush of the aftermath dripping from her folds. He lifted her lithe fingers to his lips, kissing each one as he luxuriated over her soft, kiss-bruised form.

“You villain…” She mumbled, breath heavy, long legs still laid over the rugged mounds of his thighs.

Zenos answered her with the smug trace of a smirk, the expression so unerringly his.

Before long, they found themselves beside one another, half buried in pillows and fresh sheets, his fingers smoothing over her bare waist and his eyes playing along the shadowed nape of her neck. Her every even breath pressed her ribs against his lingering palm, each like a constant promise of her presence.

He pulled her closer and nuzzled into the curve of her jaw. That drew out a grumbling hum from her, the note husky from her earlier plaints of pleasure.

Zenos shut his eyes, his chest filling with an unfamiliar swell of contentment, his nose with the faint scent of bergamot on her skin. If this would be every night for the rest of his days, he would give up all else and ask for nothing more.

Notes:

More seggs

Chapter 116

Breakfast was carted in after two knocks at the bedchamber doors, the manservant was bade in by his master, the prince, without fail. Thus, by that point, all had been within norms. The bed was perhaps a touch more rumpled and–

It was then that he caught a lady’s green silk gown, bloodied and discarded on the bench by the ornate footboard. It was all the manservant could do to force his brows back down from their scandalized heights and serve the morning tea.

His Grace was nowhere to be found in spite of him granting entry. The manservant’s wondering was soon answered, however, as the closet room's divider slid aside on rolling hinges. He lifted the silvered cloche and brightened with the standard hospitality expected of every member within the servile caste.

However, when he looked up his heart immediately leapt to his throat as a woman — nay, the First Princess herself — strode forth with a white bundle gripped in hand, not a thread of clothing to be found on her nude form. Her long dark hair was draped over her shoulders, preserving the barest semblance of modesty. He had an eyeful of her voluptuaries before he caught himself as averted his gaze, his face beet red with shock.

“Pour a second cup please, if you would be so kind.” She said as she shrugged on the white raiment and licked a glistening smear from her rosy lips.

“You'll kill him coming out looking like that.” The prince meandered out in nothing but long slacks, his bare feet against the cold ground.

“Oh, but he'd die happy,” Crow approached with a rippling chuckle, slowly buttoning up the oversized garments with her lithe fingers. “Wouldn't you?”

“Ah…Your Grace– that is– I–” The manservant, seemingly of an age with his Lord with hair the color of ash and pallid complexion lighting up like heated metal, stuttered.

“Go.” Zenos said and nodded at the entrance. The man practically bolted like hunted prey after a stiff bow, leaving Crow to sip from her cup with laughter in her eyes.

“And you accuse me of being incorrigible.” Zenos drawled and sauntered up to her, pouring himself a steaming, strongly steeped cup. His father will surely hear of this, but what's another thing to add to his ever-growing list of offenses.

The spread was a sweet one as he often preferred. Two cornetti brioche stuffed with defrutum preserves and whipped cream cheese, accompanied by a bowl of barley semolina, butter and honey. The tea was dark and contrasted with the light crispness of the crescent pastry, but she passed the semolina porridge to him, unable to stand any further sweetness on her palate.

Crow licked the cream from her fingers and caught Zenos watching her when she turned. Even when their eyes met, he held his gaze unabashedly on her, seemingly to derive satisfaction in the simple act of observation alone.

Something between them had changed. Or deepened, rather. She felt steadier, all the turmoil she'd been wrangling against seemed, for the time being, more manageable by half.

Still — “Will you tell me what you've been scheming for today?” She asked.

Zenos shook his head. “I'll not have you further implicated, you've seen the length he's willing to take to rid himself of what or whomever he considers ‘inconveniences’.”

Crow scoffed in indignation, nose lifting snidely. “How rude! I'm at least a ‘catastrophe-in-waiting’.”

“Not while his selfish, errant son is about.” Zenos brought her against him, practically preening with arrogance as he nipped at the narrow tips of her ear. Crow swatted at him with a dubious look, biting back a grin.

She wanted to press him for more information, to at least know what to expect but she left that gnawing curiosity aside for now as she had the looming blade of Varis’ enmity to contend with. There was no telling what would happen next at the soiree later tonight with the peerage present. Zenos was, to her grudging admission, correct to bring up such a point. Her unnatural vigor would be difficult to explain away should another attempt on her life be made.

The last thing she needed was to be publicly condemned as an undying, magick-wielding hellspawn along with her crimes of being born a savage.

“Very well, keep your little plot.” She sighed. “ But try not to give His Radiance a conniption.”

“Trying isn’t the same as succeeding.” He intoned, the merest hint of impishness hidden under his signature bluntness.

Crow rolled her eyes.

They continued to break their morning fast while standing, the quiet moments passing as she pinched apart the sweet bread. Her usual visit to Domitia will be put aside in favor of her own preparations for tonight’s event. The chit no doubt will have a retinue of servants to help her put up her hair and dress for the occasion. Zenos would likely be expected to escort her in.

Crow bit into the rest of the cornetto cone in quiet disdain, her head lolling against his bare shoulder. For the moment, she allowed herself to simmer in her discontentment. It was the least she could do to comfort herself if she were to be among the crowd standing witness to the betrothed’s paired entrance later.

“You're sulking.” Zenos intoned, a hand tucking into his pocket.

“So what if I am, it's only fair that I–” She began glumly as he shifted in her periphery. her next words were caught on her tongue as she blinked down at the black velvet shape in his hand.

Crow straightened and looked at him, a bemused smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He made a show of placing the box in her hand and lifted the lid slowly. Her gaze sparkled with surprise as she took in the crystalline-cut droplets nestled within the velvet cushions. There were five of them in all, two small twin drops the shade of freshly-spilled blood molded into earrings. The other three varied somewhat, two the size of her thumbnail and one as big as a robin's egg surrounded by dozens of tiny diamonds. They hung like a cascading collar, aligned in a neat vertical row with the largest cut into a heavy drop. Each gem shone scarlet-red and white like cascading stars even against the stark light of daybreak.

Zenos was not prone to gift-giving, at least not the superficial kind commonly practiced by the aristocracy. She herself had little taste for jewels and precious fineries, but that was what made the gesture momentous. What these trinkets made her feel and what it meant to her when they came from him, it was not about how big or glittering the jewels were. She'd be pleased regardless of whether they were carved from plain slate or shining gold.

Still, the depth and quality of the stones left quite the impression.

“Where did you find these?” She held them up to the brightening light of day. 

“I rescued them from the belly of a Golmoran harpy.”

“In that hideous skeleton downstairs?” She chortled. “And what ever happened to being above mere baubles and trinkets?” 

He rumbled with a low laugh. “Will you put them on or shall I be forced to toss them out?”

“I suppose I must make the sacrifice.” Crow grinned in mock resignation. “Just the earrings for now though, the necklace will have to wait.”

The drops hung counterpoint to her long, tapered ears, twinkling in the coming day like dews of blood. Zenos touched the back of his fingers against her cheek, traced over her jaw and down the contour of her neck. He admired the complement of her silken skin, cascading dark hair and the newly adorned crimson jewels. Had he been a painter, she would have been the muse of a lifetime.

“Be my mirror — how do I look?” She said, suddenly demuring.

Affection shone through his blue gaze, those keen eyes polished warm by the sight of her.

“Lovely as dawn.” He breathed, voice low with adulation.

She leaned into his touch as he eased down to capture her blushing lips. It was a chaste but lingering kiss, delivered and received a thousand, thousand times over.

Notes:

How Crow got her signature red droplet earrings. I want to indulge and let them steep in their private moments before things come to a head.
On a side note, it'll be a minute til the next set of updates; the finale of this arc shall be coming to its conclusion soon.
Thanks for taking an interest in this little passion project of mine over the last couple of years.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Coerthan Traitor