A Vision in Bronze; A Sidereal quest

You relent, attuning the brush to your Essence with a thought. "Thank you, Sapphiria. It's beautiful," you say.

Sapphiria looks distinctly pleased. She slides a piece of paper over to you. You test the brush by writing a few High Realm characters down the page's length — they flow beautifully, changing colour at will. "I'm glad you're enjoying something better than you liked that poor coffee," Sapphiria says.

You put the cap back over the audient brush again, slipping the resulting hairpin carefully into your hair. "I enjoy most things more than I like coffee," you say. You pointedly take a sip from your cup anyway, declining to make a face.

"I will choose to take it as a compliment that my company is worth suffering through my excellent taste in coffee," Sapphiria says, as magnanimous as any queen.

"I really need to introduce you to some decent tea, someday," you say.

"Well! You can't take that back now. I may hold you to it in the future," Sapphiria says.

You give a quiet laugh. "I suppose you might."

A moment passes in companionable silence — a true rarity, with Sapphiria. You find yourself thinking about something she said earlier, for all that it's a bit of a dismal topic to return to. "Did you really see worse things done to people than being trapped in stone and thrown into the sea?"

Sapphiria looks at you with a sort of curious surprise. She hadn't expected you to linger over this. "Oh! Yes. On the steps of the Pavilion of Perfected Power in Ysyr is a collection of golden statues. Flawless down to the last detail. Men and women locked in the throes of pain and terror."

You have a very bad feeling about where this is going. "They're not really statues, are they?"

"They're not," Sapphiria agrees. "It happened almost a century ago. A gang of rebels attempted to take control of one of the sacred engines of Ysyr. They were trying to hold it hostage to force concessions from the magocracy. They failed — obviously. Open-Handed Yasza, the woman who I trained under, devised the working to curse the survivors with immortality. After all these decades, it still holds."

"I see," you say. You dislike the note of ghoulish admiration in her voice for the skill behind her mistress's atrocities.

Something of your discomfort must show in your face. "The engines are the heart of Ysyr and the source of our power. People need to know that tampering with them or crossing the magocracy will not be brooked. And surely this wouldn't shock you." Sapphiria seems genuinely puzzled. "You grew up in the Scarlet Empress's own palace. You must know of your own share of horrors."

Your mind goes to stories you've heard about Houses Cathak and Ragara crucifying rebels and bandits. The Empress ruining whole prefectures in reprisal for rebellion by the house controlling them. The dark dungeons far away from the dignified beauty of palace life. You hadn't been forced to witness any of these things yourself, the faces transfixed in agony or the starving villages, but you'd known of it. "Never where I had to see it."

"You are alarmingly honest with yourself sometimes, Grace. I enjoy that." Sapphiria's smile takes on a softer, more bittersweet cast. This time, the admiration for her former mistress is tinged with a familiar sort of loss. "She once told me that for the truly powerful, kindness and cruelty have to be two sides of the same coin. One can't last in the world without the other. It was certainly true of her."

"The powerful often think so," you say, contemplating your faint reflection in your coffee.

"Oh?" Sapphiria leans forward, bright green eyes hungry with sudden curiosity. "Do you, Chosen of Venus? Are you kind to the people who threaten your faction's social order? Rebels? Enemies of the Realm? Forbidden lovers threatening your oh-so-important marriage schemes? Do you bring them joy too?"

There is no doubt in your voice as you tell her: "I don't kill people unless it's necessary, or do more harm than I have to."

"And your 'Anathema'? Or are they conveniently not people for these purposes?" From Scattered Silver, this would have been a heated accusation and a prelude to an argument about the necessity of the Wyld Hunt. Sapphiria, by contrast, enjoys such arguments. She simply wants to hear what you'll say.

"I don't torture them," you say, frowning. "I don't take pleasure in death or pain. It doesn't sound as though Open-Handed Yasza can say the same."

"She's famous for her charitable works and generosity," Sapphiria says, not without a faintly defensive note. "It's where her name came from."

"Did she give herself that name, the same as we both did ours?" you ask.

"Ah. Well. Yes. Really, though — she could be extremely magnanimous to the people who were hers. But I won't deny that she had a vindictive streak." There's a look in her eye that you've seen before.

You think back to the first time you met Sapphiria, over three years ago. You had been in Nysh, a Ysyri vassal state in Northern Gralon, resolving a monstrously complicated familial dispute within a powerful merchant clan. You had only just finished when Heaven sent word to you that, by their best predictions, an Oracle was in the process of Exalting in the Chalcedon Mountains. You'll never be certain whether it had been mere luck that put you so close at hand, or the Maidens playing subtle games amongst themselves. Regardless, despite your never having brought another Sidereal into the fold before, you could get there before anyone else, and so the task had fallen to you.

You had found her days after Jupiter had fully Chosen her. Mistaken for a spy, she had been stripped of all finery and pride and confined in a dungeon beneath a mountainside palace. There had been a terrible hurt in her eyes, a furious, heartbroken betrayal that you see the faintest ghost of now. It hadn't, as you'd initially thought, just been the destruction of her life or the loss of the opportunity to live as a sorcerer-prince that had brought that on.

You realise now that Sapphiria had loved Open-Handed Yasza, the woman who had thrown her into a cell and forgotten she existed. That she still loves her.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you reach out with the most delicate touch of Essence. In your mind's eye, the thin strand of fate that links Sapphiria's heart to another far away glows blue amid the warp and the weft of the world. With a subtle effort, you follow it.

You've done this many times before, traced the bonds, delicate and breakable, between friends and lovers, family and bitter enemies. This is different. There is something strange about this bond, something unnatural, unholy. Hellish. There is no give to it, a sentiment horribly transfixed in amber, not a living, breathing relationship that can break or change over time. Despite your unease, you follow the thread to its destination.

As your mother still loves you even when she doesn't know your face, so too does Open-Handed Yasza still feel for Sapphiria even years after she has been driven out of all memory. You have to force yourself not to recoil at what you find. True, Yasza reciprocated Sapphiria's feelings in a sense — she had cared for Sapphiria in the way one cares for a prized toy, or a work of art one has shaped with their own hands. The feeling is both proprietary and cruelly grasping.

You take a sip of coffee to mask your reaction. Is this why you've always been warned against Black Claw Style?

"What was that Dynast you belonged to like?"

The question from Sapphiria catches you off guard. "I didn't belong to anyone," you say, a defensive note of your own creeping into your voice. "I was born in the Realm, I was a free Realm citizen and a servant, not a slave."

"But you had to do as she ordered, and she ostensibly protected you in turn," Sapphiria says.

"Yes," you say, "Lady Ambraea is a Dragon-Blood, and I was her handmaiden!"

"And if you disobeyed, she could punish you, and if you left, she could have had you tracked down and retrieved?" Sapphiria takes a long sip of coffee, clearly enjoying something in the bitter taste that eludes you.

"If I'd left without leave and without returning the rest of my wages for the year. I feel like you're being willfully obtuse, Sapphiria."

She shrugs eloquently. "You're fussier about these things than Hari is, sometimes. The Realm does love its artificial distinctions."

You let out an irritable huff. You're still privately too shocked by what you'd seen in Yasza's heart to be as rankled by this as you normally would.

"Fine. What was the woman you served like?"

You relent. "I knew Lady Ambraea all her life. She could be self-absorbed, thoughtless at times, even. But she was never cruel on purpose."

"Never on purpose?" Sapphiria asks.

You check the time in your head. "You'll have to ask me another time. I need to go." You pointedly take a long sip of the coffee, unwilling to waste too much of it, however it tastes.

Sapphiria watches you rise. "You don't sound completely eager."

You pause, taking stock. You suppose not. "Worthwhile training is often difficult," you decide. You know what is likely to be on offer, and are resigned to it. "Thank you again for the coffee, and the thoughtful gift."

"Until you deign to brighten my lonely days once more." Sapphiria says, remaining seated to finish her coffee.

You roll your eyes. You often find a long conversation with Sapphiria to be a little exhausting, even when it's not itself objectionable. She can be so unpredictable and so argumentative that you're usually on your guard the entire time. You don't feel that way this time, though — despite how harrowing part of what you'd learned about her today was, she has truly piqued your interest in a way that you just can't shake.

"I may look forward to it," you say.

---

The Forbidding Manse of Ivy, Division of Secrets headquarters,
The most Perfect Lotus of Heavenly Design,
Yu-Shan, the heavenly city

From the moment you set foot inside, the noise of the city beyond the manse's walls disappears entirely.

The interior of the Forbidding Manse is infamously mazelike, a densely packed warren of offices, libraries, laboratories, and archives. It's nearly impossible to keep track of what floor you're on unless you know where you're going, stairs leading up or down at semi-random, narrow hallways looping back on themselves unpredictably, or dead-ending just when you're certain you're finally getting somewhere.

Your own Division's headquarters is a place of light and pleasure and beauty, deceptively open and harmless. There is none of that here, and you can well believe the worst stories of this place. Ancient vaults containing terrors of the First Age, gaols in its depths housing prisoners who haven't seen the light of day in millennia, places where you can lose yourself more than just physically.

Fortunately, you have a guide. A small god, veiled and quiet, had been waiting for you in the entranceway. You followed him now down a tight, wood-panelled corridor, his footsteps not making a sound against the thin carpet underfoot. As you went, you'd tried to recall if the specific route he'd been leading you on had been one you'd taken before, and quickly give up.

The office of Chejop Kejak, Chosen of Jupiter, is a small, unassuming place tucked away on an inconvenient floor of the Forbidding Manse. Famously, it is the same one that he was assigned when he first came to Heaven thousands of years ago, a cramped, unpretentious little room almost entirely taken up by his desk and his personal files. You have been there before, sat across from him on the same plain wooden chair that the many great and powerful gods who have called on him there have been forced to use. The affectation of humility can be its own show of power.

You're not being taken to that office this time, though. As you'd implied to Sapphiria, you're not here simply to have a quiet conversation with your mentor.

"You did well, considering the time and resources at your disposal."

The training ring is technically in an open courtyard, but it's still located in the depths of the manse. Walls rise up on all four sides, impossibly tall, the glimpse of sky overhead oddly claustrophobic. It makes the space seem smaller than it really is. You stand at one side of the practice ring, greenish sand underfoot. Across from you is the unquestioned leader of the Bronze Faction, a central architect of Creation as it exists today, and one of the most powerful men in Heaven.

Unless interrupted by violence or other misfortunes, a Sidereal's lifespan runs anywhere from three thousand to five thousand years. A fixed number that is set for each of you from birth, which can never be extended, only whittled away. The man standing across from you is well over four-thousand, finally nearing the end of his life. He shows it in the lines of his face, the white of his neatly-trimmed beard and the hair he has left. He's still obviously anything but frail, still standing straight and tall, his body lean and well-muscled. This is particularly obvious with him dressed for the training ahead, his pale torso left bare.

You absolutely refuse to recall any horrible comments from Lew about how spry he is.

"Thank you sir," you say, inclining your head. "But?"

This earns you a thinly amused smile. "Grace, don't rush me while I'm praising you. It's impolite." Kejak's eyes are a darker shade of green than Sapphiria's, but no less sharp.

"You seemed as though you were working your way up to a 'but'," you say. Your tone and posture are deferential, but not obsequious as you look at him expectantly.

He gives a very slight sigh. "Always in a hurry to hear the worst," he says. Still, he moves on to the constructive criticism of your methods that you'd known would come. It always does. "Could you have avoided having to throw yourself alone into the path of a Solar swordsman if you'd chosen a different ambush site? One further removed from the support pillar that they intended to bring down?"

You mull over the details you'd considered countless times when you'd planned the ambush in Bittern. "... Yes. No places that were both as suitable for hiding a large number of marines and Dragon-Blooded, and as empty of bystanders, though."

Kejak nods, as if this is what he'd expected. "What was your goal, first and foremost?" His tone isn't harsh or condemning. Still, he clearly expects you to have the right answer.

"To prevent Bittern from being destroyed, both for the sake of destiny and the stability of the Realm," you say. To say nothing of the thousands of innocent people who had never known their true danger.

"Would risking the lives of a few more bystanders have been worthwhile to ensure that you did so?" he asks.

You hesitate. "If... it had been necessary."

"And who else present was there to decide what was and wasn't necessary? Lew Stojca is reliable and skilled in a fight, but you know that he isn't a leader, Grace. He looks to you for such decisions. It came down to you."

"Yes," you admit, frowning at where you can see this is going.

His voice is oddly gentle as he continues: "If things had gone differently, if you'd failed, what would have happened? We would have lost two Sidereals, an entire city, and what fragile peace in the Realm we have all fought hard to maintain these past seven years. House Peleps would have lashed out like a wounded animal, and millions would have suffered for it. Beyond that, our capacity to guide destiny on the Blessed Isle would be drastically reduced, a situation that would spiral outward to the rest of Creation and take many years to fix. What is the more selfish choice? Leaving that possibility open, or shouldering the responsibility of a few lost lives to save many more?"

"I see." It's a logical objection to your tactics, given the stakes at hand. Still, something inside you rebels at the thought process.

He studies your pensive bearing. "I am not chastising you, Grace. I am teaching you. I didn't lie when I said you did well. You recognised the danger, organised a full Wyld Hunt on short notice, successfully orchestrated the destruction of a Circle of young Solars, and averted catastrophe. I do not regret trusting you with this matter."

You force yourself to relax, struggling to reconcile your mixed feelings on the matter. "Thank you, sir. That means a great deal."

"I would like you to reflect on this. Compassion is not a fault in a Joybringer, but there are times where acting on it extracts a cost that others have to pay as much as you do, where you must set it aside. You make things harder on yourself than is needful."

"I will give it thought," you say.

He nods, ostensibly satisfied. Still, while it's hard to tell exactly what he's thinking, in times like these. It's hard to shake the feeling that he's looking for something in you that you're not sure you can live up to.

To your mixed relief and trepidation, he moves on to the other topic you'd expected. "You have fully mastered Throne Shadow Style," he says. "Your successful use of World-as-Weapon Mastery against the dying Night Caste proves that. You remember what we discussed before?"

"Of course," you say, your heart picking up a little. "I've been studying, as you suggested."

"You've been wounded recently. You know what this training will involve. Tell me now if it will be too much for you today. Even in their rudiments, the veiled arts of Heaven are more demanding than lesser martial arts," Kejak says. You're entirely certain he'd accept a 'no' from you, but you're almost as certain that he would think a little less of you if you gave him one.

You also don't want to wait. Even with the techniques he has at his disposal, you're all so busy that you can't be sure when the next opportunity will arise. There isn't time to take things slower. You need to learn whatever he's willing to teach you while you still can. "I've recovered enough. It won't be a problem."

You bow to him, and assume a fighting stance that still feels rough and unpracticed. By the time you leave here today, the physical movements, at least, will be nearly second nature.

Article:

The Sidereal Exalted are known as unparalleled martial artists for a reason. Conventional wisdom holds that only they can devise and teach the Sidereal Martial Arts, the greatest secret arts of the Fivescore Fellowship. Each as much a meditation on a specific cosmic principle or fundamental concept as it is an advanced fighting style, they are strange, esoteric, and extremely powerful.

Having fully mastered an ordinary martial art, your mentor, Chejop Kejak, feels that you are ready to begin training in your first Sidereal Martial Art style. You have previously discussed this with him, and between the two of you, you have settled on style.

This is a long-term character direction vote. Grace will continue to study and grow more proficient with this martial art throughout A Vision in Bronze, and it is likely to partially affect her outlook over time.

What style are you studying?

[ ] Charcoal March of Spiders Style

A brutal style that emulates the rapid, skittering movements of pattern spiders and explores the concept of consumption. Students of the style are capable of spinning strands of pure Essence to entrap their enemies. Masters are capable of venomous techniques to devour Essence, matter, and souls, as well as reweave a victim's very fate.

This style will challenge Grace, both physically and philosophically. Consumption is a natural part of the world and it is not without its own cruel beauty, but it is neither kind nor gentle. This isn't beyond her, though. It will be extremely effective in her hands, honing her existing combat skills in a particularly lethal direction, and helping her defend her allies more effectively than she already does.

[ ] Emerald Gyre of Aeons Style

A style that uses characteristic spiraling movements for power and evasion, as well as to emulate the neverending flow of time, in which there is no end and no beginning. Students of the style are capable of bursts of foresight, as well as slowing and even reversing the flow of time in limited ways. Masters can entrap their enemies in endlessly repeating cycles, borrow power from their future selves, and even claim scores of lives in a single instant.

For all its challenges, esoteric mysteries, and lethal potential, as Grace has already experienced, Emerald Gyre is an extremely powerful teaching tool for advanced practitioners. Its methods are harsh, but exceptionally fast and effective. This can serve as a continuation of the mentoring techniques that she has learned in Throne Shadow Style. It will require Grace to hone herself through abstract thought and mind-altering substances.

[ ] Prismatic Arrangement of Creation Style

An exclusively-unarmed style focusing on strategic pushes and indirect strikes to disrupt and redirect. It is a meditation on the flow of Essence through all Creation, an ancient and foundational Sidereal Martial Art and a common first choice when a Sidereal selects one to study. Students of the style learn to emulate and manipulate the Essence of artifice, geomancy, other Exalted, and fate itself. Masters learn to heighten and combine these practices into techniques of immense power.

Prismatic Arrangement of Creation is a highly versatile style with a host of techniques that have utility both in and out of combat. In particular for Grace's purposes as a Sidereal commonly working in the Realm, it is an exceptionally good style for Sidereals who wish to disguise themselves as other kinds of Exalted, perfectly emulating the volatile elemental anima banner of a Dragon-Blood in a way no other technique can. Her training would lead her to studying the Essence of many kinds of supernatural beings and supernatural locales.