The Greeks called it the Ariostlian Principles. The Jabirians called it the Balance. The enlightened would-be alchemists of the Renaissance called it the Tria Prima. But to me and my brothers and sisters, it was merely the Three. We marveled at our discoveries as we ran rampant over our lessers for centuries. But although we liked to think of ourselves as something greater, in the end, we were still only human. And that meant one thing: conflict.

It has been a fruitful hundred years since I freed Ariella from her indentured matrimony. Even though I was happy to let her go while she was in her prime, she refused, relishing the double life I provided her. But all good things must come to an end, and as I stood at her unmarked grave, wrapped around my new host, I felt a mixture of sorrow and fear. Sorrow at the loss of my partner and friend, and fear for what the future held.

Such thoughts dog my steps in the coming weeks, but again, I am, or was, only human, and so they fade into the background as I begin my new life in this new century. And with the tumult and conflict of a scope that I had not seen in ages, they further retreat into the deep recesses of my subconscious, until one day I find myself frantically searching for someone to carry me on through the century after.

Rare is the person I would trust with my life and my failure to secure such an individual first, before all else leads to decades of fumbling and reactionary thinking. But then happenstance grants me a reprieve, and I seemingly find the perfect host who will let me do my bidding uninterrupted. And that kismet almost proves to be my downfall. For there is no such thing as perfect and for someone such as myself who should know better, it is all the more troubling and all the more foolish that I could have not seen this coming.

He summons me, and despite knowing that the meeting was an obvious trap, I go anyway, bolstered by a false sense of confidence and burning with an anger that matched the inferno that had claimed the home that Ariella and I had built together. He laughs at me, coldly, beneath the castle tower and beneath the glamour of my lover, and deflects my weakened attacks, my power drained by that stupid girl. Yet another small mistake that has cascaded into a boulder beyond my control.

But before I can launch the finishing blow I know won’t finish him, I am betrayed by the one person I foolishly ignored. And although my own hubris has crescendoed to an unacceptable level, my opponents suffer from an even higher quotient. So that is how I find myself awake again and around the neck of a young woman staring at me in a hotel mirror.

She calls herself Jade, like the color of my stone, and I watch her like a disinterested observer, waiting for my true jailer to show their face once more. For it is not out of kindness that I have been granted my freedom, but for some ulterior motive I cannot yet discern. And I am rewarded for my patience, as Jade leads me right to him. Both of him. If I could, I would cry at what has been done to him. But I can’t. Not yet.

Jade is a curious host, so unsure of herself, and so desperate to prove her mettle that she gives up her own identity and takes mine. Still, there is something familiar about her, but I cannot quite determine what it is. I let her use me as a costume as I have done for so many others, as she jumps through the Guild’s hoops, but she soon finds herself at her wit’s end and I am forced to intercede, only slightly. Then he appears yet again as if to taunt me, but I can’t let him know I am awake.

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And so I watch. I watch as Jade is fed to the wolves by my former host, given an impossible task, either so she can fail and be disposed of, or so she can become another useful tool to be manipulated. I watch as Jade endears herself to the girl named Emma, and I watch as she unwittingly makes the girl’s secrets pour forth. I watch as the two delve deeper into the secret of the dragon, and I watch as they find what was stolen from me—a portrait, my portrait—that I had painted with the blood long-thought lost. I watch as the flames around the painting erupt and that’s when I feel Jade’s will begin to falter and I briefly take control again to remind her I am waiting just below the surface should the need arise. I watch as Emma’s hand is trapped within the burning painting, and I watch as the two come up with a desperate plan to save the mission.

Until I can watch no more.

I shift Jade’s arm slightly to the right, speak the words that someone said to me long ago when they thought they had killed me, and smile as everything goes to hell. Somehow, Jade escapes, but thankfully without the portrait. She claws her way back to her hotel and buries my stone in her suitcase. As if that will protect her from me. For she has made the same mistake that so many others have: she has treated me as a tool and not as an ally. And so when she removes the stone from her body, my body does not go with it. It is a discovery I made long ago, and it is useful in situations such as this. This is a distressing revelation for Jade, and I take full advantage. She screams into her pillow, a cry made in desperation, a cry seeking comfort from some deity from above.

But there is no one there to hear her except me.

And I am not there to soothe her, or to tell her that everything will be all right, or to ease her burdens.

Well, that last one is not entirely true.

I push through the thinned boundary between us and grab full control of Jade’s body, lifting it off of the hotel bed, and retrieving the real jade from her suitcase. I walk her into the bathroom, gently place the necklace over her head, and tuck my stone into the confines of the garish looking sweater she is wearing. I feel the unity between glamour and stone re-solidify and my mouth curls into a smile.

“That’s better,” I say, before appearing before the real Jade inside her head. She is scared and confused at what is happening, and rather than giving her an explanation, I seize her by the shoulders and slam her down into the deep recesses of her subconscious, where she will stay for a fortnight, if she’s lucky.

I walk back over to her suitcase, zip it closed, and roll it out into the hallway and into the elevator. I stare at myself in the mirror at the rear and marvel at my restored freedom of movement and my radiant smile, but quickly remind myself that this time is fleeting.

I exit the hotel and walk into a waiting cab. I tell the driver to take me to Terminal E and then rifle through Jade’s bag to find the rewards credit card and forged passport with my picture inside. What a clever girl my host is. We reach the airport half an hour later, and I stride up to Departures board, scan it quickly, and then stroll to the nearest ticket counter.

“Where are you headed, Ms.…”

“…Peters. Jade Peters,” I say. “And I would like a ticket to…”

So much of the Old Ways have been lost to the blistering sands of time. Other knowledge remains in plain sight, but castigated by so-called serious scholars, who believe the Principles, the Balance, the Tria Prima are just fanciful narratives that belong in a children’s bedtime story. The remaining Chronicles, however, have not been lost, only hidden by those who think they are clever. They lock it behind secret doors nestled in forgotten libraries or bury it in the ground in godforsaken places. That is their critical error, though. Because I know those places too. And for all my faults, I am far more clever than they will ever be. And now I will get the chance to prove it.

“…Florence.”

It is time to get to work.