Saiph’s spines prickled as she wriggled the fodder body through thick layers of papery plaster. It was a tight squeeze. She didn’t have exceptional shaping skills like Iolite or Ezphorza. No, she was only good with arrows and fighting. But she did have just enough shaping knowledge to worm this spare ear into a crawlspace above Iolite’s laboratory. Shifting it onto its side, she strained its senses through the ceiling.

“It helped, didn’t it?” Suria was saying against a backdrop of bubbling liquids. “We’re getting close.”

“You remain overeager in your duties,” Iolite replied coolly. “I don’t mean this as chastisement, but a necessary reminder.”

“Hmph,” Suria said, sounding unconvinced. “Don’t tell me we would have made such progress without a General’s magic added to the pot.”

“It might help you now, but not in the end where it matters most,” Iolite said with a sigh. Then, the sound of water being poured into a pot. “We’ve been forced to cast our net wider due to your actions. And before you complain, it is also your own actions which require you to weave more veilments.”

Saiph recalled the way the human illusions felt layered over her spines and shuddered. The way the magic draped over her bow and pretended it into some sort of…human projectile weapon was disappointing, too. It threw off her aim.

But it was important she use the veilment, Iolite had insisted. Pretending to be a different gold-obsessed human each time made it harder for the Hive to follow their trail. She was only allowed to go as herself when they wanted the Hive to respond, which was not as often as Saiph would’ve liked.

Scouts tried to corner her or follow her home while Suria and the fleshcrafter crept out to harvest magic on the other side of the city. They never tracked her all the way back, of course. She would shoot them before snuffing out her scent trail and taking long diversions to be sure they didn’t. Afterwards, Iolite would feed her seed cakes and grouse egg soup to rouse her from the syrup-crash, stroking her brow and humming soft songs until she fell asleep.

“We could have reused the first batch,” Suria grumbled quietly. “It is a…strain, to make fresh ones so often. I will have to reuse some of the facial features, soon. Won’t you consider bringing help over? Saranthe would be useful. Even Haedus would suffice, for once.”

“I regret that still isn’t possible. I need them there, to hide the Hive. A Sungrazer contact has assured me that the Thaumaturges are actively sending search parties into our territory.”

“Can’t Titania Fauna deal with it?” Suria said with a tinge of scorn. “Or Zekore, for that matter?”

“You know they can’t.”

“How long are you planning on keeping their Hive alive for them?”

Iolite didn’t speak for a moment. Saiph heard her stirring something. “You may not have any attachments to that Hive, but you know full well that there are many who do. I will protect it until it doesn’t need to exist anymore.”

“I am working with three severed Hivers and an anosmic,” Suria growled.

“You have Saiph and Silver, too.”

“Neither of them can weave a swatch to save their tails.”

“Well, you know there isn’t anyone as good as you,” Iolite said matter-of-factly. Saiph scowled from the comfort of her bower.

“Are you certain those Sungrazer idiots don’t have anyone to spare?”

“After such a mess with not one, but two Breakers? What reason do we have to trust their aid? No, they serve as useful interference but nothing more.”

Iolite sounded unperturbed by the loss now, but Saiph had been with her when Silver brought back the news of Breaker Zhao’s disappearance. She winced at the memory of glass smashing against the wall, poisons pooling like spilled blood.

“I’m so sorry for the outburst, Saiph,” Iolite had said a moment later. “And Silverwater.” She’d smiled, settling herself serenely. Her Archivist’s eye blazed white hot, so bright it hurt to look at. “Could you please fetch me some ink and a parchment?”

In the present, Suria growled once again. “Humans. They have agreed to repay us, yes?”

“Rest assured, they will. It could have been far worse, I suppose. A Breaker is no longer our greatest asset, nor is it the best tool to deal with our emerging concerns. At the very least, we got better use out of the Sungrazer boy—he had the good grace to bequeath us a parting gift.”

“And to whom—”

“Not you or I,” said Iolite.

“I was going to suggest Saiphenora,” Suria said.

Saiph’s spines pricked with interest, then confusion. Iolite had already given her syrup and spells and a hunting bow beyond measure; what else could she possibly need?

“Not her, either,” Iolite said.

Saiph felt a stab of loss, despite not knowing what it was, precisely, that she was being denied.

“I believe the fleshcrafter would wield the Hand best, given its nature,” Iolite continued. “And on this, I don’t think you’ll disagree with me. If the Hive has acquired his colleague as you suspect, they won’t hesitate to use her magic to nullify what advantages he gives us.”

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“I told you we should have killed her,” Suria said. They were talking about the other fleshcrafter, Saiph guessed. The one she hadn’t been able to fetch. Hadn’t wanted to. Had secretly resented the task from the outset. The sensation of her arm breaking had been new and unpleasant. Injuries so swiftly and easily inflicted had been strange enough to kindle fear in her belly. If the other fleshcrafter wasn’t so docile, she’d be as equally afraid of him.

“They lock their Librarians up tight,” Iolite replied cryptically. “But if she’s with the Hive, as you keep saying—”

“She must be,” Suria interrupted firmly. “My sense of her wouldn’t have disappeared so suddenly if all she did was get her arm chopped off. She hasn’t been up at the skydocks, either.”

“If you can confirm this is the case, then by all means deprive them of their advantage.”

Suria gave a placated buzz.

“Keep the brain, if possible,” Iolite added. “It’d be a waste to simply drain her.”

“The General wasn’t a waste,” Suria countered.

“I tell you, it was.” Iolite’s voice spiked with annoyance. “And I doubt Perihelion ever journeyed into an Archive, much less a wild Library. You never know when to let a point go, do you?” The words were taunting, but soon lapsed into weary amusement. “Go to your bower and rest, Suria. You’ve done well, but you need to put yourself back together.”

Saiph withdrew her consciousness from the fodder body, turning over in her nest of moss. Her own sleep evaded her; lingering drops of syrup buzzed through her limbs, making her restless. She gazed at the weavings on the walls and the wooden etching of birds in flight above her table, where a dozen arrows lay unfletched. She toyed with the idea of working on them, and even drew herself upright to attempt it.

Suddenly, the fodder body she’d stationed outside alerted her to a presence. She dipped a finger into its sensory current and smelled Iolite.

“Saiph,” Iolite said, letting herself in.

Saiph tucked herself back among the moss, as though she had only just roused. It made Iolite worry, to know she woke at odd hours.

“Have you not been sleeping well?” Iolite asked with a frown. She perched at the edge of the nest, trailing a hand over Saiph’s brow and spines. “Bad dreams, hm?”

“No,” Saiph said. “I slept lightly, that was all.”

“Hmm. Come to the laboratory, since you’ve already awoken. I could use some helping hands.”

“Of course,” Saiph said, springing at the opportunity. Iolite often waved her away despite her curiousity and offers of assistance, saying it would better serve her time to practice her weaponry. No matter how often she’d exclaimed over the magic, Iolite would refuse—gently, but refusal nonetheless—to teach her properly.

“It’s a thankless skill, this,” she would say, and her spines would flicker in melancholy. “I wouldn’t inflict such a burden on you. Be glad you have been born beyond it.”

Now, Iolite ruffled the spines on her shoulder and strode over to stir the largest of the cauldrons. “Measure me a cupful of those fluffy purple herbs, won’t you? Don’t worry about packing them too loose or tight. This recipe isn’t as precise as some.”

“They’re milk thistle heads, aren’t they?” Saiph said, keen to display her attentiveness.

Iolite sighed. “Yes. But you don’t need to remember these kinds of details, Saiph. You can leave that to me.”

“What are you brewing?” Saiph asked, moving to gather the thistle heads.

Was it more syrup? she wondered. Iolite was always honing the formulation, but the smell wafting over from the cauldrons was more oily than sweet; it reminded her of the rich, fatty layer tucked beneath fish skin. Overlaid on top of it were hints of cream and charcoal and other surprisingly tasty scents.

“Delicious poison,” Iolite said with a rare hint of playfulness. “Would you like a taste?”

“Only if the antidote is equally appetising,” Saiph said seriously.

Iolite clicked her teeth as she emptied the thistles into the cauldron. “Perhaps not, then.”

Saiph hovered over Iolite’s shoulder and watched carefully as she stirred some more, infusing the brew with a sprinkle of magic here and there. Soon, she murmured to herself, snuffing out the flame and covering the cauldron.

“Now, Saiph,” she said, turning away from her work. “While I am glad to have your help, I did call you here to discuss another matter.”

“Yes?” Saiph asked eagerly.

Instead of speaking, Iolite raised her tail and brought it down with a crack of acidic magic. The ceiling ripped open as if along a seam, and Saiph’s fodder body fell to the floor along a great clatter of plaster.

“Would you care to explain this?” Iolite asked.

Saiph stood frozen, feeling her spines go stiff. She made to speak, but all thought seemed to have fled her mind. “I…I was only practicing…”

“I’m not angry with you,” Iolite said, but her third eye flickered, cold enough to cut stone. “Sit down. I’ll put this away.”

Saiph obeyed numbly as Iolite dragged the body out into the hall and resealed the ceiling with a flick of her tail. Still, chunks of plaster remained scattered over the floor. Iolite fluttered over them without noticing or caring. Saiph suddenly felt very small as Iolite hovered before her. Worse, she felt foolish and younger than her years. She should have known better. Iolite had built this place, after all, and her skill at shaping was far superior to Saiph’s. Of course she would have sensed something amiss.

“I don’t want this happening again,” Iolite said. “If you have a question that needs asking, you must ask me instead of spying. I didn’t give you these bodies to use for your own entertainment.”

“I understand,” Saiph mumbled, wings drooping in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

Iolite stroked her brow and trailed fingertips over the spines of her face, the touch soothing. “You’ll promise me that you won’t do it again?”

“Yes, alright. I promise. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Now, you should fetch some rest before the next trip out. Would you like me to watch over you for a little while?”

“Alright,” Saiph said, suddenly exhausted.

Iolite steered her back to her bower and fluffed up the mosses in her nest as Saiph curled inside, wrapping her wings around her body.

“How many more trips will there be?” Saiph asked. “Are we close?”

“We are closer than we have ever been,” Iolite said. “And soon, we won’t need Hives anymore.” The words were familiar. Iolite spoke them like a sleep song. Saiph watched as she swished her spines gently, like a breeze over grassland, from head to tail-tip. “Imagine how wonderful it would be if the whole world was a Hive.”

“No more Archivists,” Saiph recited drowsily. “No more Titania.”

“Yes.” Iolite’s voice was calm and strong. “All will be free in our rightful Realm. We are drawing so very close now.”

Saiph shut her eyes. Iolite’s crooning washed over her like a memory.

“Tell me about the creatures,” she used to beg, though she knew all the answers already: rusty herds of laminilva over river plains, fat and juicy cochleamossa as big as behemoths, coral moonwings glittering in the dusk, each as swift as an arrow. “Tell us about the flying migrations.”

Silver would hum in agreement as Iolite churred indulgently—a rarer sound, nowadays. “The sunbirds and the moonwings? I’ve told you a thousand times. You’ll know them when you see them.”

“I want to be ready,” she remembered insisting, only half-fledged and barely able to draw a bow. “I’ll hunt a whole flock of each. Enough to last the winter.”

And she’d meant it with the whole of her being, because the meaning of winter had been fresh then: as fresh and cold as new snow, and the hunger as sharp as bare branches scratching her stomach.

“Ah,” Iolite sighed. “When we pierce the veil and flood the world, you won’t need to scrabble after birds and trifles. Winter will be a memory. You, little gem, will go on to hunt dragons.”