saving everyone else from giant monsters

cihro: read it, thinks it's fine, prefers much trashier stuff that's local that he can dramatically read out loud to annoy his loved ones. the worse, the better

crow: refuses to read it and is very superior about that fact

cadiana: started reading it, was like 'I could put oskar in his place' cuz they prefer submissive men, then forgot to keep reading or found something more interesting to them

genevieve: not really interested because the characters feel a bit too young to her, she prefers romances in her age range, plus her name is too close to guinevere

iona: indifferent; doesn't care to read it cuz she mostly reads lesbian fiction

nepenthe: started reading it on the caravan ride to rexxentrum to get a better idea of what was culturally popular but got bored, plus they mention a cult with a spider symbol and she was like "excuse me?"

union: union is easily moved by a love story and lyrical prose so I think he liked it; I think it's a good book for bi folks so they can swoon over both love interests

vesuria: tried picking it up but got annoyed at oskar so stopped reading it cuz she was like "I'D treat guinevere like the lady she is, she even kisses girls!"

She turned, expecting a halfling or gnome—she was used to people her height or taller—but it was a human boy, shedding his baby fat and taking the first steps into something lean and fast. He was modestly dressed like most people in the Tangles, neither rich nor poor, growing up on a decent living.

She blinked. After he'd regained his balance he blinked back, eyes doubling in size, little lungs working.

"Sorry," he said belatedly.

"No trouble," she said.

"That's a big sword," he rushed out.

"As big as you and probably half as light," she said with a smile.

His eyes bulged bigger, twin spots of sun twinkling in them. "Half as light?"

"She's probably about five pounds, give or take; she's elven made."

"She?" he prodded. "Your sword's a girl?"

"Vidrinath."

"What does that mean?"

"It means 'lullaby' in my language."

"Oh! My mama sings those to me." His brow twisted in puzzlement. "What language is that? Why lullaby?"

Nepenthe opened and closed her mouth. This, she was less willing to explain—soon he'd be old enough to train on a weapon. What that weapon was for the parents' or him to decide, be it one of farming the land, defending the city, an instrument for busking, or something she hadn't considered.

"Do you have a guardian nearby?" she asked instead. "Any friends you're out with?"

"Ruben!" A woman jogged over in answer, all attention trained on him. The mother—assuming so given they shared the same eyes and curly hair—gently took his arm. "Apologies, miss, he's—" She glanced up into Nepenthe's face under her hood and the words burnt up fast as dry brush, colour draining from her cheeks. Nepenthe raised an eyebrow.

"It's alright," she said. "Kids are learning how to take up space, aren't they?" She aimed another smile down at him. "Ruben's very curious."

"Come along," the woman whispered to her son, whisking him away, glancing askance at Nepenthe on the way for good measure.

"Bye," Ruben said, almost like a question.

Nepenthe frowned. Any sweetness from the interaction soured from the naked dislike. Mistrust she could accept, she nurtured a healthy amount for every stranger, and she understood wariness for someone armed to the teeth, but not dislike. Dislike rode on assumptions.

Ironic, the kid would've been safer with Nepenthe more than the mother, but only in the short term. She wasn't about to piggyback a child into a battle, but if any dangers came at them, Nepenthe would stand between them.

It occurred to her that Ruben must've been born after the war of Ash and Light, not even seen a decade of summers and winters. Her mind cycled through wild guesses: did the parents shelter the knowledge from him, or warn him of drow? Had he defied her wishes and latched onto the first drow he saw? Neither? It was too short a meeting to come to any conclusions, just one of the many tastes of what Rexxentrum had to offer.

—

She restrained her expression until Maes retreated back into the shelter. The lashing wind threatened to extinguish her cigar so she cradled it close, her extremities numbing. She didn't want to know what she looked like—a picture in anguish.

She was half-tempted to chuck the finished nub into the woods and burn it all down in the hope of spotting Azul among the ashes. Instead, she dropped it to the cleared path and crushed it under her heel with a crude amount of force.

Frequency illusion, chance, or fate—that she'd stood where her daughter had only three weeks prior felt like one of the three. Vierna had explained frequency illusion to her before: a bias where you noticed a pattern of something after recently becoming aware of it. Vierna had written about Azul potentially being in the Empire and here was proof not two days later.

Nepenthe was more a believer of faith than accidents, but even Vierna would probably connect the two as more than coincidence. The account we were given does not hold together, and you know what I do with a result that does not hold.

Nepenthe wanted to reach back through time and guide her own hand into writing what she knew now: our daughter was here. She uses a false name.

Ghosts of the interaction the children had described haunted her: Azul ducking through a door frame too short for her, taking up one of the worn wooden chairs, warming herself by the fire, her inevitable gratitude for their hospitality, her blood on the floor. She'd been hurt and Nepenthe hadn't been there to help her.

Disgust flicked its snake tongue at her. Did the foul Arch Heart not grant her the magic to heal herself as Lolth had? She stuffed her hands under her armpits for warmth.

Had they crossed paths in Rexxentrum without her knowing? Had Azul caught word of what Nepenthe's group had been up to? Did she know about Velkyn? What was her goal?

Did she miss her? Tears stung her eyes but instantly froze on her lashes—she hastily pinched them away.

Nepenthe had no way of immediately telling Vierna unless she asked Derval to send a message. All she could think to ask without revealing the depth of the issue was "She was in the Empire" and assume Vierna would understand.

It never occurred to her on the long wagon ride over that she'd be the only one serving something greater than herself. Nepenthe didn't worship Lolth strictly for power—she did it because it was right. Magic was a fortunate side-effect; the strength of her body had always been her own, only bolstered by her goddess.

Anwir had spent years with Velkyn but lacked commitment—it felt like she always had one foot out the door. Maes lacked patience. It seemed that only through Derval, Omega, and her they had recently surged into success.

That, or luck—or, she thought reluctantly, their synergy. She knew a well-oiled team could make or break a mission. A weak link had the power to undo them all and Velkyn must've discarded the ones that had broken and forged something stronger with the remains. Even with her varying opinions on her cell as individuals, she couldn't deny they fought well together.

The swan-like elegance of Ysmerelda's cane reminded her of the steady tap of Vierna's around the house. The blade nestled inside, too—how Vierna was a hidden weapon with her mind, her magic, her poisons.

Nepenthe had never had to miss her this way before: interminably, in strange and new ways. There had always been a clear end to her missions resolving with her in Dumaran or dead. She supposed that was still true, only it'd been drawn out by time and distance. Her ultimate goal—Lolth's goal—was perennial, but under Velkyn the scope of it kept evolving before her eyes.

The Children mostly tackled their purpose alone, but they had been alone together. She still had them, but the miles between them effected the weight of her task. There was a delay in their support.

They stopped by a few familiar stalls to collect food for their picnic, Dicentra on Uly’s arm and a wicker basket looped through Dicentra’s elbow. The shopkeepers turned pink whenever Di spoke, pleased as punch whenever they were rewarded a smile or laugh. They snagged the odd free item that way and got a discount for others—all to see Dicentra glow. Dicentra was effortlessly charming even without the use of her magic.

Some recognized her and reached out to touch her hand as they passed food into the basket’s mouth. “Miss Rosenthal, we missed you. Your family said you’d taken ill.”

Dicentra beamed. “No need to worry, I’m ill no more.”

There was a difference for Uly, too. She hadn’t gone into town much since the ritual, preferring the seclusion of Jhira’s cottage and its fields or beach while they adjusted to their new body. 

Ulysses used to disappear next to Dicentra. It never bothered her, but now people spared her a glance—apprehension, other times curious or admiring, sometimes even jealousy, but always with something. It reminded her of when she’d first arrived on the Material Plane, how people could just sense the off-ness about her. 

Having Dicentra on her arm made her feel like the luckiest person on the peninsula. With the surety of their bond and the devoted affection of a devil, she felt unstoppable. Nobody could overlook her anymore. Power had a tangibility, and some of Dicentra’s had shed off on her. It was in her blood now.

Goods collected, they broke away from the town along the road—north from Flora Isle, away from vacationers and tourists. When the murmur of civilization receded into the whispers of birdsong and wind over willowy grass and distant waves, Dicentra sighed.

“I’m sorry I was delayed,” she said, squeezing closer. “You probably already guessed, but it was my father. Logistics and things. He expected me to eventually return to the Hells, but not because I'd be regenerating.”

“I thought so.”

“He was displeased about the sword, to put it mildly—but he doesn’t know enough about the magic to risk unmaking it in case it could harm me, and as I said before, it’s easier to ask for his forgiveness than permission. I knew he wouldn’t punish me or even blame you for making a pact with me. I think a part of him privately thinks I’m using you, or hopes so.”

“So he won’t turn up and try to kill me?”

“Not without a better cause. He knows you’re more useful now than before. I expect him to turn up, just not to hurt you.” ‘Again’ hovered in the air like a biting fly. 

"What can I expect, then?"

"He may want to use your new magic for different work here on the Material Plane."

Ulysses sighed. "Anything to get in his good graces."

Dicentra stroked their arm. "Don't say anything. Save that for me."

"Jhira wants to know when we'll head back to Port Damali."