Content Warnings

Intrusive thoughts
Discussion of war, death, and plague
Discussion of religious trauma

The skyway rattles along in the now nearly noon hours of the day. I am, of course, no longer allowed the window seat. Alabastra sits beside me, performing adequately to block any wayward light that would otherwise come my way. My head is rested on one hand buttressed against the table, nodding along to some story of Faylie’s concerning some Faewilds nonsense or other.

“And then my friend Kelmia said, ‘That’s not a rat-snake, that’s a pocket river!‘” She slaps the table like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever said, and strangely the other two chuckle as well. “So anyways, she didn’t make it.”

“That’s terrible?”, I venture.

Faylie brushes a hand through the air. “Eh, she was kind of a pill, it’s whatever. Plus, she was an elf, so, she reincarnated! Small potatoes, really.”

Sometimes I forget that despite being the only one of us who didn’t have an awful childhood, Faylie still grew up in a realm with danger and chaos around every corner. I’m curious to know more. And—’curious‘. That feeling I’ve been denied for too long, for the danger learning something new might cause to the status quo of myself.

Well, that status quo is already shattered, now. So I’d say I ‘may as well’ continue, but there’s no resignation this time—I want to. “If you don’t mind, Faylie, I’d like to ask about Antitia? You were vague with Tegan before, but I would genuinely like to know, is she truly your aunt? The way we use the term, I mean.”

The faun snorts, clearly amused by my question, almost patronizing. “Well, if we’re going by human definitions, I guess not, no. She’s not literally my mom’s sister, or whatever. But ‘Auntie‘ is really kind of, like, a title in the Faewilds?” She scratches behind one ear. “Not to say that it’s not familial, either, because it is, but it’s also like, there’s a connotation to it, you know? Like ‘Stepfather‘ or ‘Cousin‘, or Gods forbid ‘Grandmother‘! I guess it’s kinda hard to explain past that if you haven’t lived it.”

“That’s alright.” I almost say the quiet part aloud. That we have time enough to dig into it further. I don’t want to come off as too presumptuous or overbearing. I nearly can’t help myself, that need for more. It’s almost like its own kind of hunger.

For a while, I’m content to just listen to them talk. Faylie prattling on and on. Alabastra with a quick quip. Tegan with an easily-teased remark, leaving her to make up the difference of words with a tight attacking embrace around her smallest girlfriend. Though it’s not a short ride, the company makes it pass in a blink, over almost too soon.

* * *

On the corner of two large thoroughfares where the Northern Reds meet Nivannen near the cliff edge of the Augustene Hill, sits one of the only other places outside of my shop I visit on an even somewhat regular basis. The Whaltzin-Callisto Public Library is an imposing marble fortress of knowledge. Columns of stained white flank its tripart entrance, the golden-orange glow within shining through brick-bordered glass in great arches. The building is several stories tall and stretches back around to meet itself the length of the block to make an interior courtyard. The entrance is a wide field of stairs, surrounded by two statues of wolves looking out to the street, sentinels of stone. Rivaled only by the Institute’s library in Ceruel Rise in size and scope; if anywhere in this city holds answers to our multitude quandaries, it’s here. A bastion of evidence, if we can find it in that haystack.

As we ascend the steps, Alabastra is talking over her shoulder. “Alright, we’re lookin’ for anything we can find on this ruin of ours. Maps, building plans, fuckin’ war stories, whatever they got.”

I add, “And anything we can find on Lyla Serrone. She’s outright famous—it’s not impossible she’s been in the papers, before. Whatever can give us an edge.”

To my surprise, Tegan interjects, “We should also probably look into the Runeplague, right? Y’know, in case she, uh, wasn’t wrong about a second one in the city or whatever?”

Alabastra nods to both of us. “Excellent calls.” And implicitly we all look to our fourth, yet to contribute.

“… What?”, Faylie says. “Don’t look at me! I get lost in libraries!”

“Leave it to the bookworms then, Bug.” The rogue ruffles her girlfriend’s hair. It seems needlessly argumentative to point out that Tegan is but a former ‘bookworm’, and even then only if one counts The Tributines.

Instead I lean forward, arms crossed. “Didn’t you just say earlier this morning that this isn’t your forte either?”

Instead of being indignant like my snarking comment was intended to illicit, she’s smiling. “Gods, I missed that.” Her hands dart into her coat pockets and she passes through the door.

“… Missed what?!”, I exclaim, not expecting an answer. I follow, putting my parasol down as I pass under the shade.

The front interior is made of coffee-brown bricks of shiny linoleum, and I make myself look ridiculous dodging where the glass lets the sunlight in. Damnation for whoever decided un-curtained windows should be a ubiquitous architectural feature. Regardless, the ceiling glows, underlit with bulbs in deco lanterns to shine on the painted stucco murals that wrap around the curves of the interior, meeting with pillars that separate the foyer into halls and stairways and passages.

We split up, making for opposite wings of the building. I enter one of the main archival sections. Halls of bookshelves flank me in uniform lines as I pass through annals of history. Books of hardbacked covers or leather-bound tomes sit snugly on the shelves, waiting for a historian’s hand to brush away the dust. The musty, faintly syrupy scent of old books wafts between the hard oak rows, seeps into the dull green carpet below me. I could concur with Faylie that it’s quite possible to get lost here, only without the dread that she implied. There’s something endlessly comforting about words on a page; physical evidence, knowledge committed to ages. Daunting, too, but that pales in the enormity of it. I’ve spent long enough without answers.

Quickly it is rather obvious that I have no real direction to start. Perhaps there are records of a family history. It’s almost certain that ‘Serrone’ is Beric’s born surname rather than Lyla’s, but it might tell me something.

The local history branch is stocked with old archives, journals, biographies, and census records. And, of course, genealogies. I pull a few books from the shelves promising the history of Marble City’s old money families, and retreat to a nearby table. It doesn’t take long to find. Selvens… Sepensers… Serrones!

The Serrone family looks to be a rather well-established line, aristocratic, though not quite approaching the prominence of, say, the Eldatsi, or Calacatta, or Corvane families. Nor do they approach the all-encompassing wealth of the nouveau riche—the Torres or Forsyth or LaFontaine clans. But the Serrones are certainly notable enough to at least have a settled presence in the heights.

Interestingly, the family tree seems to stop with Beric, at least on his side of the family, yet this census is fairly recent. I suppose he never had children. Regardless, no mention of Lyla. She must have married in as recent as the last five years.

It seems a dead end, but on a whim I check the more recent of the genealogies I grabbed, and sure enough, an addendum is made to the family line, married in via Beric. ‘Delyla Serrone – née Valyrys.‘

I suppose she decided to go by a shortened version of her forename? I check through the ‘V’ section of the records, but find nothing of ‘Valyrys’. It isn’t until I turn my eye to wider, more country-wide genealogies that I spot the name—an unimportant but massive family in the north of Anily, based primarily out of Reverie. It’s too large a family and too old a record to find anything about Lyla in particular, but it’s something, I suppose. She certainly moved up in status with the marriage, that is certain. Not necessarily a surprise; it seemed there was little love lost when her husband’s life was on the line. Yet if she were truly as much a commoner as the rest of us, why would she have spoken so derisively?

There’s something I’m missing, of that I am certain. This insistence that she’s Gods-Blessed, with the power to back it up. She mentioned she was practically ordained, in her speech. My knowledge on matters religious is woefully sparse.

Fortunate for I, there’s a divine warrior quite a bit closer to the heart. I stand, heading back through the history section until I spot the nervous form of the werewolf, tail brushing against a bookshelf and threatening to knock a few tomes onto the floor. She turns at my arrival, a sheepish smile in her cheeks.

Before I can get a word out, my stomach rumbles, and for a moment I can’t help but imagine tearing her apart. I grip my forehead. Dammit. They’re especially relentless today, it seems. The fathomless void opening within me feels like I might fall within myself; implode entirely.

“Oh, shit, uh. Moodie—you okay?” She rushes over to me.

I hold up a hand before she can get too close. I’m not likely in danger of turning while the sun is still out, but history as a teacher tells me I cannot quite trust myself. Focusing inward on that burning fire inside, turning substance into absence and needing more, I shut it out, block it, pen it in, quell it. Whatever works at this point. It takes longer than usual to tamp down, but eventually I am capable of conversation again.

“Sorry”, I say, a shake to my head. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” There’s a nervous energy to Tegan, like she had, for the moment, prepared herself for drastic action. I feel in safer hands for that; I did ensure she had Subduant to spare, yesterday. She is a rather comforting presence, I am coming to realize. A stalwart safety net of a woman. I might be starting to truly internalize why they keep calling her their ‘knight in shining armor’. Beyond the, ah, literal reasons, of course.

My hands brush away the already-gathered dust from the old tomes I’ve been trawling through. “I’m sure.” Then my arms cross. “And I did not seek you out just to frighten you, of course. I need your expertise.”

She backs up slightly, and crosses her arms over her breastplate. “My expertise? With what?” There’s a slight nervous laugh at the tail-end of her question.

I lean against a bookshelf, rolling the question over my mind before I say, “Lyla Serrone seemed a divine caster to me. It’s a field of magic I know little about—I know you brushed it off before, but if there’s anything you can divulge about how it works it might help.”

One ear flits, ever-so-slightly. “Y-yea. That makes sense. And, uh, in exchange, uh…” She points with a thumb to the books we’re against. “I’m, uh… Kinda having problems finding anything useful in all this. It’s kind of just… too much?”

A fair enough exchange. I stand, closing the gap a few inches closer, and nod. “Study partners, then. We never did have the chance, the two of us, what with you not being enrolled.”

Tegan swallows a lump in her throat. “Y-yup.” She turns, and leads me further into the archives. Does she even know her tail is wagging?

* * *

We walk into a side-room of the archives, with stacked-high papers and posters and pamphlets in unforgotten corners of a not-too distant time. A dim light hangs in the center of the room, too small for the treasure trove of documents stuffed into it. Signs assured us this was where we would find historical archives of the Runeplague and the resulting Plague Wars.

In honesty, I have no idea what to make of Lyla Serrone’s claims—a second Runeplague, growing in the heart of our own city. The cause of the first was never discovered, as its raging source in the heart of Caskia was extinguished decades ago.

My only personal experience is with its aftermaths. Both on the land, the ways in which its scarred and marred the soil under our feet, choked our crops and drove hunger across the less-populated sections of Anily, and on people. The illness those magic-wrought maelstroms brought along their raging whirlwinds tore through the systems of thousands. According to Mother, it acted like no bacterial or viral infection. Unlike the germinating illnesses, it was not so much a living thing; more arcane than creature. More like a storm than a plague, and most distressingly of all, its magic was psychic in origin. It didn’t infect, get inside someone’s body and take what it needed to survive. Instead, it got in someone’s mind, twisted them from the top down. The best case one could receive was gradual organ failure. Worse cases would turn people mad, cause them mental anguish, or kill them quick and outright, and in showers of blood. It was a furious thing, ripping its victims apart before burning itself out. It was hardly even contagious.

For all these reasons, from the outside, it looked less like an illness, and more like a weapon.

I’m aware of the broad strokes of what followed, even if I’m sparse on the details. Beings we’d typically call monsters, dragons and undead and the like, were no more or less resistant to the plague than anyone else, yet all the same, paranoia took hold, and wars erupted in the belief that Caskians and their large monstrous population were responsible. Whether or not that tidbit is true, the plague is often said to be the inciting incident of the revolution that toppled Caskia’s ruling elite.

What I never did understand, however, was why the fighting didn’t stop after the storms had been extinguished, nor even after the leadership of Caskia changed.

Old recruitment posters hang on the walls as we enter. A mage with a staff held high, with words in large font urging the reader to ‘Wield Your Birthright‘. A rifle snapped in half, with a warning—’These Are The Weapons of the Enemy!‘. Other posters of patriot bends, with slogans like ‘Old Man Marble is Calling‘ and ‘Wolves Hunt in Packs‘, are colored in the reds and tans and whites of Anily’s flag.

Tegan strides ahead of me. “Alright, uh. So, it would probably help, right, if we knew more about the whole origins of it, right? But, I can’t find anything that gives a concrete answer.”

Not a student of history, then. “That’s likely because there are no answers, Tegan. The official position, insofar as I am aware, is that it was created by the Caskians, whether by accident or as a weapon, but nobody has ever confirmed that story with more than conspiratorial evidence.” Of course, I could be wrong—if a source was found in the past five years or so, after I disconnected entirely from politics and the world around me, I wouldn’t know. Though, based on what Alabastra said in our conversation with Nathaniel, it’s likely that remains the case.

“Then… how would we know if Serrone’s bullshitting or not?”

“That is… an excellent question.” I put a hand to my chin. “I suppose look for any first-hand records, before any historical revisionism set in, that may describe similar effects to what we’re currently experiencing.”

The knight shrugs, and starts to look through some of the journals of soldiers and scientists left discarded. I follow behind, hopeful my advice wasn’t entirely foolish.

Halfway through some description of an early battle in the wars before I recognize it for the propaganda piece it is, I say, “So, divine magic. You must have some insight, correct?”

Behind me, hunched over a table, Tegan coughs into her hand. “Yeah, I mean… I guess, right?”

“That isn’t exactly instilling me with confidence, Tegan.”

She palms the table. Then she startles at her own little outburst. “Sorry. Shit. Um, it’s just kind of a… tangled subject for me, I guess.” Before I have a chance to bring her a sense of calm, she seems to get a handle on the complicated emotions my question clearly skimmed the surface of. She turns to look at me, and says, “Right. Okay. I guess it’s kind of like—Faylie described wizard magic as like, wanting to change the world, right?”

I nod. “Broadly speaking, that’s the idea. And hers is more about creating within that world.”

“Right. I guess in that explanation then, divine magic is like taking strength from the ways the world already is? Does that make sense?”

It’s a mooring sensation, then? Rooting oneself in the way things are. That actually makes perfect sense. I think back to Kansis, stable and down-to-earth. Tegan, indefatigable and stalwart and righteous. Regardless of if its source is the Gods or one’s own spirit, it all seems to come to a central, anchored point to draw power from. “If the arcane is based on progress, then the divine is based on fixation?”

She shrugs. “More or less, I guess? But, I dunno if that’s too simple or whatever. It just made sense that way, with how they taught us at St. Leonard’s.”

I shift. “That’s the convent you lived in?”

“Yeah.” I’m not sure how she manages to fit a childhood of suffering into one word, yet she does. The sheer weight of her untold experiences pulls her like a stone, sinking into the ground. It wouldn’t do to unzip her in a public library like this. Best I get us back on track.

“Then, Lyla Serrone—any further insights on where her abilities come from?”

With a cross to her arms, the knight has trouble shrinking herself down much, her frame still keeping her rather imposing despite the posture. “No clue. I mean, you probably had the best idea earlier, right? That she’s a sorcerer? Just— like a godsly one, or something?” She turns her gaze downward, swallowing up the floor. “I mean, not like she grew up in a priory too, right?”

My brow raises. That isn’t so absurd an implication as she’s made it seem. Suddenly I’m struck with a new lead—the city where the Valyryses are based out of, Reverie. I should look into that. “Hold that thought—I may have an idea. Do you have this handled?”

She looks around at the journals, clearly unsure, but nods. “I’ll… I’ll manage. I think I’m good. Thanks, Moodie.”

“I’m sure you will. You always do, after all.” On a dime, I spin to leave. And I try not to let myself be distracted by the knight’s blush.

* * *

Reverie, secluded in a mountain valley in the north of Anily, is renowned for its deep connection to the Effigial Church of the Dozen-Minus-One. Historic Sacellum Square is a popular destination for pilgrims looking to reconnect with their spiritual roots. Like many cities in the Lapeda province, Reverie was hard-hit by the Plague Wars, but its geographic location kept it from the worst of any Caskian sieges.

I flatten the page of the almanac I’ve been reading from, and pull out my notebook with my other hand, briefly having to clutch my pencil between my teeth as I flip to the next page. She wasn’t just from a convent—she was from an entire holy city.

In a near fervor now, I jot down any tidbits or notes that may seem even somewhat important. Shuttering the almanac, I stand, and pull the lid off a cardboard box stacked with old broadsheets. There was exactly one local periodical saved in this archive’s records, and the librarians were kind enough to let me sort through the maintained copies myself. They are at least, blessedly, in chronological order, or I’d have a truly hopeless time. I discard all of the copies before the Serrones’ wedding, and flit through page after page of decrepit and dusty newspapers.

And after minutes of mindless headline trawling, miraculously, I spot a semi-familiar name, with a slightly more familiar title. ‘Delyla Valyrys – Our Blessed Angel, Off to Capital‘. Before reading I mark down the paper’s date—the 1st of Octobrea, 903. Sixteen years ago.

The story is a puff-piece celebrating the virtues of a young hometown hero, ordained by the churches and ministries of her city, speaking as if she’s some divine savior blessed by the Gods themselves. Apparently the visit was a cultural or religious propaganda venture; parading this younger Lyla around the capital, and showing her divine prowess off to the public. The reporter makes little detail about her, as if the facts of her life should be taken as common knowledge to the assumed readership.

It tracks for why she’d be so contemptuous to us, then—Lyla was indeed quite famous where she’s from. No, more than that; Lyla Serrone, or Delyla Valyrys, as she was here, is spoken about like a saint. Was she given the power she has for whatever she did to earn those accolades? Or did the accolades come second, because she was truly born with a spark of divinity within her?

I look through the rest of the papers, hopeful I’ll find an answer somewhere deeper, but I’m already near the bottom of the pile. It seems their records only extend so far. Still, more than I expected to find. Perhaps I might—

“Well, look at you, all focused.”

I jump at Alabastra’s voice, having snuck up on me again. She’s practically right behind me… I’ll never understand how she does that. “You’re distracting me”, I intone. “Shouldn’t you be at the other side of the building?”

Alabastra walks around to the other side of the table, leaning over my gathered research materials. “Maybe I wanted to see how my favorite vamp’s doin’.” Then she starts to almost lay across the table, quite obnoxiously. “Or maybe I already done my part and came to find you n’ Dusty.”

“What about Faylie?”

“Pretty sure she got lost.”

That sounds like a later problem. I stare her down, as she’s practically horizontal over the table, hands over the books I had laid out. Despite her tomfoolery, I’m not surprised she found what she was looking for so quickly. It is one of her many areas of expertise, after all. And I know she knows her way around this building well; we’ve even run into each other here before, once or twice. I was no more pleasant conversation then than I have been in any other context.

I sigh, “I suppose I was just about finished anyways—but you are messing with my work, all the same.”

She brushes one hand against the pile of newspapers, and I have to scramble to keep them from falling over. She says, “Ain’t my fault your work station’s messy, Moodie.” She flashes a foxlike smile. “You’re gonna piss off the orderlies, like that.”

My eyes glance past her, and I catch sight of an elderly librarian shuffling over to a shelf to return a tome. I say, “I don’t think the ‘orderlies’ are going to be much of a problem.”

Her thumb juts behind her. “Ah, not them—the book gnomes.” Expectation dances in her eyes.

I stare blankly.

“The… the book gnomes—”

“I’m not taking that bait.”

The rogue pouts. “Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” I’m almost impressed that after all this time, she still finds exciting new ways to annoy me. Book gnomes. Preposterous. Then her expression grows serious a moment. “You, uh, feeling well enough to have that talk soon, then?”

She actually hasn’t forgotten. Especially impressive, since I nearly had. “R-right. I think we should conclude our business here first, but yes. I am feeling better. Once we’re out of here.” Then my arms fold, reminded of this morning. “And, for the record, I apologize for losing my composure, at the medical office.” It was somewhat unfortunate, her catching me so vulnerable like that.

“No need to apologize.”

“Good to know, then. Admittedly, I am unpracticed if apologies are the proper sort of etiquette for that sort of thing. That was actually, um, only the second time I’ve ever, ah, done that.”

She scoffs, “What, cried into someone’s shoulder?”

That caveat doesn’t actually make it less true, now that I think about it. But I only shrink up in response to her question.

Her eyes go wide. “Wh— cried?!” She sounds downright distraught. “Y’know every, like, third thing you say breaks my fucking heart?”

“I will endeavor to say less, then.”

“Please don’t. Not what I meant.” She points backwards with her thumb. “You’re just about done, then?”

It’s not impossible that if I searched every book, journal, and paper in this library, I might find something more—but the more space and time we give Lyla with the watch, the less confident I feel about our chances of halting whatever it is she’s doing. This will have to do. I nod. “Let’s find Tegan and Faylie and share what we’ve learned.”

Alabastra shoots me a finger gun, then turns, and wanders listlessly into the open space of the library. She says, aloud, “Anybody seen my faun?”

Dozens of people shush her at once.

* * *

After finding Faylie wandering the Lost & Found section, we gather around a table in a busy common study hall. Alabastra lays out a large municipal map of the sewer sections of the underburrows. She draws a finger up to where the waterworks intersects Augustene Hill, and taps twice. “Somewhere ’round here, sewers intersect with the tunnels underneath.” Her finger moves like a painter’s brush up to the hill itself. She’s dangerously close to the heart of the waterworks, as she circles. “And around here, we’ll find what we’re lookin’ for.”

“And what are we looking for?”, I deadpan.

She flips open a dusty book, and lays it on the table for the rest of us to see. “There was an old temple to Maiea built in a cavern underneath the portal a few centuries back. Got forgotten, found, and forgotten again a half-dozen times since. Now it’s a heritage site—guess that’s ironic, considering what the Lupines are usin’ it for. Well—probably using it for.”

Tegan says, “Maiea—the goddess of nature?”

“Wacko place for a temple, I know. Maybe they were doin’ a ‘the natural world is everywhere‘ thing.” She puts on a light-aired voice for her mocking, accentuating an elven highborn affect. “Anyways, think I got the exits and entrances covered. We can hash out the details on the way.”

I crane my neck down to check over the book she’s provided, looking for any details she might have skimmed over or missed. The only thing of otherwise significance I can glean is that the temple is older than much of the city, clearly established in its early days. If that means much of anything, I’m not sure.

She catches my eye. “So, what’s the wire on Serrone?”

Without flourish I flatten the broadsheet to the table. “It seems she’s celebrated where she’s from—if I didn’t know better I’d call her an almost prophetic figure. I couldn’t find much to indicate if her abilities come from worship, or the other way around, but she’s certainly not nobody.”

A cold concern takes Alabastra, as she contends with the information. “Well, famous or not—prophet or not—it doesn’t change what’s comin’ to her.” Her voice is absent of complete conviction. She’s let the doubts in, and the worst part is, I don’t blame her.

If she’s truly chosen by the Gods, do we actually stand a chance?

We sit in silence a moment, letting the new deal sink in. Then Tegan says, “I knew plenty of people at St. Leonards that thought they were blessed.” She snarls after the memory, a hate I rarely see in her. “But they were just assholes. They used that claim to manipulate people. Abuse them.” Her voice is absent her usual stumbling, and her stare is iron-forged. “She’s just like the rest.”

A tender half-elven hand reaches across the table to give her girlfriend a comforting touch. The three thieves say with silence their stance—even if we don’t stand a chance, we’re still going to try. And that is all that matters, really.

As for myself, I’m still undecided, but what else is new?

When they’ve had their moment, I turn to the knight. “And did you manage to find anything of note, in the end?”

“Well, nothing obvious, or whatever, but I kept reading about these spell-storms the plague came in, and it got me thinking that the descriptions, uh, kinda sound similar to the thing Thassalia did to me? I mean—weird psychic storm, it’s kinda a big coincidence, right?”

Alabastra snaps. “Then that’s the key—this isn’t a real natural disaster. The Lupines are behind this. Serrone was just lying. Like these types always do.” There’s an edge to her, almost defensive. She is used to being right, after all.

But there has to be more to this. She seemed like a lot of things to me, in our interactions thus far, but one thing Lyla didn’t strike me as was a liar. Then again, I’m not exactly the expert here. I murmur, “I think that’s still too early a call to make, Allie— Ala—”

She interrupts, “Ah-Ah-Ah.” And she’s smiling. “That’s strike three. Allie, huh?” She’s leaning over the table again, looking like she’s about to devour me whole.

Dammit. She noticed. Of course she noticed. I glance around, not meeting her eyes. “It’s— it’s what the others call you, it slipped into my vocabulary.”

“It’s what the people who care about me call me, you mean.”

The tips of my ears are burning up. “W-we should— we should go put the books back.”

Snatching the book she’s placed off the table in a theatric grab, Alabastra turns and says over her shoulder, “But of course! Wouldn’t wanna piss off the book gnomes, after all!”

“Those aren’t real and you know it!”

“That’s what you said about the faerie mob!”

“The faerie mob was absurd!”

I gather up the research materials I’d brought, casting occasional glances up to see Alabastra duck around a corner, out of sight. Then I sigh.

And when I look up the others are staring at me. Tegan has a fond little smirk on her face, and Faylie looks smug as all get out. “What?”, I deadpan.

Faylie says through her cheeky grin, “It’s just fun watching you two go at it.”

Tegan concurs, “It’s like a stage show.”

I huff, “Well I’m glad someone is having fun, at least.”

Before I have to contend with their snickering, I pull the papers and books under my arm and dart away. I am, of course, obscuring the truth—it’s not as if I can pretend to not enjoy their company forever. It just all feels far too easy, now, without the weight of my own relentless self-lamentation. I keep waiting for the trick, the reveal, the other shoe to drop.

And maybe it was here, all along.

Because the second I get around the corner, I double over and clutch at my stomach, once more having to banish the rising sickness.

As long as these urges remain, it’s like the guillotine in tensed position, waiting to release any moment. An implicit threat at the back of my mind. They’ll continue to cause me to pose a threat to these three as long as they remain. Can I say with certainty that I’m comfortable around them, knowing that I’m so unsafe?

Yet another reason to see these hungers gone, and soon. And if I can’t, if I become too dangerous to be around, if I’m right, in that sneaking suspicion that they’re getting worse, I’ll have to let them go again. Somehow I’ll have to convince them to let me go. And Gods would I hate for these moments to ever have to end.

This was a deceptively difficult chapter to write. Interesting, in-character research is hard. Hopefully I pulled it off?

Thanks so much for reading. It will never stop being the coolest thing in the world to me that people are engaging with this story of mine. ❤

Next update is (1-41) realgar; on Saturday, November 2nd.