What was he thinking about again?

Mercia was shaking her head sadly, as only a brief moment had transpired out in the waking world as Jordan found himself back in reality. He didn’t see the pile of text-corpses bleeding out fading away into the recesses of his mind.

“We still haven’t figured out how you managed to perform such a working, but during the process your heart gave out and the backlash nearly tore your mind apart. All three artifacts you managed to abscond with were lost in the resulting destruction.”

Jordan’s eyes popped open. His heart was pounding in his chest, though it had been doing so before she spoke. That was… odd, but he was understandably anxious. Unbidden, one of the Brat’s hands moved towards said beating organ, but when Jordan realized he was threatening to cop a feel on the flat chested kid he snapped the arm back and away. Not crossing that line again, thank you very much! He concluded triumphantly, though concern still gnawed at his mind. Not like an animal though. Thank god.

Mercia seemed to pick up on the not so subtle gesture, and before Jordan could ask the obvious question, she answered him. “Your heart did give out, but we were approached by one of the other families. Your heart was… you’re fine now. In that regard at least.”

Jordan narrowed his eyes at her curt response. The way she failed to meet his own filled him with obvious skepticism at her dismissal.

“Wait just a minu—” Jordan’s attempt at pressing her for answers was interrupted by the sound of the room’s vault door opening once more. He noticed this time, his attention more present than the last time, that the air pressure shifted subtly at the opening. With the windows open, the pressure difference between the room and the rest of the home seemed… weirdly distinct.

The maid came in, carrying a tray full of teacups, steaming pots, and even a few silvery plates full of small sandwiches and pastries. She set the whole contraption out on the bed, revealing a set of kickstands beneath it to facilitate that otherwise impossible task. Jordan had to admit—it was certainly an impressive looking display of treats.

“Will that be all for now, Ma’am?” The… green jeweled maid said? Why had she changed jewels?

The gold bangled ‘mother’ looked up at the maid and asked, “Are these saturated?”

“No, Duchess.”

“Very well. That’ll be all, Harlot.” She said with a wave of her hand.

Jordan’s eyes bulged again. Harlot? Seriously? That’s fucking rude! He thought. Granted, he’d said far worse in his time, but still! He was about to say something, not to virtue signal or anything—he’d learned long ago not to bother standing up for women—but only because he didn’t care for such terms. Women could be bitches, asshats, total and complete Karens, but he’d never insult them for promiscuity!

Why insult a woman for doing something you’d want them to do anyway? Let them be sluts! That’s great! Get mad because they’re overly emotional drama factories eating what little money you have, not because you’re mad that they didn’t spread their legs for you, he silently ranted.

But then he blinked, and paused. Had the damn maid just called the star bangled banner here Duchess? He moaned, his annoyance bursting forth. Moaned! Out loud! He was overwhelmed by the sheer stupidity of it all. He’d suspected they were nobility of some kind, it just seemed obvious considering the wealth around him. It still annoyed him though. I suppose I should be grateful I’m not a damn princess, at least, he sniffed dismissively.

Mrs. Mother-Duchess-Dearest turned to look at him. “What is it Aureliana? Are you thirsty? You had a sustenance potion earlier, but a little water and food should be good for you. If you’d like I could have a better meal brought up? I’ll need to talk to the chef about getting you something Essence saturated to replenish your Ki, however. It looks like he didn’t want to take any chances with this food, and it seems you’re, well. You look like you need it, darling.”

Jordan sputtered as he found himself suddenly handed a small teacup. Potions now? Really? Was this where everything in this fantasy land was going? He eyed the woman with unrestrained consternation, briefly entertaining the idea of flipping the whole table at her, before his unconscious movements to hold the scalding little cup brought his attention to some very disturbing events. He looked down in absolute shock.

He stared as the Brat’s body held the teacup delicately in one hand, fingers held in some absurd manner, while the other held the cup at the base with a perfectly flat palm. With a start, he also realized that his flesh prison was sitting perfectly straight. It had—in fact—been doing so the whole time, he just hadn’t noticed. With a sigh filled with bitterness, Jordan had to conclude that the Brat’s body must have come with all the muscle memories of her upbringing. While he was sure it would make his life easier in some ways, it filled him with roiling irritation to feel so compelled to sit like some prim little doll.

Neither person spoke in the room as both he and Mercia drank their tea. Jordan had been so distracted by the way he held it all, that it was only after the liquid was scalding down his throat that he began to sputter in panic at the heat. The tea was practically boiling down his throat and he’d almost missed it!

Yet despite his wild coughing, he somehow set the cup down neatly on the saucer he’d been holding. He glared at it—he had thought it was all one piece, like one he’d gotten as a gag gift one Christmas. He supposed that justified using both rose-tipped hands. He looked over to Mercia, who was equally startled by his sudden and uncalled for sputtering. He didn’t care though—he was not chugging boiling water thank you very much!

With one final, throat clearing burst of air, Jordan said, “Eh—hem… so, ah, what happens now, anyway?”

“For now,” Mercia said with a sharp clank of her own teacup, “you recover. I’ll have something proper brought up, and tomorrow we have a meeting with the Justiciars to discuss your actions.”

“Whoa, what? Justiciar? Like a… person who judges?” He’d tried to say Judge, but for some reason that didn’t come out.

“Yes, High Justiciar Sphrantzes will be…” she hesitated, choosing her next words carefully, “He will be examining your case in accordance with the High Law. Normally, a child would not be tried in such courts, but… one’s act is one’s profit.” She ended the statement bitterly.

But Jordan struggled with that last part. One’s act is one’s profit? What the hell did that mean?

He spared an inward glance with a breath, and watched the words play out in his mind. As they did, they reframed themselves, driven by an unknown instinct all their own until they formed something more familiar. A phrase in English—a saying.

It was… You reap what you sow.

Jordan’s eyes popped forth once more with indignant panic. Wait a second, am I going to be held accountable… for what the fucking Brat did!? He thought before turning to beg an answer from the Brat’s mother.

“But I… I didn’t do anything! I mean, ah, I don’t remember doing anything. How much trouble am I in?” The words tumbled out quickly, though Jordan managed to correct his initial mistake. It galled him to even pretend to be the Brat, and he considered telling her he was Jordan, but he was consumed with worry about seeing a Judge.

He’d lived a squeaky clean life, even if it’d been because of how boring he was. He could own that, especially since it meant he’d never gone to court, or been arrested. Hell, he’d never even gotten a parking ticket! Though not having a car for most of his life had probably helped with that. It was hard to get parking tickets when you relied on mass transit systems and cars drove themselves.

So the fear of justice crept into his heart and made it thud loudly in his chest. Without thinking, he reached down and took another elegant draw from the teacup and grimaced. It burned like hell, but he ignored it completely. He was sweating bullets now as he panicked. Metaphorically, that was. The Brat’s body still didn’t seem to be sweating at all, but his mind barely registered that fact since he still felt clammy.

“The High Justiciar will surely take your current mental conditions into account, Aureliana, but he must assess the level of danger you pose to yourself or those around you. We still don’t know how you learned of the ritual you attempted, and if he suspects in any way that you might try again?”

The woman shook her head, eyes filled with distress, “We paid such a terrible price to save your life, but if the High Justiciar decrees it, you could be executed Aureliana. Even if we make it through tomorrow’s meeting intact… the family will never be the same after what you’ve done.”

Tears began to fall from Mercia’s eyes. They were slow, quiet tears, indicative of a person stubbornly refusing to cry, but having their body subtly betray them. Jordan just sat there, struck dumb by her words that listed out a fate far worse than any he’d imaged.

As the Brat’s own tear ducts began to echo the woman’s waterworks, Mercia brushed her tears away before saying, “Would that we had known how desperate you were. I wish you could have trusted us. If your Governess had seen, or we had just known… if we… ha… haha…!”

She laughed, weakly at first before alternating between choking sobs and laughter on the verge of mania as Jordan sat transfixed. Silent.

“Hahaha…eh, if we’d known you were going to cripple yourself and nearly go mad, I would have opted for the Demon Grafting. Who cares how terrible it could have been—it would have been infinitely better to deal with than what we have now. I was so foolish to hold back on it… but a Demon’s Passion…”

The woman seemed half drunk with how tired she was, but Jordan was not as amused as she seemed to be. Granted, the woman seemed more delirious than mirthful as she ranted out loud, but he was damn near out of his mind in confusion and fear. He could be silent no more.

“Demon grafting? I don’t understand what you’re saying!”

She looked back up at his confused, hostile tone, and sighed as she offhandedly waved his statement off. “Yes, we were originally planning on replacing your heart when you were older with a Demonic Graft, but it can cause a multitude of issues, and so we were treating you until we could find a cure, or failing that we’d wait until you—”

“Failing heart? What do you mean, cure or replacement!?” The Brat’s voice was getting annoyingly shrill, which only further stoked Jordan’s own rising irritation.

The woman’s patience with him endured. “Oh! Of course. I apologize Aureliana, of course that would be confusing to you.” She dipped her head apologetically as she tried to recompose herself.

“You don’t remember, but you were born with a heart condition, and our racial Bloodline prevents us from benefiting from Holy magic. As such we have to rely on Alchemy normally. Barring that there are Vampiric magics, or more… invasive methods. We’d discussed the possibility of a Demonic Grafting to replace your heart, but replacing part of your Pattern like that can have dire consequences, even more than just madness. It can taint your Bloodline permanently, so those of our kind that have to rely on such treatments produce children as soon as possible before sterility is forced on them out of mercy.”

“What!? I, blood, huh…!?” Jordan did not have as many words as she. What should he even ask about? Did she seriously expect him to… know some of these things? Holy magic? Alchemy? Judges? Executions? Demon Grafts, Patterns, and Bloodlines? Did the damn woman come with an appendix!?

“Eh, yes Aureliana?” The woman was looking at him with no small amount of confusion on her own face as she blinked stupidly at him, for once. Did she seem to think amnesia didn’t cover these things?

But would it? He thought. Did someone who had amnesia forget what a lamp was? Did they forget how to speak? He didn’t know. He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. He didn’t have amnesia—she just assumed he did. Could he ask about these things without being… suspicious? Was that even suspicious to begin with? And what would happen if they suspected he wasn’t the Brat? What happened if they knew… he was Jordan?

He was running out of steam. The fury that had been building felt like it had guttered out faster than a wickless candle. A morbid sense of ennui was beginning to settle in as he felt like he was suffering from information overload, finally crushed by the weight of the situation he found himself in.

The Brat’s heart thumped deeply in its chest. It felt strong, but also like it wanted to claw up the Brat’s throat and escape. It prompted Jordan to feel at the Brat’s chest in worry despite his earlier hesitation. Was the heart in there going to give out any second? Was he doomed to death at any moment?

And why did it feel like such a familiar fear? He’d never felt it before, he was sure of it.

“Is my heart… going to give out?” He met her gaze, swimming in anxiety. She had said… well, if he were to die, better to know and prepare now.

However, she shook her head before saying, “Not anymore. As I said, we were… ‘fortunate’ enough to be assisted by another Family. They provided a replacement, despite the fact that we had been under the impression of that being an impossibility. The new heart in your chest is a perfect match, even if we’ll likely never pay off its debt…”

Jordan could practically feel the air quotes around the word ‘fortunate’ in her statement, her voice dripping venomously with it. There was clearly a lot to unpack with this too, which made it… what sixth? Seventh? On his list?

But it didn’t matter—he wasn’t going to die! That was good! So they’d given the Brat a, what, heart transplant? He could ask, but he couldn’t match the ostentatious atmosphere around him with what the woman was saying about debts.

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How could they possibly owe money still over the heart? Jordan looked around the incredibly lavish room in confusion. Couldn’t they just pull some of the gold plating off the walls to pay for whatever had happened? Was this just some overly proud noble family down on its luck? A family that was close to impoverishment but holding on to faded glory, now brought low because they had to take out loans to pay for a new heart instead of magically healing him, or whatever?

And… why was ‘his’ bloodline unable to be healed by holy magic anyway? He looked into the red and black eyes of the woman, even as she gazed past him—lost in her own thoughts for the moment.

Right. Demons. Was he… was he really the baddie now? Were they… evil? She’d said they weren’t based on Sin, but on Passion, but he—

No, it doesn’t matter right now! He needed to focus—one thing at a time. Being Evil could take eighth on his list, and he’d add demons somewhere further on. Ninth or whatever. That number seemed appropriate, though he couldn’t place why.

“We look completely stacked; how can we not pay off this debt? How much do we owe?” his tone was matched by his equally accusatory stare.

She looked at him oddly, as if his word choice offended her, but answered calmly, nonetheless. “Not in physical wealth, darling. If it were a matter of coin, it would be solved. There is no listed price for anything we could not afford, but nothing worth truly having is worth mere coin.”

Jordan suppressed a hiss. He just loved being called darling of all things. “Then what’s the cost? What do we owe?”

It was probably telling that of all the things to fixate on, owing money, or something like it, was highest on his list. In another world? Whatever. Reborn as a demon child? Pshhhh. Owe money? That was equal to overheating in his mind’s priority. It was a matter of life or death to him. Because…

Not again. He wouldn’t fall down a hole of debt ever again. A light not unlike madness shown in his eyes, briefly burning the ennui back and forcing the woman to look away from his intensity as she evaded answering him.

“I’d rather discuss the full details when your father returns from Westhell. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow we will see the Justiciar and you will discover the first of the many prices that must be paid for your… actions.”

Ugh! He did not like being blown off. His mind whirled about in an attempt to come at the problem from another angle. If she wouldn’t tell him about debt, then he would ask about escape!

“Would… casting the ritual again, ah… cure me?” Jordan asked. He didn’t think it would, obviously, but maybe it could get him home.

“Aureliana, did you not listen to me? Even willingness to cast that ritual again could end with you being found guilty.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to be me, right? What if someone else—”

“Enough! Let me make this clear, daughter. If there are any that can cast that ritual, they will not. Knowledge of rituals of this kind is highly regulated. And even if it could be cast again, throwing yourself back into darkness will result in nothing more than your complete destruction. So put it out of your mind. If you have any other questions, please let me know. We can try to discuss some more before I leave you alone for the evening.”

The evening? Was it that late? Jordan thought before chucking those thoughts out the mental window. Who cares what time it is, I’m running out of options fast and… and I need to get home before those options close to me forever. He couldn’t accept being trapped here!

But… what was safe to ask? What was safe to talk about? What were the consequences of telling people that he was Jordan and not the stupid Brat? In basically all the shows he watched the characters from Earth always kept their origins secret.

But why? Why keep it secret? What was the reason? Why was he even trying to base his responses off of cartoons? The reasons were usually tied to whatever stupid plot drove them!

He ‘hmphed’ quietly. He could think of at least one reason not to tell people here. That four armed bastard had stabbed him with that invisible sword-thing. Jordan still wasn’t sure how that had been useful, but there was no denying it had killed that thing in his mind. But it begged a question all its own.

Could they… use it to cut Jordan out? What if the Brat was still inside, trapped deep below and all they needed to do was scoop Jordan out to save her? Would they give a flying shit about chucking him in the bin versus sending him home? And if they had to choose between him or the Brat?

Would it matter in any case? If the Brat were still here… then he probably couldn’t go home anyway. It would mean he was dead or… reincarnated, right? He met the eyes of the demon mum.

Would he really be okay… growing up in the Brat’s body? Living this horrible little life? Paying the child’s debts, all the while feeling the crushing weight of his own regrets? He still remembered all the pain and sorrow yesterday. He remembered giving up. It was faint, but like an old wound gently aching in the background. He had been trying to ignore it, just like the heat.

As much as it felt like a drug induced hallucination, the pain drove him to want to go home. To make things right. If he couldn’t go home, then… he wasn’t sure he wanted to live at all. It almost felt like a small voice should have suggested such a thing.

But how it grated at him. Yet, he’d already come to terms with his cowardice and hypocrisy, hadn’t he? He’d given up, and even now he’d risk it all—death and oblivion—rather than have to try for once in his life. Risk telling them the truth and being destroyed in retaliation.

And that seductive dark part of himself reminded him that it was okay to rest. To stop now. No one could blame him for not wanting to try and live someone else’s life. He’d tried his best to live his own life and look how well that had gone? He’d do no better here, so why try?

Just give up, no one wants me here anyway. It would be better if I were gone. It would be better for everyone if he weren’t the one to live this Brat’s life. He didn’t want to be responsible for two failed lifetimes.

He’d fought hard to ignore that voice in his head all his life. But now? Now he was listening.

Jordan grimaced as he wiped away new tears falling down the Brat’s face. The stupid thing was crying again just because his thoughts got a tiny bit sad and serious. He hated this Brat almost as much as he hated himself.

He would likely regret it, but he made up his mind. With a deep breath, he stated “I, ah… I have to tell you something.”

The woman, still staring at him, slowly closed her eyes to silently nod. After a long moment, she met his gaze once more. Jordan took that as a sign to continue.

“I’m… well, I’m not your so-, er, daughter. I’m not Aura…ley-ana?”

Okay, he could have done a lot better to stick that landing—forgetting the Brat’s name at the end despite the fact that the woman had said it a dozen times was a bit sad.

“Please… explain.” The woman pushed for answers. One of her exquisite eyebrows was raised, inviting him to continue. While he was prepared to accept the consequences, he still really hoped he wasn’t actually digging his own grave.

“Ah… so I don’t know who this Brat, er, Aura-lay-lana kid is but I’m not her. I’m a different person, from another, uh, from another world, I think? I don’t know for sure, but that’s my theory. But I need your help, I’m pretty sure at least, to get home. I think she and I, er, swapped bodies. Or something like that?” His nervousness was not helping him present his case. It was like dealing with an irate customer, but normally he’d hoist that off onto a manager.

The look the woman gave Jordan suggested he’d just sprouted a second head with twin bunny ears, each attempting to do the cha-cha with each other. She turned away from him, one delicate hand resting on her chin in that universal sign of deep thought. Then she muttered to herself.

“…worse than I thought. Then again, we haven’t identified the other derangements yet, assuming they’ve even manifested. Ignorance of Condition and Amnesia… no, a dissociative personality? Rare, but better than Dark Passengers in her mind I suppose…”

It was Jordan’s turn to stare at her incredulously this time. He hadn’t caught all the things the woman was murmuring, but he’d figured out she was calling him crazy! She thought he was, what, a dissociative personality? Like split personality style?

He’d expected death! Or help! Not… not…!

Disbelief. Dear God, how was he supposed to deal with just—

“What?” he couldn’t be dismissed! “N-no! I’m not a split personality, I’m a different person. I’m not Aura-whatever, my name is Not-Aureliana.” Jordan.

Wait. He looked at the woman, his indignation turning into… fear?

“I’m” Jordan “Not-Aureliana. My name is” Jordan “Not-Aureliana” why can’t I say my name!? “No, stop saying Aura-lady, I’m Not-Aureliana!!”

Jordan, his name was Jordan, but he couldn’t say his name!? He shouted it again, and again, and again. Louder each time, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t, each time he tried he said… Not the Brat? NO!

“NOT-AURELIANA, I’M NOT-AURELIANA, I’M NOT–“

“ENOUGH!”

The woman grabbed Jordan by the shoulders and held him while she… trembled? Tears were crashing down her face as she failed to hold back wrenching sobs and her teacup fell to the floor… breaking. In hindsight, Jordan numbly realized that screaming about how he wasn’t her child had probably been… cruel of him. But he couldn’t… he couldn’t say his own name?

“I don’t… I don’t know how to help you with this Aureliana. But you are Aureliana, no matter what you think right now. I swear you are upon the Princes. Upon the Devas. Upon our family’s name.”

She was gasping. Like a wounded animal, her sobs so brutally tore at her it was like she was falling apart before him. Whittled away from fractures carved through tragedies.

“We’ll help you however we can. We’ll make you better I swear it. I SWEAR IT. But please… just stop… stop saying that… please.” Jordan’s shoulders trembled where she held him.

He hadn’t meant to… he hadn’t been trying to—

His breath seemed a perverse contrast to her sobs, but… he understood her. She was breaking. Shattering into pieces in front of him, staring at her own child screaming at her. Not her child. A mockery of everything she loved, of everything she’d sacrificed for. And she’s sacrificed everything.

How was she supposed to feel? Jordan saw the bags under her eyes, had she been up all night? No—several. He knew that, somehow. But how many nights had she stayed up next to her daughter? A full week? How many times had she thought she’d lose her?

Why had he done this to her? He hadn’t meant to, he just… just hadn’t thought about it. He didn’t think about her. He didn’t… think about other people. About what they felt. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

He’d just gotten so frustrated, but even if he was terrible at empathy at the best of times, her pain was something he could relate to.

He had two younger sisters, and long ago the older of the two had been sick. So incredibly sick, with a disease she’d had since birth. Jordan couldn’t even recall the details of what had been wrong, he was so young at the time when it was diagnosed that his youngest sister hadn’t even been born yet. But he remembered his mother and father. They’d cried just like this, thinking they’d lose their daughter because the insurance wouldn’t pay for the procedure. Not for something pre-existing.

They’d worked every shift they could, asked for charity online, and took every loan they could find. Fundraisers, church rallies, they all but begged and impoverished themselves. But against all odds, his family had strapped their belts tight, cut every corner and paid for the surgery. After years saving to do so, it had almost been done too late… but it had worked.

The surgery had been a success, despite the low odds from worsening conditions. Everyone was so happy when it was over and done with, he’d just… forgotten what it was like to see his mother, sitting over the bed of his sister. Listening to her breathing quietly in her sleep. Crying because she didn’t know if her daughter would wake up tomorrow.

Praying to God with all her heart and soul to spare her daughter. For a miracle. Anything.

Hail Mary, Full of Grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.

How had he forgotten that? He shared his sister’s room, and he’d heard that phrase hundreds of times every night. He’d grown used to hearing her breathing. Needing to hear it, because he was afraid.

His heart turned bitter as his self-loathing hit all-time highs. Of course he’d forgotten, he only remembered the hard years after. The feelings of frustration and resentment over not getting the things he wanted. Of blaming his sister, and his parents. Of thinking they were stupid, believing ‘God’ would swoop down and save them all after their poor choices and debt.

Feeling superior because he knew ‘God’ helped those who helped themselves, and that idiots like them… reaped what they sowed. How could he be so incredibly ignorant and selfish? How had he not noticed the pain he was causing?

How could he forget what it looked like to see a woman breaking apart as her life fell to pieces, because she didn’t know if her little girl would live to see tomorrow? Because she needed a miracle but there was no God to offer one. A woman who stayed up all night begging, nonetheless.

Jordan was an awful son. He was an awful person. He couldn’t deny it, not anymore—or at very least… not right now. Still, there was one thing he could do. He knew it would help because it’s what his sister had done on her hospital bed. What they’d all thought was going to be her deathbed. Hooked up to so many machines and drips not knowing if she’d be there tomorrow… he knew what she’d have done if she was here, because he’d seen her do it. So he did it himself.

Jordan set his cup down, and leaned forward. He hugged the trembling woman—it wasn’t difficult. Why had he always thought it was?

And they sat there, embracing. He didn’t feel the… sweeping emotions from before when she had initiated her hug, but it didn’t matter. This one was for her. Stranger or not, if there was even a shred of decency in him, he could muster up this one, human act. As the woman began to break, he held her together. He held her tight, and he refused to let go. He refused to let her shatter. He let their damn tears fall, forming glue to hold her together. She. Would. Not. Break.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know if he could get home, what that would even entail, or how he’d even explain what was going on to everyone without them all thinking he was crazy. But he could still lie, tell that sweet lie that everyone always loved. Because everyone wanted to believe it. Everyone needed to hear it and believe it.

“It’s going to be okay.”

His sister had said it, but had she believed it? As Aureliana’s mother turned to look at Jordan, he smiled for her. It wasn’t forced or arduous for him. He just smiled to tell her; it was all going to be okay.

And it was. The smile that Aureliana’s body produced was like none Jordan had ever given in his life.

It was a quiet, gentle light, it spoke of hope and of love. Promises given from hearts gently adorned with love. It uplifted, held you up. It spoke of understanding; it had a dazzling grace to it yet shown no brighter than a candle in a quiet room, the last respite in a world subsumed by storms.

It was the greatest smile that ever was, or ever would be. It was pure. Beautiful. Innocent.

It said– I love you. I trust you.

Everything will be okay.

It was sincere. Flawless.

It was perfect. A [Perfect Smile].

And then, the light of dawn broke forth and the Heaven’s cried out in thunder. Beauty incarnate showed its face, and God was a woman. Truth of all things laid bare in rapturous epiphanies as all meaning became new again and Jordan was swept away in the radiant glory before him.

The woman in front of Jordan smiled. A [Perfect Smile] that outshone the sun pouring into the room. She didn’t break. He’d done it. He’d been a person, a real, honest, caring person if just for one moment. And he was rewarded with the most wondrous sight of his life. Majesty made manifest.

And for this one, perfect moment, it really did feel like everything was going to be okay. They held each other together, kept whole despite the tragedies they both shared. The woman, inspired by her daughter’s love and conviction. Him, remembering his mother and wishing he could hold her one last time.

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The estate radiated with unmatched brilliance as the evening sun finished its journey over the gardens and nearby buildings. Gentle clouds drifted overhead, having fulfilled their promise of a mostly sunny day. A wonderful summer’s day.

It was accented by a warm, gentle breeze, that rustled nearby plants as a winged guardian soared high into the air, spurred by an unexpected emotional force. The red of its wings was matched only by the longest lances of the sun’s light—the first rays stretching from its twilight descent.

Sensing the calm in the room, a maid entered to retrieve the refreshments provided earlier. The Young Miss had only now reawakened and had likely finished with her meal. She had to have been hungry after a week of sustenance potions after all! More liquids would likely also be needed, and the maid was manifested to serve. So serve she would with every fiber of her Essence, no matter the cost! She was dutiful like that.

However, with only a glance at Mother and Daughter smiling and holding one another as the room swelled with the spiritual pressure of their familiar love, the Harlot’s Horde quietly shuddered in revulsion, and got the hell out of there.

She’d do anything… but tolerate that kind of crap. She’d come back later when the stench of love was gone.

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