Dead Engines

[X] Agree to the conditions.

This woman is insane. After all you have seen, all you have experienced not just in this facility but with both mine and your knowledge of necromancy, tells you that an entity like Margaret Zeal should not exist. The spirit is flexible, I am proof of that, but to stretch oneself across multiple bodies…

The only thing left would be mania, the strongest cravings one held in life directing every action. The Possessed of the Everlasting Senate are still fundamentally human at their core. They want to enjoy their wealth and power, and for both to continue on forever. They are greedy and selfish, but there are plenty whose hearts still beat who are much the same as them in temperament.

Margaret Zeal is different. She desires knowledge. Not just of the natural world, but also the innermost workings of what makes a person who they are. She wishes to see into the depths of every mind, reveal all that is hidden, so that she might poke and prod until she is satisfied she understands. All would be exposed, like raw nerve, to the scouring glare of her attention.

You know this. I know that you know this. And yet instead of refusing her outright you are considering the offer. Because standing here, at the center of this terrible machine meant to watch the world for any hint of defiance or disobedience, you might find the answers you seek. The Kordian Engine might be revealed to you, and with its location revealed you could smash it to pieces.

All you would have to do is hand yourself over to this monster.

The face of your daughter comes to the forefront of your thoughts. Kendra… You miss her so much. You miss her smile, her laughter, the biting wit and insight she gained from her mother. Kendra received much from you, too, though you don't recognize your own noble qualities. She watches and understands, turning over problems until the solution is found. That she learned from you. She is strong, able to endure so much hardship.

But how long can she last beneath the depredations inflicted upon her? That question haunts you. You were strong, once. You have weathered so much adversity that your body and soul have been abraded down to almost nothing. There is so little left to sacrifice, to bear the burdens that pile on your shoulders like an endless river of stones. You do not have much time, and you cannot know if Kendra does either.

"If I give this to you, will you share with me your secrets?" you ask. You take a step closer to Margaret Zeal, whose smile is now so wide it seems to split her face like an open wound. "Any secret, no matter how great?"

"Everything I have," Margaret replies. "Anything you ask for. All you need to do is give me all you are in return."

Randall… Randall, this isn't a good idea.

"I accept."

Randall!

Margaret walks up to you and places one hand around your shoulder, the other around your waist. Then, with one smooth motion, she dips you down as one might in a dance. She brings her face close to yours, opening her mouth wide to reveal one of those spectral appendages. It undulates as if alive, twisting and turning as it emerges from between the lips of this host, before taking on the vague impression of a face. There are no details, no defining features. There is only the notion of eyes in the curving of the brow, a crook that might be a nose, and a lipless gash that might be a mouth.

Before you can react that terrible visage lunges for you, locking around your face, and that insubstantial mouth does nothing to muffle your screams as you fall into the depths of memory.

I am crying. It has been two years since the death of my parents, since my grandfather has taken me under his wing, and I am crying. I have found a dark corner within the manor to hide in, to get away from the smiling old man who claims to love me, so that I might be alone with my own thoughts. It is difficult, for every muscle aches and my sweat is tinged with blood to bathe me in crimson. Every breath is like fire. My entire body is one single bruise, and even the slightest movement of the air sends fresh waves of agony coursing through me.

It is for my own good. That is what my grandfather claims. Sitting in his wheelchair, he oversees my education as the tutors come and go. The math and the reading is not so difficult, letters and numbers coming naturally to me. But the necromancy… The training in necromancy is nothing short of hell. I must focus on so many different things at once, pull power and direct it without flaw in order to enforce my will on the world, and every mistake is met with a lash across my skin.

All while my grandfather smiles at me, nodding his approval. He says the Dunstan family cannot afford to be weak. He says the Dunstan family is the heart and soul of Alba, the ones who will lead it to further glory. Our success is the success of the nation, and there are many who would wish to see me fail. So I must be powerful. I must be perfect.

I bury my face in my hands and cry, knowing that no matter what I do it will never be enough for that devil and his terrible smile.

"Stop," you rasp, voice raw as memories of your childhood fade. They were so real, so vivid, that it feels to you as if they happened just a few moments ago rather than decades past. "Please stop."

"How interesting!" Margaret Zeal cries, her tendrils pulling you up into the air where a hundred pairs of eyes can observe you from every angle. "This explains a little of your actions, why you fled from Aidric to pursue a career in academia. But we're missing something."

"What?" you whisper around the feelers this woman has plunged into and through your skull. "What are you talking about?"

"This does not feel like the inciting incident, the core to your story," Margaret goes on, ignoring your pleas. "There must be a turnaround somewhere, some moment where rise above. I must see it. I must know you!"

I am coming, Randall. Just hold on. I am-

I am looking at Fatima as she puts the papers down in front of me, her signature already on one side. For a moment I do not realize what is happening. I was distracted, working on a potential improvement to osteological manipulation. The chicken skeleton, carefully held together with wire, stops its run through the obstacle course I have made of my desk as I look up at my wife who has just presented me with divorce papers.

"Why?"

"Do you really not know, Randall?" Fatima asks. She is stunning, as always. Curly hair frames a wide, expressive face with fierce brown eyes. Clad in a red suit and pants, silhouetted in the light coming in from the hall, her black skin shines like polished onyx. "After how little we have spoken to each other in almost four years?"

The chicken bones collapse into a heap as my will leaves them, and I stand to look my wife in the eye. "You said you were fine with us pursuing different interests."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean us living two entirely separate lives." Fatima puts her hands on the desk and leans forward. "I have supported you through everything. Why won't you support me?"

"Politics is dangerous," I say as I turn away, unable to hold her gaze. I begin cleaning the mess in order to find something, anything, to do other than focus on this conversation. "It brings too much attention. My grandfather-"

"Is a monster who has convinced everyone around him he cares about anything other than his own power!" Fatima slams a hand on the desk, and I cannot help but jolt in surprise. "Running away from him isn't enough, Randall. At some point you have to confront those who would destroy you. Now, are you willing to stand with me on that or shall we go our own ways?"

I look back at her, hoping to find something other than what I know I will. There is no give in her eyes, no room for compromise. That time has long since passed. But despite this terrible situation I cannot find it in myself to hate her. Affection blooms in the face of her passion, of her determination, and I realize that if I wanted to stay with this woman there were a hundred little things I should have done differently. The silence between us echoes with all the words we had left unspoken, and now I have to make a decision on how much I am willing to change.

I pick up my pen.

"What?" Margaret Zeal says, the cry deafening as it comes through hundreds of voices. More of her bodies have entered the room, watching you with feverish intensity. The host in the white suit is floating now as well, hovering just above you. "That's pathetic! You just… How could…"

"No more," you gasp, tears falling from your eyes. You can barely see through the pressure building up in your skull, threatening to break you wide open. "Please… No more. It hurts too much..."

"Is this all you are? A wretch driven by pain?" The pressure increases, and Margaret Zeal brings herself closer as more flashes of memory burst inside your mind like exploding stars to unleash fresh suffering to renders you mute. She is sifting through you, taking in your whole life and picking moments to fixate upon. "That can't be it! Someone so pitiful couldn't be the same man who has fought so hard against Alba!"

Hold on for just a little longer, Randall. I am deep within you, pushed down by the awful weight of this woman's madness, but I am rising. You just-

I am bleeding where the glass cut me, leaving a dribbling trail behind with every step. It's what I deserve, honestly, acting like a hero from some pulp adventure. Those penny dreadfuls are a waste of paper, but for the moment I am grateful for them because my irritation at jumping through a window like some square-jawed idiot distracts from the terror that threatens to overwhelm my every thought.

My grandfather came for me. He came to possess me on the very night the law passed allowing him to do so. "For the preservation of institutional expertise." What tripe. This is nothing more than a naked attempt to hold onto power from those who should be dead and gone, and the worst part is that it seems to be working.

There are no riots flooding the streets, no clashes with the police. Oh, I can hear shouting and protests in the direction of the Senate, but only faintly. Some are far-sighted enough to realize what this means, but they are the minority. For most, this is just the political and social elite fighting amongst themselves again. What concern any of that for the common man?

I grit my teeth and lean against the wall of an alley, leaving a bloody smear as I stumble onward. It will become their concern soon enough, because this will not stop here. What will come of a nation where the old devour the young in order to perpetuate themselves? What will be created from the powerful finding ways to exist without end, devouring everything around them?

Nothing good, and I want no part in it. So I stumble through back alleys, coming as close to the main streets as I dare with their bright lights shining, to make my way to the coffee shop where Kendra will be performing tonight. We had argued earlier, about her interests and her future, before she stormed off with her guitar.

It all seems to silly now, so childish. I have to reach her, reach my daughter, and then we can make for the ports. If we can smuggle ourselves onto a boat we can be halfway to Galt or Auschla before anyone realizes we've fled the country.

"My fellow citizens," comes a voice echoing faintly across the streets through every radio. It's a public broadcast, a message from the Senate. I stop cold, neither moving nor breathing, as the words continue. "I realize that this is an uncertain time, but could not the same be said for all moments of transition?"

It's Kendra's voice. It's Kendra's voice, but my grandfather's words. But that means… No… He couldn't have…

"But I swear to you, as your newly elected Prime Minister, that I shall see us through those times. Alba will stand strong, and we shall bring her prosperity to the far reaches of the world! So trust in me! Trust in Alba! Trust in glory everlasting!"

There is applause, raucous approval coming across the airwaves, but I cannot hear it over the sound of my screams.

You are screaming. You have been screaming for some time now. Your voice is raw, broken as blood wells up from a throat torn through grief and pain. You writhe in agony, the memories tearing into you like a scourge, and the entire room with all its delicate equipment trembles with the force of your anguish.

"What is all this?" Margaret Zeal bellows, and the sound of hundreds drowning out even the desperate wails ripping out from you into the open air. "Miseries upon miseries… Where is the grand story? Where is your will bringing you to power against your enemies?"

You give no response. You cannot give response. You are barely conscious, held tight by chains of sorrow so strong they kill any chance for joy. Memories flash behind your eyes again and again and again, and you experience every mistake and bereavement that has been inflicted upon you as if they just happened. Margaret continues to push and pull, bringing forth a lifetime of heartache and disappointment in sequence, out of order, and all at once. Beneath such a burden how could anyone, even the strongest individual with the most stalwart will, ever hope to withstand?

"There must be more! There has to be more! I want to know!" Margaret screams, tearing open your thoughts to drink deep of their contents. "I have to know!"

And there, finally, she sees it. But it is nothing so clean and clear as memories, nothing so simple or straightforward. When one plunges this deep into a person they enter a realm of symbolism and metaphor, for who can truly understand the uttermost bedrock that makes up a human being?

She sees it even as you continue to scream, reaching up hands to claw at your face. She sees you walking through a blizzard, holding a flickering fire to your chest. Assaulted on all sides, it sputters and starts. That flame is always at risk of going out, of vanishing in the turmoil that surrounds you. When you stumble you hold it even closer, feeding it kindling made from your own self to keep it going.

"This doesn't make sense," Margaret Zeal whispers, her thin spider's voice almost unheard beneath your screams. "I don't understand."

How could she? This bloated, hungry thing born from uncaring obsession… How could she understand that this fire is not meant for you? How could she understand you keep this fire alive not to warm yourself, but so you may hand it off to another? How could she comprehend such love one might have for anyone other than oneself?

Which is when I finally break free, holding back your fingers before you can gouge out your eyes in the hope that blindness will protect you. Your thoughts are in shambles, a spiraling wasteland of grief and sorrow so complete that no light shines. It threatens to finally smother that fire you hold so close to your heart, and because of that I must do something I hoped I would never have to.

I take control. I push you back to the corners of your mind, slipping fully into your body so I might shield you from this onslaught. With your hands I reach out and grab the white-suited host of Margaret Zeal, this ghost who would know all there is, by the throat and bring her face close to my own as it imposes itself over your flesh.

"Enough," I say through your lips, baring your teeth. "Enough! You do not have the right to another's pain!"

"I missed something!" the madwoman howls, glee overtaking her confusion. She bears down on me even as I bring forth my strength, and the air itself shrieks in the face of our opposition. "Yes! That explains it! You must be the defining factor! You are what I could not see!"

And as we grapple against each other, tearing the room apart beneath the force of our clash, those tendrils pierce into me to make clear memories long clouded by the passage of time.

What is revealed of Ellowyn's past? Choose three.

[] Her childhood, poor and meager even as she dreams of what could be.
[] Her training in necromancy, pushing against its limits.
[] Her attempts to gather support for a grand project.
[] The creation of the Engine.
[] Her death, and preparations to continue past it.

The vote is still up, but I thought I might share a rough outline of the Everlasting Senate with the thread since it's the most prominent governmental body within Alba you're likely to encounter in this Quest.

The Everlasting Senate is made up of two chambers, an upper and a lower one, which are of different sizes. The Upper Chamber has 200 members, while the lower one has 600. The Lower Chamber is relatively new in the grand scheme of things, as when Alba was still a monarchy there was only a parliament made up of what would be considered the Upper Chamber today. When Alba expanded and took in new territory there was a push to actually give representation to the people of the lands that were taken, be they indigenous or settlers, so eventually the Lower Chamber came into existence.

However, the Lower Chamber's power is quite restricted in comparison to its counterpart. It can propose policy and vote to send it to the Upper Chamber, but the Upper Chamber ultimately has the final say. If the proposed policy is not accepted there, then it will not pass and be made into law. The Upper Chamber can also propose policy, but the Lower Chamber has stricter rules with their own veto power. The Lower Chamber cannot veto policy from the Upper Chamber unless they have a two thirds majority within one week to debate and call the vote, which you can imagine is quite difficult with so many members.

The Upper Chamber is made up entirely of those native to the heartlands of Alba, usually of old families with aristocratic histories. No one from conquered territory can hold office in the Upper Chamber. After all, that's what the Lower Chamber was created for. At this point in time it is made up entirely of the Possessed, those men and women who have died and possessed their descendants in order to continue existing and influencing the world. It had been slowly over time becoming the case anyway, but three years before the story a law was passed making it official that for the sake of "preserving institutional knowledge and experience" that it is mandatory for the descendants of those heads of powerful families submit their bodies to possession until an alternative can be find to allow these spirits to continue.

The Prime Minister is nominally only first among equals, setting the legislative agenda and acting as the voice of the senate. In practice, they're the leader of the nation and everyone knows it. More and more power has been concentrated in the position over the years, and the direction of the empire is often set by whoever holds the seat. The Prime Minister is always a member of the Upper Chamber, which means at this point in time is always one of the Possessed.

[X] Her childhood, poor and meager even as she dreams of what could be.
[X] Her training in necromancy, pushing against its limits.
[X] The creation of the Engine.


I stare up at the night sky, wondering in amazement at the stars. There are so many of them, a tapestry of lights drawn out onto a field of blackness that never ends. They create shapes if you look at them right. Shapes of people and animals, of ships and tools and any number of things I can imagine.

It's better than thinking about the king's man back in the house, talking with my parents.

A sudden breeze sets me to shuddering, and I curl up deeper beneath my cloak. I am sitting on the large boulder set into the hill just outside our fields, right where it borders the forest. The grass here is normally green and lush, but the lack of rain has left it brown and brittle. Its smell reminds me of the hay we'd dry out for the cows, earthy and wooden. Our sheep graze out here sometimes, and it makes for a good sitting spot. Grandfather says you can't go wrong with a good sitting spot. It helps you consider what needs considering, or at the very least lets you take your mind off things.

The grain harvests were bad this year. Not the worst it could have been, or so my father likes to say when we're sitting down to meager dinners of stew and what bread we could scrounge from the bakery in the village. He speaks of one time in his youth where there wasn't spring nor summer, just fall into winter and back into fall again.

Back then he said the rain never stopped. This year, it never came. Neither is good for harvest, especially now that the season is turning and everything is getting colder. We have enough stores of food for ourselves, but if that king's man demands more than the usual we'll have to kill the cows. If it gets especially bad then the sheep will be next, and then the dogs. That will get is through the winter, but then we'll have no wool to sell or milk to drink come the next year.

Crunching grass, soft and powdery, informs me that I am not alone. I look over my shoulder as my brother approaches. Tall and broad-shouldered, his grinning face surrounded by a shoulder-length shock of red hair the same color as my own, my brother climbs up the boulder to sit next to me.

"Needed to get away?" Alastair asks. I don't answer, pulling my knees up and burying myself into them. But he just nods, understanding my meaning. "It's getting tense back in the house. Tense everywhere, honestly, especially when the king's taxmen come calling."

"Kings always treat us up here in the highlands like dirt," I reply. "Ever since Kaledon became a part of Alba. Grandfather says so. He lived through the union."

"Grandfather says a lot of things," Alastair says. "Especially when he's had too much to drink. Things he really shouldn't lest he get himself and the rest of us into trouble."

"Doesn't mean he isn't right."

Alastair sighs. "No, I suppose it doesn't."

I open up my cloak to give Alastair some protection from the wind, and he settles in close. The feel of his warmth, the pungent smell of the cows on him, comforts me as I settle my head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around me, and we just enjoy being next to each other for a time. Two siblings watching the stars together.

Alastair has been with me my entire life. In my earliest memories he is there, helping me to walk and teaching me how to read and write. He looked after me when my parents and grandparents were tending the fields, giving a little girl all the attention she needed and then some. All with a smile and a laugh.

My shoulders tense, and Alastair's hand on my shoulder tightens in response. I know what he is going to say, and he knows that I know. But if we just sit here in silence we can pretend it will never happen, that everything can just stay as it has forever.

"El…"

I shake my head. "Don't. Please, just don't."

"You'd rather I just leave without saying goodbye, then?"

"I'd rather you weren't leaving at all."

"You think I'm happy about this?" Alastair asks. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head."Times are rough. Not just here, but all over Alba. There's unrest everywhere, and that means the king is going to need people to keep the peace. If I enlist, then taxes won't be quite so high. The family lives through the winter."

I look up at him, into those emerald green eyes, and he looks back at me. He is so sincere, so open. It is his strength, that genuineness. Alastair is a man who will give of himself completely to help those he loves. But that is also his weakness, and I cannot help the icy touch of fear gathering in the pit of my stomach.

"There's talk the king might go to war with Galt," I whisper. "The drought hasn't hit them so badly, and people say he's looking for an excuse to invade."

"Now where did you hear a silly thing like that?"

"Mother Marien at the temple," I reply. "And Douglas, the blacksmith."

"Mother Marien is a good woman," Alastair says. "But she's got a weakness for gossip. And Douglas? Well, Douglas is always worrying about something or other."

"So you won't be going to war?" I ask, leaning back into him. He is so solid, so sturdy. The rock that has supported my life for so long… If he were to disappear I am unsure what I will do. "You'll be safe?"

"As safe as I can be," Alastair says, resting his head atop mine. "Don't you worry, El. I'll be gone a year, maybe two, and come back home. That's a promise."

No more is said between us. No more need be said. There is only the warmth of our bodies and breath as we sit together beneath the cloak, staring up at the night's sky. The future will bring its terrors and uncertainty, but for now there is peace. For now, there is joy.

I can only hope it will last.

Laughter erupts from the lips of this body of Margaret Zeal as we careen about the room, my hand around her neck and her tendrils pushing deep into your body to latch onto my spirit within you. Waves of purple and black leak from us, pulsing like distant stars, eroding everything they touch into dust. Wood, metal, and even flesh break apart as our souls wrestle against each other. We are the center of a storm, not of raging winds but of death and decay made manifest upon the world.

The other hosts don't seem to care they are withering away, barely protected by the presence of the power forced inside of them. They smile and laugh along with the central body even as they stand within growing wreckage, extensions of this madwoman who don't even realize they are party to the destruction of the knowledge gathered inside this node of voyeuristic trespass. All because she must break open the puzzle before her. Immediate gratification overcomes all thought of long-term satisfaction, or any pursuit of future goals. Insanity and stupidity, wrapped up in one neat little package spread across a reveling mob.

She invades my thoughts as if she had a right to my innermost being. As if she had a right to my joy and to my sorrow. As if she had a right to my hopes, my fears, and my shame. But that is who Margaret Zeal is. She is a monster who would pry open everyone she meets to see all they are, have been, or ever will be.

"Because I have to know!" she screams through dozens of throats as a hundred hands reach for me, trying to drag down your body as she and I careen through the air. "So many secrets! So many mysteries! I have to see how far it all goes!"

It is grotesque, a violation of mind and spirit.

"Speak your words!" Margaret bellows. "Don't hide from me in the depths of this pathetic sack of flesh!"

I slam the head of this central host, this body the tendrils that make up Margaret Zeal's soul have gathered around, into one of the radios. Metal buckles, bone breaks. The crunch echoes even above the screaming of the other bodies, reverberating through them like phantom pain as they recoil.

"Fine," I say through your mouth as I curl it into a sneer. "You disgust me. Everything you are is offensive in my sight, and I will not abide your presence."

Margaret Zeal twists in my grip to look up at me, silver light leaking through the ruin of this face to create a rough facsimile of flesh, and she smiles. "Better."

With a roar she forces me back, and I stumble into the waiting arms of two of her other bodies. Margaret Zeal cackles and wraps both hands around your skull, bringing the broken visage of this body close to your own. Silver light flashes from where the right eye used to be, the caved in skull dripping stale blood and atrophied brain, and once more we are drawn back into my past.

I collapse to my hands and knees, gasping for air as bloody sweat drips down my face to water the rocky ground. The wind that kisses my skin is warm, the sun hanging high in a clear blue sky to cast long shadows, but it is still blessedly cool compared to the raging furnace boiling up from my core. It brings with it the scent of stone and dry grass, all washed out by the coppery stink and taste of my own blood as it dribbles past my lips.

I raise my head, shaking with the effort, and what I see makes me smile even though my stomach wrenches and I have to fight the sudden urge to vomit. Through the red blurring my vision I perceive one flat stone grinding against another, and from the space between them wheat is ground down into powder. No hand turns the stones, nothing does save for the echoes of my will as I pull even now upon the tenuous threads drawn forth from the slow decay of life.

"Not bad," my teacher says in his rough voice, like iron scraping over leather. Manus McCullough sits behind me, but I know he's stroking that ridiculously long beard of his like he always does when something surprises him."But if all you wanted was a millstone then there are easier ways to manage it."

He's not wrong. It took me several minutes to draw forth the power to accomplish this, cupping my hands to gather droplets of power misting up from the dying earth. Countless millions upon millions of lives have ended here, as they have everywhere, releasing potential with their termination that lingers until one with the right will and drive might come along to make use of it.

And I have used such incredible possibility to accomplish what one might with a water wheel.

"I was testing something," I say, forcing myself to my feet. I turn to face him and only just manage to keep from falling over again."Needed to see how much output I could achieve with my input."

"It's a waste of your talents," Manus says, waving a hand. His walking staff is resting across his knees, though he hardly needs it despite how old he is. Eighty years and he barely looks a hair over sixty. A testament to good living and great skill in necromancy to keep himself vigorous no matter his wrinkles. "What's the point of all this, Ellowyn? I've taught you everything I know, and you use it on these strange flights of fancy. Is this really what you intended when you came to me all those years ago, begging to be my apprentice?"

"I did not beg," I reply, wiping crimson sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. "I demanded."

Manus laughs, slapping one wrinkled knee jutting out from beneath his robes. He stands up, coming to his full height. It isn't much, the skinny old man a full head shorter than me unless one counts his wild mass of white hair. He pulls a strip of cloth from the sleeve of his robes and holds it out, which I take gratefully to clean my face.

Behind us, the soft grinding of stone on stone cuts through the breeze as it whistles through the rocky hills. I'm still focused on them, still making them turn against each other. It doesn't take much now that I have the process started. A dull pressure in the back of my skull, always present but not especially taxing.

We often go through little periods of silence in our conversations, Manus and I. We've known each other for over almost a decade now, and that time has brought a certain degree of comfort. But it always reminds me of an earlier time, sitting alone with my brother, and my heart aches. It should have gotten easier, accepting that he's gone. Perhaps it has, but pain is pain no matter the degree. It hurts all the same.

"You asked what the point of this was," I say. "Imagine if those slabs were made from todstein."

He pauses, stroking his beard again in thought. Then he shakes his head and says,"No… No, it still wouldn't work. Not this way, at least. It would cease the moment your concentration broke, no matter what power was released."

"That's true, but it opens up new fields of research," I say. "It's a wondrous material, what the Auschlans discovered. The essentia of death congealed into physical form, compressed by the earth like coal."

"Dangerous, is what it is," Manus replies. "We can do so much with it. Perhaps too much, and that is giving some beyond the enlightened circles of our peers disturbing ideas."

"It's an era of new and disturbing ideas. After all, kings are being overthrown."

"And a new one will be set up in his place!" Manus says, waving a hand dismissively. "Or the aristocrats will set up some other way to govern themselves. That's their prerogative. Regardless, it's not the world shaking new era you seem to believe it is."

"It's different this time," I say. "This war to overthrow the monarchy. People are tired of kings, tired of being denied what they need to survive because of the whims of distant rulers. It's something our lot should be involved with, to help shape what comes next. That's what I'm trying to work through here."

Manus frowns, his bushy brows narrowing as he considers me."If this is about your brother's death-"

"He died alone, far from home, and to no purpose," I snap, throwing the bloody cloth aside. The wind takes it in its grasp, twirling it around us where it drips the crimson of my life in a rough circle before flying off to parts unknown. "I know I can't bring him back. You made that perfectly clear. But if I can ensure what happened to him doesn't happen to anyone else, then don't I have an obligation to try?"

"So I was right," Manus says, shaking his head. "We are scholars, advisors, not the ones who take the reins of history for ourselves. That way lies danger, unintended consequences. You are powerful, Ellowyn, but your grief will destroy you regardless of your abilities if you do not watch where you step in pursuit of your ambitions."

He turns away before I can reply, a frustrating habit of his when he feels there's nothing more to be said on a subject. I pick up a rock, filled with a sudden urge to throw it at the back of his head. The wet, sticky feeling of my blood on the stone stops me short. I look down at it, considering the thing and the mad impulse that drove me to take it in my hand.

Then I let it fall to the ground. I have more important matters to attend to, more important pursuits. Manus is not a foolish man. He will come around.

He will have to after I show him all the wonders we can create.

"You're so old! How? How are you so old?"

Spittle and worse things erupt from the mouth Margaret Zeal has stolen as she shouts those words in my face. I wrench her hands away, launching us both to the far wall with its map of Alba. Other possessed bodies are flung all directions in my charge, and the map cracks down the middle with the force of our impact.

Dust rains down on us, the whole building trembling as more pulses of purplish black burst out from our struggle. In the distance there is a high-pitched whine, the Kordian Satellite straining to keep up a steady output of power even as I and my enemy draw forth ever-more necromantic might. I have set your hands around her throat, squeezing so tightly your knuckles are turning white. With my strength even your skinny fingers can unleash startling amounts of force.

Something Margaret Zeal notices as the windpipe of this body begins to pop beneath my grip. The manic glee in those silver eyes finally turns toward concern, perhaps even fear as she brings up hands to pull apart your fingers. Slowly, arms shaking, she draws me away and takes a breath her failing body requires.

"You lived before parliament, before the Engine, before the Senate!" she cries with a voice like breaking leather, blood dribbling from clenched teeth. "But those who linger after death only appeared in the last sixty years. There wasn't enough energy before then! How can you exist?"

"I am under no obligation to share my secrets with you," I reply before throwing her across the room. Ten bodies form up, two lines of five, and catch her before she can break through a set of filing cabinets. They all go tumbling, but manage to keep this main host of Margaret Zeal upright. "That you've taken as much as you have is already an insult."

"It's not enough!" howls the response from every mouth, echoing through the halls and down into the valley. More people, hosts for Margaret Zeal, are piling into the already cramped room. "I must have it all!"

Tendrils fill the air, shooting forth from the mouths of the people this parasite has burrowed her way into. Thick fibers of Margaret Zeal's spirit launch towards us like gunshots, the air shattering as her essence fills up the space like a wall of spears. With an effort of will I throw us toward the ceiling, twisting midair to land on your feet. There is no time to attempt a counterattack, however, as those spikes bend to follow after us.

I run along the ceiling, ducking and dodging and twisting as our enemy throws herself into the attack. The ceiling groans, wood splintering as Margaret Zeal takes in energy from those bodies that are dying to give herself more substance. Existence buckles under her presence, under the power we are both leaking out into the world, and the space between us grows hazy as the separation between things begins to blur.

Life and death are two sides of the same coin, neither able to exist without the other. What comes from blending the two? My hope was to create a world without suffering or want. Instead…

The ceiling collapses, sending us tumbling to the ground. Your body and my spirit are pierced before we even make it halfway, and once more our enemy laughs as she plunges her fingers into faded memory.

The air is alive. The air is singing. The air is bending to my will and my great work.

My hammer comes down, and with it come over four dozen more in the hands of the revenants under my control. Another two dozen work the bellows, feed coal into the furnace to keep the todstein beneath us hot. So much todstein, gray even as it glows. More todstein than I have ever seen before, gathered at great expense by those who believe they will direct the course of the future.

I have little attention to spare for the rest of the room, for the people inside who are watching me make good on every promise. Men and women from the newly formed parliament, lords and ladies from old families. They have built this place for me, this forge, so that I might create my engine.

In truth, it is just a large warehouse made from bricks. The forge itself is an enormous pit of fire, the bellows directing the heat up to the massive raised pan holding the todstein as it melts and congeals together. The smell is overwhelming, the smoky heat of the fire mixing with the sweet scent of rot released from the metal as it is worked.

The operation takes up most of the space, over one hundred feet across. Sparks fill the air, float gently like leaves before dying upon the dirt floor. They singe my skin, my hair, but I have no time for such discomforts.

So many eyes watching me, judging as I work. I bring the hammer down again, the others moving in sequence. I have never controlled so many revenants at once before, never split my power so many ways. Something is breaking within me, something fragile and precious, but I cannot stop. With every strike I force my intent into the metal of death and shape it as I please.

Unintended consequences… I've not forgotten your warning, Manus. I am under no illusions about what these people, my benefactors, want. They desire power and wealth, in pursuit of which they have funded my efforts here. But what I am forging will lift everyone up, and they will have no choice but to move with that rising tide or drown like the royal family did.

I bring my hammer down again. The todstein is blossoming red, the gray finally washing out. Every ingot has melted together, filling the pan to form a perfect disc. My muscles scream, and my spirit buckles. I push onward, raising the hammer once more, and when it strikes it is like the tolling of a great bell.

I exhale, forcing the revenants to do the same. My breath, that of a living woman's, and the breath of so many dead are locked into the todstein as it begins to rapidly cool. The fires beneath flicker, then die as I wrench oxygen from the coals. The room is suddenly cold, plunged into darkness as the night outside finally pushes in with the fading of the furnace.

Despite the lingering heat I am dry. I stopped sweating early into this process, when we began so early in the morning. The continuous work has feels as if it has forced every drop of water from my body, and I sway dangerously as the my vision shifts. A twitch goes from my hands and up my arms, and soon I am shuddering in place.

I am so tired, but I cannot stop now. Gritting my teeth, I force the revenants to take up chisels. As one they slam them into the pan, cracking it open. The debris is taken away, and I pull out my own chisel. I scream as I strike my hammer upon it, and with all the force I can muster I control the breaking of the metal such that it forms two perfect discs where once was one.

The revenants remove the great circles from the pan's supports set them next to each other, and if the room was cramped before there is absolutely no space left now. My patrons, watching me with barely contained awe, scurry away to the door and observe from outside as the revenants chisel sharp, angular designs into the discs. They will grate against each other, grind in just the right away to make manifest my desires.

The dead men and women step back when they are finished, my command to them complete. Now there is only one final task… But there is so little left to me now. I have poured everything I have into this engine, everything I was and everything I will be.

But it is not yet finished, and so I walk atop the first disc and pull out my knife. For though I may lack water, I still have blood. And blood is the water of life, that which connects us to fathers and mothers, to sisters and brothers…

I slash my wrists and let my blood flow. Now is the most dangerous part, for I must use necromancy to keep myself alive and make more blood even as it leaks out from me into the carved impressions upon the discs. I cannot feel the pain. That is not a good sign, but I do not let it stop me as I dance across the todstein and let my life soak into it. The gray metal drinks it up greedily, and soon enough there is a red sheen set within every groove.

I stomp my feet, throw my hands up and around as I cry out wordlessly to god and the world, to anyone and anything that will listen. For this is my work, my life, and it will change the arc of history. I am Ellowyn Kordell, and it is here that I leash death in service of the living.

I do not know how long I dance, but I notice when my legs give out. I collapse in the space between the discs, and most of my revenants fall with me. But one stays upright. What was once a woman comes and bandages me, a spike of todstein piercing her skull. An experiment, and a successful one. She requires so much less concentration, yet I only had so much metal to spare. Still, I direct her to bandage my wrists and bring water to my lips, to which she complies quickly.

The aristocrats outside are applauding, whether to me or to themselves I do not know. Ultimately, it doesn't matter. I've achieved my goal. They can preen and strut all they want, but in the end it is a girl from the Kaledon countryside that achieved the impossible.

Though not without price. Something is broken inside of me, something that refuses to heal as I direct my energies inward. I pushed myself too far, too fast, burning my life away. How much time will I have left?

I am distracted from the thought as my hand brushes against one of the todstein shavings let loose from the engraving. They are scattered across the room, thin but in great quantity. I have no more use for them in this project, but perhaps I shall turn this excess into jewelry.

That would be a fitting memento.

"You made the engine!" Margaret Zeal crows. "You made all of this possible. Made me possible. Necromancy, spirits persisting after death, you created it all! Almost two centuries of history hidden away! Oh, how wonderful!"

We are hanging limply in the middle of the room, pierced on all sides by dozens upon dozens of lancing filaments that make up the existence of this horrible woman. You bleed, and I bleed with you, red mixing with ephemeral silver that mists almost instantly around us. We are bound, held tight in the web this spider has wrought of her soul, and she is drinking deeply of us.

How easy it would be to simply give up. How easy it would be to wallow in the magnitude of my mistakes, my naivete. For Margaret Zeal is correct. This world, broken and filled with misery, is my creation. I wished only for the living to have every need met, so that no one need suffer as I did the pangs of loss. Instead, I have allowed the greedy, the selfish, and the mad to persist long after their time should have passed. They dig their fingers into the flesh of creation, tearing out great chunks and devouring without thought or care for the harm they commit.

I deserve final death. I know this. I accept it. I bound my soul to my jewelry, to the cast-offs of the engine I made, in the hopes I might see beauty wrought from my vision. Instead there is only nightmare, horror so deep as to drown out all light. There is only a world where the powerful grow ever more so, trampling over the great mass of humanity forever.

Yes, I deserve final death. Even more, I desire it. But that is not a luxury I can allow myself.

Because inside I can hear you begging for forgiveness, begging Kendra and Fatima and so many others for a mercy you do not believe you deserve. Because you think yourself weak, and cowardly, and broken. But you are more than your failings. There must be hope for you, not just for a better world but so there may yet be hope for myself.

With great effort I move your fingers, grasping as many of the strands of Margaret Zeal as I can. She is still cackling, ranting about she has uncovered another great mystery hidden in the depths of the past. Thus she does not notice until it is too late as I ignite ghostfire directly onto so much of herself.

The scream is deafening. It comes from many throats laid atop each other, echoing strangely in this brittle space. Without blood to extinguish them the flames race across the tendrils and burn away Margaret's spirit. The tendrils pull out of us, flail wildly and set the room ablaze. Silvery fire spreads without limit, will continue to spread until there is nothing left.

But there is something we must do before that happens.

I emerge from you, towering and immense. With many eyes I see our enemy, and with many hands I strike at her. Every body in this room is overflows with me, with my disgust for her and her obsessions. They fill these hosts of Margaret Zeal, and so there is no room left for her even as she burns.

Much like myself, her natural shape is not human in form. It is a writhing mass, threads upon threads upon threads. They clump together, pushing and pulling, and a vague face begins to take form. Nebulously feminine, it screams in rage and horror as I bring myself down upon it.

I break, and I flense, and I drink in everything that does not evaporate into the ether. It takes a surprising amount of time. The soul of Margaret Zeal, with all its stolen memories, is not deep. It is, however, wide. Much escapes me, as it always does in this inexact process, but much is consumed as well.

And with Margaret Zeal's destruction, I finally have what we have sought.

Randall, I say, speaking directly to you rather than using your lips. There is too much smoke, and those who have regained consciousness are screaming as they run outside to escape the flames. I move your legs to join them. Randall, I know where the engine is! I know where they moved it!

You have been weeping, crying in the corner of your mind where I set you after Margaret Zeal's assault. But as I slowly relinquish control, as we come out into the open air, sobbing babble begins to fade away. You fall to the ground by the fields, crushing stalks of wheat beneath you as the survivors who were once host to a madwoman watch this facility burn, and I give you back full control of your body.

"You have it?" you whisper, as if raising your voice might shatter you once again. "Truly?"

Everything hurts. We have been struck again and again in mind, body, and spirit. Weariness rests on your shoulders not as a sensation, not merely a lack of energy, but like a fundamental law. You feel as if you might never be without pain again, might never be truly alert. It is as if some essential vigor has been torn away, leaving you raw and bleeding.

Even still, I can feel hope rise within you. Hope that your suffering has not been for nought. Hope that you might finally see your daughter free.

Yes. We need to get to the capital. We need-

The boom of an explosion cuts me off, a machine gun nest on an adjacent building bursting in a gout of broken concrete. The nests on the other buildings direct their attention upward, the revenants manning them releasing staccato bursts of fire toward the zeppelin that emerges from out of the cloudy night. It responds with its own machine guns, with even more bombs, and the defenses crumble.

The screaming resumes, people who have only just awakened from a terrible dream thrust into a holocaust of noise and scorching inferno. From above, ropes are thrown down and armored revenants begin to descend. They do not care about the bullets denting their armor, or tearing out great chunks of flesh. They have a mission, directives to fulfill, and they will see them done no matter what stands in their way.

Like the terrified, sluggish people trying to run. Men and women who have only just come back to themselves fall, torn almost in half by hails of bullets where they are not ripped apart by the heavy bombs falling from the sky. It seems your earlier wondering about how the Everlasting Senate could allow Margaret Zeal to get away with defying them now has an answer.

They did not.

If you were fresh you might be able to fight off this force. It would require my help, but together we could pull this vessel from the sky and send it crashing to the earth. We could save these people, confused and so recently freed from bondage, from the slaughter that goes on around us.

But you are not fresh. You are exhausted, wounded on a such a level it defies description. In truth, I am little better. Margaret Zeal struck at me directly, giving me less than I might normally bring to bear to heal your wounds.

So you run. You run for the river, away from guns and bombs and fire. You run on all fours, scrabbling like an animal, and it is only luck that you manage to escape the full concussive power of the bomb as it erupts behind you like a hammer the size of the world.

You are taken off your feet, tumbling through the air with no control. Your limbs flail wildly, moving not at your direction but with the mercurial direction of the wind as it turns this way and that in response to the chaos. You can see nothing, your vision reduced to spinning darkness and flashes of light. You can hear nothing, reality having become nothing but a high-pitched cry that adds a new layer of pain to your existence.

Then you strike the river, slapping the water so hard the breath is stolen from your lungs. Breath you need as you sink, taken in by the river's flow. You struggle weakly, trying to keep your head above the waves, before sinking down into its depths as you are carried away.

---

And with this, we complete the second arc of Dead Engines. Wow, but this one took a lot out of me. Grew larger than I expected, too. I'm not upset about it, though. Ellowyn needed her own time to shine, and considering how much focus has been on Randall it's not too surprising she needed a big update almost all to herself.

The next update will be another interlude, though it's going to be a bit before I get to it. Still, we're coming upon the endgame. Your choices have made an impact on the world, and there are other forces in play than just those of your enemies.

Thank you all for staying with me for the Quest so far. It's been a great time, and I hope you stick with this story to the end.

"Coffee, please," I tell the waiter. "Cream and sugar, and the day's newspaper if you have it."

"Right away, Ma'am."

I turn away from him as he goes off to set up my order, looking out at the crowd. The sun is just beginning to set, and people are making their way home from jobs in factories, offices, and any of the other numerous businesses that make up the capital of the world's most powerful empire. Most are walking, but the tram system does an admirable job transporting those who live further from the city center. There are even some automobiles, a luxury becoming more and more available with the encouragement of new production practices. Assembly lines of revenants putting everything together, piece by piece.

All in all, it creates a bustling cacophony that I find strangely soothing. One can get lost in the noise, almost hide in it, and sometimes that's pleasant. People talking, tram bells ringing, car horns honking… I could do without the smell, though. All this burning petrol, along with the smog from the factories closer to the river, fills the air with a caustic stench to make the eyes water.

"Hey! Hey, you!" calls out a rough, rasping voice from the alley behind me. "You're that senator! The dark one from the colonies!"

I briefly close my eyes, bracing myself with a deep breath, before turning in my seat to address the man stumbling from the shadows between the cafe and the building next to it. He is dirty and disheveled, the grease staining his shirt a sure sign of a factory worker. In one hand he holds a bottle, and even amidst the miasma of the city I can smell the booze wafting from it and the man's breath. He walks out of the alley, pausing briefly to keep the cap on his head from falling as he stumbles.

"I'm senator Fatima Hajar, yes," I reply, forcing a smile. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yeah!" the man shouts, waving his arms. The motion almost sends him tumbling. "You can stop saying all those awful things about our soldiers! They're fighting for us, against Galt and Iber and those savages down where you come from. Keeping Alba strong!"

"I don't recall saying anything negative about our soldiers, sir," I say. "Just how the military is being used."

"It's the same damn thing!"

He comes closer, and I rise to my feet. At this distance he could smash the bottle against my face, or simply lay his hands on me. Slowly, I reach for the collapsible baton in my suit pocket. This isn't how I wanted to end my day, but if I have to…

"Is there any trouble here?"

The man, face ruddy with drink, goes ashen and backs away as a uniformed officer walks across the street flanked by two revenants with todstein spikes in their skulls. I spare him a glance, pale and blonde and smiling with all his teeth, before looking back to the man who may or may not have been about to make a terrible mistake. Something he seems to realize as fear overcomes the bravery only strong drink could bring with the revenants walking closer, deathly silent in their hulking metal armor.

"No, no trouble, officer," I say, giving the drunk a meaningful look. "Just a concerned citizen addressing one of his representatives. Nothing to worry yourself over."

"Right," he says, taking off his cap to wipe sweat off his brow with it. "Yeah, just voicing my opinion. Ain't no law against that."

"Not currently," the uniformed man says, still smiling. "Off with you, then. No need to trouble the senator further."

The man tips his cap and mumbles something incoherent as he all but runs into the crowd. A few yelled curses from those he bumps into, and then he is out of sight. I turn to the police officer, keeping that smile on my face as I rest a hand on my table.

"I don't think he was going to try anything, but you have my thanks all the same."

"Just doing my job, senator," the officer replies. "Be careful, all right? You never know might happen on the streets at night, even in our fair capital."

I nod and continue to smile, keeping my eyes on him and his undead assistants until they too vanish into the crowd. A breath I hadn't known I'd been holding escapes me, and it takes all my effort to sit properly rather than collapse into my seat. My heartbeat is going faster than I would like, pounding in my chest, and not because of the drunkard.

When the coffee comes it is a welcome distraction. The waiter must have witnessed the exchange, but kept his distance while the officer and his revenants were near. A wise policy, all told. It does not bode well to garner the attention of such people. At best they might ignore you, which is the preferable outcome. At worst they might corner you later to ask pointed questions you don't have the answers for, and then take the opportunity to abuse the jurisdiction they have over the populace.

All for the sake of "maintaining the authority of the law," of course. Though this officer didn't strike me as someone on a power trip. No… His ready presence implies something rather more disturbing, but not anything the young man serving me need concern himself with.

I thank him and take a sip of my coffee. The black liquid has become a delightful shade of brown with the cream mixed in, and between that and the sugar they create a wonderfully bittersweet flavor that I don't know what I would do without. There are days I practically live on coffee, forgoing meals so I can have more time to get work done.

Work like I'm doing right now.

The message is hidden in the newspaper I was given, the shop owner having underlined certain words as instructed to when approached by people who for both their safety and my own I have never met. It's short and to the point, as these things must be, and when I take this paper home I'll burn it in my fireplace.

Meeting tonight. Important developments. Colonel.

That draws a frown from me, but I continue the act of reading the newspaper even after receiving the message. Appearances are important, and the coffee is good. I have the time to enjoy myself a little before getting to the night's business.

The rest of the newspaper gives me much the same as reports that have come to my office, if cleaned up and adapted for public consumption. Military recruitment issues are spun as "Our valiant men and women in uniform finding clever solutions to problems in the field." Tensions with Galt and Iber are sold as "We must prepare for the foreign threat to our shores." Meanwhile, discontent in the colonies becomes "Ungrateful malcontents waste Alban lives with needless chaos."

Naturally, even peaceful protest is lumped together with violent terrorism because why should anyone have issue with Alban rule? It's not as if people are exploited and brutalized for the sake of the empire's industry. You won't see such things in the reputable papers, and anyone trying to publish the actual truth is hunted down by those like that smiling police officer with his club-wielding revenants.

Alba is teetering. It's not over the edge yet, but all the signs are there and everyone is happy to keep rushing toward that cliff. And why? The true reason, one that will never get put in the papers, is that there's too much money to be gained in the short-term to care about anything like sustainability. Growth is everything, ever more resources going into a bottomless devouring maw to appease hunger that will never be satisfied.

But no, when war eventually breaks out it will be because the rest of the world is jealous of our prosperity and hates us for noble yet conveniently nebulous concepts like our "culture" and "freedoms." Never mind that the former has become an increasingly hollow justification for ostracizing anything that doesn't fit what is considered socially acceptable norms, and the latter has been a joke for decades.

God, I'm depressing myself. It's time to go home and prepare.

The newspaper goes into my purse and I leave a good tip for the waiter. After that, it's on to the tram system and back to my house. The trolley dings as it approaches its stop, and I take the chance to hop on. There are no seats available, but I'm fine with standing.

The passengers around me give space, but not much. I've avoided the rush, but people are still in the process of getting back to their homes. They're a dirty bunch, grimy from long hours. Inevitably, some of that gets on my nice red suit as people jostle into place to better squeeze into the tram. Sweat and oil assaults my nostrils, bitter and acrid enough I can taste it all through the lingering remains of my coffee, and I can't help curling my nose.

I could afford a car, but prefer to take public transit. Not only do I have an image to maintain, that of a politician fighting for the common man, but it reminds me of why I'm doing this. It's one of the reasons, in any event. I can't forget my most important one, my primary focus.

Kendra… I will save you or die trying.

I look out at the city as sparks rain down with the trolley starting up again. Tall, impressive buildings made of painted brick show tenement houses with shops on the bottom selling any manner of goods. Salted meats from holdings in Galt, fruits from Iber, and even textiles from my native Marak. Not to mention whole buildings devoted entirely to the latest in machinery, like automobiles and radios.

Money changes hands every second of every hour of every day, with well-dressed patrons enjoying spoils from all over the world to delight themselves with. Cafes like the one I just left are also a common sight, as are dance clubs where the latest in music from peoples across the empire are mixed together in new and exciting ways. Lamplights are lit to help facilitate this ongoing merriment, people laughing as they go from one entertainment to the next in a city that never truly sleeps.

Yet the spaces between show not everything is glittering and glamorous. In the alleyways I see broken up hovels made from scrap, dirty cloth and rotting wood broken on the ground where the police stormed through just weeks ago. The results of Aidric Dunstan's proposal criminalizing homelessness. Not that he called it such, of course, but it can't be anything else when the only options given are to join the military or be forced into a workhouse prison to labor until their bodies give out. After which their bodies will be taken, todstein spikes jammed into their skulls, forced to serve the empire in death just as they did in life.

My stomach twists looking at those sights again and again as the tram moves on, and I take deep breaths despite the smell in order to settle myself lest I retch. I hadn't been able to rally enough votes in time to oppose that measure. Too many of my colleagues in the lower chamber had to be convinced this was a terrible plan, one that only hurts the most vulnerable among us, and by that time the window to contest the motion had passed.

It's a relief to get out at my stop, to get away from the stuffy car crammed full of people trailing past the broken remnants of human misery. I take a few minutes in the lamplight to compose myself, then take off down the street. My home isn't far, but I have a meeting to get to and don't wish to linger outside at night any longer than I must.

The winter wind is cool across my face, though warmer than I remember even from just a few years ago. The light from the lamps reflects off my dark skin, making me shine. I am beautiful, even rumpled as I am from the tram. My hair is straight, done every morning to hide my natural curls, while my face is symmetrical and without blemish.

Yes, I am beautiful. I know this, and I use it. I need every advantage I can get, and being both attractive and unmarried sometimes gives men certain ideas when I require them to be more tractable in the Senate.

A place I angle to be distant from while in recess for the upcoming holidays. Perhaps I'll venture out from the city for a time, take a visit to the countryside. Anything to get away from Alba the city even if I cannot afford to get away from Alba the empire.

Not a very original name as far as capitals go. Alba, the capital city of the empire of Alba. But I've come to realize this is just how these people think. Alba must be grand, thus its leaders must be grand, so people must associate their seat of power with the empire itself.

Image and presentation. That's how this game is played. If you do not act in line with your station then you very well might find yourself losing influence, cut off from the connections required to move the world in ways you desire. Even I have to go along with that to a certain extent, though I twist it in such ways I find more palatable.

Like with my home. It's a simple affair, but I know as I walk up the steps this is a neighborhood full of well-to-do people. Two-story houses, three at most, with stone foundations and brightly painted wooden facades. As well, each has a small garden attached to a backyard where one might hold social functions. Large enough to comfortably hold a family and servants, along with the occasional guest.

It's nothing compared to the manors some of my colleagues live in, all in relatively close proximity to the Senate building itself rather than near the outskirts like with my neighborhood. Those are sprawling estates, some even with carefully maintained forests and parks for those old families to take their ease in with activities like hunting or horseback riding. Those are the truly wealthy, but my house shows enough class that I cannot be said to be embarrassing the institution of the Senate.

God knows I get enough pushback from those bastards in the upper chamber as it is.

The door opens before I even have a chance to pull out my key. Aysha, my maid, steps to the side with a bow and gives me room to enter. She's shorter than me, and plumper, but that thin layer of fat hides strong muscle she's had to use on my behalf on more than one occasion. Her skin is lighter than mine, though still dark, and she keeps her curly black hair tied back in her bonnet.

"Good evening, Miss Hajar," she says as she takes my purse and coat. "I trust you had a pleasant day?"

"Not really," I reply, pulling the newspaper free before Aysha could walk away with it. "And it's not done yet. Do you have a fire going? I need to burn this."

"Ah… So it's to be one of those nights, then?"

"I'm afraid so. If anyone calls on me let them know I'll be indisposed for the rest of the evening."

Aysha nods, moving over to the windows and closing the curtains. Together we watch the newspaper burn in the fireplace. It's a small thing, set into the wall of a modest living room set with a low table and plush chairs for receiving company. The ink turns the flames green, giving off a sickly light, before everything finally crumbles to ash. I take out the iron poker and stir the dust just to make sure everything is properly destroyed.

"There have been people watching the house," Aysha says as we make our way to the basement. "Watching the whole street. They drive by in cars, taking slow trips up and down the road. Sometimes they idle, as if enjoying the day, but they are always watching."

"The same car, or different ones?"

"Different cars, Miss Hajar," Aysha replies. "But the same people. They come in shifts."

"Hmm… We'll need to be careful about who we bring into the house."

The sound of our steps is muffled as we walk down into the basement, sturdy wooden stairs and stone walls taking in the vibrations of our presence and giving nothing back in return. Most of the space is taken in with either furniture put in storage or shelves of preserved food, giving the room a claustrophobic feeling. The darkness doesn't help, and even the lantern in Aysha's hand does little but cast strange shadows that dance along the walls and hide amongst the clutter.

One shelf moves away easily on a hidden hinge, its wheels cleverly set into a groove in the floor. Its back is as strong as the door to my house, and only capable of being opened from this side. Beyond is a hole carved into the stone, leading out into darkness. The smell wafts up to meet us almost immediately, the reek of human waste and chemical runoff a faint stabbing sensation now that the barrier has been removed. Aysha hands me a scarf, which I tie around my mouth and nose, and I take the lantern from her.

"Please wait here for my return," I tell her. "This hopefully won't take too long."

"As you wish, Miss Hajar."

Then I am down into the sewers, ducking low to keep my head from scraping the top of the tunnel, and Aysha is closing the door behind me. I hate asking her to wait, but there's no avoiding the necessity. Someone has to open the door, and it's too much of a security risk to give free access to my home.

A brief foray through the carved out passage takes me into the sewer proper, and I shift a portion of the wall aside to step out onto the walkway. The slowly moving sewage beside me is not as bad as one would find closer to the city center, but it still makes my stomach lurch and burns my lungs even through the scarf. A coughing fit takes me, and I put a hand on the wall to keep from hunching over. But the smell isn't going to get any better, so after a few moments I press on into the darkness.

The walk, thankfully, is brief. Colonel Blackwell does not live far away, and the journey is mostly just a straight line from my house to his. But I still cannot help but jump at every sudden noise, pull close to the wall with every movement in the stagnant air. The drip of water, the creaking of metal and stone… Sound echoes strangely down here, as if the earth itself protests my intrusion.

It is a relief when, almost half an hour later, I come to the hidden wall leading to a tunnel similar to the one connecting my own basement to the sewers. I open it, rushing inside and closing the door behind me. The smell is still present, but so separated it is no longer quite so cloying. I take off the scarf, close my eyes, and breathe deep.

"Rough walk?" a familiar voice asks, and I open my eyes to a young woman with pale skin and shining green eyes smiling at me. Stocky and strong, with a face like a brick wall framed by short brown hair, she looks more like one who works construction than a university professor. "Wish it got easier, but it never does."

"Were you waiting for me, Alice?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Alice Finlay says, pushing off the wall. She's wearing a blue dress and a thick leather jacket, both stained from her own journey here. The tunnel is small, barely large enough for us both to crouch in, but she still comes close. "I was hoping I could get you on side before we deal with whatever has Blackwell in such a tizzy."

"On side for what?"

Alice scowls. "You know what. I'm tired of waiting, and I'm not the only one."

"We've talked about this, Alice," I reply, pushing past her as best as I'm able. "Open conflict is coming, but I'm not going to encourage leaping into action just because you're itching for it to start."

"Why do you restrain yourself?" Alice asks, grabbing my arm. "You can see the writing on the wall as clearly as I do. All those fat cats in the Senate, all those moneyed interests directing them, they're eating us alive! The whole damned country! We have to act!"

"We must be sure it is the right time to act. We only have one shot at this."

"How can you wait?" Alice asks, her voice coming out in a growl. "Your daughter-"

"Yes, my daughter," I snap back, wrenching my arm away as I turn to face her. She flinches as I move my face right up to her own. "Who is being possessed by a monster. My daughter who I will do anything to see free, even if it means having to wait for the best moment to strike. Because failure means Aidric Dunstan owns her forever. That is unacceptable. And if I can wait, then you and your contacts in the universities can wait."

We stare at each other in silence. On Alice's face, so wide and expressive, there is a resigned weariness laced with anger and fear. Anger at the world, and fear for it. But it's directed at me, as well. Because while I can't be sure what face I'm making, I know for damn sure what comes across in my eyes. I won't budge on this. Any possibility of defeat cannot be tolerated, not against an enemy as vast and callous as the one set against us.

Alice is the first to look away, her lips twisting in the riotous display of emotions still crossing her face. To a degree I empathize. This is the world she and her students are going to inherit. It only makes sense that she demands action.

Slow, careful deliberation can be torturous when everything is coming apart at the seams.

I knock on the door in a rhythm of two, three, and then two again. That's the signal that we're allies and not police or military attempting to sneak close for a raid.

The door, hidden behind the bookshelves lining the walls, opens up into another basement. Unlike mine, this is more like a smoking lounge than a storage room. Above is a small electric chandelier, a carpet of interlocking geometric patterns lines the floor, and in the center are a number of plush couches around a small table. At that table are three men, all of whom look up as Alice and I enter.

"Fatima," says a man a few years older than me in a well-fitted black uniform with its golden epaulettes, gray at his temples and in his neatly trimmed beard. It mixes well with his naturally black hair. "You didn't need to take the sewer route. No one would bat an eye if you'd just gone in the front door."

Colonel Gavin Blackwell is a large man, tall and broad of shoulder, with a face lined before its time with stress. He smiles, and I wish I had it in me to smile back. I'm too tense, lightning racing through my blood, so I don't respond to the carefully managed "romance" he and I have been cultivating in order to distract from why I visit him so often.

Though perhaps there's more truth to those rumors we've developed than we might admit to our fellows. The colonel is easy on the eyes, and I've noticed him glancing at me when he believed I wasn't looking. I certainly wouldn't object if he proposed. At least, I wouldn't if we manage to accomplish what I fear we'll be forced to attempt very soon.

We're not the first group to work against the government. We're not even the only one, if reports of violent unrest simmering up in the Kaledon Highlands is accurate. That's not even getting into the assault at Kirwick a few months back. Alba has plenty of enemies within its own borders who are more than willing to get their hands dirty.

To the best of my knowledge, however, we're one of the longest-lasting. Those who lead the empire have a vested interest in crushing dissent when it arises, and more than one conspiracy has been broken over the last century. Blackwell and I came together in common cause a little over ten years ago, slowly gathering like-minded people in a loose network to share information and aid.

Then the upper chamber passed its law on the act of possession, stole my daughter from me, and things had to change.

"This meeting is dangerous and stupid," I reply, taking off my suit jacket. I throw it across one of the couches and glare at Blackwell. "I'm being watched. I'm sure some of you are as well."

Blackwell's eyes narrow. "How do you know?"

"A police officer responded immediately when I was being accosted by a drunk," I reply. "There have also been cars with the same people going up and down my neighborhood in regular intervals. It's sloppy, but that just means the people observing me have either gotten careless or Dunstan wants me to know I'm being watched."

"It might not be as bad as you think," Blackwell says. "Military Intelligence has been asked to step into roles normally reserved for other departments. Something has happened in the Intelligence Bureau, and that gives us a window of opportunity."

"Yes, you mentioned that," a small, reedy man in a gray suit with thinning blonde hair says from one of the other couches. He darts his blue eyes from the left to the right, wringing his hands together. "Do you know anything more?

"I've assigned some of my people to follow up on it, Jacob. We'll hopefully have more information soon."

"Please let us know when you do," Jacob Hanley says, leaning back onto the cushions. They swallow up his small, skinny frame as if he were made of sticks. "Too many unknowns are bad for business, especially the kind of business we get up to."

"Lighten up, Hanley!" the last man says from the other side of the same couch, slapping the back of it with one large, calloused hand. He laughs as Jacob flinches. "Blackwell might be almost as stuffy as you are, but he's solid. He won't steer us wrong."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Fergus," Blackwell says wryly. He waves a hand at me and the still sullenly silent Alice. "Sit down, you two, and close the door. We've matters to discuss."

Fergus McCoy laughs again, his green eyes twinkling beneath a rough mop of red hair, and reaches for the bottle on the table. He pulls a small metal cup from the pocket of his denim overalls and pours himself a liberal splash of whatever is inside, amber and smelling of floral spice, before holding up the glass to the rest of us.

"First, a drink!"

Jacob frowns, the twitching around his eyes revealing his irritation. "Must we do this every time?"

"Rituals are important," the larger man says. He takes a deep pull from the cup and hands it to Jacob. "If we're caught we'll all hang together, so while we're alive and working in common cause we drink from the same cup."

A sigh escapes from Jacob, but he accepts the cup and drinks from it all the same. I take my seat at one of the empty couches, Alice taking the other end, and he passes the cup to me with trembling fingers. The whisky is like smoky fire going down my throat, smooth and hot. It settles in my chest like an ember, and I finally allow myself to relax a little before passing the cup to Alice.

She drinks, smacking her lips loudly to Fergus' noisy delight. Jacob, for his part, simply rolls his eyes. Then Blackwell takes the whisky and finishes what's left, exhaling sharply and thumping a fist to his chest.

"Strong as always," the colonel says as he sets the cup back on the table. "You certainly know how to pick your drink, Fergus."

"I just know people," Fergus says, smiling. "Wouldn't be good at my job if I didn't. Now, why don't you get on with what you wanted us all here for."

"I'll get right to it. Fatima already knows this, but orders have been given to the military that after six months of solidifying gains around the border of Marak we're to push deeper into the continent."

"Have to keep the war machine moving," Alice mutters. "I knew the lull wouldn't last."

"The military can't keep up the rapid expansion the Senate wants," the colonel goes on. "Dunstan's plans are a stopgap measure, buying us perhaps another three years at most before we once more run into the same issues."

"How many others in the military have noticed?" Fergus asks. "It's got to be more than just you, eh?"

"Some, and I've made inroads there. But there are… competing interests that are muddying the waters."

"You mean all the businesses profiting off of the spoils of the colonies," Jacob mutters. His hands are back to their wringing with this news, fingers gliding over each other again and again. "Along with those who supply the army with uniforms and equipment. There's a lot of money moving around from the military being constantly active and no one wants it to stop."

"The world's going to want its pound of flesh when we start running out of men and women in uniform, alive or dead, to hold the line," Alice says. She leans back and crosses her arms. "If our 'dear leaders' don't already have a draft ready to go to send me and mine out to die for them, then they'll have one soon."

"Who else in the military do you think you might be able to bring to our side?" I ask. "You mentioned inroads. Is there finally enough discontent to start pushing?"

"Dangerous," Jacob mutters. "Going to get us all shot…"

"Yes," Blackwell says, settling his hands behind his back. "I believe I might be able to convince General Crawford of the necessities we have all seen."

That makes my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. Fergus lets out a low whistle, and Jacob shoots bolt upright to stare at Blackwell. Only Alice is silent, still sitting with her arms crossed. But her eyes gleam as she observes the colonel, standing ramrod straight at the head of the table.

"Now what makes you go and figure someone so distinguished would throw his lot in with us?" Fergus asks. "Man's a damned war hero."

"I've not done much as of yet, save put out a few feelers in his direction," Blackwell responds. "He's been recalled from the colonies for raising his concerns about the call for further expansion, as well as protesting the policies proposed for those regions."

"So the old man started to grow a conscience. Better late than never," Alice says. "You think that's enough to get him on board?"

"I believe it's worth trying."

"It's too risky!" Jacob shouts, slamming a hand on the table. We all turn to him, his face flushed with the whisky and shining with sweat. He wipes a hand across his thinning pate and goes on, turning to each of us with wild eyes. "Too much is happening too fast! The Intelligence Bureau starts suffering unknown problems, relying on the military to pick up the slack, and now Ernest Crawford is being recalled? Am I the only one who smells the trap you all are so keen on walking into?"

Silence reigns as we all continue to stare at the little man. Jacob has never been this outspoken before, normally preferring to let others talk. But the fear on his face, twisting an expression already so overtaken with anxiety, is new to all of us. His eyes are wide, his lips drawn into a thin line. He wipes a hand across his scalp again as sweat continues to pour off of him, soaking his shirt and settling the loose fabric onto his skinny frame.

At this moment he reminds me of my ex-husband. Randall also lived with fear, hiding it behind everything he did. It never released so explosively, however. For Randall, it was simply a constant in his life and ultimately what ended our marriage.

As quickly as the mania overtakes him, it vanishes. Jacob cringes at our regard, slumping back into the couch and tugging at his collar. The redness in his cheeks fades away, leaving him even paler than before as the strength brought on by the alcohol passes on. He puts a hand to his chest, taking deep breaths as he visibly attempts to steady himself.

"What would you have us do, then?" Blackwell asks, his voice deliberately soft. "Should we simply let this opportunity pass us by?"

"I just want us to slow down and think," Jacob says, so quiet I can barely hear his words. "We don't know enough, and that's more than just risking ourselves. People could get hurt."

I take a deep breath. The whisky Fergus provided is strong stuff, and that one drink I took is having an effect. Even more, I'm tired. It's been a long day, with many more long days ahead. That's enough to wear down on anyone. It certainly seems enough to wear on Jacob, who must have been holding in all his reservations until now.

Jacob looks up at me as I lean forward across the table and put a hand on his knee. He's such a slight man, so bony and thin. Although he's around my age he looks so much older with his thinning hair and papery-pale skin. This world and its cruelties weigh on him, and I'm afraid I will have to add to that if we're to have any chance of a better one.

"Are you willing to kill?"

Jacob blinks, his surprise evident as he shudders away from my hand. "What?"

"Let me clarify," I say, sitting up straight. "I don't mean a senator, or one of the leaders behind big business interests. I mean the soldier who believes they're doing their job, or the factory worker who is afraid for their livelihood. Are you willing to kill them in order to achieve our goals?"

"I… That's…" Jacob brings both his hands to his chest as if to protect himself. "But we shouldn't have to!"

"You're right, we shouldn't," I say, keeping my voice firm. "But we will. I don't bring this up to catch you in a dilemma, but to impress upon you that this is war and that those are never bloodless. We're talking about the possibility of revolution, and revolution is war. People will die no matter how careful we are. We have to prepare ourselves for that eventuality."

"And when does the killing stop?" Jacob whispers. "When does it end?"

Now there's the important question. The question that keeps me up at night, wondering if I'm a madwoman dragging the rest of the world into my insanity. I grimace, knowing I don't have a good answer.

Because for me, it ends with my daughter free and Aidric Dunstan's ghost vanishing in the wind. Preferably he would be screaming on his way to Hell, but I'll take what I can get. Only when I have Kendra back in my arms will it end.

But those demons in the upper chamber won't abide that. They've seen they can take all their riches past death itself, and they will fight tooth and nail to keep them. The battle is existential. For them, it is eternity. For us, it is our future and the future of everyone who comes after.

Alice is smiling, something I pointedly ignore. She stands up and walks over to Jacob, placing a hand on his trembling shoulder. Alice kneels down so they're both at eye level with each other, and Jacob visibly forces himself to look at her.

"It ends when the country isn't eating itself and the rest of the world," she says. "When you don't need to live in fear looking at your numbers, and I don't have to lie awake at night wondering when I and all my friends are going to be forced at gunpoint to go to war for the profits of dead men."

"And everything before?" Jacob asks. "Even with Crawford on our side… We won't be able to get enough of the military on board to simply remove those in the Upper Chamber from power."

"War is already happening," Alice says. "We just have the luxury of not having to see it here."

"I know what goes on in the colonies," Jacob snaps, his eyes narrowing to glare at her. "I've audited it. I've done the math showing how blood turns to treasure! I've gone overseas and looked through the books and tallied all of the suffering we've inflicted on those poor people! "

"This is part of the reason I asked for this meeting, rather than just sending messages," Blackwell says. "Tensions are high, and I want to be sure about our resolve. Because we're entering a critical stage. Over the years the Upper Chamber of the Everlasting Senate has been removing more of their restraints, coming down harder on protest, and if we don't act soon I fear we might lose our chance to stop greater tragedy. That means taking risks, but we can prepare for those even if our enemies are attempting to lure out dissent."

"Explains a lot, that does," Fergus says. He sighs, but when he looks at Jacob it's with a smile. "We need you, Jacob. You're a wizard with numbers and all your work with the money guys helps keep everything we're doing afloat. You want to know more before we move? Well, we can do that as best we're able. But time is running out, and we need all hands on deck. Are you with us?"

Jacob is silent for a long time, looking down at his hands. He opens and closes them, and I observe how joint and muscle and bone move together. His fingers are ink-stained, but I can't help but wonder if he sees a different color there.

None of us are clean. Each of us, to greater or lesser degrees, has participated in the obscenity that is the Alban empire. We have each enjoyed prosperity bought by the suffering of others, even as we feared we might be the next to be devoured. But that doesn't mean we can't do something, can't throw ourselves against that awful behemoth and say "No. This is not right."

I will these thoughts to Jacob, think them with every ounce of strength I have. Because while I might not have had this exact conversation with my fellows in the Lower Chamber of the Everlasting Senate, I've gone over much the same topics. The words are different, but the spirit is the same.

If we do not stand together, then we will die alone.

"Yes," Jacob says at last. "God help me, yes. I'm with you."

I release a breath, and see Blackwell's posture relax a fraction out of the corner of my eye. Alice nods, while Fergus gives Jacob another smile and a friendly jostle with his leg. Jacob does not share their exuberance, the skinny man letting the couch devour him once again as he keeps staring down at his ink-stained fingers, but he doesn't shy away either.

"Right," Blackwell says. "To that end I want you all to start getting people ready to move. Work through your agents and get everyone who needs to know up to speed. I'm not sure when our moment is going to come, but I know it will be soon. When it does, I want us to be ready."

"It'd be a lot easier for me to get the unions organized if I could just talk with the various representatives myself," Fergus says, standing up and dusting off his overalls. "They're hard put thanks to Dunstan's little stunt with the homeless and the workhouses, and having a face to match with the marching orders would go a long way to easing their minds."

"Compartmentalization of information," I say, grabbing my jacket. "Telepathy might be a rare skill, but we can't be sure which necromancers are versed in it and which aren't."

Fergus opens his mouth to reply, but the door leading upstairs opens and I'm on my feet before my thoughts have a chance to catch up. I reach into my jacket and pull out my baton, snapping it open, and take a step toward the stairs. Blackwell raises a hand before I can go any further, which thankfully keeps me from bashing one of his people over the head. To his credit, the young man in plain clothes does not flinch at the motion. Judging by his posture he's a soldier, likely one of Blackwell's hand-picked agents.

This is all but confirmed when he salutes the colonel, one hand snapping up to brush short brown hair. Blackwell turns his attention fully to the young man, and waves a hand to put him at ease.

"I trust you've a good reason for intruding on this meeting?"

"Yes, sir," the young man responds. "We've had a break in the mystery surrounding the disturbances within the Intelligence Bureau. We think we have an eyewitness to what might have happened."

"How can you be sure?" Blackwell asks. "It's only been a few days."

"Too much activity around the upper Altyne River, sir," he says. "Necromancers directing revenants to search for something. They're doing their best to keep it quiet, but you can only do so much when moving around that many bodies. We managed to slip in close and abscond with who we believe they were searching for. We've got him inside the city now. He's near dead, but if we're lucky he'll make it through."

"Who is it?" I ask, collapsing the baton and putting it back in my jacket. "It must be someone important if they're going to such lengths to find him."

The young man pauses, looking over at me. Then he takes a deep breath and says, "It's Randall Dunstan."

The jacket slips from my fingers. Everything has gone very quiet, even though I can see Blackwell's lips moving to further interrogate his subordinate. Alice and Fergus are also on their feet, trying to get a word in, but I cannot hear them over the ringing in my ears. Only Jacob does not move, continuing to stare at his hands.

Randall Dunstan. A man I've not spoken with since our daughter was taken away from us. A man I believed had left my life forever.

I grab the bottle of Fergus' whisky and take a deep, long pull. I don't stop until every drop is gone.

You who come from across the sea
With dead men walking so carefree
A question, if you permit me

You use our lives to fuel your fire
All with the claim we should aspire
Gratitude lest we draw your ire
Thus moves the world by your decree

Is your arrogance so complete
Are you so blinded by conceit
You cannot see your own defeat
Rising to final apogee

Without or within, it will show
As your pride itself brings you low
Beckoning your ultimate foe
You who come from across the sea
-A Promise



Darkness.

You float alone in darkness, encompassed on all sides by a void so vast that it seems to hold gravity unto itself. It presses on you, gently but firmly driving against your skin like ten thousand needles. In response there is a pulse within you, pressing back. It is this that has kept you whole in such an inhospitable setting, kept you from dissolving utterly into that formless black.

With every pulse, there is pain. Push and pull, with you at the center of these two forces. It twists you this way and that, turning you around and around in this endless space emptied of everything but the sensation of weariness and the dull ache that has become your world. Sight and sound are lost, as are taste and smell. There is only touch, with the void pressing in and the force within you pressing out.

There is only a dim awareness of self beyond this torment, only the barest dregs of ego to separate yourself from this vacant realm. In its own way, the pain helps with this. To hurt is to be separate from that which inflicts the hurting. Disparity, separation… It is a small thing, all told, but enough for you to hold on to something of yourself.

On and on this goes. You do not know for how long you have been in this place that is not a place. Time, like most of the senses you would use to perceive its passing, is without meaning. You may have been here for but moments, or perhaps have languished in this abyss for the span of eternity. Without a frame of reference, without context, it is all the same.

So it is that you almost don't notice the change when it arrives. It comes as a new, unique pain in contrast to the gentle throbbing of push and pull. After some time you realize it is in your ears, that something is making them hurt in a different way than what you have become so accustomed to. It takes even longer for you to comprehend that the reason for this is noise has intruded upon the silence, battering against your atrophied hearing such that even this faint impression is enough to make you writhe in fresh convulsions of suffering.

With effort you turn toward the sound, forcing yourself to move with an expression of will. In the distance there is light, like a flickering candle. It blinds you, and you press your hands instinctively over your eyes to protect them. Spots dance, and in that dancing you recognize that you have vision.

More of yourself returns, for with harmony broken there can be more discerning of distinction. You are a man. You are a man with a name. With that name comes identity, proper separation from formless chaos. Identity brings forth thought, and with thought comes understanding. With understanding comes horror, for you recognize the sound that has helped you return to yourself.

It is your daughter, and she is screaming.

"Kendra!"

It is an attempt at a shout, but your voice comes out only as a whisper. Your throat is atrophied, withered from so long locked in mute stillness. With overwhelming effort you exert your will on your surroundings with force only desperation can bring and push yourself toward her.

"Kendra!" you croak, breaking into a coughing fit before you can speak again. "I'm coming!"

It is so much effort to keep going, to go even just a little bit further. Your muscles scream, your flesh tearing as you set yourself against the weight of this place. Every previous agony is magnified a hundredfold. Existence is pain, and anguish, and misery that seems as if it will never end.

You do not care. Your daughter needs you, and that is all that matters.

You can see her clearly now, shining brightly against the darkness. Her curly hair turns this way and that as she struggles against ethereal chains, fighting against their pull as they attempt to drag her deeper into the obscuring depths. So close now you can understand it is not just fear in her screams, but also rage. Your daughter does not abide her confinement, will not meekly accept her circumstances, and even in your terror you cannot help but feel proud of her courage.

Kendra notices as you approach so agonizingly slowly. Still twisting against her bonds, she reaches out to you with one hand trembling against the chains. You force your own hand out, your fingertips inches away from reaching her.

From the out of the darkness comes the face of Aidric Dunstan, your grandfather. He is grotesquely huge, every line and wrinkle as large as a man framed on that enormous visage even as the rest of him disappears into the void below. It is so similar to your own, yet still so different. The eyes are sharper, the lips thinner, with stark white hair haloing in a wispy cloud. How many times have you awoken in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, having seen that face in your nightmares? How many times have you looked in a mirror and loathed the resemblance, perceiving him on your skin? The monster you can never escape from.

The chains around Kendra lead to him, into his mouth as Aidric opens it wide. They drag her back, drawing her inexorably away from you and into the immense depths of your grandfather's designs. Kendra struggles, but it is no use. Aidric's's power is beyond her strength. You attempt to push forward, but it is similarly futile. Your grandfather doesn't even notice you, and the pressure from his closing maw drives you away with force akin to a hurricane.

"Dad!" Kendra yells as she is engulfed, still fighting despite the futility of her efforts. "Dad, help me! Please, help me!"

The mouth closes. You cannot see your daughter, cannot hear her cries. There is only the smiling face of your grandfather looming over you, indifferent to your screams.


You are still screaming as your eyes snap open. You claw at the air, limbs thrashing and fingers spasming as you fight against the remnants of that terrible nightmare. Then your throat locks up, and with a strangled cry you fall from the bed you were lying in and tumble to the floor in a tangle of sheets.

The pain has not stopped with your awakening. If anything, it has become worse. Every nerve is on fire, ripping apart at the seams, and you collapse from the bed in a twitching heap. You cannot breathe, can barely even think, through the awful burning that has become your reality.

Then I move in. I soothe the pain, numbing its touch upon your flesh. The inferno ebbs away, fading to dull embers, and blessed relief comes as you are one again able to force air into your lungs. You take in deep breaths, trembling where you lay, and try to organize your racing thoughts. It is difficult, for your stomach is tight and your heart is beating so quickly you fear it might burst. It pounds against your chest, a constant thumping that resounds to your ears, and with effort you slow your breathing until at last the world begins to make sense and you can perceive your surroundings.

You are in a plainly adorned room barely large enough for the bed. Sunlight is coming in from a thin window set near the ceiling, giving you enough to see but not allowing you to view the outside world. The walls are whitewashed with no adornment, though beneath it you can make out the faint outline of brick. On the floor next to you is a stand for a saline drip which tipped over as you fell, and you can trace the line to a needle embedded in your arm. Sparse for a hospital, but seeing as you're not chained to the bed you figure it is unlikely to be a prison.

Which is only marginally comforting because you have no idea how you got here. The last thing you remember is an explosion, then weightlessness and the cold embrace of the river. Everything past that is a blur, suffocating cold mixing with formless dreams as you fell in and out of consciousness. Until, at last, the horrible phantasm your mind conjured that forced you awake.

"What…" you gasp, gripping the edge of the bed to pull yourself upright and free yourself from the entangling sheets. The effort nearly renders you senseless, the room spinning in a harrowing twirl before I am able to once more separate you from the sensation of your body's agony. "Ellowyn, what's happening? Where-"

This is all you manage before the pressure welling up inside releases itself violently. At first you choke again, and then retch as blood streams from your mouth to splash all over the floor in a crimson tide flecked with black. The whole ordeal lasts only a few seconds, but it feels much longer until finally your stomach ceases cramping and you lean back against the bed feeling raw and empty.

"Unpleasant," you mutter, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Ellowyn?"

You're dying, Randall.

"I already knew that."

Yes, but it's worse now. The explosion, and then the river… It took so much to keep you alive, and you had so little left. I'm sorry, Randall. I'm not sure you'll last the month, much less the year.

"A month? Is that enough time? Is…" The fingers of your right hand twitch. You stare down at them, eyes narrowing as you try and fail to make them stop. "Nerve damage?"

Among other things, I reply. So much of you is broken that without my presence I don't think you'd be able to function. I'm blocking most of it, but it's a fine balance between making you able to move and rendering you comatose.

"Then we'll need to act quickly," you say, forcing your shaking hand into a fist. It is a meager gesture, but it gives you strength to pull yourself up off the floor to sit on the bed. "We know where the engine is now. The capital, you said before? That's enough, and what life I have left will have to see me through to the end."

You won't need to face it alone.

The door opens before you can ask what I mean. You tense, ready to unleash what power you can in this weakened state you've found yourself in. Any such thoughts die immediately upon seeing the woman who stands in the doorway.

Fatima Dunstan… No, it would be Fatima Hajar now after the divorce and her retaking her old surname. She is how you remember her, beautiful and strong in a dark red suit set with sharp edges to present outward the immense inner strength you know she holds. An affectation for the benefit of those foolish enough to mistake her for anything other than what she is, who might believe her nothing more than a foreigner ignorant of Alba and its ways. It is for those unaware that they stand before a woman of titanic willpower and drive to alter the course of the world, no matter the cost to herself.

She stands in the sunbeam coming from the window, making her dark skin shine with radiance as she looks down at you. A strong face framed with straight black hair takes your measure with hard eyes. It brings back so many memories, both of joy and of sorrow, to gaze upon her now. Nights of extraordinary passion when you both found you could align in common cause, and nights of quiet bitterness when you could not.

Is she thinking of how the latter became more frequent than the former, in the end? Does she think of how neither of you could find ground to stand on together, and thus had to go your separate ways? It is something you considered often, before Kendra was taken, dreaming of Fatima's hand on your own as you slept alone in an empty bed. It is something you cannot help but consider now.

Fatima sighs, and her expression softens. The smile she gives you is sad, but it relaxes the set of her shoulders as she takes her hand away from the door.

"Hello, Randall," she says. "It's good to see you awake."

[] Stay
[] Flee