Near Enough

My dearest friend was always fascinated by the world beneath our feet.

Once, while cradling a handful of earth, much to my profound humiliation, he loudly proclaimed to hold in his palms the seeds of the very origins of our universe.

I couldn’t help but be charmed by his ardour, though.

A lifetime ago, I dreamt of a great city of stone.

Traversing his latest excavation project, I realised these streets were the same ones I walked in my dream, the same spiralling patterns I saw then, now crumbling and lain to waste.

He told me the people who lived here kept no records.

They had no need for them.

He believes they communicated telepathically, and that a disease that ravaged their minds spread throughout their population like a plague, leading to the downfall of what could have grown to be a civilisation so grand that it might have rivalled our own, had it only had the chance.

I felt a great sense of loss, the melancholy absence of the unrecoverable, deeper than any sorrow I had known in life thus far.

I don’t know why. In another life, was I perhaps among their number? Was that why this place held significance to me?

I couldn’t answer those questions, but I was moved by the experience.

From this moment was the notion of Mneme born.

🌒︎

Aether congealed and took form. Vestigial limbs without dextrous extremities extended from the creature’s central mass, and several sets of delicate wings held them aloft. Bright, curious eyes of varying number drank in a vibrant world, opening and closing asynchronously, and four tall ears stood to attention.

Ethereal and otherworldly, the being settled into their shape and examined themself. They were barely there.

He knelt down before them, and immediately regretted making them so small, for he intended to set them an immense task.

“Mneme,” he intoned gently. “This is the name I gave you.”

I am… Mneme.

They spoke directly to his mind with the voice of a child. They had no mouth, for it would only hinder their objective.

“I am Hypnos,” he told them, hand pressed to his heart.

Hypnos…

“There’s something I need your help with, if you would lend me your aid.”

I will do as you ask.

“This vast world is home to many people. All of them unique, precious. Each of them has a story to tell.” He smiled fondly. “They harbour hopes, desires, and dreams in their hearts. In their multiplicity, they represent countless cultures, volumes of unwritten histories. For a tragedy, they are fated not to last. They will expire, and the ink they penned their tales with is doomed to fade to time.”

The weight of sentiment pulled at him.

“I ask you—I plead, I beg: Seek out these treasures, and remember them. See to it that the pages never crumble to dust. Hold fast to what time will forget. Your habitat is the heart. Your domain, dreams. Your empire, the mind. You are eternal, Mneme.”

I must do this alone?

“No, my dear work. That would be impossible. There will be many like you. You will be as a living library. I will be your steward, your archivist, for as long as I shall last. Together, we’ll dream of what we mustn’t allow to be lost.”

🌔︎

There is a part of me that knows I am a twisted shadow of what I was and could have been. That part is me.

Cruel, selfish, spiteful. 🡒This, I won’t deny.

Was I always like this? 🡒No, you weren’t.

Where have I gone? 🡒You lost your way.

Where is the version of me that you loved? 🡒He was transformed, an aeon ago.

And who are you? 🡒I know his name. You need only but ask.

I could dream for the lifetime of a star—and I would never remember. 🡒But I will, for you asked me to.

You’re gone, aren’t you? 🡒He gave himself with the selfless.

Isn’t it only natural that all I ever was would follow suit? 🡒It need not be so.

🌕︎

It was past dawn when she woke. She was tired, delirious. She had been following the trail of those like her for several suns. There hadn’t been a drop of water to drink since her stop at the spring, before she set off. Ahead of her, the earth was barren and cracked.

A flat horizon blended with the sky above, reflecting distant mountain peaks and near dune against a shimmering, perfect lake of light that never got any closer. She knew there was no lake there, no water. It was still where she was sworn to go, though pressing on further promised only death.

Stirring, her weight shifted. Scales dragged against dried mud. Her claws split the surface, sinking in, and dragged her up and onward. She had to move, or she’d bake there alive.

The sun was a blessing for her frozen blood. It warmed her through, and she could feel it hastening and invigorating her. But at its zenith, there was nowhere to hide from it. Shadows vanished, and she could feel the blistering heat of the stone beneath her through the reinforced pads of her feet. Against her belly, and through the hefty tail that dragged behind her.

Instinct urged her to hurry through the canyon ahead. Fallen stacks of stone posed little obstacle to her—she could scramble up and over them with some ease, though she wasn’t the most agile of creatures. A foothold crumbled under her weight, and she slid, rolling down into a narrow crevice.

She wasn’t hurt, though she was half-buried and had to dig herself free. It wasn’t where she wanted to be, and the clacking clatter of tumbling stones announced her to all. It had tired her, pulling herself out. She lay there and rested.

Her eyes closed. A stone dashed off the ground nearby, and fell still. She looked up, to the ledges high above her. Nothing stirred. No sound came from above.

What had she to fear, though? She was a mass of muscle and scale, with jaws that could bite through stone itself.

Shifting, she crawled back up to where she’d been before and continued. The landscape was desolate. Little could survive here. That made it the perfect location. It should have been, at least. But when you walked the razor’s edge between life and death, the smallest slip was fatal.

She found what she’d come for. A narrow nook that she wriggled her way through. It had been widened before by the force of her spines, but sand and dust shook free and rained down on her. Inside, a soft blanket of sand welcomed her, and blessed shade.

Shade and sand, but a different kind of warmth. Humid, muggy. It was here, in this narrow cave, where her treasure lay buried. On the way in, she passed a mound of stony scales. Another of her kind, another female. She’d lain there for close to a moon. Part of her was ashamed that she’d helped the desert beetles pick her bones clean, but it was the way of things here.

And she had needed her strength to continue a lost legacy.

Further in, another silhouette bristled at the sight of her. He was a hefty bull biast. Lightning crackled between his teeth, static on his breath. He settled when she drew near enough to scent. Rising, more light-footed and gentle than a creature his size should be, he carefully lifted himself away from the smooth stones nestled under him. No, not stones—eggs.

It was his turn to hunt.

They grazed scales in passing. He’d been wary of her at first, but he took to her in time. She couldn’t replace his mate, but he couldn’t do this alone. Covering the nest with her stomach, she closed her eyes and listened to him leave.

A leather-clad arm rose and welcomed her arrival. The hawk was paid for her troubles in a nibble of raw meat.

“Topaz. What’re ye doin’ here, girl?” Dayne’s bird. Griff, she supposed she should call him, for her part in who he became. “They make ye bear word o’ his death t’ me, did they.”

She’d been waiting on it since Loash apprised her of Griff’s circumstances. Either they’d kill him themselves, send him to someone who’d do the job for them, or he’d take matters into his own hands.

It had been a matter of when.

Finding the letter furled up alongside Topaz’s leg, she loosened it free and broke the seal. Her thumb unrolled it. The scent of it had survived the rains Topaz had braved. Behind her mask, she grimaced.

You always looked so happy when you laughed at one of my dumb jokes back in the day. I wonder when last you felt, well, anything.

“Fuck ye, Sven,” she muttered under her breath. “Shove yer sympathy.”

The next line made the parchment under her thumb dimple where she held it.

“Nah.”

Cadmus is dead.

“…nah.”

She’d no clue how long she was stuck there, rereading the same three words. She willed herself past them when Topaz nipped at the page corner.

Cadmus was just a man … and he paid the price for thinking otherwise.

It was a load of tripe, she had decided, but that line stuck with her.

The rest of it looked like a blur on the page. Letters smudged and blending together like chalk on wet paving. No matter how many times she read the missive, it wouldn’t make sense. Her mind was numb.

Then, she was at her desk. Topaz slept with her head tucked low against her breast. A lantern cast flickering light across the page.

The sheltered shelf had become her refuge. There was only one tent pitched there now—hers. Everyone else was gone. Everyone who mattered.

Sven, she began. The quill’s tip rested heavily against the comma. Her furore soaked through the parchment, black blood.

I don’t believe you.

And I won’t believe you until I hear you say it.

Was it possible to grieve someone you hated? What was left of her rational mind knew from experience that it began with denial. Fangs kissed the carotid as she killed that thought, strangled it between clenched jaws.

The others weren’t theirs to punish.

She wrote more legibly than she spoke, but Sven could feel her accent through the way she rendered each word, with the bold strokes and brash curves characteristic of Ala Mhigan signage… and grave markers.

They weren’t ‘just’ kids. They did what they did. And I’ll make them pay for it, every one.

Don’t tell me what kind of fight this is. I made my terms clear. You knew what it meant to break them.

The deal’s not yours to change.

When you’re back, we’ll sort this out. Face to face.

Don’t keep me waiting.

Mayvn

The letter was rolled and sealed. It was attached to Topaz’s leg, the hawk sent on her way. Mayvn watched her go.

Osric let them guide him to one of the CETEA’s quiet nooks, away from the traffic and the noise of the ship’s maintenance, far from the comings and goings of the Unsung.

“I’m going back to Eorzea.”

“What, like—we’re headin’ back?”

“-No,” they clarified hesitantly. “Just me.”

“…how? You’re- catchin’ another ship?”

“I’ll use the aetheryte in Kugane to take me back to one in the Shroud.”

“Awright. So, er, is this part o’ th’ mission?”

“I’m not going to be taking any further part in the mission.” Cillenne’s eyes fled his.

“Wh.” Osric let a nervous laugh bubble up and out of him, scratching his cheek. “Why’s that? No one knows this shite better’n you.” His eyes narrowed. “They not lettin’ you? ‘Cause if—”

They raised their hands when he bristled.

“No, Os. It was my decision.”

“Huh. Well… Why? What ‘bout Charlette. Y’can’t leave her t’ do this on her own, right?”

“She’s not on her own, Osric. She has all of the Castaways, all of the Unsung behind her.”

Frustration and bewilderment warred in his creased features as he visibly struggled to decide where to start.

“She’d want you with her. Wouldn’t she?”

“…she does. But I can’t be.”

“Why?” he demanded, volume rising.

“I’m only putting her in danger if I stay here. You’ll all be in danger.”

“So? I dun get it. This whole business is nothin’ but danger. We can’t jus’ give up an’ head home ‘cause someone might get hurt. Folk will get hurt. We could lose someone. Less chance o’ that if we got an illusionist on our side, right?”

“Osric… You don’t- mh. I’m sorry. I’m not doing a good job of explaining what I mean.”

“No, yer fucken not.”

“I’ve been assessing the CETEA’s arrivals to ensure that our thief doesn’t make it aboard again. But who’s going to be able to tell if I leave the ship and come back?”

“I… Charlette, I guess? Aren’t you helpin’ her an’ Adra with that gadget what’s s’posed t’ be able t’ tell?”

“I am, but we don’t know what our adversary is capable of. If they’re able to steal the very essence of who we are, it might not work. And if it fails, how would you know I’m me? Would you be able to tell?”

Osric’s face soured.

“I’ve told you my secrets. I’ve heard yers. If it came to it, I’d know, Lenne.”

“Can you afford to doubt yourself, even for a moment? If I’m not there, and you see a vision of me, you’ll know it can’t be me, and you’ll know what to do when that time comes.”

“Wh- this is… Lenne, hells! Any one o’ us could have their face stolen. I’d never know if Imogen, or Red, Celica, or th’ rest got replaced. How’s it different fer you? If anythin’, yer th’ only one I could tell. Are you sayin’ I don’t know you?”

“No. No, it isn’t that I’m doubting you. I’m saying that even a moment’s hesitation could cost us everything. And it isn’t only that. While the CETEA was en route, we found a trap left by our adversary.”

Osric rubbed his eyes. “Whaddya mean, a trap? Are y’okay? Was anyone hurt?”

“Cain was caught up in the aetheric detonation. He doesn’t seem to have suffered any lasting effects. Charlette was with him,” they told him, prompting a nod of relief.

“I was able to repel the direct effects. But the trap was for me, Osric. We think they set it to prevent me from helping you stop them if I’d gotten free. It responded to my magic. No one else could have set it off. Now they have the tome in their possession, who’s to say what they could do? They could set an even worse trap, and I—”

“Stop. Stop. I get what this is,” Osric scoffed. “Y’jus’ don’t want t’ bear th’ weight on yer shoulders o’ someone gettin’ hurt, right? But it’s on all our shoulders, if we stick together. No one blames you fer what happened. No one’ll blame you if this don’t end well. We’re in this together, like before.”

“They do blame me, some of them. And I can’t fault them for it. I can see it in their eyes, Osric. It’s better for everyone—”

“It’s not better fer ME!” Osric snapped, so loud he almost startled himself. He stood there trembling, both of them too stunned to speak for a beat.

“I need you. You said you’d stay.” He heard his own voice crack. “This, all o’ this, it’s ‘bo shite an’ you know it! Not knowin’ who you are, traps… all a load o’ shite. All ‘cause yer afraid. Yer a fucken coward.”

Violet shared her watery stew with him next moonrise. Antelope, mostly gristle, seasoned with nettle leaf. It was awful, and he relished every bite.

The next sun, they let her take him to the river to wash off the grime and the lice. She’d had to swallow a shriek when she moved the locks behind his ear and his scalp crawled. Apologising with every breath, she spent the next bell carefully shaving away matted hair at the root with a paring knife while he sat unshivering in the icy water, knees pulled up to his chest.

With nowhere to hide, his itchy passengers were rinsed away. Ticks were twisted ‘n’ plucked, leeches peeled off. She scrubbed him down and bundled him up in her own spare clothes, leagues too large. He said nothing the whole time, staring at her while she asked all kinds of questions and made up the answers when he wouldn’t give one.

“What was yer village like? Why did yer mum give ya up? Didn’t she want yer? Did ya do somethin’ bad? D’ya have any brothers? Sisters? Did they die? D’ya talk at all. C’mon, say somethin’. Did they take out yer tongue?” She grabbed his chin and made him open his mouth to check. He let her.

“Pff. Y’can talk. Say somethin’. ‘Ey. What’s yer name? Y’must know yer name. I’ll call ya… eh, pebble. ‘Cause rocks never say nothin’ but yer too small t’ be a rock. So yer a pebble. Like what y’get stuck in yer shoe.” She glanced at his bare feet, caked in river clay. “Oh, right. Y’need shoes. Should have some that’ll fit at the hideout. Let’s go, pebble.”

Violet took his hand and started to walk, but he dug his heels in, his hazel eyes pointed downwards. He muttered lowly, under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“Osric. I’m Osric.”

The girl cracked a smile. “Y’can talk. Knew it. I’m Violet. Like the flower. I was born while they was in bloom. It’s too late t’ see ‘em now. Turnin’ cold. But when spring comes, I’ll take ya t’ pick ‘em. What’s yer name mean?”

She walked him back to ‘the hideout’, a cluster of huts and tents lodged into the rocky, wooded hills of the South Shroud, not unlike a true hornet’s nest. The hive that dwelt there was led by a wildwood woman who styled herself their queen. All Osric had known until then was life with his siblings and his mother, but the queen wasn’t his mother, and the wasps weren’t his kin. The hive wasn’t his home.

Violet felt like a friend, though. Maybe his first.

They wasted little time putting him to work. They’d taken him in for his potential uses, not out of the kindess of their hearts. He was small and slight, which meant he was the one getting shoved into a cellar through the window to unlock doors, or helping them empty larders. He’d climb into wagons to relieve them of their goods, waded through forests of legs in crowded markets to lighten pockets.

Osric was good at it, all of it. Too good, and that was the problem. It didn’t take long for his impulses to land him in trouble. Violet was the first to find things that didn’t belong to him hidden away under his blanket. A search of his pockets turned up more.

“Y’don’t take these,” she’d warned him, waving a bejewelled bracelet in his face. “Food, I get. They don’t give ya enough.” He worked harder than half the hive, and he still only ate what he could steal and squirrel away. They wanted to keep him small. Useful. “But what would ya even do with this?”

She’d laughed. It was always kind of funny, the first time. The first few times. They tried the bracelet on his slender wrist and it looked silly, hanging there like a loose, shimmering shackle. He didn’t know what to tell her, so he just shrugged. He hadn’t even remembered picking it up or where he got it. Violet knew whose it was, so she took it back before it was missed. But it wasn’t the last time she had to cover for him, and even her patience started to wane.

“D’ya want t’ get into trouble? I’ve told ya before. Y’don’t steal from yer fellow wasps. They’re not playin’ around, Os. They’ll have ya fer this if they catch ya.” He stared at her, like he always did. It was like he got it, but if he got it, why’d he keep doing it? Her face changed. “This is why yer mother got shut of ya. En’t it.”

It hurt. He could tell she was only angry because she cared. Violet’s anger was different from his mother’s. She didn’t want to see him hurt, or tossed out to fend for himself.

“Won’t happen again,” he swore. She hit him, and he fell back into the grass. He lay there, stunned. But he understood why. It was her way of saying she didn’t believe him. Because he broke his last promise, and he was going to break this one too.

They went fishing as the colder moons set in. She taught him things he didn’t know, like how to fashion together a makeshift rod, and the kinds of bugs that were better as bait for this or that kind of fish. He didn’t have much patience for it, and he usually ended up in the river, fishing for crayfish with his bare hands.

Violet showed him how to cook their catch, starting with how to make a fire. The rocks that made the base, first. “It needs t’ breathe,” she told him. Then the right tinder, and finally how to make a spark by striking firestone. “Cook it through,” she scolded. “Fish’ll make ya sick if the middle’s not done.”

She taught him how to set snares for small game, and the mechanism for basic traps. He wanted to learn how to hunt with a bow like she did, but he wasn’t strong enough to draw back the string. His arrows nicked off the outer bark of the tree they used for target practice while hers lodged themselves ilms deep. It made her laugh until she cried every time his shot went wide, and he started doing it on purpose just to see her smile.

He didn’t get it back then; why she did all that. He figured they were just having fun together. That she was proud to teach him all the things she knew and show him how clever she was—and she was.

The take got harder. It always did through the winter moons, Violet told him. This one was leaner than most, though. Bad weather set in and buried the roads in fulms of snow. They had to travel further, and the risks were greater.

Osric was sent out to scout. He didn’t mind the cold much and it meant he got lucky finding something to eat every once in a while. A warm glow amidst the trees alerted to him to a camp’s presence. The guards were few in number and half-asleep. He snuck in, clambering onto the back of a cart laden with salted fish and meat. He ate until he felt sick, then more, until his stomach hurt. It was tempting, too tempting to doze off right there in amongst all the bundles when he was done, but he willed himself to retreat—pockets stuffed with as much as he could carry—back to the nearest outpost.

He hid his haul before reporting in, but he smuggled some mackerel for Violet. Her favourite.

The ‘stingers’, they called them, were assembled. Archers all, and Violet was among them. Following Osric’s lead, they retraced his steps back to the camp to assess numbers and the viability of their task.

It was near dawn by then, but it wouldn’t get light until late morn this season. The boy had an idea of what was going to happen when he reported in, but he’d never been there for it before. They hadn’t needed to mobilise the stingers since he was taken on. His talents had helped to keep them well-enough supplied.

But they’d missed too many meals.

They took to the trees, found their positions: Clear sight of the guards and the tents they watched over. The boy stayed on the ground, with Violet. She was down there to give chase if they sought cover. A body dropped, its fall softened by the snow. Osric watched it turn red with clinical interest.

The next shot must have missed its mark. A man’s scream pierced Osric’s ears. He sounded so pained that it made his stomach lurch, and he regretted his earlier gluttony. Figures poured out of the tents, more than he’d banked on. They were in their smallclothes but had bows in their hands, and were in various stages of hastily slinging quivers over their shoulders.

A woman dressed in a long, woollen robe with a wooden staff took stock and said—

“Leave this to me.” The staff spun, palm over wrist, and Osric flinched back and ducked low as a fierce gale billowed out from her position, scattering supplies and raising up the snow off the ground into a whirling blizzard.

“Fuck!” he heard Violet cry, but he couldn’t see her. Cold winds blew right through him, chilling him to his core. He heard dull thuds and ivory cracks from the west and north, where the stingers had been poised to strike. Blinded and panicked, he pulled up his hood to shield his head and ran.

“Violet!” he bleated, but he heard his own voice die in the gale. He leant against a tree to gather his bearings, and a whistling thunk carried an arrow deep into the bark, ilms from his ear. Peeling away, he scrambled through thick brush that snared and scratched bare skin. He grabbed a skinny sapling for support and doubled over. Each panicked gasp was being stolen from him. I can’t breathe, he realised, cold dread pouring down his back.

He couldn’t muster a scream when a powerful arm closed around his torso, thrashing in vain against their strength. He was thrown over a shoulder, and jostled as his captor ran. Drifting in and out, Osric felt the winds die, watched the snow start to settle.

“Yer safe,” was the next thing he heard, and he trusted the voice that told him so. She set him down in a snowdrift and knelt over him protectively while she surveyed the woods. “Can’t say if we lost any. We’re s’posed t’ regroup at th’ outpost if somethin’ happens. But only if we’re not bein’ followed.”

Shivering, Osric sat up and buried his face in her chest for a moment, gripping her shoulder. Fear still prickled the inside of his skin, and he shook from the itch. “I dun wanna do this again, I hate it,” he choked, breath shuddering. “I wanna go home.” He didn’t know where home was. Just that it wasn’t here.

“I know, pup.” Taking his hand, Violet rose. “C’mon. Stick with me.” Osric climbed to his feet, unsteady as a fawn. He registered the whistle too late. The arrow’s path scored his cheek and struck her chest.

─ • ─

Winds rustled and whipped at canvas as the bird swept in, her feet scraping stone to slow her descent. A few hopping bounds brought her nearer to the encampment, and her rider’s boots hit the ground before she came to a standstill.

“Mama!” a small boy bleated, waddling over to her as fast as his little legs could carry him. She bent down and scooped him up into her arms, squeezing him tight.

“Mornin’, Elb,” she cooed, laughing. “Look how ye’ve grown, lad! Last time ah saw ye, hells, ye were no bigger than a popoto.” She pretended to hold one for illustrative purposes.

“No I was-ent,” he protested, giggling.

“Oh, aye, y’were. Pulled ye up out th’ garden. Ah were goin’ t’ boil ye up fer a stew. But yer father saved ye. Where is ‘e? An’ Lin?”

Sticking his thumb in his mouth, the boy thought about it for a beat and pointed to one of the tents near the rear of the outpost. There were about a half dozen shelters pitched throughout the dusty shelf. It was shadowed by an arching stone plateau, and it overlooked the source of the water she’d crossed on her way in, some hundred fulms below.

The camp was cluttered with crated materiel and sacks of supplies. A few figures had poked out their heads and waved to note her arrival, but none approached. They got on with their work, loading up carts pointing eastward. She’d gotten back just in time.

“Run back an’ let ‘im know ah’m here. There’s a good lad.” She set the boy down, but he hesitated by her flank.

“Y’won’t go away again, mama?”

“Not fer a while, nah. Run on, now. Ah’ve got t’ pay Cirrus her fare an’ take her tack off.” With a nod, he did. She fished a hare wrapped in leather out from the lanner’s saddle pack and let the bird snatch it from her hands, swallowing it down in one. She unfastened straps and loosened buckles until the saddle and reins slid off. With an appreciative shake, Cirrus turned and hopped to the shelf’s ledge, taking off again with one beat of her mighty wings.

Opening the flap, she stepped into the tent and pulled down her feathered hood. It was spacious, with several sturdy posts propping up each wing of the interior. One curtained off, where the bedrolls lay, another for storage, and a desk at the corner, all but buried in stacked documents. The various quarters were centred around a hearth with a vent funnelled up through the tent’s peak.

“Sorry love, had my hands full.” He was wiping them down on cloth, sitting cross-legged amongst trays of chopped vegetables and salted stock fish. A girl, older than the young boy, was already on her feet and leapt at her mother the moment she saw her. She smelt of carrots and the sea; she’d obviously been helping her father.

He was next on his feet, waiting while she lifted the girl into an embrace, kissed her cheek, and set her down again. Then it was his turn to get pulled in, and the way he wrapped his arms around her and dug his fingers into her back for the longest while made her feel like he’d missed her more than the pups had.

He alone knew where she’d been.

A little black kitten mewed, weaving between their legs as it pleaded its case for becoming the centre of attention. “Well, now. What’s this?” she rumbled sternly, scooping the sooty mote of whiskers up in one hand and scowling at it with exaggerated scepticism.

Arlinda quickly took the furball from her and cuddled him protectively against her chest. “He’s called Fizzlewhiskers, and pa’ said we could keep him. We can, can’t we?”

“Tsch. We’ll see. Fizz—hells, an’ who gave ‘im that name, ah wonder…”

Her husband flushed.

They regaled her with what she’d missed while she was away over dinner and its preparations: A few more of Elbric’s firsts. It stung, but she let herself get swept up in their joy and excitement. Arlinda reeled off the names of the flora she’d learnt of from her father, their favoured places to grow, the time of year they budded and blossomed, and of course, their practical applications when crushed up and dried. She took after him with her wide-enchantment when it came to all things relating to the natural world.

Then she showed them what she’d brought back for them. For Elbric, a small wooden slingshot. He was too young for it, and her husband’s face was a pallid picture when he realised he was going to have to police his usage of it as the boy immediately started pinging little rocks around the tent. For Arlinda, a dozen pouches of seeds and special sandy soil that some of them needed to grow in. Only her little gardener could squeal with pure, earnest joy at being gifted with dirt.

“You didn’t bring anything for me,” Bertrand had pointed out, a little tender, after the dishes were cleaned away and the little ones put to bed to sleep off their meal. They were curled up together in the furs, legs entwined. She cradled his frame in her arms while he studied a new scar on her shoulder, tracing his thumb over it. The question of where it came from was in his eyes, but never made it to his lips.

“Di’n’t ah? Huh. Must’ve slipped me mind.”

Reaching behind her into the leathers she’d left in a puddle beside the bedroll, she dug around while he clicked his tongue and shoved at her middle. But he sat up, seeking a glimpse of what she was up to. Whatever she retrieved, she had it hidden away in her palm, wrapped up in a linen handkerchief. She presented it to him, letting him unravel it eagerly.

“Feels wrong t’ give ye a gift that were always rightfully yers, but…”

Bertrand found the ring, and his eyes welled up. It was a plain gold band, inscribed with angular lettering in an archaic style of Eorzean. He turned it over in his trembling hand.

“How...?”

“Cut off th’ finger o’ th’ hand what stole it.” He went pale, and she guilt stabbed her in the side.

“Gods, Bert. Jus’ a jape.” He didn’t look like he knew whether to believe her or not, but he relented, smiling, and wiped at his eyes. Sliding the ring down onto his forefinger, he admired it with contented relief. It had been returned whence it belonged, whatever the circumstances. He kissed her, always so hesitant, like he barely dared.

“Have ye missed me,” she whispered, letting him hear her smile.

“Desperately.”

Rolling, she pinned him to the bedding under her weight, and tenderly brushed dishevelled red curls from his eyes. He was the smaller and lighter of the two, half-midlander. Pretty, pale and freckled, and hers. She loved making him blush. He turned the cutest shade of pink.

“Ah’ve been thinkin’ it’s time fer another. Whaddya reckon?” His eyes lit up, but she silenced him with another kiss that led into a slow series.

“Another lass. With yer hair. Yer eyes. My fire.” His nails bit into her back. “I ferget how it’s done, Bert. Like this…?”

“Mayvn—” he shuddered.

A blade of light sliced the comfortable shadows, and she rose up, looking over her shoulder. A sniffling sob announced Elb’s arrival.

“I had- a nightmare,” the lad whimpered weakly.

“Awh, li’l love. C’mere. Let’s go fer a walk. Nah, stay ‘ere. Ah’ve got ‘im.” She urged Bertrand back down onto his elbows as he tried to get up. He sighed, combing his hair back, but smiled fondly as he watched her gather the boy up in her arms like he weighed nothing, and rocked him like she had when he was still a babe.

“Ah’ve got ye. Nothin’ll hurt ye now.” The boy hiccupped as they stepped out into the cool night air.

“Were you an’ pa’ wrestlin’?” he asked. She snorted.

“Aye.”

“Does pa’ ever win?”

She barked a hearty laugh.

The steps that carried him briskly down the dim corridor parted the stale air, carving a path for his presence. The echo of his footfalls usurped the reign silence lay claim to.

Okhi’to had always felt like the facility was insulated not only from aetheric influence, but time itself. The flow stagnated and festered, a temporal mire.

It was one of those absent thoughts that strikes you when you’re going through the motions, performing a rote task, and you start to see the poetry in mundanity. The medicus had traced this route countless times by then. If he didn’t latch onto a new thought to muse over on each occasion, he’d start contemplating other questions.

Tending to the welfare of his squadron was his purpose. It had been since he was assigned to Decurion Severan’s command as a fresh graduate of the academy. It had become a compulsion of compassion over time.

Yuyuno was his first port of call. She spent more time asking after his welfare than providing insight into her own. She asked often about the Farsent, indulged his interest in their antics.

It had taken time to find a way to synthesise the treatment she required out here in the field, but when they were able to administer a consistent dose, she’d been as well as he’d ever known her to be.

There was no salve or tonic for what ailed her heart, but work kept her from listlessness.

J’nairoh was next. They’d done this often enough that his routine had become part of hers, or something like that. Her door opened as he reached for it.

The brash, brusque, abrasive Jackal had no rightful reason to pre-empt Okhi’to’s intentions as often as she did, finish his thoughts for him, or intuit his needs. She wouldn’t know empathy if it slapped her across the face. But they’d never discussed why, and they never would.

Examinations centred around identifying areas of weakness or damage incurred during training, maintenance of the physical form. She was perhaps the only one who followed his orders to the letter.

He had his role, and she had hers.

Each part its place.

And when he left her with a fresh set of instructions, he advanced to his final port of call.

Light wanly illuminated the Decurion’s quarters, spilling out into the corridor. The sliding door was always set open. They were welcome, encouraged, to approach him at any bell for any reason. His availability was assured, though his perpetually dour demeanour deterred frivolous visits.

His chambers were pristine, if bald and bare. A workstation, immaculate. Research filed away in folders, and the codices their project was inscribed upon, neatly shelved behind. His cot in the corner, the linens ironed smooth, unwrinkled. Nothing more.

Okhi’to wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he’d never slept there.

Never was his superior anything but painfully present, alert and entirely in attendance for every moment shared in the company of others. He was indefatigable, always sharpened keen enough to cut. The medicus had never seen him flagging. He’d never let him, or any of them.

“I’ve—” He withdrew from the phonetic precipice of his next word with a soft inhalation and closed his mouth as he entered. Cadmus was draped over his desk, his cheek resting against the report he’d been penning. The quill had slipped from his fingers.

It was the first time he’d ever seen the Decurion’s features unguarded, at peace.

A knot of embarrassment twisted in his stomach. Retreating out of sight, he paused a beat, then rapped his knuckles on the door and waited one breath more.

“Decurion. I’ve come to—”

“Come in.”

Cadmus was upright, statuesque and stiff. A flickering, disoriented glance scattered across his station, then up at Okhi’to. His gaze quickly developed an accusatory edge. He knew. Licking his lips, he raked in a breath through his teeth.

“This moon’s figures,” Okhi’to explained curtly, walking the sheet pinched between his fingers over to the desk. Cadmus took it. “While I’m here, I’d like to review your physical condition if you’ve the time.”

“I haven’t.”

The same answer as ever.

“Less than last moon. Fourteen percent. We can’t afford to fall behind,” he reminded the medicus sharply as his cold stare scanned the page. “Rations have been consistently depleting for the past quarter, as well.” A questioning look pierced Okhi’to’s eyes.

“The salvagers caught sight of Wood Wailer patrols close to the ruins. They’ve had to keep a low profile.”

“Have them scout northeast. The pickings are slim and farther afield, but it’s essential that recovery proceeds apace. Essential,” he emphasised flatly. “And our stores?”

Okhi’to issued a hum of assent. “Our requisitions team has been taken ill. We welcomed a newcomer who came to us unwell and passed on her ailment to some of the others. I’m treating them, and they’ll recover, but my own supplies are dwindling as well.”

The Decurion exhaled.

“In future, quarantine new arrivals. I’ll accept halved portions until we’re in the black again.”

“Decurion. Sir. That isn’t going to go over well, and as for that, you’re already—”

“See it done. My medication?”

Okhi’to hesitated.

Before they deserted, Cadmus had been supplied himself through official channels, but as with Yuyuno, Okhi’to had been forced to find a way to synthesise what his superior required when they cut contact with the Empire.

That had meant analysing the ingredients of his remaining supply closely to source appropriate alternatives. The aetheric suppressants were a recent and understandable addition to his charts, but from a medical perspective, the medicus had never been able to determine why there was any need for Cadmus to consume such a potent cocktail of stimulants with such regularity.

If anything, he looked better in himself when availability was scarce.

“This is the last of the batch. I’ve lowered the dosage to account for—”

Rising from his chair, Cadmus approached to take the container from the medicus’ reluctant hand. It rattled, and four pills tumbled into his palm. Twice the recommended. He brought them to his lips, and washed the mouthful down with the last of the cold coffee sitting half-finished on his desk.

“Will that be all?” the Decurion asked with his back to Okhi’to.

Above her, a valve blew its gauge. There was a metallic pling as a bolt shot across the room. Steam started to hiss, misting the air with oppressive, humid heat that made every breath feel like a gulp of warm water.

A saboteur had infiltrated the ship and meddled with its mechanisms. She surmised that much when she realised she was locked out of her failsafes. She was going to die, but that was fine. They didn’t all have to. Sven wouldn’t. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Arterial pipes ran throughout the ship. First, she had to close them. That would localise the damage to the room she was in—its insulated belly, the beating heart of the vessel, currently in the throes of cardiac arrest. The ship had more hope of staying in one piece if she could. It would still go down, and every system aboard would lose power, but they could control the descent.

As she set to work, readings poured in and streamed down a flickering console to her left, distorted by visual noise and the crack across the screen.

AUXILIARY TEMPERATURES ABOVE SAFE THRESHOLDS

You don’t say. Drenched in sweat, she could feel the very walls around her radiating heat. Each time she touched the console had to be brief or her fingertips would blister.

SAFEGUARD PROGRAMME ‘DELTA’ : FAILURE TO DEPLOY

We’ve exhausted plan B, then. Not that she’d held out much hope that any of her contingencies would save them at this juncture.

CORE PRESSURE LEVELS: CRITICAL

I know it hurts, old girl. Hold on just a little more, for me. All she needed was a few more precious moments. Adra knew she didn’t have them.

AETHERIC MODULATORS NOT DETECTED

That was the one that troubled her the most, because it suggested they’d been fried. But where was all that aether coming from?

A massive concentration of condensed, aspected aether would cause an explosion. It was going to happen. All she could do was decide where, and when. She’d have to manually direct the channels utilising analogue controls and trigger the detonation, because if this had to happen, it was happening by her own hand.

She’d been in two minds about installing aether-based technologies. It wasn’t easy finding engineers with the requisite expertise, and she didn’t like dealing with aether. Its raw form wouldn’t heed her, nor could she operate the technology required to direct it. She couldn’t abide the idea of entrusting that much power over her own vessel to someone else.

But the potential had been too alluring to deny. They’d tried to adapt a teleporter relying on the same principles utilised by aetherytes. In theory, it could warp the entire vessel and all its crew to another location instantaneously. In theory, because she’d never gotten it working. And now that useless chunk of crystal was going to destroy everything she’d achieved, everything she loved.

But not everyone.

Pipes burst around her. Searing hot ceruleum streamed down the walls, melting the metal in its path. A small explosion rocked the ship, and Adra was forced to hang onto a burning hot valve to avoid being tossed to the ground. It was now, or, well, now.

Grasping the lever with both hands, she pulled back. Every measure in place to prevent catastrophic failure was simultaneously deactivated. The result was instant. She didn’t have time to scream, feel pain, or regret the fleeting fragility of life. A soundless white flash engulfed her.

And then she woke, soaked in sweat, in her cot in the engine room. Its rhythmic purring assured her all was well. This was the CETEA, and she was en route to Kugane.

This dream, again.

When she’d heard what had happened to an unlucky number of the Unsung and one member of the crew, she’d been reminded of what had happened all those years ago. The similarities were plain. She’d even found herself flinching when she felt the explosion in the hangar as it shuddered through the ship.

An infiltrator. An aetheryte. A sudden displacement… even the destination was—not the same, but near enough to Doma. The only difference was that it hadn’t been her, this time.

She was still here.

Stepping up to the cells, he peeked into Yuyuno’s first and curled his fingers around the barred windows. The lalafell was nestled on the bench, her arms around her legs under a thin blanket. She’d had her suit confiscated, and only Cookie’s clothes fit her, so she’d been given some of their spare clean laundry. She acknowledged him with a half-lidded glance. They exchanged a look—he read her expression, and she his. He knew that she knew.

Tearing his gaze away, he peered into J’nairoh’s cell next. She had been pacing like a caged tiger—he’d heard her footfalls. Like Yuyuno, she’d been stripped and searched as well, then given plain clothing. Her blanket lay pooled in a heap near the corner of the cell. She stopped the instant she saw him. Her eyes flashed, but her fury died as swiftly as the flame was lit when she read his face.

“The captain of this ship informed me that Cadmus didn’t make it out of the facility,” he told her. He was about to go on, but something made him pause. He realised, when her gaze fled to the ground, that he had been the last one to hear. J’nairoh knew Cadmus had been left behind, so Yuyuno knew as well once J’nairoh was brought to the brig. Somehow, that was worse than having to be the one to tell them. He pressed his lips together.

“Yeah, well,” J’nairoh sniffed, wiping a bloodied nose. She must have hit the ground hard when she fell. “I don’t believe it. He’ll have had a plan. He always had a plan. He kept contingencies in his back pocket in case taking a shit went sideways. Until they dig up his body, he’s not dead.”

“There is no plan that could survive an Elemental’s wrath,” Okhi’to told her flatly. He wasn’t sure which of the stages of grief he was currently processing as he registered her denial, but he felt the ring in his hand dig painfully into his palm as his grip tightened around it.

“You sound like you want him to be gone. You left him to die like you left me,” spat J’nairoh. Anger crackled in his chest, and his ears pinned back. She threw up her hands. “If you’d stood with me, if you’d fought with me, we could have defeated them. They would have had no chance. Instead, you let me fight them alone, ten to one—ten to ONE, Okhi’to.”

Okhi’to’s ears flattened against his hair, and he bristled, baring fangs. She snarled. Yuyuno’s weary voice rose to cut through the tension.

“Don’t blame him, Nairoh.”

“He turned on us,” the jackal snapped at the wall dividing her cell and Yuyuno’s, her ears standing to attention to catch the lalafell’s input. “He’s a traitor. He walks free while we’re behind bars. He’s thrown his lot in with our foe, and for what?”

“For the Farsent,” Yuyuno answered, exhaustion weighing down her words. “He’s not a traitor. He doesn’t stand with them. He stands with his Farsent. You’d have realised that if you’d been paying any attention these past few moons. If you’d ever understood what we were here to do.”

“I know what I was here to do. And it didn’t involve rotting in a cage while this likely lot quarrels over whether I should be hanged, shot, or drawn and quartered.” She scoffed. “If Cadmus sent me up there with Okhi’to to begin with, or to fight with you, it would have never come to this.”

“No. It would have been worse. If we’d put up that much resistance, they’d have brought Gridania’s might down on us, and we’d all have been dead, Farsent included, not just him,” the Architectus pointed out. “And then our killers too, when the Elemental broke free.”

Okhi’to’s fury abated with a slow dawning of realisation, and he looked over towards Yuyuno. “I noticed the defensive systems were down. I had been prepared to work with their chief engineer to disable them, but there was no need apart from during our confrontation with you.”

“I shut the others off,” Yuyuno replied.

J’nairoh recoiled from the adjacent wall, staring at it in disbelief. He had the luxury of being able to see them both at once: Yuyuno’s impassive features, the jackal’s indignant snarl. “You’re fucking kidding me. Traitors on all sides! Why in the hells would you do that? ”

“Those were my orders.”

“Why would he have given those orders?” J’nairoh hissed at her comrade through the wall. “This is the work of that illusionist of yours, Okhi’to. They must have messed with Yuyuno’s comms. Another traitor. I told him as much when they refused to go with him.”

“No, they didn’t. Cadmus gave that order himself. Discovery is defeat,” Okhi’to recited, sitting down heavily on the bench outside J’nairoh’s cell. “When the ship’s going down, all you can do is control its descent.”

The room was quiet until the sound of J’nairoh’s palm smacking into the wall startled Okhi’to out of his thoughts.

“No. I don’t accept any of this shite. We fucked up. That’s what this came down to. He was counting on us to stop them, or at least buy him enough time to get us all out, and…” She hesitated, her voice faltering. “We failed. That means we have to face what comes next without him. And what is that, Okhi’to?”

Okhi’to looked up. The fear in her eyes wrenched at his heart. She was looking at him like he was her last hope. He didn’t want to lead them. He didn’t want to have to step into Cadmus’ shoes and take charge. He didn’t know how. He didn’t notice Yuyuno turn to him as well, her gaze laden with sympathy.

“They intend to deliberate over what is to be done with us. They were sincere when they told Cadmus that they were going to petition for our sentence to be non-lethal, and the possibility of myself and Yuyuno being deported to Garlemald to help rebuild it has been procured in writing,” he told her. “In your case, it was suggested that the Viper tribe your operation affected be the ones to determine your sentence, but the captain—”

“How did they even find out, Okhi’to? You told them, didn’t you?” J’nairoh was up against the bars, gripping them so hard her knuckles turned white.

“They already knew,” Okhi’to insisted, rising to his feet and backing off a step, turning to face her. “Listen to me. The mother of one of the children we killed has been hunting us. Calls herself the Arbiter. She had dossiers on us all. You must have heard them over the radio.”

“Aye, I heard. I heard she’s twisting their arm. Like Cadmus said, she can only twist so far before they give us up, so any promises they make’re pure lies. Oh, but even that fate’s too good for me, huh?” She covered her mouth, turned from him, and went back to pacing. “These—these are my options? Let that mad bitch have her way with me, or vengeful Vipers burn me alive?”

“The captain, like I was saying, will plead for leniency. Things have changed since the Empire fell. No one’s eager to see more blood spilt.”

“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything. Okhi’to—I get the chance, I’m gone. You understand?”

“Please don’t, Nairoh. It’s hard enough losing Cadmus. Running away wouldn’t do any good. We’ve reached the end of the line. If there’s a chance we can stay together, we should—”

“What, die together? I get you always thought of us as family, ‘cause you never had one of your own. It was cute. I didn’t hate it, and going along with it kept you happy. But if you wanted to keep us together, Okhi’to, you should’ve stood with us,” she spat at him. “You’re gonna end up alone when all’s said and done. Mark my words.”

The medicus huffed like she’d knocked the wind out of him. “Don’t worry, Nairoh. Dead or alone, aught else would be more than I deserve to hope for.”

“Nairoh…” chided Yuyuno softly when he couldn’t manage to look her way anymore. “Come talk to me, Okhi’to. Let her simmer down. We can go over some ideas. Proposals for those Unsung when they’re deciding what’s to be done with us.” The lalafell chuckled mirthlessly. “‘Rebuild Garlemald’. Pah. I don’t think so. And you, torn from Nura? Let’s figure out what else we could do, hm?”

J’nairoh crossed her arms and turned from him. He could hear her pacing continue.

Okhi’to moved to where he was out of her sight, leaning against the ledge in front of Yuyuno’s window. “The captain said we should think about what we dedicate our lives to from now on. That’s how I understood him, at least. It feels personal, with him. I don’t claim to fully understand why, but he has lodged his hopes with us and our ability to make amends. Not in a way that arises from our own arrogance, this time,” he told her.

“You, not us. We’re not the ones with free rein of the ship,” Yuyuno pointed out with a wry smile. “I don’t need anyone vicariously working on their regrets through me, besides. I have enough of my own. But I’ll think about it, because I don’t want to go back there. Because you’ve got more to give this realm than Garlemald deserves. And while she may have a chip on her shoulder, damned if I let them consign Nairoh to death.”

Where the sun touched the horizon, a grand city was devoured by ruin, illuminated by a halo of fire. Those seeking to escape the destruction poured out into the surrounding lands in droves, only to be chased and cut down by the monstrosities that followed in their wake, devoured by the very lands they twisted beyond recognition around them.

Above all, white feathers soared, observing the breadth of the devastation. Two spirits watched hope perish as one. With a dreadful screech, a terror with claws for wings dove, talons reaching for the delicate bird.

She banked sharply and descended, steering the winds to separate them. There—survivors. Her song called to them, a sweet melody that drowned out screams and cries of despair. Her flight cut through the air, leaving a shimmering trail to be followed.

In her wake, stakes of light rained, piercing the hearts of the aerial fiends that dared stray too close. Yet it wasn’t enough—where a dozen fell, two dozen more rose to take their place. All she—all they—could do was hope that it was enough to earn the survivors enough of a reprieve to reach their bastion.

Far from all else stood a tall spire, their refuge. There, they slept. There, they dreamt. And the manifestations of their fears were insulated within the boundaries of their own mind. While a nightmare unfolded in reality, they warred their own nightmares—handicapped by gambit, a sliver of their awareness sacrificed to their dearest creation, who searched from the skies around their spire. Through her eyes they sought any and all that they might yet welcome into the embrace of their protection.

In sleep, those sorry souls would not be spared from their fears’ grasp. If anything, their terrors would be magnified… yet their apparitions would be confined to their minds, and they would be there to guide and shepherd and fight alongside the rescued—the Dream’s Envoy. Together, they might prevail.

The gates of their bastion welcomed the bleeding and weary. A mother fended off the spectre of her son’s fright, and no one turned back to save her when it seized her and tore her in twain. The child watched over the shoulder of his rescuer as its grinning visage rose from his mother’s body, endless rows of fangs dripping with her blood.

Inside, a spiralling staircase invited them upward, from the summit of which a tender lullaby echoed down. The steps themselves threatened to come alive, yet here, they could only laugh menacingly—shadows and shapes on the walls formed gruesome murals and promised terrible ends for those who sought safety, yet those fierce claws and fatal fangs their foes bared could not pierce the canvas on which they were painted.

The higher they climbed, the more the song seemed to surround them, seep into their very being. At the pinnacle, they stepped out into—a blazing battlefield, a platform amidst the clouds, where terrors beyond counting battled resistance forces in the skies. All around them, burning stones carved fiery paths through the skies.

Their hearts sank… They had believed they would find sanctuary here. Yet—the valiants above them were not losing. They neither gained nor lost numbers or ground.

Before them hovered a serene apparition, their eyes closed, a mandala of prismatic colour and kaleidoscopic intricacy turning behind them like the wheels of time. Dark feathers cascaded down their shoulders, their back in the form of both mane and cloak—stormy plumage adorned with gilded armour formed the wings that folded across their figure, framing a secondary mouth centred in their chest. It ceaselessly sang the sweet lullaby that had lured them here.

They were bleeding heavily, their true form marred by deep rends and savage scars that would never heal. The asymmetry of their flagging flight suggested more than one feathered appendage had been torn away.

“My friends,” they began, remorseful, “You will find no respite here. You will face your deepest dread, and its wrath will be merciless. There will be no awakening from this nightmare. Not until fear itself is conquered.”

They cast an arm upward into the skies, and a glaive of light shimmered into existence, settling into their waiting palm. In the hands of each of the survivors, a weapon befitting their soul coalesced into substance in their grasp. The young boy too: A sword and a shield that felt like his mother’s devotion were his to claim.

A bitter truth of life is that none are too young to fight for their future if the need should arise.

They spun the glaive in their grasp, gripped it vertically before them with two (of many) hands. From above, a resplendent white bird descended, alighting softly on their shoulder as though she weighed no more than a feather.

“Thus, fear itself is our enemy, and we shall not rest until it is overcome. Take heart, though—for as we turn our battle inward, we spare the star from our strife. You are not alone, and we will persist. For those we have lost, and for those we can yet save.”

Ilyse smiled fondly at her brother’s face. He was in love. She could tell. She didn’t understand why he had pursued a life within the clergy, never to know this joy for himself.

Her husband sat beside her, her arm around him. He was a bookish man, bespectacled and slender, and smaller than her. Older, too. He pushed his glasses up and over his ridged nose and fidgeted restlessly as he watched.

“You—you do have to support the head, the neck can be rather fragile…”

“He has him, Varin,” she assured her husband. That was his only son, she reasoned. He’d been nothing but protective of him.

After his late wife had passed away without leaving him an heir, he was pressured into remarrying. No one had expected the unlikely pair to take to one another as they had, Ilyse boisterous and confident, a rough’n’tumble knight, him withdrawn, pensive, and gentle with nearly twenty winters between them.

A more fortuitous match couldn’t have been found, though.

“Forgive me,” Amadour murmured apologetically, meeting his brother-in-law’s eyes. “I was curious whose chin he had inherited.”

“His father’s, let’s pray,” Ilyse laughed.

The door opened, then closed. A squeal of delight loud enough to confuse and alarm the babe, and turn his murmurs into grizzling sobs, echoed through the room. Altier stood beside his betrothed, conveying his apologies to Ilyse with a weary look.

The woman cleared the room in three strides, tugging Altier along with her. “Oh, no! No, no, little one, there is no cause to weep! Let me have a look at my little nephew-to-be!”

She reached down to scoop the boy from Amadour’s arms. The priest opened his mouth as though to utter a protest, but several glances aimed his way swiftly silenced it. Better to let her have her way. All the same, Varin was on his feet that same instant to aid in the transfer and to hover anxiously over lady Valeste.

Altier made good his escape the moment she released his hand, circling around behind Ilyse’s chair.

“I apologise,” he murmured under the sound of Valeste fawning over the babe, Varin’s pleas for her to be careful, by the Fury! and the child’s bawling. “She insisted.” His hands settled on the back of the seat, and Ilyse’s closed over him as she turned her head to speak in hushed tones with him. One eye was always on the woman holding her child, though.

“She tends to do a lot of that, hm? Do you have a date, now?” she inquired in a whisper.

“Yes, I… You will find it in my next letter.”

“We’ll need to plan around it. But don’t worry about us, Deurand.”

Amadour sat back in his seat and slid his gaze towards his siblings. His expression turned cold, and he stayed silent, a glare settling on Altier.

“I feel unready,” he told her under a shuddering sigh.

“Channel mother. You’ll do fine,” she assured him. Valeste had started to slowly waltz around the room with the little one in her arms, and both his mother and father turned pale. It would’ve been comical watching Varin flank her haltingly if what was at stake wasn’t so precious.

“Become as stone, impervious to feeling?” he scoffed. “It is too soon. I will miss all of this. Him, growing up. The two of you. Amelice.”

“And we’ll miss you,” she told him soberly, nearly crushing his hand in a fierce grip. “This must be, though, mustn’t it? I believe in you. In your ability to realise your dreams. I know that stepping out alone is—terrifying. You aren’t alone, though. You have many friends, and we’ll help you.”

Amadour sniffed sharply. “Ilyse survived, you know. It might not be as terrible as you thought.”

Altier straightened and turned to his brother, his green eyes alight. “Is that why you made certain you would never have to face the prospect? Or is it merely that you fear a woman’s touch?”

Amadour was on his feet then, leaning in so close the tension between them thrummed audibly. “We both know you have more to fear than any of us, little brother,” he hissed sharply. Ilyse was on her way to shouldering between them when Valeste cleared her throat and smiled sweetly at the siblings from across the room.

“No need to bicker, now. My darling Deurand shall be the next to hold his nephew, won’t you, dear?”

Morning light kissed his cheek with gentle warmth. No, that was—the warmth of another person. Their scent, sweet, like vanilla and almonds. Stirring, he sighed wearily and opened his eyes to a familiar face smiling serenely at him.

“Working through the night again? Tsk,” the elezen tutted, affectionately combing the viera’s unruly curls aside with a tender touch. “I’ve made breakfast.”

He watched him glide across the room like a ghost, effortlessly elegant, transporting a tray to his desk. Not exactly his favourite, though to be the one breakfast was made for was a rare treat. Toasted archon loaf with raspberry spread, and a tall glass of cooled apple juice that misted faintly in the stream of aquamarine light pouring in from the stained glass nautilus above him.

Resplendent white robes cascaded down his figure, a sash denoting his office wound around his shoulder. The garments were cut at the back in such a way that exposed his archon’s mark imprinted on his shoulder when he turned his back.

The sight of it caused him to gasp inwardly and sit upright.

“Why are you still here?” he demanded, perplexed. The elezen glanced back without turning and smiled in a way that never failed to melt his heart. All too often he had conceded to that look. Though the elezen was his elder, he wore his years well and had only sharpened his charm with each passing cycle.

“Aren’t you always saying I ought to work less, sweetness? I thought I’d take the morning off.”

Bemused, his brow wrinkled. It was a thoughtful gesture, he supposed, though—no, that wasn’t quite the matter. The little bird on his shoulder peeped inquisitively, sensing her companion’s distress.

“Yes, I… I suppose I did say that, though I know how much your work means to you—how important it is. I wouldn’t ask you to put my desires before it.”

“It couldn’t hurt every once in a while, could it? Come, change into warmer garments, Sofnir. We can take a stroll through the mountains. They remind you of home, don’t they?”

“This is home,” Sofnir murmured with an air of protest. “And you have much to do, as do I.” The elezen crossed the room to capture his hand within both of his own.

 “Oh, sweetness. We can while away the bells right where we are, if that’s what you’d prefer. We have all the time in the world,” he whispered reverently, his thumb stroking a knuckle.

 “Only here, Darcier,” Sofnir remembered sombrely as reality began to impede. “And you always warned me never to lose myself in dreams.”

Ripples cascaded through the polished room, rain on the surface of a still pond. With a rueful smile, the elezen sighed. “I suppose I did,” he agreed. The pressure of his hands eased, then he faded into the encroaching darkness that left Sofnir by himself in a boundless abyss, staring impassively ahead into the emptiness he governed.

Well, not entirely by himself. He cast a scornful glare over his shoulder. A little puffball of a bird turned her head so one of her eyes could regard him in kind.

“Must you torment me so?” he wondered, as bitter as he was defeated.

You know this has nothing to do with me. It never does.

“And yet here I find you, circling like a vulture.”

This is my duty. I will take this from you, if it has become too much to bear. It isn’t fair that each night should bring you hope only for morning snatch it away. You will face more mornings than most. More than he ever saw. You could dream instead of what could be rather than what was and never can be.

For the first time in an age, Sofnir considered her offer. It was taking longer for him to realise. Before, he would’ve awoken right away. Was this her doing, or was his grasp truly slipping? When had it become palatable to embrace the comfort of fantasy, even for a moment?

Darcier hadn’t been named archon until he’d poured every waking moment into his research for the better part of his life, insultingly close to the end of his time on the star. From dawn until dusk, what time they had shared had been devoted to his research: The application of oneiromancy for the betterment of society.

A legacy Sofnir had vowed to continue. A promise since eroded.

“Your concern is endearing, yet my answer remains unchanged. Be gone when I awake,” he warned her, closing his eyes.

He was L’rkah’s elder by some fifteen turns of the season. Before he was enthralled by the twisted primal the tribe had called upon in their foolishness, devout desperation, he had been a man in his prime. Now, the viper’s scales etched into his back and across his arms in the form of vibrant tattoos had faded, and his wrinkled skin betrayed the illusion that the Golden Vipers were in some sense part-serpent themselves.

“There’s no time for ressst,” he replied without looking up. Bracing his shoulder against the heavy stone ahead of him, he pushed with all his might up a steep incline, exertion hissing through his teeth. Like her, his tongue had been cleaved into a fork during his youth, lending him the same lisp as the ananta who were sister to their tribe.

“Our needsss are met. I have everything in hand. I rise long before the Goddess until far beyond her repose to sssee that we have all we need, Khua,” she reminded him as she walked beside him. To aid him would be an insult.

“You lead well enough,” L’khua told her gruffly, cut off by a grunt. She knew she wouldn’t have been his first choice for chieftain, though her dedication elevated her above criticism. Her rival had been wounded during the summoning. She had hollowed out over the years, lost her fire. She wasn’t fit to tend to herself again yet, let alone guide them through this trial.

“But we need—to reclaim the ssstrength to fend for ourselvesss.” The boulder inched upward agonisingly slowly. Perspiration bled down his scaled back. “We need a Sun Nunh worthy of the name. The Moon Nunhs, they’ll ssserve us this ssseason. Sssome of us, anyroad. For others, even that will be too late.”

He aimed a knowing look at her, and for once, his stony stare softened in sympathy. She avoided it, pausing to wait for him.

“Our fire burns low though, Sahali. You—you feel it. I know you do. It was all you could do to keep the flame lit, sheltered, fuelled. Now, though—we must blaze anew.”

“We will,” the chieftain insisted without a breath’s hesitation. She believed that. Though she might not find her own fulfilment, she had ensured the tribe’s flame would burn on. If that was the purpose left to her, she would gladly embrace it.

“I mussst be ready,” he insisted. The dusty earth under his bare feet gave before either of them could say more. He started to slip—she caught his arm, braced her own against the stone. It stood still. She saw his knees tremble, and waited with him.

“He isn’t ready—Tamani’s cub,” he gasped, gritting his teeth. “He needs more time in the Goddess’ gaze, to be tempered as all bladesss must be before they can ssserve their purpose.”

Sahali flinched at the word he chose. “He knows. He won’t consider it until you’re at full sstrength again. I was wrong to try and rush him. We mussst do this right.”

“That we mussst. You know I won’t let him have it easy. This tribe can’t afford for him to lose to me. It would be our sssunset, if he did.”

Little by little, she eased away and entrusted the burden of the boulder’s weight to L’khua again. He growled, and took another step.

“Take only coin or that which might sell on Thavnairian markets. Naught else will serve you.”

His father stood like a statue in the threshold, preventing the door from closing. Sober and straight-backed, he inspired haste though the danger was some suns away—if it was nigh at all. He only had his father’s word to go by, though he had never lied to him, never steered him wrong.

Benero dus Centrus, a gentle old soul with a kind smile and a keen eye, was always right. Never was he smug about it, either. He rarely lent voice to his predictions; he prepared for them instead.

Another shell struck a distant neighbourhood, rattling the light fixtures and causing the chandelier to dance and sway, the room’s shadows with it. Galbraius flinched and whimpered, latching onto the table. It hardly took an oracle to see that there was unrest, at the very least.

“It has sentimental value,” Galbraius insisted, his voice cracking. “Mother truly won’t accompany me?”

“She won’t. This is her home. If Garlemald is to fall, she would fall with it.”

“You wouldn’t let her, father, would you? You are going to leave yourself, aren’t you?”

“I have further business here, as I told you. I will stay as long as I must, until the last, if necessary.”

“The last…?”

Galbraius’ frantic packing came to a standstill. Steel-blue eyes met their mirrors. Another distant rumble ended the standoff, and the son’s gaze shot to the window. That one had struck close.

“Hurry, boy,” Benero urged. The elder of the two turned to leave, the vestments of his office sweeping at his pivot.

“What of Adrasteia?”

Gloved fingers alighted on the door, allowing a sliver’s gap through which glance back inside.

“Worry not for her. She will steer her own course, as has she always.”

Further moments were spent lingering without while merchants and patrons passed them by, turning their shoulders to shuffle past. Curious, furtive looks were stolen at the couple obstructing the thoroughfare, flanked either side by house knights in their vesture and tabards sporting a distinctively prominent coat of arms; that of a stout, solid tower with a singular window, and parapets at its peak.

It was strangely humiliating. It should have been an honour. One of the knights placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. His sister. It must’ve started to seep through his countenance—the dread.

“Shall we head inside?” he proposed.

“Oh—a moment more. My heart threatens to burst right out of my chest.”

Lady Valeste wafted herself with a silken fan. It was, as ever, frightfully cold on the streets of the Pillars, though the woman at his side was sufficiently swaddled in layers of fur. For once, there was warmth enough within his breast that the contrast of the chill made him shiver as he waited for her.

When he was with her, the rime receded from his fingers, and the cold at his core melted away. Yet as much relief as it brought him, he couldn’t bear to be close to her. Every breath was strained, each beat of his heart anxious.

After recovering her wits, she tittered in glee and led them inside, hiding her face behind the fan’s membrane. An old habit. He might’ve felt some pity for her, but if her insecurities still plagued her, she deserved to suffer. Their guards took up posts outside.

“Altier, look,” she whispered reverently. Beyond the foyer, the walls were lined with white lace. Perfectly proportioned mannequins frozen mid-step in an endless dance showcased each dress in motion, while others were draped over gilded hangers, solemn and pristine in their beauty.

Sheer veils spilled over their stands, shimmering, cascading as a waterfall of fabric and pooling at the foot of marble daises. Frosted flowers patterned the most extravagant of the gowns, blossoming virginal white in the fanning trails in their wake.

Terror’s pronged claws pressed into his heart, and a backward step almost saw him tumbling over the threshold before his sister’s sturdy hand moved to brace him. A smiling attendant materialised at their side, though Altier would’ve been hard pressed to recite her greeting as his heart thrummed in his ears.

“What do you make of this one, my love?”

The next thing he knew, silk was gliding through his fingers. Having experience with costuming, he could attest to its fine make, the flawless stitching, the weight and quality of the material.

“It may be a snug fit around my waist,” he answered absently. The attendant started to laugh until she realised that the lady at his side wasn’t laughing, and had in fact turned a shade of scarlet. Her mirth died an awkward death.

“My love,” she purred through closed teeth. “You must take this serious. Promise me, won’t you?” Her nails dug into his forearm through the suit’s sleeve. Their eyes met, and the light in his faded.