Dolce!

"Do...lce..."

The scarlet light flickers like a heartbeat. The distant darkness of a blood-cloaked Azura assassin stalking down endless hallways. It wars with the flickering fires of oven flames that spit and hiss as water drips into them. Water runs down on your head unsteadily from spilled saucepans, just as your blood runs unsteadily from ruptured veins. You're so tired and there's so, so, so much road left to go.

And above you stands the God of the Dead. The ceiling light casts him in a dusty blue halo - red bow tie like a bloodless slit across his neck, black and white waiter's dress making it seem as natural for him to take your coat as take your life. When you look at him all you can think of is how easily he would fold up; he gives the impression of a sheet of origami paper, so loosely tethered to this world all of those angular joints might bend and crease and sweep him away on crane's wings.

He has an expression as though you remind him of someone. Given your state this must be a very sad memory indeed.

Jil is weeping by your side, embracing you, cradling your head in her lap as your blood stains her silver fur. You see in her sorrow another world, one of assassins and violence and darkness, where the will of the centre radiates out in endless waves of violence. Where a single act of kindness was so startling and unexpected that it changed her life and won her loyalty. Of course Bella's gift was so meaningful to Jil, for in her world it is not enough to be kind - one also needs the awesome courage and strength to endure the consequences of that kindness.

"It was too heavy a burden I laid upon you," said Hades. "A quest to find Ancient Gaia? Some things are hubris, even for the gods."

He folds at the knees, then the waist, then the shoulders, elbows, wrist, and each finger in turn, one after another, like watching a slow moving river run up through his legs and down through his arms. He offers you his hand.

"Come. I will hold no grudge for your failure."

Alexa!

For the first time, you tune into the battle.

It is a disaster.

Walls burst open with volleys of SP fire and swarms of mouselike menials flood out to form phalanxes in unexpected positions. Shadowy flights of Kaeri strike out and withdraw in waves. The ground is littered with brutally mutilated bodies, terror tactics from the Kaeri as they emphasize just how prepared they are to make sure their opponents are dead. Here and there you see flashes of the enemy Champion - a cybernetic Kaeri berserker who can seemingly smell the weakest point in every formation.

The Kaeri are warriors by nature, they have the numbers, they have engaged in clan warfare all their lives, and Zeus likes them - but that is where their advantages end. On the other side of the ledger you have the following problems:
- There is no singular, charismatic leader who binds the Fleets together
- They have no experience fighting a void war under these conditions. Even solid projectile weapons are relatively new to warriors who until recently were planetbound in primitive societies.
- They are attacking a well resourced and supplied Imperial warship.
- The Kaeri are terrifying enemies who are not taking prisoners.
- The Kaeri have trained for this opponent specifically. They have always been determined to proving their worth as the premier war species and, until the Ceron conquests, the Alcedi were the standard to beat.

All of these were accounted for in Molech's plan. If the question was simply one of a disorganized rush of Alcedi flying into slaughter at the Kaeri's talons, there would still be victory - albeit pyrrhic - as the more disciplined Tidal and Hermetic forces maneuvered to claim the engine deck. But there's a new, entirely unexpected problem - the ship's menials are armed, disciplined, battle-hardened, and pissed. From their phalanxes deep, chilling whispers of Apollonian prayers roll like autumn winds, and they swarm and flow in and out of hidden passages in the walls. There is evidently no love lost between them and the Kaeri but the two forces work together with the kind of implicit understanding that only warriors who have fought side by side before have. It's startling to watch - many ships form deckhand militias, but it's a sight rarely seen on Imperial ships who would often rather risk capture than arm their menials.

And then come the Plovers.

They storm into the battlefield, massive armoured titans of battle, cables trailing behind them as they crush through Tidal formations, smashing crab shells and releasing huge plumes of flame that envelop entire corridors and send wailing Hermetics retreating, robes burning. These are not the standard repair forms common on Imperial ships, these are dedicated combat engines the likes of which only savages use. It's a crushing blow on what is already wavering morale, and in another few moments a rout will set in.

And advancing at the head of the Kaeri formation is their champion, their Bloodfeather. Captain Lorventi, with hatchet and spiked flail, blood soaked and with hate in her eyes. You have fought her before, Alexa. The last time you were saved by the Nemean, but even then she inflicted grievous injuries on both you and her in her death frenzy. Both of her arms are wrapped with coiling metal bands, covered with scars where Redana shattered them before.

And so the Alcedi, lost, demoralized, terrified, hover on the brink. And they look to you, Pallas Rex, to defeat this nightmare and turn the tide of the battle through your glorious skill alone.

Vasilia!

"Do you ever think of the Underworld, Vasilia?" said the Furnace Knight, watching the sea. "How strange an adventure it must be. In death to arise anew, reborn and whole and beautiful, in the fields of Elysium. But what fills those fields? What do warriors become when the kings they fought for are gone? When the kingdoms they died for live on upon the surface? Does each warrior have to, at last, lay their spear aside and learn an entirely new identity apart from war, apart from the culture they swam in all their lives? Do you imagine the warriors would enjoy that - fish cast from oceans, told to evolve lungs in a world that may be a paradise if they only had the souls to appreciate it?"

He coiled his hand out, slowly, tracing a gleaming blue fingertip across the length of a cyan-green apple. "Or do you imagine that Lord Hades might allow them to take their empires with them?"

Hades' eyes gleamed blue in the distance, a deeper colour than could be found anywhere in the Skies.

"If you were to take the Furnace Knight from the Skies, he would be a child," said the ancient warrior. "His story would be over. His reputation would be meaningless. His home would be forgotten. He would have to sacrifice centuries of achievement. He may as well dive into the River Lethe," his hand traced the razor line of Aphrodite's Rift across the sky, an ever present violence upon the heavens.

"So in this," he said, "you are my elder. Where I have lived but one life, you have already tasted two. What was your first? Why did it drive you away?"

Bella and Skotia!

And in the distance, brutal red light, thick and toxic and strobing. Beneath the clouds of the drug that Thelis Thist cloaked her true nature in you can smell it. Death.

Death that smells like everything you know.

In that distant corridor, Thelis Thist exhales corpse smoke and charred bone. In the centre of her daemonic cigar is a bone, and it tastes as kin to Beautiful. You can feel the shuddering horror of this creature at last. It has taken an Assassin and carved her apart for meat and bones. It has cut her hair and rolled it into cigars. And now, as it tastes corpse, it draws in the nightmarish power of the Assassins of the Temple.

This is the Eater of the Dead.

"As Artemis is my witness," said Thelis Thist, as a cloud of infernal smoke at the entrance to an entirely different corridor. "I dedicate this hunt." She's gone again, moving through different doorways, reflection warped in crimson across the broken mirrors that line the throne room. "As Hades is my benefactor, I give praise and thanks to him. As the Skies are my home, I will defend them against invaders. As Kronus ruled all things, I will feast upon the strength of the young."

She was there, on the second floor balcony above the Satrap's throne, surrounded by shadows that seem like ghosts - howling and clutching and tearing at the monster with ineffectual limbs. She smiles down at the two of you as metallic spikes erupt in pairs all along her spine. Thick red lightning surges up along these channels, these organic ELF spikes, to wrap around her head in a crown of bloody lightning.

"And, as your host," said Thelis Thist. "Let me again show you the hospitality of the Endless Azure Skies."

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

Bella was never stupid enough to ask the question out loud. Not even before the very first lesson, just after Redana had wiled away an hour brushing her hair for the pleasure of making her new pet purr. But she asked it with her eyes, every single time. When she thought she could risk it, she asked it with the slouch of her shoulders and the aggravated flick of her ears. She asked with a drooping tail and a "Yes sir, at once sir!" that was half a second too late to be proper. But she never asked it out loud.

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

She had quite enough to be getting on with as it was, didn't they know? Didn't they understand? The Imperial Kennels trained her to be a pet. They taught her to wear pretty, floofy little dresses and how to always, always be polite even if she didn't like the feel of the collar a human was putting around her neck. They taught her how to sing and do stupid magic tricks for guests' amusement. They taught her how to sit in a lap and close her eyes all content-like while fingers wandered all the places she didn't want them. And when she was a Good Girl, they taught her how to run races. And little Tredecima had thought that was a lot of things to know! But Bella was expected to be perfect, so there was more for her to learn. Washing the laundry, drying it, folding it after. Cooking, and how to be so good at it nobody could tell it hadn't come from a proper chef but never well enough that she threatened their position. How to grind rust out of plovers' limbs. How to repair the great machines of Tellus so that the planet could function perfectly, though never the inner workings of such wonders. How to braid hair, trim nails, apply makeup, even tailor dresses for people vastly more important than her. All of it made sense. An idle Servitor was a mistreated Servitor, wasn't it said? And when your job was to be pretty, who better to put to work making everything around her pretty, too? So then.

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

Scipia declared that a Princess' life was full of danger. Empires would always have enemies, and those enemies would always seek out chances to strike at weaknesses. A Princess who was still learning how to be an Empress was as weak a point as an Empire could have. Therefore, defense must always be to hand. Therefore, a Princess can have no greater defender than she who is always close to hand. They bred Bella to have sharp teeth and claws, did they not? Here she was, a product of pure Imperial intent, growing stronger every day. So it must be! It is ordained. It is the will of the Empire! It is therefore the will of the Gods! Therefore quit slouching, little one, and fight! And she did, and did well at it. She passed every lesson. But still, she wondered.

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

He made her spar against initiates of the Ikarani temple, though she didn't know it by name and didn't know what that meant. Not really, anyway. For her it was fighting shadows. Awkward children with distant eyes who memorized her habits and her posture after only a pass or two. It meant hiding her intentions. It meant adapting what she was doing while she was in the middle of doing it. Swinging her leg in a big sweeping kick that turned into momentum for a dodge that left her low to the ground so she could lunge upward from an angle she should have been weak from, given her taller height. It meant taking hits so that she could trade bigger ones. It meant making her muscles strong enough that her hits were bigger ones. But always carefully, carefully. She had to be soft. She had to be pretty. She was still a maid, before anything else.

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

Anakoni believed that every citizen should be a warrior, even in an empire that had sworn off of killing. He also believed that a Servitor was close enough to a Citizen that they hardly needed to be Ceronian to answer the call. A maid was just a warrior who cleaned mansions instead of plowing fields in between wars. And there would be wars, slut. Fight them in your pretty dresses if you must, but fight or face the consequences. And she nodded at this too, and thanked her instructor for wasting his time on her with the deepest curtsy her legs could manage. But this was such obvious dogma that even young Bella couldn't swallow it unquestioningly. This was strength, the kind of strength they turned on her to make sure she was worthy of the kindest, best parts of Tellus she was allowed to call home as long as she was perfect. This was a lash for her to endure, punishment to smile through so she could show Her Highness what a good girl she was. But her heart was still a storm. And over and over, the question repeated itself inside her head, begging to be let out.

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

This instructor pitted her against the initiates of the Oratus temple. But like Scipia before him, he did not name the temple, and Bella lacked the wisdom to realize the nature of her opponents. This was not like Scipia's challenge; she couldn't win by being rash and unpredictable. She couldn't win by being clever or through willingness to destroy herself. These ones did not predict: they commanded. She would rush in, leaping over obstacles and choosing her angles to catch by them by surprise, only to find herself staring up at the ceiling when her blood suddenly screamed at her to trip. To win she had to push her body harder, train her ears to catch every little vibration in the notes of every voice, to train her eyes to watch for movements hidden in even simple hand gestures that might turn hypnotic, and her nose to catch the chemical notes that meant pheromones were entering her body. She had to identify them to cut them off, and never make a mistake, and she had to cut them off perfectly, or they'd use her own dulled senses as a weapon against her. She hated this training more than any other, especially as she got older. One wrong move on even the subtlest level could mean her claws wound up dug into her own throat, and then there'd be no one left to ask the question.

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

Lucia was the kindest of her instructors. And maybe it was a coincidence, but she was also the only one who never asked Bella to fight her way through waves of strange trainees roughly her own age. She might even have answered the question directly, if Bella had dared to ask it. But she didn't. Any idiot who let her guard down after only a little bit of kindness deserved to be culled. So she never found her answer from her favorite teacher. But Lucia's muscles and the scars she wore proudly across her body told Bella that, in her opinion, it simply felt good to be strong. Crafting your body to be able to leap higher, run faster, hit harder, and dodge more agilely was simply part of becoming a better person. And that made her think of Redana. And that made her smile. And that made her not mind the rest of it so much.

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

Maybe that was the wrong question. Why does she need to fight like this? Lucia's instructions were simple. Hit her, don't get hit. Both impossible. Maddeningly so. And that was the entire point. She needed to learn what kind of power was locked inside anger, how much farther she could push herself if she rode it like a wave. She could crush stone, rend steel, crumple sevenfold shields like origami cranes if only she embraced that white-hot lightning inside of her. To win... that is, to succeed, because hitting Lucia only made her deck Bella harder, she hard to turn herself into a whirlwind. She had to hide power under that pretty frame that nobody could possibly believe was there. She had to seethe, explode, and then quickly and quietly pack it all back inside of her again before anybody could be offended by it. It was as anything she could remember doing, and the contrast only made her more curious.

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

Mynx came too late to be of any help. By the time the Toxicrene was willing to drop the body double routine and be a friend and confidant, Bella had lost her window to ask the question. The maid already knew how to fight. Now she needed to keep in practice, and this much Mynx was very good at. She could be any opponent, any lackey of Odoacer's that rumors said might be after Dany, and she could be anywhere at any time. More to the point, Mynx knew how to fight in ways Bella hadn't seen before. A single touch could end a fight before it began, but dodging wasn't always possible when she'd waltz in and suddenly her arms ended in tendrils or claws to rival Bella's. She talked all the time, too, that was the weirdest part. Fighting Mynx was one hundred percent a case of fighting against her own secret insecurities (or sometimes fantasies) without ever letting them rattle her. Misdirection made her forget that behind the curtain was a first class ass kicker with an infinite variety of daggers. Sometimes the fight did end before it began. Sometimes she'd ask to spar and wake up three hours later from a nap she never meant to take. But always one she needed. Winning was impossible, honestly. But Bella didn't mind as much as she thought she was supposed to. It always made her think, and these were the only lessons she got to learn that came with a hug at the end.

Why does a maid need to learn how to fight?

...Now she knows. Maids need to know how to fight because the galaxy is full of monsters. Monsters like Thellis Thist who eat the dead and smoke their souls to feel alive. Monsters who fight with every power Bella's ever trained against with a viciousness that only comes from long ages in the dark. Grasping. Scheming. Adapting.

Her ELF flashes harmless against Thist's. The rush of her claws is batted aside like she was a child again, first by predictive movement and then, far worse, again with pure animistic strength. Thist moves like mist and strikes like falling stars, too fast and too slow at once for Bella's eyes to follow. The Auspex calculates trajectories, and she changes them three times before Bella can respond to the first. It shrugs inside her head and squeezes her ears to punish her for being this stupid. She was prepared to fight a god? Well not Artemis. Definitely not Hades.

Bella digs her heels in deeper. There is nowhere for her to run. No escape is possible from this. Maids have to learn how to fight because Thellis Thist exists. And they should have been taught better. Wasn't she warned? Stay out of trouble, XIII. When nothing you do can impress a two-bit lawyer, that means you're outmatched. All of the posturing and pride of Empire means nothing in the face of a proper monster. That's the lesson. That's the hospitality of the Endless Azure Skies. Breathe it in, Bella. And then die.

There is one lesson left that can help her. Bella howls with toxic fury and slashes her claws into everything she can reach. She may be no match for Thist, but this palace is no match for her. She'll bring the whole fucking place down on everybody's heads, and then see who's feeling smug about it after the fact. She's... sorry, Mynx. You were right. When you can't win, you cheat. And then you hope to run away.

[Overcome: 1, 2. A failure means Bella reactivates Tenacity Incarnate]

There’s a certain little voice that sometimes devils readers of adventure fiction, belonging to a quite wicked imp of practicality, and it says: you would not survive this. You are not a protagonist, little reader: the hero will only escape because everything aligns just so. Redana Claudius was not often bedeviled so. Skotia, however, for all that he is a creature of romance— he knows this voice. And the voice is saying: if you fight this monster, you will die. Your concentration will slip at a vital moment; you will fail to dodge a falling pillar; you will be backhanded through a mural and off a cliff to your death. This creature is too dangerous for Bella, killer of princes, so what do you think you’re doing?

Paying for the last kiss he’ll ever give her, is what he’s doing.

His palms are dry. His heart aches in his chest. He is shaking as he draws his sword with a duelist’s flourish, one wrist beneath the other, tip at attention. His feet find their marks with rote ease. An ELF cracks out and he flicks it away as if training in the courtyards of an imperial palace.

Bella is screaming at him to move. But that, too, is part of the story. It’s about his character. The lothario promises everything and then proves himself false, a coward, selfish. The true lover allows his love to carry him into the maw of Leviathan, and then— well, it depends on what sort of story this is, isn’t it? Maybe he’s only here to die in front of Bella, to save her and her Beautiful, to make amends, and maybe at the end she’ll realize that her Redana— but no. He’s past that now. All he is is a desperate gamble by a selfish princess to do one thing right for her oldest, dearest friend.

Nobody in those stories had the decency to mention the dryness at the corner of his eyes, the right clench of his asshole, the neon throb of ELF weapons in the dark pounding in the back of his head. Fuck.

(The look on her face, confusion and trepidation that she hadn’t recognized when she reached down into the box— the look on her face, pale, eyes lidless wide, her hand trembling as she hissed through bloodless lips at her princess— the look on her face, hidden in the dark but obvious enough, the longing for someone who was right for her, who could give her a love untainted by failure and failure and failure—)

“Avaunt.” The world narrows to the dark and the light. His body is moving to parry another shot before his mind has caught up. The blade throbs from tip to insulated hilt. “I will kill you if you touch her,” he says, and he means it, even if he doesn’t know if he can. How’s this for a storybook, dearest and best of maids? How’s this for the Maneater, the filler of graves, the doom of cities? How’s this for choosing you? “Avaunt!” His voice is too small for the heart it carries; it cracks beneath the weight.

And this is the moment. This is why Aphrodite raised him up from the shadows to be the prince of the night. For this, and this alone; and all outcomes, then, are part of his song. End of the line! Curtain fall! And what are you in the dark, Skotia, in that heart of hearts, standing so small and pathetic in front of a living nightmare, while you stand between the protagonist and her doom?

Not a coward.

Not with Bella on the line.

He digs his heels in and screams his defiance in the face of death herself:

“Av—!”

That bastard.

She understands the plan in an instant. Sees the formations arrayed before her as neatly as the diagrams in The Masteries of Battle. The Kaeri hate the Alcedi, want to see them destroyed and laid on their altar, would hound them to the end of space if given the chance. And that's the point. You couldn't paint a more effective target if you tried.

It's as simple as it is cruel. So long as the Alcedi are on the field, the Kaeri are neutralized. Sacrifice the Alcedi, feed them into a meatgrinder of troops who are prepared and motivated to destroy them, and the day is yours. Why wouldn't you do that? Yes, it's regrettable that he must lose a third of his forces to win this battle, but it's not like there isn't a planet full of more of them. It's not like they're important. Dying is what they're for.

And all she had to do in this plan was care. She's damned if she does, and damned if she doesn't. If she leads them to victory, she keeps them alive and gives Father Molech exactly what he wants. And if she denies him his victory, they all die. Isn't that just like him?

She could push them forward, yes. Could take up her spear, become the leader they want. Face Lorventi, give the Tide and the Coherents the opening they need. Give the Emperor the victory he craves. Become the hero of the day.

But it won't be enough.

It will never be enough.

Let's say she does find a way to pull a miracle out of her ass. Appeals to Ares. Saves the day. Rallies the troops. Survives against Lorventi. Becomes a beacon of hope. Returns with a crown of laurels and the Plousios singing her praises.

What then?

Then Emperor Molech will be free to throw them into more battles. More days to save. More insurmountable odds to fight against. More chances for the Alcedi to throw themselves into the meatgrinder for a father who never cared.

Never even thought of them as people.

"Gather the wounded!" she bellows. "We retreat to the Plousios!"

[Get Away: 6]

It's messy.

She's shouting to make herself heard. The Coherents and the Tides are still surging towards the engine. The Alcedi almost are refusing to believe it. And worst of all, they're cut off. They've advanced so far into the ship, the mice have cut them off from behind, and now….

And now the phalanxes are advancing, while Lorventi's form cuts through the ship like the fin of a shark.

“You may as well get comfortable, Sir Knight.” She certainly wasn’t going to stand the entire time. The battlements made for a good enough bench, the parapets a table for food and drink. “It’s not a short story, nor one I tell often. I see it often enough, in my head, but out loud?” Her heart turned inside her chest. An absence, at her side. “Not even...I’ve only told snippets, never the whole thing. I don’t know what ought to be cut and what ought to stay. I don’t know if you are the right audience, but…”

She had to start somewhere.

Enough stalling. The beginning was a fine enough beginning.

“I don’t supposed you’d have known of Lakkos, except as a footnote in the star charts. It is positioned just so, between the orbits of much greater stars, that anything adrift in that sector will wind up crashing to its surface. In the old days of humanity, they made the atmosphere thick, yet yielding, that nothing would hit the planet with enough energy to shatter it or itself. Even living things could enter atmo with only mild burns. They turned it into a scrapyard, I think. A mine for parts and materials. The old machines and foundries are still there. As are every servitor they set to work there, and every servitor who found themselves drifting through space in that sector, once humanity retreated to Tellus.”

“But before humanity completely vanished, the Armada made one last call, to scoop up any remaining humans by imperial decree. They left.” She coughs. “An impression. Along with a fair number of ‘artifacts’ from the capital. Likely meant to ensure they’d never forget the awesome power of the Empire. It turned out to be highly educational. We learned a lot. And never forgot it. Overnight, the planet was united in one sentiment: To build the biggest and best plovers and war machines, that they may serve the invincible Empire as their allies, when they returned in their war against the stars.”

“Our worship went further still. We sought to emulate the perfect ways of Tellus. We selected our leaders through the divine rites of the Olympics, showering them with crowns and gold, as they did in the Empire. We held great, public trials of combat and skill, but mostly combat. Power was, after all, the chief virtue of the Armada. But we picked up their knack for corruption rather quickly too. Those who won at the Games enjoyed positions of wealth, power, incredible fame, while the rest of the peasants spent their days mining scraps for the Senator’s pet plover projects. And though the Games were open to all, well, if you didn’t have the time, money, or equipment to properly prepare, what chance did you have?”

“If there was a silver lining, at least our wars became rather less bloody, but none the shorter. Why send your precious plover into battle with your neighbors, and risk damaging your best asset to the Empire? Better to sabotage their works, while jealously defending your own. Take them down a peg in the next Games, and enjoy the spoils of victory afterwards. But with no end or Armada in sight, the arms race never ceased. The toll on the citizens never faltered.”

“Mind, I know all this through hindsight. Years of time spent away, epiphanies from awkward stares, that sort of thing. At the time, I was merely the only daughter of a noble house of Lakkos. Our star had been rising, and there I was; bright, strong, quick-witted, fiercely competitive, gifted in speech, a gem in need of polish only. They told me I was destined to rule, and I was quite ready to tell everyone else the same. Greatness, glory, light, those were all I could see in my future, and I shone with promise.”

“Here, I must mention my friends: wild Clarissa, and dear, stern Alethea. Daughters of nobility both, I met them through the many, many training classes we attended to prepare us for our debuts in the Games. We were the same age, most of our days were spent together, then most of our free time afterwards, we got along so well. Clarissa and I were both from rather notable families, at the zenith of their power. Alethea, though, her family’s fortunes had been sinking, and she was their last shot at retaining what standing they had left. It was through her that we had our window into the world outside the palaces, of the terrible fate that awaited her should she fail to take home any prizes. The same fate that most of our citizens woke up to every day, without hope. We swore that we would all win - and thus save her from poverty - but I went one step further; I swore that we would put an end to the endless ‘wars’ that had inflicted such harm on our people. With all I had going for me, with how I was learning to break and mend hearts with nothing more than words, surely I could turn the hearts of all of Lakkos to peace?”

Here, she pauses. “You asked, when we first met, about where I first learned of the Glaive? Well, this is where I started. Amid the detritus that our family had claimed as treasure was a single, unspoiled scroll of wondrous martial forms. They detailed a style I had never seen before, one I could hardly believe was possible. Of course, it was years until I learned what grav-rails even were, but at the time, I thought I could surely master it, with enough effort. I spent all my spare hours in training, practicing, trying to get it right. I never quite managed to replicate it *exactly*, but I got rather close. Close enough to devise a form that no one on Lakkos had ever seen. I could say that inherent advantage was the reason why I picked it up but...no, that would be a lie. Because you’re right; there are other styles that could have given me similar results much quicker and easier.”

She nudged a grape around her plate, steering it expertly through the pile of produce without stopping. “I think...what ultimately drew me was the promise of the Glaive. There are things I can do in this style, openings I can create, victories I can achieve, that I can’t get anywhere else. All it takes is enough imagination, inspiration, and instinct. And that is how I wished to fight.” And perhaps she’d never told this story out loud, but the words slot into her heart so neatly that they couldn’t have been anything other than the truth.

***********************************************************

Failure.

Funny, he’d been so worried about getting so many Captain-ly things wrong, when it was the quest itself he ought to have been looking out for. Not that he’d been careless with his life, it’s just. It’s not something you can really keep looking at if you’ve got to keep moving forward. If he’d never done anything dangerous, he’d still be in the Manor’s kitchen right now. Whole. Alive.

They’d told him so. Hadn’t they told him so? No good would come of a chef wandering from the fold. The mouse’s cries came through fuzzy but the Majordomo’s snarls were on his neck, heavier and louder than any bell. Reason! Order! The right thing, in the right way! So it was! So it always must be! He, the silly sheep, he thought, maybe, if he wore the Captain’s hat, maybe he could be a Captain, and not a chef, and never have to fear the consequences again. Silly him. Silly Dolce.

So quiet, about Lord Hades. No dogs barking there. Quiet, and still. Rest, at last.

No trouble, moving his hand now. Slowly, it rose, white against the black of Lord Hade’s perfect suit, save for, for a little glimmer of gold, ‘round his ring finger…

So I swear…

He stopped. Fingers hovering over Hades’.

“That...that so long as I draw breath…” He heard himself mumbling. “First of my loyalty. First of my heart. Never...never to leave…”

Whole? Alive? When had he ever felt that way in the Manor? Would he have ever left if he was so happy there? Why, his hours had been filled with nothing but books, and kitchens, and meals that no one ever ate, and long nights without rest wondering what was the matter with him. Hadn’t he prayed to Hera then too? Hadn’t she promised him an answer? And though she spoke in action, and not words, was it not the same answer she’d given him a few weeks ago? Then, his goal was to run, to leave, to live among the stars and have others taste his cooking every day. And now? Now?

“I’m, sorry, Lord Hades.” He draws back his hand, and gently curls his employer’s hand shut. “Not yet. There is. I think.” Still so tired. Still so hard to think, but, but, he couldn’t, just couldn’t stop now. “I want to make Redana’s dream real. I want ships where no-one is afraid. I.”

His vision blurs. With tears, and cigarette smoke.

“I want to talk to Vasilia. There’s, oh, there’s so much I need to tell her. We can’t, we can’t leave it like this, not any longer, please, we can’t...”

Alexa!

"I'll hold them off."

You hear the sentence distantly from a slash of red and black in the shape of a girl. Princess Epistia draws up the hood of her cloak, fingers tightening around the grip of her oversized warscythe. There's focus there. Rapture, almost. Excitement, craving. She looks upon this field of blood and death and imagines her place is here. Imagines that the secret to glory is to make it worse.

And she's gone like a ribbon, and Ares steps onto the field.

He rips himself to the surface of Athena with a blood-soaked howl - the lupine howl of Ceron, not heard for two centuries. Corpses rain down from the sky, messes of broken feathers and hollow bones. As she lands she pirouettes like a dancer and draws thirty menials along with her. With a gnash of her teeth she severs the cable animating an enormous battle Plover and with a crack of her ELF she turns the warsuit into a steel statue. The world reels in the shock of a demigod's carnage and the hideous rents she carves into the enemy lines.

And moving to meet her comes Lorventi.

Nevertheless, the troops are in flight, retreating from the blood-soaked battlefield, when a Coherent runner arrives. "The Kaeri are counterboarding," he gasps. "They're severing the docking tunnels to seal us in!"

And the world hangs on a dagger point, Alexa. You can either go to save Princess Epistia from the Bloodfeather's berserker rage, or you can continue to lead the retreat and prevent the army from being locked in.

Vasilia!

"Ah," said the Furnace Knight. "So you are nobility."

He slowly picks a strange silver cylinder out of his pocket, points it at you, and clicks a few times. The hue of your blue robe deepens and the colour brightens. A simple, practical gesture, as mannered and unmentionable as holding a door open.

"And you are from an underworld of your own. Lord Hades bought you the dead and dying, welcomed them in a palace to remembered imperium. And in that dead kingdom you finally arose in the station you desired, young and strong and filled with power. Why did you not triumph?"

Dolce!

"But what if this moment was inevitable?" said Hades, voice as delicate as paper. He looked up at the ceiling and the world fell away to show Aphrodite's Rift slashed from horizon to horizon. "You stand on the shores of the Lethe one way or another. Even if you survive here the journey will in mere weeks take you to the border of the Underworld. The Rivers will be no kinder to you if you plunge into them there than if they take you here. They will burn you, drown you, cleanse you and speed you on to the beyond."

The Rift glows and burns, radiant and toxic pink and violet and void black, an open wound across the galaxy. Hades stares at it with eyes like lapis lazuli.

"Even if you survive Demeter, survive her assassins, survive a wild and cruel galaxy, survive the curses of heartbreak and betrayal, when you reach the Rift you will be right back where you are. Here, at the border of life and death. Crews have made it there before and none of them survived the crossing. This mission was always about throwing bodies into the Rift hoping that together they might dam the Styx."

"So rest," he said. "It is... fine. I have already asked for so much so unjustly, at the least I can spare you from crawling towards a finish that will be no different from the pain you already endure."

Bella and Skotia!

She ate your teachers.

One by one they had left for the stars. One by one they'd come to the Skies. One by one those wise, deadly masters had died at the hands of this. And now it is their strength that runs through her veins, their shades that cling to her back like robes, their memories that swirl within the blood of this monster. You go through the stances one after another in nightmarish parodies of your lessons. One, two slash - try again. Three, four, and the rumbling of thunder - there are weapons even your eyes might miss. These are classroom lessons you are being put through. Classroom humiliations. Thist smiles like the devil. She does not understand and does not care to. She simply rides the stolen power, lives out the ghosts of prowess, the echoes of brilliance. Five, six - you didn't listen to us. Not like you were supposed to.

We knew this day would come.

She fights bare-handed, like you, like them. There's nowhere to hit her, nowhere to claw her. Everywhere is armour and strikes of the tail. She envelops when she gets close, arms and tail looking to engulf and crush. Distance is as deadly as proximity, as when you back away she lies flat that she might align the ELF spikes emerging from her spine and let them charge off each other until they unleash in bruising thunderstrikes. Seven, eight -

And the blows do not land.

Skotia has carved them away. Has engaged the beast blade to scale. He fights not like a monster, not like an animal... like a hero. How a champion might fight. For a moment it's glorious.

And then Thist graps his throat and bites his mouth with a venomous kiss. She casts him away as his lips swell and his face goes tense with purple veins. Savagely, she turns back to Bella, spitting blood from furious lips.

But Artemis, ever watchful, has seen this and judged it poorly. She stands quietly from her position in the corner of the room and walks away, abandoning the Eater of the Dead on her hunt. Skotia was not hers to kill, and the Huntress is disgusted by the inaccuracy. And that mistake is the difference between an Assassin of the Temple and someone who simply steals their power.

You face Thelis Thist again, and this time no god is on her side. Once again you face a mad alien matriarch who has broken faith with the gods.

[You do not pay a price for acting against a Threat to the World as you are one yourself. Nevertheless, take Damage - which is instead absorbed by Redana's Saviour. Redana is also poisoned, which may have more effects later.]

There was nothing that little Redana loved more than playing Princess Adventures. So of course there was nothing Bella loved more than playing it with her. Not that there was generally a lot to playing, as far as she was concerned. By her own admission she wasn't a princess, it would not have been proper for her to play the part. And besides, she always insisted, Redana was far more athletic than she, and a natural born hero to boot. So no matter how the argument went, that was how things wound up. It was... necessary.

Every Adventure Princess needed an Innocent Maiden to rescue, whether from a Sultan or a Djinn or the mighty Beast of Calamity. Usually they were represented by a stack of pillows, but occasionally some poor guard would get dragged into the game. But whatever the twist, it was Bella's job to wriggle helplessly and call "help me, help me!" in a sweet voice while the Princess bravely vanquished plush and pillow and short-strawed palace guards to rescue her. Then would come the untying of the blanket-ropes and True Love's First extremely chaste Kiss on the cheek. It felt increasingly ridiculous as the years piled on, but Redana never outgrew it. Or maybe there was something she wanted that she wasn't getting. Or maybe...

Ah. It's like that, is it? There are memories enough here tonight to drown her. Her old teachers would kill her for daydreaming in a fight like this. But it was impossible not to. She's never seen a real hero before. The way Skotia moves, the indescribable grace and determination of his movements. The flash of his blade and the dance of his feet. There's beauty in the sacrifice of his movements, more than she could find in all the stars in the sky. It's so surprising that, for a moment, she drops her guard. For a moment, she almost forgets the pain and fear, that she's not a child safe and home. A small part of her heart yearns to call out in a soft voice for rescue. She's living in the middle of an adventure holo, and it's impossible to believe the Prince won't defeat the monster.

But he falls. This is another lesson. We taught you to fight, you dumbass. If brave heroes and warriors won all of their battles, we would have come home and finished your lessons.

Bella's teeth crunch together. Her tail raises behind her, as rigid as her spine. Her claws twitch horribly and the ends of her fingers, and her face contorts into an expression of pure hate. There is nothing beautiful about her now. Nothing. The dress clinging to her body is like a twisted mockery of decorum, like draping a veil on the Minotaur and telling it to attend a party like a good girl.

She always longed to play the Princess. To be the one doing the gallant rescue with kisses waiting for her at the end. All those years, she played the maiden because she had to hide that she was actually the monster the whole time. Even now in her final moments, it's all that she can be. Two monsters collide over the body of a fallen prince, and their dance will reduce this empty hall to nothing but crumbling rock.

With a howl, she rushes Thist in a storm of terrible claws and lightning. Her blows crush everything they touch, leaving gashes twice the size of her body in the walls and floor. Columns and statues shatter into a rain of tiny pebbles. But Thist turns her away like nothing and swats her away with a powerful tail swipe that sends Bella careening across the room into the opposite wall. She flops down onto one knee, a snarling, spitting mess. She can get angrier. She can be stronger. She can hit you. She can kill all of you! She can!

She struggled to her feet just in time to watch a burst of ELF lightning arc off of Thist's organic spikes and drive her straight back into her crater. Her dress shreds in uneven tatters where heat and rock and pressure finally prove too much for Beautiful's planning and rob her of her skirts. She spits on the ground, tasting iron. She has nothing to say. Scipia would pull out her guts for talking to the enemy in the middle of a fight. Old fuck, she's coming for you too.

Two monsters collide, and this time no gods intervene. But Bella is an unfinished product, a student still in need of lessons and a beast that could only be properly instructed by carving lessons into her skin. Not even an Adept. Never intended to be. The Eater of the Dead is the collected strength of every mighty warrior the Master has ever sacrificed in whatever grand game of chess she's been playing all these years. What can she possibly overcome that with? Righteous anger is of no value to a monster. If she had a blade that it could sharpen, even she could even hold one in the first place without bursting into flames, then she never would have lost Redana in the first place. Or Beautiful. Or Mynx. The Auspex can only do so much to balance such uneven scales, and if it had the power to win every battle then Skotia need not have fallen. She is useless. Outmatched.

And despite it all, she screams her battle song. She rises. She lunges. She is knocked down, burned, and broken. Poisoned, cut, and choked with her own blood. And then, snarling and hissing and slobbering, wheezing with uneven and hideous notes of pain and anger, she rises again to do it all over. She does it again. And again. And again, again. She does it until her dress is an indecent mess of rags clinging to her body. She does it till her skin is covered with ugly gashes ready to scar up the front of her if they don't manage to kill her first. She does it till her white fur turns reddish pink with steaming blood, and bits of it burn away. She does it until her hair falls loose, and some of it even falls out, and the clattering jewels she wore in it swing dangerously behind her and lash against her back as punishment for her repeated failures.

The building splinters around them. Time slips away into the night and steals from Bella all the things that secretly bid her rise again, that keep the monster's heart stubbornly beating. But she does stand again, through the burning in her legs and the sting of her many cuts, and the clogging, maddening stench of the smoke filling her lungs. No god grants her victory, but here is what her tenacity wins her anyway: a single fleck of stone. Just a chip, a bit of marble that had sat in a ceiling unconcerned with anything for a hundred years until disaster finally came for its sisters and set it free. It falls silently and swiftly, and lands on the left eye of Thellis Thist. The Eater of the Dead flinches, very briefly, just a leftover bit of instinct from ancient times stubbornly clinging to her DNA. And this tiny, random moment is the end.

Bella rushes across the chamber in the span of that eye blink, following the golden path laid out for her by Nero's great and terrifying invention. Her talons still gleam unblemished in the twilight. She leaps and strikes as though transformed into a spear thrown by Apollo, and finally, finally her hand kisses the warm insides of Thist's stomach. She clenches her hand into a fist, and feels the hollow tear wider. She wrenches her arm free, and slams it in again. Seven times for seven hills, though in truth she isn't counting. This is Empire, o Eater of the Dead. You should have studied your prey more closely.

"Thank you, honored teacher," Bella growls as she presents her host with the perfect curtsey tradition demands, "For finishing my lessons. I can do my job now."

Her heel slams on Thellis Thist's throat with a vicious stomp. She lingers, squeezing, until with a final twist and a pop she sees the serpentine head flop to one side, and the light leave one monster's eyes forever.

But the game is not finished. The beat is slain, the maiden is saved, but now the hero has to get his reward. Bella's hands are gentle as she scoops Skotia up from the rubble that she has, even in the middle of her war, kept from crushing him this whole time. She cradles him close against her, and pressed her ear against his chest to feel the timid straining of his heart. His wound is horrible to look on. The smell is putrid, and turns her stomach. She doesn't flinch away. The game has to be finished properly, it has to be, it... he... she...

She plucks his mask away to look at his face properly for the first time. A hero must have a name and a face, even if he's some ephemeral bit of nothing plucked from a storybook. All the more reason. All the. Need. Finish the game. Tears blur her vision. That's so cruel. There are words that are meant to go with this moment. A thank you and a thousand praises, a pledge to be with the Hero forever. Those are the rules, so sacred they hardly even need to be said. But Bella's still a monster and not a maiden after all. She moves her mouth, but no sounds come out except for strained sobs and choking noises. And when words do come, they're all wrong.

"You idiot. You idiot! You stupid... idiot! I, I'll! I'll kill you, you moron!"

She does not kiss him like he deserves. She is not soft or sweet or tender. Bella's lips close around the veiny cracks where he'd been bitten, and sucks hungrily where the toxins entered. Does it hurt? Good! Fucking idiot. F-fucking...

[Finish w/ Iron: 3, 2, 6: 11]

”You know, maybe we don’t have to do this,” Bella whimpered, digging her fingers into Dany’s lace shirt. The little scaredy-cat peeked over Dany’s shoulder, still so tense! That was okay, though. She was going to have fun.

She still was jumping at noises and wringing the hem of her pretty dress and according to Dany’s research in the Encyclopedia Puellae she might be missing her litter, and even if she was clapping at games and smiling with all her teeth and following Dany around everywhere, she needed to have fun. She needed to see that life from now on was going to be awesome. Just the two of them, all the time forever.

Below them, the three hundred steps of the Blue Skies Staircase.

“This is going to be awesome,” Dany said, and tilted the sled forwards. Bella squeaked and leaned forward with Dany, and the front of the sled hit the first step, and down they went, picking up speed even as it got bumpier and bumpier, Dany clinging to the lead to keep the nose up, Bella clinging to her chest so hard and making a noise that might have been a scream and might have been a squeal, right in Dany’s ear, and Dany grinned big enough to fill the whole world, but the whole world was just the stairs and the blur shooting past them, exquisitely carved railings and mosaics on the walls and marble pillars burnished until they shone under the azure-blue light of the Victoria Chandelier, none of them distinguishable as they went down faster and faster and then she didn’t pull the nose up high enough and they were launched into the air, and then everything was blue stairs and a blue chandelier and spinning and the sled flying overhead and the air getting knocked out of her lungs and Bella shrieking and thump thump thump thump thonk, except she didn’t remember the thonk, that’s just what Bella said later it sounded like when her head hit the floor, and from her perspective the world suddenly became Bella.

“Oh no oh no oh no,” Bella said, her ears flat on her head and her hands smooshing Dany’s face and her eyes wide. “Milady, are you okay? Do I need to— I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

“‘mokay,” Dany said, and giggled out of the leftover adrenaline and the way the world was still spinning, even if the look on Bella’s face wasn’t really funny, but that’s okay, because her next plan, whatever it was going to be, would really make Bella laugh and have fun, and besides, that was awesome, even if the sled was going to mysteriously go missing afterwards, and it was all the better for having Bella on the sled, holding onto her, yowling, and even if she wouldn’t admit it was fun, Dany knew, Dany knew that scream was a fun scream right before they went flying…

It would be nice to be Redana again.

Stupid. Feckless. Disastrous. All reasons why she can’t come back. But it would be nice, wouldn’t it? For this moment to have some kind of context. To be able to blurt out “‘mokay” and see the relief flood her scared face again, to know that in all their roughhousing no one ever really got hurt, that Dany just wanted to make her dour, serious little puella smile again.

But Skotia can’t be Redana, because to be Redana right now would mean being a dangerous, selfish friend-killer. Being Redana would mean being the person who turned Bella into this monster who fights monsters instead of a maid who looks away and bites her lip so she won’t laugh at a dumb pun. Being Redana would mean taking on all the responsibility for everything that led them here.

And being Redana would force Bella to give up this Beautiful and make her whole world about the princess she hates and resents. Again. It would mean ruining her life all over again.

No.

Redana has to stay dead.

But when Skotia comes back to himself, with a throat full of black bile and a body that’s alternating between feverish cramps and the chill of death, it’s so hard not to wish he was Redana, in Bella’s arms, and that she’d have the right thing to say this time. A thank you. An apology. The words to convince Bella to take her hand and come back to the Plousios and have dinner with Dolce and see how much and how amazing Alexa has been growing, the strongest and most amazing warrior in the galaxy, and she could show Bella how much she’s learned about naval engineering and starship engines and then, oh, she’d swap places and prove to Hera and Bella how much she really meant it by being Bella’s maid, learning what it was like for Bella back home, doing her best to earn some forgiveness from her ex-best friend in the whole universe, while Captain Dolce led them all to freedom and a new tomorrow.

But it’s okay. He can’t blurt anything disastrous out. He can’t even touch her and tempt them both away from saving Beautiful. When he convulses underneath her, and her eyes go small and frightened and her ears go flat on her head, he’s only saved by her last-second realization; she turns him on his side as he vomits up wine and party snacks and the ablative layer of his esophagus, until he’s a shivering, helpless mess, crying and hacking and miserable.

But this, too, is just. Is right. Bella must have been miserable, abandoned and shut away in the dark and unable to move. Her hurt is his hurt, just like she has made his hurt her hurt (burning red in the socket, don’t you remember how much she cried out of one eye, the other’s ducts swollen shut after the surgery?).

Right now, he’s ugly, like her heart always was. (It must have been. She was so selfish. So oblivious. Just trying to make her new toy stop being sad to make her feel better about owning it.) His hair is plastered to his forehead; his lip is black and swollen; his eye is bloodshot and half-blind.

Is this enough, Hera? Is this enough, Bella? Until you forgive him, he’s not allowed to stop. Even if he can’t stand up, or even take her hand. Even if his perfect human body is fighting back with agonizing slowness. Even if watching her kiss someone better will crack his heart in half because he doesn’t deserve another kiss from her, ever. He’s still not allowed to stop.

Because if he gives up, he really will be worthless.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know if it is the same at all. If, if…”

A thousand pardons, Lord Hades. Please, he begs your patience. Let him collect himself. Let him screw his eyes shut against the searing vision of Lethe. Just minutes ago, he was whole. It’s not something you can keep looking at if you’ve got to keep moving forward. And he’s got to. He’s got to. But the river is so wide, and he’s never felt so small. If he stares too long, the idea of it will fill him past bursting. What was he saying? Grab onto the thought. Hold onto it for dear life, and don’t be swept away, silly sheep.

“If I go now, I go alone. If I am back here in a few week’s time, then, that’s a few week’s time. That’s at least time enough to talk to Vasilia. With time to spare. Who knows what else we might do? Then, when we Reach the rift, we will have reached the Rift.”

He still can’t look. But he turns to where he remembers Hades standing, all the same.

“That has to be enough to make it different, right?”

************************************************

Vasilia runs the rich, vibrant blue through her hands. Her fingers speak to softness, but had she been listening when they were just a guest’s robes? Blue shouldn’t look so good on her. “Thank you, but. I don’t wear an honor higher than Captain anymore. Though not even that, these days. But if we’re talking in the old days...”

“I had triumph. Oh, I had more triumph than anyone could believe. I mentioned the inherent advantage of the Glaive? The style at the time drew heavy inspiration from our Plovers; hulking walls of armor, slamming into each other until one of them yielded. Then there was me. Armored only enough to prevent serious injury, leaping circles around my enemies, and piercing any weakness with laser-accuracy. I practically revolutionized single combat overnight. To the crowds, I was more than just a new face, I was their face. I could speak to the common citizen far more than any of the more sheltered elite that I regularly tore apart. I spoke to a future they longed for. Not to mention I was a fiend in the ring. Not one opponent faced me that didn’t have some button I could push, some weakness I could exploit in delightfully entertaining - and effective - fashion. ‘Sensation’ would be putting it lightly. My name was on everyone’s lips, that first Olympics. I earned my seat, and then some.”

“Alethea was not so lucky. Her family bet everything they could afford - and then some they couldn’t - on her debut, and she bombed out completely. But my star was rising so rapidly, I managed to catch them on my ascent. Her family came under my house’s protection and care, and I took Alethea on to manage my affairs. Of which I had considerably more than I did a few weeks prior. Have you ever found the stakes for sleeping late turn into a matter of life or death overnight? Honestly, I think I would have been swallowed up alive without her. I...well, I hardly thanked her enough at the time, but she managed me just as often as my business. She could do that, you know. Say things that only a lifelong friend could get away with, when I needed to hear it. And Clarissa...”

Her hand already rests on an apple. To hold, to contemplate, to toss in the air, to stare long into while judging all the various ways that one might actually eat the thing, to take long, savoring bites. She draws her hand back. And pushes the plate away.

“Ah, well, she won her share of medals too, of course. She was, she was there, too.” The words disgust her as soon as she hears them. “No, no, that’s all wrong. Ugh, honestly, why do stories have to lay things out with words? As if everything can be so neatly sorted out?!”

The Furnace Knight offers no wisdom. Only patience. Patience long enough for the quiet to arrange her thoughts, and lay her ears low.

“My apologies for my...outburst, sir Knight. This section is...difficult. To explain. Difficult to explain. Alethea had her hands full managing my estate. We only really saw each other on business, in those days. Meanwhile, Clarissa and I both attended the Senate, exhibition matches between the Games, public events, speeches, training together...sometimes quite late at night, even…” Her breath came shaking. A hole in her heart throbs. “We were young. We were all we’d ever known. We clicked so well. We each kept waiting for the other to stop pushing, and, the next day, we would be back to preparing speeches as if nothing had happened. She never said anything. I never said anything. Then we’d have a late night attending the theater and it was all over again. And again. And again, again. Never complaining, yet never remarking long on it, and neither of us giving the other the opening to change it. Gods, what, what idiotic little messes we were.”

Her knuckles clenched white against fistfulls of blue.

“I suppose, no one ever taught us how important it was to put things down in those troublesome, blasted words. For all I knew their power. Perhaps because I knew their power. Perhaps, I was just a young coward, coming into their fear. If all you’ve ever done is win, how terrible the thought of losing...”

Alexa stares at the crimson rent in the sky and tells herself that there's no time. That if the choice wasn't sitting in front of her, if the Kaeri weren't counterboarding right now, she'd run to Isty's side and… fight with her? Draw her away? Tell her not to be a fool?

Alexa tells herself that this strength and impulsivity is what drew her to Isty in the first place. She's a warrior, capable of taking care of herself. Alexa's hesitation and reservedness are balanced by Isty's push to try everything, do everything. Above all else, Alexa doesn't have to fret and worry that something's going to happen while she's away. Isty can take it. She's safe.

She tells herself she couldn't stop Isty if she tried. Might not have been able to even at her peak, and certainly can't stop a champion lit with the fires of Ares now. She's feltthat power. The joy, the freedom! Felt how it fills your veins like a drumbeat, your limbs like lightning, pushes you forward and faster until there's nothing in the world but the yourself and the person you're aimed at.

None of that makes it feel like any less of a betrayal when she nods and turns to lead the Alcedi back to the ship.

Alexa!

You always knew the Kaeri were dangerous. You fought them and fought alongside them - if only briefly. They left an impression then too. Perfectionists, geniuses, warriors of the intellect, kings of the shadows. Direct confrontation was never their way then, simply accepting a holding action or selling their lives dearly was never sufficient purpose for them. But that haughty pride has boiled over into a transcendent, vicious and manic battle strategy.

You see the shape of it in the line of detonations along the boarding clamps. The ship exterior is dark with flocks of Kaeri, crossing over towards the Plousios, braving the storm of point-defense ELF fire that cooks them inside their black void shells as they storm your ship. As you watch they land a huge plasma thruster module on the side of the Plousios, plug it into external power conduits, and let it fire. Suddenly the Plousios has an extra thruster firing at full burn, accelerating the ship wildly away from the Anemoi.

At the same time, critical warning lights come on and you feel the noiseless floor of the Anemoi shudder beneath your feet. That's - they've set the Reactor to breach! The artificial sun at the heart of the Anemoi is being withdrawn from its containment and within a matter of minutes the entire ship will detonate in a cosmic fireball.

They've boarded your ship, stolen your ship, and left you on a hulk that is set to blow. They have also engineered a solution that will move them out of the blast radius. It's brilliant. And frankly, it is absolutely unnecessary.

The Kaeri had, until this point, been winning. A simple, conventional defensive action where they continued to apply pressure could have boxed you in, crushed your morale, and forced your surrender. But instead they had gone for this galaxy brain ship swapping masterstroke thing that, in practical terms, had thrown away their advantage. They'd abandoned their militia forces to do this, and the Lanterns were now panicking and abandoning the battlefield. There's anarchy in all directions here right now, two armies dissolving into terrified and heavily armed stampedes. Phobos and Deimos reign supreme.

But then, the Kaeri were no doubt congratulating themselves on their success. It hit all of their objectives: Proving themselves smarter than everyone else, executing a brilliant plan to perfection, minimizing Kaeri losses and maximizing their kill-death ratio. And, frankly, that was why neither Molech nor Nero had favoured them as warrior servitors. It wasn't enough for the Kaeri to be smart; they had to be the smartest motherfuckers in the room every time, no matter what it cost them. They'd never learned that an unglamourous victory was still a victory.

This is one hell of a mess, even still. If they'd done this from a position of weakness it'd have turned the entire battle on its head. Everything is going to descend into absolute madness in a matter of moments. Ares is opening his jaws to turn this entire battlefield into a slaughterhouse and not only will that spell the end of the Alcedi, but the carnage will cost critical time needed to stabilize the Engine. You need to rally these people and bring some sort of order quickly.

Dolce!

"Weeks," said Hades softly. "Weeks... you ask for much, Dolce. There are those who would pay a far higher price for a far smaller prize."

Again his gaze turned to the Rift and the Rivers that flowed there.

"Perhaps you will regret this decision, even so," he said. "More than the Rift and Rivers, you must face your curse. Aphrodite is cruel and, more than simply dividing the galaxy in two, he has damned every being in this realm to suffering, betrayal and death. When was the last time you saw a happy relationship, a love that was not doomed? He brings incompatible people together and destroys them both in the union. As vessels near the Rift the curse, their destinies, comes due. Mortals kill each other, kill themselves and - if they are very lucky and disciplined - their empty charnel vessels will drift into the Rivers to be swept away by the tides."

Hades stood, sweeping smooth his vest and lap and away the Rift, eyes blue oceans dammed.

"If you live for love be wary, for love is always cruel."

And his echoing footsteps fade away, transitioning into the pounding of your frantic heartbeat.

Vasilia!

"You studied the Third Form, and found yourself surrounded with its targets," said the Furnace Knight. "The Third Form is the way of the Mad Orbit, the moon that consumes the world - an ideal style for fighting armoured and slow opponents. But you do not know all its secrets. Observe."

The Furnace Knight stood and shrugged his robe from his shoulders, revealing his bare and scarred chest. Azura scars are curious things - scales that, after being broken and shattered numerous times, have regrown in ugly and reinforced patterns, resulting in patches of dark and dense armour crossing his body in scribbled calligraphy. He selects a silvery rapier, very similar to the one you use, from the weapon rack to his side. And then, with the familiar whir of the Glave, he lifts into the air.

"The Mad Orbit is erratic," he said as he slowly, deliberately went through the stances from your ancient Azura scroll. "It is unexpected. It is the strike of the satellite, the meteor, the comet. You are able to move like a thunderbolt and focus gravity to apply the weight of your fall at the tip of every thrust. You are able to withdraw and observe, giving yourself distance and angles. But your scroll did not teach you the Form's hidden technique."

The Furnace Knight gripped the blade of his rapier and crushed it. He smoothed away the edge in one solid motion, adapting the bladed weapon into an ugly, blunt stump. And then he descended on a training mannequin in a bizarre adaptation of the style you're used to. He strikes wildly, smashing into stone as much as the dummy, tail thrashing. And then with a leap of terrible power he's back into the air...

... and has drawn up all the broken stone with him. It is attached to his tail - the Grav-Glave's effect only extends to things you are in contact with, and his sweeping tail motions have made contact with all of the shattered stone and debris from his frenzied attack. And then he snaps forwards into a sudden rush, freezes himself in place, and flicks his tail - sending forth a massive spray of terminal velocity stone shards to blast another mannequin into ruins.

"The Meteor Storm is the hidden technique of the Mad Orbit," said the Furnace Knight, settling back down onto the ground and putting his robe back on. "The powerful often leave destruction in their wake, and their ruin can become your sword. This would be an ideal technique for combating the Imperial Praetor, except," he slaps your legs with his blunt weapon, "your biped legs lack the musculature and surface area to perform it successfully. Another stratagem must be devised."

He settled back into his chair. Eyes you carefully. You get the distinct impression he took the break into martial demonstration in order to give you time to settle your emotions, but he does not say as much out loud. There are still protocols to adhere to.

"So," said the Furnace Knight, pointing at the ring around your finger. "Why did you not marry her? It sounds like it would have been a politically advantageous match - or were your sights set higher?"

The world smells like blood.

Every breath is saturated with it. It crawls down her nose and sticks there until it's climbed on top of everything that might have made it tolerable. It fills her throat like a film, growing thicker and thicker until the air stops fitting inside her. She hacks and wheezes, but every bit of spit she draws up only pushes more blood-smell back down to replace it. There is nothing but the putrid stink of it, and the terror they pushed inside her skull when she was just a kitten. Thicker and thicker, gagging and choking, thicker and fouler and... ghk! Hhhhgk!

Skotia adds the bouquet of half-digested wine and delicacies to her prison, and Bella's mind turns to static. She's on her knees before she knows what's happening. Her stomach contracts with horrible insistence, and the hand she notices is pressed tight against her lips would be useless were she not dry heaving. She wipes her mouth anyway, gasping for air. Her legs have turned to jelly in the blank. She wobbles to her feet anyway, spitting repeatedly until the taste finally clears. That's when she notices she's not amid the ruin and the blood anymore. That's when she notices she's brought Skotia with her; his limp body could not possibly have carried hers. She scowls.

"Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. For a Praetor to be so... nnngh, fuck. Just look at you. Look at you, you fucking asshole! I let a two-bit con artist turn you into meat and I'm the one feeling sick and sorry? If I... if I make it back home, Her Majesty should skin me alive for being so stupid."

The air is cleaner here. Bella sucks it down greedily without seeming to care how unsightly the sound of it is. She is weak and getting weaker, and there's no more room to be hiding it. Only the uneven twitching of her tail gives away the true depths of her disgust, and that only Redana would ever really be able to pick up on it. She flinches, and her ears flutter despondently. How dare she wish that she was here?!

"Don't speak. Don't say a single fucking word to anybody. Ever. Just... just don't in general, ok? Save whatever's... just don't. Don't. The. The Princess... Redana would be scolding me right now. How dare I take a life, wasn't I raised better than this? Well I! I wasn't, ok?! Like I asked for this! They just. Listen to me. Idiot. Like it matters. Like a Servitor gets to pick. Dance, Bella! Sing, Bella! Drink the wine Bella, win the Games, Bella! Not like that, you stupid girl! Stay alive! Die! Kill! Don't! I! I!!"

Tears are falling from her eye so fast she couldn't blink them back if she tried. Her shoulders tremble as she lifts an arm to wipe them away on her ruined fur. Pathetic. Pathetic. All her power, useless. All her pride misplaced. Pathetic. Every choice and every order lead to the same place. How could everything she ever wanted hurt her this much? Apollo. Apollo demanded she live. Apollo sent her here, for this specific purpose. He taught her about the wider world just so she could destroy it. Was it so important that a monster run about like this? Was there anything she got to pick?

She looks at Skotia, blackened and hideous and breathing raggedly beneath her. As suddenly as they started, Bella's tears ebb. Thank Hera that Redana would never know this happened. But if she, if she had one wish, O Goddess... could you tell her anyway? She bends down to lift Skotia in her arms, only to fall over in a painful heap. He's covered in so much of her blood she can't even tell where his wounds are anymore.

"Up. Get up, you fucking idiot. Pets never abandon their owners, understand me? Owners never abandon their pets. So get up. Up! I'm out of time. I..." she looks up toward the ceiling. That's where she's going. Where she can overlook everything. Where she can see the night sky, "We are going to save Beautiful. And then after that, nothing else fucking matters. So just... don't slow me down. Or I'll tear you into such tiny pieces even Hades won't want you."

There's enough energy left in Bella to put Skotia's arm around her shoulder. So that's what she does. These trembling legs can shuffle faster than most can walk, even now. She could go faster still if she abandoned him. Bella adjusts her grip to get more of his weight on top of her. She's going to make it. She's going to make it.

If there was any point to all her journey, it must be this.

The difficult thing, really, is how to get everyone's attention in a way that won't immediately be seen as hostile.

She surveys the mass below them, makes a mental note, and adjusts the ELF on her belt. Even braced for it, even with eyes screwed shut, the TZOTTT of it earthing into the walls is thunderous, leaves spots in the vision. She takes special care to make as much noise as possible, be the loudest person, make it impossible to not see and hear. Raises her voice above the noise, speak not just to the Alcedi, but the mice around them. Make it impossible to miss the silvery arc of the spear landing point first at the feet of the Lantern's leader

"Truce!

"All those who follow me: Lay down your weapons! Throw them down! I am not one for speeches, but we can not fight! The Kaeri have traded their lives for ours, and it serves only their interests if we continue to slaughter each other while the engine goes critical. Lanterns! We have Hermetics who can undo the damage, save all our lives, but only if we work together! Open the doors, show us the servant's passages to your engine, and perhaps we may all see tomorrow!"

[Talk Sense with Wisdom: 6]

There’s more than one reason for the mask. How thoughtful of his modiste. It takes him longer than he would like to work it back on over his face, to hide the wound and the agony; his fingers are numb, slowly regaining enough feeling to hurt. But once he’s Bella’s hound again, his pain hidden (how appropriate!) he grits his teeth and forces himself to keep up.

That’s the role of the pet, after all, the one that Bella played for so long. Keep up, no matter how unfair the world gets, with a (rictus) smile on your face. That’s what Bella did for Redana, and that’s what he has to do for Bella. Otherwise, what’s the point? What’s the point of the pain? If there’s no point, then he’s just hurting like this for no reason and it would break him. So there has to be a meaning for the pain. And the meaning is that he has to hurt like she has hurt for her princess.

His half-dead fingers interlace with hers as she accepts his weight. Pets and owners. The loyalty they owe each other. Pets and owners, and the debts they inherit from the people they used to be. Does that mean she’s given up on Redana? Is the connection of pets and owners broken apart between them?

…well, good. Because Redana never deserved her Bella, anyway. And they’ve got a Beautiful to save. So don’t let that hurt too, Skotia. There’s enough poison searing your heart right now, you don’t need cigarette ash choking it shut. Besides, this is the farewell, isn’t it? Unless he really does go with her. Unless he lets Redana Claudius sail on in pursuit of a relayed dream.

Why does that thought hurt, too?

Bella’s fingers throb between Skotia’s, so strong he can feel them through the dull ache. Bella’s got a heart that won’t stop. And he never would have known, and Redana never would have known—

He squeezes her fingers, and he tries to give her the reassurance she’s been looking for for so, so long. That he sees her. That he’s sorry for breaking her heart. That he’s frightened of having to become a new person once he takes everything off. That he thought he was going to die and his last thought was Bella’s still in danger and he thought he was going to die knowing he’d failed her again.

So many things trying to squeeze their way out through his fingers as they help each other up the stairs.

Perhaps it was a bit forward of him to ask for weeks when he could not even get seconds to ponder Hades’ warning before his body interrupted. Away the quiet. Return to chaos.

All that is familiar is dead. And yet, he still lives. His fingers are completely covered in a disgusting sludge of stew and sauces, and somehow that revulsion stands preeminent above the horror. Vasilia did always fuss about her coat when she was badly hurt. Never understood that, before now.

The mouse has long since run out of tears. Her arms tremble to hold back the shaking that wracks her body, for sorrow is not done with her. He tells his hand to rise, to reach out for her sleeve. His arm wails a dirge of weakness so terrible it sends him into a coughing fit. But dead bodies couldn’t breathe, much less cough, so perhaps that got the message across well enough.

"Excuse me?" Please miss, don’t take his rasping for growling. He’s not angry. This is just the only voice he has right now. "Could you help me stand up? I, I don't know if if I can manage it on my own."

***********************************

Mark of a good host; timely deployment of distraction.

Vasilia consumes the demonstration as only one with incomplete inexperience can. Yes. Yes. Wasn’t it obvious, after seeing the trick explained? How many battles had she snatched up an opponent’s blade by pure, happy luck, or a bit of rubble just when she needed something to throw? Yet she’d never considered doing so deliberately. How much could one Glaive carry? How much contact was required? For how long? Mmm. Oh, there would be devising indeed.

So taken was she that she almost forgot not to fiercely scowl at her host when he rudely drew her attention back to the ring around her finger. Almost. Thankfully for everyone’s sake, she managed to stop her mouth as it arrived at a thoughtful grimace. “You're getting ahead of things, sir Knight. How was I to think of marrying her, when I didn’t even know what we had? What I wanted us to have? That part, I put off until much, much later. There was so much else on my mind besides.”

“I hit a wall, after those first games. Downside of of having everyone's eyes on you, you have everyone's eyes on you. There was only so much that surprise and natural talent could do in the face of entrenched power. And nothing unites adversaries quite like a common threat. My style - the Mad Orbit, yes? - was skilled against single armored opponents, but the scroll didn't have any techniques useful against bribed officials and overwhelming numbers. Other troublemakers, they could always sponsor a challenger at the next games, but I was just a little too good for them to ever knock me out completely. But they could keep a fair number of medals out of my pocket. They could keep me out of the higher positions in the Senate.”

“What other means did I have to rise higher? Oh, I had popular support, but this was not the Empire, where an Empress controls all. I was but one Senator of many. I needed their support, not the people’s, if anything was to get done. When they weren't busy keeping my power in check, the other Senators loved to have me around, hoping a little of my fame might rub off on them. But as soon as I started suggesting that they ought to spend a little less on their personal projects, no one would give me the time of day. No skill in oratory could overcome the sheer apathy they felt to the suffering that was in their power to end. The suffering they regularly profitted from. And time...ah, time was always on their side.”

“I still remember it clearly: Some idiotic over-mining for scrap had polluted a major water supply, leading to a terrible famine that year. I fought to put together a relief effort, and how they made me fight for it. Ninety percent of our funds were harvested from slimming down my own projects to the bone, and it wasn’t even a quarter of what we needed. The other ten percent? Pocket change, from Senators seeking to keep me off their backs for a day. We needed help. And my opposition knew how little room we had to bargain. A distasteful fellow by the name of Demetris headed up the resistance to my proposal, and he made it abundantly clear that we would have to personally provide a high enough profit before he would deign to spend a thing on worthless peasants. I could have stayed the course, and let them starve. Or, I could. Pursue other means.”

“Demetris never missed the races. Always happy to wax at length about how nothing brought out the true competitive spirit quite like hunger and desperation. He was their biggest patron, both on and off the books. One day, he ‘happened’ to bump into me in the VIP section. It was my first time there, you see, never had the time to accept his previous invitations. Wouldn’t he tell me a little more about it all?”

“Before the month’s end, Demetris and all his cronies voted unanimously in favor of my relief bill. And I...I quietly nullified every motion of censure I’d ever made in connection to the races, and never spoke an ill word of them again.”

“That was my first betrayal. The first little hope I sacrificed. It would have plenty of company, before long, but I never felt it so keenly after the first time. I knew that I was crossing lines that I did not want to. But every step felt so justifiable when I was taking it. The ends so necessary that the means weren't all that despicable. Whenever my conscience ate at me too much for comfort, I always had my crowds. One look into those cheering faces and all my worries seemed so silly. Wasn't this just what I had dreamed? The three of us, walking the halls of power, making the world a better place? Clarissa never seemed to wrestle with the same doubts. Alethea didn't always approve, but, well, she was always a bit of a stick in the mud, wasn't she? What was one rebuke when I had entire arenas chanting my name?”

Her fingers found her ring. Back and forth, they twisted it. Keeping it from settling in too securely.

“I never knew how completely someone could fade away, and never notice just how far they’d fallen.”

Someone else ought to be hearing this story too. She did not know what to make of the relief his absence brought her.

Alexa!

It works. Your voice rises above the din. Quiets it for a moment. Ares' mad form settles a little, sinking back into the restrained features of Athena. As she returns so does order, so does organization, so does practicality and the intelligence required for survival.

And then, from inside her, he winks.

And Lorventi and Epistia erupt into the room in a hurricane of blades. Dozens die in their passage. They are a whirlwind, the roving manifestation of Ares himself, and Athena is swallowed by him entirely. You have fought against warriors devoted to Ares for much of your life but the struggle of Ares against Athena was never his most pure self. His most pure self is this: Ares fighting Ares, fear battling fear, chaos destroying chaos. You've never seen war like this.

You pray that you never do again.

You know that it wasn't this sight that made Molech declare war on Ares. His motivations were selfish, proud - he sought to win Athena's heart and elevate himself to the pantheon of the gods by emptying a divine seat.

But what you never understood was why Athena hated Ares so much that she was able to tolerate the affection of a man as corrupt as Molech if it meant bringing him down.

Now you know. Soaked in the blood of a dozen of those who stood by you a second before, now you know.

And then they're gone, elsewhere in the ship, a storm of death. And you still have people standing by, dazed and shocked and too traumatized to fight each other or anything else. You've got your ceasefire.

[Damage your Sense]

Vasilia!

"The Third Form, the Mad Orbit, is limited in its potential," said the Furnace Knight. "Conceptually, it relies on leveraging an advantage in speed. If your opponent is faster then you will lose, as you did against the Praetor. If your opponents are numerous enough to prevent a breakthrough then you will lose. You can try to chase the dragon's tail with the form - become faster, faster! And that might seem like progress, but it is no such thing. There is no advance in technique in that. It is the reduction of the Glave to a foot race."

Again, the Furnace Knight slipped off his robe and levitated into the air. He held still, steady. "Have you ever tried doing battle while stationary?"

He swung his blade ineffectually a few times. As you know, it's an awful way to fight - with nothing to brace yourself again there is no way to put the strength of your hips or legs into a blow. You drift in unpredictable ways. Always, there is the call to align gravity with your opponent and let the power of terminal velocity drive your blade true.

But the Furnace Knight gestures for you to strike him while you remain on the ground - and when you do, off he goes like a balloon. Despite the strength of your strikes, the reverse is also true; there's no way to hurt him. There's no way to hit him hard enough because he's not grounded to anything, and so the energy of your strikes travels through him and turns into motion.

"The First Form is not a technique, per se - that is simply how you would say correct action, or one who does battle with divine inspiration, using whatever techniques are perfect in the moment. The Second Form is the practice for dueling other wielders of the Glave; I shall not teach you this. The Third is for armoured opponents, as you know, but the Fourth? The Fourth, the Atmosphere Surrounding, is for defense. It is collected techniques to shield, restrain, and endure. If one needs to engage in extended battle with an eye to survival then it is the Fourth you must turn to. There are many techniques for developing powerful strikes in this form, for battle endurance, for maintaining self and stability under a range of chemical attacks. But be wary, for if you offer your opponent no leverage..."

He surged forwards, hands grabbing you by the collar, and you felt the nails sink in to your clothes and start to tear you in two.

"They may create it."

Again, he relaxed, descended, and returned to his seat.

"You attempted to live in the clouds, untouchable, but your levers were plain to see and easy to exploit. You did not know the techniques to conceal or defend them. Excellent politicians are often like excellent warriors; they keep their convictions mysterious to deny opponents leverage, while searching for the correct moment to take a stand and strike with hurricane force. Those who are too open are pinned and assaulted until they collapse, those who are too closed may pass their entire careers as nothing more than balloons in the wind."

Dolce!

"No."

Jil clutched her lantern close, the words of Apollonian scripture engraved in fine calligraphy on the metal surface.

"You are alive and the gods have answered my prayers," said Jil, trying to keep her voice steady and meditative as her large eyes focused on the light in her hands. "And that is where it ends. You'll hurt yourself if you walk, and I can't be trusted with your safety, so you need to just lie here and heal."

She gently set your head on the ground, then stood up. She walked towards the door, unfolding an item in her pack into thick barreled solid projectile shotgun she started loading chemical catalysts into.

"I'll take care of the rest," she said, but you can tell she doesn't have the foggiest of what she means by that. Walk around with a shotgun and hope that something obviously evil presents itself.

Bella and Skotia!

The stars of the Endless Azure Skies burn violet above, interlocked in a web of gold. The lines of shining djinn-dust encircle each violet star like gemstones set in rings, and they trace connections between each other. Glittering golden dust floats up into the air, the captured godlike essence emerging from a hundred thousand broken containment rings.

The star pattern wraps around itself, coiling in place, the golden dust flowing into it. Together it forms... an arm. An enormous, glowing golden arm levitating in the sky. It rises higher than the massive spaceport spire, so high it might snatch a ship from orbit. And beneath it, in the midst of a vast alchemical circle formed of salt and quicksilver, sits Beautiful. She looks up at the stars, right arm wrapped to the shoulder in delicate golden braids.

She flexes her fingers and above so does the massive hand.

It's a dizzying, incomprehensible scale and speed. For all its immense size it moves with the swiftness and fluidity of an ordinary hand. She couldn't just snatch a spaceship from the sky with that divine hand, she could punch the planet until it broke - crack it open like a watermelon.

She was not lying when she said she had figured out how to kill everyone.

Around her, in terrified but steady formation, is a wild and motley phalanx. Azura lords, Lantern operatives, Kaeri warriors, everyone who came under Beljani's spell is up here in defensive formation around Beautiful's circles. Beljani is here to oversee them, flecks of blood on her dress. Of the Master of Assassins and Redana there is no sign.

And in the streets below, there is fire.

Tens of thousands of Azura march through the ghost of their city, holding torches above their heads, wearing the red and black colours of the Party. They flow like water towards this place, towards the palace, from all directions. They are not here in support, they are here in threat - a protest formed from the collective anger of some unknown treaty violated.

And Beautiful smiles beatifically, eyes blinking with exhaustion.

"Good. You killed the Taxation Agent. I'm glad," she said. "Fuck, you've got no idea how glad."

She gestured at her divine right hand, a fluid motion, round eyes glittering with strain. "I told you that they were doing something dangerous with their money. My theory was right. The Azura Shah bound a Djinn, but it was too powerful for any prison. And so the Shah broke it into pieces. A billion containment rings, each with a shard of the Djinn's power. Such a treasure was too valuable to seal away, but too dangerous to keep together, so the Shah chose to distribute it as currency. The circulation of coins changing hands across hundreds of worlds would keep the Djinn useful to the Skies as a whole and prevent dangerous concentrations of power accumulating. I theorized that this system would be unstable, for running an unregulated market economy would inevitably lead to dangerous concentrations of wealth. All I needed to do was speed up the process a little, concentrate wealth in the Palace during a formal event, and critical mass could be obtained..."

She glanced up at the sky again, gaze inevitably drawn upwards.

"Though obviously the Shah had the same idea. There exists a secret governmental taxation and regulation agency in the Skies, I shouldn't have assumed I was the only... it's a powerful department that seeks to break up dangerous concentrations of wealth. Obviously my stratagem would be at odds with their mission. Looking back on it the counter-maneuvers were obvious, but I didn't see. I thought nobody else could think like I did. And so I was in the trap before I realized and - when behind Dark Shrine. Take a risk. I bet everything on you, Bella. I didn't think it would work, actually, I was sure we were all dead. What disrupted the hunt? There is," she sniffed, flexing her hand ominously. "Something wrong here." Her eyes are narrowing and there is a thunderous danger in the air. "Something is wrong with reality. We should be dead. There isn't a possibility branch where you kill the Taxation Agent no matter who helps you. The Taxation Agent would have killed us all even in the possibility branch where you allied with the Furnace Knight, and he's the deadliest warrior on this planet."

And then her eyes turn to look at you, Skotia, and those are no mortal eyes. Those are the eyes of a god - or someone flying so close to heaven that the difference is obscure. And you can feel Skotia start to flay and wilt beneath the cosmic calculations of that semi-divine mind, wax before the sun. Nearby you can see Aphrodite wince and start to walk backwards - even he doesn't want to be anywhere near this.

And beneath the surface the Nemean laugh-cries and Dionysus' mirror mask rises up from below.

"Who," said Beautiful, and her question sent ripples of broken glass shattering through the world. She raised her right arm to point and her gesture blotted out the stars. "are you?"

“I’m not done yet,” Skotia says, with a venom-rawed throat, so quietly that maybe only a Praetor might hear his prayer. “Please.” But you only get saved once. You only get that kiss one time, no more than that. Don’t be greedy. The mask flakes underneath Beautiful’s regard and threatens to blow off his face; he desperately clings to it, pushes it against his face as if willing it to stay, to be the real face, to fill the hollow in her heart. But it’s already melting away.

The sound of him accepting this is a hollow, joyless laugh. Of course it ends this way. Don’t you know, Skotia? At the end of every story the wicked get their just reward, and all the lies are resolved.

He crumples to his knees like a fresh-birthed calf as the fire consumes him. But he keeps forcing the words out. All he is, all he could be, just tatters and a voice now, so he’ll use it even if it makes him feel like he’s got Bella scraping those talons down the inside of his throat, because some things are more important than a moment of comparatively less agony, and what Skotia says is:

“You wanted to die for her. Don’t.” He hunches his back like a wild animal, his hair flowing like molten gold across his shoulders. His shadow is long. His shadow is long. “Listen. I can’t be her hero anymore. I can’t. Masters don’t abandon their pets. Masters don’t abandon their pets.” The effort of existing forces black spittle from his lips, his hands pressed so hard against his face that the head he’s losing throbs and aches. “Don’t you dare!”

Then he’s gone, and maybe it is that Hades folds the shape of where a thing was into a neat jacket to drape over his arm, and maybe it isn’t, and it’s left to Aphrodite to pick up the pieces of the name after the party’s over.

Her shadow’s long. There’s an echo at the barest edge of hearing. Her shadow’s long. The air crackles with ozone and the smell of battle, sweat and blood and tears. She’s hunched over herself, naked and shaking, veins protruding on her neck and her arms as her muscles strain against each other.

And Redana Claudius screams at the monster threatening her Bella, screams like her Bella’s never heard, screams like she’s holding an axe by its head: “Avaunt!”

And the shadow doesn’t go away just because she screamed at it. But it doesn’t eat her whole, either. She holds it back for Skotia; she holds the whole world on her shoulder and doesn’t snap in half. That’s it, that’s the entire world, the weight of the Nemean telling her that Redana is violence, cruelty, abuser, useless, she’ll snap Bella’s neck and make it a mercy because at least then the pain will stop, let her in, let her IN, there’s nothing she can do that you wouldn’t do worse, Bella hates you, Bella deserves to hate you, Mynx hates you, Mynx deserves to hate you, Dolce hates you, Dolce deserves to hate you, don’t you get it, they all hate you, let go, let GO, stop hurting, stop hurting them, weak as your mother, weak as humans that abandoned their pets across the stars, and she’ll wipe it all clean as a mercy, she’ll crack Tellus in half because it’s there, she’ll kill them all for the challenge of it, and she’ll never stop to whine about how bad she feels, when a servant fails you you kill them, when a lover refuses you kill them, when a mother denies you kill her, and she’ll laugh and kill and make merry and do it all without the pain, because the pain’s the real enemy, Redana, the pain, the weakness, the doubt, and you’re too weak, aren’t you, too weak to commit, too weak to kill, too weak to fuck, too weak to live, so let her in, let her IN, let her in let her in let her in let her in

Why was dying for her the easy part?

It’s not even a word any more. It’s a noise. Animals make noises. Her face is wet. Don’t look at her. Please. Don’t make the Nemean’s job easier. Don’t remind her how little she deserves to exist. She can barely believe it herself.

”You have a life to go and live after tonight. And you should live it.”

”Don’t throw away the one good thing I get to do with my life.”

”Owners never owners never owners never owners never”

But she does. Bella said so. Skotia deserved to exist. And now he’s dead. So she’s got to keep fighting the monster for him. He gave her so much. So much. A kiss. A hold. A carry. Bella, for a moment, comforted. Bella, for a moment, holding her the way she always…

She can’t. For Skotia. And always, as always, from the first moment she looked up at the smog-choked sky and decided she was going to run and run until nobody could catch her—

For Bella.

"Re..."

There's an urge to cover her mouth with her hands and press so tight that she starts to choke. To bite her lip and chew it until the blood fills her mouth. To give in to the serpents crawling through her spine and let her body twist into impossible angles until she's in so much pain she won't be able to do anything but scream. Anything at all if it lets her swallow the noises spilling from her lips right now.

"Re... da..."

Already her feet are dragging her backwards, away from Sko-- away from Re-- away from the shadow, away from Beautiful and the arm of a heathen god she controls in the sky above her, away from Beljani's blood flecked dress, away, away, away. Already her pupil is growing wider and wider until the black swallows the gold. Already her body is trembling as if she'd been freshly pulled from a frozen lake, and sweating as though she'd been locked inside a sauna and left to die. And she has. She has been left to die.

She tastes copper. She wants to spit, but her body doesn't belong to her. Her feet are dragging slowly backwards, until her heels taste the air at the edge of the roof. Her arms curl around her chest and clutch something small and precious tight against her, though everything worth keeping has already slipped away. She mustn't say it. She mustn't say the name, make it real. If she finishes Beautiful's work, she dies. And for all the buzzing in her ears, she can still make out the words of a dying hero.

Why? Why does it keep happening? Why why why why why why why why?! Why can't she make herself want to die?!?

"...Nnn-nnuh... nnnNNNN AAAAAAaAUUUGGhH!"

Her hands are trembling. Her hands are clawing at her face. Her hands are slashing uselessly at shadows in the air around her. Her feet are stumbling. Her feet are sliding off the edge of the roof seeking the sky and the fall and the retribution of the mob beneath her. Her feet are dragging her forward again and planting her in safety at the most dangerous place on the planet. Her eye is cold and empty of emotion. Her eye is a pale red orb filling her body with so much information she might explode. Her eye is wide and frightened, and filled with tears.

"Beautiful," she stammers, because there's no other safe place to turn, "Please. Don't."

Bella's dress is a shredded mess. Her body is covered in burns and gashes half scabbed, half oozing. But there is power left in her body. Her ELF flares to life behind her in a jagged corona of danger and warning. She stumbles forward, and where her talons strike the roof she leaves scars and dust and shakes the building beneath her. But there's nothing to do with her strength. There aren't any targets left, except the ones that fill her heart with the terror of death. And she can't, she mustn't, she... she doesn't want to die.

"I, I won! You won! You bet on me and I won! Pl-please, don't do it. Stop looking, stop it! Stop it! Don't do it, don't do it, fuck you STOP! Don't! Take! It! From! ME! Stop looking stop asking stop looking just fu..."

Why? Why? Why? This is everything she was chasing all this time. Why? Why? Why? She cut everything else away for this. She said goodbye, she said fuck off, she said she said she said shesaid so why?! Why?! Why is her body falling apart but begging her to hold it together still? Why is ozone and death all she can taste? Why does every little tremble feeling like nothing but a hot whip cracking against her skin? Why? Why is it all so horrible? Why all these tears, till the emotions drip down her nose and her throat and choke her even though she has to scream she has to scream she can't hold it in she has to scream!

"Please!" Bella's nothing but an animal that was taught to speak as a parlor trick. Her words are nonsense begging punctuated by empty threats of lightning and claw crushing the useless things things around her, "Beautiful, please! Stop thinking, stop asking, stop thinking! Close your eyes, just be wrong, just say you missed something, just lie and say it's fine! Let me... you have to let me... y-yyyrrrrggggraaaaHH!!!"

There are claws inside her throat. There are teeth inside her eyes. There is fire inside her heart. There are chains around her limbs. There's a rope around her neck. Pulling her down. Pulling her up. Pulling, pulling, pulling until the word that mustn't come out finally does.

"Redana."

Her voice is dry and cracking.

"Redana!"

Her voice is ripped from her throat by a wicked hook.

"REDANA!"

Her voice surges until it cracks against the heavens and clashes with the might of an assembled djinn.

Her eye is on the shadow, growing longer in the flickering dust and light. Masters don't, masters don't, masters don't!

"Help... mE."

Of course Redana’s heard Bella say those words before. They were playmates, after all. Saving Bella from felt snakes and blanket ropes was one of her favorite pastimes as a child. But she has never, ever, heard Bella ask for help. Not as long as she’s known Bella. It was always the other way around: is there anything you need, your highness? May I be of assistance, your highness? Please let this humble maid be of service, your highness. Can your… favorite little meowmeow… cheer you up, your highness?? Always giving. And whenever Redana tried, Bella would make such a fuss! No, you don’t have to do that! Please, let me take care of this for you! Dany, isn’t it, aren’t you supposed to be in the conservatory for music lessons?!

She’s never, ever, asked Redana for help. Not really. Not meant it. She was just playing along when she squirmed and begged her hero to come save her. But the hero always got the girl, and the hero always had a sword, and, wow, wouldn’t you know it, the hero’s gone now, and it’s just stupid little Redana left. And the minute she raises a hand against somebody, it’s going to turn into a thunderbolt on the way down and the laughter of joy-in-killing and the Nemean loosed to reave and kill as she pleases. So that’s “charge and suplex everyone” gone as a plan. Shut up. Shut up! She can’t hear herself think! What does Bella want? You to die. She said so. Give up. She wants to— oh! Oh!!

It’s what Skotia would do. And there’s nobody in the world she’d want to be more than Skotia right now.

She stands up, fists balled so tight that they’re bloodless. Her eye burns like the fires of the Party below, an azure hole in her head. The look on her face is anguish barely contained by resolve. She looks like a wrestler broken but unbeaten at the end of a match, the sweat on her skin almost close enough for the oil. She is small and hard and battered, the prow of a ship, an outcropping in the surf.

And she screams, her voice raw, trying to drown out the intoxicating song of surrender, for her Bella, for her pet, for the friend she wishes she’d been able to keep, if only the whole universe wasn’t wedged between them:

“Hey! Moron! She‘s in love with you, so shut up and listen to her!!”

There it is. It’s out. No use trying to hide it. Trying to pretend she might get kissed like Skotia did. He didn’t come with a cargo train’s worth of baggage and ownership and useless pining and so this is good, actually, this is good, she can go save the universe for the sake of ideals now, everybody getting to see the universe, every star in the sky a new horizon, and it’ll really be for everybody now, and conveniently Bella will still exist in the category of everybody, so she’ll still get it, too.

With Beautiful.

Who will treat her right, probably, if she learns to listen when Bella’s talking. So it’s fine. It’s fine, actually! It’ll be fine!

Let go and you won’t have to watch her take what you want, the Nemean whispers, using base cunning. They will never be allowed to be happy. There is only one punishment for disloyal vassals. Give in before they hurt you more. You don’t have to hurt ever again.

“Shut up,” she screams, again, at the Nemean, at Beautiful, at her own heart, at the world. She was poisoned today! She almost died today! She kissed her ex-best-friend a lot! By lying to her!! It would be really nice if somebody would shut up already!

All things considered, it’s not a good idea. The Ikarani must know he survived, and will have contingencies in place to finish him off. If she goes wandering, instead of staying put, she will almost certainly get caught up in the first disaster she comes across, and likely will not survive the encounter. None of this is wisdom. Apollo would not tell her to do any of this.

And on some level? She has to know it too. The fear that she’s spent her entire life breathing in now hangs thick around her, so thick she can hardly breathe, much less see, but somewhere in her heart she must know all this to be true. So what good would it do him to tell her it too?

Instead, he lies back. Closes his eyes. Gathers up what little strength he has, and uses it to carry his weak, stumbling voice all the way to her. Through the fear, and through the pain. Let her hear him just one, last time.

“The princess…wants to sail to Gaia.”

“We’re going to have to cross the Rift. I don’t know how we’re going to manage it. Just looking at it…it terrifies me. Even if we get past it, there are only stories of what lies on the other side of the universe. It will be to the gods if we find Gaia at all. But if we do? If we deliver what Lord Hades entrusted to us? Each of us, four of us, will be granted a wish. The princess wishes for a world where her mother steps down peacefully. She wishes for a world where the stars will be open to all. And the Empire of today will just be a bad memory.”

“Bella…I don’t know what Bella wants, exactly. But the ones Bella works for, they want to kill the Princess. They will then, most likely, organize a coup against the Empress, bringing forth whatever allies and plans they have had lying in wait for just such an occasion. But when the dust settles, they wish to sit on the throne, with no one to challenge them ever again. The Empire of today will be no more. And, I think a new Empire, born of blood and silence, will take its place.”

“Both sound at least a little impossible to me.” And yet, a chef had become a Captain, so perhaps that wasn’t as large a barrier as advertised. “So what impossible do you want, miss?”

[Rolling to Talk Sense with Wisdom: 6 + 6 + 1 = 13]

***************************************

This distraction is less enjoyable. Perhaps it is the point of the lesson. She will not think it so until later, if she ever does.

At once she is hackles and pinned ears, hissing and surging adrenaline. Her glaive whistles through the open air. Her fangs find no targets. Still she swings. Still she bites. Still she strains for some scrap of control as strength, overwhelming strength entraps her. She is pulled apart. She is crushed. She cannot breathe. Not like this! Not like this!

She is on her back, gasping for air. The Furnace Knight lands, well out of reach, completely untouched. He waits patiently for her to flex her fingers, to feel her arm moving under her own power again. To peel the glaive from a white-knuckle grip, one finger at a time. To rise, to return to the Underworld from someplace much worse. Then does he continue, in a slow and measured tone, free of threat and abounding in calm. There is the sky. There is the sun. There is his voice. None are going anywhere. Breathe, student.

She finds deep breaths filling her lungs. She finds nerves abating, retreating to an uncomfortable buzz that threatens to squeeze her chest tight again. She finds a voice, pulled taut and words nocked, and only by slow, steady strain can they be removed without violence. “I would appreciate. A warning, if that is going to happen again.” She shivers. She needs a drink. She won’t drink again. She takes her seat, and it is something she can do, and something she needs, and it is a start. She has to start somewhere.

“You’re right. Of course.” And she settles back into the comforting embrace of the storyteller. “I was a young, headstrong, fool of a girl wearing a Senator’s robes. I knew stagecraft, I knew fighting, I knew diplomacy, but I knew nothing of the long game of politics. Where all my opponents had decades of practice and fewer morals. Once, I sought to secure broader access to fresh water for those working in the scrapyards. It was all mine, for the low, low price of a shipment of plating. Said plating had been intended for additional solar shielding on the worker’s barracks, and yes, thousands would surely suffer terrible solar burns in the summer months, but they’d have water! They’d be alive! Dehydration or sunstroke, how would I care to let them die? Another time, I traded a run-down slum for bigger and better housing elsewhere. Within a month, the residents had been forced out, and a new luxury theater was underway. Meanwhile, my new housing project was still in the early stages of planning, materials would be double-claimed and take months to resolve, the builders were ‘accidentally’ promised their pay in advance, more funds would have to be raised, and all this time the people slept on the streets. So it was, everywhere, with everything I touched. Maybe you’re right, and maybe a more adept hand could have made a difference. But at what cost, when the vultures would devour everything they could get their claws into?”

“But if I’m being honest, it’s the wrong question to ask. In the late days of my rule, I noticed the tenor of my public appearances change for the worse. Where once I had only enjoyed broad, fervent support, the public of those days presented an unbearable tension. A clear marking line, between my wild-eyed fans, and...other, less ecstatic gazes. Desperation. Battered hope. Flickering embers of resentment. The same I would see in Alethea’s face, when she would come to demand an explanation for my latest dealings. More than the continued setbacks to my causes, this, I found the most intolerable. I doubled my efforts, not in statecraft, but in performance, seeking to bring them grander and more magnificent displays, anything to win back their adoration. No, the question is not if a different approach could have worked, sir Knight. It is if I was capable of playing my cards so close to my chest, playing the long game for the greatest good, if it meant giving up the praise and glory that catapulted me to fame in the first place.”

“I have thought on that question often, in this new life of mine.” Her eyes fall to the royal blue robes, draped over her motley frame. “I told you; I do not wear an honor higher than Captain, these days.”

“But where was I? Yes: An endless spiral of compromise, and a wavering public. This went on for years, and would have continued for many more, if a wild card had not upended everything. Lakkos’ military specialty was in the plover, I’d mentioned. We’d had no interest in spacefaring, as the Armada - when it returned - would surely be enough for the war to come. So when a Starsong cruiser cut through the atmosphere and opened broadsides against Senator Demetris’ household, there was no defense against it. His personal plover, the pride and joy of his household, was laid to ruin, and his security force scattered to the winds. The Starsong could’ve left just as easily; we had no way to stop them. But against all self-interest, they stayed behind to evacuate citizens who wished to flee with them.”

“The call came down from the chief of the Senate; all were called forth to punish the invaders. We would crush them with the full might of Lakkos. A storm of plovers, armed with the best scraps of the Empire, would crash down upon them before they could get airborne again. Any who refused would be thrown out of the Senate, their material assets seized, and divided up amongst more deserving statesmen.”

“Later, I would learn that the Starsong had, through some misadventure of theirs, stumbled onto our planet, and learned the plight of our people. One of their agents went undercover, sought out the lay of the land, crashed a wedding, might have stolen the bride? I can’t remember. Whatever the case may have been, they could not turn a blind eye to the misery they saw, and thus, their sudden assault. But all that, I would only learn later. That day, there was only one thought on my mind.”

“One hour. One hour, and one of my greatest foes had been rendered a nonentity. And if I did not fight to destroy the ones who did this, I would be destroyed myself.”

“One hour. One hour, and they had done more to tangibly help these people than I had done in my entire life. Everything I had ever worked for, revealed to be ash and dust by comparison. Hypocrisy, failure, laid bare in an instant.”

“Alethea found me pacing my rooms, the orders crumpled uselessly in my hand. Dear, loyal Alethea, she said what was on my heart, that I hadn’t the courage to say aloud: I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t live this life another day longer. And together, we devised a plan.”

“It was simple, really. If I was to no longer be a statesmen, I would need to leave. If the invaders were to survive, and the evacuees to survive, they would also need to leave. Our interests aligned perfectly. I would collect my plover, and the biggest shuttle I owned. To my vast household, I would offer the same as the Starsong; the chance to leave with me, and escape this wretched planet. Then, while Alethea handled the ensuing logistics, I would pay a brief visit to the temple of Zeus, and offer up everything I owned for my victory that day. Blessed by the gods, I would strike the Lakkos nobility a devastating blow from the rear while they were occupied with the Starsong, thus proving my own loyalties to my would-be allies. We take off, never look back, everyone lives happily ever after.”

Dear little Vasilia. Dear, stupid, silly, sun-eyed Vasilia.

“It was...it was such a simple plan. I’d already had my great epiphany. I knew I’d done wrong, and wished only to make it right again. Shouldn’t that have been enough?”

How can you still hurt her, years after your passing?