I watched from my corner as Mother prepared the thren, directing Brons to adjust the lighting for the third time. The functionaries had spent hours cleaning the already spotless space. The table was cleared of the usual clutter, the chairs were aligned, and Rashala’s toy chest gleamed.

The functionaries themselves stood in neat rows, Yeller at the front. Its sensor eye glowed an unusually bright yellow. The older models filled the remaining spaces, their joints whirring softly as they moved.

When everything met her standards, Mother brought Rashala to her place at the table.

Larkin entered. His first steps were tentative, as if he was uncertain of our gravity, which had been weak of late. But he adjusted quickly, becoming more assured with each stride. The functionaries tracked his progress as he moved.

"Welcome to Voidhold Zero," Mother said, her voice warmer than I had ever heard it. "We are honored by your presence."

Larkin bowed deeply. "The honor is mine, Lady Mira."

Mother's smile widened at the unearned title. "You must be weary from your journey through the void. Please, be at ease."

As he straightened from his bow, Rashala shifted in her seat. Brons moved closer to her. My sister's hands were clenched in her lap, but she maintained her pose.

"Brons," she said, her voice loud in the formal quiet. "What is my proper response?"

Mother's smile tightened. "My dear, one does not ask such things openly."

"But I must know," Rashala insisted. "Brons, tell me!"

"The proper response," Brons said, its storyteller's voice pitched low, "is to acknowledge his presence and offer a greeting of your own."

Rashala nodded, her lips pursing. "Thank you and welcome," she said to Larkin, far too quickly.

I watched his reaction carefully. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, perhaps confusion—but his face remained pleasantly neutral. His eyes took flickered as they took the thren. The worn tiles in the flooring, the faded maintenance panels, the empty alcoves.

"You are most gracious," he said to Rashala. Then, with perfect timing, he turned back to Mother. "I understand that I am to assist in strengthening the bloodline of this noble house."

Mother's pleasure was palpable. "Yes, indeed. Our line must continue, must grow stronger." Her eyes glittered. "We have such hopes for the future, now that you are here."

I noticed how her gaze lingered on him, taking in every detail of his form, as if she wasn’t even seeing a person.

The loss of our turret was now clearly forgotten.

"But you must rest first. Shade," Mother said. "Show our guest to his quarters. Room 315 has been prepared."

✾

I led Larkin through the corridors, trying not to look at him. He moved differently from anyone I had ever seen, with a slow, fluid grace.

"Your functionaries," he said softly as we walked. "May we talk of them?"

"Yes," I said, thinking it an odd question.

A small smile touched his lips. "They're older models than ours. But they move more smoothly."

"They have been with us a long time."

"And they've adapted to your specific needs?" His voice was careful, probing without seeming to probe.

"They serve as they always have," I replied, matching his tone.

"Your functionaries seem... different from what I expected. The way they move, the way they..." He made a gesture toward his own shoulder, then dropped his hand. "On Voidhold Four, protocol is more... stringent."

I thought about Oren's gentle hand-holding, about how even Yeller's discipline was more sound than fury. "They maintain order," I said carefully, "but they do show kindness."

His sharp intake of breath surprised me. "Kindness?" he said. "That's not a word I’ve heard often in relation to functionaries. They are always so…precise.”

The word, precise, and the way he said it...yes, like Yeller in the White Room, its movements methodical and sure.

We continued in silence. Room 315 was three levels up, far from the family spaces. I wondered if that was deliberate, keeping him isolated until he was needed.

"Your veil," he said. "Is it a custom here?"

I touched the edge of the fabric. "It is my custom."

"Just yours?" He fell into step with me, though still maintaining a careful distance. "I noticed neither your mother nor sister wear one."

My hand dropped from the veil. "It was made for me."

"Made for you," he repeated. His eyes studied the fabric, and I wondered what he saw – the fine weave, the bio-sealed edges.

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"Was it a choice?"

The question was direct, unexpected. In our voidhold, no one asked such things. Even Father, in his more lucid moments, had never questioned my veil.

"Some things are not discussed," I said, my voice carrying the same quiet warning that Oren used when I asked too many questions.

But Larkin, it seemed, had not been trained to heed such warnings. "On Voidhold Four, marks of difference always had meaning. Purpose." His eyes found mine. "Sometimes punishment."

I stopped walking. We were near Room 315 now, in a section of corridor I rarely visited. "You ask many questions for someone who has just arrived."

"And you avoid them skillfully." A hint of something like approval crept into his voice. "They told me this voidhold would be... different. That I should watch, learn, adapt. But they didn't mention you."

"There was no reason to mention me." I started walking again. "I am only human-present."

"No," he said, following. "You're much more than that. You understand too much to be what you pretend to be."

The words were dangerous. I turned to face him. "Room 315 is just ahead. You should rest. The journey has tired you."

His lips curved slightly. "Another deflection." He glanced down the corridor, then back at me. "Will you answer my questions another time?"

"When protocol permits."

At Rom 315, I pressed my hand to the panel. The door slid open, revealing the space that would be his cage. It was larger than Rashala's quarters, with a bed, a caninet and a table and chair, and a modest viewport. Larkin went to stand in the centre, turning slowly, his eyes wide.

"It's enormous," he said, walking to the viewport. Outside, Mosogon’s purple winds churned. "In Voidhold Four, I had just enough space to lie down and to stand up." He turned, his face shadowed. "We lost most of our habitable space twenty years ago. There was a…failure. The aerostats failed, and we lost pressure in three sections. A lot of people...well, the functionaries saved who they could, but after that, survival required absolute compliance." His hand went to his shoulder again.

"You'll have a functionary assigned to you," I said. "For your personal needs."

He nodded. "Your voidhold is remarkable. So much space. So much potential." He walked slowly to the wall, his hand resting against it. "Do you know what's out there?"

"I think...I've heard there are other voidholds," I said, playing my part. "Like yours."

He smiled, but not at me—at some private thought. "Yes. Many." His eyes kept moving across the wall's surface, searching for something. "There should be marks here, somewhere, from before. When all the voidholds were still..." He caught himself. "When things were different."

"Different?"

"When Voidhold One was still with us. Before it was lost." He glanced at me sharply. "Have you heard of One?"

I looked away. "Brons tells stories sometimes."

His voice remained casual. "Your functionaries, do they maintain records? Archives?"

I lowered my eyes. "I don't know."

He let his hand fall from the wall. "I see that I have much to learn about this place. Perhaps you could help me understand it better?"

"I serve as needed," I said.

"Yes, you do." He smiled again, this time warm and encouraging. "Tell me, Shade, in your service—have you ever found places they don't go? Spaces that seem...overlooked?"

The question felt dangerous, like Rashala when she looked at Mother’s needles with a glint in her eyes. "The functionaries maintain all necessary areas."

"Of course they do." His smile faded. "Thank you for showing me my quarters. I'm sure we'll speak again soon."

It was a dismissal, kindly meant. I nodded silently and left him to his enormous room, his plans, his dreams of whatever lay beyond the storm.

Behind my veil, I felt a flutter of something I couldn't name. A worry, or an unmade gasp. I was the quiet shadow, the obedient presence. It was wrong of me to have paid such attention to him, his careful words, and the way he spoke of things beyond our walls.

It wasn't my place to know so much.

✾

After leaving Larkin, I made my way to the Garden Room. It was not part of my duties, but the functionaries allowed me this small comfort. The door slid open with a soft hiss, releasing warm, humid air scented with green things.

Our garden was small but precisely maintained, with plants arranged on a labyrinthe of walls with vegetation cascading down them. The blue-white growth lights cast shadows through the leaves, making the space feel larger than it was.

"Greetings, Shade." Turq, the garden functionary, moved silently among the plants, its rough, aqua-coloured frame almost invisible against the foliage.

I touched one of the purple flowers that grew near the entrance. Mother had once called them unnecessary – everything here was technically unnecessary, as Redd provided all required nutrition – but the functionaries maintained the garden anyway. Perhaps even they understood that humans needed more than mere survival.

The familiar scents and sounds helped settle my thoughts. Larkin's presence had disrupted our careful patterns in ways I couldn't yet understand. I found myself wondering about other voidholds and their gardens, what plants might grow there.

"Shade." Turq's soft voice interrupted my thoughts. "Your sister approaches."

I turned toward the door just as Rashala burst in, her face flushed.

"What did he say about me?" she demanded. "That Larkin."

"He said very little, dear sister. He was tired from his journey."

"Liar!" She moved closer. "You were gone too long. What did you talk about?"

"We discussed the functionaries. The size of his room. Nothing more."

Rashala's eyes narrowed. "But did he ask about me? About..." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "About us?"

I shook my head.

"Brons!" she called suddenly.

The functionary entered the garden. "How may I assist?"

"Tell me what he's supposed to do. What I'm supposed to do. Mother won't explain properly." Rashala's voice had taken on a higher pitch, the one that usually preceded violence.

"The protocols for marriage and procreation are—" Brons began.

"No!" Rashala stamped her foot. "Tell me what it's really like. You have records, don't you? Of other marriages? Other voidholds?"

"I have access to historical data," Brons confirmed. "However—"

"Then tell me!" Rashala grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "And make her stay and listen too. She needs to know what she’ll be missing, hidden behind that ugly veil."

"Rashala," Brons said, its tone shifting to the one it used for storytelling. "Perhaps we should discuss this in your quarters."

"No. Here. Now." Her grip tightened on my arm. "Tell us about the last marriage. The one between Father and Mother."

I tried to steady my breathing. Rashala's moods were dangerous.

"The last marriage," Brons began, "was between your father and your mother, who was a woman from Voidhold Three. Their protocols—"

"I hate protocols!" Rashala released me with a push. "I hate all of this! I want...I want to..."

"What?" I asked quietly.

Rashala stared at me as if she'd forgotten I could speak. "Someone... weaker."

I thought of Larkin's scars, of the careful way he moved. "He has his own kind of weakness."

"What do you mean?" Rashala grabbed me again, but differently now – hungry for information rather than violence.

"Observe him yourself," Brons interjected smoothly. "That is part of the protocol. You will have many opportunities to learn about each other before--"

"More protocols! Always protocols." She turned away. "Come on, Brons. Let's go."

As they left, I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself. I hadn't expected to see my sister begging me for information like that. It made her more dangerous, somehow. More unpredictable.

I hurried back to my duties, trying not to think about the storm beyond the viewport or the way his voice changed when he spoke of other voidholds. Such things were not for me to wonder about.