by S D Simper
“I’m fine.”
“Will you come with me? I have something for you, if you’ll accept it.”
When he offered a hand, she clutched it in both her own. A childish gesture for one whose childhood had abandoned her long ago, but she longed to hide behind Thalmus’ quiet strength. Beside them, the crowd radiated panic, threatening to blow into a frenzy. She watched Lara rise to calm them, every bit the monarch as she pulled their focus away from the scene and to her.
Except for familiar, glowing red eyes. Casvir stood readied for battle, but his attention remained on her.
She looked away.
She knew Thalmus’ path, for his workshop came into view. Away from the mourners he stole her, though fear had risen to mask the sorrow.
Whatever Ku’Shya’s intentions, Flowridia knew she would be a fool to not fear.
Thalmus, too, it seemed. “If Ku’Shya’s wrath has been sparked by Khastra’s death, we may all be in grave danger. There’s little she can do without a host, but even as a shadowed manifestation, some say demon gods can affect the mortal plane in certain parts of the world.”
“Not the most comforting thought . . .” But her words faded when she glanced up at Thalmus’ face. For all her startled composure, she saw palpable fear on his normally reserved face. “What’s wrong?”
“You leaving is abominable.”
Flowridia shook her head. “I already agreed to it, and should we succeed, we’ll have an orb and a way to stop Soliel.”
The God of Order had not been seen since his calamitous battle at the Theocracy of Sol Kareena—the same terrible night that had stolen Khastra, Meira, and Ayla.
“And if you fail, we won’t have you.”
She squeezed his hand as they walked past her treasured garden entrance.
Thalmus stopped, studying the floral path. “I promise to care for it while you’re gone,” Thalmus said, his voice a comfort to her agitated soul. “I can’t match your skill, but I will do what I can.”
She stopped beside him, sparing a glance for her beloved sanctuary. The garden flourished, but without her care, its majesty would wane, she knew. The magic needed maintenance, something Thalmus couldn’t give. But she trusted his words, and for him to even offer pulled a genuine smile to her face.
He kept walking; she followed behind. “Please know you have a home here and a family that loves you.”
Flowridia looked into his scarred face, realizing his eyes glistened in the sunlight. If he knew of her crimes, would he still hold that sentiment? Behind Thalmus’ gentle heart was a core of iron, incorruptible and immovable. Flowridia knew her soul was as soft and malleable as her physical form.
She saw it immediately, placed lovingly on a table within his workshop—a spear as tall as she, carved from light wood and glazed and polished until it shined. The design brought fresh tears to her eyes; embossed into the wood were the familiar plants at the entrance of her garden, the same collection of leaves and flowers Thalmus would see should he look up from his workspace and find her.
The spearhead reflected the sunlight, a clear and sturdy glass, rougher than what she’d seen him create in the past, but still bearing beauty. The edges held a waved design—not purposeful, no, she thought, recalling his methods. Broken from a larger piece and carefully cracked to form the proper shape.
“I wanted to have it completed before you left. I pray you never have to use it, but it looks like you may need all the protection you can get.”
Lighter than Demitri, the spear was buoyant and perfectly balanced. Flowridia held it tight in her hands, the simple remark of, “Thank you,” as much as her lips could summon.
She wrapped her arms around him, grateful when he returned the gesture. Flowridia lingered in that hug, putting his touch to memory, his smoky scent, how his skin seemed more granite than not, as well as the safety she felt in his embrace. She’d never known her father, and Thalmus had filled a void she’d never realized she’d had.
“Remember who you are, my little flower girl,” Thalmus whispered, his voice reverberating against her ear.
“First I have to find out who I am,” Flowridia said. “But I promise to come home.”
She thought of Casvir’s bargain and prayed she spoke the truth.
* * *
The faint prickling of her treasured familiar bespoke his presence in Etolié’s library. Flowridia, with her spear in hand, entered the arcane masterpiece, weaving through the maze of shelves until she reached the center, lit by a skylight. Directly beneath the patch of sun lay a large pile of scarves, upon which snoozed Demitri. The wolf’s steady breathing rose and fell, his dark grey fur absorbing the sun’s light, a patch of warmth within the plush pile.
Beside him sat Etolié, her hand lazily caught in his fur. In her other hand, she nursed a flask, her posture more teetering than usual. She glanced up at Flowridia’s entrance and said, “Nice spear.” She took a long sip, and Flowridia saw evidence of recent tears on her swollen face.
“It’s a gift from Thalmus.” Flowridia knelt beside the scarves and offered the spear forward, but Etolié gave it no mind, instead taking a gasping breath before having another drink of ale.
“Lara’s dealing with the aftermath of our godly interloper, reassuring the masses and all. Insisted I disappear and drink. A goddamn saint, that little moonbeam. I raised her well.”
Scattered outside the sea of plush comforts, just within Etolié’s reach, Flowridia noticed a familiar array of trinkets—polished gems, the maldectine knuckles, an impressive collection of jewelry, and more. She glanced at the shelves where they typically rested and saw they had been emptied.
Flowridia had never asked, but she’d always quietly suspected the truth—Khastra was the one to lavish her dear friend with handmade gifts.
Khastra had cared for Etolié when Etolié could not care for herself, and now, with the half-demon’s loss, Flowridia feared she would waste away. The Celestial’s proclivity toward self-destruction was difficult to watch even when she was well.
Demitri stirred beneath Etolié’s hand. Bright golden eyes met Flowridia’s own, and she smiled at her young familiar as he rolled over, his stomach absorbing the sun’s light.
When are you leaving?
“We leave tonight, Demitri,” Flowridia replied, kneeling as she pulled the wolf into her arms. A heavy weight; the young wolf stood taller than her knee now.
You leave tonight. I’m staying with Etolié.
Flowridia frowned, her lip trembling as her protective hold tightened. “Dearest Demitri, the last thing I need today is your belligerence. I’m not leaving you behind.”
Not belligerent. Honest.
“Demitri—”
But Flowridia stopped when Etolié held up a hand. The Celestial, with a permissive glance to Flowridia, stole the wolf from her arms and cradled him in her own. “Flowridia needs you,” Etolié said softly, exhaustion in her words. “Be her protector. Give her hell—she deserves it—but she’s gonna be all alone soon.”
From the air, Etolié withdrew a small hand-held mirror engraved with silver leaves. Flowridia recognized it, having seen the Celestial use it numerous times to contact Lara.
“Lara and I agree you need this more than she does,” Etolié explained, still holding it out. Flowridia accepted it, letting her fingers brush against the ornate carvings, palpable magic tickling her senses. “In case there’s any danger of demon gods. Or if you’re lonely. Or if Imperator First and Last ever tries to hurt you.” Etolié shook, her breathing unsteady, and Flowridia watched her eyes rim with red. “I’ll come get you, Flowers, Casvir and his bargains be damned.”
Etolié’s words did nothing to part the clouded guilt in Flowridia’s heart. She sucked in a choking breath, forcing her emotions away, and simply said, “Thank you.”
Still cradling the wolf, Etolié stole her flask once more and took a final drink. It disappeared with a slight glimmer as she tossed it aside.
“Etolié, I’m
worried,” Flowridia whispered, placing her hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“You fucking should be,” Etolié replied. “Going off on a road trip with the resident Tyrant Asshole was scary enough, but now there’s the mother from hell—”
“That’s not what I meant. Will you be all right while I’m gone?”
Etolié’s jaw trembled. Fresh tears brimmed in her lavender eyes. “Everything hurts,” she whimpered. “I’m sorry. Your blood-sucker is gone, and I shouldn’t lean on you.”
Flowridia’s fist clenched against Etolié’s spine, not expecting the sudden bombardment of emotion at the words. “Yes, Ayla is gone,” she said, forcing her voice to steady. She had thought it before, yet to say it caused her tongue to tremble. “But my hurt doesn’t mean you’re hurting any less.”
Etolié only sobbed in response. Her breath hiccupped, drunk and brokenhearted. Flowridia released her fist and instead ran soothing lines along the Celestial’s back.
In her bedroom, Flowridia gathered what little she would need for her journey. Wrapped in one of her changes of clothing was a green bracelet, a maldectine token from the late half-demon, as well as Etolié’s gifted mirror, reminders of home. Demitri suddenly perked up, not moments before a knock pulled her from her task.
It smells like Sora.
Clutching her gifted spear, Flowridia twisted the knob. There stood Sora Fireborn, as Demitri had said. White and gold in shades to rival her long, rope-like hair colored her tunic and tabard, bearing the sigil of the Goddess—a spear and the sun. Upon Meira’s death, she had been proclaimed her successor. But true to her character, she wore breeches and boots beneath it, and a knife at her hip.
There, too, was the little bird at her shoulder. Sol Kareena herself had granted Sora a familiar.
They hadn’t spoken since Flowridia had made a wish to Ayla for her murder. The half-elf lived only because of Sol Kareena’s will.
Tension settled between them, Sora’s silent gaze unreadable, her lips nearly white in their purposeful line. She broke their stare, sparing a glance for Demitri on the bed. “You were innocent,” she said to the wolf. “I’m sorry.” Flowridia’s grip on her spear tightened as Sora looked back at her. “They all think the world of you here. I won’t disillusion them of that.”
Despite the insult, the statement settled Flowridia’s nerves. Sora knew enough to have her hung in the town square. It evoked a question. “Why?”
“Because left alone, you’re a fool, but you’re a harmless fool. Ayla Darkleaf charmed you. She would have damned your soul to hell, but now she’s gone. For me to tell Etolié what you did would destroy your life.” Sora’s words stopped, and for a faint, unmistakable moment, her demeanor cracked, and Flowridia saw not anger or hatred . . . but pain.
“I don’t want to ruin you,” she continued, her voice scarcely a whisper. “I want to forgive you, because Sol Kareena would do the same. I’m still working on that.” Her gaze hardened, her stare narrowing. “But don’t mistake this for mercy. This is a warning. I won’t hesitate to slip the knife next time.”
Flowridia said nothing, her skin prickling at the threat. Sora took a step back, holding her gaze as she disappeared down the hallway.
Flowridia shut the door, knowing she deserved every hateful word from the half-elf’s mouth. Sora had met a hellish fate.
It seemed they would be at odds for all their lives—one sworn to slay Ayla Darkleaf, and one sworn to love.
Within minutes, Flowridia finished packing her things. With Demitri at her feet, she quickly ascended the stairs to the council chambers, centered at the third floor of the manor.
She came upon a familiar room filled with a circle of thrones. An uncomfortable mood pervaded the space—Queen Marielle, quiet as she twiddled her thumbs, Zorlaeus, utterly stiff as he stood beside her, and Imperator Casvir, silent as well.
The tension shattered at her entrance. Marielle perked up immediately and ran to greet her.
As Marielle embraced her, she said, “You’ll be back for my wedding, right?” Were her plan to murder Flowridia by suffocation, she would certainly succeed if she didn’t release her soon.
“I hope so,” Flowridia said, voice muffled by Marielle’s dress and cleavage. Within six months, Marielle would be wed to the unassuming De’Sindai gentleman beside her.
When she pulled away, she realized Marielle’s plastered rouge was ruined, smudged by the monarch’s own tears.
Zorlaeus, his maroon, fluffy hair curling around his ram-like horns, offered a hand, unable to quite tear his gaze away from Casvir. “Best of luck,” he said simply, his handshake limp and damp from sweat.
Then, vertigo; the world shifted upside down and sideways as Casvir ripped his claws into the air. A tear in space, one that opened into a portal. Casvir gave a nod to Marielle, his offered, “Farewell,” polite and sufficient.
Flowridia released a breath, taking one final look around the room, then stepped into the portal.
For a moment, the world shifted into a thousand stars, the tear revealing a world between worlds. Flowridia marveled as she floated, weightless for a mere blink of the eye, until carpet cushioned her bare feet. The stone walls of Nox’Kartha appeared around her, well-lit by crystal sconces on the wall. Black sand stood in shifting pillars every twenty feet or so, and Flowridia sensed something dark radiating from the odd magical structures.
Demitri stumbled through the portal, falling at her feet as a soft whine escaped his throat.
Then, Casvir himself appeared, unhindered by the gut-twisting portal. It sealed behind him, leaving no trace of the potent magical energy. “We leave in the morning.” He gestured toward a door Flowridia recognized—Ayla’s room—and then his steps bespoke his exit, metal upon carpet.
Demitri’s whispered words startled her. He smells wrong.
She offered no comment beyond a frown.
Encumbered by her gear, Flowridia went inside and carefully set Thalmus’ gift on the couch.
She spared a glance for her fallen love’s room, mesmerized at what she saw. A bedroom with no bed; Ayla had not slept. Odd trinkets triggered beloved memories: a fork from dinner; a flower she had healed; a tea cup; the shoes she’d left in her garden—all of it memorialized in glass.
A memory of gold—the white queen from her chess set at home, a stark reminder of her and Ayla’s disastrous first meeting. Yet, it had meant enough for her love to preserve and seal it in a glowing globe.
It wounded her, to be surrounded by cherished memories, the pictures on the wall hand-drawn by her fallen love. Flowridia’s bag fell from her shoulder as she blinked away tears.
A faint growl emanated from the young wolf as she unloaded her bag. I don’t like him. I don’t trust him.
“Demitri!” she snapped. “He has been nothing but cordial since—”
Since he stole you?
Flowridia bit her lip and released a stiff sigh. “My dearest Demitri, there is much you don’t know yet.” She set her bag down and knelt beside him, staring down into his sneering gaze. “He stole me, yes, but I’m surprised you don’t know him. He gave you to me.”
Demitri tilted his head at that. Are you saying he’s my superior?
“It’s because of him that I have you, so show some respect.” Tentatively, Demitri began sniffing around the room as Flowridia continued her unpacking. “I don’t know if I trust him either, but I don’t think he’ll harm us. So, if we uphold our bargain—”
Your bargain. The grumble in his tone was palpable. You dragged me here.
Arguing with her belligerent companion would only lead to anger, so instead Flowridia stripped out of her funeral dress in silence. Demitri continued sniffing around the room, content to investigate Ayla’s closet, while Flowridia changed into her nightgown.
Once she had smoothed her gown across her figure, she went to Ayla’s armoire, carved from wood and plated here and there with gold. The door swung open at her touch, and as she stole a hanger to hang her dress, a
faint smile pulled at her lips for the odd predictability of Ayla’s wardrobe—mostly black, all skintight, and each with their own unique, plunging neckline. As she dug, a bit of variety drew her eyes, at least among the fancier gowns. An icy blue one made with the softest silk she had ever felt; a deep green corset with a bustle; a rich maroon-
She recognized that one. Gingerly, Flowridia lifted it from the closet and hugged it close to her figure, familiar scents of earth and hints of blood welling tears in her eyes. Worn by herself to the unveiling of the Nox’Karthan Embassy, she recalled how self-conscious she had been with the plunging neckline but how beautiful it had felt to be adored by Ayla’s gaze.
If she closed her eyes, she could still see the glittering lights, hear the blissful music. Ayla’s touch had led her in sync with the flowing rhythm. Nothing could taint the memory of that perfect, final night.
Upon the table sat an unfinished sketch, memorializing the event in ink. Ayla’s radiant joy remained unparalleled in her drawn form.
Flowridia realized, surveying her surroundings, that a blanket and pillow had been placed at the end of the plush couch, making for what she suspected would be a restful sleep.
Demitri merely glared as he sniffed about the room. Why did Ayla steal your things?
“What do you mean?” Flowridia said, genuine confusion bleeding into her tone. She kept the dress in her arms and approached the vanity next.
All these globes—these were yours. Did you give them to her?
“She took them, yes, but she didn’t steal them. It’s different.”
Did she have your permission?
“I never said—” She frowned at him. “They’re memories, Demitri. I don’t care that she took them.” The aged vanity held a mirror and a layer of dust. She pulled open the center drawer, her frantic heart steadying to see her quarry—before she had left for Staelash, she had stashed the cursed ear among a collection of knives.