The way she’d made it through all three tolls not only consecutively, but while remaining emotionally stable and standing, was a victory in and of itself. Regardless, Octavia did what she could not to let her momentary pride be marred by the severity of the horrors she’d seen. It spoke to nothing of the additional emotional pain she had yet to inflict on the poor child--a child who’d seen enough, if his tolls were anything to go by. She almost didn’t have the heart to look him in the eyes after the fact. It was a blessing that he knew not the exact nature of her task.

Octavia didn’t feel bad for the victims in the slightest. Each and every one led an unmemorable life marked by a memorable end, well-deserved for those seeking to lay their hands upon a child. One came with a blade, two attacked with blunt objects, and all harbored the intent to kill. She hadn’t expected to be quite so shaken, even after the third time she’d burnt to a crisp. It was one of the most gruesome ways to die that she could imagine, and at the hands of the youngest killer she’d ever seen. It wasn’t quick.

Perhaps most remarkable was the utter lack of any light shed upon the nature of their situation. True to Holly and Ivy’s words, each of the men led her no closer to a face or name that would match their violent contractor. So, too, were there no leads of which to speak towards a motive. The task of laying siege to the camp was hardly communicated in any capacity on the three separate occasions she’d inspected.

Their silence was baffling to such a degree that she likely wouldn’t have known of an interloper at all, had the context not been provided by the sisters before. Perhaps it came by word-of-mouth. Perhaps she’d somehow blinked and missed it. Perhaps, horrifyingly, the scale of the crime was perceived as so unimportant that the memory wasn’t worth witnessing. Octavia was no closer to an answer after three separate murders, and the lack of compensation for her troubles was incredibly frustrating.

Still, nothing stung quite so severely as the worry and pain in Domino’s eyes when she was through. He seemed to recognize when her task had been finished--if not by the strain on her face, then by the way her breathing was slowly returning to a reasonable pace.

“You good?” he asked quietly. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Octavia lied. How could she possibly tell him?

She didn’t want to give him the opportunity to press her on it. Regardless, her knowledge on where to go from here was nearly nonexistent. For the tolls of the Muses in her inner circle to which she'd borne witness, she’d been bound by the virtue-exclusive promise of continued partnership throughout the duration of her task. Breileneth was not, and would not, be abiding by the same rules. It left her stuck. With her lack of experience, the actual process of liberating him was still a mystery.

“I…” Octavia began, peering up at him anxiously.

To admit to that much would be humiliating, as the Ambassador. Part of her was already embarrassed at the idea alone of taking pride in the title. She kicked herself for not having planned this part through with Stradivaria when she’d had the chance.

If he thought the same, he made no attempt to show it. He spoke to the opposite entirely. “You need not fret. Have you released one of my own from this world before, child?”

She shook her head in misery. She was, at least, relieved when he didn’t laugh at her.

“It is quite alright. There is an incantation to be spoken aloud, such that the Ambassador may build the bridge between this realm and that Above. In doing so, that vessel will be no more, and I will return to the place in which I belong.”

He briefly raised one finger towards the harmonica, still cradled delicately in Domino’s clammy palms. Domino winced. Octavia nodded.

“‘I have borne witness to your pain, and my light guides your passage from the depths of my heart.’ Ambassador, you will rest your touch upon that vessel, and repeat these words at your ready.”

Octavia took one deep breath, resting her trembling fingers on the cool steel of Broken Bliss as her heart pounded.

“I have--”

“Goodbye,” Domino interrupted softly. “Safe travels and…all that. It was nice meeting you.”

When her eyes flickered to him, his unshed tears weren't subtle. Her heart ached. Octavia considered holding him tightly, if that was something that would bring him any semblance of comfort.

“And you as well, Domino,” Breileneth replied. “You have my blessing. Live a prosperous life.”

Octavia never had the chance to repeat the incantation. “To you, Ambassador,” the Muse continued, “I have one final question, if you would permit me.”

She blinked. “O-Of course.”

“What Muse serves as your guide?”

Octavia tilted her head ever so slightly. “My partner?”

He nodded. She couldn’t stem the smile that came with her answer, her heart warm with his name alone.

“Stratos.”

Breileneth hummed softly, a tiny sound of affirmation that vaguely reminded her of Stradivaria. “Interesting. He would serve as a fine guide, indeed. Please give him my regards.”

Confused or not, Octavia still nodded, ceaseless smile and all. “I will."

When she found no further input from neither Domino nor Breileneth, their silence served as permission. Once more, she took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment as she steadied her racing heart. She wasn’t sure if this was something she could truly mess up--that remained to be discovered the hard way. With as much confidence as she could muster, she gave him the words he had surely sought for far longer than she could imagine.

“I have borne witness to your pain,” she spoke firmly, “and my light guides your passage from the depths of my heart.”

What followed wasn't quite the instant disappearance that came with Stratos and his kin surrendering their visible forms. Instead, it was muted. In a slower, softer display that was far kinder to her eyes, Octavia watched as shredded sparkles of that beautiful scarlet were shed in earnest. Breileneth unraveled, every aspect of his glory sprinkling the air with crimson dust. His own disappearance was gentle, and every sparkle seeped into Octavia’s heart.

Just as she’d borne witness to the worst he’d had to offer, she soaked in every moment of his luminous departure without words. From what would have been his lower extremities--had he truly bared the form of a human--each and every atom of brilliance parted ways, shimmering and dispersing into nothingness from whence it had come. Up and up the chain reaction rose, devouring his torso, fingers, and shoulders. It felt like far too soon that each speck of radiance comprising his head began to twinkle and fade amongst the sunshine.

Identically, so, too, did his body--the vessel she’d called Broken Bliss. Still resting tenderly upon Domino’s palms, the harmonica disintegrated in the exact same fashion, devoured by an unseen void from every angle. Each metallic inlay surrendered, as did each glimmer beneath the sun. Even the Harmonial Crest itself wasn't immune to the reckoning of the end, an eternal presence finally granted peace. Where the harmonica slowly and ultimately faded, Domino’s fingers curled inwards beneath the sudden weightlessness in his hands. Octavia, too, twitched at the feeling of much the same, her fingertips brushing against empty space alone.

In his last moments where she could see Breileneth, his departure was lovely in its own way. He was a dying star, fizzling to a delicate and glorious end aloft. It was no true end, and of that Octavia was well aware. Rather, he was bound for that where he was meant to be. It was a wonderful feeling. Even now, Octavia still hadn’t pinned down exactly what a Muse truly was--sound, light, or something else entirely. For at least a moment, in the wake of his departure, it didn’t matter. Wherever Above was, she wondered if Breileneth could see them from there.

It was worth a try. Octavia raised one hand aloft, offering a quiet and half-hearted wave to the open air. That was one. It left ninety-five. If that was genuinely all it took, she wondered if he’d be lonely when he got there.

When she found the strength to tear her eyes from where Breileneth had awaited moments ago, they came to rest upon Domino instead. Willing or not, he'd openly set free his unrestrained tears. They slid down his cheeks, and he gazed at that empty spot much the same with twinkling eyes.

“Are you alright?” Octavia asked softly.

Her words were enough to make him jolt, and he smeared his tears hastily against the back of his hands. Domino cast his eyes at the ground, his face stolen from her view in an instant. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You did great,” she offered, just barely managing to summon a smile. “I’m proud of you.”

He sniffled. “You don’t even know me.”

“Domino?”

Octavia didn’t get the opportunity to reassure him, let alone find an answer at all. Harper beat her to it.

His name, particularly in that voice, made the boy flinch. Domino buried his newly-emptied hands into his pockets, just barely turning his head. “What?”

Harper, it seemed, had completed his rounds of attending to each and every tiny victim of the fire. Given the lack of panic on his face, Octavia could safely and miraculously assume that no casualties had occurred. Still, his eyes were flooded with worry, Royal Orleans nowhere to be found in his own naked hands. He didn’t press any further, content to stare wordlessly at the young boy instead.

Domino shrunk under his gaze, his eyes narrow and his fingers curled into fists. “What do you want from me? What are you expecting me to say?”

Harper took one step towards him. He took another, and another, firmly and quickly in silence.

Domino took several steps backwards in turn, gritting his teeth. “How many times do you want me to say I’m sorry?” he growled. “What else do you want me to--”

His lips met Harper’s shoulder, because his head just barely rose past the boy’s chest. His words screeched to a halt, because the sudden warmth around him served to blunt his pain. His eyes went wide, because Harper’s own swam with tears.

“Are you okay?” Harper whispered, embracing the boy tightly.

Domino didn’t move, nor speak, for several seconds. Instead, he began to tremble in just the slightest, his face still buried against Harper’s shoulder. His ragged breaths were audible, and he stiffened.

“No,” he finally answered, his voice cracking.

Harper rested his forehead against Domino’s hair, the brim of his cap sandwiched between his own skin and the boy’s abundant curls. “You were fantastic. I’m so proud of you.”

Even if Octavia couldn’t see Domino, she could hear his muffled sobs. He raised his shaking hands in the slightest, tentatively returning Harper’s embrace as he settled them upon the Maestro’s back.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Harper breathed. “And I love you.”

Domino almost seemed to sob harder, his fingernails digging gently into Harper’s clothes. “I love you, too,” he whimpered.

Octavia didn’t notice her eyes were watering until she felt her cheeks grow wet. She beamed through it all.

“Everything okay?” Viola asked from behind her.

Had Harper’s return not reminded her of the presence of other Maestros, Viola’s sudden approach would’ve likely stopped her heart. Instead, she managed to nod long enough to stem her interloping tears. “Yeah. We’re all good.”

Viola didn’t immediately offer Stradivaria to its rightful owner, continuing to cradle the instrument against her dress. Octavia didn’t mind. In Viola’s arms, in particular, Stradivaria was surely comfortable enough. “Did you…you know…?”

Octavia tilted her head. “‘You know’?”

Viola winced. “Tolls?” she tried.

Octavia scoffed in the slightest. “I, uh, did a little more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The…the next part. After the tolls.”

“The next…” Viola began, trailing off. When her eyes suddenly went wide, Octavia was torn between whether to shrink under her glare or laugh about it.

“Harper has people stalking this place,” Viola hissed, “someone lights it on fire, there were two new Maestros in the last twenty-four hours, I had a…you, you just…”

The growl of aggravation that followed landed one of Viola’s hands in her hair, her agitated fingers slowly tangling their way into her locks. This time, it was enough to get a mild laugh out of Octavia.

When Viola pointed Stradivaria’s bow at her threateningly, it was no longer mild. Even when she was angry, she was fun to watch.

“We need to talk. All of us. Now.”

----------------------------------------

Viola had come to label the sudden summons an “emergency meeting”, although it seemed casual enough. Ultimately, it wasn’t much different than their usual faire, by which they finally returned to the manor after one of the longest days Octavia had suffered through in a while. With no offense to Harper, being back within four safe, warm walls and with the promise of a bed to sleep in tonight was reassuring. It was only noon by the time they’d returned, and yet Octavia could’ve easily slept for hours. She absolutely couldn’t imagine how Harper was holding up, at this point, nor how he wasn’t completely falling asleep in the chair next to her. She assumed it was the coffee.

“That’s like, what, your fifth cup?” Octavia hissed.

He smirked. “And, in the event of an emergency, there will be a sixth, if you want me to be conscious for it.”

She didn’t protest when he simply sipped at the teacup in lieu of additional sass. The tableware was somewhat too fancy in contrast to the unrefined nature of the person who drank from it. In his defense, he wasn’t the only one who didn’t routinely fit in with the elegance of Viola’s dining room.

“These actually aren’t that bad,” Renato said, his elbows resting comfortably on the mahogany. In one hand was a perfectly-triangular sandwich slice, his fingers carefully adjusted to accommodate soft food. “Do you have salt? It’d be a bit better with some salt.”

“It’s perfectly fine the way it is,” Viola snapped. “You’re lucky I fed you at all. Just eat the damn sandwich.”

He shrugged. “Hey, I said it’s not bad, I’m just sayin’ there’s room for improvement. From one chef to another, you know? This is cooking, right? Technically?”

Still in the process of serving food, her hands full with a well-balanced tray, she had little room to physically reprimand him in any capacity. Regardless, she was passing by much too close to him on her way to Josiah. “I can and I will dump this whole thing on top of you. I said eat.”

Renato grinned, raising his hands in mock defeat. “Yes, ma’am.”

Josiah was largely quiet as he received his small meal, holding his cup steady for Viola to fill to the brim with piping-hot coffee. “Thank you,” he muttered.

The look of disinterest on his face was somewhat unnerving. It stung Viola the moment she caught it. “You’re welcome,” she answered a bit too quickly.

Across the table, the sounds of shuffling and clinking tableware drew Octavia’s attention instead. Madrigal’s focus was of a different nature entirely. Octavia watched as the Maestra delicately and precisely divorced each browned, crusted strip of soft perimeter from both of her sandwich slices in turn. With thick, flaky crumbs raining down onto the porcelain below, it was a miracle she somehow managed to keep the entire inch-thick line of bread intact in the process.

“You don’t like the crust?” Renato asked.

Madrigal shook her head. “Not on this kind of bread. Any other kind of bread is fine.”

Viola lowered the tray down onto the table, the excess coffee and sandwiches surprisingly steady with her gentle movements. “Do you want me to make you something else? I don’t mind.”

Madrigal beamed at her instead, two happy hands now comfortably filled with Viola’s culinary creation. “It looks delicious. I’m excited to eat anything you make for me. I love cucumbers, too!”

Viola returned her smile, albeit softer. In lieu of returned words of appreciation, her attention instead fell to more stray noise--this time, the subtle rustling of paper, leafy and muted all the same. It was the first sound Josiah had offered up in some time.

“Wha’ ah ya do’in?” Madrigal asked in between bites of her sandwich, either blissfully unaware or unfazed by her mouthful of food.

“Keeping an agenda. If it’s a meeting, someone should jot down whatever’s important, because I have a feeling it’s gonna be a lot. I’m playing secretary, I guess,” he answered with a tired sigh.

“A man of many talents,” Harper joked, finally giving his concerning coffee consumption a momentary rest.

Renato smirked. “Damn, do you think he's single?”

Harper snickered. Octavia, too, would’ve likely found the quip humorous, were it not for the way Josiah didn’t. He stared blankly at the fresh, naked pages of his open journal, fiddling absentmindedly with his pencil instead. Not a hint of a smile or the slightest grin crossed his lips, nor did any joy tint his eyes in passing. Even if Renato was infinitely annoying, it wasn’t like him to just ignore the boy’s jeering. Octavia shifted in her seat uncomfortably.

“Then let’s get started, I guess,” Viola said, the moment lost on her. She settled down into the remaining chair beside Octavia, her own self-served food and drink awaiting her presence.

“What did you want to talk about, exactly?” Octavia finally asked. She’d been meaning to for hours, in truth.

Viola groaned, her hands already making a straight path for her head once more. “I have absolutely no idea where to start.”

“Start with the guy whose whole camp place caught fire,” Josiah suggested, lazily spearing the eraser end of his pencil at Harper.

At the mention of his situation, Harper pursed his lips. “Is there that much to say about it? I think everyone kinda got the picture first-hand.”

“Context,” he clarified.

Octavia had forgotten that only she and Harper knew the full story behind the catastrophe. Harper sighed. “Two people I have a very poor relationship with were, apparently, paid to burn the camp down. Don’t know if it mattered if people were there. Don’t know why it was specified that it had to be burned down instead of just destroyed.”

“Paid by who?” Renato asked.

“I…honestly have no idea. Haven’t figured that part out, and I’m getting a bit frustrated at how no one seems to actually know. It sounds kinda like a word-of-mouth thing. ‘This person said this person will pay you’-type of deal,” he continued, gesturing with his hands. “There were people before them, too. Multiple. This was going on for weeks, just a bunch of people trying to destroy the same place.”

Josiah raised an eyebrow. “And all of them were trying to burn it down, specifically?”

Harper shook his head. “I don’t know if all of them had the same idea, but the last two definitely did.”

“How did everyone stay safe?” Madrigal tried, finally free of sandwich-flavored interruptions.

“Am I justified in taking a shot in the dark, here?” Viola interjected, eyeing Harper from several seats away.

Harper nodded. “Yeah. There’s a kid that lives with me--kind of. You guys met him. You…already know where this is going, probably. He got his hands on a Harmonial Instrument, and he spent basically a month dealing with this whole…situation.”

“He kill anyone?” Josiah asked coolly.

“Josiah!” Viola hissed.

“You know exactly why I’m asking.”

Viola’s glare was somewhat dulled by Harper’s reassurance. “It’s fine. He did, yes.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

Josiah’s sharp eyes flickered to Octavia. “And did you already…”

She nodded uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

The room was silent as he scribbled in his journal, the scraping of his pencil impossibly loud in the tense atmosphere. It was almost awkward. Octavia winced.

“I did a bit more than that,” she murmured under her breath.

It wasn’t quiet enough to elude Viola. “Can we talk about that part? Whatever ‘that’ is? Did you actually--”

Octavia raised her palms in front of her defensively. “I’m gonna be honest with you, I think I want Stradivaria here before I get into that mess. I need to…clarify some things.”

Madrigal blinked. “Stradivaria? Why do you need Stradivaria?”

“You think our meeting could benefit from a few more attendees?” Harper offered.

“That depends on if I have to make more sandwiches,” Viola muttered. “I know it’s a big room and all, but this place is about to get pretty crowded pretty quickly.”

When Octavia fixed her with a just-barely pleading glance, Viola sighed. She relented, leaning over to unbuckle Silver Brevada’s case tucked beneath her chair. “Fine.”

“Instruments at the table? Seriously? You people have no manners,” Renato scolded.

It had more or less worked out that the violin hadn’t left her side yet. Taking great care not to hit her head against the edge of the table, Octavia, too, slowly unzipped Stradivaria’s case beneath her feet. “It’s not our fault yours are so small. Anyway, out with ‘em.”

Renato rolled his eyes playfully, not immune to the tint of a grin that snuck onto his face. With a dramatic flourish, he withdrew Mistral Asunder from the interior of his vest, setting the instrument before him with a bit too much force.

Cognizant of the others doing much the same, Octavia gazed into her cup of coffee, watching the way it rippled with each motion every Maestro made against the table. She wasn’t quite sure how to start this conversation once he was here.

“Do you seek my assistance?”

The bright flash of the softest gold out of the corner of her eye was her only warning of his presence--more than likely behind or above her. Still, she didn’t look up immediately, content with his voice from here. It was rare that he spoke to her first, and she partially wondered to what she owed the occasion.

“Did I do it right?” she murmured.

“What is it you have done, Octavia?” Stratos asked calmly.

She’d completely forgotten. During her entire ordeal with Domino, he’d been snugly in Viola’s arms, distant from the scene. She had no formal way of saying the truth out loud in a way that wouldn’t spark controversy from the myriad of onlookers in the room. She was particularly concerned about the glowing ones who had gradually, in brilliant bursts, flickered into the loaded conversation waiting to happen.

“I let him go,” she nearly whispered. “Breileneth.”

“Breileneth?” Lyra and Brava practically exclaimed in tandem, their shocked voices loud enough to make Octavia wince.

“You have met with Breileneth?” Stratos asked, his own quieter voice still tinged with its own flavor of surprise.

Octavia nodded. “He says hi, by the way.”

Stratos hummed as always, a short and curt sound that carried tension in place of its usual warmth. She didn’t particularly like it.

“And as to you,” Brava snapped, turning his head sharply towards Orleanna. “Were you aware of his presence? Have you known it was he, all along?”

Orleanna, clinging close to Harper’s seat, nodded solemnly. “I could not be mistaken. Be that as it may, our own take precedence over our emotions. We must focus on what is necessary. He, too, would have concluded the same.”

“Octavia,” Viola interrupted, “what are they talking about, exactly?”

She blinked. “I don’t…actually know.”

“Ambassador, do you mean what you say?” Brava asked, his volume just a bit too much for her to handle. “Have you truly guided his path?”

“Guided?” Octavia repeated. That was new.

“Am I correct in assuming that was the nature of your action?” Stratos tried in his stead. “You have ‘let him go’, have you not?”

Octavia nodded, albeit highly confused. “I…think? He showed me how. It was the tolls, like always, and then I just had to touch the actual instrument and say something he told me to. I don’t remember all of it. Then he just…disappeared, but slower?”

Her description was not solely shocking to the Muses who surrounded her, their vibrant glows speckled with iridescent wonder and aghast of their own accord. The room had practically frozen over, breaths bated and words absent. Eyes were wide. At least two people had become utterly still, sandwich slices still aloft in their hands in an almost comical display. She could see it sink in.

“You…freed one of them?” Viola finally asked, her voice shaking in the slightest.

Octavia was aware that the discussion would be awkward. She hadn’t been expecting it to be quite this severe. She shrunk in on herself, resisting the urge to curl into a ball under dozens of eyes. “Was I…not supposed to?”

“This is…wonderful,” Lyra breathed. “Ambassador, take no shame in your actions. Rather, be proud of the service you do not simply to your legacy, but to our kind as a whole. We are in your debt, as is he most of all. He has returned to his rightful place. He now sees this world from Above, as was meant to be.”

“Oh my God, you freed one of them,” Viola repeated.

Renato whistled. “That’s…wow. Good God, Tavi, you’re killin’ it. Keep it up.”

“You’re amazing!” Madrigal cheered, hands high in the air with a sandwich slice in tow. So quickly did she raise them that a slice of cucumber nearly hit Renato in the face as it slid out of place. “At this rate, we’ll be all done before we know it!”

Harper ran one hand through his bangs, his eyes glued to the table alone. “That was…Domino’s, then?”

“Yeah,” Octavia answered plainly.

“Is he defenseless now? Against the Dissonance, I mean?”

When Harper lifted his eyes to hers, loaded with concern, Octavia’s stomach lurched. She knew the consequences of erasing Broken Bliss in terms of resisting mortal threats, at least. Of that, there was always an alternative, gruesome or otherwise. Safety from Dissonance was a separate concern. There was a singular option, and she’d ripped it straight from his young hands without a second thought--immediately after the ordeal with Ivy. Her heart could’ve stopped. She’d made a mistake. She couldn’t undo it.

Slowly, in abject terror, she raised her head towards Stratos. She wanted to vomit.

To her incredibly immense surprise, he shook his head. “That is not necessarily so. Above, we are restored to the grace we once possessed. We are strong together, this is true. Even so, there is still something to be done by the hands of one alone.”

Octavia blinked. “What are you saying?”

“Breileneth will play his part in salvaging what has been damaged,” Stratos clarified. “To what he can offer, he will serve to protect that which his own holds dearest within.”

Harper’s eyes widened. “He’s going to stop the Dissonance by himself?”

“That which besieges only what the boy treasures alone,” Brava added. “Such is our apology, upon which we have agreed for the sake of the Ambassador.”

“A…pology?” Viola asked tentatively.

Octavia knew the word. She had a vague suspicion of the downward spiral it led to. If she was trying to dodge opening chaos-filled boxes, Stradivaria’s--rather, Rani’s--story was meant to be sealed and stuffed in the deepest recesses of her to-do list.

“Is that the case for every Maestro?” she asked instead, desperate to change the subject.

Brava nodded. “To each of our own, we will endeavor to defend that place which each carries closest to their heart.”

His wisdom was interrupted, yet again, by the incessant scratching of pencil against paper. Octavia wasn’t sure what Josiah was taking note of, at this point. Even so, she vaguely wondered what it was that Domino held most dear. It wasn't immediately obvious where she would choose, should she be given the choice. She roughly suspected, in the former case, that the boy might’ve opted for the camp. In her own instance, she wondered if she’d be granted permission to choose where those she cherished were. She wondered if she’d be able to choose at all. It was a concept more troubling than comforting.

“Is he gonna keep seeing Dissonance forever?” Harper asked nervously. “I know it sounds like it won’t really be a problem for him anymore, but if it’s ever near him again…is he gonna have to see that for the rest of his life?”

“It is…an inescapable curse,” Orleanna offered. “What has been awakened cannot be taken away. It pains me to say so, but the boy is afflicted with the burden of sight he will never shed.”

Harper’s face fell rapidly, his hands balling into fists with or without his knowledge. Octavia found herself pressing her palms to the tabletop with more force than she’d anticipated.

“T-Then we’ll get rid of the Dissonance as quick as we can, so there’s nothing left for anyone to see.”

“A task easier spoken than undertaken,” Mente muttered.

She’d completely forgotten they existed, frankly, finding the two Muses of Mistral Asunder afloat adjacent to Renato’s hat--always the hat. Renato didn’t particularly seem to mind, for once. The remaining half of his sandwich was doing a solid job at distracting him.

“Speaking of Dissonance,” he began in between bites, “that was an awful lot for one tiny camp. Where the hell did all that come from?”

If Octavia was wincing before, she was now outright cringing so hard that she risked giving herself a headache. She squeezed her eyes shut, weighing the best words for an answer. She wondered if Harper would beat her to it. She was half-right.

“Ivy?” he offered weakly, his tone unsure. “But it was…a lot. It was like she was making it herself.”

“Because she was,” Octavia added. By now, she’d given in to hugging herself tightly, her fingernails digging into the fabric of her dress. “I haven’t figured it out yet, but…I think some Dissonant people can make more Dissonance. I just don’t know why it’s not all of them.”

She knew the exact example she could give. It was sitting right on her tongue, and it would complete the puzzle beautifully. She didn’t dare use it, especially not with the boy casually jotting away at his journal in peace across the table. She couldn’t.

It was the way he stopped writing to lock eyes with her, his head rising slowly from the paper rather than snapping upwards, that sent a chill down her spine. Octavia couldn’t tell if Josiah was daring her to utter the name or simply waiting to see if she brought up Selena at all. She swallowed all three syllables on her tongue.

“That girl, she made all of that?” Viola asked with surprise. “Everything we saw?”

Octavia nodded. “She’s been through something. I mean, I think all Dissonant people have, right? That’s how they get that bad. If Dissonance comes from bad memories, then they’ve gotta be really bad to make them…act like that. Maybe the extra Dissonance is more memories?”

“Let me offer something,” Josiah interjected, barely raising his voice beyond the same monotone level it had been at all along. Again, his chilled eyes ran her through as he spoke. “It’s just a theory, but I wonder if a person can only handle so many bad memories because they start spilling over.”

Octavia blinked. “You mean, like…the Dissonance is residual?”

“What fits, fits,” he continued. “What doesn’t, doesn’t. If too much hits you at once, who’s to say you can deal with all of it at the same time? And the worse--the more you’ve got in there, the worse you make. Makes sense, right?”

Octavia nodded slowly once more. Beside her, Viola did the same. She didn’t much like the implications. Still, it was the best explanation they had.

“Explains a lot, doesn’t it?” he added, his gaze so icy she wondered if she might freeze. Throwing up was also an option. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

Whatever cold aura he was emitting, even from across the table, was enough to make Harper shudder in turn. “I know Ivy and I don’t get along in the slightest, but I don’t think anyone deserves that. I imagine being Dissonant isn’t very fun.”

Octavia wasn’t ignorant to the way Viola pursed her lips. She, herself, had to consciously fight to keep the sassy tell me about it off her tongue. “You didn’t really seem to have too much fun just getting close to Dissonance, you know.”

He winced. “Yeah, that…wasn’t exactly a blast, either.”

“Josiah thinks maybe some people have to develop an immunity to Dissonance,” Octavia clarified for the table--and for the onlookers above it. “Maybe the first time they’re around it is the worst. Maybe…some people have different reactions, too.”

Renato scoffed. “Like a damn disease.”

“It kinda is,” Madrigal said sadly.

“Was this earlier?” Viola whispered to Octavia alone. “I thought he was fine during the fire.”

She shook her head, strongly considering pruning several pieces of the events that preceded the blaze. She wasn’t particularly certain that Viola would react well to the “forgetting Stradivaria and nearly dying” part. “We, uh, ran into some trouble yesterday while I was looking for him, and he passed out. He’s fine now. He’s just never been that physically close to Dissonance before.”

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

It didn't stay that quiet, apparently. Renato shrugged. “I mean, you looked alright earlier at the camp. Everyone did awesome, even with the Dissonance, and we all made it through okay. No one died. I love it when no one dies.”

Octavia forced a smile. “You guys are lifesavers. We were really in a tight spot. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t all shown up.”

“Thank your friend, remember?” Madrigal added, her bright smile true by comparison. “He knew where Viola lived, somehow.”

“It was kinda creepy,” Renato muttered.

Harper chuckled. “Wouldn’t put it past him to be keeping tabs on me. Probably not Viola.”

“You speak as though you have put up a fight worth merit.”

Aste’s words, shrill as they were, were sharp and biting in a way that made Renato stiffen. Octavia’s eyes drifted upwards to the Muse above him, unfazed by his reaction as they continued.

“How long will you drag out this charade? Doff your mask and speak the truth.”

Renato remained utterly silent, his face blank. Octavia tilted her head. Most eyes in the room that had clung to her were slowly shifting their target, little by little.

“What are you talking about?” Octavia asked, aiming her own gaze a bit higher.

“The abject foolishness, of this we were aware,” Mente continued in Aste’s place. “The cowardice, this was new. The boy speaks as though he, too, fought valiantly. In truth, he did naught for your cause.”

Octavia stared at Renato instead, his head tilted downwards. The brim of his hat blocked his eyes, much to her dismay. She couldn’t pin him down.

“You…didn’t fight?” Viola pried.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He finally shrugged, returning the pointed looks encircling him with false confidence of his own. “I mean, you guys should’ve seen Domino if you didn’t get to. Spent the whole time with him. He was awesome. Kid can really fight, even if he was brand new to Maestro stuff.”

“You didn’t fight, then,” Harper concluded, his voice soft.

There were no accusations, hostilities, or anything adjacent to slander, whether born of Maestros or Muses. Mente and Aste’s words had clearly stung hard enough. Octavia doubted anyone would’ve berated him, regardless. Renato was loud. He was, on occasion, very annoying. He was cocky, hot-headed, sassy, and strong. He wasn’t a coward, and he would never flee from a fight. It wasn’t in his blood.

“Why?”

Madrigal stole the question from everyone’s lips. It didn’t garner an answer any faster. Renato crossed his arms, his elbows resting against the tabletop. They gave him all the silence he needed, fishing for words that wouldn’t come. He was quiet for what felt like far too long--and far too unlike him. Octavia watched the way his shoulders rose and fell just the slightest bit faster.

“Renato?” she said softly.

He raised his head for her and her alone. His eyes met hers, and Octavia recognized the expression on his face. She hadn’t seen it in a while. The pain she found behind his glassy gaze was as clear as it was unmistakable. Very slowly, she followed the way his eyes drifted downwards to the cherry oak clinging to his skin. They rose back up to her own, then again. She hoped the hurt on her face didn’t serve to sting him further.

“Ah,” Aste mused, close enough to his ear to make Renato jump. “So that is why.”

Renato’s sudden scare had him swatting at the Muse futilely. “God, mind your own business!”

Mente, too, had circled him from the opposite side. “You truly are a fool, then.”

“Not once have you called upon us since that time. I assure you, boy, if we deemed you to be useless, we would take our leave,” Aste murmured.

Renato, usually confident enough to withstand their razor-sharp hostilities, was breathing heavily enough that Octavia feared for his mental stability. “I-If you’ve got nothing positive to say to me, then you can just shove off!”

“On the contrary,” Mente offered. “We invite you--rather, implore you to take hold, once again, of the strength that befits your legacy.”

“If you deny us even this,” Aste hissed, “then there will be a different matter of which to speak.”

For whatever reason, Renato’s eyes darted back to Octavia’s. Even with nothing to offer him, the pang of obligation that bit her was impossible to ignore. The silent room was, otherwise, giving him absolutely no mercy.

She had one idea, made possible only by the way he’d already given her his panicked gaze. Octavia drew lines with her eyes. She darted them left and right, briefly touching upon each Muse adjacent to his body. She came back to meet his own gaze once more, tapping her forehead with one gentle finger twice. It took him a minute. Eventually, his eyes widened in the slightest with realization. After a few moments, they found the table just beyond his false fingers instead of her.

There was nothing, briefly. It took honest effort for her to consciously remember to eavesdrop, particularly given her prior efforts to block out words not meant for her. Even now, part of her questioned if he’d genuinely want her there. She opted to beg for his forgiveness rather than ask for his permission. Scraps of conversation, alternating between shrill and not, finally floated where she could catch them.

You must at least attempt.

Do as you have always done. The rest will come from our guidance, as has been the case.

Surely your body has not forgotten the motions. Your muscles have not forgotten their purpose, and you have not forgotten your strength. There is naught to fear but your own hesitation.

Such power transcends the limitations of any vessel, organic or otherwise. It matters not.

If that is your concern, then we will see to it that it is so. All will be as it was when you are adjacent to our strength.

Come, let us prove that you have no excuse to stay your fury in battle.

Yes, now. I will not repeat myself.

The suddenness with which Renato scooped one half of Mistral Asunder into his right hand and flicked his wrist forward nearly scared Octavia to death. The burst of sound that followed did her no further favors. It was a miracle that, somehow, his aim had eluded the in-use tableware currently settled in front of each respective Maestro. Still, that didn’t offer any protection to the spare teacups on Viola’s leftovers tray.

It was a further miracle that he’d managed to only hit one. The blast was centered and precise, the elegant ceramic piece shattering into a dozen shards with a startling crack. Octavia gasped, as did Harper. Madrigal outright screamed, thoroughly startled by the jarring sound so near to her.

“Unnecessary!” Viola shouted, gesturing wildly in the direction of the poor cup’s remains.

“And you felt the need to do that…why?” Josiah asked.

Renato didn’t dignify either of them with a response, nor was he so much as acknowledging the broken cup to begin with. Rather, his left hand had since filled with Mistral Asunder’s other portion, both slices of cherry oak carefully cradled amongst more of the same. His hands shook. That much was both obvious and expected. More than that, Octavia couldn’t tear her eyes away from each of his fingers flexing, curling inwards and outwards without his personal intervention.

Fluidly and naturally, he moved each joint with no manual interference, as she’d otherwise grown used to seeing him do. He closed his hands in full around each drumstick, squeezing tightly before relaxing his grip once more. He repeated the motion at least two more times, eyes glued to every minimal movement of his extremities. Octavia was guilty of the same.

“Renato,” she murmured.

Only now, in acknowledgement of her voice, did he look up. “Yeah?”

Even with his expression neutral, his face mostly tinged with surprise and wonder, the tears that dripped delicately from the corners of his eyes weren't subtle. They plopped, one after another, down onto the same cherry oak he’d been inspecting in so much detail moments ago--still flexing and moving experimentally. He was otherwise completely calm, and she only stared for a moment. So, too, did her companions, although with substantially more confusion.

So much focus rested upon the shattered cup that Octavia had to wonder if anyone noticed the quiet movements of his joints besides her. The tremendous gravity of the moment and its incredible implications were, perhaps, completely lost on them.

“That…that was pretty cool, huh?” he chuckled half-heartedly, his words wobbling in the slightest as he fixed Octavia with a grin.

She returned his smile, albeit softer. “Yeah.”

When his tears continued to fall unknowingly, she tapped her cheek with one finger. His eyes widened.

“Oh, crap,” he muttered, swiping at his eyes with his newly-flexible palms. It took effort not to stab himself in the eye, still clinging to Mistral Asunder for dear life. Octavia giggled.

“Those are expensive,” Viola hissed. “What the hell is your problem?”

“Don’t cry,” Madrigal murmured, gently patting Renato’s shoulder. “We can get a new cup.”

He held fast to his grin regardless, weak as it was. “Not my fault you guys are boring me to tears. We ever gonna talk about anything more fun than Dissonance or lighting stuff on fire? Tryin’ to liven up this meeting a little.”

“I’ve…got something else,” Harper offered, raising one hand tentatively.

When he didn’t continue, Octavia did what she could to nudge him. “What’s up?”

“It’s gonna sound really weird,” he added. “Putting that out there right now.”

He shifted in his seat, resting his cheek against one hand before he continued. “I had this…weird experience back at the camp. Twice, actually. I…don’t know how to put it into words.”

“Spit it out as best as you can,” Josiah tried. “General gist of it, no matter how crazy.”

Harper bit his lip. “I asked Domino something to see if he’d lie to me. He didn’t. I asked Holly something, too. Same reason. She didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Octavia asked. She'd been there, and she still didn't understand.

“Can you try something with me really quick?”

Octavia tilted her head. “Sure?”

“I need you to lie to me.”

She stifled a smirk. “If you know I’m lying, how is that gonna help anything?”

“You’ll…see what I mean. The thing is, I need you to look at me for it.”

Shut up and look me in the eyes. Now.

Octavia had absolutely no idea where he was going with this. Still, the look on his face back then was jarring enough to stay with her even now. She was almost afraid to oblige. It took effort to meet his eyes willingly, knowing what she’d find.

To her immense surprise, the look on his face wasn’t nearly as sharp as she’d expected. There was much less hostility by comparison, and she chalked it up to the nature of the prior situation. Even so, his gaze still held an edge to it, somewhat piercing and restrictive. It didn’t quite give her chills. It still left her feeling vulnerable enough that this whole exercise was suddenly mildly uncomfortable. It wasn’t a look she’d seen him wear before.

“What month is your birthday?”

For the sake of ending things quickly, she almost instinctively blurted out the correct answer. It took conscious effort on her part to give a false reply.

“October,” she answered as firmly as she could. She usually considered herself to be a pretty decent liar. Even so, her voice wavered somewhat beneath his gaze. Keeping her composure in full was impossible, unsettled as she was.

“You’re lying,” he responded softly after a moment. “Keep going.”

He never took his eyes off hers. She didn’t particularly want to keep going. She doubted she had a choice. “July.”

“Lying.”

“April.”

“Lying.”

“January.”

“You’re still lying.”

“September.”

He blinked slowly, tilting his head in the slightest. “You’re telling the truth.”

Octavia’s eyes widened. “I…don’t remember telling you about that.”

Harper nodded. “That’s the thing. You never did.”

Viola, too, seemed baffled. “Did someone else tell you? That’s…”

“Neat party trick,” Renato said with a smirk. “Read her like a book.”

Harper shook his head, finally freeing Octavia of his oppressive gaze. At last, she could breathe. “I don’t think that’s it,” he said. “Again, I can’t…explain it.”

“Do me next!” Madrigal pleaded, raising her arm high as she waved. “I wanna try!”

Even given his serious prior request, Harper still couldn’t help but smile softly. “Alright. You have to look at me, okay? In my eyes.”

“‘Kay,” she said, leaning with great exaggeration over the table to oblige.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

“Red,” Madrigal answered happily.

“That’s a lie.”

“Yellow.”

“Lie.”

“Blue.”

“Lying.”

“Green.”

“Alright, that one’s the truth, but I feel like I should’ve picked a harder question,” he muttered.

Madrigal beamed. “That’s Lyra’s color.”

“Hey, listen,” Renato interrupted, “my birthday is in March, my favorite fruit is peaches, and I was born left-handed. Which one of those is true?”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you were born left-handed?”

Both Octavia and Renato, in turn, exchanged a glance of surprise. “Wait a minute, seriously? He’s three for three,” Renato said with shock. “This is kind of scary.”

“Is this…new?” Viola asked, still perplexed in her own right. “Did you just find out this was a thing that you could do?”

Harper sighed. “I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. This just showed up yesterday.”

“Test me.”

Josiah’s request was perhaps as sharp as Harper’s eyes. Really, it was more of a demand than a request. It was Harper, instead, who seemed hesitant to meet his icy expression, still equally disquieting in its own right.

“What?”

“I don’t know if you’ve got a trick to it or what, but you’re asking things that are too easy to figure out on people who show way too much emotion on their faces. Test me.”

Octavia winced. Still, he had a point. Harper didn’t resist any further, angling himself at the table to face the skeptical boy.

“Alright. Look me in the eyes, then,” Harper asked tentatively.

The look Josiah fixed him with was simultaneously hostile and hollow enough that Harper recoiled for a moment. He steeled his own gaze with a deep breath before continuing. Somehow, it was Josiah who had come to order him instead.

“I’m gonna tell you something, and you tell me if I’m lying or not.”

Harper nodded. “Go for it.”

“I was born in December.”

He steadied his breathing once more. “You’re telling the truth.”

“I met Selena when I was six.”

At the mention of the name alone, the atmosphere froze over to such a degree that Octavia’s blood could’ve clotted. The point was valid. She still didn’t like where this was going in the slightest.

“Y-You’re lying,” Harper replied. Apparently, he, too, was not immune to the incredibly uncomfortable questioning.

“Seven.”

“Lying.”

“Five.”

“Truth.”

Josiah paused for a moment before continuing. “My mother’s name is Felicia.”

“True.”

“And my father’s name is Isaac.”

“Lie.”

“Isaiah.”

“True.”

“Good,” he murmured, his words devoid of any true praise. Again, he hesitated, inhaling slowly.

“When I was eight years old, I fell down the steps of the church while I was playing, rolled all the way to the bottom. I was mostly fine. Broke one of my fingers. My left thumb, my right thumb, my left index finger, my right index finger, my left middle finger, and my right middle finger were all okay. I broke the ring finger of my left hand.”

By now, he was no longer simply looking into Harper’s eyes. He was glaring daggers into his entire being, daring him to falter. If Octavia could feel his hostility from here, she had absolutely no doubt that Harper was suffering tremendously under the pressure of his gaze. Still, Harper’s composure was admirable, his voice calm as he answered.

“You didn’t break your left ring finger,” he spoke softly. “You broke your right index finger.”

Josiah’s chilling glare thawed almost instantly, replaced with something indescribable. Wordlessly, his eyes fell back to the journal before him instead, cast down towards the fervent notes he’d made throughout the duration of their lengthy conversation.

“Well?” Renato pressed. “Was he right?”

Josiah nodded slowly, never raising his head. “He’s right. Every single one.”

Renato shrugged. “Well, that’s kinda terrifying.”

“Do we have…any actual explanation for this?” Octavia murmured aloud. “Is this a Maestro thing?”

“Anyone else have any ‘weird experiences’ lately?” Josiah asked, his voice still sharp despite the absence of his gaze.

Viola pursed her lips. “I…might’ve had something. When we met Domino, I just got this…feeling, like something was different. Actually, I had it before I even saw him for the first time, when I was looking for Harper. I felt this…‘something’, I guess, for lack of a better word, and I followed it all the way to him.”

Her eyes flickered to Harper. “When I got there, I had a really strong feeling he was a Maestro. I was right. I don’t know how I was right.”

“That’s why you attacked him?” Harper asked.

Viola nodded. “No offense to him, but I had a pretty strong feeling he’d be fine.”

Madrigal tilted her head. “You knew he was a Maestro without asking him?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous. The weirdest part is that it’s not even the first time that particular…‘something’ has come up before.”

Viola turned her head towards Octavia at her side, her voice soft. “Like I said, it’s the same feeling I had the night I met you. It’s…what I followed to Silver Ridge.”

Even in the midst of what was, objectively, a serious conversation, Octavia couldn’t stifle the smile that crept onto her lips. For whatever strange forces had led Viola into her life, she was grateful.

“Explain,” Josiah snapped.

Viola blinked, flinching beneath his harsh tone. “I…I don’t know. I was told my best bet with finding more Maestros was heading outside the capi--”

“Not you. Him.”

It was only then that Octavia noticed Josiah’s piercing eyes cast well above her own head, far from Viola and herself alike. Rather than either of the Maestras, it was instead Stratos who rested squarely in Josiah’s visual line of fire. For reasons she couldn’t quite pinpoint, Octavia noticed her heart gradually beginning to beat just a bit faster.

“You ask something of me, then, child?” Stratos offered calmly, his smooth voice in stark contrast to Josiah’s sharp hostility.

“I know for a fact that this has something to do with you guys. I’m positive about that. Explain.”

“You are both brave and foolish to take such a flippant tone with a Muse,” Brava scolded. “The boy knows not his place.”

“You owe us that much,” Josiah argued, undeterred.

“You are…your capacity to wield such strengths befitting of your legacies grows beyond the speed of our expectations each day--each of you,” Lyra spoke. “Know that we did not expect such to come about so soon.”

“It could very well be the influence of the Ambassador,” Mente said.

“Implausible,” Aste countered, “but not entirely impossible.”

At the mention of her title, Octavia couldn’t help but interrupt. “What are you talking about?”

“Quit playing games and spit it out,” Josiah hissed.

His aggression, while enough to stun every human in the room into uncomfortable silence, did little to faze the Muses who absorbed his disdain with only mild annoyance. Orleanna, at the very least, used her small voice in what few ways she could to keep the peace.

“To each legacy,” she began, “there is a gift blessed upon the blood. They are unique, much as we are the same. Know, though, that such power was never intended to grace the hands of men, and it has been twisted in your grasp as such. It is through our bonds alone that our blood, too, may be shared.”

Josiah raised an eyebrow. “Each legacy has a…‘gift’. Am I understanding that correctly?”

“You said something about that awhile ago, right?” Octavia asked, her eyes aloft towards Stratos above her. “When we first met face-to-face the other day, I think. Something about a gift?”

At the time, she’d taken his phrasing to carry a much-too-strong compliment. Now, in context, the word was impossible to ignore. She couldn’t help but wonder, particularly when he saw fit to offer her a nod in return.

“You have found yours long ago,” he said. “Even now, as we speak, it is here in his very place that you wield the gift of your own blood. Such is the manner by which we stand before you.”

Octavia blinked. “What?”

“Once the Ambassador alone has given rise to the image of our forms upon this world,” he clarified, “it is the gift of any of my blood that such visions become plain to see.”

“Translation,” Viola tried, rubbing her temples, “Heartful people are the reason we can see you guys in the first place? And…Octavia’s somehow involved in that?”

Stratos nodded once more. “Without the blessing of the Ambassador, the bridge between Above and this realm cannot hold--narrow as it may be. It is the burden of the Ambassador to create such a path, much the same as it is the burden of our own to maintain it.”

Harper crossed his arms. “No Ambassador, no glowy light people.”

“Viola, then. And Harper,” Josiah demanded, his glare still sharp as ever.

“My blood, then,” Brava spoke firmly. “It is as Orleanna has stated, in that such a gift should not be…manifesting in this manner. In the hands of a human, then, what is found is somewhat different than what was intended.”

His own gaze drifted to Viola, who returned it in earnest. “What was meant to bond our brethren alone has become distorted in your hands. We share a common trait, then, in our clarity of sight. This is to say, in plainer terms, that you may sense those much the same as yourself.”

Viola’s eyes widened. “I can sense other Maestros?”

Octavia had to resist the urge to leap to her feet in surprise. “That’s…incredible.”

“That’s insanely helpful, isn’t it?” Harper asked. “That would make this whole thing way easier, if that’s true.”

“Viola found all of us,” Madrigal spoke happily.

The Maestra in question blushed under the praise. “That was a coincidence, actually. Blame Octavia. She had a bad habit of stumbling across Maestros left and right for a while.”

Octavia smiled. “You now have at least one on your record, aside from me. Here’s to many more.”

“Harper’s gift,” Josiah continued sharply, changing the subject in an instant, “I figure is pretty straightforward at this point. Is it exactly what it looks like?”

It was Orleanna’s turn to clarify. “There is little that eludes the illumination of the most brilliant flame. Much as we of the Willful see through falsehoods to their core, so, too, has such a gift seeped into his blood. I stand both impressed and proud.”

“I don’t know how to feel about the fact I can never lie in front of this guy again,” Renato grumbled.

“Can you always tell if someone’s lying, then?” Octavia asked, tilting her head slightly.

Harper shrugged. “If I’m not looking in their eyes, it feels fuzzy. It’s like something’s blurring my vision, but not…literally, if that makes any sense. When I look into your eyes, though, everything is crystal clear, and I can tell.”

Renato smirked. “That’s kind of romantic,” he muttered.

“Shut up,” Harper hissed through his teeth, his cheeks tinted with the slightest hint of a blush.

“Oh, what’s my gift, then?” Madrigal pleaded excitedly, waving one hand in Lyra’s direction. The Muse couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You have already wielded the blessing of the Spirited,” she said. “Do you remember not? In such a dark place, you have brought healing and saved what was to be lost.”

The Maestra’s eyes sparkled. “Am I a healer?”

“Back then!” Viola exclaimed, springing to her feet. “That’s how you saved Renato! It has to be!”

Renato threw his hands into the air dramatically. “Alright, three cheers for magical healing powers! I remember almost none of this!”

“When you were hurt,” Harper explained, “she saved your life. You would’ve bled out. I don’t know how much of it you do remember, but it was incredible.”

He smiled, a grin absolutely aglow. “I learn something new about this girl every day.”

“No offense to anyone else, but that might be the most amazing gift of them all,” Viola breathed. “The…the things you could do with that kind of power are unimaginable.”

“Tell them the other part.”

Josiah’s words, harsh as each one out of his mouth had been thus far, shattered the satisfaction of the moment with the grace of broken glass. He glared daggers into Lyra, hands balled into fists against the table.

“I do not understand,” she replied calmly.

“Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You think I don’t know about it? Because I do. Tell them.”

“Child--”

“Tell them!” he shouted.

Whatever sharp, icy glare had settled into his eyes had since been replaced by one of unmistakable rage. His breath audibly rattled with each inhale and exhale alike, his fists clenched tightly enough to dye his knuckles a brilliant white. Octavia bit her lip. This wasn’t like him. This hadn’t been like him.

“What are you talking about?” Viola asked hesitantly, a hint of irritation touching her voice. Octavia, too, wasn’t overly fond of the way Josiah was raising his voice to the Muses.

“Madrigal’s gift specifically,” he began, his voice shaking with ire, “has a drawback. Lyra won’t say it.”

At the mention of her name, Madrigal’s face fell. The hostility towards Lyra in the same sentence didn’t help. With eyes turned upwards, she folded her hands in her lap, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Lyra?”

The Muse was silent, avoiding the girl’s gaze. Madrigal winced, her expression pained.

“Lyra, what’s wrong? Please talk to me. I won’t be mad, I promise,” she pleaded.

“Stradivaria?” Octavia asked quietly, flicking her own gaze aloft.

“It may not be my place to say,” the latter answered. “Even so, she may not speak at all.”

“And how could you attest to such, boy?” Brava practically growled.

“This is your last warning,” Josiah breathed. “Either you tell them or I will.”

“Josiah, you’re really makin’ me nervous, here,” Renato muttered. “You’re hyping this up pretty hard.”

“Lyra, what is he talking about? Is there a…drawback to Madrigal’s gift?” Viola asked, her own voice small and uncertain.

Orleanna raised one hand in the slightest, extended just barely in Lyra’s direction. “Would you…wish that I should--”

“My Magical Madrigal,” Lyra spoke at last, her voice hardly above a whisper. “At that time, I warned you that your choice to save that child would not be without consequence. Do you remember this?”

Madrigal nodded in silence, her curls bouncing delicately.

Lyra paused, her next words slow and precise. “The boy speaks the truth. Know that there are…limits to what may be done. There is a balance that is to be maintained. The gift of the Spirited in the hands of a human is far different than its blessing within our grasp, and must be acknowledged as such. It, too, could be seen as…different than even those of your companions.”

Harper blinked. “Where are you…going with this?”

To Octavia’s surprise, Lyra seemed to glance briefly at Josiah before continuing. The latter showed no mercy, pinning her relentlessly with a gaze born of hate.

“Where something has been unnaturally restored,” Lyra murmured, “something, too, must be claimed to compensate. It is for this, my beautiful child, that I apologize from the bottom of my heart.”

Madrigal offered a weak, wobbly smile, her voice trembling much the same. “W-Whatever you could take from me, I still love you just as much, and I always will.”

Lyra nodded. “Your words are kind. I--”

“She stole your lifespan!”

Josiah’s fists hit the table hard enough that Octavia wondered if he’d left a dent. With a booming voice packed with unbridled rage, he finally snapped. Four words exploded with such venom that Octavia herself wondered if she’d be poisoned from afar. The boy’s breaths were labored, his shoulders heaving with the impossible effort of attempting to remain stable. With his enraged eyes level with Lyra alone, he didn’t bother to gauge the reactions of the others--Madrigal included.

The former could hardly move. The latter couldn’t move--nor breathe--at all, her expression falling blank as she froze completely still. What breaths Octavia could salvage of her own were impossibly loud in her own ears, each and every other inkling of noise in the dining room absolutely lost. It was all she could do to raise her head to Lyra, forcing her dry tongue to manifest what few, confused words she could remember existed.

“How much?” Octavia murmured.

Lyra, too, refused to meet her eyes, turning away altogether. With her attention cast somewhere far from any place meaningful, her once-confident voice, gentle and smooth as it was, now came meek and humble.

“For what wounds were healed, and the severity of their pains,” she spoke ever so softly in return, “approximately two years.”

There were no words more that could be scavenged by any Maestro in the vicinity. Even the Muses, for all of their usual bluster, were silent in tandem. The room ground to a complete halt as the suffocating atmosphere strangled them collectively. Madrigal, most of all, was broken, her head tilted downwards as she stared aimlessly at her feet dangling from the chair. Her eyes were wide and hollow, her expression as listless as she was. Her steady breaths were simultaneously remarkable and unsettling, unhindered by the wandering eyes in the room that settled upon her in unison. She was practically lifeless.

“That’s not possible,” Viola attempted to say, her whispered voice cracking almost instantly.

“Maddie?” Renato murmured, his own voice trembling. His empty inquiry was fruitless.

“You never told her,” Josiah growled, low and vicious. “Just like you never mentioned these ‘gifts’. How much are you lying about? What else are you lying about?”

Brava faced him unflinchingly. “Curb your tongue, boy. There is naught about which we have refrained from speaking the truth--”

“Lying by omission is still lying!” Josiah yelled, leaping to his feet. “You’re hiding something, all of you! You’ve been hiding things since the start! These rules? These extra little tidbits and detriments that keep coming out one by one? You’re vague, and you’re unclear, and you’re doing it completely intentionally, because you think no one can tell that you’re covering something up!”

When his eyes suddenly shot to Harper, the boy practically jumped, flinching under a gaze so hostile. “Harper!” Josiah demanded. “Look at them and tell me if they’re lying!”

“You will not use the gifts of our blood against us,” Orleanna spoke firmly, her voice sharper than average. “Nor could you do so, even should you desire.”

“Screw you!” Josiah snapped. “I don’t need a damn thing from you to know you’re full of it!”

The sight of Josiah berating his partner served as Harper’s breaking point. “That’s enough, Josiah!” he shouted, narrowing his eyes.

“They’ve got all of you fooled!” he shouted back, sweeping his hand in one accompanying, illustrating motion across each Maestro. “I don’t know what, and I don’t know why, but they’re hiding something! Don’t you get it? Haven’t you felt like things aren’t adding up?”

“You’re being paranoid,” Viola scolded firmly.

“You’re being naive,” he snarled.

Viola leaned over the table in the slightest, her words jagged. “If you wanna take your new situation out on someone, that’s your problem. You’re aiming at the wrong crowd.”

“Oh, is that what you think this is about?”

“We can circle around it aaaaall damn day, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re a Maestro now. I don’t know what the hell is going on with you that’s making you sulk about it, but leave other people out of it.”

“You really, truly think that’s what’s important right now?”

“You’re deflecting!” she shouted. “We’re not gonna just brush it off! Acknowledge that you’re a Maestro now, for better or worse! It isn’t something you can just ignore! You didn’t even have the decency to bring out your own partner with everyone else? Have you even talked to him yet? Have you even cared enough to do anything besides sit around and feel sorry for yourself, for whatever reason? You. Are. A. Maestro. Deal with it.”

For a moment, he stopped, his brutal words evaporating from his lips. It didn’t stop his voice from quaking with ire, his chair screeching with a deafening squeak against the floor as he shoved it against the table.

“Oh, I’ve spoken to him. And I’ll tell you what, he knows a lot more than any of you do.”

Josiah didn’t give room for retaliation, verbal or otherwise. Visibly radiating rage, he stormed out of the dining room, flinging his bag over his shoulder haphazardly. He was out of sight quickly, rounding the corner down the hallway until all that was audible was a distant, distinct slam. Octavia didn’t have the heart to follow up on his words, pointed and ominous as they were. The silence that followed, all too familiar, continued to pain her ears in its own unique way.

“Ah,” Mente began, “that would clarify the situation somewhat, wouldn’t it?”

“He has never been one to keep his mouth shut,” Aste continued, crossing their arms.

Brava shook his head. “Perhaps the Descent has made him bitter.”

“Such is not like him,” Lyra murmured sadly. “Of this, I am certain. He is not himself.”

“You think too highly of him, then,” Brava retorted. “Of this, little has changed.”

“Hush!” Lyra snapped.

“I don’t understand,” Octavia said, unable to resist the urge to implore Stratos with her eyes.

Even so, it was Brava who stole what words Stratos could’ve given her. “He who claims that arrogant boy as his own is…somewhat eccentric in his own right. He is skeptical and cynical, his legacy no less than the same on average.”

“Those are harsh words,” Stratos countered. “His legacy is irrelevant, undefinable as such. Still, Brava stands somewhat correct in his…description of this Muse alone. He is one to question, to encourage curiosity beyond that which is natural.”

“And now he enables the boy,” Brava added disdainfully. “What foolish motives press him to speak of matters that would only confuse and distress elude me.”

“Did you really take two years off my lifespan?”

Madrigal hadn’t moved. In truth, she’d grown ever more still, glued to her seat as her whole body trembled. She didn’t have the capacity to look at Lyra--or anyone, really, her eyes instead boring holes into the table. Lyra’s gaze upon her did nothing to reassure her in any way. The Muse’s words were equally useless, much the same.

“I…I apologize. In the heat of battle, with crisis imminent, there laid no time to clarify the consequences in question. I could…only warn of the pain to follow in more uncertain terms. You must understand, I meant no harm--nor would I wish harm to befall you, my beloved child.”

“I forgive you,” Madrigal whispered. Even so, her hollow voice was haunting, particularly given her continued lack of expression. “I don’t regret it at all.”

Renato didn’t bother with words. Swiftly, he rose from his seat as well, not bothering to push in his chair as he made for the hallway himself. With a flash that stung Octavia’s eyes in the slightest, Mente and Aste were no more, forcibly dismissed by his hurried exit. Madrigal, nor anyone, made any attempt to stop him. Loaded emotion was audible in every distant footstep, with or without his stolen face. It burned.

“I…think we should stop for now,” Harper murmured. “That’s enough. I’m…tired. This was a lot.”

Octavia wasn’t particularly inclined to disagree. Her singular regret was the bitter taste left splashed upon her tongue as they parted. “You should…get some rest, for sure.”

He didn’t bother with a smile, rising to his feet quietly. “I’m gonna go lay down for a few hours. Wake me up if you need me, okay?”

She nodded. He hadn’t waited for a response, verbal or otherwise, before turning away. Her answer mattered little, and something about it stung.

“Ugh, what is wrong with him?” Viola growled, burying her face in her hands with immense aggravation. “Who does he think he’s talking to like that? What an idiot!”

Octavia winced at the sharp edges of her words, trailing the girl uncomfortably with her eyes as she paced. “Viola?”

When the Maestra freed her face from her own grasp, she was no less agitated. “I just…he…he’s so…ridiculous! I mean, did you hear him? And he’s got the nerve to talk to the Muses like that? He’s awful! He’s probably in his room sulking again right now! Am I supposed to feel bad for him or something?”

When her words finally calmed somewhat, her breaths following suit, Octavia weighed the idea of laying a comforting hand upon Viola’s shoulder. She ultimately decided against it. “Do you…want me to talk to him?”

Viola pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation. “No, I just…I’m…gonna go talk to my grandmother. I need to calm down, I’m sorry. I need something that isn’t this.”

There was something almost hurtful about the implication that she wasn’t enough to ease Viola’s pain. She kept the feeling to herself. Octavia nodded slowly, against her better judgment. “I…yeah. I get it. Tell her I said hi.”

Viola, at least, had the decency to give her a nod in response--curt or otherwise--before fleeing the room. She was the only Maestro to venture in the opposite direction as those who had opted to return to the solitude of their rooms. Octavia couldn’t particularly blame them, burdened as they were with much to process in their own ways.

The dining room was as suddenly imposing as it was dim, for how each Muse had long since surrendered their radiant hues and glows. It left her with only awkward silence and crushing discomfort to fill the void. She wondered if they’d since learned how to properly read a room. She doubted it. Octavia, too, initially thought she was isolated. The illusion was shattered only by a lone Maestra, still unmoving in her chair.

Madrigal, much the same, was utterly silent, her gaze cast downwards at a plate littered with discarded crust. The scattered crumbs and residual aspects of what had moments ago been a comfortable meal amongst friends now served as melancholic signs of life. They bothered Octavia tremendously, and her stomach twisted into a thicker knot than she would’ve liked. The absence of joy--or emotion at all--from Madrigal at any given point in time always carried a somewhat similar effect.

“Madrigal?” Octavia asked hesitantly.

Madrigal didn’t so much as bother to raise her head, eyes firmly glued to absolutely nothing. “I think I…want to be alone for a little while. I’m sorry.”

Octavia sighed heavily. “That’s okay.”

There was nothing else the Maestra offered to her, immediately returning to her bubble of quiet. Being shut out felt almost as awful as being left behind. That, too, stung.

She wanted to talk. She needed to talk. The urge to doff the crushing weight from her chest was agonizing, and every opportunity for relief had been stolen. Talking to the Muses--Stradivaria included--was absolutely not an option at the moment. Crying was an option instead, miserable as it would’ve been. Her anger at her companions was misplaced. Octavia was aware of that much. She couldn’t help it, and it followed all the way to her room.

She had to pass Josiah’s own room on the way there. His shouting was impossible to ignore, and her footsteps stilled of their own accord. The eavesdropping, too, was natural in more ways than one. Muffled by the sanctity of a presumably-locked door as it was, at least half of the dialogue was somewhat too clear. She’d heard the other voice once before, albeit in a moment of only panic and pressure.

“What is even the damn point? I feel like I’m going friggin’ crazy! Maybe I am! Who knows?” she heard, capturing his padded cries of anger. Octavia wondered if anyone else could hear the same. She doubted it. It was her fault for practically pressing her ear to the door.

I assure you, I gain little from speaking falsehoods.

There. She knew that voice, masculine and silky as it was.

“But can I even be sure of that?”

You are not wrong to doubt me. I do not fault you for such. Your experiences speak to your worries in excess, and rightfully so.

“I just…this is insane! Why doesn’t anyone listen to me? No one has any qualms about this crap?”

It is as I have stated. There is much that was not intended to be shared, particularly with your kind.

“So the solution was just to lie forever? To keep stringing us along?”

There is a reason.

“I don’t believe you.”

There is far more that I risk through honesty than that which I gain through lies.

“Then tell me!”

In due time.

The sound of something slamming inside his room startled Octavia fiercely. She jumped, nearly banging her head against the door in the process.

“Damn it!” she heard Josiah yell.

Calm yourself. Consider this a promise, one upon which I tread a difficult path by making to you.

“You owe me! You owe me for even giving you a chance!”

I am of my word. Should I lie, do as you see fit. I will do what is within my ability.

The sound of Josiah’s heavy footsteps moving a bit too close for comfort to the door led Octavia to back away rapidly. If he caught her eavesdropping, the icy glare she’d witnessed previously would perhaps be the least of what he’d curse her with. He never did end up exiting the room, and yet the shock was enough of a deterrent.

As to the content of his conversation, she didn’t dare begin to attempt to unpack a single sentence. It was her fault for overloading herself with information today. Once more, she lamented her inability to verbally process her overstimulation with any of the five who would listen--Viola, if she had the option. She’d be a solid candidate for rational processing in tandem. The sound of her voice would be of equal benefit to Octavia’s pained heart.

As such, when she did spot Viola ambling through the foyer, her back turned to the Maestra, she wavered between blessing her good luck and hesitating with apprehension secondary to atmosphere. The girl’s steps were slow and aimless, her bow bobbing in the absolute slightest with every tiny shuffle forwards along the tiles below. So delicate were her movements that her feet hardly made a sound against the floor, not so much as a simple clack greeting Octavia’s ears.

Octavia resisted the urge to run to her, desperate for some semblance of human interaction in the midst of her despair. She ended up settling on the “good luck” conclusion, particularly if Viola was involved. It took effort to walk slowly, the heavier sounds of her boots against much the same tile serving in contrast to Viola’s silent shuffling.

“Viola?” she offered.

Viola didn’t budge, aside from her continued forward movements. Octavia winced. Being ignored was beginning to make her feel ill. If it was Viola, it was perhaps worse.

“Viola, what’s up? Do you want to talk?”

Still nothing. Octavia drew closer.

“Did you…talk to your grandmother?” she tried.

“Yeah.”

Monotone and devoid of any semblance of emotion, Viola tossed one singular word behind her. It was unaccompanied by so much as a glance, and her gaze fell strictly forward. She made no attempt to turn and face Octavia. If the latter so chose, she could reach out and claim her attention by force, shaking her shoulders or spinning her around violently. She wouldn’t dare.

“Do you feel any…better? Compared to before?”

Only now did she grace Octavia with her own eyes. Slowly, she faced the Maestra, quietly offering an empty gaze. Between her slender fingers, motionless and stable, rested the thin, white edges of a flimsy envelope long since opened. Hastily stuffed--at least, given appearances--Octavia could spot the outline and shading of neatly-folded paper behind the translucent confines of the envelope itself.

Viola did little in the way of speaking, let alone emoting in any capacity. She made up for it, somewhat, with the labors of her breathing, rattling in the slightest on every exhale. If Josiah’s behavior today had been unlike him, then this, too, was far unlike the Viola that Octavia had long since grown accustomed to.

Octavia’s eyes barely flickered to the envelope, content to do so one simple time for the sake of acknowledging its existence. Instead, they couldn’t help but be sucked into the black hole that was Viola’s hollow gaze instead. The sight was disorienting enough that it took her a moment to find her words. Even then, the one word she did find was as predictable as it was necessary.

“Viola?” she tried.

Viola blinked slowly, the emptiness in her eyes unchanging when they reopened. Even with her shaking breaths, the steadiness of her words far, far betrayed the gravity of their content.

“My father,” she answered quietly, “they changed his sentence. They’ve sentenced him to death.”