KNITE:

Darkness kept me company.

I used to fear the dark. Why? I can only assume a natural aversion to the unknown, a hereditary caution built into my very being by cowards who treasured survival, some insidious plague worming through generations as it fed on its hosts and grew. There was a time when I believed the dark to be evil’s domain, where the wicked found comfort and the righteous despair. I was naïve then. Young, too, but that’s no excuse; I was a fool. Fool enough to believe evil existed. Fool enough to distinguish sentience over instinct. Even fool enough to suppose my innocence an asset. Fools are near blind and hard of hearing. Many notions can make a man a fool. Notions that birth absurd thoughts, drown logic, and shade reason. I have been a fool thrice over.

I used to fear the dark, but now I yearned for its approval. Elonai had long ago taught me to see and hear darkness for what it was: a friend who could teach me courage. She hadn't meant to, but she had. Now, my old and fickle friend was silent, the whispers of bravery lost to me. Perhaps darkness had nothing left to teach me. Perhaps illuminating what it hid had made me deaf to it. Perhaps I was still a fool.

A week had passed with me stuck in the skeleton cage, stewing in dark silence. Only skilled Zephyrs or Golems had the means to avoid sensus starvation. I was both, so when the door finally slid open, the light spilling in to blind me and chase away my dear friend, I was in a better condition than they suspected.

Danar stood by the door, a dark outline against the rush of light. “Can you walk?”

I faked a moan and reached out a begging hand.

“Then Ralaha was wrong,” he said. “You are no match for Crowol.” He leaned down, grabbed my hand by the wrist, and dragged me forward. “She will be sorry for her mistake.”

Though the trip back up the staircase was much the same as the trip down, I found it entirely more agreeable. For one, my injuries had healed. For another, I’d had the time to add to the mask I’d started back in the capital. Not only would my preparations protect my identity against incursions of the soul, but they also allowed a sliver of my true strength to manifest without asserting its alleged divinity. Best of all, I was happy to escape the dullness of my imprisonment.

Danar stepped out into the day, my slack body draped across his shoulder. Halfway through the sun-speckled garden, a rainbow of flowery colors set ablaze by the light of noon, we came across a guard patrolling the estate. Danar halted her with a call.

“Send for Ralaha,” he commanded. “Tell her to attend the mistress. She’ll be in the Fracture.” The guard flashed him a pinched expression but did not voice her obvious complaint.

We continued on our way, heading to the mansion's rear door—a thick block of stained glass etched with several layers of matrixes. With a gesture, Danar turned the solid glass into some pliable material. We stepped through, the soft glass brushing over us like dry water.

The foyer was a large, circular room floored and walled with grey-veined, white marble. What I assumed was the front entrance stood fifty paces across the vast space, twice the size of the back, and made of the same engraved glass. Two sets of stairways curved up and along the walls, one from beside each entrance, disappearing into the tall ceiling. Danar carried me up the nearer of the two and into a small vestibule as bare as the foyer. Several turns and hallways later, he’d brought me into a windowless room of naked stone. A chair of bronze sat in the middle, thick bands of metal riveted to its armrests, front legs, and high on its back. Lira stood beside it, giddy with anticipation. Her Tunnels hit me like a murder of arrows. They entered me unimpeded. She expected them to. But none lasted long enough to harm me; I destroyed them as soon as they crossed into my soul. Without a tether, and so long as I kept my soul from rippling out into my aura, she’d not know whether her attacks had failed or succeeded. Not an easy thing, that—to hide your sensus from a Fiora Tunneller even as you used it.

“Quicken your pace, Danar,” Lira ordered. “My daughter arrives in a few turns.”

Danar complied, lugging me towards the bronze chair. “Yes, Mistress.”

She turned her beautifully hideous smile at me. If Roche were there to see the gloriously vile expression, he’d have given his life to wiping it off. A similar smile had long ago left him with nightmares as souvenirs.

“I’ve been looking forward to spending some time with you, my new toy,” she said. The flickering light from the torches shifted the shadows and contours of her youthful features, the ominous effect seeming to warn me of her intentions.

Her slave haphazardly plopped me into the chair, pushed my ankles and wrists into the bands, and tightened them until the edges cut into my skin. Next, he slapped my head back and secured the final band around my neck. My sensus lurched to a stop. After inspecting his work, Danar retreated and stood beside the door.

Lira stroked my hair. She smelled like old blood and fresh flowers. So much like her mother, I thought.

“And how is my new toy today?” she asked.

And yet so different. However much she tried, she’d never be as terrifying.

I left Lira’s question hanging. She slapped me. Hard. I offered her a pained grunt.

“Already this far into sensus deprivation after a paltry week in a skeleton cage?” she asked. “If this is all you have to offer, I am more than a little disappointed.”

I blinked. Slowly. Like I was too far gone to understand.

She turned to Danar. “Bring me Ralaha!”

“Already sent for, Mistress.”

“Good. She best hope the man is feining his weakness.”

As if my divine decree, there was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” Lira called.

Rahala came in, fear and worry contending with her efforts to keep her expression clear. She bowed. “You called, Mistress?”

“If you’ve acted a man and hastily assumed this slave's worth, I will punish you as I would a man,” Lira threatened. “Is that not fair? A man's punishment for a mistake only a man should make?”

Rahala went to her knees and pressed her forehead against the marble floor. Though her body vibrated with fear, none infected her voice when she spoke. “If you say it is so, Mistress, it must be so.”

“Ah,” Lira said, pleased. “Now that is more like a woman: clever, correct, and flattering all at once. Do not worry, my dear Rahala, I will not disgrace you so. Still, an act of oafish stupidity does warrant punishment. But first…”

Lira flung a leg over me and straddled my lap. One hand unlocked the slave band around my neck. The other went down to press on my crotch. Her meager Surgeon skills bade blood into the area. I forbade my body from listening. It wouldn’t do to be aroused by family, forced or otherwise.

There was a hint of surprise before glee took over Lira’s features. “Maybe you were right, Rahala. Much as I’ve never been much of a Surgeon, he appears competent enough to resist my call to his flesh.”

“Interesting,” I said. “I wonder how much more your mother would despise you if she saw you using an Art of House Bainan. Now, I must insist you vacate my lap. If I wanted to be between your legs, I’d have asked.” Done with my observations, I had a plan in mind. Playing a passive, defeated prisoner was no longer part of it.

Lira’s laughter was delirious, the harsh sounds echoing off the nail-scratched walls. “Wonderful! I’m glad the skeleton didn’t break your resistance. So often do my new toys break before I play with them.”

I gave her my you-are-an-utter-dullard look. “You might consider why they break.”

Lira stroked the back of my head, her face closing in on mine until we were cheek to cheek and the heat of her breath tickled my ear. “I am first of House Lorail’s Fioras, ruler of Haloryarey, and, behind my mother alone, the world's premier Tunneller. I know why they break.”

“Then, being as old and wise as you are, you might consider that they break not because of your self-proclaimed prowess but because you strip away their defenses before you dare face them. Besides, you are first among your House in age alone.”

And there it was, in the tremor of her eyebrow, in the slight straightening of her smile, and in the hot words that followed. Anger.

“The skeleton room is a test, nothing more,” she said, her pitch wavering. “Once I touch any being's soul, except my mother and her siblings, I own them.”

“Ah, yes, your mother,” I said, my tone itself a jibe. “I notice you’re still riding my lap. With how she’s been holed up in her spire, shooing in a line of men and shooting out a queue of newborns for the last half century, I need not guess where your licentious appetites originate.”

Lira stabbed her finger into me before Rahala and Danar knew to gasp at the insult. The finger pierced my skin and dug into the meat of my liver. Her eyes fixed on mine, lips pressed into a hard line, her gaiety gone. It fled even further when she realized I did not react to her abuse.

I showed her my teeth. “Fine, let's have some fun and see who breaks first.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A man.”

“I know that, you brute. Do you think yourself clever?”

“I think myself winning.”

She slid her finger out and clamped her hand around my mouth, her thumb and forefinger digging into my cheeks. With her other hand, she reached into my mouth and pulled out my tongue. The hand around my mouth shifted, moving to wrap around my jaw for a better grip. Using the improved anchorage, she pulled harder. And harder. And harder. It was slow work, my tongue stretching out in imperceptible movements, her eyes searching mine for the first signs of fear or defeat or submission.

The bottom of my tongue gave way first. I knew it made little to no sound, yet I could hear as much as feel it tear.

She kept going.

Blood pooled below my tongue and spilled out of my mouth, dripping down and off my chin.

She kept going.

Another tear began from the top as blood soaked my tunic and slipped onto my lap.

She kept going.

When the flesh parted with a sound like that of a wet kiss and she finally came away with my tongue, satisfaction coiled her lips.

“And now,” she said, “are you still winning?”

I smiled a bloody smile, and we both knew I was.

Lira swung off my lap, spun to stand at my back, and smacked her palm onto my nape with a crisp slap. “Fine. I had thought to savor your torment, but I think we are due a demonstration of why men break from the mere mention of my name.”

I knew Lira. Or I should say, I knew her enough. As old as she was, or maybe because she had so much time to grow stuck in her ways, her rapture was easily tainted, her ire easily stoked. Like Sishal, she thirsted for dominance—a consequence of being discarded by Lorail, of being raised among cousins and sisters who were strong enough to subdue her and too careful to be subdued by her. I suspected it was the very reason she’d holed up in this little haven she’d carved for herself. And from the way she yearned for competition but never so much as to threaten her victory, hoping to reaffirm her arrogance, I knew her tolerance for being defied had corroded. Without any worthy opposition, which, wittingly or otherwise, she had designed, her caution had decayed. And now, after a few choice gibes, she was incensed enough, arrogant enough, and reckless enough to fall to me.

Lira came into my soul without a defense, barreling for my core. I let her. My trap was waiting, and she had just given me access to the very sensus that’d help me spring it.

I was never a good Painter. Out of the ten soul Arts Evergreen was known for, it had always been my weakest, not in talent but in skill. Lira’s incompetence and volatility and the ease with which she allowed herself to be gulled made my work appear sublime.

The fake core of a soul hid the prison her sensus rushed towards. It was a variant of the most potent soul prison known to Tunnelers. A competent Painter might’ve seen through the painting hiding it. Lira was more than capable, but time and insult had blinded her.

Her sensus pierced my mask. The Painting dissolved. A black hole of boundless hunger embraced her, devouring her sensus and its attached consciousness with vacant ferocity. By the time she thought to pull back, the prison had captured half her probing force. The more she tried to escape, the more the prison ripped into her sensus. Each time she retreated, the pain had her falling deeper into the trap, and then, when the pain subsided, her fear pulled her back. And so it went, back and forth between fear and pain, her sensus falling deeper and deeper into the vicious prison.

I let the prison matrix do its work. My plan was only half done. I held a part of her hostage. What came next was more difficult. I needed to leverage the piece I’d captured to capture the whole—not an easy bargain to negotiate.

My sensus plowed and toiled up the stream flowing through her arm, fighting against her will. She’d need time and resources to heal the limb when all was said and done. It felt like an age before I got to where I needed to go. When I did, the larger part of her consciousness was waiting for me in the vast space of her soul, hovering in place, a bright convergence of sensus, its tail stuck in the metaphysical stream that led down her arm.

‘Which of my ignoble sisters are you?’ she asked. The question had changed. The attunements I’d made to the prison had given me away: Too original to be the work of a Named, too profound to be the work of a different House. So she thought me a disguised Auger, a fellow daughter of Lorail. A sister.

‘Surrender,’ I thought at her.

‘This is my soul. Not even you, whichever of my wayward siblings you are, has what it takes to threaten me here.’

‘Part of you is trapped in a prison. Worse, it is working to be a bigger part. Death or submission? Choose carefully… Echo.’

Lira’s sensus trembled. She had always hated her moniker. ‘Elur? Is that you? Have you come here to reaffirm the superiority of your Art? If so, you have gone too far. Release me and desist from this humorless hoax.’

‘Choose, or I will choose for you.’

Lira attacked. Unpracticed, arrogant, and conceited as she was, her skills were awe-inspiring. It took all of me to contend with her. One combination nearly did me harm. She’d weaved three complex strikes in quick succession, all intertwined with divine intent. The first distracted me with an array of mental curses. The second followed at the heels of the first and shattered my primary defense. And the last, a particularly remarkable matrix, almost detaching my consciousness from my sensus—a difficult feat even in the most favorable of conditions. I managed to weather the storm without breaching the limits I’d set for myself. She thought me dead when she said she was second only to Lorail; unlike my lackluster skills as a Painter, I was an accomplished Tunneller.

My attacks exhausted her sensus. With the trap stripping away more and more of her strength, I soon had no reason to attack; time was on my side, lending me more of her power as it was spent.

‘Last chance,’ I said. ‘You cannot resurrect.’

‘Why have you not killed me?’ Lira asked. ‘You haven’t even used your divinity yet. If you desire to humiliate me, consider me chastened.’

‘Is it not obvious?’

Lira remained quiet, stewing in her predicament. After a time, she asked, ‘Must you go so far?’ Silence answered her, to which she replied, ‘Fine.’

More effective than a spoken word, her sensus conveyed her admission of defeat far more plainly. Defeated, Lira brought forth her core—an orb the color of sapphire. This core represented the very foundation of her soul, her most primal self, the seed she grew from. With it, she existed; without it, she did not.

‘Have pity and spare me from a permanent carving,’ she begged. ‘And remember, however much mother finds me a disappointment, she might not forgive such an act.’

‘You deserve neither pity nor consideration,’ I said. She was smart enough not to disagree.

I made sure of my work—a triple seal. I anchored the first to her deep-seated need for approval, an unashamed mass intertwined with her self-loathing and her twisted love for her mother. That bought me unconscious loyalty. The second was to her body, a seal few knew and fewer practiced, requiring me to scribe matrixes onto her principal gate. That bought me her strength. The third was the most difficult. It was a matrix carved into the core of her being. Each stroke of my sensus scorched a mark, risking her destruction, sanity, and existence. When I etched the last line, she was mine, mind, body, and soul.

Two turns. That’s how long it took. It was a grueling affair; she was one of the oldest Fioras and a brilliant Tunneller. Such an individual required the most stringent methods. Anything less was asking for trouble. Danar had begun to get suspicious near the end. He had tried to call his master from her task, reminding her of her daughter's imminent arrival. The meddlesome oaf nearly ruined my plans. Lira’s lack of response had put him on edge. Thankfully, Rahala’s blind faith and distaste for men had delayed his interruption. I almost forgave her then. Unlucky for her, clemency had never been a tool in my arsenal. I was glad to finish when I had. Both because the task was taxing and because Danar approached once more.

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Lira’s eyes flew open just as Danar made to reach for her. To his credit and criticism, he did not flinch away.

“Master?” he asked.

Lira turned to him, something of her mother’s cold gaze in her eyes. “Danar, did you mean to touch me?”

The slave fast retracted his hand, clutching it to his chest as if he were at risk of losing it. He very well might’ve been. “Mistress Illora is here, Master.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Danar’s hand lurched to the longsword buckled to his belt. His face contorted with the effort of resistance.

“Danar?” Lira asked. “You know struggling will only add to your punishment.”

Danar’s movements smoothed as he unsheathed the sword and plunged the tip into his foot. He grunted away the pain. “Forgive me, Master.”

‘Enough with these games,’ I told Lira through our newly formed bond. ‘Send them away. Instruct them to call upon the city’s preeminent faction to attend you. Make sure your daughter and this Rahala are present.’

“Leave,” Lira ordered. “Both of you. Danar, tell my daughter to come to the great hall at dusk. Rahala, make sure you and all the Tarneel nobles are present.”

The servant and slave left, the former scampering and the latter limping.

Lira released me from the chair, unbuckling the bands around my wrists and ankles. She struggled with the task, the arm I’d commandeered almost entirely useless.

I stood, stretched my neck, rolled my shoulders, and rubbed at my wrists. Lira retrieved my tongue from the corner of the room and brushed it against her magenta gown before handing it to me.

“May I ask who you are?” she asked.

I rolled my tongue around my mouth, pushing it against my teeth and rubbing it against the roof and insides of my cheeks. Reaper healing always came with an uncomfortable itch.

“You were always a little slow, Lira,” I said, my numb tongue slurring the words. “Your sister would’ve figured it out by now.”

Lira snorted. “She’d have lost anyhow.”

“She’d have tried to run first.”

Lira shrugged. “A distinction without a difference.”

“Who knows, she might've gotten far enough to expose me. You, however, without even realizing who I was, allowed me to go from prisoner to proprietor of your soul in one fell swoop. I suggest you stop underestimating the depths of your ineptitude, else you shall not live long under my service.”

She huffed but let the matter drop. “Am I to understand that you will not give me your name?”

“Are you willing to concede to the cost?”

“Cost?”

“Death.”

“A little too steep for me.”

“Steeper for me than you; I do own your soul. Besides, your death would be unavoidable if such a circumstance ever came to be, whether you gave in to the interrogator or not.”

“Then there is no cost.”

“There is.”

Lira shrugged. “If there is, it is a trifle. Tell me.”

I showed her instead. Sensus writhed from my hand like black smoke, volatile tendrils leaking into the air and fading into nothingness.

She stepped back, eyes wide. “It cannot be! Mother said you’d died. By her hand. They named you the third to truly perish.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “Are you working your way towards a point or a question?”

“Neither?…Both? I don’t know. I’m just—”

“Stop. Dusk approaches, and we have little time to prepare. I’d rather not waste any of it listening to your sluggish musings.”

I closed my eyes. Their auras were close—Helena’s and Roche’s. Sanas must’ve stayed behind to look after Merkon and the horses. Frustration bared my teeth. I understood Helena and Roche. They wanted blood for one reason or another. Sanas, too, I understood. It was this very understanding that frustrated me.

“Uncle?” Lira whispered.

I opened my eyes. “A couple of unruly followers of mine are lurking about your estate. They’d appreciate being fed, bathed, and roomed. Find them before they cause too much trouble.” I pointed at the base of her neck where my sigil glowed into being—a circle of black with speckles of white. “That should smooth your introductions.”

“They’re here? In my palace? Impossible.”

“Not for them. Helena can mask her presence well enough to fool even you. Roche… well, is Roche. On that note, approach Helena first, lest Roche forgoes any discourse in favor of ripping your throat out. Helena might, too, for that matter. Still, she’s the better choice.”

“The Roche? Elur’s Roche? And Helena? My mother’s adjudicator, Helena?”

“The very same. Once you have them situated, I’ll need you to send a few letters for me.” I looked down at myself, my clothes torn and covered in grime. “And some new attire to replace these sour clothes shall not go amiss. Best I’m presentable when I meet my grandniece and the preeminent godlings of Haloryarey. Have them ready before my return.”

“You’re leaving? Where to?”

“To bring the final member of my audience.”

***

Sanas was never much for honing her traveling skills. The camp, if it could be called a camp, was poorly made—no tent or shelter, no cover or canopy, no nearby sources of water or grazing spots for the horses. She’d chosen a muddy site in an open space. Odd, considering her aversion to all things unclean. A crackling jumble of wood lay without a ring of stones, the smoke visible for miles around. Sanas sat on a blanket-covered log, vacantly prodding a stick into the waving flames. Merkon slept on the other side of the fire, lost to his fatigue. Neither noticed me as I approached.

“Why did you send them?” I asked.

Sanas jolted to her feet. A sigh of relief escaped her upon seeing me. It was a sad sight. There was a time she’d have stolen the air from my question before it was half asked.

She shrugged. “They wanted to.”

“And you let them.”

“Did they not rescue you?”

“You thought me in need of rescuing?”

“You said you would join us. You didn't.”

“Am I not here?”

“I take it they had no hand in that.”

“Not even the tip of a fingernail.”

She shrugged again.

“Would you have waited if this happened during the war?” I wanted to say ‘before your imprisonment.’ I didn’t. “Would you not have taken my return as truth and continued west as I’d ordered?”

“Much has happened since the war.”

My patience was wearing thin. Her indifference wore it thinner more quickly.

“Wake the boy and ready the horses,” I commanded.

Sanas stood and stepped over the fire, ignoring the flames licking at her feet. She shook Merkon awake. He groaned and sat up as she went about readying the horses. The four she’d acquired from the stables had been tied clumsily to a lone tree a little ways off the camp. My mare was in the opposite direction, no doubt separated to limit the effects of her hostility.

“Where are Helena and Roche?” Merkon asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Can you walk?” I asked.

“Depends on the distance.”

“Back to Haloreyarey?”

The boy hopped in place, testing the fatigue in his legs. “I think so.”

“Good. You’ll only need to walk when we break the tree line.”

Sanas returned with two of the geldings and handed them over to Merkon. “May I leave the mare to you?” she asked me. “She’s a nightmare around the others.”

I nodded and went about retrieving my horse.

The spirited creature was straining to bite at me. I drew closer and let her do as she wished. Her teeth found the flesh of my cheek. I did not react. The next bite nipped the skin between my jaw and ear. I laughed. The third took the corner of my nose and upper lip. She reared back in hopes of ripping them free but found she could do me no harm. Realizing this, she ceased her mutiny and snorted her defeat. I wished Sanas would do the same.

I mounted the horse and led it back to the camp, finding Merkon and Sanas ready, each on a horse and holding the reigns of another.

“Let’s go,” I commanded, turning towards the city.

***

I guided us to the mansion gates: tall things set between taller walls of marble, its elaborate design more ornamental than functional. We waited for the flurry of carriages entering to trickle to a stop before we made our way, letting the summoned godlings hurry to their liege.

One of the four guards at the gate—a wispy woman wearing the least armor among them—stepped forward as we neared. “What business do you have here?” she asked Sanas.

“I believe Lira is expecting us,” I interjected.

The guard backhanded me. I let her, wondering if Lorail’s proclivities had trickled down to all her subjects by way of her children.

“Do not speak unless you are spoken to, worm,” the guard said. “Seeing as you aren't wearing a collar, I thought you better trained.” She turned to Sanas. “Why is this unruly mongrel free and without a collar?”

Sanas stood silent, unworried but almost angry with curiosity.

“Have you, or have you not been told to expect us?” I asked.

The guard tried the same response. I grabbed her forearm and crushed the bone to paste. She screamed and stumbled back. The other three readied their weapons: an ax, a longsword, and a spear. Merkon pulled on his horse’s reigns. Sanas dismounted, her flames coming to life about her naked arms.

“Stop!” called a voice. All turned to it. Danar limped towards us, hurrying as fast as his injured foot allowed. “They’re guests of the Mistress! You must let them pass!”

“This man?” the guard with the mace asked, pointing at me with her weapon. “A guest of Mistress Lira? And you think we’d suffer the mistress’ arse-licker telling us such tales?”

Danar came between us, facing the enraged soldiers. “I am her bonded and would gladly lick her ‘arse,’ as you so eloquently put it, and then thank her for the honor. So, unless you want this master of mine—and yours, in case you’ve forgotten—to come here herself, I suggest you give way.”

“This… man has done me harm,” the injured woman said, looking back at a fellow guard who watched me with a calculating look. The third guard, an ax-wielding brute of a woman, stood by her injured ally, leaking sensus into the arm through a Surgeon matrix. She hadn't the skill to fix what I’d broken.

“He’s a rabid dog and must be put down,” the injured guard continued. “Under Halorian law, I demand retribution. I demand he be bonded to me.”

The last of the guards sheathed her blade and approached Danar. “I know you are incapable of betraying our mistress.” She smiled slyly at her own words, oddly amused. “By that authority alone, we will comply. However, the next time you show such disrespect to your betters in my presence, be prepared for the consequences, for I will not stay my hand a second time. As for this cretin who has injured my subordinate, I’ll be having words with the mistress on the matter. She will surely bestow on him his due comeuppance.”

Danar bowed. “By the will of the Mistress, so shall it be.”

I followed Danar as he led us to the mansion, a bewildered Sanas and a rapt Merkon at my heel.

Lira met us by the doors. “Apologies for the error. I had imprudently busied myself with your other instructions. In my defense, who’d have thought you’d walk through the front doors so brazenly.”

Sanas was looking between Lira and me, her confusion building. “What in Manar’s name is going on?”

“Kill the guards,” I told Lira.

She sighed. “Must I?”

“Yes.”

“All of them? May I spare one? Losing her will cost me.”

“Crowol?”

Lira nodded.

“The longsword?”

She nodded again.

“Is she bonded?”

“By way of words.”

“Very well. Lock her in one of your skeleton cages for now.”

Lira stepped past me and reached out a hand. Her sensus lashed out, the rope-like tendril splitting into four, each strand latching onto a guard’s nape. Three crumpled to the ground. Their soulless, detached spirits briefly hovered above their mortal shells before disappearing into the bright void of the afterlife. Crowol ambled towards the back of the mansion, eyes glazed, unaware or unconcerned by the death of her subordinates.

“Done,” Lira said, turning back to me.

“Helena and Roche?” I asked.

“In rooms adjacent to yours.”

“Your daughter?”

“In the great hall with the other godlings.”

“Rahala?”

“The same.”

“Good.” I gestured to the door of etched glass. “Lead the way.”

Lira took to the stairs. We followed her up the winding path to the topmost floor, running across a few servants on our way. Not one dared let their eyes wander, their chins tucked into their chests. The top floor was silent. Here, the marble was pure, the hallways furnished with plush chairs, rich rugs, animated statues, and heart-rending paintings, all of them illuminated by a startling number of matrix lanterns.

Merkon’s room came first—an ample space with a canopy bed pushed against the center of the far wall, a wardrobe sectioned into a corner, and a relatively modest desk in the other.

“Danar, help the young man prepare his bath, then find him some clothes while he makes himself decent,” Lira said, watching Merkon knowingly. She was too good a Tunneller not to recognize a fellow Fiora, more so a brother who was as inept and inexperienced as he at hiding his soul.

Sanas’ came next. But for a few trivial details, it was identical to Merkon’s.

“I assume you still know how to operate a matrix bath,” Lira said.

Sanas closed the door in Lira’s face.

The last was mine. It was thrice the size of the others, the far end a single pane of clear glass showing a picturesque view of the mansion’s idyllic garden. Also twice as large, the bed lay in the center, blue drapes hanging from its canopy.

I walked into the room, surveying possible entries and exits.

“I remember your fondness for darker shades,” Lira said, pointing at the foot of the bed where a pile of neatly folded clothes lay. “I hope the attire I’ve chosen is to your liking.”

I nodded towards the pane of clear glass. “Is the Painting divine?”

“A gift. No one looking in from the outside will see through it.”

“I see. You are dismissed. Call for me when all is ready?”

“Roche and Helena?”

“You may tell them their presence is permitted but not required.” Permission was always more enticing than instruction.

“And my daughter? May I assume she will be kept from harm?”

A blank look was enough to chase her from the room.

An hour or so later, I sensed Sanas’ approach. I opened the door before her knuckles found their mark. She was dressed in red like she so often was, the practical cut of her clothes flattering her boyish figure. I noticed her hair, too. It was long again, a simple feat for a Duros of her skill. It suited her, reminding me of the blood and carnage we wrought on that fateful night we’d first met.

“What game are you playing?” she asked, her earlier curiosity having bloomed into angry confusion.

I brushed past her. “We’re late.”

Danar waited in the hallway, his back mortared to the nearby wall.

“Lead the way,” I said.

Unused to the flippancy of another man, the slave bit back a retort and proceeded down the hallway in silence, leading us across the staircase and towards the other side of the mansion. Several turns later brought us into a corridor twice as wide as any other I’d seen, and found Helena and Roche standing before a pair of thick doors. Both wore their I’m-hungry-and-I-can-smell-blood grins. I think they knew what I was planning. Sanas might’ve, too, if she cared to remember who I was. But that was one of the reasons why what was about to happen was going to happen.

“Tell me you haven't conspired with Lorail scum,” Sanas hissed.

I ignored her and stepped forward. Helena and Roche followed my cue and pushed open the heavy doors, Roche sparing Sanas a sympathetic look before he sensed the room’s occupants.

Across the immense hall, a silent Lira sat atop a veritable behemoth of a throne, the first to notice our arrival. Godlings huddled at the foot of her dais, clustered in groups by way of alliances. As our entry echoed across the large hall, their heads snapped our way, and their attention fell on me and mine.

“Matriarch, who is this man who dares barge in without an invitation?” an elderly woman asked. “Has a delegate come to our city? Have we fallen so far that we merit a Named instead of a house cousin?”

My group and I neared. Danar stepped out and closed the doors behind him; slaves weren't allowed to witness royal proceedings. Sanas chose to stay near the entrance, watching the events unfold without offering participation.

The godlings’ whispered theories. Whispers grew into murmurs when our approach forced the middle of their pack to part before us. One woman refused to move, standing her ground and wearing a contemptuous smirk as if winning some game of bravery, some test of self-importance. I gave Roche the slightest of nods as an answer to the silent request in his hungry eyes.

A faint line of red drew itself along the middle of the royal’s face. Expression frozen, her body parted, each half toppling in opposite directions. I’d underestimated how skilled a Telum Roche had become.

Some of the godlings yelped. Some screamed. All, bar none, retreated, falling into each other in their haste to create distance between themselves and the violent insanity stalking towards them.

These rulers of Haloryarey were the dregs of House Lorail, deemed skilled enough to be helpful but too incompetent to be relied upon, and so were sent here to provide the labor of training slaves. Knowing this had humbled them some. Even so, given confidence by the realization of their superior numbers, a handful inched closer to us, a subtle precursor for their intention to strike.

“Quiet,” said a voice, cutting through the room. Lira stood from her throne, casting a languid gaze across the godlings for any who dared defy her word. It was times like these when her imitation of Lorail almost rang true.

I stepped over and between the corpse’s feet. Helena, who walked behind me and to my right, kicked one half to the side, letting it tumble and slide towards a pair of godlings who teetered out of its way, a trail of blood, guts, and organs marking the corpse’s path along the marble floor. Roche stepped on the loose innards of the other half, making a point to dig his heel into the bloody mess, the wet sounds amplified by the echoing silence Lira had ordered and then punctuated by the squelching sound of his wet footsteps as he walked on.

I paused at the base of the dais, looking up at Lira as she stood before the throne. Rahala stood behind her, eyes wide. My grandniece, Illora, was by her mother’s side, her emotions buried behind a blank stare. I spared her a true look. Impressive, I thought. Not a speck of evil had touched her core. There were smudges here and there, but none had invaded her true self. Another seed that has fallen far from its grove.

“Are all present?” I asked Lira.

She stepped aside and bowed. “Yes, Master.”

Gasps rang out, synchronizing into a roar of disbelief. I ignored them.

The throne hungered for attention, ostentatious in all the ways it could be: large, made of solid gold, and embedded with jewels. I refused to sit on it—empty shows of authority would lessen me—and instead, chose to remain on my feet as I turned to the godlings.

“Greetings, house Tarneel,” I said. “I have gathered you here today for several reasons, but only one that would interest you.” I started with the youngest present, a petite girl near the front. I say young, but I sensed she carried almost four decades, which, to an average Mud, made her an elder. The ink of her evil was sharp and deep, slipping her past my promises and into my grasp. My soulsight swept the room, scanning them one by one and finding the black infection wherever they went. I smiled. “And I must thank you for what is about to happen. Without your penchants for… pernicious deeds, it mightn't have been possible. As it is, please endeavor to make your deaths enjoyable for us.”

Roche and Helena flew into the dispersed hoard of godlings

Hysteria ensued.

A few braver and more quickwitted souls tried for mine. They failed, screamed in anguish, and fell to their knees, vulnerable to my two guards. Roche and Helena did not let the opportunity lie. They darted through their ranks, sowing death with joyous abandon.

One older soul—a century and a half but outwardly more like forty—made it to the entrance. She yanked on the great doors of Lira’s hall. Failing, she rammed her shoulder against the thick wood. The Aedificator matrixes installed around the hall were as effective at keeping people in as they were at keeping them out.

I joined the fray.

Rahala was my first. Slow was my preferred method, but a veritable feast awaited me. I wrapped my fingers around her throat and drained her empty as her fear-stricken eyes regarded me. Her dried corpse fell to the marble floor, flakes of her dead skin bursting into a cloud.

My second victim, the darkest and strongest soul among those of house Tarneel, tasted the sweetest—I’m of the sort to sample sweet before savory. As her fruitless efforts slammed against the fence of my soul, my twin blades separated her legs and arms from hips and shoulders. Her deceptively youthful freckles bunched up to contort her face into a picture of pain. She dropped amidst her dismembered limbs, blood gushing from the stumps. One delicious bite took all but her core, the vibrant pool of red around her lifeless body turning to tar.

The third was less sweet but more filling, her soul too weak to hide the effects of her age and too aged to conceal the depth of her fear. She was the one who had spoken when we entered. Her skills were laughable. Any Zephyr worth their weight in salt—which, given salt was but a matrix away from even the weakest of Tellums, was dirt cheap in Evergreen—would've snorted at her clumsy attempts to hinder me.

I can barely recall the fourth, the haze of gluttony having settled in. All I remember of the fifth was the way she tasted. Of the sixth, I couldn’t even remember that. When the frenzy finally left me, a heavy silence and the tang of blood hung in the air. Sanas stood frozen, her eyes drinking in the scene. Lira and Illorai crouched behind the throne, the girl wrapped in her mother's protective embrace. Roche, blood-soaked and crazed, howled in laughter. Helena wore her maniacal grin, not a drop of blood on her except those dripping from the point and edge of Pinmoon.

“That was… pleasing,” I said, my hunger markedly satisfied for the first time in decades.

Roche clapped in applause, the sound sharper and louder for the blood that covered his hands. “Wonderfully so. I haven't had that much fun since the battle at The Eastern Gate. Did you see me cut that plump one into what must’ve been more than a hundred slices? I’d have counted if it weren't so messy and near impossible. Do you reckon it was more? I’m guessing it was more. It must've been more. On Merkusian himself, one of the slices was so thin it floated. Do you hear me? Floated!”

“We should’ve invited more of them to the slaughter,” Helena complained.

“Master should’ve left a few more for us,” Roche added.

“In time,” I said, “there’ll be more than you care to handle.”

Roche crouched down and inspected his work, smiling. “Looking forward to it.”

“How are we going to hide this?” Helena asked.

“No need.” I sheathed my swords and turned to the city’s ruler. She watched us from behind her throne. “Lira, would you be so kind as to clean this mess up?”

She nodded, speechless. Blood and gore weren't the residues of murder she was used to. Empty husks and wailing souls were more familiar to her.

“Illora,” I called. “Come.”

The girl pushed out of her mother’s embrace, her blank expression hard as stone. “May I ask why?”

“You and I need to be properly introduced,” I said, heading towards the exit without waiting for her to follow.

I stopped beside Sanas. She hadn’t moved.

“You bonded her,” she said, eyes fixed on the bloodbath. We’d made quite the grisly scene. “You said you’d not. You called Lorail evil for doing the same. ‘A violation of the soul,’ you called it.”

I tapped a finger to my ear. “You must listen more carefully, Sanas. Did your mother not tell you to be careful of words? Particularly mine? I have no qualms about the act of bonding souls, same as I have no qualms about the hanging murderers.”

She scoffed.

“You think Lira is too innocent for such treatment?” I asked. “You would take her life but refuse to shackle her soul?”

“A soul is sacred, worthy of being regarded as inviolable. I thought you agreed.”

“No, you thought me unable. There was a time you would've known what I’d done. Countless years of stewing in your own thoughts have idealized me in your memories.”

She waved at the dismembered bodies. “So this was what, a demonstration? A reminder?”

“And more,” I said. “I’m no paragon of virtue, my dear Sanas. I do not save or protect the innocent—I punish the wicked.”

After a wordless time of contemplative staring, Sanas let her head drop, sighing. “Yes, mother had told me. She’d cautioned me against believing you to be… more than you are. She’d told me, and I’d known.” Her head rose, hard eyes coming back to regard me coolly, sparks of respect, fear, disappointment, and defiance shining through. I’d missed that look. “I’ll not forget again.”

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind if you did. I find reminding you is rather more fun than I’d expected.” I didn’t say anything about her mother. We both liked her too much to question her actions for now, however dubious they seemed.

And so, with my promise to Rahala kept, Roche fed a taste of the vengeance he so desperately craved, and, more importantly, Lira and Sanas shown a glimpse of the Knite they’d chosen to forget, I left the throneroom, a field of dead godlings in my wake.