Ottopilot Wrote This

Derek descended the stairs and opened a wooden door. It was dark inside, but he could make out the glow of a light.

The first thing he noticed was the space was much bigger than he had thought from outside. It appeared to be an old dance hall or banquet room. Round tables with white tablecloths flanked a parquet dance floor. There was a small kitchen where the sounds of Cantopop music and flourescent lights cast a cool, greenish tint on the rest of the room.

"Hello?" Derek called out. "Are you open?"

A middle-aged Chinese woman emerged from the kitchen. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn up haphazardly in a bun, and a dingy apron covered her house clothes. She looked confused, and addressed Derek loudly in annoyed Cantonese.

"Is this a restaurant?" Derek asked, speaking clearly. "The sign says 'Dumplings'?"

"English?" the woman asked, pointing at Derek. "No Chinese?"

"Oh. I'm Chinese, but I only speak English," Derek admitted. "American born."

This drew a vigorous nod from the woman. Derek thought she was probably very attractive in her day. "We open later. You by yourself?"

Derek smiled cordially. "Yes, I'm new here. College. First time in San Francisco."

"Ahhhh! Welcome." The woman's grin was slightly unsettling. "I make you something. Off menu. You OK wait?"

"Wow. That's great. Yes, please."

The woman motioned to the closest table and pulled out a chair, dusting offer seat with her hand. "OK. I bring tea?"

Derek nodded and sat in the empty chair. The woman came back quickly with a teapot, a glass, and an incense stick and holder. She lit the incense and placed it on the table, and poured some water into the glass on top of what looked like a little green pod.

The woman pointed to the glass. "Chrysanthemum," she said. "Flower bloom, very pretty," she smiled, as she made a motion with her hands. Then she shuffled off back to the kitchen.

Derek watched the flower in the glass slowly open up from the pod. After about a minute, it had expanded into a bright yellow blossom, and the water had taken on the same hue. The tea had a delicate, slightly sweet flavor, unlike the green or jasmine tea Derek typically had in Chinese restaurants.

As he sipped the tea, he had to admit he was impressed with the presentation. A trail of smoke rose from the incense, and Derek wafted it towards him. It was certainly a strange odor. There was an acrid sweetness to it he couldn't quite place. There was an earthy, woody smell and some citrus notes, a common scent to half the herbalists on Grant Street. But that sweet smell was very unusual, and Derek smelled it again, trying to place it.

Feeling relaxed, Derek looked around the dark room. It had a slight musty odor from the poor underground ventilation. The decor was like what you might find in Chinese restaurants across the country, but in a more reserved, less kitschy manner. On the walls were vintage photographs of pretty young Chinese women in cheongsam dresses, their short hair curled at the ends.

Derek imagined laborers getting off their factory shifts, tired and maligned, but cleaning up nicely and coming to this place to cut loose and dance with pretty girls. He gazed dreamily at one photo in particular. She seemed to be calling to him, his thoughts drifting off to a bygone era.

Derek blinked. Must be tired, he thought hazily. Zoned out a little. He sipped more tea. It tasted different. A little stronger. More bitter. More… floral. Like drinking perfume. Thicker, even. More tea at his parted lips. Swallow. Again and again, until it was gone. Eyes heavy and unfocused. He felt sweaty. Breaths shallow. Smoke, curling into his nostrils. The burnt sugary odor, swirling. In his brain.

Fresh air, yeah. Derek tried to stand on wobbly legs. Like that baby cartoon deer, they buckled, and he hit the wooden floor with a thud.

His eyes fluttered. The woman from before was helping him up on his feet. He tried to stand. Fuck, he felt so hot. She pulled his t-shirt off his clammy back. Laid him down on the table. She left him there, as he curled into a fetal position on his side. Pupils blown wide, he stared into the darkness, drooling.

By the time it registered that she was removing his clothes, his pants were off, boxers going with them. He was naked but indifferent. He just wanted to sleep.

The woman spoke, her voice soothing and melodic. Had Derek been more lucid, he would have noticed her posture was now upright; her demeanor more authoritative. But first, he'd notice she'd dropped the broken English. "Perfect. The raw ingredients are ready, now the real work begins."

She reached into a steel mixing bowl, coating her hands with an amber liquid which she spread on Derek's body, starting with his chest. "This is the binder," she cooed. "Very important. You must be properly seasoned, yes." The liquid, thinner than honey but thicker than cooking oil, had an intoxicating scent. Flowers, peonies possibly. Ginger. Something spicy, like pepper. Star anise. Sesame. It went on cool, then it tingled, before quickly adding to the warmth inside. Especially as the woman began to massage and knead his flesh.

"However," she continued, working the oil into his thighs, "it cannot just be coated. The filling has to be molded. It has to be worked in." As she rubbed his muscles, they became loose. Supple. She gave a small chuckle. "Ah, yes. Softening up the meat. Breaking it down. Otherwise it will be tough." Sliding her hand along the length of his leg, she collected the loose body hair the depilatory salve had removed onto a towel. Satisfied, she gave his skin a playful slap.

Derek moaned softly as she worked the oil into his soft cock and balls, rolling him on his side, coating his ass, and sliding her slippery fingers around and into his hole. He felt the heat building, relaxing him, teasing him. Then he felt something unusual. Arousal, but unlike what he had experienced before. It originated deeper in his core, away from his penis. An inner hunger. He clenched around her finger as she slid out of him, trailing along his sensitive perineum and grazing his sack.

"Ah, there. It's starting. You feel it, don't you? The ingredients coming together, the flavors combining. The moment mere food becomes a meal." Her voice was like her touch, light and delicate, but firm where it needed to be. "Now the filling is ready, the binding has taken hold. Without the binding, you would fall apart before you could be devoured, and no one wants that to happen."

Derek said nothing in response. Completely overwhelmed, he merely sighed in contentment. The taste of the tea on his tongue, the dizzying smoke and aromatic fragrance in his nostrils, the soothing balm reshaping his body, and the woman's soothing words all wrestled for attention in his dulled mind.

"Now it is time for the wrapping. Otherwise, the filling is just a lump. The wrapping shapes the filling, makes it beautiful. Edible art." The woman pulled an end of the tablecloth over Derek's bare front, tucking it tightly under his left arm. It's unlikely Derek would have noticed the table was not lined with a thick linen tablecloth, but several layers of thinner cloth, smooth and delicate, nearly translucent. The woman moved with speed and grace, enveloping Derek tautly inside the sheet like a cocoon. The white fabric clung tightly to his oiled form, and with her prodding and adjusting, it began to take shape - slightly androgynous, slender, soft curves forming, with a muted bulge.

The woman stood back, assessing her work. "Lovely," she said with confidence. "Now I steam it gently. Keep the outer skin smooth and soft, while the filling becomes juicy and succulent." Using large tongs, the woman took the lid off an ice chest and laid large steaming hot towels over the encased young student. Inside the safe and cradling fabric, they felt the suffocating weight and sultry warmth permeating their skin. The moist heat seemed to further activate the ingested and topical agents, intensifying the sensations. It felt like all of what they once were was oozing from their pores, and being replaced by what they were becoming. "That's it, the imperfections are cooking off.

"Almost ready, my little dumpling. My little siu mai."

-----

District Attorney Ron Mitchell finished the last of his whiskey, placing the empty glass on a tray. He looked around the room, shaking his head. Normally, he would like to put half these people in jail. However, since the mayor, half the Board of Supervisors, those venture capital guys, the CEO of Panacea Tech, and last year's Best Actress winner were all here, looking the other way was part of the game.

This place really did clean up well, he supposed. Over the murmurs of hushed conversations, and through the haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke, he admired the ornate Oriental fixtures, installed a century ago when this was the most notorious brothel in Chinatown. Bright red lanterns provided ambient charm, and the crystal chandelier over the dance floor was a nice touch.

Mitchell spotted Madame Chen, the organizer, talking to the head waiter, and made his approach. An elaborately embroidered gold dragon adorned the right flank of her stunning red cheongsam dress. Her hair was styled up, and a 24-karat gold braid draped her neck with jade earrings dangling from her lobes. Though she was probably his age, she had a youthful complexion and a classical beauty about her as timeless as this old dance hall. Still, Mitchell was familiar with her skills. Which meant treating her with caution.

"Madame," Mitchell offered.

"Mr. Mitchell," Madame Chen smiled wanly. Her voice had a soporific cadence to it that made him a little uneasy. "A pleasure, as always. Will you be placing a bid tonight?"

Mitchell shook his head. "No, too rich for my blood. Was a surprise to get an invite on such short notice, but this is an impressive turnout."

Madame Chen flashed a calculating smile. "Well, my dumplings are best served fresh, for their peak enjoyment." She motioned to the dance floor. "It's time, please."

The lights in the room dimmed and a spotlight shone on the dance floor. The scratch of a dropped record needle filled the hushed room, followed by the old Shanghai Jazz melange of brass horns and a woman singing in Cantonese.

A female figure stepped out from a curtain into the spotlight. Her dazzling red silk cheongsam clung tightly to her lithe figure, as she strode forth in matching heeled pumps. She began to sway and dance with the music, gracefully lost in the rhythm, her arms extended like a ballerina. Her dark hair stayed tightly in a bun, her painted crimson lips parted, and her eyes closed as she occupied the attention of everyone in the room. A delicate flower blossoming. A piece of art imbued with life.

The song ended, and the woman bowed slightly. And finally, she opened her chestnut eyes and smiled demurely.

"Let's hear it for Siu Mai!" a voice bellowed from the speakers. "Who would like to bid on this young virginal morsel? The bidding begins at one-quarter-of-a-million dollars."

As men and women alike began to hold up numbered paddles, Mitchell leaned over and, in hushed tones, said to Madame Chen, "Congratulations, Madame. You've outdone yourself once again." His brow furrowed slightly. "Why do you call them dumplings, anyway?"

Let me explain it to you in words you can grasp. Taxes are not universal. Do you think the powerful, the wealthy, pay their fair share for the benefits they reap? No, their burden is carried by the likes of you. While they itemize their deductions, scrutinize the tax code, exploit every loophole, and cheat with impunity... you use the short form, the standard deduction. You are small and insignificant. You were meant for the powerful to take from, while you dutifully comply.

Your calculations are simple. Just like you.

You want to protest, but you know I'm right. I've always been right, and you know it. And you don't feel it in that feeble place between your ears. No, you feel it between your legs. Dripping and running down your thigh.

Instead of words, what comes out between your quivering lips is a guttural moan. The only thing stopping you from coating your fingers in your own filth and sucking them clean is that I haven't given you permission.

That's how completely you belong to me now. Your body may be young and full of life, but your vitality is a puddle on the floor. You're a practical cock zombie now, a husk made for giving pleasure.

It's evident in the way your heavy-lidded eyes want to close, like twin caskets. How your breathing has become heavy and shallow. Your body, still. Your mind, more so. Waiting to give yourself over to me completely. Unafraid to surrender to the dark.

But that's for another day. Death comes for you in other ways tonight, pet. Death of the little variety. Le petit mort. And death of the ego. Discarding all of what you were, like the clothing you shed long ago. Leaving behind what you don't need.

Rukhan faced the wall, resisting the urge to turn around. To take just a peek. To maybe catch a glimpse of Tahrapi's bare back, the nape of their neck, the hint of a breast. Instead, he just sighed.

Tahrapi stared at their gauntlets lying against their bag, caked with mud and blood.

Korima, the hulking valkyrie, pointed at their mud-caked gauntlets. "Dirty armor?" she said, mockingly. "Fitting for a filthy mudrat. What a disgrace."

They scrubbed their hands, their knuckles scraped and bruised. The washcloth was stained red as they wrung it out into the washbin. So much blood. They scrubbed harder.

"Mercy," Korima pleaded, through tears and blood. No, Tahrapi thought. No mercy for me, none for you. They struck again. And again.

Sitting on Rukhan's bed, they dried their face on the towel he left them. Hands trembling, they slipped one of his shirts over their bare torso.

Korima had been cocky, and they exploited it. They drew back their right arm, revealing the detail she had missed in her mockery: sharp rocks, embedded in the mud of their gauntlets.

It smells like him. It was impossible not to notice. They looked down at the scrap of fabric in their hand.

Standing in front of The Broken Wing's fireplace. Half-empty stein of mead in one hand. They'd lost count how many. Two things in the other hand. It'd be so easy. Toss them both in the fire, then drink to forget. Like Sanija.

The letter, first. Now, the other thing.

But they can't. They won't.

Psst. Coward. Mother was right. Maybe about everything.

No matter. Drink and watch the words burn. Burn into ash, and burned into their brain.

Goodbye forever, Tahra.

Tahrapi swallowed hard. They stuffed the scarf under their pillow. "You can turn around now," they said, their voice practically a whisper.

Rukhan turned around, and walked toward the bed. Tahrapi sat on his bed, wearing his shirt loosely. They looked lost. Small. He recalled the moment they met, when Tahrapi leaped off a roof to confront him. They were a different person then.

He motioned his hand, seeking permission to sit next to Tahrapi. They nodded, and he sat next to them, at a polite distance. "Do you want to talk?" he offered.

Tahrapi looked at the ceiling. Their breath reeked of cheap alcohol. "I was expelled," they said, matter-of-factly. "It's all over."

"You fought your adversary today," Rukhan said, glancing to their discarded gauntlets. "It looks like you won this time. Was it worth it?"

Tahrapi let out a hollow laugh. "I did. Didn't enjoy it like I thought I would. Maybe she was right about me."

"About what?"

An instant before they were pulled away, they swung their forearm in a vicious backhand, slashing Korima's face with their rocky gauntlet, sending a spray of blood across their chest and face.

"That I'm dirty. Vermin. A m—"

Rukhan put his hand over theirs. Their hands were sensitive, rubbed raw from the compulsive scrubbing. "It's not true, Tahrapi. Don't believe it,"

Rukhan's attempt to reassure Tahrapi failed to register. I acted like a caged animal today. A feral monster. They lost control, and now they were paying for it.

Maybe this is why Sarima didn't want me.

I always thought Tahra would be here for this. Even if they weren't with me at the altar.

"I do," Sarima said, her hand in Prince Valerian's.

And I thought this would be the happiest day of my life. But it's become just another move on the chess board.

Valerian slid the wedding band onto Sarima's left hand.

There's a time I would've considered what I'm about to do to be monstrous. Am I a monster?

"I now pronounce you husband and wife, Prince and Princess of Ryshanam."

Or am I just willing to do what's needed to get what I want?

Tahrapi shrugged. "It doesn't matter, I lost the reason I joined the order in the first place. Since I have nothing left, I thought I'd have a drink."

"What was the reason?"

"It's stupid." Tahrapi's head found Rukhan's shoulder. "I thought if I could be a valkyrie, I could protect her. But I can't even get through basic training, much less assigned to the castle."

"The castle?" Rukhan asked, intrigued. "Who is she?"

"Does it matter?" Tahrapi's hands found Rukhan's shirt, and they hung onto him like they might fall off the bed. "I don't have her. I don't have this," they looked at the armor draped over their bag, before looking at Rukhan with desperation. "The only thing I have left is you."

Rukhan's hand closed over theirs, before he removed it from his shirt. He placed their hand on their thigh, holding it for a second, before he lifted his hand. "Not tonight, Tahrapi. Not like this."

"Call me Tahra," they said, their voice wavering, their eyes brimming with fresh tears. "It's what she called me."

"Tahrapi, don't do this to yourself." His voice was kind but firm, though internally, he screamed at himself to kiss them.

Tahrapi started to cry. "I'm sorry," they sobbed. "I've tried to be strong for so long. But I can't keep doing this!" The tears flowed freely now, running down their flushed cheeks. "I don't understand. I don't understand why she's changed, why she cut me off. It hurts so much, Rukhan. I never told her how I felt, and now..."

Rukhan put his left arm around them, pulling them into his chest. He felt their hot tears saturate his nightshirt. "There there. Why do you think she's changed?"

"I don't know!" Tahrapi exclaimed. "She was unhappy when she arrived there. She's brilliant, but no one would listen to her, except this one man she met. The mage. Severian something. She–"

Rukhan stiffened at the name, and he looked Tahrapi in the eyes. "Did you say Severian? Severian Draeven?"

Tahrapi nodded. "Yes, that sounds right. Why? Do you know him? What do you know, Rukhan?"

"Let's talk more tomorrow, Tahrapi." Rukhan said, calmly deflecting the question. Inside, the mention of that name made his blood boil.

Tahrapi babbled frantically. "But Sarima... Rukhan, please, I–"

Rukhan raised his right hand near Tahrapi's cheek. "Tahrapi. Sleep."

Tahrapi looked into Rukhan's eyes. They saw it again, that glimmer, like the flame of a candle. They were incapable of looking away. Their eyelids fluttered as their resistance faded, then they closed completely. His hand pushed forward and, untouched, they sunk into the mattress. Asleep.

Rukhan clenched his teeth. Severian Draeven. A million thoughts raced through his head, in every direction, but all leading to the same singular word.

Vengeance.

He felt a pang of regret using the sleeping spell on Tahrapi. But he needed to organize his thoughts before morning, and talk to them sober. He looked at their beautiful face, peacefully still, free of the violence and turmoil that possessed them just minutes ago.

As his hand brushed their cheek, he figured he owed them the truth.

Sarima's left hand closed the king's eyes. Her wedding band caught the sun's reflection as she retracted her hand from his lifeless body.

She expected taking a life to be more difficult. She expected to hesitate before she used shadow magic to steal the king's last breath. Once the act was done, she assumed she'd feel guilt, or shame, or remorse.

Instead, she felt powerful. And it made her feel... good. The fact that extinguishing a life felt pleasurable should trouble her greatly, she thought.

But instead, she felt emboldened that she could do it again. A smile crept across her tight lips.

Queen Sarima Dharomanthe left the king's chambers, still in her wedding dress from the morning's ceremony. A sleeveless crimson dress with a high collar and a bare back was an unorthodox choice. But, then again, this was an unorthodox day.

It was going to be a long day.

Many thoughts go through the mind of a person the morning after a drunken stupor. Shame. Confusion. Regret. But the first thing Tahrapi felt was an immense headache.

The second thought they had, waking in a strange bed, in a man's clothes, was akin to panic, as they let out a little shriek.

The shriek woke a startled Rukhan, who was sleeping in a chair, his head tilted back. "Good morning," he said with a chuckle, rubbing his stiff neck.

"Rukhan!" Tahrapi exclaimed, clutching at the blanket. The combination of sudden movement and their own excited voice made their temples throb. "Ow ow ow," they muttered, rubbing their forehead.

"Looks like you're doing better," Rukhan said, rising from the chair and sitting on the bed, at Tahrapi's feet. He patted their shin under the blanket. "Except for the headache, of course."

Tahrapi looked away, avoiding eye contact. They looked at Rukhan finally, their lips parting as if ready to speak, before they swallowed their words.

"No," he said, with a soft smile, "we didn't."

Tahrapi exhaled loudly, then let out a nervous laugh. "I'm sorry, Rukhan," they said. "I didn't mean it like that. I like you, I... care for you. But I'm in love," their smile faded a bit. "Heartbroken, but in love."

Rukhan nodded. "You mentioned a name last night," he said, looking at the floor. "Severian Draeven."

"Yes," Tahrapi said. "He's been a friend to Sarima since she arrived there. He respects her, and she trusts him."

Rukhan's face took on a serious look. "I need to tell you about Draeven."

Once upon a time, dragons and man lived in this realm together. Dragons preferred the mountains, which was fine for a while, because man enjoyed the valleys, forests and coasts.

But man is never satisfied. They have a taste for conflict born within them, a natural tendency toward violence. And to slake that thirst for bloodshed, they needed iron. Coal. Steel.

Dragons and man skirmished as man tried to take over the mountains. A dragon attacked Ryshanam Castle, killing the queen, and instigated an all-out war. Man would not stop until every dragon was dead.

The response from the Kingdom of Ryshanam was both bloody and hateful. The dragons had to contend with valkyries on one front, and a campaign of blame and bigotry on another.

The dragons had great size, and powerful, innate magical skill, but they were vastly outnumbered. Their ranks thinned, and they had to resort to subterfuge, masquerading among man in their image for survival.

One dragon, Vaelthryxa, settled in a land far from here, away from the watchful eye of the kingdom. She took the human name Vaela, a name as beautiful and unique as she was. Vaela was extremely clever and very resourceful, and made a trade as a baker.

She had a customer one day, a traveling merchant named Kael. He was pudgy, with a flat nose and high forehead. But he was kind, and made her laugh. They were an odd couple, the homely vagabond merchant and the gorgeous, enchanting baker.

They fell in love, and she trusted him enough to reveal her secret. And she was surprised to find he had a secret as well: he was a mage, a practitioner of the arcane arts, in hiding due to the kingdom's ban on magic.

It made them closer. Two lovers, forced to hide in plain sight in public, but able to unmask themselves alone. They had a child, a boy, and they tried to instill in him love and respect for both of his cultures.

But all glamours, all illusions, reveal themselves eventually. Vaela and her son were attacked by pirates. Fearing for his life, she transformed into a majestic purple dragon, picking up her son and carrying him to safety. But this safety was temporary, for now, rumors and public hysteria over the last dragon were spreading.

Vaelthryxa fought bravely when the valkyries came for her, but it was for naught. She burned the bakery to the ground, giving cover for Kael to disappear with their son. She assumed they would kill her, like they had the others. She probably wished they had.

Instead, Vaelthryxa was captured, and taken to Ryshanam Castle. Imprisoned, she was subjected to horrifying experiments, as the young royal archon harvested every bit of draconic magical knowledge for his own purposes. Vaelthryxa died sick and alone, worried that her son might suffer the same fate by the same man.

"Draeven," Tahrapi said softly, their hand over their mouth. "Oh no. And you..."

"I need you to see something," Rukhan said. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, like he was going to snap them. But instead, he opened his hand quickly, and inside, a small purple flame danced in his palm.

Then they saw it. Not for a flash this time. Rukhan's eyes reflected the flame, and in a blink, they had changed. They were golden, with narrow dark slits.

They're beautiful, Tahrapi thought. And then he waved his hand, and everything was normal again.

"So now you know my secret," Rukhan said, taking Tahrapi's hand in his own. They expected it might be hot from the flame, but it wasn't. "You and I are different, Tahrapi. Different. Not monsters."

Tahrapi was speechless, their lips parted. They half expected Rukhan to lean in for a kiss, but instead, he held the silence and the moment, and that was somehow more intense.

"Um, I..." Tahrapi started, trying to find the words. "Rukhan, the Uldara, we're not always... accepting of other cultures. Because they don't like us." They wrung their hands. "So when dragons moved to the mountains, we understood what that's like. To just want to live our lives. The stuff people say about dragons... that's not what I heard growing up."

"What I'm trying to say is, Sarima, she accepted me for who I am. I want you to know, I feel the same about you. Your secret is safe with me, Rukhan."

"Tahrapi, I—" Rukhan stopped. There was a series of knocks at his door. Two fast, one long, pause, two fast. He stood up and went to the door. "Thank you, but we have a visitor."

Rukhan opened the door wide, and Sanija cheerfully barged in. "Rukhan, to what do I owe ya the—OH," Sanija stopped dead in her tracks as she saw Tahrapi in Rukhan's bed.

Tahrapi blushed crimson red. "It isn't what you think!"

Sanija laughed heartily, her bosom heaving. "Are ya sure? You tell me, Mouse, what do ah think? Hmm?"

"Very funny," Rukhan smirked. "Sanija knows you got drunk and slept here. I left her a note with Branek to come see us when she got here."

"Ahh, yer no fun," Sanija snorted. "Sorry about the valkyries, Mouse," she said, her tone softening. "They don't deserve ya. But word travels fast. And Korima's done, by the way. Lose like that to a runt, no one wants ta trust ya with their life. Ya ended two careers yesterday, kid."

Tahrapi recounted everything that had happened the day before, but when they got to the letters from Sarima, the gregarious Sanija became quiet and white as a sheet.

"Sanija?" Rukhan asked, concerned.

"There's something I gotta tell ya," Sanija said. "You got something to drink?"

Once upon a time, there was a valkyrie. She was an ideal captain: strong, confident, and good-natured, but also a relentless warrior. She led a diligent squad of valkyries. Kedra, her second, and her best friend. Helka, a hothead, but a fierce scrapper. Mirekha, a tactical genius. Tavri, the rookie, just a teen, but eager to help.

One night the valkyrie squad was given the honor of being called to Ryshanam Castle. They would stay in fine quarters and eat a hearty meal, before leaving in the morning for their mission to Rethkar Hollow.

Perhaps it was chance, perhaps fate, but the valkyrie captain fell ill on the way to Ryshanam. She decided to go on to Rethkar Hollow to get some early rest. The next day, the captain rendezvoused with her squad, who carried new orders from the archon, by decree of the crown. The captain frowned, and read the order: attack a coven of witches, leave no survivors.

The valkyries found the coven's camp and waited for night. Her squad was acting peculiarly, especially Helka. The fiery valkyrie was unusually subdued and quiet today. They all were. She shook it off.

Mirekha ran point and the valkyries ransacked the camp. Fireballs were cast, and objects hurled at the valkyries, but they targeted the most powerful witches and overpowered them easily.

While her crew handled the witches, the captain went to the tents one by one, searching for stragglers, then lighting the tents and contents on fire. When she got to the last tent, her blood ran cold. Inside the tent, cowering together in the darkness, were five children. She guessed they were no older than ten years old. The camp was a school.

"Change of plans," the captain said. "We're taking prisoners. Five of 'em. Just children."

Kedra stepped up to her and put a gloved hand on the captain's shoulder. Her expression was vacant, and her voice distant when she spoke. "We have orders from the king. No survivors."

The captain was taken aback. "Kedra, my friend," she gasped, "they're children. Stand down." Her hand eased slowly to the hilt of her sword.

"Valkyries follow orders. Our orders are no survivors. Move, Captain." The other valkyries closed ranks on the captain, fire reflecting in their glassy eyes, their bloody blades brandished in attack positions.

The captain drew her blade, blocking and parrying her comrades' attacks. She tried to keep herself between them and the children. Her squad fought like women possessed, unrelenting and stoic.

She leaned forward, using her weight advantage to shove Tavri to the ground. It was a tactical error, as she felt the hilt of a sword slam into the base of her skull.

The captain hit the ground, and the last things she heard before she lost consciousness were the screams of the children, and the sickening sound of steel cutting flesh.

She woke up alone. When she reached Ryshanam, she was turned away. She had been stripped of her command for insubordination, and expelled from the valkyrie order.

The captain, in disgrace, settled in Kethram Ford, home of the valkyrie training camp. Being a valkyrie was all she knew what to do, and she couldn't let go of it. The screams of children haunted her dreams, and the only thing that muffled them was mead.

There is an epilogue to this sad tale. The captain kept tabs on her old crew, and what she heard disturbed her. Tavri, the youngest, was found dead by her own hand. Mirekha had risen the ranks to captain herself within the walls of Ryshanam, but rumor was her squad did dirty work the royals would rather keep quiet. Helka had gone mad on the battlefield, engaging a full battery of enemy combatants and screaming for bloodlust until her dying breath. Then there was Kedra. A disgrace herself, the captain's best friend had developed a taste for murder. Her body count in the double-digits, she was expelled from the order, and on the run.

One night, the captain awoke from the sound of her window opening, but did not move. She knew who it was. Sleeping on her side, the thick fingers of her left hand curled around the blade she kept under her pillow.

She let Kedra get closer. Her right hand gripped the pillow. Closer still.

In a swift movement, she flung the pillow in the direction of her would-be assailant to distract her, then flipped her body around to face her. She slid off the bed into a ready stance, across from Kedra. In the moonlight, she barely recognized her old friend.

Stray hairs across Kedra's face complemented the deranged madness in her eyes, and the wicked grin on her pale face. She also gripped a standard-issue dagger in her right hand, identical to the captain's. Her clothes were dirty and reeked of disregard. Her hair, once blonde like strands of wheat, had shockingly turned dark as a raven.

"It should have been you, Sanija," Kedra growled. Looking at her was like looking into a distorted mirror, a twisted reflection of what the captain could be at their absolute worst. "Why are you still you? You did something to us. This is your fault. I'm going to take your heart for this."

The captain, still tipsy from a day of hard drinking, struggled to make sense of Kedra's insane babbling. They peered across the dark room. The open window that Kedra came through, directly behind her, the light of the moon giving only the slightest visibility. The door to her left. The captain made a break for the door.

Her left hand was reaching for the knob as she instinctually felt danger. Not a second too late, she shifted her weight to the right, in time to avoid the dagger flying for her head. But not in time for her left hand.

The captain screamed as the knife's blade sliced the back of her hand, severing a tendon. Missing its mark, the dagger fell helplessly to the floor. As did the captain, as she reached for her injured hand.

Kedra pounced on the captain, taking them both to the ground. She grabbed for one of the daggers, pinning the captain. Kedra had one hand on the captain's throat, the dagger raised with the other. The captain grabbed Kedra's right wrist with both hands, leaving her nothing to combat the squeezing on her windpipe.

"Such a rush, feeling you go limp," Kedra exclaimed with glee. Dizzy, the captain wondered if this was the end of this valkyrie's tale. Then she remembered one of her guiding principles: the path to victory sometimes requires sacrifice. She took her hands off Kedra's wrist, instead grabbing the wrist pressing on her throat.

The blade of the dagger drove forward. The captain's hands eased the pressure on her throat, allowing her to shift her upper body. The knife missed her head and chest, plunging into the meaty part of the captain's shoulder.

The captain freed a leg and wrapped both her thighs around Kedra's right thigh. She rolled her body on its side—and Kedra's along with it—pinning Kedra's right arm as her grip on her dagger slipped. Now she laid on her left side, the blade lodged in her left shoulder, but with Kedra's arm trapped under it.

The captain knew she had seconds before the surprised Kedra would recover. With her right hand she pulled the dagger from her shoulder, eliciting a spray of blood, and in the same fluid arc, dragged the blade across Kedra's throat.

Reaching for the captain's hand, Kedra's free hand instead went feebly to her throat. Unable to contain the gurgling sounds from choking on her own blood, Kedra's eyes, wide with shock, froze, pupils dilated. The captain had slit a throat before, but never of a person she knew. Of someone she loved, who she cared for.

In an interminable instant, it was over. The captain rolled Kedra's body on her back and gasped for air. She was alive. A jolt of pain reminded her to treat the wounds in her hand and shoulder. She stood, wobbly, and tied clean scraps of her nightgown tight to temporarily quell the bleeding, as she was trained.

Then she saw it. Easy to miss in the dim light of the moon, the purple translucence of its flesh catching a reflection as it inched out of Kedra's open mouth and onto the floor. With a flat body like a leech, it was roughly the width of the captain's thumb and the length of her hand span. Without hesitation, the captain picked up the bloody dagger, and brought it down on the abomination.

The room fell silent, save the sniffling of the normally gregarious Sanija, who wiped her tears.

"A mind leech," Rukhan muttered. Tahrapi and Sanija turned to him.

"It's a tool of the dark arts. Shadowmancy, to be exact. It's a small parasite, originally, like a grain of sand. They used to live in streams, but their larvae can be slipped into food or drink undetected." Rukhan stood, pacing the small room, rubbing his short beard. "It immediately affects decision making, and will make even the strongest will bend without effort."

"At last," Valerian smirked, raising a chalice filled with wine. "While I will miss my father, I am finally king, with my queen at my side." His free hand grasped Sarima's possessively, and she offered a demure smile.

"Yes, Valerian, my lord and master," Sarima purred. "I am sorry for my headstrong behavior when I arrived in Ryshanam. I look forward to many years at your side."

Valerian leered lustfully at his beautiful bride. "That's right," he said, grinning. "And now it's time to claim what's mine."

He leaned in, snaking an arm around Sarima's waist, and giving her a lecherous kiss.

"As it grows, it changes the host without their knowing. There are gradual physical changes they don't notice: pale skin, dark circles under their eyes, darkening hair color. But it changes their mind foremost. They abandon their morality. They crave power and ambition. And the mind leech rewards those choices with pleasure. Each immoral choice leads them farther down the path to corruption."

"Sarima," Tahrapi gasped.

The goblet fell to the ground, spilling red wine all over the ornate rug.

Valerian's eyes grew wide and he convulsed. He struggled to break the insidious kiss, to no avail. Sarima, for her part, held her eyes closed, deepening the kiss.

Valerian had fallen into her trap, and she had played it perfectly. At no point had she tipped her hand. Not while she and Severian had planned this moment together. Not while a second mind leech incubated inside her body over the past week. Not when she feigned sadness at the passing of the king she had murdered. Not while she felt the vile creature crawl up her esophagus and into her throat, where she could pass it to her unknowing husband.

"If the mind leech reaches full maturity, it destroys the host's capacity to recover. They no longer feel guilt or remorse for their actions; in fact, they feel justified. Each unspeakable act of cruelty fuels a desire for more. There is no turning back as the host is driven mad with power and bloodlust."

Sarima withdrew from the kiss, her hands resting on Valerian's chest. His eyes rolled back into his head as the shaking subsided. "Ah," she said with a wry smile, "that's better. How does it feel, dear husband, to have a taste of your own medicine?"

Valerian's expression was no longer proud or boastful. His eyelids sagged. Drool formed at the corners of his lips. The muscles in his cheek were slack. He looked... docile. "It feels right, my queen," he mumbled finally.

"Because it IS right," Sarima cackled. Her face, by contrast, was practically glowing. Increasingly made pale by the effects of the mind leech, her cheeks were bright with giddy arousal. Her eyes danced with dark desire. Her lips, painted crimson to match her wedding dress, curled into a wicked smile.

Checkmate.

"If Sarima is indeed affected by a mind leech, how much time does she have?" Sanija asked.

"Impossible to tell. Obviously, it depends on how often she gives in to her urges. Each depraved act, each line she crosses and erases, makes it harder to bring her back. If it grows aggressively..."

"Stop," Tahrapi ordered. Rukhan and Sanija both turned towards them as they got out of bed and rifled through their sack. "If there's a chance Sarima can still be saved, I'm going to Ryshanam. Right now." There was something different in their voice, something that had been lacking before. Conviction.

Rukhan faced the wall, resisting the urge to turn around. To take just a peek. To maybe catch a glimpse of Tahrapi's bare back, the nape of their neck, the hint of a breast. Instead, he just sighed.

Tahrapi stared at their gauntlets lying against their bag, caked with mud and blood.

Korima, the hulking valkyrie, pointed at their mud-caked gauntlets. "Dirty armor?" she said, mockingly. "Fitting for a filthy mudrat. What a disgrace."

They scrubbed their hands, their knuckles scraped and bruised. The washcloth was stained red as they wrung it out into the washbin. So much blood. They scrubbed harder.

"Mercy," Korima pleaded, through tears and blood. No, Tahrapi thought. No mercy for me, none for you. They struck again. And again.

Sitting on Rukhan's bed, they dried their face on the towel he left them. Hands trembling, they slipped one of his shirts over their bare torso.

Korima had been cocky, and they exploited it. They drew back their right arm, revealing the detail she had missed in her mockery: sharp rocks, embedded in the mud of their gauntlets.

It smells like him. It was impossible not to notice. They looked down at the scrap of fabric in their hand.

Standing in front of The Broken Wing's fireplace. Half-empty stein of mead in one hand. They'd lost count how many. Two things in the other hand. It'd be so easy. Toss them both in the fire, then drink to forget. Like Sanija.

The letter, first. Now, the other thing.

But they can't. They won't.

Psst. Coward. Mother was right. Maybe about everything.

No matter. Drink and watch the words burn. Burn into ash, and burned into their brain.

Goodbye forever, Tahra.

Tahrapi swallowed hard. They stuffed the scarf under their pillow. "You can turn around now," they said, their voice practically a whisper.

Rukhan turned around, and walked toward the bed. Tahrapi sat on his bed, wearing his shirt loosely. They looked lost. Small. He recalled the moment they met, when Tahrapi leaped off a roof to confront him. They were a different person then.

He motioned his hand, seeking permission to sit next to Tahrapi. They nodded, and he sat next to them, at a polite distance. "Do you want to talk?" he offered.

Tahrapi looked at the ceiling. Their breath reeked of cheap alcohol. "I was expelled," they said, matter-of-factly. "It's all over."

"You fought your adversary today," Rukhan said, glancing to their discarded gauntlets. "It looks like you won this time. Was it worth it?"

Tahrapi let out a hollow laugh. "I did. Didn't enjoy it like I thought I would. Maybe she was right about me."

"About what?"

An instant before they were pulled away, they swung their forearm in a vicious backhand, slashing Korima's face with their rocky gauntlet, sending a spray of blood across their chest and face.

"That I'm dirty. Vermin. A m—"

Rukhan put his hand over theirs. Their hands were sensitive, rubbed raw from the compulsive scrubbing. "It's not true, Tahrapi. Don't believe it,"

Rukhan's attempt to reassure Tahrapi failed to register. I acted like a caged animal today. A feral monster. They lost control, and now they were paying for it.

Maybe this is why Sarima didn't want me.

I always thought Tahra would be here for this. Even if they weren't with me at the altar.

"I do," Sarima said, her hand in Prince Valerian's.

And I thought this would be the happiest day of my life. But it's become just another move on the chess board.

Valerian slid the wedding band onto Sarima's left hand.

There's a time I would've considered what I'm about to do to be monstrous. Am I a monster?

"I now pronounce you husband and wife, Prince and Princess of Ryshanam."

Or am I just willing to do what's needed to get what I want?

Tahrapi shrugged. "It doesn't matter, I lost the reason I joined the order in the first place. Since I have nothing left, I thought I'd have a drink."

"What was the reason?"

"It's stupid." Tahrapi's head found Rukhan's shoulder. "I thought if I could be a valkyrie, I could protect her. But I can't even get through basic training, much less assigned to the castle."

"The castle?" Rukhan asked, intrigued. "Who is she?"

"Does it matter?" Tahrapi's hands found Rukhan's shirt, and they hung onto him like they might fall off the bed. "I don't have her. I don't have this," they looked at the armor draped over their bag, before looking at Rukhan with desperation. "The only thing I have left is you."

Rukhan's hand closed over theirs, before he removed it from his shirt. He placed their hand on their thigh, holding it for a second, before he lifted his hand. "Not tonight, Tahrapi. Not like this."

"Call me Tahra," they said, their voice wavering, their eyes brimming with fresh tears. "It's what she called me."

"Tahrapi, don't do this to yourself." His voice was kind but firm, though internally, he screamed at himself to kiss them.

Tahrapi started to cry. "I'm sorry," they sobbed. "I've tried to be strong for so long. But I can't keep doing this!" The tears flowed freely now, running down their flushed cheeks. "I don't understand. I don't understand why she's changed, why she cut me off. It hurts so much, Rukhan. I never told her how I felt, and now..."

Rukhan put his left arm around them, pulling them into his chest. He felt their hot tears saturate his nightshirt. "There there. Why do you think she's changed?"

"I don't know!" Tahrapi exclaimed. "She was unhappy when she arrived there. She's brilliant, but no one would listen to her, except this one man she met. The mage. Severian something. She–"

Rukhan stiffened at the name, and he looked Tahrapi in the eyes. "Did you say Severian? Severian Draeven?"

Tahrapi nodded. "Yes, that sounds right. Why? Do you know him? What do you know, Rukhan?"

"Let's talk more tomorrow, Tahrapi." Rukhan said, calmly deflecting the question. Inside, the mention of that name made his blood boil.

Tahrapi babbled frantically. "But Sarima... Rukhan, please, I–"

Rukhan raised his right hand near Tahrapi's cheek. "Tahrapi. Sleep."

Tahrapi looked into Rukhan's eyes. They saw it again, that glimmer, like the flame of a candle. They were incapable of looking away. Their eyelids fluttered as their resistance faded, then they closed completely. His hand pushed forward and, untouched, they sunk into the mattress. Asleep.

Rukhan clenched his teeth. Severian Draeven. A million thoughts raced through his head, in every direction, but all leading to the same singular word.

Vengeance.

He felt a pang of regret using the sleeping spell on Tahrapi. But he needed to organize his thoughts before morning, and talk to them sober. He looked at their beautiful face, peacefully still, free of the violence and turmoil that possessed them just minutes ago.

As his hand brushed their cheek, he figured he owed them the truth.

Sarima's left hand closed the king's eyes. Her wedding band caught the sun's reflection as she retracted her hand from his lifeless body.

She expected taking a life to be more difficult. She expected to hesitate before she used shadow magic to steal the king's last breath. Once the act was done, she assumed she'd feel guilt, or shame, or remorse.

Instead, she felt powerful. And it made her feel... good. The fact that extinguishing a life felt pleasurable should trouble her greatly, she thought.

But instead, she felt emboldened that she could do it again. A smile crept across her tight lips.

Queen Sarima Dharomanthe left the king's chambers, still in her wedding dress from the morning's ceremony. A sleeveless crimson dress with a high collar and a bare back was an unorthodox choice. But, then again, this was an unorthodox day.

It was going to be a long day.

Many thoughts go through the mind of a person the morning after a drunken stupor. Shame. Confusion. Regret. But the first thing Tahrapi felt was an immense headache.

The second thought they had, waking in a strange bed, in a man's clothes, was akin to panic, as they let out a little shriek.

The shriek woke a startled Rukhan, who was sleeping in a chair, his head tilted back. "Good morning," he said with a chuckle, rubbing his stiff neck.

"Rukhan!" Tahrapi exclaimed, clutching at the blanket. The combination of sudden movement and their own excited voice made their temples throb. "Ow ow ow," they muttered, rubbing their forehead.

"Looks like you're doing better," Rukhan said, rising from the chair and sitting on the bed, at Tahrapi's feet. He patted their shin under the blanket. "Except for the headache, of course."

Tahrapi looked away, avoiding eye contact. They looked at Rukhan finally, their lips parting as if ready to speak, before they swallowed their words.

"No," he said, with a soft smile, "we didn't."

Tahrapi exhaled loudly, then let out a nervous laugh. "I'm sorry, Rukhan," they said. "I didn't mean it like that. I like you, I... care for you. But I'm in love," their smile faded a bit. "Heartbroken, but in love."

Rukhan nodded. "You mentioned a name last night," he said, looking at the floor. "Severian Draeven."

"Yes," Tahrapi said. "He's been a friend to Sarima since she arrived there. He respects her, and she trusts him."

Rukhan's face took on a serious look. "I need to tell you about Draeven."

Once upon a time, dragons and man lived in this realm together. Dragons preferred the mountains, which was fine for a while, because man enjoyed the valleys, forests and coasts.

But man is never satisfied. They have a taste for conflict born within them, a natural tendency toward violence. And to slake that thirst for bloodshed, they needed iron. Coal. Steel.

Dragons and man skirmished as man tried to take over the mountains. A dragon attacked Ryshanam Castle, killing the queen, and instigated an all-out war. Man would not stop until every dragon was dead.

The response from the Kingdom of Ryshanam was both bloody and hateful. The dragons had to contend with valkyries on one front, and a campaign of blame and bigotry on another.

The dragons had great size, and powerful, innate magical skill, but they were vastly outnumbered. Their ranks thinned, and they had to resort to subterfuge, masquerading among man in their image for survival.

One dragon, Vaelthryxa, settled in a land far from here, away from the watchful eye of the kingdom. She took the human name Vaela, a name as beautiful and unique as she was. Vaela was extremely clever and very resourceful, and made a trade as a baker.

She had a customer one day, a traveling merchant named Kael. He was pudgy, with a flat nose and high forehead. But he was kind, and made her laugh. They were an odd couple, the homely vagabond merchant and the gorgeous, enchanting baker.

They fell in love, and she trusted him enough to reveal her secret. And she was surprised to find he had a secret as well: he was a mage, a practitioner of the arcane arts, in hiding due to the kingdom's ban on magic.

It made them closer. Two lovers, forced to hide in plain sight in public, but able to unmask themselves alone. They had a child, a boy, and they tried to instill in him love and respect for both of his cultures.

But all glamours, all illusions, reveal themselves eventually. Vaela and her son were attacked by pirates. Fearing for his life, she transformed into a majestic purple dragon, picking up her son and carrying him to safety. But this safety was temporary, for now, rumors and public hysteria over the last dragon were spreading.

Vaelthryxa fought bravely when the valkyries came for her, but it was for naught. She burned the bakery to the ground, giving cover for Kael to disappear with their son. She assumed they would kill her, like they had the others. She probably wished they had.

Instead, Vaelthryxa was captured, and taken to Ryshanam Castle. Imprisoned, she was subjected to horrifying experiments, as the young royal archon harvested every bit of draconic magical knowledge for his own purposes. Vaelthryxa died sick and alone, worried that her son might suffer the same fate by the same man.

"Draeven," Tahrapi said softly, their hand over their mouth. "Oh no. And you..."

"I need you to see something," Rukhan said. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, like he was going to snap them. But instead, he opened his hand quickly, and inside, a small purple flame danced in his palm.

Then they saw it. Not for a flash this time. Rukhan's eyes reflected the flame, and in a blink, they had changed. They were golden, with narrow dark slits.

They're beautiful, Tahrapi thought. And then he waved his hand, and everything was normal again.

"So now you know my secret," Rukhan said, taking Tahrapi's hand in his own. They expected it might be hot from the flame, but it wasn't. "You and I are different, Tahrapi. Different. Not monsters."

Tahrapi was speechless, their lips parted. They half expected Rukhan to lean in for a kiss, but instead, he held the silence and the moment, and that was somehow more intense.

"Um, I..." Tahrapi started, trying to find the words. "Rukhan, the Uldara, we're not always... accepting of other cultures. Because they don't like us." They wrung their hands. "So when dragons moved to the mountains, we understood what that's like. To just want to live our lives. The stuff people say about dragons... that's not what I heard growing up."

"What I'm trying to say is, Sarima, she accepted me for who I am. I want you to know, I feel the same about you. Your secret is safe with me, Rukhan."

"Tahrapi, I—" Rukhan stopped. There was a series of knocks at his door. Two fast, one long, pause, two fast. He stood up and went to the door. "Thank you, but we have a visitor."

Rukhan opened the door wide, and Sanija cheerfully barged in. "Rukhan, to what do I owe ya the—OH," Sanija stopped dead in her tracks as she saw Tahrapi in Rukhan's bed.

Tahrapi blushed crimson red. "It isn't what you think!"

Sanija laughed heartily, her bosom heaving. "Are ya sure? You tell me, Mouse, what do ah think? Hmm?"

"Very funny," Rukhan smirked. "Sanija knows you got drunk and slept here. I left her a note with Branek to come see us when she got here."

"Ahh, yer no fun," Sanija snorted. "Sorry about the valkyries, Mouse," she said, her tone softening. "They don't deserve ya. But word travels fast. And Korima's done, by the way. Lose like that to a runt, no one wants ta trust ya with their life. Ya ended two careers yesterday, kid."

Tahrapi recounted everything that had happened the day before, but when they got to the letters from Sarima, the gregarious Sanija became quiet and white as a sheet.

"Sanija?" Rukhan asked, concerned.

"There's something I gotta tell ya," Sanija said. "You got something to drink?"

Once upon a time, there was a valkyrie. She was an ideal captain: strong, confident, and good-natured, but also a relentless warrior. She led a diligent squad of valkyries. Kedra, her second, and her best friend. Helka, a hothead, but a fierce scrapper. Mirekha, a tactical genius. Tavri, the rookie, just a teen, but eager to help.

One night the valkyrie squad was given the honor of being called to Ryshanam Castle. They would stay in fine quarters and eat a hearty meal, before leaving in the morning for their mission to Rethkar Hollow.

Perhaps it was chance, perhaps fate, but the valkyrie captain fell ill on the way to Ryshanam. She decided to go on to Rethkar Hollow to get some early rest. The next day, the captain rendezvoused with her squad, who carried new orders from the archon, by decree of the crown. The captain frowned, and read the order: attack a coven of witches, leave no survivors.

The valkyries found the coven's camp and waited for night. Her squad was acting peculiarly, especially Helka. The fiery valkyrie was unusually subdued and quiet today. They all were. She shook it off.

Mirekha ran point and the valkyries ransacked the camp. Fireballs were cast, and objects hurled at the valkyries, but they targeted the most powerful witches and overpowered them easily.

While her crew handled the witches, the captain went to the tents one by one, searching for stragglers, then lighting the tents and contents on fire. When she got to the last tent, her blood ran cold. Inside the tent, cowering together in the darkness, were five children. She guessed they were no older than ten years old. The camp was a school.

"Change of plans," the captain said. "We're taking prisoners. Five of 'em. Just children."

Kedra stepped up to her and put a gloved hand on the captain's shoulder. Her expression was vacant, and her voice distant when she spoke. "We have orders from the king. No survivors."

The captain was taken aback. "Kedra, my friend," she gasped, "they're children. Stand down." Her hand eased slowly to the hilt of her sword.

"Valkyries follow orders. Our orders are no survivors. Move, Captain." The other valkyries closed ranks on the captain, fire reflecting in their glassy eyes, their bloody blades brandished in attack positions.

The captain drew her blade, blocking and parrying her comrades' attacks. She tried to keep herself between them and the children. Her squad fought like women possessed, unrelenting and stoic.

She leaned forward, using her weight advantage to shove Tavri to the ground. It was a tactical error, as she felt the hilt of a sword slam into the base of her skull.

The captain hit the ground, and the last things she heard before she lost consciousness were the screams of the children, and the sickening sound of steel cutting flesh.

She woke up alone. When she reached Ryshanam, she was turned away. She had been stripped of her command for insubordination, and expelled from the valkyrie order.

The captain, in disgrace, settled in Kethram Ford, home of the valkyrie training camp. Being a valkyrie was all she knew what to do, and she couldn't let go of it. The screams of children haunted her dreams, and the only thing that muffled them was mead.

There is an epilogue to this sad tale. The captain kept tabs on her old crew, and what she heard disturbed her. Tavri, the youngest, was found dead by her own hand. Mirekha had risen the ranks to captain herself within the walls of Ryshanam, but rumor was her squad did dirty work the royals would rather keep quiet. Helka had gone mad on the battlefield, engaging a full battery of enemy combatants and screaming for bloodlust until her dying breath. Then there was Kedra. A disgrace herself, the captain's best friend had developed a taste for murder. Her body count in the double-digits, she was expelled from the order, and on the run.

One night, the captain awoke from the sound of her window opening, but did not move. She knew who it was. Sleeping on her side, the thick fingers of her left hand curled around the blade she kept under her pillow.

She let Kedra get closer. Her right hand gripped the pillow. Closer still.

In a swift movement, she flung the pillow in the direction of her would-be assailant to distract her, then flipped her body around to face her. She slid off the bed into a ready stance, across from Kedra. In the moonlight, she barely recognized her old friend.

Stray hairs across Kedra's face complemented the deranged madness in her eyes, and the wicked grin on her pale face. She also gripped a standard-issue dagger in her right hand, identical to the captain's. Her clothes were dirty and reeked of disregard. Her hair, once blonde like strands of wheat, had shockingly turned dark as a raven.

"It should have been you, Sanija," Kedra growled. Looking at her was like looking into a distorted mirror, a twisted reflection of what the captain could be at their absolute worst. "Why are you still you? You did something to us. This is your fault. I'm going to take your heart for this."

The captain, still tipsy from a day of hard drinking, struggled to make sense of Kedra's insane babbling. They peered across the dark room. The open window that Kedra came through, directly behind her, the light of the moon giving only the slightest visibility. The door to her left. The captain made a break for the door.

Her left hand was reaching for the knob as she instinctually felt danger. Not a second too late, she shifted her weight to the right, in time to avoid the dagger flying for her head. But not in time for her left hand.

The captain screamed as the knife's blade sliced the back of her hand, severing a tendon. Missing its mark, the dagger fell helplessly to the floor. As did the captain, as she reached for her injured hand.

Kedra pounced on the captain, taking them both to the ground. She grabbed for one of the daggers, pinning the captain. Kedra had one hand on the captain's throat, the dagger raised with the other. The captain grabbed Kedra's right wrist with both hands, leaving her nothing to combat the squeezing on her windpipe.

"Such a rush, feeling you go limp," Kedra exclaimed with glee. Dizzy, the captain wondered if this was the end of this valkyrie's tale. Then she remembered one of her guiding principles: the path to victory sometimes requires sacrifice. She took her hands off Kedra's wrist, instead grabbing the wrist pressing on her throat.

The blade of the dagger drove forward. The captain's hands eased the pressure on her throat, allowing her to shift her upper body. The knife missed her head and chest, plunging into the meaty part of the captain's shoulder.

The captain freed a leg and wrapped both her thighs around Kedra's right thigh. She rolled her body on its side—and Kedra's along with it—pinning Kedra's right arm as her grip on her dagger slipped. Now she laid on her left side, the blade lodged in her left shoulder, but with Kedra's arm trapped under it.

The captain knew she had seconds before the surprised Kedra would recover. With her right hand she pulled the dagger from her shoulder, eliciting a spray of blood, and in the same fluid arc, dragged the blade across Kedra's throat.

Reaching for the captain's hand, Kedra's free hand instead went feebly to her throat. Unable to contain the gurgling sounds from choking on her own blood, Kedra's eyes, wide with shock, froze, pupils dilated. The captain had slit a throat before, but never of a person she knew. Of someone she loved, who she cared for.

In an interminable instant, it was over. The captain rolled Kedra's body on her back and gasped for air. She was alive. A jolt of pain reminded her to treat the wounds in her hand and shoulder. She stood, wobbly, and tied clean scraps of her nightgown tight to temporarily quell the bleeding, as she was trained.

Then she saw it. Easy to miss in the dim light of the moon, the purple translucence of its flesh catching a reflection as it inched out of Kedra's open mouth and onto the floor. With a flat body like a leech, it was roughly the width of the captain's thumb and the length of her hand span. Without hesitation, the captain picked up the bloody dagger, and brought it down on the abomination.

The room fell silent, save the sniffling of the normally gregarious Sanija, who wiped her tears.

"A mind leech," Rukhan muttered. Tahrapi and Sanija turned to him.

"It's a tool of the dark arts. Shadowmancy, to be exact. It's a small parasite, originally, like a grain of sand. They used to live in streams, but their larvae can be slipped into food or drink undetected." Rukhan stood, pacing the small room, rubbing his short beard. "It immediately affects decision making, and will make even the strongest will bend without effort."

"At last," Valerian smirked, raising a chalice filled with wine. "While I will miss my father, I am finally king, with my queen at my side." His free hand grasped Sarima's possessively, and she offered a demure smile.

"Yes, Valerian, my lord and master," Sarima purred. "I am sorry for my headstrong behavior when I arrived in Ryshanam. I look forward to many years at your side."

Valerian leered lustfully at his beautiful bride. "That's right," he said, grinning. "And now it's time to claim what's mine."

He leaned in, snaking an arm around Sarima's waist, and giving her a lecherous kiss.

"As it grows, it changes the host without their knowing. There are gradual physical changes they don't notice: pale skin, dark circles under their eyes, darkening hair color. But it changes their mind foremost. They abandon their morality. They crave power and ambition. And the mind leech rewards those choices with pleasure. Each immoral choice leads them farther down the path to corruption."

"Sarima," Tahrapi gasped.

The goblet fell to the ground, spilling red wine all over the ornate rug.

Valerian's eyes grew wide and he convulsed. He struggled to break the insidious kiss, to no avail. Sarima, for her part, held her eyes closed, deepening the kiss.

Valerian had fallen into her trap, and she had played it perfectly. At no point had she tipped her hand. Not while she and Severian had planned this moment together. Not while a second mind leech incubated inside her body over the past week. Not when she feigned sadness at the passing of the king she had murdered. Not while she felt the vile creature crawl up her esophagus and into her throat, where she could pass it to her unknowing husband.

"If the mind leech reaches full maturity, it destroys the host's capacity to recover. They no longer feel guilt or remorse for their actions; in fact, they feel justified. Each unspeakable act of cruelty fuels a desire for more. There is no turning back as the host is driven mad with power and bloodlust."

Sarima withdrew from the kiss, her hands resting on Valerian's chest. His eyes rolled back into his head as the shaking subsided. "Ah," she said with a wry smile, "that's better. How does it feel, dear husband, to have a taste of your own medicine?"

Valerian's expression was no longer proud or boastful. His eyelids sagged. Drool formed at the corners of his lips. The muscles in his cheek were slack. He looked... docile. "It feels right, my queen," he mumbled finally.

"Because it IS right," Sarima cackled. Her face, by contrast, was practically glowing. Increasingly made pale by the effects of the mind leech, her cheeks were bright with giddy arousal. Her eyes danced with dark desire. Her lips, painted crimson to match her wedding dress, curled into a wicked smile.

Checkmate.

"If Sarima is indeed affected by a mind leech, how much time does she have?" Sanija asked.

"Impossible to tell. Obviously, it depends on how often she gives in to her urges. Each depraved act, each line she crosses and erases, makes it harder to bring her back. If it grows aggressively..."

"Stop," Tahrapi ordered. Rukhan and Sanija both turned towards them as they got out of bed and rifled through their sack. "If there's a chance Sarima can still be saved, I'm going to Ryshanam. Right now." There was something different in their voice, something that had been lacking before. Conviction.