[b]Piripiri![/b] Were you a witch, you might know that you have just struck one of the Passages of Hell, the Pseudoamphisbaena. It is a two-headed serpent, with the startling quality that both of its heads are on different bodies, and the creatures of the Demon City hang them upon brass poles far from each other, that by giving offering and praise, they may be allowed to pass through the serpent that is shared in common, and emerge from glistening fangs in some far distant district. And if they are pleased with the offering, the traveler shall come to no harm; and if they are displeased, or else hunger, then the traveler shall find themselves in the lightless, hungry dark. This would be useful to know, for reasons that are about to be clear. Its jaw unhinges like some hideous fish from the very depths of the sea, stretching wider and wider, impossibly vast, and when it swallows the two of you, it does so head-first; all is darkness, and the clamminess of that demon road, and rhythmic constrictions of the throat, Azazuka pressed tighter and tighter against you, until it is able, self-satisfied, to close its jaws over your shoes. And then there is no trace left of you but your cast-off clothing, and two umbrellas floating on the surface of the lake. The demon road is like being crushed forever until you are a precious stone. It is like crawling through rain-slick passages deep beneath the earth, with no way back. It is like slithering, limbless, on your belly, tongue flicking the air. It is like falling a long, long way. These are the ways you will remember it: as what it was like, not what it was. For the serpent devours the knowing of the road itself. When you are cast from the open jaws of the other head, the world rushes back to you in a shock: the damp stones you crumple onto hard, the fur of moss under your throbbing palm, the sound of revelry and festival both impossibly far away and somehow just on the other side of a wall, the sliver of light leaking around the edges of a door which is too faint to do anything but confirm you have not gone blind, the sound of Azazuka hitting the ground with a crash of bangles and an exhausted groan, the hair damply sticking to your face, the prune-like wrinkles on your fingertips, the still air of a windless and lightless place. All this at once, jockeying: notice me, Piripiri, acknowledge me, welcome back to the land of the living! And in that moment of overwhelming notice from every sense, the dark grows a hundred gauntleted hands. Do not feel ashamed, daughter of Hymair: even if you had the strength and sense of mind to fight back, you would find the Wrack-dolls of the First General foes who do not care for knives or punches to the cavernous, empty throat. As it is, you find yourself lashed tight with rope (desecrated, having once been from a shrine, now befouled by the rites of Hell), forced to kneel with your wrists secured to your ankles. The ball they force between your teeth is faintly luminous, having been touched by the power of the Green Sun, and it throbs with that power as it forces your lips and jaw open frustratingly wide. Beside you, you can hear Azazuka attempt to invoke her family and their wrath before she is forced into a loud and increasingly garbled tirade; you hear and feel more than see her furious struggles, that second pale green light beside you only serving to limn her generous, pouty lips. And then the Wrack-dolls cease, seeming to melt away, and there is stillness in that dark chamber again, save for Azazuka trying to shuffle towards you— and being pushed back into place by unseen hands. You have been captured by the powers of Hell. Perhaps by misfortune, but more likely by design. As you wait in the dark, listening to Azazuka’s limitless capability for incomprehensible complaints directed at your captors, feeling your limbs complain at being locked in place after such a harrowing journey, where do your thoughts take you? To your instructors, teaching you patience and a willingness to strike only when the time is right? To your brother, telling you stories of the War In Heaven and the infinite malice of the overthrown regime of the Titans, bound and sealed away in the undone body of their king? Or to the fleeting moments, in the dark of the demon road, when you felt a broad, ringed hand in yours, squeezing as if to say: I am with you, and you are with me? *** [b]Kalaya![/b] When you continue onwards, it is towards the northern border of Rose. Petony still means to show you the ropes of knighthood: battle against N’yari reavers, in which you will scare them away from their hunts and teach them a thing or two about the valor of the Flower Kingdoms. She’ll have you all to an inn only an hour or two after nightfall, don’t you worry; the hard march will toughen you up, princess! (And besides, all the best witches are up in the highlands [i]anyway.[/i] So two birds with the same stone! Whatever’s bothering you about an earring from a dissolved kingdom, they’ll put those worries to rest, don’t you worry.) In the faint silver light of dusk, that’s when they appear on the road ahead: two priestesses of the Sapphire Court, traveling together. As they draw closer, through the clear rain you can see that one wears a white stone mask, one that indicates a Heavenly deity is acting through her. (Not that you’d likely recognize their name, right? Most people in the Flower Kingdoms know the Sun, Moon and Maidens— that is, the wandering stars, from Mercury the Traveler to Saturn the Psychopomp— but everything below them is simply “the eight million gods” until you get to, as it were, the [i]regional[/i] administration under Sapphire Mother of Lotuses.) The other is— [i]beautiful. Alluring. Just a glance is enough to know this, silly girl.[/i] She turns to her companion, the goddess-ridden, and whispers something behind her voluminous sleeve that causes her to break out into melodious giggles. *** [b]Zhaojun![/b] “—there she is,” Victorious Vixen of Violets lilts delightedly. Before you march a company of the local mercenaries, led by a knight aspiring, in her own undoubtedly brutish way, to follow the high principles of your Constellation. Here, the rulers understand that desire is the highest principle; they require their champions to lead warbands of admirers and sycophants, then control them through desire for the approval and affection of princes and princesses. The knight in tigerskin has suffered heartbreak, and recently. It throbs from her, desperate for solace, intense in its hues. The young knight beside her, fresh from her squiring, is dwelling on someone who was once important to her. That much is effortless before your eye. “She may not seem like much,” Vixen continues, “but doubtless this is because she has drifted far from her Destiny due to the machinations of those wicked things outside the right order of Heaven. How fortunate she is that we have arrived to set things right!” She laughs, delighted at the power of Heaven to set right what has been put askew. She does not tell you the nature of the girl’s Destiny. You already know it. Of course you do. You’ve always known it, ever since you were sent to this land. It’s what you were sent here to do. Just remember that. You are here for the Chosen One. What is the nature of this Destiny, the one that sends luminous pink fires shivering up and down your spine? What must this girl become for the will of Heaven to be made manifest? *** [b]Han![/b] Machi rolls with you, scrabbles for position, ends up on top of you again. Face to face and chest to chest. Your wrists pinned to the deck over your head. Machi’s braids dangle over you, brush against your cheek. Her breath is hot and hitching and smothering just like the weight of her body on yours and her eyes are so [i]happy[/i] and— She kisses you. She kisses you like she’s drowning. Her tongue is as hot in your mouth as the fire inside your heart. “Mine,” she growls. “My stone-heart.” Then she kisses you [i]again.[/i] And this time, her fangs caress your lip as tenderly as a thumb rubbed against your hand, in their own way; she lets you know she [i]could[/i] break skin. Her body radiates warmth, like a blanket you could fall asleep in. What awakens the beast inside her? Competition, like the kind you can give her. Claiming things from others and making them hers. (She glances over at the priestess, who is staring in goggle-eyed shock; she’s not just doing this just because she wants you. She’s doing this to show off in front of a... rival? Okay!! Do not think about that!!!) Victory over a worthy rival. And a few helpless cuties to torment as the cherry on top. This moment, all those things intermingled, has pushed her past that edge she always flirted with crossing growing up. (You can almost hear the Seedin sisters back home, pointing at you and laughing: [i]catkisser, catkisser, Han kisses cats! Ew, stay away, catkisser![/i] They must never find out they were vindicated a decade later.) She licks your face, panting her possession with every lap as you squirm, getting more and more excited as she goes, and— [i]Hanaha. Kigi. Stop whistling and cheering for her to “get it, girl.”[/i] When she raises herself up, putting pressure back on your wrists, her face is a mess of raw feelings: desire (for [i]you[/i]) and smugness (at every lowlander she’s scandalizing) and excitement (at seeing you strain and strive and fight for [i]her[/i]) and wicked impishness (oh no). “Yield,” she purrs, just loud enough for a certain priestess to hear, “and we can [i]share[/i] her, Han’ya.” (Because she can share her toys. As long as she gets to turn that into a game, too. As long as she gets to kiss and nip and vie for her stone-heart and her prize and be wanted and needed and the winner. As long as you both belong to [i]her[/i].) Mark Insecure and think about being wanted, [i]kitten.[/i] *** [b]Giriel![/b] Uusha nods. It is not a nod of approval. It is a nod of acknowledgment. Yes, you have this right. If the Stag Knight were to stop you, then she would not be who she is. You have overcome her hand; but do not think yourself safe from retaliation, either. The dead come to the food, shivers in the damp air, and kneel down to feed of the soup. When they are done, when they have had their fill, the soup will remain, but it will be cold and tasteless and will not fill a belly. They eat of its essential food-nature, and the warmth the cook invested into it, and the honor they are shown. Heavy, weighed down by the feast, they become somnolent and idle. Hardly the sort of wraiths that could drive soldiers mad. Peregrine sets down her erhu, notices the bowl, and shrugs her shoulders. Then she begins to pace among the stones, muttering to herself, having a conversation with the only witch who can keep up with her. Which leaves you, Kayl, Uusha, and Uusha’s band of wicked rogues. When the gauntlet lashes out, the dark nails do not dig into your skin. She is careful, despite her strength; her fingers press into your cheeks, force your mouth into an undignified O, as she cocks her head like an animal to get a better look at you through that helm. “You may go, boy,” she says, without looking at him. “If you tell anyone, I’ll know. I’ll set the Rattler on you.” Kayl, ashen-faced, looks from Uusha to you, frightened and desperate for some sign from you that— That it’s okay to be a coward. That you’ll forgive him. That you won’t insist he stay and face fears even scarier than the ghosts. And even Uusha, moving your face around, peering close and making an uncanny, hollow [i]tkk-tkk-tkk[/i] with her tongue, can’t take that power away from you.