Narek slumped over his desk, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. The once-steaming mug of steeped sap beside him had gone cold, forgotten in the whirlpool of his thoughts. His shoulders ached from the weight of the mountain of paperwork that had piled up in the last month, each piece a reminder of the growing tension that stretched over Serkoth like an oppressive stormcloud.

His workload had increased tenfold, with no relief in sight. His eldest brother, Kavren, was off gallivanting to the border, preparing for an impending attack without a care for the logistics or the finer details of their defense plans. Then there was his youngest brother, who had decided to seek aid from pacifists living far from the frontlines, a well-meaning but ultimately misplaced endeavor that seemed to drain precious time and resources.

And then there was Rava.

Dearest Rava, his little sister. Sweet, wild, and strong. She had so much potential, but it seemed that she often refused to temper her boldness with diplomacy. If she were just a little more refined, a little less headstrong, she might have been the family heir. But, no matter what, Narek couldn’t deny her worth—especially now. Her talents were more valuable than ever, especially when their mother, in her infinite wisdom, had shoved the bulk of the war effort onto his shoulders.

Rava, at least, had proven herself crucial to his planning. Her unique abilities had been indispensable in several of his more successful military strategies. Perhaps it had been foolish to send her after such a high-profile target in the first place, but he’d been relieved when she returned alive—despite bringing that thing with her.

He sighed again, staring at the pile of reports strewn across his desk.

What was he to do about it? The creature... that thing... It unsettled him to his core. Its five eyes—dark and endless, like staring into an abyss that would swallow you whole. How could Rava not see the threat it posed to Serkoth? To the steppes? Every report he received only deepened his anxiety.

A village to the south had written to him, speaking of a malevolent presence that disrupted their peace. The guards he’d sent to consult with Rava, after seeking advice from a celestial exomancer, had returned with eyes hollowed by terror. They spoke of a shapeshifting monster that tore aetherbeasts to pieces like parchment, consuming flesh and marrow without mercy.

And then, of course, the complaints from the city had become louder, more frequent. The creature followed Rava everywhere, a shadow on her every step—like a lost pup, but one with the potential to devour a person whole should it decide to change shape.

What was it about that creature that Rava could not see?

Sure, Rava was a brute, but she wasn’t stupid. She had an uncanny ability to read people—perhaps even more so than Narek, and certainly more than Elrin. So why did she keep that thing by her side, as though it were a beloved pet?

And, bafflingly, somehow the creature had fooled their mother.

Narek laughed bitterly at the thought. His mother, cold and calculating, who had been alive long before even Kavren, would never fall for such a trick. She wasn’t one to be deceived easily. What could possibly fool her, if not the gods themselves? It was a laughable notion.

Still, as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the absence of his father loomed over him. If he had known his father—if he had been there, even for just a little while—perhaps he could ask him for advice. But his father was a shadow, a distant memory. Instead, Narek was left to carry the burden alone, with only his mother’s distant, cold authority to lean on. She might have left her children to their own devices, but for some reason, she had always relied on him. And it had never felt like a blessing.

"Enough of this," Narek muttered to himself, lifting the mug of sap to his lips. The rich, bitter liquid slid down his throat, its tepid offering giving no sense of comfort. He grimaced slightly as he set the cup down, and then, with a deep exhale, he pushed himself away from the desk.

Selfish thoughts. It was foolish of him to dwell on them. Every member of his family had their burdens, and he would do whatever it took to ensure they all succeeded. Paperwork, strategy, even his life if necessary. It was his duty, after all.

He stood, stretching his stiff limbs as he moved towards the door, needing a moment to clear his head. Perhaps the garden would provide a bit of solace. A short walk among the flowers and trees might help him think—though he suspected it would only serve to remind him of the weight of his responsibilities.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Begrudgingly, he sat back down on his leather chair. “Come in.” He grumbled.

Narek’s fingers pressed against his temples as he watched the odd trio step into his study. The air in the room shifted—less solemn, more chaotic—as Rava strode in like she owned the place, her towering frame taking up what little space remained. Behind her was it—the creature—grinning at him with that too-human face that always felt like a mask hiding something unspeakable beneath. And then there was...

He blinked.

A mannequin. Wrapped in worn cloth, it wore a tattered maids dress that might have been elegant centuries ago, but now hung in disarray. Its wooden frame was draped in shreds of black and white, and its red hair, styled in elaborate twin drills, bobbed stiffly as it moved. Despite its rigid appearance, the mannequin’s movements were unsettlingly fluid—save for the jerky twitches that came with every few steps. The thing was holding the creature’s hand like a child clinging to its parent.

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“We made a friend!” the creature chirped with unnerving cheer, its lips curling into a saccharine grin that seemed to mock the tension in the room. Its tone was light, even playful, but Narek couldn’t shake the sensation of something darker lurking beneath.

Narek opened his mouth, the instinct to ask what in all the gods’ names is this monstrosity? bubbling to the surface. Instead, he clamped his jaw shut and turned his sharpest glare at Rava. The one sibling he could count on for logic. Usually.

Rava sighed, her exasperation evident. “We found the thief,” she said plainly, as if that explained anything. She gestured toward the mannequin, who shuffled closer to the desk, clutching a bundle of neatly folded fabric in its spindly arms.

Narek pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is the thief?” He leaned back in his chair, gesturing vaguely at the mannequin with one hand. “Do you mean to tell me you chased down an inanimate object?”

“As you can see, she is very much animate,” Vivienne—the creature—piped up, her tone annoyingly bright. “She’s alive, isn’t that obvious?” She crouched slightly to look the mannequin in its nonexistent eyes. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

The mannequin tilted its head in an eerily smooth motion, its stitched “face” giving nothing away. It stepped forward awkwardly, almost tripping on its own feet. One of its long fingers reached out, hesitating, before it placed the folded fabric onto Narek’s desk with surprising care. Then it retrieved a small slate from behind its back and scribbled with a piece of chalk tied to its wrist by a frayed string.

The mannequin held up the slate.

I am sorry for stealing. I needed to be pretty.

Narek stared at the words, his brows furrowing deeply. He felt a familiar pang in his chest—the same uncomfortable twinge he’d felt the first time Vivienne had smiled at him, and the same guilt that always surfaced whenever he thought of Rava’s unyielding loyalty to him.

“Pretty,” he repeated, his voice flat. “Why?”

The mannequin paused, lowering the slate as though pondering the question. Then, in halting motions, it wiped the words clean with the edge of its cloth-wrapped forearm and began to write again. The chalk screeched faintly as it moved.

When it turned the slate back around, Narek read the words aloud before he could stop himself. “So mistress will love me again.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Even Vivienne’s playful demeanor faded as she shifted awkwardly in place, her dark gaze darting between Narek and Rava.

Narek exhaled slowly, trying to make sense of the situation. This wasn’t just a thief—it was something older, something desperate. A remnant of a time long past, clinging to the scraps of a life it no longer understood.

Rava crossed her arms, her expression softening. “She’s been... lost,” she said carefully. “Whoever her ‘Mistress’ is, it’s clear she’s been gone a long time.”

“A very long time,” Vivienne added, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. “She’s been dormant for a very long time, only occasionally waking up for moments before going back to sleep. She mentioned something about ‘The storms that made the sky fall.’ or something.”

Narek looked down at the mannequin, who had returned to holding the slate to its chest as though it were a shield. It shifted its weight, its wooden joints creaking softly, and he could almost imagine it trembling. The weight of that realisation sinking in like a stone. "Centuries," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "You shouldn't even exist anymore. The Sundering wiped out everything connected to that empire."

The mannequin tilted its head slightly at his words, the movement stiff and birdlike. It seemed confused, or perhaps simply unable to grasp the weight of what was being said. Its hands clutched the slate tighter, the chalky remnants of its plea for love smudged against the cloth wrapping its frame.

Vivienne broke the silence, her tone softer than usual. "Well, she does exist. And she's here now, looking for someone who probably..." She trailed off, biting her lip. "Who probably isn't looking for her anymore."

Rava stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the mannequin. "She doesn’t know. Maybe she can’t. All she understands is that she was left behind." There was no judgment in her voice, only an uncomfortable edge of empathy.

Narek ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. "This thing—" He caught himself. "She could be a relic, a piece of history we never thought we'd encounter. But she's also dangerous. We don’t know what she’s capable of, what she might do if..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. It was bizarre enough to see actual compassion on the creature's face, rather than that malicious, mocking grin it always wore.

"If she keeps chasing a dream that isn’t there anymore," Rava finished for him.

The mannequin slowly raised the slate again, erasing its earlier message with the edge of its palm. It scribbled something new, the letters crooked and uneven. When it turned the slate back around, the words were heartbreakingly simple:

"Where is Mistress?"

Narek’s breath hitched. He couldn’t bring himself to answer, and from the look on Rava's face, she couldn’t either. Vivienne, always the quickest to fill a silence, hesitated for the first time.

“I don’t think she’s here anymore,” Vivienne finally said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “But that doesn’t mean you’re alone. We can... figure something out.”

The mannequin’s head turned sharply toward Vivienne, as if processing her words. It wiped the slate clean again and wrote, slowly this time:

"You will help me?"

The question hung in the air like a fragile thread. Rava exchanged a glance with Vivienne, who gave a faint shrug, her expression somewhere between resigned and determined.

“We’ll help,” Rava said finally, her voice steady. “We’ll figure out what happened to your Mistress and why you were left behind.”

The mannequin stood still for a long moment, as if considering their words. Then it dipped its head in a small, almost childlike nod, its movements stiff yet deliberate.

Narek sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "Fine. But she stays out of sight for now. The last thing we need is the city panicking about this on top of… that." He gestured at Vivienne vaguely.

The mannequin turned its head toward him, tilting it as though it had heard him but didn’t fully understand. Rava placed a reassuring hand on its arm, her claws careful against the cloth wrapping.

“We’ll start tomorrow,” she said, her tone final. “For now, she needs rest. And so do we.”

As they turned to leave, the mannequin hesitated, scribbling one last message on the slate before following them.

"Thank you."

Narek watched them go, the creak of the mannequin’s joints fading down the hallway. He shook his head, reaching for his cold sap tea. “I must be out of my mind,” he muttered. “Helping a relic from the Sundering? What next?”

But a part of him—small, quiet, and buried under layers of pragmatism—couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, this was worth it.