Ottopilot, but SFW

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.

The stone that changed the course of history was much smaller, thankfully. Tahrapi was much smaller then, too: eleven years old, in that awkward period growing out of childhood and into adolescence. A rock the size of the one that struck Korima Ugalde, giving her a slight concussion and a nasty bruise, would have ended young Tahrapi's story quite early.

Instead, this was a small stone, a river rock. Gray, polished, with minuscule dimples. Despite its smooth surface, it still stung when it struck Tahrapi in the back of their right shoulder. They winced, but they didn't yelp or cry out in pain. As a young mountain girl, Tahrapi had been bullied enough to know not to give their assailants the satisfaction.

That was, of course, a delicate balance. Ignore bullies, and eventually they get bored. But in the meantime, the three fair-skinned, blue-eyed boys were going to hurl both insults and rocks. Even at eleven, Tahrapi was well-versed in Uldaran social politics. Keep your head down. Don't cause trouble. Don't trust outsiders. We have but one lifetime, child, their mother would say. Protect it at all cost. The boys would escape a confrontation relatively unscathed, but for Tahrapi, the consequences could be dire.

A second stone missed its mark, falling short. Tahrapi had taken a shortcut through the pines to the lower village, a choice they were now regretting. Under their breath, they cursed the wrap skirt their mother made them wear, a warm orange sarong decorated with spirals. What it had in feminine style and demure beauty, it lacked in utility and mobility, as Tahrapi could neither flee nor fight in it. They loved their mother, but not her stubborn insistence on dressing Tahrapi like a child's doll. I'm never wearing something like this again, they fumed.

With their back turned, Tahrapi could not see one of the boys draw his arm back to throw another stone, which also meant they did not see what happened next... though they definitely heard it.

"Leave her alone. What's wrong with you?" It was a female voice, high in pitch, but not soft or deferential. Instead, it was stern, and powerful. Tahrapi turned, and their jaw fell slightly agape.

It was indeed a girl, roughly the same age as Tahrapi, but a few inches taller than the diminutive Uldaran. Her left hand had caught the boy's wrist mid-throw, and he appeared frozen in shock. A mask of scornful disapproval on her face did nothing to dispel her classical beauty. With her flowing auburn tresses, held back by a headband, she looked like a goddess from an ancient fable. Someone to be both venerated... and feared.

"She's just a mudrat," a younger boy protested, devoid of conviction. Tahrapi saw the bullies were younger than they were—nine, maybe eight years old. But the boys weren't intimidated by the other girl because of her age, or her slight size advantage. They were unaccustomed to a girl who didn't naturally yield to them, and that made them uneasy.

The fire-headed girl twisted the wrist she had in her grip until the boy attached to it dropped the rock. "My father knows your fathers," she said, with a touch of menace. "Leave this girl alone, and others like her, or answer to me. Now, get out of my sight."

Two of the boys looked down, then at each other, before silently turning back up the path to the upper village. The third, the youngest, tried to resist, but without a spine of his own, ran to catch up with his friends.

Tahrapi could only watch the exchange in awe and bewilderment.

Once the fire-headed girl made sure the boys had retreated, she turned back towards Tahrapi. She looked like a different person entirely now. No longer angry, her features softened. She had beautiful light brown eyes, the rich color of honey. Her cheeks shone with the rosy hue of adrenaline, as her mouth formed a kind, friendly smile. And oh, what a smile it was. Tahrapi thought it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen—radiant, and bursting with life.

Tahrapi blushed as they realized they were staring. "Thank you," they blurted. "My name, um, I'm Tahrapi."

...Dearest Tahra, I sometimes fear I've made a grave error. I've seen the moon grow, showing itself brightly, before shrinking again to complete the cycle, in my time at Ryshanam Castle. I believed by being betrothed to the prince, I could improve the station for our sex, and for the good people of Jathruk.

But it may have been a miscalculation. Prince Valerian, I hate to say, is a lecherous egotist, and I shudder at the thought of marriage to him, much less bearing his children. His apathy towards my ideas is rivaled only by his eagerness to lay with me. Where I thought I might have a seat at the court of our kingdom, I have instead been trained in etiquette and decorum. I have not given up on our mission, though I admit my morale has taken some bruising.

I'm so frustrated, my friend, and I sorely miss someone with your brilliance to confide in, and your fire to keep me going. The only person who seems remotely interested in me as anything other than a figurehead is Severian Draeven, the royal archon. He may be the only man who respects me in the entire castle.

I look forward to your next letter, Tahra. I know valkyrie training has been arduous. But I believe in you, and your tenacity. And yes, your stubbornness as well.

Forever Yours,

Sarima

Sarima Dahnam folded the letter and sealed it with wax, a heavy stamp marking it as official correspondence of the royal family of Ryshanam. She sighed deeply and looked out the window of her quarters. From the tower she had a view of the mountains, far off in the eastern horizon. Her home, where she was born, where she met her best friend, seemed immeasurably far.

Her friend. Sarima scoffed as she ruminated over that word. Friend. Wasn't Tahrapi, her dearest Tahra, worthy of more than that? Sarima's fingers lightly traced the wax seal, feeling the slight warmth of parchment beneath her fingertips. Her beloved. A more fitting term, yes; though one left unspoken. A word pregnant with promise, but also clouded with uncertainty.

"Are you alright, Princess?" called a voice from the doorway. In the frame stood Archon Severian Draeven, the royal mage. He was a slender man, fifty years or more, with brown hair and graying temples. His robes, regal purple and black velvet, were neatly hemmed to the perfect length. His shortly trimmed beard gave him a stern, aristocratic demeanor, though with Sarima, he was generally friendly. In his hands he carried a fine teacup atop a saucer.

Sarima gathered herself and offered a friendly smile. "Thank you, Severian, I'm a little homesick, but I'll manage. Also, I'm not a princess yet."

Draeven walked across the room and handed the saucer to Sarima. "Of course, Madam Sarima," he said, courteously. "I know you have had some trouble relaxing of late, so I brought you some tea. It's a medicinal blend, mostly herbs from the kingdom's garden, meant to sedate you so that you can get some rest tonight."

Sarima sipped the tea. It had a mild but distinct flavor, with hints of anise and peppermint, that was not unpleasant. "Thank you. I suppose you are right, the training has been taxing."

"Think nothing of it, my lady. I could tell earlier you were... frustrated with Prince Valerian," Draeven mused, diplomatically pausing to choose the right word.

Sarima huffed. She opened her mouth to respond but, thinking better of it, sipped her tea instead. Her steely gaze peering over the porcelain cup conveyed her disdain.

Draeven let out a slight laugh. "The prince chose you for your beauty, thinking it your greatest asset. But I know better." He pointed a gloved finger to the envelope. "Is this another letter? To your friend from home?"

Sarima nodded with the teacup up to her thin lips. "It is. We have been friends since childhood." She paused to take another sip. "They're training to be a valkyrie."

Draeven raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's a difficult but noble path."

Sarima finished the tea and set the cup on the saucer, offering it back to Draeven. "Yes, I think someday it might be nice for us to cross paths again." She looked away from Draeven, her mind wandering to a less complicated place and time. "Thank you for the tea, Severian. Do have a good night."

"My lady." Draeven bowed slightly, then took his leave, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

The stone that changed the course of history was much smaller, thankfully. Tahrapi was much smaller then, too: eleven years old, in that awkward period growing out of childhood and into adolescence. A rock the size of the one that struck Korima Ugalde, giving her a slight concussion and a nasty bruise, would have ended young Tahrapi's story quite early.

Instead, this was a small stone, a river rock. Gray, polished, with minuscule dimples. Despite its smooth surface, it still stung when it struck Tahrapi in the back of their right shoulder. They winced, but they didn't yelp or cry out in pain. As a young mountain girl, Tahrapi had been bullied enough to know not to give their assailants the satisfaction.

That was, of course, a delicate balance. Ignore bullies, and eventually they get bored. But in the meantime, the three fair-skinned, blue-eyed boys were going to hurl both insults and rocks. Even at eleven, Tahrapi was well-versed in Uldaran social politics. Keep your head down. Don't cause trouble. Don't trust outsiders. We have but one lifetime, child, their mother would say. Protect it at all cost. The boys would escape a confrontation relatively unscathed, but for Tahrapi, the consequences could be dire.

A second stone missed its mark, falling short. Tahrapi had taken a shortcut through the pines to the lower village, a choice they were now regretting. Under their breath, they cursed the wrap skirt their mother made them wear, a warm orange sarong decorated with spirals. What it had in feminine style and demure beauty, it lacked in utility and mobility, as Tahrapi could neither flee nor fight in it. They loved their mother, but not her stubborn insistence on dressing Tahrapi like a child's doll. I'm never wearing something like this again, they fumed.

With their back turned, Tahrapi could not see one of the boys draw his arm back to throw another stone, which also meant they did not see what happened next... though they definitely heard it.

"Leave her alone. What's wrong with you?" It was a female voice, high in pitch, but not soft or deferential. Instead, it was stern, and powerful. Tahrapi turned, and their jaw fell slightly agape.

It was indeed a girl, roughly the same age as Tahrapi, but a few inches taller than the diminutive Uldaran. Her left hand had caught the boy's wrist mid-throw, and he appeared frozen in shock. A mask of scornful disapproval on her face did nothing to dispel her classical beauty. With her flowing auburn tresses, held back by a headband, she looked like a goddess from an ancient fable. Someone to be both venerated... and feared.

"She's just a mudrat," a younger boy protested, devoid of conviction. Tahrapi saw the bullies were younger than they were—nine, maybe eight years old. But the boys weren't intimidated by the other girl because of her age, or her slight size advantage. They were unaccustomed to a girl who didn't naturally yield to them, and that made them uneasy.

The fire-headed girl twisted the wrist she had in her grip until the boy attached to it dropped the rock. "My father knows your fathers," she said, with a touch of menace. "Leave this girl alone, and others like her, or answer to me. Now, get out of my sight."

Two of the boys looked down, then at each other, before silently turning back up the path to the upper village. The third, the youngest, tried to resist, but without a spine of his own, ran to catch up with his friends.

Tahrapi could only watch the exchange in awe and bewilderment.

Once the fire-headed girl made sure the boys had retreated, she turned back towards Tahrapi. She looked like a different person entirely now. No longer angry, her features softened. She had beautiful light brown eyes, the rich color of honey. Her cheeks shone with the rosy hue of adrenaline, as her mouth formed a kind, friendly smile. And oh, what a smile it was. Tahrapi thought it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen—radiant, and bursting with life.

Tahrapi blushed as they realized they were staring. "Thank you," they blurted. "My name, um, I'm Tahrapi."

...Dearest Tahra, I sometimes fear I've made a grave error. I've seen the moon grow, showing itself brightly, before shrinking again to complete the cycle, in my time at Ryshanam Castle. I believed by being betrothed to the prince, I could improve the station for our sex, and for the good people of Jathruk.

But it may have been a miscalculation. Prince Valerian, I hate to say, is a lecherous egotist, and I shudder at the thought of marriage to him, much less bearing his children. His apathy towards my ideas is rivaled only by his eagerness to lay with me. Where I thought I might have a seat at the court of our kingdom, I have instead been trained in etiquette and decorum. I have not given up on our mission, though I admit my morale has taken some bruising.

I'm so frustrated, my friend, and I sorely miss someone with your brilliance to confide in, and your fire to keep me going. The only person who seems remotely interested in me as anything other than a figurehead is Severian Draeven, the royal archon. He may be the only man who respects me in the entire castle.

I look forward to your next letter, Tahra. I know valkyrie training has been arduous. But I believe in you, and your tenacity. And yes, your stubbornness as well.

Forever Yours,

Sarima

Sarima Dahnam folded the letter and sealed it with wax, a heavy stamp marking it as official correspondence of the royal family of Ryshanam. She sighed deeply and looked out the window of her quarters. From the tower she had a view of the mountains, far off in the eastern horizon. Her home, where she was born, where she met her best friend, seemed immeasurably far.

Her friend. Sarima scoffed as she ruminated over that word. Friend. Wasn't Tahrapi, her dearest Tahra, worthy of more than that? Sarima's fingers lightly traced the wax seal, feeling the slight warmth of parchment beneath her fingertips. Her beloved. A more fitting term, yes; though one left unspoken. A word pregnant with promise, but also clouded with uncertainty.

"Are you alright, Princess?" called a voice from the doorway. In the frame stood Archon Severian Draeven, the royal mage. He was a slender man, fifty years or more, with brown hair and graying temples. His robes, regal purple and black velvet, were neatly hemmed to the perfect length. His shortly trimmed beard gave him a stern, aristocratic demeanor, though with Sarima, he was generally friendly. In his hands he carried a fine teacup atop a saucer.

Sarima gathered herself and offered a friendly smile. "Thank you, Severian, I'm a little homesick, but I'll manage. Also, I'm not a princess yet."

Draeven walked across the room and handed the saucer to Sarima. "Of course, Madam Sarima," he said, courteously. "I know you have had some trouble relaxing of late, so I brought you some tea. It's a medicinal blend, mostly herbs from the kingdom's garden, meant to sedate you so that you can get some rest tonight."

Sarima sipped the tea. It had a mild but distinct flavor, with hints of anise and peppermint, that was not unpleasant. "Thank you. I suppose you are right, the training has been taxing."

"Think nothing of it, my lady. I could tell earlier you were... frustrated with Prince Valerian," Draeven mused, diplomatically pausing to choose the right word.

Sarima huffed. She opened her mouth to respond but, thinking better of it, sipped her tea instead. Her steely gaze peering over the porcelain cup conveyed her disdain.

Draeven let out a slight laugh. "The prince chose you for your beauty, thinking it your greatest asset. But I know better." He pointed a gloved finger to the envelope. "Is this another letter? To your friend from home?"

Sarima nodded with the teacup up to her thin lips. "It is. We have been friends since childhood." She paused to take another sip. "They're training to be a valkyrie."

Draeven raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's a difficult but noble path."

Sarima finished the tea and set the cup on the saucer, offering it back to Draeven. "Yes, I think someday it might be nice for us to cross paths again." She looked away from Draeven, her mind wandering to a less complicated place and time. "Thank you for the tea, Severian. Do have a good night."

"My lady." Draeven bowed slightly, then took his leave, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

my youngest son, overachiever that he is, got strep throat and hand, foot, and mouth disease at the same time,

the hybrid battery in the family car died mid-Thanksgiving Day drive, turning a grueling three-hour drive into a grueling six-and-a-half hour experience, and costing me $4000 at the holidays,

my wife caught the flu and gave it to our kids, triggering asthma in each of them. I didn't get it, but I had to hold down the fort, work, and shop for the holidays,

I wrapped up the shopping on Christmas Eve in a torrential downpour, and picked up rice and beans for tamales. I got everyone to sleep and the power went out. I wrapped gifts with a flashlight.

after Christmas we tried to do the traditions we skipped before Christmas, and 2025 kicked us on the way out by giving us norovirus,

I resisted the urge to say, "I told you so about the leather couch," as I cleaned vomit off the couch, when I heard a crash. My son decided to take the Nestea plunge into his loft bed and broke the slats.

went to IKEA on New Year's Day to but bed slats, assembled it in the kitchen, tried furiously to dodge norovirus,

so much vomit, so much poo, so much laundry

managed not to get either virus but the stress caught up with me big time

I don't even think this is an exhaustive list!

I did manage to do a couple pieces I am really happy with and proud of (only Check for Doneness is NSFW):

I did two short pieces for Hypnovember for the first time: Patina, a Kpop Demon Hunters fanfic, and Check for Doneness, an exercise in hypnokink frivolity. Fun, light stuff for me.

I went back to @subliminalbo's Romeroverse as a holiday gift with one of my favorite characters, Bailey Castillo, in Auld Lang Syne: A Bailey Castillo Story . It's a Blade Runner-esque neo-noir, cyperpunk Cinderella short that was a lot of fun to write.

Lastly, dropped the first chapter of an eight-part fantasy story called The Valkyrie, titled Stones and Seeds. This is a pretty ambitious story of mine I've been working on for almost a year: a young adult-level queer romance with (appropriate) mind control/corruption elements, told in a dual narrative using Dan Harmon's Story Circle. I'm really thrilled with the setup here, though the real challenge our heroines face is the author's time and motivation.

This year, expect The Valkyrie to wrap by fall, a Hammer Studios Dracula sequel for Halloween (that I started and then shelved), and hopefully the wheels get turning on Fairlady with some time for side quests on flash fiction projects (I have been itching to do something devious again; writing all this SFW content).

I also would like to collaborate! I have no idea how to do that, though. Hit me up if you are interested.