by S D Simper
Tension rose. Khastra’s face remained iron, the subtle etchings on her countenance the only indication of her great age, the laughter lines at her glowing eyes not laughing but familiar and beautiful beyond Etolié’s comprehension.
For a moment, she longed to touch them, trace them as she traced the tattoos on her arms. She nearly did, caught in a trance she daren’t give a name to. Etolié lifted her hand, forgetting her fury, the compulsion to feel skin beneath her fingers louder than her anger.
But when Khastra stole her hand, stopped it from its course, the spell broke. Etolié wrenched it back. “Get out,” she whispered.
Khastra’s face revealed nothing except slight glistening rimming her eyes. She gave a curt nod and stepped past Etolié, who still hovered in the air.
Etolié watched her go, watched the sway of her hips and her tail. She thought to scream and wondered if it would do her good. She thought to cry and wondered if Khastra would come to comfort her.
If she fell, would Khastra still save her?
When the door shut, she settled back to the ground, tears welling in her eyes. She released a single, anguished sob but bit back the rest when unmistakable skittering approached from the shelves. Behind her misted vision, Etolié saw Zoldar, his foreign clicks somewhat understandable, even to her distracted brain. “Slow down. Use your arms.”
Whatever Zoldar tried to convey, the emphatic little bug clearly had a lot of feelings about. He waved his arms, mimed something about a ball and a girl with a dog—“What’s this about the orb and Flowers?”
His clicking grew more frantic, and he gestured for Etolié to follow, escorting her to the shelf of beloved gifts from a certain demon she wasn’t currently thinking about. “What are you—”
He grabbed a crystal box and placed it in her hands. Etolié opened it—
There was no orb.
“Zoldar, who did this?”
He mimed hair. Bushy hair. Bushy hair with flowers—
“Gods fucking damn it,” she yelled, nearly throwing the box back onto the shelf. She ran from the room, up the stairs, screaming the betrayer’s name—“Flowers!”
Those she passed looked merely concerned. She glanced about wildly, searching for a wolf, a flowery head, even the imperator since he was her new favorite.
Outside, the wedding tent had been taken away, but an array of tables and finery awaited the party that afternoon. “Flowers!”
“Etolié?”
Etolié turned to the new voice. Murishani grinned as he approached. “Have you seen Flowers?”
“She left this morning with the imperator,” he replied, absolute innocence on his tongue. “They’ve returned to Nox’Kartha.”
“By Alystra’s Tight Ass, I’m gonna . . .” Etolié seethed as she withdrew her mirror from the air, tapping it furiously as it glowed. “Talk to me, damn you.”
No one answered.
Etolié slipped the mirror away, forcibly calm as she spoke to Murishani. “I might kill her.”
“Something irritating you?”
“Life irritates me,” she replied, and then she remembered that Murishani was a foreign ruler and not a punching bag for her moods. “Thank you for your help.”
She stalked off to find Lara instead, hoping her party hadn’t left yet.
Flowridia stumbled into Casvir’s office, relieved beyond measure to have returned.
The thought surprised her. But it was as she’d feared—that home didn’t fit, compressing her in ways she had simply outgrown. It broke her heart.
Demitri emerged, and then Casvir, his red eyes surveying his office with some remiss. “I would ask,” he said simply, “that you wait until evening to depart. That will give me time to prepare.”
“Prepare?”
“If I did not stop you, you would leave immediately.”
She would.
“In the meantime, I have a gift.”
He left his office; she took the cue to follow, careful to keep the orb secure in the folds of her dress. Despite its worth, the roses held more value to her heart. She held the vase with care.
She was led through the winding, carpeted halls. The familiar pillars of black sand greeted her every twenty feet or so, and it was odd to think that she could feel them now and recognize their dark energy.
“I wished to have it completed before the wedding, but I can at least send it with you.”
His words intrigued her, especially when he stopped before Ayla’s bedroom and gestured for her to enter.
All was as she’d left it, without even a layer of dust on the furniture. The globes of light held memories of joy, illuminating the desk and the chaise—
And there, on the ornate couch that had become her bed, was a spear of infinite, precious worth.
Flowridia set the vase on the table and took the carved, familiar weapon in her hand. It was as she remembered, decorated with images of flowers, the wood lighter than met the eye. The glass head reflected the minimal light, and Flowridia’s eyes brimmed with immediate tears.
Casvir’s voice came softly behind her. “It took time to figure out how to properly restore it to its former beauty. My attempts to have it recreated were met with failure; in the end, I found a man with the magic to turn the wheels of time within a small sector. He managed to restore it to what it was before its destruction. Expensive, but the results are perfect.”
Flowridia hugged the beloved weapon to her body.
“Such a breathtaking piece should not simply be discarded.”
She smiled at the familiar jest, looking to him with misted vision. “Thank you,” she managed to mouth.
“Rest and recover. Find me in the afternoon.”
Casvir left. Flowridia could scarcely fathom the thoughtfulness of his gift and the meaning it held.
A simple gesture, yet it meant the whole world.
He had left her bag on the floor. She knelt and placed the orb within, securing it beside the maldectine bracelet.
Its aura faded.
* * *
Lara had already left. Etolié got drunk on the roof instead.
At noon, she went to the library because she was a fucking sucker.
No Khastra; no suspicious gifts. “Beefcake?”
Nothing.
Etolié sat at the edge of her nest, her memory dwelling on that morning—before Etolié’s inner bitch had decided to rear up from the depths and ruin her friendship with Khastra for good.
But . . . Khastra had forgiven her for probably worse things. Hopefully. Perhaps everything would be fine.
And perhaps everything might have been, except Etolié heard a strange click from the door.
And the quietest thump.
“Zoldar?” Etolié stood up, but knew the little guy was likely fast asleep. Instead, her nerves oddly frazzled, she crept toward the array of bookshelves, peering between them before inspecting the next.
When she reached the door, she twisted the knob—
The door was locked.
Etolié twisted the lock again, this time with intent on her mind and it opened. Not much aplomb, but as the Savior of Slaves she had a few odd talents she generally forgot to tell people about, such as unlocking things.
But it wouldn’t budge. Etolié pushed the door with all her might, but it stayed firmly put. She peeked through the doorframe and saw the barest hints of a gigantic, over-polished purple gemstone.
Then, beyond, Etolié heard screaming.
She gave a final push, heaving herself against the door, but of course it did nothing, and a horrible suspicion in her gut threatened to make her ill. She ran to the center of the library, the screaming faint. Though she loathed to utilize it, there was more than one exit from the library.
Etolié grabbed the heaviest tome she could find—A History of De’Sindai Expansion—and held it above her head as her wings burst from her body. She shot up, toward the skylight—
The window shattered. Etolié flew freely.
Amidst Murish
ani’s afterparty, guests from Tholheim and the Theocracy ran about in a panic. What was once joyous had erupted into screams. Frantic party-goers sought to run, and in the riotous crowd, Etolié saw a flash of white light—the orb.
A battalion of Nox’Karthan guards faced a monster—one with a name Etolié knew well.
Soliel.
With his blade of fire, the God of Order swiped through the crowd like shears to paper, leaving a trail of charred bodies and blood. Etolié saw his target—Archbishop Xoran stood with the orb, his envoy ahead as they attempted to rush him away.
Hovering in the air, Etolié began to shine. All right, grandpa, we’re doing this.
Grandpa, of course, answered the call.
A strange sensation, to feel another entity wear your body like a glove. Tingly, like when you slept on your arm wrong and it felt like pins and needles as the blood rushed back—with a bit of pinching and pulling, Eionei settled into place. He feels different, Starshine.
Etolié—Eionei—they dove, rapier in hand, prepared to fight the god wielding three orbs. For fuck’s sake—where was Khastra?!
Her headache would split her in two. What do you mean?
Eionei responded by landing before the fallen god, sword aloft as he said, “At least you know a good party when you see one. Shall we? Two on one—”
They ‘oomphed’ as Soliel delivered a swift kick to their stomach. Stars flew across their eyes as what Etolié was fairly confident was an elbow cut across their face. That was, um, new. Disoriented, they staggered back—only a moment, but long enough for the God of Order to leap through the crowd.
Etolié heard screaming. Their vision stopped spinning, and Etolié watched as Soliel dropped his sword—
Only to maul through the Theocracy party with his bare hands. Etolié felt their magic, but it did nothing. Instead, she and Eionei burst into the air, in time for Etolié to scream, “No!” when Soliel grabbed the archbishop’s head—
Soliel’s fingers dug into his eyes. Blood poured from his eyelids. Xoran’s agonized screams cut off quickly when his entire skull cracked beneath the God of Order’s hands. Archbishop Xoran fell to the earth as a bloodied pulp, and Soliel lifted a bloodstained staff, topped with the white orb.
Eionei and Etolié dove toward Soliel, sword aloft, but the God of Order grabbed it as though it were nothing, his eyes oddly glazed as he matched their stare. His face was beautiful, yet wrong, an ambivalence to his gaze that spat in the face of the hateful eyes she knew. Something was off, and Etolié’s headache screamed.
The hold on Eionei’s sword released. Soliel dodged with no weapon, dancing around Eionei’s rapier with a nimbleness his heavy armor shouldn’t have allowed. “Nothing quippy?” Eionei said, as though they hadn’t just watched the brutal assassination of a benevolent ruler. “No lightning? I recall that being mighty unpleasant last time, but at least—”
Purple smoke erupted at Soliel’s feet. Almost like fire but . . . darker. The entire sky blackened, Etolié realized, but in the split moment of distraction, Soliel burst into dark flame—and disappeared.
They stared at the spot Soliel had once stood, shock stilling Etolié’s own actions. Let me take the lead, Starshine, Eionei said in her head, and she merely existed in herself as Eionei quelled the masses, his appearance nearly as startling as the God of Order’s.
Archbishop Xoran was dead, and Etolié saw the slaughtered party of people around him—a death toll she couldn’t yet stomach to count. High Priestess Lunestra wept, her pristine robes now splattered in her brother’s blood, and Etolié cried with her, giving silent kudos to Eionei for speaking even as her own glittering tears fell from her eyes.
When Eionei did finally return to Celestière, proclaiming that he would speak to Sol Kareena herself, Etolié alone was left with the cleanup.
Celebration had turned to mourning. It had ended in mere minutes—less, perhaps, the shock as debilitating as the death toll. A somber mood settled as servants went from cleaning platters of food to cleaning bodies.
Twenty-two people. Twenty-two innocent people—guards, servants, and Theocracy envoys—had been slaughtered. Viceroy Murishani gave tearful condolences, offered to fund the funerals, and Etolié couldn’t even summon the will to mock him.
Sora joined the cleanup, and Etolié worked beside her as she used her goddess-granted power to heal the wounded, her little bird chirping with each success. She’d never personally witnessed Sora’s power—small but unmistakable, and she managed to maintain her calm throughout.
Etolié said little, merely helped soothe the panic. She cleaned until her hands and arms were coated in blood.
It wasn’t until sunset that Murishani praised her work and bid her to rest, told her to wash and be at peace but that he would, “call her in case of the worse . . . assuming things can be worse.”
Etolié washed and wept.
* * *
All Flowridia lacked was food.
After bathing, she spent hours sorting through the memories scattered around the room: countless glowing globes stacked with care on an array of shelves, a pile of papers bearing memories more precious than gold, a book with broken binding writing the damning future she craved—Flowridia Darkleaf, etched into fine leather—even Ayla’s clothing, lovingly hung. Flowridia plucked one—a black dress she thought she knew, its plunging neckline reminiscent of the first time Flowridia saw her—and hugged it to her body, the lingering scent of perfume and blood and the ineffable aura of Ayla soothing to her lonely soul. It was a silly thing to bring along, but pack it she did, folding it and gently placing it at the bottom of her travel bag.
A reminder, if she needed it, of why she willingly marched herself to hell.
The orb sat idly on the chaise beside her bracelet. Within the small aura the bracelet cast, the orb did not glow, muted and hidden within a void of magic. She prayed it would be enough to hide her from Soliel. She’d heard nothing of him since their meeting in Verity Forest.
Behind her eyelids, she still saw Valeuron burning alive, the great dragon who gave his life to save them. It wounded her beyond measure, the lingering mystery of his words still unsettling her soul.
“I have seen your life; I know your death.”
She placed them together, the orb and the bracelet, in a pocket of her bag, then piled in a few changes of clothing. When Ana clawed at her leg, she placed the little fox in the bag as well, amused when she peeked out her head but obediently sat. She took her spear in her hands. “Are you ready, Demitri?”
Demitri looked up from his rug, sleep apparent in his glazed eyes. All my things are packed.
Flowridia smiled at her sweet familiar’s jest, though it held the weight of the journey ahead.
They traversed the winding halls together. Flowridia was grateful the walls were built to accommodate Casvir—Demitri, though he stood taller than she, fit perfectly well. Down the familiar stairs, past gossiping servants, but Flowridia slowed at the throne room, the furious cry of, “You hole of an ass! You absolute slut of a virgin!” stopping her in her tracks.
She placed her ear against the door.
“. . . have no right to be angry with me. This kingdom would be facing ruin if not for my actions! Yes, I helped her—you think she can conjure any sort of illusions? I have my ways.”
By the Gods—that was Murishani.
And the icy, baritone reply was Casvir. She could hear only pieces of it—“. . . not your right to interfere . . .”
“You would have brought the wrath of Ku’Shya herself upon our kingdom. Your purposeful ignorance of mortal nature would have destroyed everything we worked for! By holding the knife to the Daughter of Star’s throat, you keep Khastra in line. By slitting, there’s nothing to stop her from summoning her mother to slaughter you and half the kingdom!”
“She is under my control—”
“Not if Ku’Shya wears her like a meat-puppet! You think she would warn you before she stabbed you in the back? Casvir, she want
s one thing in all the world, and if you take it, it will be our ruin.”
The ensuing silence was jarring; Demitri’s voice, even more so. I feel like plotting to kill Etolié is a valid reason to hate him.
She managed to nod.
“Instead,” she heard Murishani say, subdued now, “the Theocracy is yours for the taking. Their entire leadership is unsettled, ripe for plucking, and with no white orb, they have nothing to counteract us. Khastra will lead us into victory, and all you mustn’t do is kill one measly Celestial cunt. Etolié won’t be touched by Nox’Kartha—that’s the bargain we made, and for the price of a demi-god’s compliance, it’s a small one to pay. Everyone wants something, Casvir. Remember that. Exploit that.”
She heard footsteps echoing from within. Quickly, she dragged Demitri back, making a show of walking toward the door as it opened, revealing the viceroy himself. “Lady Flowridia! What a delight to see you.”
“We aren’t supposed to be talking.”
“You are so right!” And he brushed past her without another word.
She glared at his back as he left, despite the crippling realization that something terrible had happened, but it had saved her dear friend’s life.
The room held sweeping, high walls and a simple iron throne—because the throne of bones had reassembled. There stood the bone dragon, docile as it watched Flowridia enter. Casvir looked almost perturbed as he looked to her. “Did you enjoy eavesdropping?”
She hardly heard it. Her breath failed her when she saw the second dragon.
Burned beyond its mortal beauty, the macabre corpse of Valeuron met her gaze, though nothing intelligent shone in his ancient eyes. His neck held iron stitches, sealing his severed head to his undead form, and his wings—oh, his majestic wings—bore patches of leather, sealing the wounds caused by the burns.
He conveyed no magnificence in death—only fear.
“Despite my best efforts,” Casvir said, “I could not grasp Valeuron’s soul; he is merely a body.”