Fleur felt miserable. The journey was hard, like, really, really hard.

On the morning she had set out, she had been in high spirits— Father Agapo had finally trusted her enough to exit his tutelage. He had impressed upon her the importance of her mission, before seeing her off at the gates of Liospa with the grain caravan and wishing her well on her journey up north to the capital.

Fleur had been excited and unconcerned— thinking that the Father’s continued warnings and extra salves and coats and blankets had simply been the man hovering. After all, he had raised her since childhood, and it wouldn’t have been the first time the old man had doted on her— not that she hated it, the Angels knew she cared for him just as much. Now, though, she found herself wishing that he’d given her more coats and blankets.

Oh, how naive she had been. Regret spoke in the way her legs protested each time she stood up. Regret laced the soreness in her tail bone from sitting on the hard floor of the wagon— she wasn’t even the one doing all the walking! The Keepers traveling with the caravan had realized she could mend wounds, and promptly told her to stay sitting as to not exert herself.

She had protested, at first, and they had all shot each other amused looks as she moved to hike with the rest of them. After the fourth day, when they had offered for her to ride on the wagon, she had accepted. That had not been the worst part— marching for a month would’ve been taxing yes— but Fleur was not unfit. She had spent much of her life on her feet— walking from place to place, assisting in every manner of job, from hauling to harvesting to healing.

No, the worst part was the cold. It had begun slowly at first, a slight breeze that had her drawing her coat tighter, and then a shudder as a chill cut through the fabric. It only got worse as they rose higher into the mountains. The sun, which Fleur had grown up in, slowly vanished behind mountains and clouds. Snow had begun falling, coating the already melting ice and mud in more melting snow, which only really made the problem worse.

More than once on their ascent, a wagon’s wheel would sink and get stuck in the ground, then they entire convoy would have to be stopped as they elevated the stuck wagon. After the third time it happened, stalling the caravan train for another quarter hour, Fleur had caught the Keepers complaining beneath their breath.

Regardless, it had taken a long month, but it’d been relatively uneventful. The monster attacks that uncommonly plagued her hometown, Liospa, seemed even less common while on the road— whether it was from the abundant presence of Keepers, or another factor, she didn’t know.

Though, monster attacks wouldn’t be something she needed to worry about in the coming days— if the rumors she’d heard about Tisali were to be believed. So far, almost all the ones she could verify seemed to be true.

The first rumor? Tisali is an inescapable prison— fortified with cliffs and mountains too high to ever hope scaling.

The latter, if not the former, was certainly true.

The caravan moved through a valley, smooth, dark stone twisted and shorn into walls rising up and away towards the sky. Despite the sun being barely past its zenith, they still moved in the shadows of the walls. More than once, Fleur caught glimpses of archers and steel-tipped arrows ducking out of view in the endless rows of slits. Fleur didn’t see any wagons moving out of the gate, but chalked it up to coincidence.

As the caravan rode closer, the road widened up further, allowing their caravan to split into a 4-wagon wide train instead. A small handful of Keepers broke off, moving ahead of the farthest wagon to speak with the large group of Keepers by the gates.

The second: The gate was forged by giants long dead.

Directly ahead, the gates of Tisali yawned open like a giant, stone horizon. The gate itself was a monstrous work of gargantuan metal, each bar as thick as a wagon, and as tall as high as the mountains on either side of it. The holes looked large enough to fit a wagon through, and in the fading light past the gate she saw a smaller, more practical set of walls. The people manning the top looked like specks. Fleur couldn’t even see what they were holding— and whether those really were people, or just artillery pieces peeking over top.

By the time their wagons reached the gate— half of the group manning the gate had splintered off, each pair moving to quickly inspect the wagons. Fleur marveled at the gate until they began moving again— the works simply didn’t look as if they could’ve been made by any hand other than the divine, and yet—

Fleur yelped when the towering gate began to rise, forcing an all encompassing screech of metal on stone that seemed to shake the ground. The Keepers around her didn’t look particularly surprised, though a couple had expressions of vague annoyance.

As they passed through the gate, Fleur truly wondered at the scale of the construction— the ceiling looked to be as high as the height at which birds flew. Quickly, they passed beneath the first gate, then pass the second, smaller gate, and the final, third one at the end of the cavernous wall.

The third: Tisali is the center of the Empire— the very seat of power that had been built upon millenniums of ceaseless toil.

Tisali both rose into the sky, and into the ground. Even from her relatively low vantage point, she could see buildings stacked atop other buildings and nestled together like bundles far below the enormous bridge. The height was astounding— the buildings and roads and complicated web of smaller and smaller footroads and bridges seemed to stretch infinitely downwards, too far for her to make out the bottom. Columns of steam and smoke rose into the air, merging with the clouds which were far closer than Fleur had ever seen. The skyline was stabbed by massive towers of golden brass and weathered stone. Thin bridges ran perpendicular out of couple towers into the middle of the sky. The sky itself was seemingly choked with massive, flying ships tethered to large balloons, sporting small wings on either side of them. In the far, far distance mountains rose above the clouds, and she saw roads ascending them. She could only believe that people lived up there, too.

In the center, where the four massive bridges intersected, sat a pale stone building ringed by opulent dark spires. She knew it in her heart— that even if it wasn’t a traditional palace— that that domed building was the heart of the Empire, and in there dwelled the Empress.

Another rumor bubbled to the surface— that the Empress hadn’t once made a public appearance since she’d taken her reign; that she’d never once called for Court; and that she ruled from a throne of ink rather than the bloody iron her predecessors had preferred. It made her weak, Fleur had heard some rumors go, and that it was only a matter of time until another upstart claimed the throne. Others claimed that it made her strong— that she had no need to posture and preen for the masses for support, that it was a sign that this period of peace would be a lasting era.

Fleur put it from her mind— she wasn’t here to dwell on the Empresses’ position.

Her gaze scanned from horizon to horizon, and then she found it: It wasn’t the glimmering bronze spires, or the labyrinthine design of the city, but the large, almost-ivory stone of the cathedral that sat along the edge of the city— elevated enough for the entire city to gaze upon it’s wonder, but low enough as to not be veiled by the clouds. She couldn’t make out the details from here, but its size promised to be daunting when she moved closer.

It was then, that Father Agapo’s words came back to her, raspy and warm: Dearest child— the High Cardinal sent for additional priests, and you will go in my stead. Careful, the Angel’s light will keep you, but the Empire’s shadow is long.

[][][]

A waiter tipped the bottle of wine into both of their glasses, filling them halfway, before walking off with a short bow.

Larissa Fleming stared like a hawk at the retreating figure, while across from her, Sigurd Fleming simply smiled, watching the waiter out of the corner of his eye. When they finally moved out of earshot, Larissa’s sharp gaze slid to Sigurd’s. She was silent, eyes flicking to examine the suit he’d worn, then to the pale gap of skin between his gloves and cuff.

“You look paler than before,” she noted, voice raspy.

Sigurd reached for his glass, his sleeve climbing just enough to flash the brilliant band of liquid silver encircling his wrist. A grim smile reaches his face. “It is a burden I’ll gladly bear.”

His smile curls into quiet delight, as if sharing a private joke. Larissa doesn’t return the smile, instead her eyes narrow, as if the comment annoyed her. Though, she still makes no effort to continue the conversation, only raising a dry brow when he looks to her expectantly.

Sigurd concedes. “Your wards.”

“They’re shit,” Larissa helpfully supplies, refusing to elaborate further. She didn’t miss the way her husband’s lips curled in slight discontent. He was always too serious— too aligned for her tastes, but alliances kept the wheels turning, so what was she to do?

Sigurd let out a slow breath that sounded like a sigh. “Is that your opinion, or theirs?”

Larissa shoved the last of her steak down, washing it down with a healthy chug of wine. She motioned with a gauntlet for a waiter across the room, while eyeing Sigurd’s plate. He hadn’t touched it, or anymore of his wine. “Gonna finish that?”

“Their gifts wane my appetite.”

The Warden cares little, reaching across the table and scraping the steak onto her own plate, before waiting for the waiter to top off her wine before stealing Sigurd’s glass. He waits, coldly staring until Larissa polishes off her third glass for the night. Neither are worried for her sobriety.

Larissa lets out a burp, before roughly wiping at her mouth and flashing a shit-eating grin to Sigurd. It’s infuriating, they both know, but Sigurd’s too polite to call her out on it. When he doesn’t react, Larissa lets out a huff. “Says they’ve both got interesting… ‘prospects.’ Same thing they’ve been saying about the first one.”

“But we only need one.”

“They want more,” Larissa scoffs. “Insurance— they say. Ask me— and I think they’re just being greedy bastards.”

Sigurd shrugs, noncommittal. He’s tried, and failed innumerable times to get her to soften her language— to entreat them with the respect and gratitude they’re owed for their gifts and service.

“So I’m thinkin’,” Larissa continues, cutting her stolen steak. “If they want ‘em strong, then I’ll make them strong— strong enough to threaten the lot of them.”

“They won’t approve of that.”

Larissa took a slow sip of her wine. “Why do they care? Not like they could threaten us even if one of them were chosen.”

“They care because every little variable matters— they’ve a vision far beyond ours. They’d afford you more leniency, like me, if you listened when they spoke.”

“It’s ’cause you’re a such a little suck-up to them. I follow them plenty.”

Sigurd refrained from showing emotion. He knew she loved to rile emotion out of people— it was one of her least favorable traits. He took a small sip of his wine, choosing to move on instead. “And what of the next parts?”

“Why’re you worried? I always get the job done.”

Sigurd sighs. He cannot wait to leave. “As long as you hold your end of the bargain.”

“I always have.”

“Wonderful,” he deadpans. After a moment of quiet consideration, he stands to leave, before pausing. “Ah, one more thing. Leo came through on new information regarding Clarion.”

Larissa waves an armored hand, not even sparing him a glance. “Don’t bother— I know about it already.”

“Do you?”

“Yeerp,” Larissa gruffed in a tone she knew annoyed him. “Was our unruly little proteges, got in a bit of a scuffle.”

“Large enough for…”

“Yep.”

Sigurd sighs again, moving to take his stand. He reaches for a bag of coins within his vest, dropping them onto the table without counting. “Then that wraps this up. Until next time, Warden.”

“Cya,” Larissa doesn’t bother waving, focusing on the last of her meal as Sigurd takes his leave early. He never could stand her— and it was hilarious every time, though, less so as they aged. Her tattoos burn beneath her armor, and she sighs— they never gave her a break. She snaps at a waiter at the end of the room, calling for a pen, a slip of paper, and someone to deliver a message.

To the girl stuck in her mother’s shadow, she writes, taking small delight as she does.

[][][]

A woman sat behind a large, utilitarian desk. It is devoid of furniture, stone gray and all sharp angles. She hates it. A number of other things she hates: handling the paperwork relegating charity aid to recently appointed managers, reviewing and rejecting and accepting a handful of legislation suggested by her nobility, poring over surveyor reports relating to said nobility’s territories, reviewing suggested legislation again, and playing a careful balancing act of keeping the people she needs happy and the people the Empire is built upon working.

Day in, day out, her life revolves around paper and ink and decisions. Every hour of every day is spent burning the candle at both ends to pave the way for a better future. Yet, it never feels as if it’s enough. Everyday, a new issue arises. A long overdue construction project here, an outbreak of plague there, another monster invasion, somewhere— anywhere, really, feels like its liable to catch on fire the moment she looks away.

It is everything she can do to keep it mostly contained— but it still isn’t enough. There are still refugees-turned-citizens now needing homes within the fortress-capital of Tisali, an ever-pressing need for more food, more clothes, more everything, that more of the Empire wasn’t an unmitigated disaster, was short of a miracle.

Perhaps, she thinks, the problem lies in her ambition, that she thought herself capable of giving everyone a brighter future. Maybe her earlier decisions were to blame— when she’d chosen to let go of people who she desperately needed now. Maybe that was why some people still hated the crown upon her head.

As if to remind her, the crown upon her brow shifts, digging its sharp thorns into her scalp. Briefly, she entertains the idea of setting it down, before settling for adjusting it on her head. A part of her hates the crown, too.

But an Empress must keep up appearances.

A door opens on her left, and in walks her most trusted: a pale woman with gray-blue eyes and black hair tightly wound into a bun, her weapon wrapped around her waist like a belt, dressed in dark robes, chain mail, and half-plate. The Empress can tell it is years old, and thinks it due for a replacement, but her most trusted always declines, stating that everything nowadays is too fragile.

A part of her agrees, though it is not the armor she thinks is fragile.

“Shrike,” she greets, voice empty with what she hopes doesn’t sound like exhaustion. “Good news, I hope?”

Her most trusted kneels, and her eyes draw towards the red crusting the Shrike’s sleeve. “The Earl Sutherland will kindly contribute some of his resources. His eldest in the far south is also receptive. The Viscounts have fallen in line, and the Counts are temporarily handled.”

The Empress mulls over the report, half-relieved that everything is still under control— if barely— and half-wary from how very long this game has gone on. It feels like dancing on a tightrope suspended between two towers, with the wind growing ever harsher.

After another heartbeat, the Shrike adds: “Your charity project also seems to be working. The children look healthier.”

The Empress slowly deflates, tugging a jagged crown from her head. Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, and a sigh worms it’s way out of her. Her most trusted stands again, her face a careful mask of neutrality. The Empress knows it’s cause is exhaustion, rather than any conscious effort.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard again, Roxanne,” her right-hand notes.

Roxanne sighs again, reclining her head on her chair’s back, a mirthless smile on her lips. “As if you’re not in the same boat, Mariam.”

“Mhm,” she hums, falling into the easy flow of a conversation they’ve had before, “but I’m not the one constantly scheming at the desk. It’s simpler, out there. Less thinking.”

“It’s not like I can stop— the nobles are relentless, and the Church is being a stick in the mud.”

“You’re aware of what they want.”

“You’re the closest one I have to an adviser. It’s going to stay that way— I’m not handing either of them more power than they have.”

“Even if you collapse from exhaustion? They call you the Ink Empress, out there. An empress who rules from behind a quill rather than atop a throne. They think you’re weak. A majority of the people like you, and the number grows by the day, but it’s not exactly them that keeps you in power.”

Roxanne tries to smile, but it lacks none of the harshness, and has all the exhaustion she feels. Her words are quiet. “Let them call me what they wish. I am still empress at the end of the day.”

“Unless they depose you.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“That I am.”

The two fall silent once more. The years drag on, and yet, it feels as if every change they make is little more than a bucket taken from an ocean of misfortune. The worst part is that the water has to be thrown somewhere, and they have long since ran out of space.

“This is untenable, you know.”

After a moment, she sighs again. “We’re in an unprecedented era of peace, I’ll be damned if I let any of those vultures rob us of our dream, Mariam. We fought far too hard for this.”

Mariam sighs through her nose, singsonging the words of historians are the war’s end. “Truly an era of peace, or simply a period of rest before the next war?”

The two take a deep breath, sensing the conversations end. Both have much to do, and the little time they’ve stolen for their joint reprieve will cost them. The Empress slowly sets her crown back onto her head, the weary look in her eye slowly giving way to cold resolve. Her most trusted straightens up, a mask of professionalism sliding into place.

Her most trusted bows before turning for the door. “Long may you reign, Empress.”

“Do not disappoint me, Shrike.”

The Shrike briefly pauses before exiting. “I will see your will be done.”

When the door to her study finally shuts, the Empress draws her eyes back to the documents consuming her desk. Silently, she works her way through them, mulling over her trusted’s words. Out of the corner of her eye, she can almost see the cracks that run through the reforged crown.

Is this truly an era of peace, or simply another period of rest before the next great war?

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” she whispers. “That’s always the question.”

[][][]

Dumah silently passes the bread between the golden bars of the giant birdcage. Bony hands shake and tremble as they slowly grasp it from them. The caged angel scarfs it down, uncaring for the crumbs that fall from her mouth. Next, Dumah passes a small clay cup filled with water. It is warm, and tastes of the clay that it sits in, but it’s better than nothing.

The angel finishes drinking, letting out a long, ragged breath as she slowly passes the cup back between the bars.

“Thanks, Dume,” Muriel rasps, her voice scratchy and harsh from neglect and dehydration. The water helped a little.

Dumah’s gaze is sad. “Of course, Muri.”

Muriel is a far cry from her prime. Disheveled and malnourished, the pristine white dress she’d once been proud of now clings to nothing but sallow skin and bone, ripped and torn and stained with soot. Her snow-white hair, once short and silky, now lays greasy and tangled, pooling and graying on the floor around her. Her gaze tilts up, her sunlit eyes shaded in a millennium’s weariness. It reminds Dumah of a sunset, slowly dying. It breaks the closest thing they have to a heart.

“Don’t look so down, Dume. I’ll be fine.” Her cracked lips tilt into a hollow smirk. They both know it is an act. “I’ve lasted this long, right? Have a little faith for your older sister.”

Dumah’s shoulders drop farther. “I am… not worried... simply pained that you are still going through this...”

“Come now,” Muriel replies, a ghost of a grin in her voice. “It’s not that bad. Would’ve been worse if Wormy decided he really did want to kill me. Truly! I should thank Netzy for their infinite kindness!”

The angel of silence doesn’t respond.

After a heartbeat, Muriel’s expression thins. A sigh worms out of her and she clears her throat, looking away. “I am thankful, though, for all you’ve done for me. I know that they’ve been giving you shit over it, right?”

“… yeah.”

“Just wait a couple more years. I’ll be free soon enough.”

“… yeah.”

“Look.” She quietly drawls, voice barely a whisper above the yawning silence outside. “The girl’s nearly there. She just needs a little push. I’m nearly free. Don’t worry. I’ll…” A hard look comes to her eyes. “I’ll make things right. I’ll make everything right.”

“That’s part of what scares me.”

Muriel fixes them with a sad smile. “I know.”

The two ancient friends lapse into silence. Muriel had finished speaking, and didn’t seem intent on continuing. Dumah never knew what to say, and multiple millenniums had done little to change it. Eventually, Muriel stood, fruitlessly making a show of dusting off her dress and raking a hand through her greasy hair, before turning to the center of her cage and laying down, faced away. She waved a stained hand. “Well… I’ll be going to check on my protégé now, help me with that entrance, will you?”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Of course, Muri.”

[][][]

Penelope sat up in her bed, gazing out the window of her room. She slowly wrung her hands, feeling restless.

Minutes later, a nurse came to announce that she had visitors, before stepping aside to let them in. Talon’s lumbering frame had to bend down, his face ever-hidden by his ivory mask. His maroon cloak still skirts the ground. Maple followed shortly behind him, smiling, not having changed much besides the wrinkles. She’d swapped the armor for a patterned brown dress at some point.

Penelope decided that Maple looked far more at home without a sword and armor, that the small daffodils at the hem of her dress suited her much more. She was happy for her. Talon hadn’t changed much, still a giant wrapped in maroon with swords strapped to his back, but last she’d heard he’d taken a teaching post— a job she knew he enjoyed, despite his lack of expression. Penelope was happy for him, too. Happy for all of them, really.

Peacetime was so much better than wartime.

Maple approaches, a soft smile on her lips. “Penelope! It’s good to see you again. I hope you don’t mind I’ve brought along Talon.”

“I don’t mind. It’s always nice to meet.” Penelope chuckles. “Oh— please, sit. Sit. Talon— you especially, you awkward oaf.”

Maple and Talon laugh— though for Talon it is akin to a slight shift in his shoulders. Both acquiesce, and after a moment Penelope chuckles, a hollow echo of her younger, crowing laughter. Even through his mask, she can tell Talon’s brows are raising. After a moment, Maple giggles along.

“You look so out of place, in your tiny little clinic chair of yours, Talon,” Penelope explains, smiling.

Talon’s shoulders relax. “I see age has done little to improve your humor, Miss Oliver.”

Penelope mock-gasped. “Miss Oliver?! How could you? That makes me sound so old!”

“Age has truly made me a monster,” Talon deadpanned.

Maple’s smile falters. “It truly has been ages though, hasn’t it?”

Penelope’s grin wavers, settling into something more pensive. “... Has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It’s only been twelve years.”

“Twelve years…” Penelope’s lips thin, and she rubs at her brow. “Still feels like yesterday, though.”

Maple’s eyes alight with concern, and Talon’s frame grows withdrawn, the question is unspoken, but only Maple broaches it. She tentatively lays a hand over Penelope’s. “Penelope—how are you feeling?”

Penelope Oliver knows how she must look: thin and pale, too weak to even lift a spoon without shaking when she once weaved swordplay and spells seamlessly. Her austere tunic clings loosely to her body, her hair is frazzled and far too long, and she knows there are dark circles beneath her eyes.

It’s visible to everyone, yet she still manages to crack a small smile. “I’m managing. It’s… better than it used to be. It’s just… hard, y’know?”

Her thoughts still wander over that fateful night— where everything had changed— where they had raised young Roxanne into imperial royalty through blood and mud. Her thoughts trail to the pale-eyed woman who had visited her, who looked so much like her mother, she had mistaken one for the other.

The three old friends lapsed into silence. Penelope isn’t sure she should continue, but her thoughts are already walking around it. Her thoughts are still too loud, and the clinic is much too quiet. She really, really hates it.

“Mariam’s daughter paid me a visit earlier.”

“Oh!” Maple piped up, brightening. “Estelle?”

“Yeah— that’s the one.”

“Dreamspinning?” Talon rumbled.

“Mhmm. She really does look like her mother at that age, doesn’t she?”

Maple’s face drops. “She does.”

“Just as powerful, too,” Talon added.

Neither statements sounded particularly happy.

“Good to see her again after all this time,” Penelope rambles on, letting the thought carry her. “She was all grown up, and so competent and formal.”

Maple’s downtrodden expression and Talon’s lack of response clues her into the strained topic. She swaps. “Oh! Maple— how is Arthur?”

The mother perks back up at that. “Ah— he’s just doing wonderful, really. He and Elle are getting along very well.”

“That’s good, that’s good.” Penelope nods. She doesn’t really know either of them well. Estelle was cold when they met, and she hadn’t seen Arthur since he was little. Though, knowing Maple, he most likely turned out to be a wonderful young man.

The trio lapse into silence again.

Once, there’d been five— six, but it had really been five, Roxanne had been a later addition. Mariam, Joseph, Talon, Maple, and her— just five people trying to make their way in world rife with conflict. They had been so young then, fresh-faced and eager to make a change in the world. Now, there was only Talon, Maple, and her. Joseph had died, Mariam had vanished, and Roxanne, distant as she was, was forever locked in the palace. A piercing idea lanced through her thoughts.

“Do you two think they’ll follow in our footsteps?”

Talon rumbled. “They won’t.”

Maple softly said, “I hope not.”

Penelope turned to Talon. “How can you be so sure?”

Talon paused, and slowly leaned forward, mask facing the ground. He looked smaller than Penelope had ever seen him. “… Historians are saying that this is just another period of peace, that soon, there’ll be another war.”

Penelope held her tongue.

“But we grew up in it. We were all born when the civil war started, sixteen years after the war before it.”

Maple slowly muttered. “That’s no time at all, really…”

“But that’s the difference— we spent all our lives living the war. The children didn’t. The Empire still holds to its traditions— that’s why warfare is still taught, but they get to experience peace in a period of their lives where it matters.”

Penelope mumbled. “But we were born in it— practically raised by it, for better or worse. If this is just another period of peace, won’t they be unprepared?”

Talon sighed, a deep rumbling sound. “Maybe it won’t. Maybe they’ll be worse off if fighting breaks out again. There’s…”

Maple piped up, finishing the thought. “There’s not a lot we can do about it, other than do our best to preserve the peace.”

“And do our best to prepare them for another war.”

Penelope deflated, sinking deeper into her pillows. “I hope that they’ll prefer peace to war, since they’ve grown up in it.”

Maple changed the topic, her voice brightening as she turns to Talon. “Do you ever have plans to settle down, Talon?”

Talon gravels, “Children are too much for me.”

“Aren’t you a professor?” Penelope squints. “You teach children.”

“They’re all adults in their own right.”

[][][]

Iwerj’s lips thinned as he approached the Spire.

It loomed in front of him— a tower so massive it looked like it pierced the sky. In a way, it did, the Spire connected the Underhollow to the cavern roof miles above it. Three others just like it sat sprinkled throughout the Underhollow, looming obelisks with which the Empress lorded her authority. Each Spire housed a barracks worth of Keepers, meant to monitor who came in and out of the Underhollow.

No one could climb to the surface without the Empress knowing, it seemed.

Iwerj always felt the same trickle of disgust worm its way into his chest whenever he saw it— the audacity to stomp ever harder on the throats of those living in the Underhollow, as if throwing them down here wasn’t already enough. Then to build spires— bridges to build connections, they always claimed.

He rid himself of those thoughts— the entrance to the Spire quickly approached. He lifted his chin, rolled his shoulders, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his bulky coat. He took a deep breath, smiling when the air tasted sour. Iwerj kept his head up, eyes shrouded by his hood, warily scanning the street as he usually did.

Iwerj slowly came to a stop as the Keepers manning the small door blocked his path with their spears. Both were armored, and he couldn’t see their expressions behind their visors.

“Reason for visit?” one graveled.

Iwerj kept his voice smooth. “Business, I’ve a busines—“

“Right— right. I recognize you. Get on, then.” They unbarred his path, and he stepped past the threshold of the door.

The inside of the Spire wasn’t anything to scoff at. It wasn’t that the structure was needlessly ornate or awe-inspiringly extravagant. It was, in Iwerj’s metrics, relatively sparse. The interior of the spire, this deep, was an enormous cylinder carved into the mountains. Every so often, there were large mage lights embedded into the walls. Even then, Iwerj couldn’t see beyond the gloom above. He knew that it led to the very surface, then went even higher. Beyond the doors there were more Keepers, mostly dotting the walls and occupying shabby tables to inspect those with carts or luggage. Beyond that, occupying the center of the room and a majority of it, was a large platform the size of a large home. Giant chains that dwarfed Iwerj were posted in four corners of the platform.

He stepped through the small gate that separated riders from those being inspected, and took a spot near the railing. The wood platform was large and old and seemed at risk of giving out with each movement, but, at the very least, it certainly beat stairs. Iwerj wasn’t certain how willing he’d be to climb a mountain’s worth of stairs every time he wished to hawk Griwindle’s goods.

After a time, the gates were shut, the gargantuan chains gave a rattle and a groan, and the platform shuddered to life, ascending towards the dark above.

A prickle of fear danced up his spine, and his clothes clung to him, never truly dry from the Underhollow’s pervasive marshy air. He felt the urge to grasp the note within his pockets, and he clenched his hands fruitlessly. There was nothing there, like he’d known.

The note had instructed him to memorize the job, then burn the note. He had cast a simple spell, and watched it burn.

It had come after he had completed Aurelio’s favor— delivered to him by a raven. It wasn’t anything tougher than the last job Aurelio had asked of him, but the fact that it came from a raven rather than Aurelio himself had confirmed that they— whoever they were— were still interested in working with him.

Despite the fact he didn’t know who his mysterious employer was, he didn’t particularly care. The gold was enticing, and far outweighed the risks. It wasn’t as if it were any difficult job— he was just to act as a hired hand for a shipment above ground in the next week.

Still, Iwerj had— foolishly, maybe— taken cautionary measure. He had paid a visit to Father Laceri, letting him know that he’d be staying above for a while. The rotten priest had simply nodded sagely, and thanked him for his continued devotion after he placed another gold in his donation bowl. The memory made his stomach curl.

The greed— the sheer audacity it took to call yourself a holy man and steal from those already trampled upon. It was bad enough to contend with all the sneering, thieving nobles, and to always plaster on a smile for customers who thought you were beneath them. Iwerj was no stranger to lying to people— he did it nearly everyday hawking Griwindle’s wares— but he never claimed to be doing it for anyone but himself.

What did he do to deserve it? What did any one of his many siblings do to deserve Father Laceri? What did anyone do in the Underhollow to deserve to be thrown there, other than be born in the wrong place at the wrong time? What right did those above ground have to continually smirk and sneer and whine about their problems when they’d never truly experienced hardship?

The platform groaned and ground to a stop, having reached the surface. Iwerj’s eyes trailed to the dim light pouring in from the broad entryway. He eyed the clean fabrics of the merchants and the little trinkets of the tinkerers, how they traded wares with bright customers with a smile, how they were able to bargain and laugh and work without fear of losing everything.

Iwerj’s fists clenched within his pockets.

One day, he promised himself, one day he would stand atop them all.

[][][]

Annoyance and worry creased Clara’s brow.

Annoyance, because while she did technically ask for this, it was still midnight, and agreeing to meet typically led to meetings the next day, or the day after that, not the very instant they show up on your doorstep. Her head throbbed, whether that was from a lack of sleep, or the fact that she had to play mediator for the two, she wasn’t sure.

Worry, because while a part of her disliked her friend being upset, another worried for their future as a team.

Across from her sat Arthur, his brow was furrowed, eyes locked to the mug he clasped like it’d personally wronged him. He had barged in, said he had trouble with Estelle, and asked if she could help him. Foolishly, probably from exhaustion, she’d agreed.

Though, that wasn’t the entire truth.

A memory ghosted through her thoughts: Estelle oddly vulnerable, confessing to something Clara herself had dealt with. It felt good to help her, and their interaction nearly bordered on friendly— almost enough for her to not mind being friends with the noble. Almost. Time would tell if their relationship shifted further.

Clara raised the cup to her lips, sipping. Jasmine was a wonderful flavor— one that she almost let herself drink regularly. Which made the occasions she did drink it either celebratory, or to cheer herself up.

She decided that the headache was from the latter, rather than the increasingly late hour. The clock above the sink read a quarter from midnight. Arthur fidgeted, picking up the mug, before setting it back down once more. He hadn’t taken a sip yet.

“So?” Clara prompted. “Something came up?”

Arthur gnawed on his lip, before turning a conflicted look on her. “What does love look like?”

“Huh…?” Clara blinked, before scrutinizing his expression. It wasn’t a joke— he was deadly serious, if the horribly troubled look was anything to go by.

"Well…” she began. “It looks like giving gifts to other people… caring for them when they’re upset, comforting them through words or gestures… It’s… uh, sharing a burden, to put it succinctly…?”

Arthur paused, his mouth falling closed as they trailed into silence. After a minute, Clara drained the last dregs of her tea, and went to pour herself another cup.

“Well.” Clara swallowed the urge to sigh. “Can you tell me what she specifically said that’s bothering you?”

Arthur swallowed, hands tightening on his mug. She worried that he was going to shatter it, but after a heartbeat, he let out a slow breath and loosened his grip. He began, voice quiet and pained: “I… I should probably start from the beginning.”

“Briefly.”

Arthur blinked at her, before nodding. “Yes— right. Uhm— it was right after we had that appointment with the Gilded Cage… uh, dinner went fine, but for some reason she was really mean to Elle. Like, a lot of it went over my head… but Elle stormed out at the next stop. I still don’t…” He trailed off, before sipping at his mug. “So, after she stormed out, I… was kinda shocked— like I’ve never seen Elle get that angry, you know?”

Clara hummed in agreement.

“Anyway— while I was deciding, the Warden told me that she’d be in touch, and then got up and left, so I ran after Elle, right? Then, when I got there, she was…” Arthur’s voice slowed, and Clara could see his eyes glistening. “She was making that face, you know— the one where she’s in pained but doesn’t really want to show it?”

“Mhm.”

“So— so I ask her if everything’s okay— and if— if there’s anything I can do to help—“ Arthur choked down a sob “— and she keeps telling me it’s okay and she’s just tired and everything’s okay— then— then she started crying and— and she just— I… I don’t know where I went wrong?” His voice cracked. “Clara— she, she said that I was pitying her.”

Clara paused, before nodding. “You do seem to… care a lot more for her than others.”

“That’s just because she’s my best friend!”

She raised a brow. “Does she see it that way?”

Despair shot through Arthur’s face. “I— I don’t know… she… she started talking about something about how she… had to be my friend.”

She paused, her mug halfway to her lips. “… What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She… talked about how she made an Oath when we were kids.”

Clara blinked. “Excuse me? An Oath? To be your friend?”

“No— no, Angels, no,” Arthur hastily corrected. “It’s related to her… research. Dimensionalism.”

An oath was absurd— and absolutely foolish. In hindsight though, what she actually made an Oath for was infinitely more difficult than the alternative.

“Uhm… yeah— I don’t really know how being my friend played a role in it, other than to keep me nearby…”

“Fate, maybe?” Clara suggested, taking a long sip from her mug. “But go on.”

“Yeah… so then I didn’t really know what to say, and Elle stopped crying, but I can’t— I don’t know…”

“So— to get this straight: the dinner went poorly, enough so that Laurent stormed off. You chased her, only for her to breakdown into tears about her Oath… how does pity…”

Oh, Clara realized. Arthur’s got a hero complex— Laurent knows it too.

“So,” she began, “you’re asking me how to show her that you aren’t caring for her out of pity?”

“… Yeah— I just— I just don’t understand— I never asked more if she didn’t want to tell me, but it feels like not asking hurt her even more…”

“Well— Sorry, Arthur, but I’m just as stumped as you are. I don’t know her well enough to give you a good answer. But, I do know that if you don’t talk to her things will get worse, most likely.” For the second time, Clara drained her mug of tea. The clock was a quarter from one, now. The headache had gone away, or, at the very least lived on as background noise that she tuned out. She swirled the last drops of tea within her mug. The dregs clung to the bottom.

“So what’re you planning to do?” Clara asked, glancing back up.

Arthur stood up. “… I’m gonna talk to her.”

“Are you sure that’s what she wants?”

“I—“ Arthur faltered. “I… I don’t know…”

“I think— give her some time, Arthur.”

“What if… what if backing off here is the wrong thing to do?”

“What if showing up on her doorstep is the wrong thing to do?” Clara raised a brow. “The wounds are still raw, Arthur. Give yourselves time to cool off. You’ll have to talk, eventually.”

“You really think so?”

“Nothing good comes from hasty action—“ Clara waved a hand “— ‘haste makes waste’, and all that. And neither of us have enough information to make an assessment either way.”

“O… okay… Uhm. Thank you, Clara.”

[][][]

My eyes snapped open, my cheek cushioned by the harsh, jagged stone, and the rest of my body feeling like it’d been dragged through a rock tumbler. An onslaught of noise echoed behind me, hammering with the headache I felt. The sound was barely louder than my own heart, which pounded painfully in my ear.

Immediately, I shot to my feet— or at least tried to— I sucked in a breath of chalky air and stumbled to cough as my hand reached out for the wall. My hand grabbed onto a chunk of stone, which fell from the wall as I fell with it.

It took me a shamefully long time to actually get up, but by the time I did, the headache had become not so head-splitting, and I could breathe properly. My eyes shakily scanned the hallway I stood in, before stopping on the doorway I’d seemingly tumbled through.

Penelope. Screaming. Injured people— lots of injured people. Fight— fight. I’m in the middle of the fight— this— This is the audience chamber. The Emperor is dead— the Crown shattered— the fight didn’t seem to be progressing any further, the Emperor was slumped and unmoving in his throne, and my mother’s band seemed too preoccupied with themselves.

I tore my gaze away, slumping roughly against the wall, breathing out heavily, trying desperately to wrangle my senses back into array. My mind rapidly flicked through my experiences, placing them within context and fitting them within the larger picture.

I’d taken a request to perform a Memoir on a woman named Penelope Oliver—

Penelope Oliver— Soldier of the Silver Flower Company, who I’m performing a Memoir upon, for an undisclosed archival organization. The assigned request was to locate and document the source of the Enchantment in the last days of the Coup. My hand fished through my pocket for the bead of glass, and found it on the ground instead, thankfully intact and not fully formed—

— and I’d never escaped. I realized with muted dismay. I never left the memory— simply thought I had due to how seamless that secondary dream had felt. I— the pulse must have caught me just before I reached the door.

I roughly staggered back through the doorway I’d crashed through— half to ground myself in the facts of my situation, half because I needed to sit down, and a small room seemed safer to my concussed senses than an open hallway. Such a decision quickly lent itself to regret as I came to reassess and contextualize the audience chamber below me.

Penelope had collapsed across the broken marble, like a puppet with cut strings, her longsword forgotten beside her. I knew she was alive. Nearby, Talon had fallen to sit against another fallen column of marble, hunched. His blades lay across the floor. Farther away, Maple had a hand around my mother’s shoulder, whose face was buried in her hands. There was someone laying at their feet. Maple gently rocked my mother, before tugging her away to sit down. That ‘someone’ was my father. I couldn’t see the wound that marred him, but he didn’t move.

I think I stared. I’m not sure for how long, no one was really moving. At some point, my pocket watch clicked, and the world tumbled out from under me.

I came to in a dreary rehabilitation room. It was a sad facsimile of a real bedroom, all cozy wooden floors and old drapes and nightstands and shelves holding washed out photos and still little figurines. It did nothing to hide the wide metal bars that ran along the edges of the room, meant to hold onto in case one lost their balance, or the bolts holding the furniture down, or the railings on the bed frame, propped up by machinery that would prop Penelope up. It didn’t hide the IV drip that connected to her arm, tucked away into a corner behind a halfway flimsy patterned drape.

The slow drip of these details did nothing for the pain in my head. I scrunched my eyes shut, feeling as though molten ice picks had been shoved through my eyes and stirred around in my brain. In the absence of the ash-laced atmosphere of the memory— I got it’s aftertaste: a burning heat akin undercut by a hint of sulfur. The air tasted wrong, somehow. Too clean, too sterile, too gentle. Breathing felt sharp, my skin tingled like the whole of it had fallen asleep, and everything burnt like I’d caught a fever. Coating all of it was an insidious numb, like a weak sedative slow-dripped into my blood with each stab of pain. Atop the pain, I barely had the coherency to think, much less remember what it was I had to do next.

Admittedly, it took me some time before the pain subsided, until I had the wherewithal to realize that someone was calling my name. I slowly cracked open an eye.

The nurse from Penelope’s bedside had come to mine, instead, a look of deep concern on their face. I swallowed, a horrible little seed of deja vu squirmed in my chest. They began again: “Uhm… Lady Estelle. Do you need any assistance?”

…

“We’ve taken the liberty of calling a carriage for you, if you do not mind, Lady Estelle.” The receptionist’s tone was polite, and I hardly spared them a glance before muttering my thanks and staggering out the door.

Walking back out into Tisali proper felt like walking into a thorn bush— it hurt, certainly, the cold stung and nettled on my senses, seeping into my clothes and burning my lungs. Though, the stems and flowers were soft— the cold dampened and settled over that horrible sense of discomfort. It dragged my meager attention away— let me concentrate on it rather than the deja vu. Though, the impression of Tisali over the plateau’s horizon hung wrong. The tall, elegant spires and clocktowers and airship docks were framed in moonlight, not starlight, overlooking illuminated streets flanked by water. Plumes and strings of black smoke rose into the distant dark, joining the clouds. Pale slights of light dotted the sleeping city.

Too sharp, too wrong, wrought by an unkind hand, planned and built for calculated slaughter, rather than soft imprisonment.

I pinched between my eyes, letting out a sigh. My head hurt. Everything hurt, really, but my head hurt the most.

The coachman opened up the door to the carriage, and offered me a hand. Absently, I took it.

…

I coughed, pain flaring in my throat when I stepped off the carriage. With a crack and a neigh, the carriage rattled off into the dark. Past the elegant fence, my estate looked foreign, lonely and dark. The windows were dark, the beams seemed to sag beneath the snow, and the moss and ivy were pale corpses, frozen stiff to the walls. I stayed a moment, eyes trailing to the front door. It remained closed, no one came to the gate to greet me. I had half a mind to look up— the moon was in full swing, and the stars were small, normal pinpricks. My pocket watch read an hour past midnight.

I placed a numb hand on my gate, and pushed. It opened without protest.

…

I walked through the lobby I’d once danced with Arthur in, spelled lights flickering on as I came into range. I ascended the stairs and past the table I had celebratory dinner at, and the lights flickered out. I drifted like a ghost past the doors that led out to the balcony, ignored the door to my bedroom, the entrance to my library, and padded down the carpet into a section of my house I barely used.

…

Sitting on the table beside my head, my pocket watch’s silver hand spun deeper and deeper into witching hour.

My bags and cloak lay discarded, half forgotten on the back of the couch I reclined on. I stared out the large, nearly floor-to-ceiling that occupied one of my living rooms. The wintery lawn outside looked suspended in stasis. Like a bug caught in slowly thawing ice.

…

“Un-nerved,” I tested the word in the static silence, dragging out each sound. It didn’t sound right. It just felt as if everything was wrong; like I’d grown to ignore a noise in the background, only to really notice it when it vanished. If I cared to squint hard enough, I half-expected the seams along the walls to start becoming undone, to sharpen before growing fuzzy like my reality were a dream.

You’re readjusting to the dissonance between the time differential, rationale supplied. There’s nothing more to it— you’ve never sat in a dream for months at a time. Readjustment is natural— if you look for them, you’d surely find similar cases.

“Dis-orien-tated.”

The word echoed into the silence, with no reply.

…

This isn’t healthy.

“Quiet, quiet,” I quietly chided into the dark. My hands were calm, methodical. They didn’t shake as I hugged the scavenged bottle close to myself, wrapped the head in a towel I’d repossessed from my kitchen, and gently, glacially, tugged the cork out.

Then, I tipped over a generous amount into the tall glass I’d taken alongside the towel, and set the bottle and the cork to the side.

You don’t even drink.

…

I tipped the bottle upside down and gently shook. Only a drop came out. I frowned, before picking up the glass to lap at the final drop of champagne. It tasted of lacking. I set the empty bottle down, then set the empty glass beside that. At some point, I’d transitioned from laying down to sitting up, cross-legged with a blanket wrapped around myself.

Outside, the dawn had just begun to crack the horizon, starting the slow death of the stars. The utterly normal, mundane stars, which were not eight-pointed, or giant, or luminous or brilliant in their effulgence. Their death was stained in pale reds and fading oranges, in brilliant, champagne-gold light.

I wasn’t in a dream, anymore.

When the first of my sobs wracked through my chest, I did nothing to stop them, letting the tears drip and dribble onto my soot-stained clothes.