“Why do I not remember?” the Pit asked.

There was news spreading across the land. That old tale of genocide. Whispered and screamed. Even now, an argument was breaking out between two of the Warriors, far below at the foot of Mt. Redress. The Pit watched them from her perch in one of the observation lounges. She was holding her swollen, pregnant stomach as though there was a true child within, and not the bastardization that represented all of her demonic pacts.

Far below, one of the Warriors started pushing the other. People gathered 'round the two of them, shouting. One of them tried to separate the Warriors, hands out to either side as the two Warriors stalked the other, two wolves in the circle.

And then, the conflagration of metahuman power. Flame met with sound. The sonic boom reverberated all the way up to the observation lounge. The Pit shuddered. The pacts in her belly kicked.

“Why do I not remember?” she asked again.

Pauldros walked into the room. He looked haggard. He sat down across from his lover, his hands clasped together.

“I...” Pauldros said, “Luminary is furious.”

The Pit did not answer.

Yes, bits and pieces were coming back to her now. Of rupturing like an overinflated balloon. Demons marching in a horrid parade from her split-open body.

“Most of the Warriors are believing the Workers,” Pauldros said, “A lot of word of mouth, but it's coming from trustworthy sources. People who have no reason to lie. People who went over to the Worker's town, to see for themselves.”

Demons, so many demons. The Pit had lost count, at times, of just how many infernal things she had broken bread with. Oh, what shame. How used she felt, in body and mind. They tore at brown-skinned people in feather hats and moccasins. Screams in her mind. Yes, they were familiar now.

“You really think people wouldn't get violent,” Pauldros said, and he nodded at the fight below. A quick spat. Already over.

(A harbinger, of what was to come.)

“Meloche, as well as the other teachers, are already heading to the... Oshya:de,” the Stonemaker continued.

Screams. A thousand myriad forms, washing over them in a tide of flesh and horror. Claws tearing children apart. Ripping open man and woman alike. One of them, she recognized as the Crimson Knight, bled the sky scarlet. Overtook the stars. Overtook the moon and the sun.

Screams. All an orchestra of screams.

“...My love?” Pauldros asked.

The Pit was crying. She realized this. Thin lines of salt that wetted her marble face. She looked at Pauldros.

“Why do I not remember?” she asked, “I would know if I did something like this.”

“They are tricks of the demons within you,” Pauldros said. He did not sound convinced.

Indeed, the Pit shook her head.

“No,” she rasped, “No no no. You know they cannot access my mind. Not even the most psionic of them. It is part of my ability.”

Her eyes were bloodshot.

“Why can I not remember?”

“What is it you cannot remember, my dove?” Pauldros asked, “Tell me. You're... you're scaring me, Pit.”

“You were there, too,” the Pit said, and indeed she saw her lover's face, there in the past. His face had betrayed no emotion. He merely watched as the Pit cracked like an egg. On occasion, when one of the Oshya:de got too close, he or Luminary would flex a finger. Move a hand. Earth or light would enrapture the would-be attacker. And they would be gone. Sunken into the dirt.

Or crushed by glowing hands.

“I.. was?” Pauldros said, “I don't understand.”

“Don't say that you don't have the nightmares,” the Pit said, “The screams.”

“We have led hard lives,” Pauldros said, “My dreams are always-”

“Do not excuse,” the Pit hissed, “Do you not remember coming here? Before. Before we found paradise.”

And Pauldros was quiet for a long time. He looked out the window, his eyes watering. The Warriors had been broken up from one another. But there was still shouting.

“...We should talk to Memoire,” the Stonemaker said.

***

Dodeca Dorucanthos was something of the black sheep of the family.

She stood, along with the rest of her family, in their estate. They were in one of the sitting rooms, which had a long couch with plush cushions, enough room for all of them to sit down, if need be. However, only Snapdragon, Jaskaios, and his daughter Aima sat there. Nomatrius Dorucanthos instead sat at a chair by the fireplace. There was no fire, however, for Nomatrius only had it lit in the evenings. A painting of Nomatrius's wife, Carissa Dorucanthos, rested above. She smiled down upon the family. Only Snapdragon and Jaskaios had really gotten to know their late mother. Dodeca had been only five. Melitta had still been a baby.

The rainbow-haired youngest daughter stood watching the window. Workers were watching from outside. A few of them were raising up signs, shouting and screaming, though it was muted by the glass.

And Dodeca stood, arms crossed, at the frame of the door. She glared at her father.

“So it's true, then,” she said.

Nomatrius did not reply. Her father was staring at the wall.

“I just got back from the Worker's town. The sandstone tower. There were people here,” Dodeca said, “There are people here.”

She advanced. Snapdragon rose from their seat.

“Enough, Dodeca,” they said.

“Bullshit,” Dodeca said, and Aima winced, “You knew, didn't you? You all fucking knew.”

“No, we didn't,” Jaskaios murmured.

“What was that?” Dodeca wheeled on him.

“I said, we didn't,” Jaskaios said, “You think we'd be able to live with ourselves?”

“Our family's done worse,” Dodeca said, “It runs right in our wheelhouse, doesn't it, old man?”

She pointed a finger at Nomatrius.

“What did these people do, that made them deserve what you did?”

“That's enough,” Jaskaios said, “You're scaring Aima.”

“Then she can leave,” Dodeca said, “The adults are talking-”

“I don't see an 'adult' before me,” Jaskaios spat, “Only a child pretending at-”

“Don't you start, either,” Snapdragon said, “All of you, enough.”

Dodeca glared at Jaskaios. Jaskaios was still sitting down, but his hand was rapping against his knee. Their arguments often ended like this. With venom and barbs, and their older sibling picking up the pieces.

Melitta, for her part, stayed away from all of this. She walked over to her father, rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Papa,” she said, “...Are you alright?”

Nomatrius looked up at her.

“I... I am,” he said, “I think. I don't know. I don't... remember.”

He rubbed his temples.

“There was that business trip. You remember, don't you?” he said to Snapdragon.

“You take many such trips,” Snapdragon said.

Dodeca crossed over to the room. Took up Melitta's spot of looking out the window. There were more Workers out, now. The signs were demanding answers. But they had not crossed into the front lawn of the manor.

“It was...” Nomatrius said, “It was one of the more secret ones. A couple years ago now, I think. Luminary was wanting to meet with me.”

“I had warned you to stay away from her,” Jaskaios muttered.

“She told me of... this place,” Nomatrius said, “I don't remember anything else.”

He was quiet, for a time. Dodeca shook her head, and made for the door.

“And where are you going?” Snapdragon asked.

“I'm going out to the sandstone tower,” Dodeca replied, “Going to see what I can do.”

“Dodeca, don't be stupid,” Snapdragon said, “You are a Dorucanthos.”

“Like hell I am,” Dodeca said, and she glared at all of them in the room, “You know what this is, right?”

They were quiet.

“I'll tell you what this is. It's a cover up. A coverup of genocide. We're metahumans. I thought we were better than this.”

Snapdragon's mouth tightened into frown.

“All the same,” they said, “They'll know you're a Dorucanthos.”

“And they won't care,” Dodeca said, “You don't know them like I do. Probably because you've never talked to them before, have you?”

She walked out the door. Not even a last goodbye. Nothing.

“What should we do, Papa?” Melitta asked.

But Nomatrius was quiet again. Memories were resurfacing. Of his time on New Ludaya, before the nation and before the Workers and Warriors and Rulers.

Before, when it was called Ganá:yeht.

“Oh, god,” he said, and he buried his face into his hands, “What have I done?”

***

Jaskaios ordered Aima to her room.

“Dad,” she said, “You can't be serious.”

“It's dangerous,” Jaskaios said, “I'm worried that the Workers will try and do something.”

“People are upset,” Aima said, “But come on, I'm old enough to take care of myself. I want to see-”

“See what?” Jaskaios said, “It's hardly been a day, and already people are riled up. Things are going to get worse, Aima, and it's going to get violent.”

He knelt down to look at her face-to-face, and she could see the anxiety, the fear, etched onto every line of his blue face.

“When people see injustice, they want to do something about it,” he said, “And metahumans are used to seeing injustice. So they see a half-story given to them, and now want to dispense the justice they've been so denied. They'll burn this plane to the ground, just to feel like they've done the right thing.”

“A... half-story,” Aima said.

“We don't have all of the facts,” Jaskaios said, “Only the words of a stranger.”

“Dad, you saw Grandfather,” Aima said, “I've... I've never seen him cry before. Never seen him-”

“It is a stressful time,” Jaskaios said, “Don't worry about your grandfather. Just... stay here. I'll come get you when things calm down.”

Aima's eyes widened.

“Wait,” she said, “W-Where are you going?”

Her father was opening the window. Climbing out, and he was assuming his cloudform. Flesh became water vapor.

“Your entle Snapdragon thinks it's best if we go to Mt. Redress as a group,” Jaskaios said, “I'll be carrying your grandfather through the sky, since all the protestors are below. Your aunt Melitta's to stay here, and look after you.”

Indeed, on the ground, Melitta Dorucanthos was burying fingernails in the soft earth of the estate. Her nail-soldiers pulled themselves from the ground, and began to patrol the manor.

“Stay here,” Jaskaios said, “I love you.”

And he was off. Whispering as a cloud to pick up her grandfather. She saw him lift Nomatrius into the sky, holding him aloft as though he were a fluffy palanquin. Entle Snapdragon was wheeling about in the sky with them on Draconic wings. They waited for a few moments for Jaskaios to fly beside them, then as a strange flock of three, they were off.

Aima heard a knock at the door. She turned around. Melitta was there. Smiling at her, ever the 'fun' aunt, but there was a forced nature to it. Like she was trying to hold it together.

“I thought I'd make us a snack,” she said, “You want anything?”

Aima blinked.

“No thanks,” she said, “I'm... I'm good.”

“Alright,” Melitta said, and she sighed, “Crazy world, huh?”

“Yeah,” Aima said.

And now her aunt looked at her, and though she was still smiling, there was warning in her voice.

“You heard your father,” she said, “Don't leave the house. I can see that look on your face.”

Indeed, through the window Aima could see one of her aunt’s nail-soldiers climbing onto the balcony. It hoisted itself over the railing, then stood at attention.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Aima said.

Aunt Melitta nodded at that.

“Well, if you want anything, just say the word,” she said. And was off.

…

…

It was a few hours before Aima decided that enough was enough.

And so, she decided to do something.

Her father, notably, had left no sharp objects in her bedroom. Cutlery was for the kitchen and dining room only. Any pens were to be asked for, and only under the strictest of supervision. Any sharp edge had to be filed off into blunted knubs. All to make sure she could not bleed. For Aima Dorucanthos's power was to create illusions when her blood was exposed to open air. The more she bled, the more powerful the illusion.

There had been a time when she had fallen while on a business trip on Kelstonda. It had just been her entle Snapdragon and her, and they had been trying to keep a low profile, for business on Kelstonda could be risky. A gash to the forehead, and her illusion powers hid her away from her entle, who had spent most of the day looking for her, almost ruining a potential business meeting with investors from the Marlish Empire.

She still had the scar on her forehead to show for it. A trophy, for her Awakening.

Since then, her father had tried to hamper her abilities. They were only to be trained when he was around. Any injury she gave herself was to be tended to immediately. It was, in his eyes, the ultimate father's fear. In order for his daughter to flourish, she must harm herself.

But her family underestimated how potent Aima's power could be. How potent it had become.

She dug her fingernails into her arm. Hard. She bit on her lip, powering through the sharp pain as she raked slowly down her skin, red pepperish dots emerging from underneath. She exhaled, and began to craft her illusion. She made herself invisible. Made a copy of herself to sit at the seat of her bed, reading a book.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

And then, she opened the door to the balcony, though she projected the illusion that it was still closed. The nail-soldier hardly noticed.

And she climbed over, as she had so many times before. The protests below had dispersed a bit, with Nomatrius's leaving. But there were still a few people milling about, watching the estate for any sign of change. No one took note of her.

For she still was bleeding from the marks on her arm.

All of New Ludaya was talking. People on the road were talking openly about the Oshya:de. Some were on their side. Others were not.

Everyone, as far as she could tell, was some shade of anger.

She did not take any wagons. Did not take any carts. She merely continued onwards, sometimes jogging, sometimes walking.

Her grandfather did not remember. He told tales of the past, when this land was called something else. He broke down sobbing at them. Guilt in every cry.

She had never seen Nomatrius Dorucanthos cry.

And she only knew of one metahuman with such powerful ability over memory.

…

…

She found Memoire by the lake.

Not at Mt. Redress, where one would have expected her. But then, the mountain was awash with movement. Panic. Organization, as the Shadow of the Giant sent out Warriors to different communities across New Ludaya, the small communes and the large town, to keep watch and make sure the Workers didn't go completely berserk. Far too much anxiety for Memoire.

Who, instead, sat at the shores of the lake. It was quiet here, for many of the Warriors were out on the plane. A few loons called in the distance. Something rippled near the lake's middle. Dragonflies skirted over the surface. A crane picked through the reeds.

Aima dropped her power. Appeared out of seeming thin air.

“Memoire,” she said.

The older metahuman turned. She had been... crying. Tear marks strained down her face, which had matted down as though they had wettened papyrus. She was holding her knees to her chest. Was rocking as she considered Aima.

Then, she turned back to look at the lake. Aima took this as permission to go to her side, once more.

The two sat for a while.

Memoire wiped her eyes.

“...You shouldn't be here, child,” she said, “These have become dangerous times.”

“I can take care of myself,” Aima said.

“People are confused. People are uncertain,” Memoire said, “It's my fault. It's all my fault.”

“H-How is it your fault?” Aima asked.

“She asked me to do things,” Memoire said, “I should never have done this. We shouldn't have done this.”

She was breaking down again. Buried her face in her knees. Began to shake.

“N-Never, never never never.”

Aima allowed her time. Shouts came from up the road. Someone was having trouble with a wagon, by the sounds of it, a broken wheel. Another metahuman grew in size, lifted the thing wholesale. He should have been a Warrior, but he did the job of a Worker.

And then she heard someone approach.

“Ah, I thought I'd find you here.”

Aima turned. Memoire did not need to.

“Hello, Meloche,” the Seat of Secrets said, “I hope you are well.”

He was a metahuman. Sap covered his entire body, layer after layer, to the point that he looked almost like a humanoid glob than anything else. Dirt and grass stuck to Meloche's feet as he walked down to join them. He was wearing a satchel stuffed with papers and coins, and Aima could see the barest hint of a skeleton within the mass.

“You really fucked things up, didn't you?” Meloche asked.

Memoire winced. Aima stood.

“Don't you hurt her,” she said.

Meloche looked at her.

“...You're Aima Dorucanthos, yes?” he said, “You come to my lessons every once in a while.”

“My father made me,” Aima said.

“A bit too heady for you?” Meloche asked, “My lectures often involve more... esoteric concepts.”

Memoire wiped her face. Looked at Meloche.

“What do you want, philosopher?”

“Merely to hand in my resignation,” Meloche said, “I was hoping to find someone more suitable on the Council. Pauldros the Stonemaker or Iconoclast. But you'll have to do.”

Memoire sighed.

“Where will you go?” she asked.

“Where do you think?” Meloche said, “I go to the Oshya:de. To that sandstone tower.”

“So you're turning our backs on us, too, then.”

“I will not be party to genocide,” Meloche said, “Any more than I already have been. You have damned us, Memoire. Every metahuman here. You have made us accomplices to your atrocity.”

“We didn't do anything,” Aima shot back, “How the hell are we accomplices?”

“We live on stolen land,” Meloche said, “We have used it for farms. For erecting buildings. We have chopped down forests, and hollowed out mountains. We benefit from the sins of what you have done.”

“My father said there are half-truths everywhere,” Aima said, “How do you know Memoire did anything?”

“It does not matter what she did, or did not do,” Meloche said, “She holds a seat on the Council. You are more than just yourself, up there. You are the face of the nation. A nation that has slaughtered a people.”

“That doesn't mean she should have to pay for its crimes,” Aima said, “Even if they are true, even if-”

“Please, Aima,” Memoire said, “You don't need to defend me. He speaks the truth, and nothing but.”

She did not meet Meloche's face. But she half-turned, at least.

“You always were so forthright, philosopher,” she said.

Aima's brow furrowed.

Then, she realized what the Councilwoman was saying.

And she stumbled back, her eyes wide.

“You were there,” she said, “You... all of it. It's true.”

Memoire did not reply.

She merely nodded.

Meloche shifted uncomfortably.

“Gods, Memoire,” he said, “I...”

He looked away.

“I didn't want to believe it, you know,” he said, “I could see Luminary doing this. Iconoclast, too. They roped you all into this delusion, didn't they?”

The lake was still. The crane had stopped. It was lowering its neck lower and lower towards the water, its eyes set on something in the murk.

“Though that does not excuse you,” Meloche said, “Convinced or not, on Luminary's order or not, you are not a tool. You are your own person, at the end of the day.”

Memoire was crying again. Tears were rolling down her paper-like face. The symbols on her body shook and shimmered.

“When we first met, ten years ago,” Meloche said, “I had heard stories of you. The great Memoire, who could take pain away. Who manipulated memory as though it were sand. The mind was a plaything to her. And she was kind. Above all, she was kind. She did not use her power for selfish gain. She did it to help people, to ease us.”

The crane speared whatever it was hunting for. A fish flapped in its mouth, gored by its upper beak.

“...Well,” Meloche said, “I know what I must do. I must help to make things right. I suggest you look in the mirror, Memoire, and ask yourself the same question.”

He looked at the aghast Aima.

“What will you do, young Dorucanthos?”

Aima had gone pale. As the revelations washed over her.

Her sobbing grandfather.

Her conversation the other night with Memoire, at this very lake.

“I... I don't know.”

“That is alright, I suppose,” Meloche said, “You are a child. You are still growing. In the ideal world, you would not be involved at all.”

Aima shook her head.

“But I am, aren't I?” she said.

“You are,” Meloche said, “We all are. But take your time to think. To reflect. And do so in a safe place. You should go home for now, Aima Dorucanthos, before the cooler heads grow hot.”

Aima did not reply.

The philosopher paused.

“The future is not an easy road,” he said, “It will get violent.”

“I'm prepared for that,” Aima said, “I'm used to violence.”

“I wish it were not so,” Meloche murmured, “Very well. Make your decisions. If you choose to join us, know that we will be waiting.”

He turned to Memoire.

“I will see you when we dream again, Memoire,” he said.

He left them. A few minutes later, heeding Meloche's words, Aima bade her goodbye as well.

Memoire stared down at the water. At her reflection in the lake. How she had aged in so short a time. How guilt had eaten at her features, though only she knew this, for very few others wondered at how one with a power like hers would change with time. She had fewer symbols as a child. But as she grew up, more and more appeared on her. Hieroglyphs and words and letters from a hundred different cultures, each more ancient than the last. If she reached old age, she had wondered long ago, would her face, her skin, reflect the first languages of the multiverse?

But she was not sure if she would reach old age.

(Nor did she think she deserved it.)

Luminary would be convening the Council soon. Memoire stood up.

And walked back onto the path. For Mt. Redress, and what was to come there.

***

The Council met in their old chambers. The sky overhead leering down at them. In judgment, in some of their eyes.

This meeting was not a normal one. Not only because of the new circumstances. The revelation. Of them all, Luminary sat at her most relaxed. She was statue-still, demure and frowning, as they had always known her. Iconoclast's entire body was contorted, as though he were ready to pounce on any of them. His eyes were hard and burning.

The Pit looked mutinous. Her entire form shook with rage. Pauldros the Stonemaker sat beside her, shuffling in his seat at times. He was tapping the table again, each time making small towers of rock erupt from its surface, then sink back down, waves upon rippling waves.

Lord Freak was still smiling his shark tooth smile, but there was an edge to his grin. He knew full well what the contents of today's meeting would be about. He seemed almost joyful.

It made Nomatrius Dorucanthos want to leap across the table and throttle him.

Instead, the patriarch of the Dorucanthos family, one of the primary investors in the project that was New Ludaya, sat leaning in his chair. His two eldest, Snapdragon and Jaskaios, flanked him on either side. Snapdragon had their arms crossed. One of Jaskaio's ears flickered. Both of them looked serious and prepared, expecting the meeting to devolve into violence.

And, across from Luminary was the miserable Memoire. Curled up in her chair, wrapped up in her own arms and legs, hands crossed to each shoulder and rubbing them as though she were cold.

There was a moment of pause.

Then...

“What the hell happened, Luminary.”

It was the Pit. Her voice was low and dangerous.

Luminary took a second to respond. She considered the Pit for a few seconds.

“...So you've heard,” she said.

“Yes,” the Pit said, “I've heard it all. And I remember it.”

She turned to glare at Memoire.

“What did you do to us, you sniveling little monster?”

Memoire flinched.

Lord Freak laughed.

“She just did clean-up,” he said, “I think you're projecting, Pit.”

The Seat of Magic wheeled on the Seat of Science. Lord Freak had his hands clasped on the table. Luminary sighed.

“Don't egg her on, Lord Freak,” she said.

“She's the one swinging,” Lord Freak said, “I understand your anger, Pit dear, but do try to control it-”

“Damn you!”

She leaped from her chair. The table seized, then shifted upwards, catching her and settling her down. The Pit, spluttering, lowered back to her seat. Pauldros guiltily reset the chair to its original point.

“We came for answers, my dove,” he said.

The Pit forced her anger down. Shook, once more, and said nothing else.

“I'm curious, too,” Nomatrius said, and he glanced at the table, “Obviously, only a few of us got our minds wiped by Memoire.”

“And how do you know that?” Luminary said.

“Because some of us are angry, some of us are sad, and some of us don't seem to care,” Nomatrius replied, “The Freak's enough of a bastard that I wouldn't be surprised if you let him off his leash.”

“I'm not that monstrous,” Luminary said, “Part of our deal for Lord Freak remaining on New Ludaya was that he couldn't experiment on the Oshya:de.”

She looked at Pauldros.

“It was you who insisted on that.”

Pauldros shifted in his seat.

“It was also you who insisted that the Oshya:de would get to live in the caves,” Luminary said, “Enough clearing away that we would have a space for ourselves, but not all of them, lest our hands be completely drenched.”

“Easy for you to say,” the Pit said, incandescent, “I... I... I split myself open, Luminary, I have done that but once before, and it was... it was...”

She looked about to throw herself at the old woman. Luminary shook her head.

“You agreed to it,” Luminary said, “It was either that, or we risk losing the plane. The tactical advantages that New Ludaya provides. I did not believe that the seven of us would be able to found our nation without you making an ultimate sacrifice.”

The Pit swallowed.

“You were smiling, as I recall,” Luminary said.

The Pit went silent.

For she had been.

(She had never done what she had done before, and she had found it exhilarating.)

Luminary turned her attention to the rest of the Council.

“You all did,” Luminary said, “Every single one of you. The seven of us gathered. And we agreed on this plane. When the Oshya:de refused our offer to sell their land, we made the necessary, and difficult, decision to remove them.”

Memoire broke into tears. Pauldros got up from the table in a daze. He paced around the room for a few seconds, before slumping against the wall. The Pit had not moved. She grappled with the realization. And fresh memories.

Yes, she saw Lord Freak there. Laughing amidst a sea of fire. One of his horrid machines was cutting up a crowd of Oshya:de warriors, multiple long scythes cutting them down as though it were a fall harvest.

Pauldros held her in his arms. He tried not to see the rent in her stomach, the constant disgorging of horrors. No, he looked at her face.

“It's okay, baby,” he said, “It's going to be fine. Keep breathing, in and out. You got it...”

He looked afraid, in her memory. He looked panicked. The sky was red and he had not expected just how intense things would become. How the slash in her belly looked like it had been made by claws. The first of the demons, Balaphos the Foremost, had literally ripped her from the inside out for his freedom.

There was a way that Pauldros had looked at her, back then, something akin to fear in his eyes.

(And that fear was returning, now, as Pauldros in the present looked up to the Pit at the table. Memories re-awakened more than guilt.)

Nomatrius was tight-lipped, even as Snapdragon looked aghast, as Jaskaios's ears flickered in agitation, though his face was set.

The patriarch looked over to Iconoclast.

“And you?” he said, “Did you know, too?”

The Seat of History looked over at the Seat of Commerce.

“Yes,” Iconoclast said, “I feel guilt. But I did not react as you had.”

The Pit glanced at Nomatrius. Yes. Pauldros had been shouting, as the sky went red.

“I didn't sign up for this!” he had roared at Iconoclast, “We were going to remove them, not slaughter them! Drive them out, not butcher them like animals!”

“What the hell did you expect?!” Iconoclast had retorted, “That they would just take our orders lying down? You cannot have change without violence!”

“They were never going to leave without a fight,” the present Seat of History said, “You know that. We have made them refugees.”

Nomatrius shook his head.

“This is beyond the pale,” he said, “This is...”

“It was necessary,” Iconoclast said, “And I carry the scars of that work that we did. I will carry it for the rest of my life. History will not look kindly on us, now.”

He looked directly at Nomatrius and his disapproval. Met it in the eye.

“But since when have we metahumans been friends of history?” he said.

The room was quiet. Luminary sighed.

“What's done, is done,” she said, “We live with what we must.”

The Pit started at that. Nomatrius shook his head.

“It doesn't work like that,” he said, “These Oshya:de, they will come back. They already are coming back, based on the rumors.”

“And yet we are here, already,” Luminary said, “This is our home now, as much as it is theirs. I will not give up on New Ludaya.”

Memoire's crying had turned into soft whimpers. Nomatrius simply shook his head again.

Luminary turned to him, first.

“You are one of the primary investors here,” Luminary said, “All of your time here will go to waste, if you do what these Oshya:de say. They will tell you to leave. To go back to the multiverse, and not come back. Millions of credits, gone.”

Nomatrius bit the inside of his cheek.

He studied Luminary for a few moments.

“I have invested quite a bit into this plane,” he said.

“The weapons. The training. The machinery,” Luminary said, “All of this is from you. And you have been operating at a loss for quite some time now, haven't you? Will your family be able to live as they have lived, if you pull out now?”

She shook her head.

“You profit, when the time comes,” she said, “First run of any planet freed from the Federation. That was your deal, was it not?”

Nomatrius did not respond. Could not. For what Luminary said was true.

If they pulled out now, he would be destitute.

He stared down at the table in shame.

(Shame, and deep thought.)

“And you, Memoire,” Luminary said.

“Don't talk to me!” Memoire screamed.

She stumbled out of her chair. Ran out of the room. Lord Freak barked out a laugh.

“I'm surprised she lasted this long!” he cawed, “Really, Luminary, you put so much pressure on the girl.”

“Enough of that, Freak,” Luminary said, “She did what was necessary. We all feel guilt in our actions. But it won for us a home-”

“You speak like them,” the Pit said.

Luminary blinked.

“You speak like the High Federation speaks,” the Pit muttered, “The same justifications.”

“And you,” Luminary spat, “Acted like them.”

The Pit flinched as though she had been slapped. Again the rage filled her form, and she rose.

And now she was weaving something in her hands. A spell. A calling, for her demons, her collection of horrors and monsters.

And now Iconoclast was acting, far faster than the Pit had anticipated. A quick chop to the throat to gag her, and she doubled over. Iconoclast grabbed the back of her neck, and produced a slab of metal from his pocket. In his hands, it dissolved and warped into vines that wrapped around her arm, pulled it to the side, held it fast.

Lord Freak rose now, and he produced from one of his sleeves a syringe. As the Pit let out a ragged scream, he jammed it into her arm, pressing down and injecting her with a clear liquid. The Pit's eyes started to loll. She went limp.

Pauldros did nothing.

He merely stared at the table.

“Nasty business,” Luminary said, “You didn't kill her, did you?”

“Of course not,” Lord Freak said, “A sleeping potion of my own design. I have the antidote, if you wish for me to administer it.”

“Not yet,” Luminary said, “Let's let things calm down.”

She glanced at the remains of the Council.

“And what will you all do?” she asked.

Pauldros did not reply. Luminary took that as answer.

“And you, Nomatrius?” she asked.

“...I need time to think,” Nomatrius said, and he rose from his seat, “Don't try to do to me what you just did to the Pit.”

Snapdragon's head was morphing into a Dragon's. Jaskaios was assuming his cloud-like form, his arms elongating and his hands growing to the size of wrecking balls. But Luminary shook her head.

“The Pit was about to do something drastic,” she said, “You seem like a thoughtful man, Nomatrius. Take your time. Then, give me your answer. You're free to return to your home.”

Nomatrius nodded.

“Let's go,” he said.

Jaskaios fully enveloped his father, carrying him up through the opening in the mountain. Snapdragon followed behind, taking off with Draconic wings. Luminary, Iconoclast, and Lord Freak watched them go.

“And Memoire?” Iconoclast asked.

“...Freak,” Luminary said, “Take a few Warriors, and find her. Be careful.”

“Why, of course,” Lord Freak said, “I think dear Memoire could use a rest.”

He left the room.

Luminary looked to Iconoclast.

“The worst has come to pass,” she said, “I want you to take a group of Warriors and go up to Amoeboy's commune. Do what you have to do. Take the Shadow of the Giant with you.”

“You've vetted him?” Iconoclast said.

“Yes,” Luminary said, “He agrees.”

The Seat of History nodded. He moved past her and out the door.

Only Luminary and Pauldros were in the room. Luminary moved away from the table. Walked over to the Stonemaker. She knelt down beside him.

“I am sorry, for what we had to do with the Pit,” she said.

He looked up at her.

“Take your time,” Luminary said, “To decide what you need to do. But do not become my enemy, Pauldros, I beg of you.”

She stood.

“I'll be waiting,” she said.

And then she, too, left the Council chambers. Leaving the Stonemaker to his guilt in the room that he built.