Vashante left in silence, her measured footsteps swallowed by the vast machinery of the Gzolthit Terminal. Lady Bhaeryn watched her go, dark eyes heavy with exhaustion. She longed to call her back, to reach out, to speak—but she could not. Not here. Not now. Not before the eyes of Lady Isbet Hash and the assembled forces. She could ill afford such a display of weakness.
Yet within her, the cacophony of psychic voices raged, unseen and unheard by any but her. The parasites within her mind writhed in distress, their ululating laments crashing against the walls of her skull.
We love her. We need her. Call her back. Call her back.
Bee’s fingers curled imperceptibly upon the arm of her throne. Her breath came slow, measured, and controlled. The voices would not win. She would not let them betray her pain.
Beneath her gown, her plated foot bounced with anxiety.
Isbet, who had been watching Vashante’s retreat with a satisfied air, now turned back toward Bee, her compound eyes glimmering as she regarded the ailing Lady. Though mollified by the traitor’s absence, Isbet wasted no time in pressing her advantage.
“You intend to ascend to the Pate Gardens,” Isbet said, her voice rich with condescension. “To confront the darkly reemerged Pilgrim and overthrow his titlesure as the Lord of Bones in his Ossein Basilica. If that is truly your desire, then allow me—an old master of an old house—to lead our forces in concert. I have both the expertise and the strength you need to see this through to the end.”
“You want something for your help,” Bee said quietly, her voice barely carrying across the gulf between them. All forces leaned in, inching closer to hear her words.
“A seat at the high table,” Isbet announced simply. “When our realm is safe and sanctuary, grant to me a seat at the high table, above the veil.”
“In her ghost-space,” Bee said, as much to herself as Isbet. “As if that will matter, in the end…”
Another pall silence hung between them.
Bee inhaled softly, her gaze steady despite the weight pressing upon her mind. “If I have learned anything,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, “it is that those in the greatest positions of power are the ones most taken in by her deceits. I know how tempting her illusions of power must be...”
Isbet’s eyes flashed. “And what would you, young Lady, know about that?”
A ripple passed through the space between them as Isbet’s gaze drifted beyond Bee for the first time, her attention snagging upon a figure in the shadows. Slashex stood just beyond the reach of the biocrawler’s flickering bioluminescent strips, his cybernetic presence marked only by a vague sense of something shifting—something just beyond the dark. Isbet’s antennae twitched, her exoskeleton shifting in vague unease as she sensed something… something other. The faint pulse of an electromagnetic signal danced between Bee and Slashex, but its meaning remained locked beyond her ability to read it.
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Bee exhaled slowly. “I know you cling to it. Power,” she continued. “The deals you have made with your knight-commander, Pice, so that he does not move your own soldiers against you. The careful allowances you grant your advisor, Deltash, who wields your knives in the dark. Your hound master beys with rage, and you keep her chained to stop her wrothe from spilling over. And…” Bee let the weight of her next words settle between them, her dark eyes glinting with something deeper, something knowing. “Your Lord-Husband yet lives. Kept in stasis by your own hand—first so you could claim he would recover. But now… now you keep him there because you do not want him interrupting your great work. The Hash family upon the throne of bone once more. You’re not content with just a seat at the table.”
Isbet stilled. All eyes turned upon her. Her own forces stared into her back. The machinery groaned around them, but for a long breath, all was still. Then, at last, she spoke, her voice lower, edged with something brittle. “How can you know all this?” Her gaze flickered back to Slashex, unease tightening her features.
Bee did not answer.
Slashex, stepping just slightly into the light, let his voice carry. “You cannot hide what you are from the Immortal’s lineage. This world and everything in is open to… them—to observe, to rework and review as they see fit. Be thankful you are allowed to stand before the Lady Bhaeryn at all.”
Bee remained silent, her expression unreadable, but something in her bearing spoke of a deep and terrible certainty. Slashex tilted their head slightly, their eyeless visage emergent from the dark. “And isn’t that what you fear most, Lady Isbet?”
A pause. Then, with quiet finality, he said: “The truth. That despite all your preparations, all your secret works… it will amount to nothing in the end of days. Well, it is the truth. You can aid us or you can die alone in the dark when this City falls next.”
Isbet’s expression darkened, her antennae flicking in agitation. “How dare you?” she spat, her voice a sharp crack against the charged air. “You—Vat-Born thing. You would presume to speak to me in such a manner?”
Slashex remained still, unperturbed, despite her protests. Isbet’s outrage simmered as she turned sharply back to Bee, her exoskeleton gleaming under the bioluminescence. “This creature—this aberration—you permit it to stand here and mock me? You insult me with this charade.”
Bee regarded her with a cold, steady gaze, dark eyes devoid of warmth. She did not flinch, did not rise to meet Isbet’s indignation. Instead, she spoke, quiet and final. “If you truly wish to undo the Pilgrim’s hold,” she said, “Then you may accompany us. But you will not be leading this march.”
A slow ripple passed through the gathered host. The knights of Lady Bhaeryn, their dark armour absorbing the dim glow, stood motionless, their loyalty unquestioning. And at their head, Jhedothar, the centaurian knight, shifted his weight, his ruby spear turning in his hands. His expression remained unreadable, but the tension in his stance was clear. He was waiting. Watching. Ready. He, too, had heard Isbet’s lies before. He would cut them off at the throat if needed, for this was a changing of the times. The enduring lineages would find themselves at the mortal behest of those who had long suffered beneath them.
The weight of the moment settled upon Isbet, her mind visibly calculating, measuring the precarious ground she now stood upon. Around them, the machinery groaned as if the terminal itself held its breath.
A decision had to be made, and the City itself turned its eyes upon her.