Octavia fell to her knees.
She didn’t bother asking if she’d misheard. She’d caught his words plain as day, clear as crystal. It was logical. It made sense. It was her fault for not stopping to consider the cost of his freedom, given all that his former Maestra had stolen away. There had been a part of Octavia, months ago, that had fleetingly entertained the idea that Sonata alone served as his gruesome passage to his place Above once more. Even now, with a stray thought that numbed her in passing, she wondered if she’d find Sonata in there, somewhere. There was surely nowhere else the acolyte could be.
There were no cries of surprise, no outbursts of shock, no expressions of input in any capacity from a single soul behind her. She still gazed upon the keys from below, her fingers high aloft and stationary just inches away from any given block of ivory. They trembled delicately. Octavia struggled to cling to the number in her head, wavering as it was. She repeated it inwardly again and again.
Her record was three. To this very day, her record was three. It wasn’t sinking in. She withdrew her hands, and they fell loosely to her sides. Her breath was far steadier than she’d expected it to be.
Initially, Octavia refused to turn her head. In the terrible silence, she still found nothing from a single onlooker whose eyes rested on her back. She could vaguely imagine the words that had clogged each of their throats respectively. She could imagine the looks on their faces in turn. She could imagine their own conclusions, their decisions to let the Ambassador make her next move without impediment or challenge.
No amount of pleading would change the quantity. No amount of begging would alter the caveats of her task. She could surrender right here and now, should she simply ask Stradivaria nicely. The more she thought about it, the more strongly she felt the urge. She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask, distantly as he rested up the aisle.
Octavia raised her eyes high to the Muse alone with agonizing slowness. She didn’t speak a word. She knew what was missing, and she awaited his input. Even with only an eyeless gaze to fix her with, she could feel his pity upon her disbelieving face. It was almost welcome.
“Now, Ambassador,” Seraphe continued softly, “see through the eyes of the ones who paid the toll.”
It was her permission to proceed. For all of her honeyed words of salvaging Seraphim’s Call, it was the final obstacle that barred her from her task. With his gentle, crushing words, the initiative was hers to take. Still, her hands were useless, her fingertips brushing only carpet instead of his vessel. They were waiting on her. They hardly needed to say it. It didn’t give her any more drive to move an inch. Seraphe didn’t scold her, nor did a single Maestro who watched on. Octavia was frozen in time, staring blankly at the instrument.
It took far more effort than it should’ve to turn her head towards Josiah, raising her eyes just as slowly as before. Whatever he found in hers was surely worse than what she found in his, for how he recoiled at the sight. His own shock was tangled with absolute terror as his gaze met her own. The manner by which their breaths matched perfectly was as calming as it was disorienting. She wasn’t the only one in utter disbelief. A small, meek part of her almost wished he would pressure her into it. Octavia wasn’t sure if it was a relief or a detriment that he remained deathly silent, only staring her down with horror.
She ran through every possible motivation in her head. She found Seraphe, Selena, Josiah, and Priscilla. She wondered how long it would take. She wondered how much she could tune out. She wondered how much she’d be forced to see.
Josiah’s gaze contorted into something she couldn’t interpret. Whatever it was, it burned fiercely. His hands had long since balled into trembling fists at his sides. He didn’t move. He could only stare. Octavia could only stare back. If there were other Maestros in the room, she would never have remembered them. There came a point when his eyes were too painful to look at any longer, inexplicable as his face was. She peeled her own away slowly, returning them to the keys of Seraphim’s Call yet again.
She could beg Stratos. She still had time to beg and plead with Stratos.
Octavia cycled through each motive in her head one by one, taking turns lingering upon them slowly. Seraphe deserved to return to Above. Selena deserved the honor of his departure. Josiah deserved the world. Priscilla deserved her courage.
Even lifting one hand halfway from the carpet was a trial, low-hanging as it was. She hesitated, her fingers spread loosely in the open air. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the ivory that shimmered above her head. From here, she could reach. It was low enough. It wouldn’t be hard.
Selena deserved better. Josiah deserved better. Priscilla deserved her strength.
If Octavia thought of the same hand as someone else’s, it was a bit easier to raise it higher still. Perhaps, if she tried, she could be somewhere else. She could watch herself from on high, floating in a nightmare from which she’d awaken shortly.
Josiah deserved love. Priscilla would’ve given all the love she could give.
Octavia could reach. She could definitely reach. Her fingers were higher than the lowest rung of keys, still awaiting her gentle touch. At least physically, it would be so, so simple. All she had to do was move. The lead in her blood froze her in place. Her heart pounded so loudly that she could hear it. She felt dizzy, her breath only now battling to flee her lungs. She’d already forgotten the number. She knew it was impossibly high. There was no rationalizing. She could feel Josiah’s eyes.
Priscilla would’ve done it.
Her fingers twitched.
Would Priscilla have done it?
They curled inwards, an involuntary movement.
It wasn’t as though Priscilla had ever witnessed a single toll before.
There was no oxygen in this air. There was no fresh blood left in her body to fuel her beating heart. Octavia strongly contemplated asking for the number again. She wondered if it would help at all. It was more than 14,000, if her weak memory served. She made the poor decision to ask a far worse question instead, for as many times as she’d chided herself not to do so.
Stradivaria?
I am here.
His distance was irrelevant. She didn’t need to see him, so far behind her as he was.
Would…Priscilla…
Octavia couldn’t think straight. Even in her own thoughts, she couldn’t find the words she needed. Stratos filled in where she found nothing.
She would.
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough of a motivator by a longshot. His voice was just as useless, as much as she wished it could be stronger. The strength she’d hoped to find was absent, and that, too, struck terror into her heart. It was an agonizing loneliness. Octavia couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. The adrenaline that besieged her sought only to scald her from the inside-out rather than bless her with the drive she so desperately craved. Her vision was already doubling. She opted to go numb. It was the best she could do, and she stole Stradivaria's words to dull her pain on the way there.
Priscilla would’ve done it.
Priscilla would’ve done it.
Priscilla would’ve done it.
Priscilla would’ve done it.
And it was with a scream that tore her heart clean from her body that Octavia threw her hand down onto the keys, her entire soul crashing deep into the dark.
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It was Hell.
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It was Hell.
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It was Hell.
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It was a kind of Hell she’d never thought possible.
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It was inescapable.
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It couldn’t be blocked out, nor could it be dismissed.
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There was no looking away with eyes that weren't hers to close.
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Some were only children. They deserved far more than the flame they’d been cast into at birth.
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Some had thrived in the dark, the worst the world had to offer. They deserved what they'd gotten.
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Some had laid their hands upon a girl who'd sought only to live a life of freedom. Every last one deserved the most gruesome of deaths they'd suffered.
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To possess the hands that broke her bones, scarred her skin, beat her down, starved her, tortured her in every conceivable way, such was its own Hell. To possess the ears that drank in her every pleading scream and cry for mercy, such was its own Hell. To be burdened with the eyes that saw her mangled, bleeding, sobbing, shaking, bruised, trembling as she played again and again and again, such was its own Hell.
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Octavia would never sleep again.
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Maybe she could never look Josiah in the eyes again.
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She looked for him. Sometimes, she was successful.
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Sometimes, he, too, was not immune to her borrowed violence. The sight of his blood on her strangers’ hands was a fate far, far worse than death.
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She wondered how many of these people Selena actually knew, for what fate she’d condemned them to.
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For how much of her life was solitary, she wondered if Selena knew any of them.
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In truth, Octavia lost count almost immediately.
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If she was coming up again, she was going back down almost instantly.
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She couldn’t remember doing more than screaming so hard that her throat surely bled. Even that had long since faded into silence.
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How long it had been was anyone’s guess. How far along she was, too, was anyone’s guess.
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And, for a while, she truly was convinced she'd died. There was no other explanation. She couldn’t move, whether within the confines of a toll or without.
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Something was warm.
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Something was atop her own fingers, the ones that shook and trembled so viciously that they'd nearly gone numb.
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The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
It was not herself who touched the keys, but something that lowered her fingertips to the ivory time and time again.
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It was gentle, steady, evenly-paced. Over and over, someone guided her hand to where it was needed most.
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She was vaguely aware of the way by which her body had given out. Here, too, something was warm. Something held her close.
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Her brief moments upwards were as much of a blessing as they were a curse. It was a warmth she could cling to before plunging back down into the darkest depths of the ill-fated flame.
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She wasn’t sure how long it took before she finally reached the point of disconnection, by which she hardly processed the sights she saw and the sounds she heard. She didn’t bother trying to count. True death would’ve been preferable. True death would’ve been quiet.
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Octavia had never thought to beg for death before. This was the first time.
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It was Hell.
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Can you try to say it again?
Acoright.
Almost there. ‘Acolyte’, sweetheart.
Agoright.
‘Acolyte’.
Aco…lyte?
Wonderful! Great job!
She couldn’t unblur. She couldn’t focus. She could hear, as deep underwater as she was. It was muffled. She knew the words regardless.
What does it mean?
An acolyte is someone who protects others. They protect the whole city. It’s an acolyte’s job to watch over everyone and keep them safe.
Do they have to wear those weird clothes?
The answer was a laugh she’d never heard.
They’re just ceremonial, honey.
Cememonial?
And her borrowed fingers that pointed and inquired were so, so tiny.
‘Ceremonial’. If mommy wants to wear comfortable clothes after she rings the bell, she can.
Why do you have to ring the bell so much?
Because that’s what an acolyte does. The acolyte is friends with Valkyrie’s Call.
Who’s Valkyrie’s Call?
Every question out of her little mouth was from a voice so equally little.
Valkyrie’s Call is my partner. We’re very good friends, and we love each other very much.
Do you love them more than you love me?
I could never love anyone more than I love you, sweetheart. Don’t worry about that.
Can I be friends with Valkyrie’s Call, too?
If you become the acolyte, you can.
I wanna be the acolyte!
Maybe someday, my love.
Octavia couldn’t feel her own stolen smile. She knew it was there. It was incredible, the way this Hell would only be satisfied once none of her soul was left. She would never weigh the crushing destruction of her heart that she'd found after Drey’s toll against anything. This was going to be a close second. She was already dead. There was nothing left to take.
It’s so pretty!
This is my friend, the one that I told you about. Do you remember their name?
Valkivie’s Call!
‘Valkyrie’s Call’, but you were really close! Good job.
This is the bell that you ring all the time?
It sure is.
Does it hurt? It looks heavy.
Octavia had wondered the same thing, once. To know that those little hands would grow to falter upon the same rope they now stroked so tenderly and enjoyed with glee was its own torture. When she would eventually look down and see the damage firsthand, she knew she would carry it for life--same as everything else.
It doesn’t hurt.
Someday, it would.
Can I play?
It’s too big for you.
Then how can you do it?
Because we’re friends. Valkyrie’s Call helps me. If we weren’t friends, I wouldn’t be able to.
It’s warm!
Because it’s sunny outside today. The bronze can get really hot when the sun comes all the way up, though, so be careful.
Her light had been hotter, maybe.
I wanna be friends with Valkyrie’s Call so we can play together!
Remember what I told you, sweetheart? You have to be the acolyte to be able to ring the bell.
Then I wanna be the acolyte!
Like I said, you might be the acolyte, someday. You have to be patient.
Every toll of those she’d known usually came with regret, differently-flavored yet typically bitter. For some, it was words unspoken. For others, it was that she couldn't do more, or perhaps that she’d done too much. For a tiny, ignorant Sonata, she lamented so desperately that she couldn't turn back time and warn this child of what such a burden entailed. In that way, maybe, she could’ve been spared.
Where Octavia had come to note her grace on the cusp of adulthood, she found the most gentle exuberance and muted elation in youth.
I’m gonna be the acolyte, one day!
Why, that’s marvelous, little Sonata! What led you to such a choice?
I wanna be friends with Valkyrie’s Call! And, um, I wanna protect the city, too!
Such a noble goal. You will surely succeed your mother with grace. You will make a fine acolyte, one day. We will look forward to it, little blossom.
It was the first of many times she’d be blessed with such a title of endearment.
She told anyone who would listen.
I wanna be the acolyte.
That’s wonderful, little Sonata. Do you know what that entails?
Um, I have to ring the bell a lot, and I have to protect the city. Oh, and I have to wear weird clothes.
You are not wrong. It is the acolyte who carries the burdens of Velrose itself, our beautiful blossom who absolves us of suffering. To be the acolyte is to become our hope. Will you do that for us?
Yes!
It wasn’t as though Octavia could expect the clergy to lead her in any other direction, anyway.
Do you mean what you say?
I’ll do what I need to do in order to prove myself. What will it take?
You can follow me, my dear. I will teach you what I have learned. Understand, though, that being the acolyte is not as effortless and glamorous as it is made out to be. It is still laborious. It will still take copious amounts of effort to master such a role, for all it necessitates. Are you certain this is the path you wish to walk?
I am.
And there was even less glamor in that which should’ve been left in the dark, two worlds which never should’ve met. One world never should’ve had the misfortune to exist at all.
Below us?
It is the flame that warms our blossom. We are not to touch it, just as it is not to touch us. Even so, there are those who go between the two cities. There is no worth to a flame that does not warm.
Do we…not get along?
That is irrelevant. Simply know that Valkyrie’s Call has a twin, and it is buried far below in that place. It is essential. The blossom and the flame are symbiotic.
Why does there need to be two of them? Doesn’t Valkyrie’s Call make people happy enough? Why would it have a twin so far down there?
For their own protection, my love.
What do they…need protection from?
The same as us.
And that is?
For all of her bluster of becoming the acolyte, Sonata didn’t learn of the truth until she was eight years old. To her credit, it was still sooner than Octavia had learned--given that she’d grown up around Stradivaria, herself.
What is it called?
Velpyre.
If they have one, too, does that mean they have an acolyte?
Yes.
Can I meet her?
You can never go down there.
Why?
This, too, is a burden of the Velrose Acolyte.
At the very least, Sonata grew with another acolyte at her side. It was a blessing Octavia knew her counterpart of the flame had not been so kind as to receive. She grew to be beautiful, even if her face was largely unseen. She grew to be graceful, as could be expected. She grew to be resolute in the face of training beyond what Octavia had initially attributed to an acolyte’s responsibilities. There was, in fact, a religious component. It was somewhat unsettling.
The timeline overlapped, somewhat. Octavia squinted through her pain and past her stranger’s field of vision for anything she could find. She was aware that Sonata had once laid her eyes upon Priscilla, and she knew that Priscilla was no stranger to the Ivory family. It was a frustrating hunt, maddening in every way. It was a better distraction than holding her weakened breath and preparing for what would undoubtedly be the worst death of all.
Sonata was blessed with two acolyte companions, really. One, like herself, wouldn't come to lay her hands on the tolling rope of Valkyrie’s Call until long into the future. She was still lovely and perfect in every way, and adored much the same. Second only to her mother’s hands did Octavia’s stranger coddle the child more. Every touch was surely warm, every smile was surely radiant and soft. Allison was small. Sonata was, too, technically. How small did a child need to be to contrast with such a burden on the horizon?
Priscilla’s visage was fleeting. It was singular. It was the one and only flicker of light Octavia could cling to in the darkness, a memory hallmarked mostly by the sight of Stradivaria alone. It was a taste of the stark reds of autumn that Octavia had long dreamed of in between her nightmares. There were no words to be exchanged, no sweet sentiments to be remembered in her wonderful voice. Her departure was all that Sonata had found fit to hold close to her most striking memories, it seemed. If Octavia could’ve reached out and wrapped her hands around the one, singular spark of beauty in such a Hell, she would’ve clung so tightly her fingers would’ve bled. The fingers she borrowed would bleed soon enough, regardless.
Fourteen was debatable, most definitely still a child in some ways. The burden of loss was a secondary weight, still just as crushing. It was perhaps more so. It wasn't sudden. That didn’t help.
And what tears had stained more informal robes of preparatory training now stained those of refined responsibilities.
It was fast.
Valkyrie’s Call didn’t hesitate.
Sonata didn’t have a choice but to shirk the same wait.
And when her lovely, cascading locks of blonde brilliance fell by the wayside, parted and draping her shoulders in excess, she was almost perfectly still. It didn’t change the way her tears were largely involuntary. It didn’t change the growls of suffering through gritted teeth. It didn’t change the way Octavia’s borrowed fists clenched and trembled in her lap, balled as they were and pressed deeply into shaking knees. There was nothing to hold. There was no one to hold. There were only pearly fabrics to grasp desperately at and a partner to pray to from afar.
Try not to touch it.
It took effort to catch a glimpse in the mirror. It matched with Selena’s of so long ago. The Harmonial Crest was supposed to be resplendent and wonderful. Instead, the familiar perversion was downright sickening. It was sacrilegious. Octavia only saw it burnt into Sonata’s fair skin once. It was enough to endure in her head for the rest of her life.
She was revered.
My acolyte.
Lady Acolyte.
Our beloved acolyte.
In a way, she found her love.
Do you hear my voice?
I do.
Is this what you wished for?
I believe so.
I can sense your strength. You will endure, just the same as those before you. You are resilient.
Thank you.
I will be by your side.
And…I will be by yours.
That was where her tale had ended, after all.
I…cannot leave?
The Velrose Acolyte is bound to Velrose alone, lest the city be endangered in her absence. Surely you understand, Lady Acolyte.
I…yes.
It was not without struggle.
Are you ill, Lady Acolyte?
I’m not feeling well this morning, no.
What ails you?
I’m…lightheaded. I’m fatigued, and I’ve become sick several times over. I…wish to rest for a bit.
You’ve a responsibility.
I can hardly stand.
You have my sympathies, Lady Acolyte, truly. That does not change what must be done. You may rest after your duties have been completed in full. There are those who depend upon you even now. It will surely not take long, for you are efficient and skilled. You are our blossom, after all. We wish for your prosperity.
I…understand.
It was not without poisonous praise, tethered to venom plaguing another.
Could the Velpyre Acolyte be brought here, perhaps?
That worthless flame, in all of her incompetence, must remain below, much the same as you are to remain above. I sincerely, sincerely apologize for her inability, Lady Acolyte. I understand that she has only worsened your troubles.
I’d like to speak with her.
There is no option to do so.
Could someone else speak to her, on my behalf?
What would you wish for them to say?
I…would like to know why, for one.
Perhaps she cares not for the suffering of her people, nor those above. She is selfish, Lady Acolyte. She is far from the graceful and beautiful blossom you have come to be. She is a flame that only seeks to burn with malice and resentment. She cannot be trusted.
And there is no circumstance by which I may meet her?
None.
She lost.
You cannot.
She gained.
You are beautiful.
She lost.
You must.
She gained.
You are our hope.
She lost.
It is not a choice.
She gained.
Blessed is our blossom.
The whiplash, the back and forth of emotional tugging that tore at Octavia’s borrowed self from either side was borderline unbearable. She didn’t need to feel it. Seeing it sufficed. Hearing it was adequate. It was never enough to draw forth tears, let alone objections. There were plenty of days where it was enough for those slender, graceful fingers to tremble ever so slightly around the tolling rope as they pulled. And again, she pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled.
Do you…know who we are?
You four are Maestros, are you not?
It took over 14,000 tolls straight for Octavia to catch a glimpse of herself. It had been awhile. For a time, it had stopped being jarring, given how often it was happening consecutively. Now, in the embrace of rose-colored suffering, her own visage was blurred and surreal. She was almost unrecognizable. She couldn’t remember smiling like that. She couldn’t remember looking like that. It was hard to remember what she looked like at all, for the eternity she’d been down here.
And from there, she knew the tragedy that was to come.
You’re a Maestra.
Correct.
Guardian?
I’d like to introduce you to Valkyrie’s Call.
It wasn’t as though Octavia could ever forget.
I have a task for you four that I can entrust only to Maestros.
And that, too, she’d committed to memory forever.
Valkyrie’s Call has a twin, and the Velrose Acolyte does not serve alone.
How was it that the blossom spoke more softly of the flame than anyone above?
You’re the acolyte, correct? I don’t believe we’ve met.
Did it matter, for what had occurred?
How…old is she?
The same as you.
You’re certain?
It matters not. She matters not.
I wish to speak with her again.
Lady Acolyte, know that such a worthless flame cannot do as you have done. Left uncontrolled, she will burn the blossom she is meant to warm. I see the curiosity in your eyes. You must snuff it out, should it be for her.
But--
Do not object. Do only what is to be done as the Velrose Acolyte. Do not question. Do you understand? It is for the salvation of the blossom. Your hesitation will hurt others. Is that what you wish? Is that the acolyte you wish to be?
I--
Is this what your mother would want? Is such an acolyte the blossom she would’ve hoped to raise?
No.
Then shun the flame and embrace the blossom. It is the only path for you.
I understand.
And when it happened, Octavia could do nothing.
She could expect it.
She could wait patiently.
She could regret, with every fiber of her being, her decision to become the Ambassador.
What do we do?
What must be done.
She would see the other side of the story soon enough, she supposed. Would it be worse? Would it be better? One was numbed by agony, perhaps. One was wide awake all the way down. Selena was still beautiful. No amount of sorrow and suffering would take that away from her, even as she raged in her darkest hour.
Cover!
She cursed Stratos.
Cover!
She cursed each and every Muse who had ever made light of her role in turn, one by one.
Cover!
She cursed Stratos twice over.
There is no worth to a flame that does not warm!
I am not worthless!
Octavia had never noticed the way her stolen hands trembled so fiercely around that rope before, even long before they'd bled and oozed in earnest.
Octavia!
It was the last word she ever said.
It was not the last thing she ever saw.
That curse was layered, those delicate palms so viciously blistered and chafed.
The light that had promised to spare her, too, was surely a curse as it faltered before Sonata's broken eyes.
When the violet rage in Selena’s gaze pierced deep into Octavia’s own soul, it felt as if the flame herself had crawled her way down into the depths of Hell to strangle the Ambassador instead.
There was no nobility to be found in self-sacrifice at such an age.
And while Sonata had swallowed a cry of fear on the threshold of death, it was not meant to be. Octavia had not once, in the time she’d memorized each facet of the scene, ever considered the display to be a farce. If Selena was face-up, it left Sonata face-down, the ground rushing to meet her all too quickly without the grace she deserved. At such a height, in the precious moments down to contemplate her short life, Selena’s lasting wrath in her grip was the least of her concerns.
Screaming was a reflex, acolyte or not. It was another sound Octavia could add to her eternal portrait of that morning. The sobbing and pleading in the seven seconds it took the Velrose Acolyte to reach the bottom were permanent fixtures of the Ambassador’s soul. Octavia would take them to her grave. She was already there.
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