A Vision in Bronze; A Sidereal quest

"When I Exalted, I was nineteen," you say.

"That's almost as bad as Lew," Hari mutters, vaguely appalled.

"I was never as young as Lew is," you say with what you feel is a great deal of justice. "It was almost a year exactly, once I finished training, before I went back to the Imperial City to see my mother. She didn't know me of course, but I could tell she wasn't well." You feel your shoulders slump at the memory. "It had only been two years since the last time I'd seen her, but she was so much... older, frailer than before."

"I've heard many people say the same about their parents as they age," Hari says, with what is probably intended to be a comforting tone. It's hampered by your knowledge that her parents are both Dragon-Blooded and likely look younger than she does.

You shake your head. "No. My mother spent decades telling herself, and me, that it didn't matter what had happened to her. The invasion of her homeland, her enslavement halfway across Creation... everything that happened in between. As long as I had the chance for a better life. It was a little suffocating sometimes, but I was all she had." Lohna had cared for Ambraea deeply, and had raised her with care, but Ambraea had never been hers the way Grace had been. The realities of rank and power had never made that possible.

"Arcane fate didn't just fill in the details?" Hari asks, looking less and less comfortable with the direction of this story.

"It made her forget me, and she didn't question that I was gone," you say. "But I was still missing. It couldn't make her stop loving me."

"Too much to hope it would only hurt for us," Hari mutters.

"Your family's situation wouldn't be so bad," you say. "They have each other. Aspirations for the future they can still work toward." They hadn't pinned all their hope on Hari — she hadn't been a child of the Sword hanging over her loved ones' necks.

Hari nods slowly, although you're not sure if this has been any help. "Did it help your mother to bring her here?"

"Yes, actually," you say. "It may just be that Heaven agrees with her, but I think that she is happier now that we're together again. Even if she only remembers who I am occasionally. You know your family and what they need best, but keeping up contact isn't only for our benefit, if you choose to do that. Part of them may still know you, and need what you can give them."

Hari is silent for a long moment, in which she finishes off her dumpling. You take a bite of yours as well for the sake of commiseration, although the subject has sharply lessoned your appetite. "Right. Thanks, Grace. I'll think about it," Hari finally says, her tone as hard to read as ever. "What was the message?"

You know a change of topic when you hear one, but it's fine by you. You've said your piece, and she'll need to sit with it for a while. "I've been probing for information about who the fifth Anathema at Bittern was. Someone came back with a lead."

"You don't seem entirely enthusiastic," Hari says, looking at your face.

You're not. "I'm sure it will be a productive meeting," you say. Which is true enough, but doesn't address the concern that Hari is picking up from you. Sometimes, the problem isn't one of productivity.

"Oh, one of those," Hari says, smiling thinly.

---

The Crimson Panoply of Victory, Division of Battles headquarters,
The Most Perfect Lotus of Heavenly Design,
Yu-Shan, the heavenly city

You pass through the ring of smithies, combat schools, and artisanal prayerwright workshops that surround the Crimson Panoply. The streets here are wide and regular, designed to not offend the martial sensibilities of the gods who the proprietors intend to profit from, or at least to bask in the glow of.

The Panoply itself rises up from a defensible position on a hill, for all that it hasn't seen actual combat in millennia. From a distance, it can be taken for a fortified military encampment on a massive scale, rugged wooden walls encircling tents of crimson silk. On first impression this renders it deceptively mundane compared to the more fantastical structures of the other Divisionary headquarters — this changes as you get closer.

When a Sidereal first comes to Heaven, working with gods is a difficult adjustment for most. For you, the gods of Yu-Shan are not distant beings of great and terrible power. Even more than for most Exalts, overnight they become peers, superiors, and subordinates. Merely people, good and bad, selfless and venal, kind and cruel.

The second trap to fall into after learning that lesson, however, is to expect them to be human. They simply are not. Gods are spirits — unaging, undying, not truly feeling the pang of hunger or burn of thirst. Their outlook, motivations and morality are not the same as those of humanity. This is part of why Immaculacy is necessary as an intermediary force between gods and mortals on Creation, as controversial a position as this is among many gods. Their actions toward ordinary people must be constrained somehow, in the face of the Bureau of Heaven continuously failing to uphold its own laws.

Still, as one grows more used to them, the gods of the Bureau of Destiny in particular can become close colleagues, friends, or even lovers to the Sidereal Exalted. Inhuman or not, their positions render them immune to arcane fate, allowing relationships with them to form and grow naturally in a way that a Sidereal can no longer take for granted.

As you approach the sturdy timber gates, one of the war gods standing guard steps forward. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily armoured, with the head of a hawk and talons where his hands should be. His partner is smaller, unassuming, the very model of a helmeted, blank-faced soldier.

"State your name, rank, and your business with the Crimson Panoply of Victory," the bird-headed war god says, in a crisp, formal tone that is not unfriendly, but could become so depending on your answer.

You don't balk, this isn't your first time. You draw yourself up straight and say: "Singular Grace, Chosen of Venus, of the Division of Serenity. Here for a meeting with Incarnadine Chorus, Warden of Unrighteous Slaughter, of the Division of Battles."

The bird-headed war god nods sharply. "Very well, ma'am. Please follow me." On cue, the gates behind him rumble open of their own accord, just enough to admit the two of you. You follow him through, offering the remaining god a polite nod on your way before they slam shut again.

In truth, the Crimson Panoply is a particularly grand and powerful manse, much like the headquarters of the Divisions of Serenity, Secrets, and Endings. Up close, the tents are revealed for what they truly are — larger than life, each carved from solid red jade so finely that they appear to be made of cloth billowing in the breeze. Between the tents are broad avenues and training yards.

The bird-headed god leads you confidently past row after row of tents, past ranks of his drilling fellows. It's hard for you not to find the general atmosphere a little oppressive — the Panoply believes in harsh discipline and a well-established chain of command, very different from the Cerulean Lute's looser, more personable style of leadership.

You aren't entirely surprised when you see a familiar face walking toward you in the other direction. There are only so many Shieldbearers in Heaven, after all. Scattered Silver, still dressed in humble sailor's garb, tosses off a lazy wave in your direction as he draws near. You stop short as he does.

"Hey," he says. The guard stops as well, offering Silver a salute and coming respectfully to attention, clearly willing to wait until he's done with you. Silver returns the salute with that certain air of suppressed impatience he sometimes gets — he occasionally chafes against the stricter elements of the Panoply's working culture.

"Hello, Silver," you say, offering him a tight smile.

"Keeping busy, Grace?" Silver asks. Despite his drab clothing, he has swapped out several of the piercings you'd seen him wearing last for flashier or more expensive looking pieces. In particular, a symbol of Mars dangles ostentatiously from one ear in rose gold, glittering in the afternoon sun.

"Aren't we all?" you ask, shrugging delicately.

"Yeah." Scarlet eyes give you a quick, professional once-over. Silver seems satisfied with what he sees. "You've healed up nicely enough. Good. I can stop hanging onto the worst of it for you soon, then."

"I appreciate you taking the trouble all this time," you say. "I'm pleased your eye is looking better as well."

Silver gives a slight shrug of acknowledgement, as if it isn't any particular trouble. He could reasonably have chosen to defer your wounds until you'd gotten back to Yu-Shan, and had had time to seek proper medical attention — more than one of your other colleagues would have, especially considering how contentious your relationship with Silver is at times. "So, what are you here for, anyway?" Silver asks.

"Chasing down leads on that 'dog' we discussed before," you say. If he'd minded drawing the attention of the Bronze Faction to that particular Lunar, he wouldn't have told you as much as he had.

"From who? If you can say," he asks, giving you a sidelong look.

"Incarnadine Chorus," you say.

"Huh," Silver says.

"She can be very helpful," you say, half-heartedly defensive.

"Sure, helpful. Just not who I'd usually imagine you working with." His expression has gone carefully blank.

"We've known each other for years, mostly through her wife," you say.

"... Right, I guess you would." If Silver had been unwilling to voice his feelings about Chorus in public, in the middle of the Crimson Panoply's grounds, he is significantly less willing to say what he thinks of her choice of spouse anywhere that it might get back to Chorus. The distaste in his tone is impossible to miss, however.

"You're well aware of the company I keep," you say.

"And yet I keep being disappointed anyway. You have that effect."

"You do keep telling me as much," you say, voice very cool. You refuse to allow yourself to look affronted.

He frowns, either in frustration with you, or regret for his choice of words — perhaps both. "Yeah. Anyway, good luck 'defending the Realm', Grace. I'm off to Creation again tomorrow."

"I do my best," you say. "Where to, exactly?"

"Satrapy in the West," Silver says, only half answering your question. He begins to walk away, tossing off a farewell wave as he goes. "Let's just say, I'm probably not going to be making your job any easier."

You allow yourself the tiniest of sighs as soon as he's out of earshot. "I'm sorry for the delay," you say to the guard.

"It's no trouble, ma'am," the bird-headed god says. He takes this as a cue to lead on.

Soon enough, he stops again at a specific tent the size of a large building, parting the mock-cloth flap for you to enter. "Thank you," you say.

The god nods, and lets the flap close behind you.

You find yourself in a hallway that is still keeping up the thin pretence of being in a tent, all the noise of the Panoply outside instantly vanishing. Plain wooden doors are set improbably into the 'silk' walls — You find your destination two doors down from where you begin.

Incarnadine Chorus, Warden of Unrighteous Slaughter, reads the door plate. You knock lightly, and are greeted immediately by a voice from within:

"Enter."

You accept the invitation, opening the door to step inside. Within is an office that is spacious, but relatively bare. A low desk dominates much of the floor space. To one side is a large filing chest. To another a glass-walled curio cabinet full of intricately worked miniature figures of the kind that the Crimson Panoply use on maps, or give as commendations. As you step into the room, you try to avoid looking at the morbid, viscera-esque pattern of the rug underfoot.

The goddess behind the desk rises to greet you, the movement made in eerie silence. She's taller than most men, statuesque and powerful. Her facial features possess a pale, sharp beauty, but are devoid of heroism: A Wàn warrior ideal brought to life and then betrayed by the horrors of war. Hair the colour of dried blood falls loose past her shoulders. Black eyes take you in with the flat, unfeeling stare of a jaded executioner. She dresses in the style of a late-Shogunate soldier — beside her desk, currently unworn but within arm's reach on a wooden stand, are her other trappings of office. Antique officer's plate armour flecked in red, paired with a dark mantle. Beside them, a spear with its point permanently wetted with fresh blood.

"Singular Grace," Incarnadine Chorus says, her voice calm and polite, almost soft. She gestures to the side. "Please, have a seat."

You attempt a smile, following her direction by kneeling on one of the cushions arranged nearby. Chorus follows suit, settling herself down across from you. Her unsettling stillness isn't quite predatory, you'd decided years ago. A predator is actually invested in killing its prey. Slightly incongruous, a gold amulet is pinned to her uniform near her neck, set with several Zephyrite pictographs in red jade. You remind yourself, as you often do when you're alone with her like this, that she isn't always this way. You've seen her bearing thaw, her empty eyes kindle with a kind of muted warmth. Only ever in private settings with those she is genuinely close to, though, never while she's in the office.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," you say.

An assistant appears standing over you both, a tea tray in her hands — it takes you slightly by surprise, but Chorus doesn't even blink as the woman sets it down between you, and pours. You're unsurprised to note that the cherry blossom pattern on the off-white surface of the cups looks a great deal like blood splatter. The tea itself is pleasantly fragrant, a Realm-style green tea flavoured delicately with jasmine, one of your favourites. You do your best to focus on that part.

"You're a friend," Chorus says, succinctly.

You aren't entirely sure how to feel about that, sometimes, and not only because of Silver's recent comment. Your ambivalence comes with a degree of guilt — Chorus is a bit of a monster by any conventional moral reckoning, but she's never been anything but generous and gracious toward you. You're well aware that a god is shaped by their purview as much as they're empowered by it. "Even so," you say. After a pause, you add: "I hope Nettle is well."

Chorus gives the slightest of sighs, barely noticeable. "As per her last message this morning. She's been on the Blessed Isle for months. A very complex problem involving the Great Coast Road and Great House troops pretending to be highwaywomen. I don't expect I'll see her again for at least several more weeks."

You had already known this, although it wouldn't have surprised you to learn even if you hadn't. Stinging Nettle, Chosen of Mercury, is Chorus's wife of several years, with whom you formed an unlikely bond after your first Wyld Hunt. During the course of that misadventure, Nettle had put herself on the line to keep you safe multiple times, getting her ribs smashed in by a Lunar in the process and necessitating you to save her life in turn. The Golden Barque and the Bronze Faction have both kept her even more busy than most, of late — she has a reputation for accepting particularly unpleasant or morally murky assignments without complaint, and is not well-liked by some of the Fivescore Fellowship's more moralistic members.

"Well, I hope her business there wraps up quickly," you say.

"I as well," Chorus says.

You pick up your cup, savouring the scent of the tea for a moment as well as the feeling of hot porcelain against your hands. "You said you had something for me about my mystery Lunar?"

"Yes," Chorus says. "I approached my sister, in the Bureau of Nature about the subject. She has dealings with the Silver Pact in the Southwest."

That gives you some pause. As far as the laws of Heaven are concerned, there is nothing illegal about treating with the Lunar Exalted. Their allies still strike you as dubiously reputable. "And her information is trustworthy?"

"Entirely trustworthy. When adequately paid for," Chorus said. "I called in a favour she owed me. My relations are not..." her mouth tilts down slightly, the most emotive she's been since the conversation began. "... Sentimental. Business is business."

"Thank you for taking the trouble," you say. You'll have to make it up to her now — you really must be friends for her to have gone this far on your behalf.

Chorus takes a surprisingly delicate sip of tea, tasting it thoughtfully before swallowing. "A Changing Moon Caste Lunar bearing the shape of an ill-favoured cur, called Bitter Cherry, has troubled satrapies in the South and Southwest for over thirty years. She departed for the West in the company of a Solar this past year. A woman of Western-descent from the Blessed Isle, born into slavery before Luna came for her."

"No one is born into slavery on the Blessed Isle. The children of slaves are Realm citizens, and not even the dispossessed can be made a slave for almost anything short of treason," you say. You force yourself not to grip your own cup uncomfortably hard.

Chorus blinks slowly. "For how long?"

"For well over two-hundred years! It was part of House Cynis's reforms when they were given the slave trade as their remit. It's why I was born free," you say.

Chorus nods slowly. "Creation moves very fast, sometimes. She may have merely been raised on the Isle, then."

This strikes you as much more likely, if she came to the Realm as a sufficiently young child. It isn't pleasant, but it's far from uncommon. You sample the tea — it's just barely cool enough to drink, but heavenly. "This is excellent," you tell Chorus.

"I recalled you mentioning you enjoyed jasmine," Chorus says. You don't remember when you'd said that in her hearing, but it's thoughtful of her nonetheless. She holds up a hand, and the lesser goddess appears again, this time holding a sheath of rose coloured paper dense with Old Realm characters written in what you know is blood. She's uncannily stealthy for an office aide. Chorus accepts it from her with a nod of thanks. "I have what I know of the Lunar, Bitter Cherry, compiled here."

"Thank you," you say. You set the tea down to leaf through it, eyes scanning over the Old Realm characters. Assuming this is the same Lunar — and enough details line up that it seems very likely — she has a penchant for focusing on satrapies controlled by House V'neef and House Peleps. You frown. "Mass casualties don't appear to have been her style," you say. Economic sabotage, targeted assassination and infiltration, yes. But something had apparently changed in her by the time she encountered Flotsam.

"No," Chorus agreed, "otherwise her name may have crossed my desk sooner."

Conflicts of interest are an uncomfortable reality of working with Celestial deities. A god's star can wax or wane with the prominence of their purview on Creation. This often drives already-well-positioned gods to maintain and spread their area of responsibility through both legal and less-legal means. For a goddess like Incarnadine Chorus, either option could look exceptionally bleak for the people of Creation.

You choose your words carefully. "If this Face-Stealer, Bitter Cherry's, plan had succeeded in Bittern, hundreds of thousands could have died. The Civil War may have begun sooner than anyone was prepared for, and in spectacular fashion. She no longer has a Circle of Solar Anathema working with her, but I have to assume her ultimate ambitions have not changed."

So why is Chorus going so far out of her way to help you? These things would keep her busy, but they would be very good for her career.

Chorus thinks about the implied question, watching the steam rise up from her cup. "I spent centuries staying out of the petty factional politics of the Sidereal Host. I was warned that marrying one would make that harder to keep up. I just didn't expect it to happen so fast."

"You're supporting the Bronze Faction because Nettle asked you to?" you ask.

Chorus covers her mouth and actually laughs — a surprisingly demure gesture for such a chilling sound. "Have you ever known that hopeless woman to bring politics into her personal life? No, she didn't ask me for anything of the sort. I just have no desire to see her become busier than she already is — I enjoy seeing my wife more than every three months, ideally. My purview will be fine regardless. Humans will always go to war and no war is ever as clean as they hope."

Whatever your misgivings about her, and whatever she might say about her family, you suppose that no one can say that Chorus isn't sentimental in her way. Or that she isn't a thoughtful spouse.

"Regardless, I am in your debt," you say.

"Don't let it weigh too heavily on you. You're a diligent woman — I'm sure you'll return the favour in due time," Chorus says.

You take a long sip of your tea. "Yes. Thank you." For now, you have plenty on your plate, including the leads she's just given you.

---

The Cerulean Lute of Harmony,
The Most Perfect Lotus of Heavenly Design,
Yu-Shan, the heavenly city

One month later

"Are you sure, Grace? This will likely be personal for you."

"Yes. I want to go," you say, staring down at the report in front of you. When it comes to House V'neef in particular, or even to the Civil War in general, it's always going to be personal for you in a way.

"I'm the best we have available for this task," you say. "And I have reason to believe this may be connected to the matter at Bittern."

You sit at a long table along with a handful of other gods and Sidereals, its surface carved from a single slab of lapis lazuli. Visible through towering bay windows framed by wrought silver roses, the sun hangs low over the horizon, the Golden Barque just barely visible against it. A harpist sits on a stool in one corner, plucking out a gentle, heart-wrenching tune.

"What's your thinking?" Shajah Holok, Chosen of Venus, looks particularly shabby in this setting. Dressed in a threadbare martial arts robe, he's short, compact, and muscular. One hairy-knuckled hand strokes thoughtfully through his wild beard as he regards you.

Steeling yourself to address a room full of people centuries your elder, you indicate part of your copy of the report. "Destiny wouldn't be snarling this badly over just one man at risk of eloping with the wrong person. Dozens of other destinies are falling into disarray. Even the number of Dragon-Blooded in attendance shouldn't be doing this — the spiders say that they've accounted for them. There is something more at play here than the ordinary machinations of the Great Houses. We have reason to believe that the same Lunar who played a part in the attack on Bittern has designs against House V'neef. There would be few better opportunities than this."

A lavish Dynastic wedding to take place in House V'neef's holdings in the Sideshores. It will be attended by many high profile scions of House V'neef — including the Matriarch herself — as well as those of their allies and the groom's family. You make no mention of the one V'neef scion most on your mind at the moment. It wouldn't help your case.

Holok nods, his expression turning grim. He takes Lunars very seriously. "It is certainly a possibility. You should keep a wary eye out, but make sure you don't lose track of the specifics of the mission."

A dainty yawn comes from the head of the table, drawing every eye toward it. There, a beautiful young man dressed in the finest silks has seemingly been dozing through the entire meeting. Now, he turns his dreamy, half-lidded gaze in your direction. "Yes, quite." he says. "That boy is destined to become a highly influential artist. His work is bold, experiential — it cannot be allowed to languish in obscurity because of an elopement to the Threshold. To say nothing of everything else tied to his upcoming marriage." The latter is added almost as an afterthought, despite ostensibly being the more important factor.

It's no accident that one of Yaogin's current favourite artists has ended up as the lynchpin of a vital marriage destiny in the first place. You have enough experience of your Division head not to even consider disputing his priorities to his face. His whims are to be followed where possible, worked around when necessary.

"Of course, sir. I know my duty," you say, bowing your head respectfully.

Yaogin flashes you the same dazzling smile that had once, briefly, stolen Venus's heart. "Good. I expect to learn that you did nothing less upon your return."

The rest of the meeting proceeds predictably enough — you are the best available Joybringer to quietly infiltrate a Dynastic wedding and prevent a guest from doing something rash, whatever else might be at stake. You don't think it was ever going to go another way unless you'd balked.

As everyone files out at the end, however, Holok makes eye contact. Following his unspoken request, you hang back to hear what he has to say. "As much as we need to make the Division head happy about this, I meant what I said — be careful. Your worries are credible."

"Thank you," you say. It does you some good to hear that, although you don't have hard enough evidence to actually receive significant backup.

"Keep yourself safe, and if you have to, use whatever allies you can. There are upshots to infiltrating a Dragon-Blooded party, as much as it makes things complicated. Especially ones you've worked with before." You both know what he's referring to.

"Yes, I know," you say. "With any luck, I'll be wrong, but I'll plan for the worst."

Holok nods. "Good. You know better than underestimating a Changing Moon, Solars or no Solars." He looks at you closer, though, frowning. "Is something else wrong, Grace?"

"It's just about the painter boy," you say. "We're encouraging mortals to undermine Immaculate teachings about iconic artwork."

Holok reaches out, and clasps you gentle on the shoulder. "We have to put out the fires in a house before we can look at patching up the roof."

You nod. "I understand." And you do, for all that it doesn't sit well with you. "I hope you can excuse me — I have preparations to make before I depart."

---

The Gilded House,
Heart's Rest District,
Yu-Shan, the heavenly city

You step through the front door into the house in the early hours of the night. You don't jump when the figure of the house spirit steps out of a nearby golden mirror — you're used to it.

"Good evening, Lady Grace, and welcome home," the featureless figure says. "And at a much earlier hour than usual. Do you require dinner, or have you already eaten?"

"Thank you, House, but I had a meal before I left the office," you say, already heading toward the stairs.

"I did expect as much," the house says.

You refuse to be shamed. "Is my mother still awake?" you ask.

"Miss Lohna is reading in her study at the moment, I believe," the house says.

You ascend the relevant staircase up from the main entrance hall, walking under the watchful eyes of the paintings as you go. You step out onto a walkway that leads in the opposite direction to your tower, heading for the small wing set aside for your mother's use.

As matches her preferences, Lohna's study is what passes for cozy in the manse, the furnishings markedly simpler than what Wayward Prayer's tastes had once been. Lohna is seated by her favourite window, reading one of the Dynastic tragedies that you'd brought back for her several months before. You're forced to admit that your mother has rather morbid taste in High Realm literature.

"Hello," you say, announcing your presence.

Lohna looks up in surprise — as expected, she doesn't know you. She sets the book down, getting to her feet and bowing. "Hello, my lady," she says, taking in your appearance. "Are you my host?"

"This is my house," you confirm. You offer Lohna a smile, and sit down on a nearby couch. "Please sit. I'd like to talk."

Lohna follows your directions, only hesitating a little. "Is something the matter?"

"Not quite. I just wanted to tell you that I'm going to be going back to Creation again very soon. I know you don't remember me at the moment, but it's important to me that I at least try to tell you when I do something..." you stop yourself from saying 'dangerous'. "... important."

Lohna stares at you for a long moment, frowning as if in effort. "You're..."

"A Sidereal, yes," you say, leaning toward her. "There's going to be a V'neef wedding at the Sidershores. Something there will go wrong, unless I prevent it. Lady Ambraea will be there." Your smile turns a little bit more wry. "I worry about what her outfits will be like. Her current handmaiden is competent enough, I suppose, but she's a little lax about a few things."

Lohna sits up in shock. "Lady Ambraea? You—" She gives a long blink as something shifts in her head. When she opens her eyes again, she truly sees you for the first time in months. She gets back to her feet, an apologetic look coming over her face as she crosses over to sit down beside you. "Peony. Oh, my flower, please forgive my absent mind."

"Always," you say, tension draining from your entire body. You don't let the prickling at your eyes become anything more substantial — you're not a girl anymore, and it would be ridiculous to break down crying every time you have some version of this exchange. Still, you certainly don't resist as your mother puts an arm around you, pulling you into a hug.

"And you're leaving again," she says.

"Soon," you agree. "Preserving destiny, saving the Realm. Just the usual."

Lohna frowns. "Are you going to be in danger?" she asks.

"I hope not," you say. "There's a boy from the groom's family who may run off with an attractive stranger. I need to stop him from doing so. Trust me, it's important."

Lohna nods slowly, her expression growing increasingly pensive. She pulls away to get a better look at your face. Her hand stays on your shoulder, her grip tightening. "What aren't you telling me?" she asks.

You hesitate. "Someone may cause problems. You know what Dynastic intrigues are like."

You're not quite sure she believes you, which is fair enough — you're not being entirely honest after all. Still, she swallows it. "Is Lady Ambraea going to be in danger?"

"You know she isn't helpless," you say.

"Occasionally oblivious, though," Lohna says. It's not something she would have dared say so overtly when she still lived in the Imperial Palace.

"Yes. I'll keep an eye out," you say.

Lohna nods. "I chose you, Flower. And I'd choose you again. But I raised you both."

You take in a deep breath, swallowing down a rush of mixed emotion. "I know, mama. I'll be careful for both of us."

"Good. I know you will," Lohna says. She manages a smile, finally letting go of your shoulder. "While we have time, why don't you tell me what I've missed over the past few months. Just, talk to me."

"Alright," you say. "Almost right after the last time we spoke like this, I attended a dinner party hosted by a goddess of war atrocities."

"That sounds awful," Lohna says, without a moment's hesitation.

You laugh. "It had its moments. She's actually quite a good host."

The two of you talk late into the night, about your life and your colleagues and your friends. When your mother wakes up again the next morning, she will remember none of it.

---

Private island estate of Matriarch V'neef,
The Sideshores, off the coast of the northwestern Blessed Isle,
Creation

It's unseasonably early for a party in the Sideshores. An archipelago scattered off the Blessed Isle's northwestern Storm Coast, they are home to many manses and island getaways for affluent Dynasts. In the summer, the waters around the islands are filled with pleasure vessels, the nights playing host to gala after gala. Then come the winter storms — the individual islands are protected from the worst of it by ancient artifice, but few want to be trapped there through the worst of the gales. Most Dynasts depart by late autumn.

It's the very edge of spring, winter reluctantly releasing its grip on the island. Nonetheless, it will soon be awash in Dynasts in their best finery, here to celebrate the matrimony of a daughter of House V'neef to a groom from House Cynis. The timing was selected to avoid the worst of the Peleps presence in the neighbouring islands. Still, more than few of their ships are moored at some of them, their flags glaring across the cold waves in a distinctly unfriendly manner.

The sentry, Wood Sparrow, stares out at them as she walks her rounds along the walls of the manse, drawing her green and puple cloak tighter around herself. If she's honest with herself, this whole arrangement makes her nervous. The matriarch and a good number of the most important women in House V'neef present under one roof, along with a number of equally well-heeled Dynastic guests from the other houses. It seems like tempting fate — Sparrow prefers this job when it's merely cold and lonely, not actually dangerous.

While the evening has seen things quiet down, by day the estate's grounds are already abuzz with preparations, ships arriving daily to disgorge staff and supplies to prepare the place for V'neef's arrival. The estate itself is a Water Aspected manse, all crystal-clear waterfalls and floating gardens lushly in bloom even during the winter. Its deceptively ornamental walls sprawl out over much of the island, eventually giving way to snow-dusted ever-green forest on the island's northern edge. For Sparrow, the splendour had been overwhelming at first, even relegated as she is to the guards' barracks most of the time. Familiarity has gradually made the shine come off of things.

Sparrow's route along the walls takes her beneath a wide archway, briefly out of sight of the rest of the grounds. As she passes through it, a woman brushes past her.

"Pardon me, ma'am!" the woman says, giving Sparrow a deferential dip of the head as she goes.

"It's no problem," Sparrow says. But she frowns, glancing over her shoulder for the woman — she'd been dressed as a servant, Sparrow thinks, but it's hard to keep any of her features clear in her head. And what was she doing up on the walls? The woman's already out of sight, though, and Sparrow attempts to put her out of her mind.

As Sparrow continues on her route, she feels a little strange. A numb tingling starting at her wrist and working its way up her arm. Despite the crispness of the evening air, she feels a feverish sweat start to break out on her forehead. By the time Sparrow's legs give out from under her, she's very nearly to the next archway.

Surprisingly strong arms catch her, dragging her fully into cover. Sparrow tries to struggle, but her limbs feel like iron, her spear dropped and forgotten back out on the walkway. Her attacker kicks open a hatch inside the arch, carrying Sparrow down into a storage space within the wall as if she weighed nothing.

Sparrow is dumped unceremoniously on her back, still unable to move, unable to speak or cry for help. It's increasingly difficult just to breathe.

The strange servant woman from before is kneeling over her, an unsettling expression on her face. Half apologetic, like she's just slammed a door Sparrow's face. She has brown skin and purple-black hair. An ugly scar on her neck bears the distinctive appearance of a hastily-defaced slave brand, a contrast to the cleaner scar that slices across the bridge of her nose. How had Sparrow ever thought a woman with eyes this hard had been forgettable?

"I'd like you to know, I don't take pleasure in this," the woman says, speaking Low Realm as a native would. "I try to only do as much harm as is necessary." She already has a knife in her hands as she says it — heavy-bladed and terrifying.

Sparrow tries one last time to scream for help, but she can't. By the time the knife parts her throat from ear to ear, it had been all she could do to force air into her lungs. She barely manages to gargle out a few more breaths before shock and blood loss finish what the poison had already begun.

It's a mercy, in a sense. When the strange woman uses that knife to open her chest and cut out the still-warm prize within, Sparrow is already well beyond pain or fear.

End of Arc 2

Article:

You have been sent on a solo assignment to the Sidershores, a chain of islands off the coast of the Blessed Isle, in order to infiltrate a high profile wedding between a daughter of House V'neef and her Cynis groom. There are many tactics that you can employ to do this — what is your approach, and what special preparations do you arrange?.

Resplendent Destiny

What is the main resplendent destiny and cover that you use to infiltrate the wedding?

[ ] [Destiny] The Lovers

A handmaiden, well-trained, ornamental, and obedient. Even given some differences in situation and status, coming back to something so close to your old role is a little like returning to a childhood haunt — a mix of easy familiarity and forgotten discomforts. Somewhere that looks larger in your memory than it really was.

This role will allow you to pass overlooked by the great and the powerful, and will give you broad if conditional access to most of the estate during the long days of the wedding gala. It will not be very difficult to come up with excuses to interact with and guide your primary target. This cover will infer upon you no social status at all other than your association with your mistress, a dance you've had to walk before.

Gilded Cage Entrapment: You allow fate to place you legitimately into the employ of a Dynast at the centre of the event. Passing yourself off as a wedding present from the groom's family, you will be put into the bride's personal service and, unnaturally quickly, into her confidence. With this relationship enshrined by the magic of the Lovers, you gain subtle advantages in several areas. You are easily able to discover the bride's private affairs, and become supernaturally empowered to scrutinise those who believe you to be their social inferiors without being noticed, hiding in plain sight — with this particular destiny, that will be very nearly everyone. People want what they can't have: you appear more beautiful and desirable than normal to everyone other than your mistress.

[ ] [Destiny] The Peacock

An Exalted patrician from a family close to House V'neef, using an identity that several in attendance would have heard of, but none will have met personally, a woman married and long since settled into the role expected of her. You have become accustomed to passing yourself off as a Dragon-Blood at need, even if there is still a lingering strangeness to it.

Dragon-Blooded patricians have an odd status, at once standing among the Princes of the Earth and as social inferiors of the Dynasty. While this can create complications, you can wield this ambiguity to your advantage. As a scion of the Cirrus family who ostensibly spent most of her time in the Threshold over the past two decades, few of the Dynasts here will be intimately familiar enough with the patriciate to catch you out. It will be simple enough to seek out your target and to navigate the estate during the party, but this cover will make you and your movements conspicuous.

Masque of the Uncanny: Twisting the strands of your own fate around yourself, your disguise allows you to superficially but convincingly mimic the Aspect Markings and anima banner of a Dragon-Blood as long as it is intact. Flaring your anima will not damage or suppress this resplendent destiny, although a particularly keen observer may notice something strange about any magic you wield. Your anima may manifest as a storm, but it is ultimately an illusion.

[ ] [Destiny] The Sword

A mortal Dynast, far past any hope of Exaltation, quietly settled into a life in her siblings' shadow. An obscure cousin of the groom, just one of many lesser scions in attendance among their betters. It is a role you once observed from a distance, and have grown to emulate over time.

Yours will be a relatively unremarkable presence as long as you manage to navigate the social minefield of Dynastic life. As a distant cousin of your target, you will have little trouble approaching him and presuming to establish a rapport, and you will not be greatly questioned in your travels within the estate. A mortal Dynast is still a Dynast — only the Dragon-Blooded will stand above you.

Preparation

What other special preparations have you made? You may vote for as many options as you like as normal, but you will have the two options with the highest number of votes at your disposal for Arc 3.

[ ] [Prep] Complete guest list

A complete and accurate list of all party guests, which you have memorised. A useful thing, when you suspect a shapeshifter may be at work.

[ ] [Prep] Flawless credentials

While you have the capacity to gain admittance regardless, you have taken great pains to obtain a forgery that even supernatural scrutiny will be unlikely to pierce.

[ ] [Prep] In-depth knowledge of the estate

Systematic Understanding of Everything: Forcing yourself to sleep through the night once again, your dreams have revealed secret insights as to the design and layout of the manses of the Sidershores.

[ ] [Prep] Trusted contact

As part of your cover, there is a trusted contact at the party who can assist you in blending in and carrying out your task, although how much they know and the precise nature of the ally depends on your disguise.

[ ] [Prep] Weapon

Not wishing to be caught empty-handed in a crisis again, you have smuggled in one of your weapons of choice, and will have it onhand in case of an emergency.