Aisha al-Hakim didn’t storm into the temple of the Weaver; to call it such would have been both an exaggeration and an understatement. No, the Amil of Doeta strode into the building at the crack of dawn, right as the procession had left, taking steps with the certainty of someone who owned the building. The storm was in her wake, as priests attempting to stop her were engaged by scribes and guards, with discussions breaking out loudly and quickly dying into impotent whimpers.
“The temple is not open for visits,” they said.
“The elder and most of our brethren are in the procession,” they'd added.
Yet, the scribes would show paperwork bearing the seal of the Emir and that of the Amil.
Those blessed by the Weaver might have high standing within the city, but they all hissed and cowered before the parchment as if its very existence were blasphemous. For all the gifts Gods gave to their most fervent followers, none of their blessings could save them from the greatest cardinal sin: unpaid taxes.
They took immediate reprieve on a singular fact, that the parchment was not addressed to “whomever it may concern,” but rather pinpointed the target of this incursion into their place of worship. It was a singular target, one who’d never left the boundaries of the temple out of a belief that the stone walls would protect them.
Today was the day that the tax-woman had come to collect.
Seeing the force of her entrance, and fearing to become the next victim, the priests and devout happily guided her steps towards the library. Their anger turned into morbid curiosity at the fate of the recluse who’d rarely bothered to participate in prayer, too preoccupied with the contents of ancient books and crumbling parchment.
Aisha’s boots marched down the stone stairs with finality, following the meek katib apprentice as he held a piece of glowing rust-moss over his head. The boy had tried to speak of the history of the building, but his words had died in his throat with one look.
Not that he could’ve told Aisha anything she did not already know.
She’d been a katib herself, once, in the temple of the Merchant. It had been there where she’d learned her scriptures and where she’d become proficient with coin. The temple in the capital had been far grander than this structure, but the fundamentals were much the same.
The temple of the Weaver was larger underground than it was above it, as was the habit for most temples. It was built with stone and stainless steel, wondrous metal that it was. The insides were enchanted, reinforced every decade at the hand of a high priest from abroad. The structure itself was made to last millennia, and the temple of the Weaver was as old as Doeta itself, the only changes to the structure throughout its long life being minor expansions above ground.
The temple library was barely worth note for something this old within such a small city. Roughly two hundred rows of enchanted shelves, each of them containing magics to preserve their contents, as well as protect them from both fire and moss. The glow of the mana made it painfully clear how much tax-exempt aether the temple bought to maintain its pools of wisdom. Still, the contents of the library were just passable in size, enough to justify requiring multiple people whose sole job was to memorize every inch of it.
One of whom she was about to meet.
“Hafiz Riaz should not be too far now,” the katib promised, hurrying his steps once he felt Aisha’s cold stare against the back of his head.
Just as he said, a dim light in the far corner brought their attention, a wrinkled figure hunched over a desk, rust-moss his sole source of light as he leisurely scribbled with ink-stained fingers on a piece of parchment, muttering under his breath.
“Hafiz Riaz, you have a guest,” the boy said, bowing slightly.
“Tell them they can leave me a letter, I will-”
“She is here, Hafiz Riaz. The Amil is here.”
Aisha didn’t grin, but she very much enjoyed the way the old volar shuddered at the mention of her title. Pale scales that had not seen sunlight in years shifted, and milky eyes turned to look her way. Horror followed; as impossible as it might have been, the scales on the volar man’s face paled. Aisha imagined he would’ve gone chalk white were he human.
“You may leave, boy,” she dismissed the katib, waiting for the sound of the closing door before she stepped closer to Riaz.
“Y-you cannot do anything to me, not on holy grounds!” he hastily declared, eyes darting around in search of the guards he feared were sure to come and pick him up.
“What you owe would see someone of a lower station executed,” Aisha declared coldly, suppressing the smile as every syllable made him flinch. A sentencing, a nail in his coffin. “Hiding here protected you, but only because coming to collect was not worth the effort.” Her voice dripped with contempt, not an ounce of sympathy to be found within.
The purpose of her words was clear and simple: she had use for him.
“Is this why you came to my home? To thre-”
The flare of bravado died when Aisha loomed closer, putting down a singular piece of parchment on the table. His eyes flickered down at it, hesitant. “You have until noon,” she whispered the words with cold venom.
Picking up the piece of parchment with shaking hands, Riaz looked over the contents of the information she sought him to deliver.
“Y-yes, this can be done,” he quickly said.
On the face of it, there was nothing illegal about the request, as it merely required him to create summaries of that which the library contained about demons and the nature of their corruption. But to ask through normal channels would take time, and likely result in nosy elders seeking to sanitize the contents of the result. It was time she did not have, and meddling she would not tolerate.
“Yes, what?” she growled.
“Yes, my Amil,” he whimpered.
Aisha looked down on the man and turned to leave.
One temple down, two to go.
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After the spar with Liam, Imani Sharpclaw had been left caught up in her own thoughts. So much had spiraled out of control after she’d been rescued by the human, twice in quick succession.
During the short few days coming to Doeta, the leonid had taken every opportunity to observe the human closely. To try and understand him… and more importantly, what he meant to the demon that had remained perched on his shoulder or lap at every hour of the day.
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The answer hadn’t come to her until she’d remembered one of the very first clients she’d worked for as a mercenary. It was a decrepit old dwarf merchant who traveled with his every worldly possession, moving from city to city in search of something profitable to take to the next destination. The man had hired Imani as he was seeking to traverse the Sharp-Stone Isthmus, a place often frequented by lesser monsters.
Out of everything the dwarf had owned, there was one thing that he’d loved above all others: his pet brown fox. The dwarf cared for the animal like a pampered child, hand-feeding it treats, laughing whenever the fox barked, crying when it got hurt. It was a relationship Imani had not understood, and still didn’t. Had they stumbled into trouble, she would’ve thrown the furry brown thing at a monster if it meant buying the man time to escape.
Imani remembered the fury the dwarf had shown when she’d shared her thoughts on the matter. She’d since learned to keep her opinions about pets to herself, but watching Liam and the demon disguised as a rabbit, it had become increasingly clear that this was very much the exact situation.
Liam was the demon’s pet human.
It made things terrifyingly precarious.
Demons were worse than monsters, having all the power, but also being wickedly cunning. She’d seen their cruelty with her very eyes, lesser tribes that were not wiped out overnight, but that were slowly destroyed, one mortal at a time, with only the last survivor escaping to spread the story. To warn the other tribes of what awaited them if they did not submit to the demon’s authority.
So, in Imani’s mind, the only thing that could be more terrifying than a demon was a demon that possessed the same irrational concerns that a pet-owner did. And the black rabbit had very specifically ordered her to protect him in case the Amil broke hospitality.
Every moment felt like she was walking on the edge of a scimitar. The Amil might not be the ruler of the city, but she was powerful, and powerful people could make some random foreign mercenary disappear without consequences. It meant Imani couldn’t just trap Liam in his room and expect things to go well for her.
The mercenary played her role carefully, dutifully, and strictly. She did not sleep nor eat while within the Amil’s estate; she watched. It was only when Liam left for the city that the leonid would relax, taking to the quieter parts of the city to catch some sleep. She’d told the human she was recruiting folk, but the truth was that seeking people willing to give labor for coin would be far better after the celebration.
People weren’t going to look for work while being merry and dancing on the street; that was something for when they woke hungry, with a half-empty purse, and a gambling debt looming overhead.
Imani growled at herself, checking the sharpness of her blades for what felt like the thirtieth time in two days. The human had left, but only briefly, claiming a prompt return. It was… irritating; it would be a long day ahead if Liam chose to just stay in the manor.
Maybe another spar could help her relax.
The man flailed around like a suffocating fish; there was not a shred of technique or skill in his movements. It was only marginally almost bearable to watch when he had a chance to think, which was thrice-over the reason Imani had not let him do that. Despite the mess, and the fact that any cub in her tribe would have been able to kill him in their sleep, he had still managed to land blows on her. Five in total, each one of them borne out of some unexpected change in how he attacked.
It had left Imani with the gut feeling that he wasn’t a completely lost cause despite his age. Though it did make her wonder if, perhaps, those tiny flashes of insight and adaptability were the reason why the demons had taken him as a pet.
She quickly tossed the thought away. The very idea of a demon capable of pity or compassion was one she dared not indulge.
Imani’s meditation came to an end when she heard a commotion at the gate of the estate. Fully expecting this to be pertaining to her charge, she sheathed her blade and put on her uncomfortable leather boots. They had stretched a little since that morning and could certainly do with some more fitting now that she had dampened them properly.
The clumsy crunch of sand signaled the arrival of the human, accompanied by the draxani.
Bundling up her gear, she stepped out of the baths, approaching Liam as he walked towards the guest quarters. She slowed down, though, when she noticed that the draxani servant appeared mildly uncomfortable, stiff. The two rounded the main road into the area, and Liam was… off.
“You may leave now,”
“At once, sir.” The draxani quickly bowed and hastily walked off.
Imani looked at Liam and felt none of the usual mild wonderment he always gave off, and certainly none of the warmth. The man’s demeanor had not changed, his posture, his steps, his voice, everything was exactly as it had been before, yet there was something about him that was… detached, cold.
Her hand reached for the pommel of her blade.
“You are sharp.” The human moved closer, switching from Caliphate-common to Imani’s mother tongue. “Had you not been able to sense at least this much, I don’t think I would have allowed Liam to keep you around.” For a fraction of a second, his voice shifted to something imposing, dominating, impossible to ignore or disobey. His eyes vanished, replaced by holes filled with blackness.
Then he returned to his cold self.
“Whisperer.” Imani descended to her knees without a second thought, her head bowed until it touched the ground, cold sweat breaking out. She would have thrown her blade away if it were not firmly sheathed at her hip.
“Now now, no need for formalities.” He chuckled.
“I wouldn’t dare presume.” She swallowed.
“Raise your head, little cat.” The Whisperer spoke, a single digit caressing Imani’s chin, pulling her up to her full height.
Even when she towered above the demon wearing Liam’s skin, Imani felt insignificant. “Is… he…?”
“I merely took his appearance,” the Whisperer commented idly, an amused smile crossing his lips. “Now that your fate has fully eroded, I have a need for your services.” The smile turned into a grin. “Of course, you will be compensated accordingly, after you fulfill this task.”
Imani nodded hesitantly, bowing.
She’d say she didn’t have much option, but the reality was that becoming a mercenary had been her choice. In the end, she was merely working for the highest bidder. And though demons were many things—cruel, vindictive, cunning, and dangerous—in Imani’s experience, they were far more generous.
After all, if you prayed to a demon, they answered.
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Bunny sat on the rope that held one of the watchtowers aloft over the city, her current form that of a small bird. The aspect could've easily spotted the procession, but she was focused on a human woman with a green turban and dark skin.
The Amil of Doeta marched around the city with an obsessive determination Bunny hadn’t even seen in ants. The aspect loathed watching the mortal, hated how her aura shimmered with that touch of Liam’s own. It was like watching a pig that had been given fine clothes and left loose in a mud pit.
Her feathers rustled at the thought.
She’d spent every waking moment with him, at his side, day and night, keeping him safe, keeping him company. And for what? For his affections to go to the first female of his species he stumbled upon? He wasn’t even planning to stay human! What was the point of taking in a mortal lover if they were going to eat dirt in less than a century?
If he’d just picked someone worthy, Bunny wouldn’t have thought to complain. Maybe a sultana, or if he’d stolen a high-priestess from some of the uppity assholes, Bunny would’ve even been willing to accept a sixth-circle mage. Those would’ve been fitting bed-warmers, maybe even proper servants.
But no.
It had to be a dumb, coin-obsessed pig.
“Ooh, look at me, I’m a fourth-circle mage!” Bunny mocked in tweets, hopping back and forth on the rope, claws scratching at the enchanted fabric. “Watch me as I spend my day writing numbers about how large my useless pile of gold is!” Grumbling, she glared down at her. “I bet the only thing the cow is good at is laying on her big butt and letting others do the work. She can’t even vibrate!”
The self-tweet-based muttering continued for a good minute. She regretted not being able to perfectly mimic biological functions like Wolf could; otherwise, she would’ve taken the liberty of dropping a smelly present on the mortal’s head.
Bunny’s musings over whether dropping a brick on her would be an equivalently good idea were brought to an end when Origin told her to go spend some time with Liam. The Goddess had sensed him use the divine knife, and now it was Bunny’s job to keep him from poking at the holes.
Normally it was annoying how mortals couldn’t help themselves from thinking or feeling things, but in this instance, Bunny was more than happy to help.
A good way to end the day when she was going to have to go about the city making sure none of the bets were getting screwed with. Wolf had found a few of the contestants wore enchanted communication jewels, meaning it was now Bunny’s business to hunt down the mortals on the other end and take their toys from them.