The Last Daughter -- Dragon-Blooded Sorcery School Quest

Rose Laughter might be charming under other circumstances. Having five Dragon-Blooded and three sorcerers under her roof with so little warning puts a definite strain on it.

"That is quite a reason to come so far," she says, smiling graciously.

"It is a worthy undertaking, bestowed upon me by a hero of Prasad," Teran says. His mannerisms are considerably stiffer under the circumstances. It is not uncommon for mortals and Exalts to eat separately at formal dinners — in the same room, but at separate tables. With how few your numbers are, and with your host being herself one of the mortals present, the prefect has instead opted to give you the place of honour at her own table, taking a seat further down its length along with her quiet, amiable husband. You think that the more separate arrangements would have lined up better with Teran's and Yavis's upbringing.

"Of course, my lord," Laughter says, her smile growing just a little bit more strained.

The decor of this dining room is as dated as the rest of the estate, seemingly having last been updated before you were born, presumably by one of Laughter's more industrious predecessors. The food is good, at least, if not quite as elaborate as what you'd expect at an actual Dynast's table. It's warm and well-prepared, and a welcome change from the road. Of course, Teran, Yavis, and another guest, the fifth Dragon-Blood present at the table, are each eating somewhat differently than the rest of you, due to their various dietary restrictions.

"I'm certain Lord Teran means no offence, Prefect. It must be a difficult adjustment, being treated as merely your better, rather than a god," says Sister Briar. The Immaculate monk has the slightly shabby appearance of an itinerant, simple robes worn from years of travel. She's a short woman with laughing eyes and round features in both face and body, her Aspect Markings subtle in the manner of most outcastes, taking the form of fingernails of living wood. Otherwise, she could almost pass for any woman from the northern Blessed Isle who had taken the vows of the Immaculate Order.

Yavis tries, poorly, to disguise a frown. Teran gives Briar an annoyed look. He doesn't deny what she's saying, however. "I was aware of the... theological differences before I journeyed to the Realm," he says. "My family teaches us to be flexible, when traveling abroad. I will cleanse myself of impure influences when I return to Prasad." You very pointedly do not notice whether or not L'nessa's expression changes at the words 'impure influences'.

Briar gives a tilt of the head that seems interested, more than simply disapproving. She's older than you, looking to be at least in her mid twenties. In a Dragon-Blood, that could mean anything from twenty-five to her fifties. "And how, exactly, do you intend to do that?"

Teran shrugs uncomfortably. "A symbolic physical cleanse, followed by a month of secluded fasting and contemplation, under the supervision and instruction of a Pure monk of the Dragon Caste."

Briar maneuvers some rice into her mouth. "Fascinating how much your people have diverged, so far away from the Blessed Isle," she says, in a way that is ostensibly not supposed to be condescending, but can't help but be.

The prefect's smile is trending toward something closer to a rictus grin between this argument and Verdigris emerging from your sleeve to lap at the second cup of rice wine you'd requested. Fortunately, L'nessa steps in, smoothly changing the subject before anything can deteriorate further: "Do you always dine at prefectoral tables along your circuit, Sister, or are we all just lucky enough to receive the rare pleasure?"

Briar turns to her, quirking a smile. "No," she admits, "my ordinary route usually sends me only briefly through Echo. I am extending my stay a little longer in order to investigate some troubling rumours. I had hoped that our honoured prefect might have information to aid me in my task." You see Teran relax a little as the attention is drawn away from him, shooting L'nessa a grateful sort of look.

Rose Laughter takes a sip of her drink, when clearly she'd have preferred a gulp. "Unfortunately, I can only tell you that I believe they are only rumours. Or greatly exaggerated. We have had no significant trouble with illicit cult activity in Echo Prefecture."

"But, you have had some, then," Briar says, "insignificant as it might seem. That's already more than what my mortal colleagues heard, when last they paid you a visit! It's so good that they prevailed on me to try my own hand."

"Sister, every prefecture has some small amount of heresy, surely," Laughter says, not meeting Briar's gaze.

"I suppose so," the monk agrees, "but small heresy tends to grow, if ignored over long, and then correction becomes... messy."

The prefect nods. "I will bow to your greater wisdom, Sister," Laughter says.

It isn't difficult to decode the interaction — whatever problems with cult activity Laughter has in her prefecture, she would prefer they stay small and ignored, rather than risk the kind of reprisal or accusations of negligence that can come with too much scrutiny from the Immaculate Order. Faced with an Exalted monk, however, she is less able to brush off the concerns than she otherwise would have been able to. Barring something greater going on that you don't know about, it's a mundane sort of tension.

The rest of the meal passes like that, L'nessa periodically doing her best to rescue an awkward conversation, you speaking only a little, Maia barely speaking at all, unless directly asked about her family. You get the impression that the prefect is even more alarmed at the prospect of you all scouring her countryside in search of a rogue god than she is at the suggestion of cult activity. Throwing sorcery into the mix will do that, you suppose.

By the end of the meal, you're already considering what you might do to get actually useful help from official channels within the prefecture, when Sister Briar flags you down in the hall. "Lady Ambraea, might I have a word?"

You pause, halfway to your chambers, standing in front of a silk hanging featuring quotations from the Immaculate Texts — a little on the nose, frankly, given your current circumstances. "Yes, Sister?"

The monk gazes up at you as she approaches, unintimidated by both your height and Verdigris's curious stare. She has an almost startlingly pleasant smile, you decide. "Forgive me for speculating," she says, "but it occurs to me that my task and yours are not wholly unrelated."

"You think that your cult activity involves Taste of Blood and Ashes," you say. The thought has occurred to you as well, over the course of the meal.

"Oh, good, you understand," Briar says. "There are only ever so many criminal gods in one small prefecture, in my experience. Would you be willing to share what information you have with me? I promise you, whatever it is your cousin is intent on retrieving is not my concern. I am here to protect the spiritual health of Echo Precture's peasantry, not to treasure hunt."

You consider this, your eyes idly flicking over the scripture on the wall behind her; it's one of the most commonly quoted passages from the Texts, an extolment of industrious humility as demonstrated by Pasiap. "I would be happy to do so, sister. I am only concerned of potentially working at cross purposes from one another, if our goals are so closely connected."

Briar tilts her head. "What do you suggest instead?"

You choose your words carefully. You're almost certain that Briar is an outcaste; the careful, neutral tones of her High Realm speak more to an education at the Obsidian Mirror and the Cloister of Wisdom than they do a native speaker. It's never wise to adopt too much of an air of social superiority with an Exalted monk, however, particularly one potentially a decade or more your senior; the Order grants its own form of authority. You don't want to come across as though you're attempting to compel her to assist you. "I am certain your experience of hunting and dealing with criminal spirits is much greater than ours," you say, "however, we can be of some assistance as well, I would hope. We're young, but my classmates and I are already skilled sorcerers, and our companion is quite a capable young man. I wouldn't want to get in the way of your investigation. Surely, if we worked together, we could assist one another."

Briar considers this, sizing you up, curious as well as mildly surprised. "Nazat of Prasad is your father," she notes.

That she knows who you are isn't that unexpected. The Empress only has so many daughters and so many consorts, and from the perspective of the Immaculate Order, your father is... distinctive, even if you hadn't been traveling with two of his cousins. "I am," you say. You have a rough idea of where she's going with this. "My father still observes the faith of his homeland, which is his right as a Dragon-Blood; he is an honourable man and a dutiful consort, and I will brook no insult to him."

Briar puts her hands up. "I am not in the business of insulting a woman's father the first time I meet her," she says. "Particularly not a Dynast. I was merely curious if you share your father's viewpoint on matters of Immaculacy."

"I am my mother's daughter first," you say, "and she, of course, would never tolerate a child of hers to grow up without proper religious instruction. I may be a sorcerer, but I have only respect for the Immaculate Order, and the work that you do. As is only becoming. If you are concerned for Ophris Maharan Teran, I can assure you that he is exceptionally easy to travel and get along with. He would appreciate the assistance, I'm sure." At least given her declaration that she was uninterested in any lost heirlooms. You believe her; the priorities of an individual itinerant monk are not the same as what the Immaculate Order's administrative hierarchy might decide.

"It was curiosity, not accusation," Briar says. But she seems pleased enough by your answer. "I wouldn't say no, as long as you agree not to interfere in the way I intend to carry out my duties. I am here to break up a cult, if such a thing is required, but with a minimum of bloodshed and reprisal. I understand that young Dragon-Blooded can get... excited, in certain circumstances."

"We're not here to carry out a massacre," you say. "If violence occurs, it will not be at our wish."

Briar scrutinises you a while longer, still looking at you like a curiosity she's stumbled across. You suppose one doesn't meet a great deal of Imperial Daughters, as an itinerant monk traveling a route through the mountains. She gives you another smile, warmly infectious. "Very well, Lady Ambraea. It is my hope that we can all help each other, then."

---

An hour later, you're in your borrowed chambers, dressed for bed, but not yet planning to sleep. Quietly, you rise from the bedside chair in a bedchamber cluttered with ornamentation, quietly moving through the darkened chambers as quietly as possible. You can sense Maia out in the hall, waiting for you to quietly let her in as planned. She has her own accommodations in the prefect's estate, of course, but you doubt they'll see any use. The two of you are hardly going to pass up the opportunity a proper bed and a modicum of privacy provides.

As you make your way toward the door leading out onto the hall, however, you spy a light filtering out from a different door. It's half open, smaller and more humble, set into the wall opposite your bed chamber, space set aside for a personal body servant. You frown, glancing at it as you pass. You can see Peony inside in her bed clothes, hands curled around what looks like a cup of tea, looking out the narrow window her chamber allows. Her eyes are looking at something in the middle distance, however, as if she's not really looking out at the darkened world beyond the glass.

"Peony?" you ask, voice quiet.

Nonetheless, Peony gives a start, only avoiding spilling tea on herself by sheer luck. She turns to see you, setting her tea down on the windowsill, and hastily bowing low. "My lady!" she says, "I hope I didn't disturb you."

"You didn't," you say, frowning, "but I believe I told you to mind your rest."

Peony winces. "You have my deepest apologies, my lady," she says. "A... dream woke me."

You take a step into her room, examining her closely. "Has this been happening often?"

She hesitates, not wanting to lie, not wanting to make excuses for herself. Her shoulders slump as she admits: "Everytime I fall asleep, my lady. Since before we left Chanos."

You nod, frown deepening. "What kind of dreams are these?"

"I'm not sure, my lady," Peony says, honestly enough. "It's always the same, but I never remember much about it when I wake up. Just this music, and that I'm going to see someone important. It's been hard to sleep."

You take a step closer. She stiffens in surprise as you reach out to her, but it's only to lay a gentle hand against her forehead, doing what you can to try and detect any supernatural influence. "Do you ever get to the person you're going to see? Do you recall anyone asking your questions, giving you instructions?"

"No, my lady," Peony says. For once, through a combination of fatigue and stress, she's an open book, torn between discomfort at so much touch, and genuine relief at the fact that you're concerned rather than angry. "Just... the music. I don't think anyone's trying to make me do anything, in the dream. But I don't remember any details. Is it... not just a dream?"

You don't feel anything, but possession and other forms of mental ensnarement are very often tricky to detect. Hopefully, you're overreacting. "Tell me immediately if that changes," you say. "Is there anything else, beyond the dreams?"

Peony hunches in on herself a little more. "Sometimes, I think I hear the music while I'm awake, too. I think it's just how badly I've been sleeping."

You don't like that at all. "I'll ask Sister Briar to have a look at you tomorrow," you decide, pulling your hand away. Hopefully, it is just recurring dreams and fatigue, but the monk's training and experience may well pick up on something that you miss. "For now, get some sleep. I'll have need of you in the morning."

Peony seems more comforted by this last comment than the rest, looking torn between relief at having come out with it, and concern at how seriously you're taking the matter. "Yes, Lady Ambraea," she says. Then, after a pause, she adds: "... Thank you, my lady."

She should save the thanks for if there's actually anything to be done about it. "Goodnight, Peony." You step out of her room, and close the door behind you.

You don't head back toward the door to the hallway, as you'd originally planned. Instead, you simply cross the room back to the door to your bedchamber, opening it to confirm what you can already feel in your soul. Sure enough, Maia sits cross-legged on the bed, dressed down to the inner layers of her dinner outfit. In the brief window of time you spent speaking with Peony, she has somehow gotten into your chambers, past you, and into this room, even with your Hearth sense honed in on her.

She's holding Verdigris, the snake having happily slithered up to drape over Maia's arms. "Is everything alright with Peony?"

"I'm not sure," you say, "She says she's been having bad dreams. Hopefully, that's all it is. I'm going to ask the monk for help tomorrow. I've already suggested we work together to find our god and her cult."

Maia nods, expression thoughtful. "Sister Briar is not a lot like my brother," she decides.

Her brother, the monk. As always, though, whenever Maia mentions her family, there's a subtext there that neither of you need to voice out loud. "Is that a good thing?" you ask, closing the door behind you.

Maia shrugs, flashing you a little smile that doesn't quite make it to her eyes. "You could say that. He's a lot more... stern. Briar seems nice enough, though; hopefully, she'll be willing to help."

"I hope so," you agree. Hopefully, you're just overreacting when it comes to Peony. Someone casting some sort of magic on your personal handmaiden is both far from outside the realm of possibility, but at the same time simply not the most likely explanation for a young woman being kept up by bad dreams.

You really don't want to have to dwell on this all night, though, when you've already sent her back to bed, and there's nothing more to do about it before morning. You put an amused expression over your features, deliberately taking in the sight of Maia waiting for you here. "I don't know that I want to be talking about the comparative virtues of different monks while I'm looking at a beautiful girl in my bed, however."

As you hoped, after a moment's hesitation, Maia's smile becomes something more genuine, taking on a shyly playful edge. You're aware of her eyes on you in your nightgown, drinking in the sight of you now that serious matters have been addressed. "Well, then my lady should steer the conversation as it suits her, I think."

"I should," you agree. Then you cross the room to the bed.

---

Perhaps seeing through your stoic demeanor to the real anxiety beneath, Sister Briar takes your concerns with Peony quite seriously. Briar subjects her to several tests against possession by demons, ghosts, and even rogue gods, a surprisingly quick process that she carries out with a sort of gentle care that puts Peony far more at ease than she normally is with strange Dragon-Blooded.

At the end of it all, the monk is resigned as she takes you aside to explain. "I can't find evidence of any common supernatural compulsion on her," she says, "I'm sure that between the three of you, you and Lady L'nessa and Mistress Maia would be better equipped at ruling out the less common varieties. The girl may simply be working too hard — a mortal can only take on so much, especially when exposed to the... lifestyle of a sorcerer." Her eyes flick to Verdigris as she says this, and you try not to feel too guilty about how regularly you have Peony feed her during the summers.

"If I were not mindful of my own servants' wellbeing, would I have come to you for help at all?" you ask, stung.

Briar smiles, ostensibly a mollifying gesture, but there's something vaguely frustrating about it as well. Like you aren't entirely understanding what she's saying. "I am not accusing you of not caring for the wellbeing of a trusted servant," she says. "But these things look different, depending on what end of things you're on. You're a Dynast." You don't entirely know what she's getting at, but it reminds you enough of First Light that, combined with the lack of an immediate solution to Peony's problem, you find yourself in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

The temple that Briar takes you to is deceptively large, an unpretentious structure in dark stone with minimal ornamentation. While quaint compared to those you've seen in larger cities, you're forced to acknowledge to yourself that the place has a certain quiet dignity to it.

As you enter, you find the central hall empty save for a mortal monk, who two peasants are consulting with. They all stare for a split second at your group, consisting as it apparently does of five Dragon-Blooded. Then the monk bows low, and the peasants fall respectfully to their knees.

"A lovely day, Brother," Briar says to the monk, her smile reassuring.

"... Indeed, Sister," he says, straightening. "I hope your meeting with the prefect was satisfactory?"

"Not as much as may be desired, more than was feared," Briar says, expression ambiguous. "I apologise for interrupting you at your work, but if you would inform the abbot of my arrival, along with my young companions?"

From his sash, you can tell that the man is a monk of the First Coil, in addition to being a mortal, — Briar outranks him twice over. Though phrased as a request, as though coming from a guest to a respected host, the other monk treats it as having all the weight of an order. "Of course, Sister," he says, bowing again, before looking to the rest of you. "I hope you will make yourself welcome in our temple my ladies, my lord," he says, with equal politeness and slightly less deference. Then he's gone, heading through a door in the far wall.

Briar's eyes fall on the peasants still kneeling on the floor. "We thank you for your pious respect," she says, dropping into a low dialect you can just barely follow, "but I think the point has been made. It's a very hard floor for old knees, I think. My companions would not object to you rising and finding somewhere comfortable to wait for the brother to finish attending to my request."

"Of course not," L'nessa agrees before any of the rest of you have a chance to reply, her smile gentle and accommodating.

There is a great deal of additional respects given and thanks offered from the elderly couple as Sister Briar leads them away to a bench on the far side of the room, leaving you, L'nessa, and Teran to wait for the moment. Maia isn't here anymore, having replaced herself with an illusion during a moment of distraction. You're not sure you would have noticed, if it weren't for your Hearth sense telling you that she'd followed the young monk further into the temple. You'll have to ask her what he said to the abbot, later.

You're admiring the craftsmanship on the painted wood statues of the Dragons above the central shrine, when Teran speaks up, glancing from you to L'nessa. "You have so much contact with common mortals here," he says.

"You knew that the Realm is not Prasad," you remind him.

"Yes, I did," he agrees, "but knowing and seeing are different, are they not? It is... disconcerting."

"You might be more comfortable in Deijis, or Arjuf Dominion," L'nessa says, not unkindly. "Houses Mnemon and Ledaal believe very strongly in a harsher enforcement of the Perfected Hierarchy."

"Harsh?" For the first time that you can recall, Teran looks at L'nessa with something approaching actual displeasure. "It is better for the spiritual health of the Exalted, certainly, but is it not also kinder to allow those of the lower castes to better themselves ahead of their next life, according to their stations? Without interference from the powerful? Direct contact between a god and those of the common castes is improper, it inflicts pressures on them that they cannot hope to combat, with their low spiritual refinement."

You glance over to Briar, who you are very certain is catching at least the gist of this exchange. "I am not certain that an Immaculate temple is the best place to have this discussion," you say.

Teran grimaces. "Yes, apologies," he says. "The strangeness simply catches up to me, at times. Temples in Prasad have different entrances for different castes."

"Many of the grander temples have something similar here," L'nessa says, "but, things are simpler in the more rustic parts of the Isle. Have you been fretting about this often?"

"From time to time," Teran admits. He glances to you and to your surprise, says: "Your body servant..."

"What about Peony?" you ask, apprehension gripping you.

He hesitates, as though not knowing how to phrase something delicate. Then he ploughs ahead: "Is she a slave?"

You reel back a little in surprise. "What? No, she's a free retainer in my service!"

Teran looks distinctly awkward. "Ah. My apologies. I... was uncertain."

You swallow the worst of your indignance on Peony's behalf — from the way she addresses you to the manner of her dress, no one actually raised in the Dynasty would have mistaken her for a slave. Teran wasn't raised in the Dynasty, however. "I suppose you're not used to having to tell the difference," you say.

Teran shrugs with some discomfort. "The Dragon Caste does not keep slaves in Prasad. It is an unacceptably close association between the two ends of the Hierarchy."

You'd been aware of this, of course. L'nessa looks more than a little surprised, however, and may have asked about it. At approximately this moment, however, the monk from before reappears. Briar drifts back toward the three of you, looking curious.

"Is everything quite alright?" Briar asks. "It was hard to ignore the raised voices."

"Things are fine," you say. The others don't contradict you.

The monk from before approaches. "Sister, the abbot wishes to speak with you, as well as our honoured guests. She apologises for any inadequate preparations for your presence." The latter is directed at you. Presumably, even Exalted itinerant monks have unreasonably high expectations of such things less often than Dynasts famously do.

"There is no need for the abbot to apologise," you say. "I look forward to meeting with her."

---

"What did you mean, when you told the abbot that we needed guidance?"

A day later, Sister Briar walks ahead of you on a narrow road, night already beginning to fall around you. "Am I not proving to be a useful guide?" she asks. "I was born in Ventus Prefecture to the north of here, and I've passed through Echo on my circuit for years. I think I know where I'm going, at least!"

This much is true, and not what you asked. Which you're entirely sure she knows. "I mean the way you said it — that you think we could use guidance, 'for the sake of many people'."

Briar hums thoughtfully. She has a pretty, melodic voice when she wants to use it. "The Tale of the Careless Gardener," she says.

"... I am familiar with the children's fable," you say, struggling not to feel offended. Beside you, Maia gives Briar a fleetingly unfriendly look. Walking alongside several mortal monks, the V'neef house troops behind you are trudging along in silence. You imagine they'll tell L'nessa whatever you say here if she asks them to. Fortunately, you're not keeping secrets from her. Apart from your oath with Maia.

L'nessa and Teran are circling around the other direction, because of course they are — Teran's simhata is adept at climbing, even with riders, and so they have positioned themselves at the top of the towering cliffs up ahead.

"I think it's an important lesson no matter what your age," Briar says. "The careless gardener, who fails to mind the wisdom of Sextes Jylis, who tramples her own budding crops in her bid to uproot unsightly weeds, does as much harm as good."

"I don't like your implication," you say. "Do you think we're going to go around, carelessly unleashing demons and brutalising every peasant we meet if you're not here?" There is only so much insult you're willing to swallow, even from a monk.

"No," Briar says, "but situations like this have a tendency to... spiral, if not carefully contained. A harsher reprisal than necessary can come down on the heads of innocent and guilty alike, if the circumstances aren't carefully managed."

"So you want to keep an eye on us, and make sure that yours is the description of events that makes it back to the Immaculate Order?" you say.

"More or less," she says, not engaging with any note of accusation that may have been in your words. "The heresy can be dealt with without necessitating a wider reprisal; the abbot and I are of the same mind, on this subject. There's no need to frown like that, Lady Ambraea — we are all cooperating toward shared ends, after all, and it is the duty of an itinerant to serve as the Order's eyes and ears, so that it might best understand distant from its great missions.."

"We wouldn't have found out about this meeting without her," Maia says from your other side. "That man would never have volunteered to talk to us. Not even to Lady L'nessa. He'd have been too afraid." She's less formal in front of Briar than she might have been in front of a Dynast you don't know very well, but still more than when you're alone.

You're forced to acknowledge this — you'd been told about this place from a frightened former cultist throwing himself on the Immaculate Order's mercy. A poor farmer who had allowed himself to be deceived by a god who sounds a great deal like Teran's descriptions of Taste of Blood and Ashes. You would have had quite a bit of trouble tracking down such a convenient source of information on your own, although you're confident you would have gotten ahold of the god somehow through your own efforts.

The path you're going down wasn't easy to find, however, deliberately hidden from view as it is, winding through looming cliffs to either side, rough stones underfoot. Up ahead you see the faint flicker of firelight on stone, hear voices beginning to echo in from the distance. "Let me go ahead," Maia offers, checking her knives. "I'll see what it's like, then come back."

"Just scouting?" Briar asks.

Maia doesn't entirely meet her gaze, but says: "I'm not going to do anything unnecessary." She's looking to you, clearly willing to let you say yes or no.

You nod. "Good luck," you say, but she's already gone. You follow her with your Hearth sense as she slips into the shadows and moves out of sight. The silence stretches on, broken only by the sounds of distant people.

A few moments later you hear Maia's voice carried to your ear alone by the wind, as though she were standing beside you and leaning up to whisper into it: "You should all come now, but come quietly."

"She says to go on ahead. Quietly," you say, casting a stern glance at the mortals behind you in particular. The house troops are used to you by this point, and L'nessa has asked them to obey your instructions for the time being — they seem to take the order seriously enough. The monks, fortunately, simply take their cue from Briar, who is willing to follow your lead in this much, at least.

Slowly, quietly, you round the corner. There, you find Maia standing over the motionless corpse of a man dressed like a peasant. He has a red line arcing across his throat, a neat motion that managed to splatter arterial spray onto the rock behind Maia, but somehow, not onto Maia herself. At Briar's look, she shrugs, mouthing, "It was necessary", and then kicking at a strung hunting bow laying in the dirt. The man had presumably been a sentry, and would have alerted the gathering if he hadn't been silenced.

Just beyond this spot, you can see a bonfire, a voice lifted in prayer, echoed by many others. What you can understand of the Low Realm seems to be beseeching a deity to lift them up from a low place in the world and deliver them from misery. Briar looks away from Maia to take this in. "Be ready when we have Lady L'nessa's signal," she says, whispering, "arrest those who surrender, but be prepared for some to flee, or to fight, if they're particularly foolish — a god's hold on vulnerable mortals can be strong enough to drive them to deeply unwise action."

You draw your sword with one hand, and with the other, allow Verdigris to slither more securely from out of your sleeve and onto your shoulder. Beside you, Maia murmurs incantations under her breath, hands forming signs that bind together the moisture in the cool night air, condescending it into a second Maia, identical in every visual detail.

Then there's a flash of red light, and a new voice booms out above the crowd, Low Realm too colloquial for you to make out even so much as you did from the mortals. The kind of language that's understandable in a fieldhand, but which even a particularly shabby god really has no excuse for.

Then, L'nessa's Infallible Messenger is hovering in front of you, the tiny cherubic figure trailing miniature autumn leaves — you don't even bother to listen to the actual message, pre approved signal that it is. "They're in position," you whisper.

Briar nods once. She draws herself up to her full, less-than-impressive height, clasps her hands behind her back, and steps out into the hollow, in full sight of the gathering beyond. When her voice rings out, it's startlingly stern and forceful compared to her ordinary mannerisms, cutting over the noises of the assembled crowd and the god both:

"Taste of Blood and Ashes! You stand in violation of the law and of the Perfected Hierarchy itself, instigating mortals to direct worship! Surrender yourself to the Immaculate Order's justice, or be corrected by force!"

You step out around the corner in the scant half instant between Briar's proclamation, and the complete pandemonium that follows. Briar stands before a shocked crowd, all traces of levity gone from her unassuming frame, outlined with soft green Wood Essence. Beyond her is a crowd of mortals from humble walks of life, farmers and stone masons all down on their knees, twisted around to look at her with frightened eyes. Formerly, they had been led in devotion by several more wearing what might pass for vestments — garments that could be pulled off, or reversed to avoid detection by passing authorities under other circumstances, now clearly bearing a god's holy symbol.

Taste of Blood and Ashes himself is an impressive figure, a man at least seven feet tall, armour rent, clothes bloodied, one arm ending in a stump below the elbow, the other clutching a spear. His whole body exudes a charnel red glow, and he floats just barely above the meager offerings assembled at his feet. But past the god's intimidating appearance, you see something like genuine fear flash through his eyes at the sight of Briar, mingled with the more dignified anger. He turns to run, and a blazing arrow streaks down from a high cliff, spearing into his arm. A second later, another arrow from L'nessa's bow follows. The god screams, and his followers do likewise.

The smartest among them simply stay kneeling, prostrating themselves before you all. Others, especially on the edge of the gathering and those smart enough to come wearing masks, attempt to flee into the coming night. As Birar predicted, however, a rare few are more foolish or desperate even than that, armed and ready against some lesser raid — a few mortal monks, or perhaps a patrol of rural Black Helms. An arrow streaks toward Briar, loosed by panicked fingers, and she calmly sends the shaft spinning harmlessly away with a flick of one hand. The V'neef house troops and the mortal monks surge forward past you, following instructions to deal with any who would dare to raise a weapon against a Dragon-Blood, and to detain the rest.

The mortals aren't your immediate concern, however. Blood and Ashes struggles to dematerialise, the process slowed somehow by Teran's still-burning arrow. You can slow it further. You step forward toward the god with every expectation that the various assembled mortals will be smart enough to get out of your way. You hold your sword in one hand, the other flashing through the appropriate signs, drawing cold, still Earth Essence into you, curdling in your chest and filling your lungs. You exhale, and the hungry, pallid cloud of Breath of Wretched Earth surges forward to cover the god.

One of the priests, following a particularly stupid impulse, throws herself between your spell and her god, arms flung protectively wide. The cloud engulfs her, and him, and when it clears, they've both been petrified. The mortal stands utterly still, slate to her core. Behind her, the god falls to the ground, his own statue veined with rose quartz and shuddering with his attempts to escape the spell as it seeks to destroy him. You don't expect it to hold him forever, but it should for long enough.

You don't have time to contemplate the mortal woman's sightless, dead, stone eyes staring at you — one man wrenches himself out of the grasp of one of the monks to give a horrified cry at what you've done, and hurls a knife at you.

Maia, who had appeared to be at several places at once throughout the hollow, steps into its oncoming path, snatches the knife out of the air, and sends it spinning directly into the man's eye. There's a look of outrage and contempt on her face as she watches him fall to his knees, briefly trying to wrench the weapon out before he stops moving and simply slumps the rest of the way to the ground.

As outnumbered as you are, the actual fighting doesn't last long, after that. The priests are arrested or killed, the bulk of the other cultists are apprehended, the mortal monks taking charge of them along with L'nessa's bodyguards. You and Maia and Briar stand over the god's petrified form, watching cracks appear on his body as he tries to break out.

"That knife was not going to hurt me," you tell her. "I think he was going to miss by a good few feet."

"Yes," Maia agrees, "his form was horrible."

"I don't know that he'd have actually broken the skin even if he had hit me," you say, glancing at her.

"Ambraea, he threw a knife at you," Maia says, her formality burned away by a cold rage at the principle of the matter. "He threw a knife at you."

You glance at the woman you killed and the god that you just trapped, unsure what to say to that. Briar saves you the trouble: "He did," she agrees, "he threw a knife at an Exalted lady of the Dynasty, to say nothing of the Empress's daughter. He would have died for that regardless, and likely not well. That he didn't stand much of a chance at success is beside the point." Still, she gives Maia a look that's a little close to actual dislike for your comfort. Resigned to the necessity or not, that isn't the same thing as approving the almost nonchalant efficiency in which Maia takes a life.

It occurs to you, this is probably not the first time Maia has slit a throat or driven a blade into someone's skull. You're not entirely sure how you feel about having done it yourself, just yet.

"Many of the others, the ring leaders and those who fought, will die as well," Briar says, "others may redeem themselves through labour. The necessities of ridding a garden of disease."

As you watch, the stone cracks around the god's face enough to reveal spiritual flesh beneath, one eye wildly looking up to meet first yours, then Briar's.

"Can you speak?" Briar asks him, voice very cold.

The god is quiet for a moment, clearly assessing his options. Finally, in a deeply tired voice, he says: "Yes."

"Good," Briar says. "You have gone against the edicts of the Immaculate Order, not for the first time."

"What choice did I have?" he demands, finding his anger again, "the first time, I was made an example of, a lesson for the benefit of my peers who have done far worse than I ever have! I was struck from the Calendar, was I supposed to subsist on whatever scraps I can get when heaven actually remembers to pay me?"

"Your excuses do you no favours, spirit," Briar says, "you are giving me exceptionally little reason why you shouldn't be broken again for this."

There's a series of startled cries as a simhata carrying two riders leaps its way down the cliffs, landing adroitly in a clear patch near the fire. Teran dismounts, offering a hand to L'nessa, who accepts. Then he looks toward the three of you standing over the god, his eyes flashing with excitement.

"Taste of Blood and Ashes!" he calls, "I am here to right a wrong you committed long ago!"

"... what now?" Blood and Ashes demands, more stone falling away. He still can't quite get up.

"I, Ophris Maharan Teran, have quested long and far to recover an object you stole from the goddess Precious Sheltered Orchid of the Fecund Court. You will surrender it to me immediately, thief."

Somehow, this seems to only make the god more incensed. "Orchid did this to me?"

"In part," Briar says. "I dare say we would have had words regardless, but this task is what brought my young companions to tell me of your identity and nature, and save me a good deal of investigation."

"Sun burn that wretched woman!" Blood and Ashes snarls, "I thought I was rid of her centuries ago. Stolen, she says? As if she ever had any better claim on it than I do! She's not an orchid, she's a hemlock! Deadly nightshade!"

Teran's eyes narrow, and he speaks harshly before the god can think of a third kind of poison flower. "I will not hear this slander against a goddess of Prasad, let alone from a low criminal such as yourself."

"I would suggest you cooperate as fully as you can manage," Briar tells Blood and Ashes. "To do otherwise certainly can't help your situation."

"... It's at my belt," the god says, sighing heavily.

"You have it with you?" L'nessa asks, faintly surprised. "I didn't get the impression that it's the kind of thing that's particularly useful, day to day."

"I don't leave my valuables unattended, since the monks ransacked my sanctum," Blood and Ashes says, voice thick with venom. "Go on and take it, then. Rob me again and call it justice, you—" his words cut off in a wheeze, as Briar presses one sandaled foot into the newly revealed flesh of his throat.

"That is quite enough of that," she says, without any sign of the pity she holds for the human cultists.

You kneel to examine the god's belt, still petrified. His armour has been rendered to stone along with the rest of him, but one object has resisted your spell, hanging from the stone of his belt by a shining chain. You shatter the stone over the belt with the pommel of your sword, and cut free the leather, pulling the object up to examine the Mirror of Necessity:

It's a black jade bowl, small enough to hold flat in two hands, currently completely empty. A metal deceptively like steel shines along the rim, and in the Old Realm characters written within, reflecting a spectrum of colour in the firelight. Your eyes go wide.

"Valuable, I take it?" Briar asks, without evident interest. It seems you at least entrusted the right monk.

"It would be difficult to assign a price, I think," you say, almost reluctantly handing the mirror over to Teran, who accepts it gratefully. Jade, you've seen in abundance through your life, orichalcum and moonsilver in lesser amounts. You don't know that you've seen this much starmetal in one piece very often, however.

"Thank you, cousin," Teran says, relief palpable, "I should never have recovered this so quickly, without your assistance, and those of your worthy companions." He glances particularly favourably at L'nessa, who smiles back.

"My father's honour could allow nothing less," you say, returning the bow. Then you look to Sister Briar. "And thank you, Sister. I will not forget your assistance."

"Nor I yours," she says, keeping a gimlet eye on Blood and Ashes. "I assure you, the Immaculate Order will not forget your service."

You nod, stroking Verdigris's head thoroughly. "I am honoured to hear that." There are far worse outcomes than this, to a summer's misadventure in the mountains.

---

Ascending Fire, Realm Year 762

One year, six months before the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress

The Port of Chanos

Your return journey was not so eventful, involving much less trekking through obscure mountain paths. Teran's spirits are, of course, incredibly high — he agrees to accompany you back to Chanos to properly see you all off before he departs, despite how clearly a part of him wishes to depart immediately for Prasad.

You assume that L'nessa has something to do with it. At least once, you've caught sight of a bright orange leaf tangled in his red hair. It's a little shameless, but you suppose you only have so much room to complain, all considered. And besides that, you have other things occupying your mind.

On your second night back at the Imperial Residence in Chanos, you're in the midst of reading a mildly insipid novel that Amiti pressed onto you, when you hear a loud crash from the hall outside your chambers. Alarmed, you toss the book down and stalk purposefully out to investigate. There, you find Peony kneeling in obvious distress amid the ruins of a large and very valuable vase.

"My lady, I apologise!" she says, looking up at you. "I was simply — I thought the flowers could use some straightening, and I lost focus, and, this is inexcusable, I know!" As far as you can tell, she'd been kneeling there, staring at the spreading puddle as it spread across the floor, surrounded by shards of pottery and bedraggled blue flowers.

"Did you fall asleep on your feet again?" you ask, frowning, "are you still hearing music?"

Peony lowers herself further, very nearly prostrate before you. "Yes, my lady."

"Has the ward I gave you done nothing?" you press. "Tell me the truth."

Peony hesitates, before slowly, she nods. "I've still been getting the dreams, my lady."

Annoyance at her keeping this from you wars with your concern. "... It's unlikely to be supernatural, then," you decide. "I'm going to send for a doctor."

"My lady should not have to go to such trouble on behalf of this servant," Peony says.

You sigh. "Get up." She does so, water soaked into her dress, looking tremulous. "You look awful," you say, noting the fatigue she's failing to hide.

Peony winces. "My apologies. I... hope you will see fit to garnish my wages, until the vase can be paid for."

That would likely take at least a decade. "Forget the vase," you tell her, although you'll certainly need to see about replacing it. "You need rest. Real rest. You're no good to me or anyone like this."

Peony stands frozen in place, shoulders hunched, clearly fighting back tears, and mortified by the lack of composure. "Forgive me, my lady," she says again.

A distant memory comes to mind from your early childhood, before expectations of decorum had been quite so fixed in either of you. Peony hugging you tightly while you cried over some long forgotten woe. You don't know why it should come to mind now. You take her by the shoulders, and her flinch sends a wave of frustration through you at your strange sense of uselessness. You're more forceful than you mean to be when you ask: "Am I not allowed to be concerned for your wellfare?"

Peony goes rigid, seeming to search your face for the correct answer to that question. The permitted answer, the one that wouldn't be some kind of breach on her part. It stings, as much as you know that you're the one who is acting badly. You pull back, taking a step away to put proper distance between the two of you. A chunk of porcelain cracks underfoot. "You don't have to answer that," you say, gentler. "Please, go to bed. We'll see about the doctor in the morning."

Relieved beyond words, Peony nods, and then bows deeply. "As you wish, my lady. What of the mess?"

"Inform one of the household servants on your way to bed," you say. "That will be all, Peony."

"Thank you, my lady," Peony says. She bows again, then leaves.

You watch her retreat down the hall for a few moments, not sure what you should have done to handle this situation better. What you should have said. Then, with barely a glance at the mess, or the unfortunate flowers underfoot, you retreat back to your rooms.

When most other details of this altercation have long since faded from your recollection, the one thing that will stick out is something that you pay very little attention to, in the moment. The flowers, round, full-petalled and fragrant, had been blue peonies.

---

Calming music drifts on the air, subtly sweetened with an almost intoxicating perfume. These are the sounds and smells that have been haunting her waking hours for weeks, finally rendered into sharp focus. Demure Peony knows she's dreaming as surely as she knows the beautiful woman walking ahead of her isn't human.

Peony has lived all her life amid the splendor of her betters, grown up in the incomparable opulence of the Imperial Palace. Here, though, in this strange place her dream takes her, she sees frescos that bring awed tears to her eyes, walks upon a floor mosaiced in turquoise and sapphire, follows her guide through halls and galleries so delightful that her dream-addled senses can scarcely take them in.

By the time the woman brings Peony to a stop, they've gone somewhere quieter, more subdued — the music is still here, though. She can still hear it in the distance. "Wait here," the woman says, her manner businesslike, her garb ephemeral, her gossamer wings folded politely at her back, "I'll let her know that you're here, finally." Then she crosses the hall to vanish behind a door marked by a name written in several languages.

Peony knows how to follow instructions — she doesn't have to think about it before she finds herself sitting on a navy upholstered sofa, rigid and proper, afraid that she'll be reprimanded by someone or another, if she looks too relaxed in such a setting. That someone will realise she doesn't belong here, demand to know what her business is, or where her lady is. She has no answer to either of these things, and so she sits there, quiet and still and poised.

In a minute or an hour, the woman returns, leading Peony to the door that she'd vanished into. "Try not to waste her time," she says, holding it open long enough for Peony to slip inside. The blue painted door swings shut behind her and she's faced with an office at once stranger and more familiar than anything else she's encountered so far.

"Have a seat," says the woman who sits behind the desk — resigned, but not unkind. She sets down an ornate writing brush, carefully puts the lid back on a crystal inkwell, and moves the board bearing the page she'd been writing on off to the side, giving Peony her full attention.

"I've never made it this far before," Peony says, obediently sitting down in front of the desk. All at once she knows that this is true, that this is not the first time she's come to this place in her dreams, only the first time stepping into the office hasn't immediately woken her.

"I know," the woman behind the desk says. She's dressed in the sort of ministerial robes that Peony associates with powerful patrician bureaucrats, the cut conservative, colours muted. Her bronze skin, Western features, and tight blue-green curls are only a little incongruous to that, her small frame exuding a quiet sort of confidence and authority. "Have some tea," the woman behind the desk says. Unlike the woman who led you here, she's speaking proper High Realm.

Peony reaches for the cup, although she knows she won't drink it. "Where am I?" she asks.

The woman shrugs delicately. "Where you were always going to end up, I'm afraid. It's been a long time coming."

Peony looks away from the reflection sitting across from her, instead staring down at the one looking back at her from her cup of tea. The sky blue porcelain is soothingly warm in her hands, but it fails to make the strange dread in her heart recede. "Something bad is coming, you mean," she says.

"Well," the woman says, tone sad, horribly sympathetic, "only the worst day of your life. It won't be their fault — they won't be trying to be cruel to you. The cruel part won't be because of anything anyone chose."

Hot tea sloshes onto Peony's hands, soaking into her sleeves. She tries to put the cup back down on the desk, but it tumbles out of her trembling fingers, cracking on the tile underfoot. She looks down at it for a long moment, before forcing herself to look back up into the eyes of the woman sitting behind the desk. They're the wrong colour. "Why?" she asks, the question too expansive for specifics.

The woman sighs, actually reaching across the desk to take Peony's hands in hers. "Because, you're needed more elsewhere. And love is hard."

---

Peony wakes up in a cold sweat, blankets tangled around her, staring up at the ceiling of her little room in the Imperial residence in Chanos. It takes her a moment or two to pin down what, precisely, feels so wrong.

Light streams through her narrow window, and she hears the sounds of the household already awake, the other servants going about their daily chores, talking quietly among themselves. She starts up to her feet, scrambling the short space to her wardrobe, pulling clothes on at several times her ordinary speed, sparing a moment to be impressed by how well she manages this trick.

Peony pauses for a moment to splash her face with water from the wash basin before she's out the door, hoping that it's not so late that Lady Ambraea will have risen and noticed her absence. She might not have — they've only just returned from the trip, and she tends to rise unpredictably late, depending on whether or not Mistress Maia is present. Peony doesn't pretend to be able to keep track of Erona Maia's increasingly obscure comings and goings.

It won't be until later that she registers her reflection. Or thinks at how rested she feels, how full of energy, all the tiny aches and pains of an ordinary life spent at work having melted away overnight.

The manse's servant passages are narrow, comparatively plain — barely room for two to pass without knocking shoulders, and not even that if one of those two is Robin, from the kitchens. But they are brightly lit by plainer versions of the sorcerous lights that illuminate the main rooms and passages, and well ventilated in a way that such spaces aren't always. Approaching her going in the other direction is Mountain Thrush, the older woman carrying a broom with her, destined for one of the currently-unused wings of the residence. Peony gives her a harried sort of smile — she likes Thrush, and has come to think of the woman as a friend over the past four years. "I'm running so late! I don't know what's come over me."

Thrush only blinks at her, her face falling into a frown of confusion, but she passes Peony without comment, and Peony is in too much of a hurry to question the uncharacteristic bit of rudeness.

Up ahead is a fork, the passages branching off in several directions and a narrow spiral staircase leading up to the floor above. Two young men talk there, Field and Placid Stream — Peony has always considered the latter's name slightly unfortunate, in light of his frequent vacant expressions. He's nice enough, and not nearly as slow as he seems.

Field, she actively tries to avoid, for reasons made obvious by the hungry quality of his eyes on her. Peony could end it very quickly, she knows, by simply telling Lady Ambraea of the unwanted attention, but you don't go carrying stories about someone to a Dragon-Blood when things haven't advanced beyond lingering glances and veiled hints.

Peony offers them both a smile on her way to the stairs, but is pulled up short as Field returns the smile, and asks: "Are you new?"

Peony looks between Field and Stream, seeing no more recognition on Field's companion face, and a tingle of surreal unease runs down her spine. Things from her strange dream linger at the back of her mind in a way that she can't immediately banish. "This isn't a funny joke, Field, I'm running late."

Field only looks perplexed. "It's not a joke. I haven't seen you before, I'm only trying to be friendly. Did someone already give you my name?"

"... We've known each other for four years," Peony says.

"I think I'd have remembered a pretty girl like you," says Field.

"Stream?" Peony says, turning to the other man. He only shrugs his broad shoulders, looking awkward and uncertain. "I'm Demure Peony," she says, "I'm Lady Ambraea's handmaiden."

The invocation of Ambraea's name, at last, has an effect, although not the one Peony is looking for — the two men stand up straighter, a look of mild alarm passing over their face. Exactly as if they'd been speaking carelessly to someone with a higher place than them without knowing it. "Apologies," Field says, "we shouldn't hold you up."

Peony doesn't flee up the stairs, of course — she moves with haste only because of her increasing lateness, seeking out conversation with no one on the way. Still in the grips of that last, desperate hope that she'll find some measure of normality in service to one of the two people in the world who has known her the longest.

The dream was right about one thing — you won't intend to be cruel to her. It won't be your fault. How can it be, when you won't even know what it is you're doing?

Peony slides open a wall panel, exiting the servants' passages for the lavishly appointed main halls. She walks up to the doors to her lady's chambers, forcing herself to knock firmly, and waiting with her hands clasped behind her back. After a brief delay, a familiar voice calls out, giving her exactly the command she'd been hoping for: "Enter."

Peony pulls the door open, slipping inside, and immediately giving an apologetic bow. "My lady, I apologise for my lateness," she says.

Ambraea stands ready before the dressing mirror, clad only in a nightgown, her hair long and unbound, a familiar canvas that Peony has worked on many times before. Behind Ambraea, the door to the bedchamber is closed — Peony barely spares a thought as to whether or not Maia is here. Nothing strange stirs on her stoic features. She only regards Peony for a long second, and says: "No matter. I've only just risen."

If she'd been of sounder mind, she'd have seen the warning signs then, noticed the lack of concern for Peony's health, despite the circumstances under which Ambraea had sent her to bed. If it had been possible for her to be of sounder mind, however, would any of this be a concern at all? As is, Peony chooses to take Ambraea's lack of reaction to her presence as a sign of nothing being amiss.

Peony sets to work garbing Ambraea in layers of dark silk, carefully brushes out Ambraea's hair, arranging it into a comparatively simple braid, fastened with a hair ornament of bright silver. Then she steps back, letting Ambraea admire her handiwork, as usual.

Ambraea is quiet for several seconds, looking at herself in the mirror, a faintest hint of a frown crossing her lips.

"Is something the matter, my lady?" Peony asks.

"No," Ambraea says. "You have dressed me before, have you not?" As if she hadn't really been sure, before seeing how good a job Peony had just done.

Peony freezes in place. "... Yes, my lady." Hundreds of times before.

Ambraea, who is in the process of lifting up Verdigris from the snake's nearby cushion, mistakes her reaction. She says, not unkindly: "She doesn't hurt strangers, unless she thinks they mean me harm. I'm afraid I don't recall your name, however. It is more than a little embarrassing."

That creeping sense of unease comes back to Peony, building in her chest until it becomes mounting horror. What is happening to her? "Demure Peony, my lady."

"Yes. Thank you... Peony. You are dismissed." During this entire exchange, Ambraea has barely looked at her. Peony stands there, rooted in place, mouth half open to say something, to protest this, to explain to Ambraea that something unnatural is happening — what other explanation can there be? But she can't find the words, and instead she simply hovers in the room for long enough for Ambraea to notice. She looks at Peony with slightly raised eyebrows, and says, with the barest hint of a sharp note in her voice: "You are dismissed."

"Yes, my lady." Peony's legs carry her out of the room at an ordinary speed, somehow. As she proceeds out into the hall, head spinning and vision blurring, she begins to go faster and faster, before breaking out into a full on run. Unfortunately, her problems aren't the kind one can simply flee from.

---

Due to the length of this update, for the sake of pacing, I will leave you on this note, and return with the second half ideally within the next few days. The vote will be in that update