“What the fuck do you want?” Ember demands as soon as I get her back to my room. “I am every bit as tired as you are, and I was sort of ambushed earlier when you– when you–” she stops, a look of confusion clouding her face as the words failed to come. “The point is you blindsided me, and I’m simply not in the mood for more shit tonight. Let me rest.” When she says this I do feel a bit guilty. She may have been listening, but she wouldn’t have known she was about to get hit with that all at once.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize exactly what would happen,” Sara says. “I could feel something was wrong, but I didn’t know what it would be like to have it all removed at once.” I hadn’t actually witnessed or heard any response from Ember at all. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t hit every bit as hard as the others in the wagon.

“Well now you do,” Ember snaps. “So can we get this over with so I can enjoy one fucking day of peace before everything goes back to the third plane?” Her near constant attitude is as grating as ever, but I am growing to have more empathy for it. Grief serves a purpose, afterall. And hers was ripped away with her. Now, maybe talking to her has always been like a game of whack-a-mole from the wrong end, but it does hit differently knowing she has an excuse for it. I sigh.

“I understand. I do. But what happened earlier is why we need to talk. Ember, you left some pretty important shit out when you were prepping us to come here. To come here specifically at your request. We all almost got murdered because of the artificial limbs you helped design. Yes, you have responded poorly to the idea of body modifications, but that is not the same as a decent warning. If prosthetics result in a shoot on sight order, I could have used that information earlier,” I explain and she rolls her eyes.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she complains. “I can’t brief you on an entire culture before bringing you here. I brought back the demon queen of fucking legend, maybe I just had higher expectations of you.”

“Yeah, that’s not really the same thing, sport. And I have a feeling I know why. For a long time now, simple proximity to my lovely girlfriend here has been enough to clear out any . . . mental influence. But we have mostly been up against priests and the Radiant Woods, which have their own brand of fucked up. In any case, we incorrectly assumed the same would happen to you if there were any emotional or mind control on you,” I say.

“Sorry,” Sara interjects, “I can often tell if nexus energy is actively being used, but I don’t always notice lasting effects if I’m not looking for them. I should have checked. I should have helped sooner.” Ember gives her an irritated glance but I continue before she has a chance to protest.

“Right. Today revealed you have been under the effects of nexus energy for a long time. I think Sara’s proximity helped loosen it a little, hence the turn from attempting to kill me to asking for my help with killing your bosses. But not entirely. You haven’t been given your grief back, and if I am right, you actively work against yourself. Try to sabotage us. Not in serious ways, but with these omissions of details. Everything you know about this so-called ‘prophecy’. Why I was labeled a cultist and nearly killed. The shit you have been holding back despite clearly not wanting me dead, at least yet. I think the sages have buried their claws deep in your soul, and you can’t fight back as hard as you need to.”

Ember gives me a cold stare, but doesn’t respond. I am about to continue when I notice a slight tremor, all around her body. She wants to respond to me. She wants to remain silent. It all translates to a cold glare. Shit.

“Ember, I want to try again. It didn’t last long earlier, but I want to try and free you again. I know, it was horrible. But we need to talk, and we need to talk without your lips sewn shut. Let me free you, if only for a while. Please,” Sara pleads, her gentler voice cutting deep where mine cannot. Ember remains silent. She continues to tremble. I look her in the eye and she nearly snarls, baring the sharp teeth of a carnivore at me. At the same time, water runs through the fur of her face, and she gives a quick nod.

“I’m sorry. This is my fault. We should have tried looking at this before we left. When we could do it more gently. I missed it. But you can trust Sara. More than you can trust me,” I promise. Then Sara reaches a hand out and touches Ember. I reach my left hand out as well, offering what little comfort I can, to a woman who clearly holds me in low esteem. Keeping this in mind I am slow, allowing her the opportunity to decline the offer, but she doesn’t. The trembling calms a little as both hands make contact and Sarafyna gets to work. I can almost feel it. Not physically, exactly. In the way you can feel an argument about to break out, or a fallen child ready to scream. Sara pushes against the foreign influence on Ember’s soul and the aura of the fight saturates the air around us.

Ember’s breathing shortens and speeds at a rate I have rarely seen outside of animals. A deep purr escapes her, which startles me despite her other feline qualities. It is not the purr of contentment or happiness Suzume often offers me. It is, instead, a desperate attempt at self comfort from a terrified woman. It hurts. She’d felt what was coming, earlier today. She knows how painful it is, facing all of her grief at once. She is doing it anyway and my evaluation of her character is starting to shift. It’s hard to really know her motivations. I don’t even know what she has to grieve for. But it’s something. I’ve always felt something from her. Since Sara brought her back. I have felt deep grief from her many times. In fact, the first time I didn’t was when we crossed the border, before Sara rejoined us. I’d thought it was some kind of extra peace, but it wasn’t. She is in pain and for a moment, neither of us could feel it, even a little.

But even what Sara had let Ember feel, it wasn’t all of it. The flood that came from her on the wagon nearly drowned out the man who’d vomited as he remembered to grieve for his dead wife. When Sarafyna really pushed, that’s when we really met Ember. I can feel it again now. The increasing grief. The agony. And I see the red anger on Ember’s face. She isn’t going to vomit. She isn’t going to weep. She is more ready than she has ever been to draw blood. She grieves a lot like me.

“Are you alright?” Sara asks and Ember grits her teeth.

“Just cut the shit and get it over with,” Ember growls. I grimace, bracing myself alongside the Ailur woman. And Sarafyna does as she’s told. She pushes, and she pushes hard. The membrane protecting Ember from whatever hurt her starts to tear and I feel the grief as it escapes. I suffocate in it, and Ember’s scowl only deepens. And then it breaks. Whatever control was strangling her snaps and and her rage crescendos. I feel the sickness of oil in water and my mana grows more powerful by magnitudes in an instant.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Ask your fucking questions,” Ember says and I nod. I don’t hesitate, and Sara focuses on keeping Ember free.

“Why did they try to kill me when they saw my arm?” I ask immediately.

“Citizens who excessively alter the natural state of their body are all called cultists. The sages hate them. All of them,” She explains through gritted teeth.

“Natural? It’s a fucking prosthetic! I barely altered shit! The fuck do they even mean by natural?” I exclaim.

“I don’t know. They have a long list. Anyone who uses alchemical concoctions to focus, anyone who replaces a lost or missing limb, even unnaturally colored hair could get you labeled a cultist. A worshipper of the ancient demon queen. You two . . . you two will definitely piss them off,” Ember answers.

“Why do they care?” Sara asks, her eyes closed in focus but her brow furrowing at Ember’s explanation.

“Control. And Malice,” I answer immediately. “That’s all it is. It’s like an itch to them. An itch they can never scratch. They must own everyone. They must dictate everyone’s lives. Being unhealthy is a moral failing. Failing to bend the knee is a moral failing. Living outside the box they build for you is a fucking moral failing. They loathe us. They want to control us. And every inch of us is subject to their malice.” Ember nods.

“Yes. And they will die for it. But that’s not all it is. Lillith, they are afraid. Not just the fear you are describing, I’ve seen that too. But they are fucking terrified. They live like gods but they act like they fear a real one when they encounter too many cultists. You are all to be killed on sight, if you are found. More so than anyone else they hate. I don’t know why,” Ember says. Hot tears are running through her fur now. I clench my own fists. Alright. I’ll take her word for it. It makes sense she won’t have answers for everything. This means any changes I make will definitely be noticed, but . . . my limbs are going to give me away anyway. I am going to have to mostly hide my body regardless. And to be honest, I want to make them fear me more. I am going to start again. I am going to show them exactly how much I can warp my body from their ideal design. How far I can stray from their control. But I can dwell on that later.

“This prophecy about me. How much of it is old, and how much new?” I ask.

“I don’t pay much attention to that shit. Few people took it more seriously than a child’s story until one of the sages started pushing it out everywhere a few years ago. That was when the name ‘Annie’ was first introduced. I think the chimera pet is a revelation from the same sage. It was startling, how fast the fairy tale of you became a major concern all around two countries. I don’t know why. But I know they are afraid of you, and that means you can help me kill them,” Ember answers. “They shut down half their own playgrounds because of you. Tried to shut down yours, even. But they are too afraid to pass through the Nexus, and yours is surrounded by it.”

This answer introduces a large number of new questions, but for some reason, one word seems more important to me than the others. “Playgrounds?” I ask.

“That’s what they call all the countries on the third plane,” she explains. “All of them are playgrounds.”

“The third plane, as in hell,” I say. “That’s Potestia?” I think she has referred to it similarly before, but I had been distracted and sick.

“Potestia and all the countries like it. The Republic and Council lands are the first plane, the nexus the second, and the countries like the one you lived in the third,” she confirms. That’s . . . interesting. How did the country I live in become the mythical version of hell everyone always referenced? I guess I can see a sick way that a griefless country might look like heaven. But the people growing up in the third plane still refer to it as a terrible place they may be sent? There must be a long story behind that.

“And why do they call them playgrounds,” I press. Ember is trembling now, her claws drawing blood from her hands. This will have to be the last question for the night.

“Because that is what they are,” she says through gritted teeth.

“The nexus is pushing back harder,” Sara interjects. “Someone really doesn’t want her answering this.”

“No shit,” Ember spits. “This is the first question you’ve asked that anyone at the bar out there couldn’t have answered, were it safe to ask them.” She takes a deep breath and I brace myself. “How many gods do you think can live side by side, trading and sharing power and praise?” My face pales as the realization settles onto me. “How much praise do these mewling idiots even deserve in a world that has already met dozens of them?” Fuck. “It’s a game. They build them. They send whatever groups they want to live around there. Sometimes people they hate. Sometimes groups they prefer. Then one at a time, they go and live in one themselves. They spend a couple years there, or a couple decades. Basking in a world where they are the special ones. Where they have all the advantages. That’s what the third plane is. It’s where the sages make sure they are the only god to worship.

The soap. The goddamn soap only the nobles could use. The restricted knowledge and advancement. The thousand stagnant years. Every oddity of a country that could only have been sustained by the goddamn Radiant Woods interfering directly. Their desire to help Godfrey reset it. It was all starting to make sense. Playgrounds. Not countries. Places to receive unearned praise. To show up and ‘invent’ ideas the country should have worked its way to itself. Because that’s always how it goes, isn’t it? Deny, deny, deny. Hoard, hoard, hoard. Then show off the ideas you stole from someone else. Someone who works for you or lives in another fucking world, and demand praise for it. But because they are so small, so petty, so drunk on themselves, they can’t even think of anything useful. So they starve people of basic necessities and easy ideas. Because they are easier to remember. Easier to understand. Easier to pretend they came up with it when they sell it to the people they intentionally stole it from.

But I still have questions. “What happens when they are done there? What about the fucking Collector? If the sages are meant to be the special ones, why does the church serve the fucking nexus? How did Potestia get completely sealed off by the Radiant Woods? Why do the sages fear it so much?” She answers none of these. The flood of grief coming from her snaps away like an over stressed rubber band. The trembling stops.

“I’m sorry,” Sara says. “It started fighting back and . . . I couldn’t. I couldn’t hold on longer.”

“Is that all? Can I get some fucking rest now?” Ember insists and I nod. She marches out of the room like nothing happened but my blood is on fire.

“Ember was right. We need to kill every single sage.”