House V'neef wasn't even around when house Iselsi was murdered and consists primarily of adopted Partician and Outcast citizens. There is no reasonable cause for house Iselsi to see her joining V'neef as becoming an enemy, there simply a very bitter former great house whose hatred of the ones responsible has been expanded to include the dynasts as a whole. Even forming her own great house would still see Ambraea as there enemy in their eyes.
House V'neef ascended in the power vacuum left behind by House Iselsi's fall. It's why V'neef pressed her claim to a Great House when she did. V'neef also subsequent got a lot of Iselsi's old satrapies and resources. They didn't participate in Iselsi's slow destruction, but they shamelessly profited from it.
House V'neef ascended in the power vacuum left behind by House Iselsi's fall. It's why V'neef asked when she did. V'neef also subsequent got a lot of Iselsi's old satrapies and resources. They didn't participate in Iselsi's slow destruction, but they shamelessly profited from it.
The start of Iselsi's fall is outside of a human lifetime but inside the lifetime of most older dragon-blooded, which shapes a lot of the dynamics. (Including very cursed generational dynamics inside Iselsi.)
I really liked the V'neef in this update too. You simultaneously got a realer connection and a clear sense of how they are sisters, but she still couldn't help...being V'neef about it? And I got a stronger sense here of why V'neef is like that. That she has been playing the realm's great game since she was very, very young, and usually the only winning move available to her was take up space and shine. Early on, otherwise she would have failed her own ambition and her mother's expectations and become something quieter or lesser, but eventually she's entirely trapped inside it. She's made rivals and outright enemies with her rise, for the crime of being the Empress's favorite and being good at shining, and she can't make them love her or spare her by shrinking away. All she has is the ascent.
House Iselsi's destruction was deliberately slow and gradual. They attempted to assassinate the Empress back in Realm Year 643, over a century before The Last Daughter takes place. The Empress spent that time slowly carving the house apart, while the other Great Houses took this as a perfect excuse to tear them apart the entire time. They were finally, officially struck from the rolls in Realm Year 740, and there are now only a few patrician households still openly using the name Iselsi. V'neef ascended to house founder in Realm Year 754, fourteen years later, but this is still recent enough that she still benefited undeniably from House Iselsi's destruction.
Article:
Every house save V'neef, though, played an immediate role in House Iselsi's destruction, and even V'neef exists at Iselsi's expense, raised up to fill the vacancy among the Great Houses.
House Iselsi's destruction was deliberately slow and gradual. They attempted to assassinate the Empress back in Realm Year 643, over a century before The Last Daughter takes place. The Empress spent that time slowly carving the house apart, while the other Great Houses took this as a perfect excuse to tear them apart the entire time. They were finally, officially struck from the rolls in Realm Year 740, and there are now only a few patrician households still openly using the name Iselsi. V'neef ascended to house founder in Realm Year 754, fourteen years later, but this is still recent enough that she still benefited undeniably from House Iselsi's destruction.
Article:
Every house save V'neef, though, played an immediate role in House Iselsi's destruction, and even V'neef exists at Iselsi's expense, raised up to fill the vacancy among the Great Houses.
Oh that is interesting. The Empress made them an example and tool all at the same time.
Also this is the fate that would have waited house V'neef of she didn't press her claim isn't it? Mnemon focuses her attention elsewhere, but her dislike and unlikeliness of intervention are known to houses great and not, with house V'neef picked apart just as slowly as house Iselsi and meeting almost the same fate in the end.
Oh that is interesting. The Empress made them an example and tool all at the same time.
Also this is the fate that would have waited house V'neef of she didn't press her claim isn't it? Mnemon focuses her attention elsewhere, but her dislike and unlikeliness of intervention are known to houses great and not, with house V'neef picked apart just as slowly as house Iselsi and meeting almost the same fate in the end.
Just want to add on to this - while I'd always found Exalted cool, this quest is what really got me into it; even made me get the 3e books. Thanks for that.
Just want to add on to this - while I'd always found Exalted cool, this quest is what really got me into it; even made me get the 3e books. Thanks for that.
Same here. I didn't read the 3e books until I got into this and a couple of other Exalted quests on this forum. And this is the one that made me see why people like Dragonblooded so much and appreciate them a bit more.
The Exalt type that got me to seriously try getting into Exalted were Lunars, but the ones that ended up actually hooking me were Dragon-Blooded. My favourite these days are probably Sidereals, but I still really love Dragon-Blooded.
Out of all the Exalt types, they're the most intertwined into the like, fabric of the cultures that they come from, existing as they do as the product of families and bloodlines, and existing in enough numbers that they can actually form societies. From the way that you can have weirdo little clans of Dragon-Blooded like the Grass Spiders or the Cult of the Violet Fang or the Wanasaan, to the major Dragon-Blooded dominated powers like the Realm, Lookshy, and Prasad, to how specific cultures like the Lintha or Champoor just have an established way that they handle outcaste Dragon-Blooded and integrate them into their society. This means there's a lot to dig into in terms of like, the weight of legacy, familial and societal pressure that being an Exalt doesn't let them easily transcend or skip out on. Their positioning on the "power scale" of the larger setting and among Exalts in particular also means that they're both extremely powerful in most circumstances and sort of scrappy underdogs in others, in roughly the opposite way to how Solars interact with the setting.
So, I love roleplaying and writing Dragon-Blooded, and places like the Realm with its toxic values and mundane cruelty and the staggering decadence of the Dynasty, where amongst this all, regular people have just been living their lives for good or ill for hundreds of years. Not every Exalted story is about shattering the status quo with your mere presence and trying to right every wrong that irks you enough. Sometimes it's about exploring that status quo, and Dragon-Blooded are the best kind of Exalts to do that. This makes them really well suited to this kind of narrative quest and to similar fanwork.
The Exalt type that got me to seriously try getting into Exalted were Lunars, but the ones that ended up actually hooking me were Dragon-Blooded. My favourite these days are probably Sidereals, but I still really love Dragon-Blooded.
I love the idea of Lunars but sadly they have felt disconnected from the underpinnings of the setting and I doubt 3E will be the last attempt to try and shoehorn them into it in some fashion. While Solars are nice, they are both the exalt type best suited for the singular person ruling from above rather than within an existing cultural framework and while there are ways to make "Perfection" an interesting theme, most cases of it are surprisingly boring. Sidereals are cool at times but the changes in how Yu Shan runs between additions (good riddance to the executing gods on trumped up charged just to get enough starmetal) as well as the difficulty in making their self-inflicted curse (Arcane Fate) interesting without going too much into the horrific part of it.
Sometimes it's about exploring that status quo, and Dragon-Blooded are the best kind of Exalts to do that. This makes them really well suited to this kind of narrative quest and to similar fanwork.
I think its less about the status quo and more that Dragon-Blooded exalted are better suited to encounter relatively mundane/relatable threats. Not only don't you need world ending threats to provide meaningful challenges where you run into the issue of creating new ones out of whole cloth and have them be interesting but they come pre-packaged with a nearly endless supply of such issues. For all that the Realm's key figures are a 700+ year old sorceress and her children/their descendents, the issues at hand are sufficiently mundane that they don't seem so fantastical.
I love the idea of Lunars but sadly they have felt disconnected from the underpinnings of the setting and I doubt 3E will be the last attempt to try and shoehorn them into it in some fashion.
As someone who got into the game through 3e, I don't find them particularly shoe-horned or disconnected. I didn't like, need to be convinced that they're important or that they have left an impact on the setting when Fangs at the Gate told me those things, it was the second 3e book I read, after skimming the corebook. The idea of the Silver Pact and the Shogunate/its successors and the Bronze Faction having been locked in this centuries long blood feud is one of the things I like the most about the basic scenario that 3e sets up, and it's probably informed a lot about how I look at the setting and the parts of it I care about the most.
I'm not really trying to start an argument about this, it's just a fundamental difference in perspective, I think.
Fair enough, it is just me being frustrated with the constant changes to Lunars given the potential they have. Starting in 3E certainly helps with this.
I feel like Lunars are pretty alike with the warewolves of WoD. A good idea that got polished in to a turd.
But as for splats, I think the one I want really play is elementals. Specifically Court of Ordered Flame sound like such a cool faction and their focus on spirits and gods from bottom is not explored by any real way.
Also there is an interesting point to be made in the fact that Gods couldn't fight against the primordials but elementals could. It is why their primal versions were used as distraction.
I feel like that could become revelant again if Yozi escape. They have potential to save the creation from both the yozi and as censors of the heaven from corruption of gods.
In addition to their being what got me into the game, I have been playing in the 3e Lunars game I'm currently in for about a year. There are a lot of very confusing negative takes about them that feel only very tenuously based in the actual game, sometimes.
I am going to continue writing quest content where it makes sense to use them as antagonists, though, looks like. They do make very good antagonists.
Yeah, Lunars are wonderful in this edition. They have some great powers, great themes, and they're plugged into the setting in a good way. They make great antagonists for most games that aren't specifically about Lunars, but they don't necessarily have to be an antagonist for most games that aren't playing an heir to the Shogunate. Outcaste DBs, Sidereals, and so on can definitely see more sides of Lunars. There's Lunars who openly rule their own empires, ones who steer societies from the shadows, ones who try to steer societies from the shadows and find that the locals have developed their own independent streak, Lunars who are deeply entrenched in studying various horrible mysteries, and so on.
I like playing Lunars quite a bit, myself, and one thing that I also enjoy is trying to envision how their opposite numbers see them. Lunars can be cultured and elegant masters of social graces, charming everyone they meet, and then tear someone's heart out and eat it. The Lunar doesn't see that as a contradiction, but it makes it understandable why Immaculate prejudices extend beyond the nominal Immaculate reach.
The Lunars who showed up in this quest were very good for showing the negative side of Lunars while hinting how it doesn't need to be only that. One of them was imprisoned for years in unspeakable conditions, and on escaping one of his first concerns is for his boyfriend. That's not a mindless monster... that's an intentional monster, based on what he decided to do.
That's one of the fun dynamics between Dynasts and Lunars. The Realm is, to a very large degree, still the evil empire of the setting. A hegemonic power that takes from those it defeats. But it's not a land of orcs and dark lords. This quest has gone to some lengths to show the human side within the Realm, how Dynasts see themselves as good and heroic people: they show their filial piety, they pay their dues, they work hard, they're gracious to those around them... and they are the main bulwark against people like Lunars, who will kill people to devour their hearts and steal their appearance.
Lunars are just as messy, in very different ways, and that tension is a very big part of what makes Creation feel alive and interesting.
The problem with Lunar was they seemed added after the world been established, and it'll need new edition where they're more established in the beginning.
Just want to add on to this - while I'd always found Exalted cool, this quest is what really got me into it; even made me get the 3e books. Thanks for that.
I got interested in Exalted in 2e but it's one of those "this seems cool but impossible to organize a game for and I'm not sure I'd want to use these rules anyway" systems/settings for me. Various mechanical aspects of 3e and the big ol' mess that was its publication history for the first few splats didn't make that seem more viable, so like a few franchises it's something where I cyclically get interested again, read a bunch of stuff, don't have an outlet, and my interest wanes.
One of the things that commonly dampens my enthusiasm is that it often felt like the books really wanted to tell me a ton of stuff that is secret from almost everyone and that having set in stone hinders more than help's a ST's or group's creativity - stuff like "here are the Deathlords and their past identities and the details of their interpersonal drama", etc. etc. - while at the same time giving far less information than I might want about what it's like to actually live in Creation, to have been a mortal prior to your exaltation, what your day to day life would be like, what you would have believed about the world. (I remember trawling through texts trying to figure out whether day/night lengths vary with the seasons.)
Part of what hooked me in first Rising in the East and then Last Daughter (aside from very good writing where sympathetic characters are flawed and antagonists are understandable) is that they both make Creation feel like a real place inhabited by real people with real inner lives and real reasons for seeing the world the way they do, that don't evaporate as soon as their circumstances change. We're shown Dragon-Blooded who justifiably see Lunars and Solars as horrible monsters, and mortals who see their own Dragon-Blooded mistresses as both socially and supernaturally intimidating, and monks who worry about the spiritual harm of doing expedient things with sorcery where the peasants can see it, and so on. Partly helped by the focus on Dragon-Blooded Dynasts whose powers are fully integrated into the expectations of the society around them, the quest is full of neat, thoughtful detail on how being a person in this world actually works day to day.
If anyone else thinks that this is a great Quest, among the best:
The Awards season has begun and we have confirmation by skippy that Last daughter can be nominated for best completed Quest even if the last update hasn't been posted yet.
Then I would say this can class within Completed based on a common sense reading of the rules. If people have already voted for it in "Ongoing" then I won't discount those votes as they were made in good faith.
Secluded training ground of House Ledaal, Howling Heart City, Howling Heart Prefecture
The Northwestern Blessed Isle
The city of Howling Heart is a lonely, secluded place. Surrounded by high mountains riddled with old jade mines, it takes its name for the sound of the wind whistling through those tunnels at night. For many of the common people, though, it has a darker meaning.
The ancient demesne is beneath the city itself, the metaphorical heart of the mountain. Vast and cathedral-like, it's filled with speleothem formations larger than a woman is tall, lit throughout by an eerie half-light, the ambient Essence in the air induced to a thin twilight glow. Properly capped, it could make a particularly large and powerful manse, but House Ledaal has had very different uses for the place.
Ledaal Anay Idelle forces her breathing to stay steady, her mind to focus. She stands in a trench in the cavern floor, narrow and mantled in flowstone like the bars of a cage. It's part of a maze that snakes its way through much of the demesne, a mix of natural rock features and the old scars from jade mining in centuries past.
The gloom seems to deepen the further into the maze she goes, her path now lit by the red glow of her own anima and the sorcerous will-o'-the-wisp that trails slightly behind her. In one hand she grips the shaft of a short spear, its steel blade dark with the shed corpus of profane spirits. In the other, she consults the cracked mirror bound to the back of her bracer, searching its depths for any sign of movement. Idelle tries to ignore the sensation of blood slowly seeping out of the claw marks torn into one of her legs. The spectre she'd dispatched already hadn't gone down without a fight.
Idelle steps out into a wider part of the maze, stalagmites rising up on all sides. Blocking out the pain and the prickling fear at the back of her mind, she takes in a deep, meditative breath and lets it out, falling back on her Golden Janissary training to deepen her senses. She feels the presence of dark spirits like a foul taste in the air and her eyes find a patch of unnatural darkness amid the stalagmites reflected in the mirror.
Idelle turns on her heel, her spear already pulled back. Letting out a defiant shout, she strikes at the place where the ghost's twisted midsection should be — it's wrenched into the material world with the force of her will and isn't fast enough to escape being speared through its wizened chest. A searing, golden light begins to blossom from within the ghost's corpus. As she pulls her spear free, holy flame begins to burn it from the inside out. It rakes bone-white claws against its own shadowy flesh, trying to tear the flame out, but can do nothing.
Idelle is preparing for a followup blow when the third and final ghost attacks her from behind. It had been lurking immaterial in the deep shadows behind her. Now, it erupts into solidity on a gust of cold, fetid wind, claws and fangs outstretched in full pounce. Before it can touch Idelle, though, before she can even round on it, her will-o'-the-wisp acts first. It expands out into a sword of pure flame, intercepting the ghost's claws in a rain of sparks. That gives Idelle all the time she needs. She strikes the third ghost with a sweeping slash that catches it in one grotesquely-spiked shoulder, hurling it to the ground and pinning it there with the weight of purifying Essence.
It glares up at Idelle with pure malice as she drives her spear through its chest, spearing what passes for its heart. It dissipates in a rush of vile shadow. Behind her its fellow is fully consumed by the golden flames, and follows suit.
Idelle pauses for a moment, seeking out any other trace of corruption in her surroundings, and finding nothing. She forces herself to relax while staring down at the place on the floor that the ghost had lain. "Do not come back. Seek out better choices in your next lives." She takes no pleasure in dispatching these wretched, twisted souls, beyond the hope that they will finally find Lethe and accept reincarnation back into the Perfected Hierarchy. It's the one thought that has allowed her to swallow her distaste for her house making use of the corrupted ghosts in this way.
She's startled when a voice calls down from above: "Compassion, for a mortwight? If you have time to spare on such sentiment, you must truly have nothing further to learn."
Idelle is still trying to identify where the voice is coming from when a figure falls down on her like a blue jade comet. Idelle barely has time to recognise the deadly length of a direlance in her attacker's hands. She tries to ready herself, but the flying spear thrust isn't aimed at her. The tip of the direlance catches her guardian sword squarely in the middle of its blade and shatters it into trailing embers. Idelle's own spear comes up to block the inevitable next blow, but no sooner has the newcomer landed then she spins the direlance up under Idelle's guard, slamming it hard into Idelle's breastplate and driving the air from her lungs.
Idelle falls hard to the ground, her spear leaving her hands, trying desperately to catch her breath again. Her attacker kicks Idelle's spear away, lowering the tip of the direlance to Idelle's throat. It's only then that Idelle fully processes that she has been struck by the butt of the weapon, not its lethal blade.
"Your skill is impressive, daughter," says Ledaal Anay, standing over her like an unyielding statue, "your dedication to your training and commitment to our cause undeniable. But your father's barbarian weakness still plagues you. I have told you before — A woman of our house must know how to harden her heart."
Idelle looks nothing like Demon Fang Anay. Anay is tall, pale, her dark hair sleek and glossy, her shoulders broad beneath her armour. Around her neck hangs a moonsilver serpent's fang, a trophy torn from the mouth of a slain Anathema a century past, and the source of Anay's enduring sobriquet. Her hard, grey eyes have never shown a trace of warmth when they've fallen on Idelle.
In her youth, Anay had fallen in with an Eastern outcaste named Gold Talon, a warrior exorcist and master of Golden Janissary Style. Together they had become near legendary shikari, fighting demons and Anathema, saving countless lives and inspiring even more stories. Anay's deeds and Gold Talon's unique aptitude had allowed her to convince her family to permit her to marry him, and he had proven to be an asset to the Shadow Crusade in the many years since. Anay married him for love, though, a weakness that she has never forgiven herself for.
It is hard for Idelle, who has inherited Ledaal Gold Talon's Aspect and looks, as well as much of his personality, to shake the feeling that her mother sees her as an embodiment of her own weakness.
"I... I, uh... yes. I understand, mother," Idelle manages, still looking up at the spear.
"Your understanding holds no value if it does not inspire action," Anay says, voice stern.
"Yes, mother," Idelle says.
Anay stares at her for several more seconds, before finally taking pity. She pulls the spear back, offering Idelle a hand up. When Idelle ignores it and pushes herself painfully to her feet under her own power, a rare smile crosses fleetingly over Anay's lips.
"I didn't realise you would be observing today?" Idelle says, making it sound like a question.
"You realising as much would defeat the purpose of the observation," Anay says. "I have learned more this way, I think."
"Well, um... I'm glad it was educational," Idelle says.
Anay gives her a hard, searching look. Idelle tenses up once again, perhaps hiding it less well than she might have hoped. Something in Anay's expression shifts, but before Idelle can take it in, her mother glances away from her to contemplate the place where Idelle had struck down the second mortwight. "How long have you been training in this place?"
It's difficult for Idelle to keep track of the hours in this place. "Today? Since... this morning. You know, early," Idelle says.
"That is the defining trait of mornings, yes," Anay says. She's still not quite looking at Idelle. "It's past time that you rested and had something proper to eat."
"Right," Idelle says, "I'll do that. Thank you for your... attentions." This is the first time she's spoken to her mother first hand in several years, after all. Her father had implied that Anay was busy, and not to be expected, so this is still all a little disorientating. She bends to pick up her fallen spear, not without a twinge of pain.
"You have spent seven years in study and training," Anay says, surprising Idelle. Idelle had rather thought she'd already been dismissed.
"I have," Idelle says, cautiously. It's the point of secondary school, after all.
"Training here, among our elite shikari, can hone your skills further," Anay says, her back to Idelle. "There is a limit to where training alone can take you, however. At some point, a warrior must be tempered by the blood of life and death combat."
Idelle might point out that she had been involved with the hunt for the demon lord, Yoxien, a little more than two years past. However, Idelle instinctively knows that having not been involved with the actual slaying of Yoxien himself, this example will carry little weight with her mother. "You have a suggestion?" she asks.
"I believe I have just made one," Anay says, without further elaboration. Then she leaps up and out of the maze without a backward glance, leaving Idelle to frown after her.
Idelle is still thinking hard about this exchange two days later, when in the early hours of the morning, an Infallible Messenger appears above her bed.
The Seven Glories Ampitheatre, the Imperial City
The Eastern Blessed Isle
The mortal woman on the stage below sings in a hauntingly beautiful soprano, her voice as pure and light as blue jade. It transforms her from merely passingly pretty into something truly captivating, even more than the form-hugging silk of her dress and the splendour of the theatre around her. It's little wonder, perhaps, that she'd once caught the Scarlet Empress's eye.
As the last trailing note of Rein Ilina's song fades away, your companion leans over to you, his smile telling you that he has noticed your rapt attention. "Have you seen her perform before?" Sesus Ambar asks. He's much the same as you remember him — slender and attractive for a man, the strands of his dark hair periodically lit by a ruddy red glow.
"No," you say, "but we met several years ago."
"Oh, really?" Ambar asks, instantly hungry for an amusing piece of gossip. "Where?"
You decide that there's no particular reason not to indulge him. "Coming out of my mother's chambers, in fact."
He looks positively delighted by this, although he must have already known that the patrician woman had been the Empress's lover. That her voice had charmed her way into the Scarlet Empress's own bed is a significant point of distinction that Ilina is not above capitalising on within the bounds of good taste. Beyond the bounds of good taste, there have been many off-colour jokes over the years regarding the "Imperial seal of approval."
"Well, I suppose no one could ever accuse our Empress of not living life to its fullest," Ambar says with an admiring note in his voice.
"Did you ever meet her?" you ask, curious.
"I never had the pleasure, sadly," Ambar says, "is my impression inaccurate?"
"I suppose not," you say. More incomplete, you expect. You both fall silent again as the music starts to swell, and Ilina launches into her next song.
You and Ambar sit in a balcony overlooking the stage, the ornately carved stone of the theatre's walls and ceiling carrying the sound to you as if you sat right beneath it. You hadn't quite known what to expect when he'd invited you here — so far, it's been a very pleasant performance, and some innocuous conversation.
You wait another two songs before you speak again. "Things have certainly changed since last we spoke. I was surprised to get your invitation."
"Well, I can hardly forget the woman who fought off a hellboar for me and then carried me to safety," Ambar says, as if the whole thing is a particularly funny joke. "And maybe not every change is for the worse, V'neef Ambraea."
You raise your eyebrows. "Not quite yet. It won't be official for another several months — these things take time."
"They do," Ambar says.
"I can't imagine your house views the talks they were in about my suit for your hand as still being applicable," you say, deciding to be blunt.
"True enough," Ambar says, shrugging languidly. "But, if you'll stretch your imagination just a little farther, this does not mean that my household is so averse to the idea. It would hardly be a bad match — and you have quite impressed my mother with all your unnecessary heroics."
"I wouldn't call them unnecessary," you say, frowning.
"Well, better you than me, at any rate," Ambar says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "I suppose I just lack a warrior's heart. Not everyone can spend all their days fighting demons and killing Anathema and cutting hellboar in two."
"I don't recall that last one being quite so dramatic," you say, mouth twitching in amusement. You'd only wounded it.
"Oh, it certainly is when I'm retelling it," he says. He makes a gesture, and a servant steps forward to pick up the bottle of wine on the table between you, refilling both of your cups, "I've found that young men find the story terribly exciting."
You follow Ambar's example and pick up your cup. To his credit, he barely flinches as Verdigris sticks her head out of your sleeve and laps briefly at the wine. "Well, happy to have been of service, then," you say, voice dry.
"May we both continue to be in the future, then," Ambar says, raising his cup in a toast.
You suppose there are worse things to drink to. You raise your own cup to your lips and drink.
The Cerulean Lute of Heaven, headquarters of the Bureau of Destiny's Division of Serenity,
Yu-Shan, the heavenly city
Singular Grace walks along a hallway with a book tucked under her arm. To her left, one wall is lined with handsome wooden doors at regular intervals, the other by windows of blue-stained glass, the light of heaven's setting sun rendered strange and melancholic by the sight. There's a sense of relief in her bearing. She's been spared many hours of work and, more than likely, another trip to Creation. This gives her time to go home for the first time in roughly twenty-eight hours.
She has a quick errand to run first, however. She stops in front of one door among many, the name plate beside it reading Yula Cerenye in an ostentatiously intricate form of Seatongue — below it, the name is written again in much smaller Old Realm. Grace knocks.
"Be a dear and get the door," Grace hears from within. Before Grace can even touch the latch, it swings inward, bringing her face-to-uncomfortable-face with the shrouded, silent form of one of Yula's zombie servants. Grace schools her expression, trying to remind herself that she's used to this by now. Fortunately, the zombie steps politely aside, letting Grace step inside.
As always, Yula's office has a transportive atmosphere. Regardless of the time outside, the windows always open onto a clear, starry night, soft lighting filtering out of covered lanterns hanging from the walls and ceiling. It's a surprisingly large space, the room heavy with beautiful-woven rugs and drapery and and invitingly plush sofas, all in what Grace has come to recognise as the Skullstone style.
Beneath a massive banner depicting the coat of arms of a Skullstone noble house, Yula herself is seated behind a massive desk of dark teak wood, its surface a study in organised chaos, different sections of the desk devoted to different tasks. Currently, she sits to one side of the desk, filling out reports with an impressive, almost mechanical precision, assisted by several more of her servants. Whenever she finishes a form, one of the zombies sets it aside to dry and replaces it with a fresh one, while a second stamps the newly filled form with Yula's seal of office. Whenever her pen needs more ink, another is ready with a proffered inkwell. Yet another stands a step or two away, a lit candle in a brass candle holder held carefully in its eerily still hands.
The zombie closes the door behind Grace and the sun from out in the hallways vanishes completely. Yula glances up from her work long enough to give Grace a wave that's mostly fingers. "Grace! I see you survived that committee meeting after all. And sooner than expected. Are you going to Gloam?" In the privacy of her own office, Yula wears neither shawl nor headscarf, the garments hung on a hook behind her desk. This leaves her white curls free to tumble past her shoulders — it also leaves the marks of supernatural strangulation on her throat very obvious, but Grace has somehow gotten used to such things.
"No, thankfully," Grace says, her tone distinctly harried. "Red Osprey volunteered to see to it in person. She likes Gloam, apparently. I can't imagine liking a place enough to volunteer to untangle that sort of love triangle, but it's gotten the rest of us out of arguing about it early, at least." For all that the beleaguered destiny in question is both complex and centres on a Realm satrapy, it isn't terribly relevant to faction agendas — this is fortunate, because Osprey, for all that she's very popular and likable, is a significantly more hardline Gold Faction member than Yula is in several ways. Under other circumstances, someone might have felt compelled to oppose her offer on those grounds.
"Congratulations," Yula says, signing another document, "whatever will you do with all this free time you suddenly have on your hands? Reorganise your ink collection? Triple check your reports for the next month?" Grace has known her long enough that she can't fail to see the fondness behind the barbs, or the pleasant surprise at receiving Grace's company.
"My ink collection is organised quite sensibly," Grace tells her, so seriously that it draws a laugh from Yula. "I'm actually leaving the office early."
Yula looks up from her work, briefly, to give her a look of mock-surprise. "My! And without me to drag you away from your desk. You are dangerously close to developing a social life." As she says 'you', she points at Grace with her pen, a gesture that the zombie holding the stamp mimes with its own implement.
"I live in fear of it every day," Grace says, still without outwardly cracking a smile. She takes a seat on the far side of the desk. Reaching over a bent wire sculpture of an elephant and several bottles of good Skullstone wine, she holds out the dark-bound book for Yula to take. "I finished The Night Voyage. I wanted to return it before I left."
"And what did you think of it?" Yula asks, making herself sound only halfway interested.
Grace pauses, considering. The book had been exceptionally maudlin, deeply morally troubling, and borderline impenetrable. The last might be down to her own inexperience with written Seatongue dialects in general, and the Skullstone variant in particular. "I think that perhaps my Seatongue still isn't good enough to appreciate the nuances," Grace says, as diplomatic as she can manage.
"No doubt, but I can't entirely blame your miseducation," Yula says. She glances at the book in her hands briefly, before passing it to one of her zombies without looking. The zombie takes it and dutifully carries it over to a nearby bookshelf. "Frankly, Valin Menjaro's work is both overwrought and overrated. I'm not sure I could have continued to associate with you if you'd enjoyed it."
Grace stares at her blankly. "You recommended it, though. You lent me the book!"
"You said you were interested in the differences I'd mentioned between Realm and Skullstone literature — unfortunately, one cannot understand the modern Skullstone literary canon without having read at least something he's written. Even if he is a self satisfied hack who writes women so appallingly that you'd swear he's an Azurite. It's somehow gotten worse since he died. Insipid man."
Grace, who had been privately reflecting on how difficult it is to relate to certain Western attitudes toward gender, finds her train of thought and her intended response abruptly derailed by the last part of that sentence. "His... ghost is still publishing?" she asks, a little weakly.
"Well, of course," Yula says, "if a dire lack of talent didn't stop him from writing in the first place, ascending to thanatocrat certainly wouldn't. I once wrote as much, almost verbatim, in a letter that ended up being read somewhat widely. And I may have included an unflattering reference or several to him in one of my more popular plays. It caused some small amount of friction between our families." She says this with a brisk, offhand tone, as if these things are amusing anecdotes and not anything too significant. From what Grace understands of Skullstone society and Yula's proclivities toward particularly acid critique, however, she is struck by the uncomfortable and slightly heretical comparison of a mortal publicly mocking a Dragon-Blood from a powerful house.
"It's good you read it, though. It at least establishes a groundwork from which we can have some hope of instilling actual culture in you." Grace takes this as a sign that Yula is, in fact, delighted that she actually read the book.
As Yula signs the next page, a piece of paper flutters out of her sleeve, a message sent from another Sidereal. Yula pauses, snatches it up, and glances at the untidy Flametongue scrawled across it. With a slight smile playing across her lips, she takes the time to write a much more eloquent reply beneath it before holding it up for the zombie with the candle to set alight, burning the reply to ash. From this vantage point, before the page is consumed, it's impossible to miss that, despite the ink being black when it's applied to the glass pen tip, it dries on the page in a mix of ink and blood.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I am from the Imperial City, after all," Grace says, voice bone dry, "so I've certainly never been exposed to any."
"I do know when I'm being made fun of, thank you very much," Yula says, very prim. She doesn't pursue that further, however. "Do you have plans?"
"Plans?" Grace asks.
"You never leave the office early," Yula says. "Do you have plans?"
"I suppose so," Grace says, already getting up from her chair. "Nothing so very exciting, though. Thank you again for the book — I should let you get back to work."
"I don't believe that I've stopped on your account," Yula says, still very much in the midst of her paperwork. "I won't keep you though. Go on, before you find an excuse to work for another six hours."
Grace does not, in the end, find an excuse to work for another six hours.
She leaves the Cerulean Lute shortly after saying goodbye to Yula, hires a boat at the nearest quicksilver canal, and tries her best to relax on her way home. Fortunately her place of residence is in an adjoining neighbourhood and traffic isn't so bad by the standards of Yu-Shan.
Gods of all sorts ply the waters of the canals, piloting everything from humble ferries to elaborate pleasure crafts. It's the sort of experience that still becomes overwhelming and surreal if Grace thinks too hard about it. The entire trip, she feels curious eyes on her — even so close to one of the Bureau of Destiny headquarters, Sidereals are a noteworthy and even worrisome sight. Most of them won't remember her five minutes after she's gone, but they all know what she is.
Grace is glad when she finally pays her ferryman a gold-wrapped coin of ambrosia and steps out onto the narrow streets of her own neighbourhood.
The manse still doesn't feel like home to Grace. This would be understandable enough for any residence, given how little time she's actually spent here since first coming to Yu-Shan. There's something more to it, however. Grace has inherited the grand, well appointed structure from Wayward Prayer, her predecessor, and the presence of her Exaltation's previous bearer is still felt everywhere. From wall hangings and furniture like something out of an ancient Zhao palace to small personal additions to the architecture itself to how very many of Prayer's belongings are still here. Some days, Grace feels strangely like an intruder here.
Even worse, on other days she feels like she's walked these halls thousands of times before. Another woman's memories bubble up unbidden, sparked by the view out of a particular window, or the layout of a particular room. Or, sometimes, by an art piece.
As Grace passes through the great entrance hall, she catches sight of the large painting hanging in pride of place on the wall. In it, Wayward Prayer and her Circle are depicted, centuries younger. Prayer is a striking Zhao woman, a sheathed daiklave held in her arms, her robes cut to accentuate her figure in a way Grace can't help but find excessive. The Sidereals alongside her include Ayesha Ura of the Division of Journeys, and Red-Handed Kijamano of the Division of Battles, both long time supporters of the Gold Faction, as Wayward Prayer had been.
Despite her best attempts at not taking the painting in this time, she can't help but feel a wave of nostalgia both familiar and alien. Along with the thought: Oh, yes, before Kijamano lost her arm. Grace has contemplated removing the painting and attempting to foist it off on Ayesha Ura several times, but doesn't quite know how to broach the subject. She knows intrinsically that the painting had been one of Wayward Prayer's prized possessions.
Grace puts it out of her mind as she makes her way to one particular wing of the manse that has, of late, seen some notable changes. Furnishings in Wayward Prayer's more ostentatious taste replaced by simpler, more practical fare. Shelves laden with books that Grace has procured in Realm, Riverspeak, and Seatongue. Even the odd piece of art from her mother's homeland. She doesn't think, under the circumstances, that Lohna Prince's Scribe feels entirely at home here yet, but she certainly seems to be making more of an effort than Grace.
She finds her mother sitting at a table alongside a large, second-story window, playing a game of Spirit-Frog against herself with what Grace somehow knows was once Wayward Prayer's third-best Gateway set. To Grace's eye, she had chosen a particularly grueling setup today, the other Gateway pieces arranged in a harrowing gauntlet that one attempts to navigate with a humble frog piece, travelling from the bottom tier of the board all the way up to the third.
The game is heavy with Immaculate allegory, and each classic arrangement is as much meant to convey a story about the cycle of reincarnation and ascending the Perfected Hierarchy as it is a puzzle. Although Lohna had first been taught the game by a friendly monk attempting to foster proper Immaculate thought in a foreign slave, Grace strongly suspects Lohna just likes the quiet mental stimulation. Lohna had been eager enough for Grace to be raised Immaculate — anything to give her daughter a better chance of having a good life in the Realm — but Grace has never gotten the impression that Lohna has ever entirely internalised the Philosophy herself.
Grace stops in the doorway for a long moment, silently watching. She can't deny that her mother looks better than she had when they'd left the palace. Lohna sits at her game in a dress of ambrosia-spun silk, ensconced in luxury, a free woman as safe and comfortable as any mortal can be said to be in the city of the gods. The worst of that lost, haunted quality is gone from her eyes. But still, when Lohna realises that she isn't alone and looks up to find Grace standing there, she shows no sign of recognition.
After only a moment's pause, Lohna gets hastily to her feet, bowing deeply. "Apologies, my lady, I didn't realise— please forgive me, I didn't hear you come in."
"There's no need to be so formal," Grace says, as though it's merely unnecessary, rather than something that sends a small pain lancing through her heart. "I didn't want to interrupt you."
"Ah," Lohna says, uncertain. She takes Grace in again, from her finery to her unfamiliar face to her strange eyes. Hesitantly, she asks: "You are... my host, I think?"
"This is my house," Grace agrees, not yet stepping further into the room.
Lohna nods, still plainly confused. She knows that she's in heaven, that she asked to be brought here, that she is welcome as a guest in this house. It's the precise identity of the person who spirited her away to begin with that eludes her. "Forgive me for asking, but are you a goddess?"
"No," Grace says, finally approaching. "I'm a Sidereal. My name is Grace."
"Ah," Lohna says. Two months ago that explanation would have meant nothing to her, but already she's learned more about the existence and nature of the Sidereal Exalted than most mortals ever do. This only sometimes translates into knowledge of any specific Sidereal. On good days. "Welcome home then, Lady Grace."
"I'm your daughter," Grace says, keeping her voice deliberately steady. She hasn't told any of her colleagues that she's brought her mother to heaven yet — Grace can imagine the reactions. Understanding and pity, as well as concern for Grace's peace of mind. They have all lost loved ones to Arcane Fate themselves after all, learned to cope with the cruel reality of the curse they all bear. Many would wonder why Grace would put herself through this. Their mothers had not been slaves, though.
Lohna's first reaction is shock, but it's a shock she's had many times by now, and she must feel that on some level. Just as she loves Grace even without knowing her. "That feels right, somehow," Lohna says, wonderingly. "Grace." There's no spark of recognition today, no Flower! Pardon my forgetfulness, I've missed you. Still, it's an improvement on balance.
Grace crosses the room, resting a hand on the back of a chair near to Lohna's table. "If you don't mind, I'd just like to talk, and watch you play."
"Ah, of course," Lohna says, as if this is a normal situation. Increasingly for them, it is. She sets back down at her table, and Grace takes a seat at her own chair. They sit in silence for a moment, Lohna hovering over her game, trying to recall where exactly she was in it. Once she's picked up the thread of the puzzle again, she begins to methodically move the frog across the board, taking pieces as she goes. "Have you done any interesting reading of late, Grace?" Lohna asks, taking a stab in the dark.
Grace is surprised, but not displeased. "Interesting? I suppose so. Have you ever read Valin Menjaro?"
"The Skullfolk writer?" Lohna says, with faint recognition. She pauses in her game, frowning. "Yes. I studied some of his work as a girl, to learn the language. We usually only traded with the Skullfolk indirectly, through the Azurites, but my father felt it was important for a well-rounded scholar to be fluent in as many of the major Seatongue dialects as possible."
"Do you remember what you thought of it?" Grace asks.
"It has been well over two decades, but I think so," Lohna says. "What did you read by him?"
"The Night Voyage," Grace says.
Lohna laughs. "That novel where every woman the narrator meets is motivated by wanting to bed him, including the one who was already dead? And it's all a tortured metaphor for the West yearning for Skullstone's benevolent guidance?"
"Yes," Grace says.
Lohna takes the final piece on the lowest tier, frowning before carefully moving her frog to the middle one. She takes several long seconds to consider her final verdict. "I don't recommend it."
Grace laughs.
This isn't perfect. Sometimes it's difficult, and sometimes it hurts. But at the very least, they have one another. With the world the way it is, Grace has to take whatever good she can get.
Scarlet Prefecture, the Eastern Blessed Isle
Weeks later
As Tepet Usala Sola rides past the row of kneeling farmhands, she spares them a brief, shallow smile, despite her conflicted mood. A wide-eyed young man near the end looks as though he might remember this moment for the rest of his life.
The late afternoon sun hangs over the horizon, lighting rolling fields of grain to either side of the road, the wide blue ribbon of the Imperial River in the distance. She's dressed in her lamellar armour, Storm's Eye at her belt, and Bloodrime slung across her back by a leather strap. Mountain Song, one of her household's surviving servants, follows behind on her own horse.
Sola doesn't know what kind of a reception she'll receive among the Dynasty at large in the Imperial City. Just how far her family has fallen and how quick the other houses have been to turn on them has been made abundantly clear to her. Sola wouldn't be coming at all, if it weren't for her Hearth.
At the thought of them, she checks on them through the sixth sense of their bond. Maia is still a ways away to the south, but Ambraea's proximity is enough to make Sola's heart race. Day by day she's been getting closer. By now, it's almost as if Sola can reach out and touch her. Sola realises, to her surprise and delight, that Ambraea is not in the city. She's quite a bit closer than that.
Without explanation to Song, Sola steers her horse off the main road, moving toward a distant stand of trees. Song gives her a questioning look, but follows.
A small eternity later, she grows close enough to the trees to make out a familiar silhouette standing among them, moving through sword forms with a daiklave of white jade. Ambraea must know that she's approaching, but she doesn't look up or stop, focusing on the steps of the dance. It's only once Sola has approached close enough to comfortably speak, and slipped out of the saddle, that Ambraea completes the exercise.
Ambraea carefully sheathes her sword. For all that things have changed for both of them, she looks very much like she did the last time Sola saw her. Clad in black and gold, her jacket removed and carefully folded on a nearby rock, with Verdigris curled up on top of it. Ambraea's hair, and the small crystals in her skin sparkle in the sun. Sola takes a silent moment to quietly take in the sight of her.
"I hope you're not content with only watching," Ambraea says, finally glancing in Sola's direction.
"Don't rush me," Sola says. She passes her horse's reins into Song's waiting hand and steps closer. "A busy woman like you, I hope you haven't come all this way out of the city just to see me."
Ambraea raises her eyebrows. "You're flattering yourself. My new matriarch is eager for my new allegiances to be known — she had me playing glorified messenger to a member of her house." Ambraea looks briefly surprised, as she adds: "Our house soon, I suppose."
"I bet whoever that was was thrilled to have a sorcerer under her roof on short notice," Sola says.
"I didn't say it was a member of our house who Matriarch V'neef is pleased with," Ambraea says. Then she finally smiles, a softer expression than her norm that she used to save for Maia. "I was pleased enough that it let me meet you on the road like this."
"So you can travel back to the city with me?" Sola asks.
Ambraea steps closer to her, lowering her voice. "We don't have to go quite that far yet, I hope."
The roadside inn that Ambraea has chosen provides a warm bath and a perfectly pleasant meal. Sola is so distracted that she barely enjoys the former, and has to force herself not to entirely inhale the latter. It's a little embarrassing how eager she is to be alone with Ambraea. It's not just about the physicality of the coming encounter — Sola hasn't been in private with someone she can fully let her guard down with in months. She hasn't been aware of quite how exhausting that was until now.
Sola looks herself over in a dressing room mirror, noting with slight amusement that she's wearing the same white tunic that she had been the first time that Ambraea had kissed her. It hadn't been entirely on purpose, but she supposes it's appropriate enough. She tugs the garment down into place and steps out into the rest of the suite.
The rooms are still more than comfortable enough for the two of them, but they're small, quaint even by Dynastic standards. It doesn't take Sola long to find her lover. Ambraea sits on a chair in the bedchamber, stroking Verdigris in her lap. Her hair is unbound, draped over her shoulder in a silky curtain. The robe she's wearing is in matching black, and just sheer enough to be distracting.
"So, V'neef Ambraea," Sola says, closing the door behind her. The room has a bed, several chairs around a small table, and a large picture window, notably shuttered.
"Soon," Ambraea agrees. "I'm still not used to the thought — do you like the sound of it?"
"I think I could get used to it," Sola says. "Did your mother run out of ideas for simple names after Cynis, do you think?"
Ambraea laughs. "You know, of all the things I never got to ask her, that wasn't something I thought of." The mirth is brief, though. She gives Sola a searching look. "How are you feeling?" she asks. "Your letter was circumspect."
Sola gives the question serious thought, leaning back against the closed door instead of having a seat. "Like I've lived all my life preparing for a future that was never going to happen," she says.
"I know what that's like," Ambraea says, voice quiet.
"I know," Sola says, giving her a sad smile. "If anyone does, you do."
Ambraea returns it, that shared understanding passing between them. "I'm sorry about your sisters."
"I am, too," Sola says. She studies Ambraea in silence for several seconds, the next words difficult to say. "I'm afraid sometimes. I just don't know what's going to happen."
Ambraea lifts Verdigris off of her lap, setting the metallic snake down on the table. Then she rises to her feet. "I am too," Ambraea says, and Sola knows how difficult it is for her to admit that, even here alone. "But whatever it is, at least we don't have to be alone. 'Comrades and sword sisters'." She steps forward, staring into Sola's eyes in clear invitation.
It's a small room. Sola only has to take one step herself to bring them nearly face to face. "I missed you," Sola says. She feels the warmth of Ambraea's hands on her, one on Sola's hip, the other on her shoulder.
"I did too," Ambraea says. "I have a favour to return, though. Do you remember?"
"A favour?" Sola asks, confused.
Ambraea moves faster than Sola can react. She hooks a leg behind Sola's ankle, sweeping her feet out from under her, and shoving her hard onto the bed. Sola lands on her back in a surprised heap. Before she can so much as squawk in protest, Ambraea is literally on top of her, straddling Sola's waist, hands pinning Sola's wrists above her head.
"You know," Sola says, looking up at her, "if the favour was putting me on my back, I at least let you have a sword in your hand the last time I did that." The quip comes out a little weak — she's too preoccupied to be wry.
"You think this is cheating, then?" Ambraea says leaning down enough that her hair brushes against Sola's face and neck. "Would you rather be sparring instead? Would you like me to get up?" There's a trace of vulnerability in this last question. Ambraea has been lonely too, after all. Months of politics and worry, the uncertainty of her situation as an Imperial daughter without protection, tense meetings with elders and Great House Matriarchs. Decisions she can never take back.
They both need this.
"I didn't say that," Sola whispers.
That's all the answer Ambraea seems to need. She leans the rest of the way down, and kisses Sola hard.
Port of Arjuf, Arjuf Dominion, the gateway to the South, the Southern Blessed Isle
"She said she'd be here," says Mnemon Keric, drumming his slender fingers against the table. He's all nerves in a way that usually makes Deizil want to force him to relax. Given their current very public surroundings, that's not quite an option. He'll get the chance later.
"She will be," says Simendor Deizil. In contrast to Keric, he leans back in his own chair, a study in affected nonchalance. "I don't think she's capable of going back on her word on purpose. It's endearing, when it's not annoying."
The two sit beneath a brightly coloured awning set up for them in the midst of Arjuf's busy waterfront. Arjuf is a dazzling blend of Realm and Southern Threshold architecture, the streets lined with monuments sent in tribute from southern satrapies, the markets filled with exotic goods and dialects from dozens of far-flung locales. The docks themselves are awash with nearly as many petty criminals as sailors. None of them are foolish enough to trouble two Dragon-Blooded in broad daylight, however.
Deizil and Keric watch as various supplies and belongings are loaded onto a ship that they'd hired with their pooled resources, one intended to carry them very far away from the Isle and then back again. Keric continues to frown at their intended companion's lateness, but Deizil has something altogether different on his mind mind. He leans forward towards Keric, dropping his voice. "You're sure this is a good idea."
"It's too late for it to be a bad idea now," Keric says. "We've hired the ship, we've charted a course. I've convinced my mother to the point that she's willing to convince the rest of my house. We don't have any choice but to do this, and to succeed."
"So, no pressure at all," Deizil says, making a face.
"Your house should be pleased as well," Keric insists. "If this all goes to plan, they'll have to thank you."
Deizil snorts. "My cousins will be furious that I gained another distinction over them. Our matriarch will be annoyed that I didn't present the treasure to her."
"You always talk about your house that way," Keric says, dismissive in the manner of someone who has only met one Simendor. "Your family kept Imperial favour so long by being among the first to swear to the Empress when she took her throne — my matriarch does not share her mother's affections for them. If Aksaja won't do anything to change that, you'll have to."
"Matriarch Simendor Aksaja of the Leaden Tablet has her own plan for that," Deizil says, tone long suffering, "she intends to present the next Empress with a legendarily vile collection of curses for her to use against her enemies."
"My great grandmother would certainly find a use for that," Keric admits, frowning, "but waiting until after she's Empress may not be enough. It certainly won't be enough for her to stop looking so askance at you in particular. These gauntlets of yours will be of real strategic value during a civil war — Matriarch Mnemon will put aside her personal feelings. Assuming they really are what you think they are, and they really are where you think they are."
"I know where they are!" Deizil says, suddenly affronted. "I've checked and double checked my sources. That part, I'm sure of." He falters, glancing away from Keric, and over to the ship. "I'll just have to trust you on the rest of it. You're smarter than me at some things."
"Just some things?" Keric asks, smiling thinly.
"Well, I apparently have better taste in men." He casts Keric a significant glance that sets a creeping, rose marble blush rising up into Keric's face. Deizil loves how easy it is to make that happen.
"I can't believe I let you two talk me into this." It's a new voice from behind Deizil. Turning around, he sees Ledaal Anay Idelle, armoured in a breastplate of blue-enameled steel, a spear resting against one shoulder. Behind her, servants in her house's colours carry the rest of her baggage.
Keri gets up, smiling at her half in amusement, half in welcome. "I believe my message mentioned adventure on the high seas, reclaiming dangerou and ancient artifacts, bringing them back into the wise care of the Realm..."
"... And we need some kind of moral centre in this enterprise," Deizil says, likewise getting to his feet. "Who knows what I'd get up to, otherwise?"
Keric shoots Deizil a look, but Idelle actually laughs. "Well, I think I am ready for an adventure," she admits.
Despite his worries, glancing between his two companions, Deizil finds a fragile sense of optimism blooming in his chest. Maybe he's ready for an adventure as well.
Personal estate of Burano Maharan Nazat, Scarlet Prefecture, the Eastern Blessed Isle
Erona Maia perches on the very edge of the rooftop, watching the sun sink below the horizon. She sits with her knees hugged against her chest, making herself as small and still as possible, quietly waiting to be noticed. She'd arrived at the country estate some hours before, drawn here by her Hearth sense. She looks out at the grounds beyond the house.
It's a pretty little estate, well-maintained, but not heavily used, despite how close to the city it is. Maia supposes that Ambraea's father has had little cause to be away from court in the decades since the Empress gifted him the place. Despite this, it certainly has its share of occupants at the moment. From her vantage point, Maia has already observed the staff in a state of controlled chaos, presumably scrambling to accommodate the sudden presence of the estate's master and multiple Exalted guests.
On the balcony immediately below Maia's perch, a door slides open, and a familiar figure steps out onto it. Ambraea glances upward, although Maia knows that she's just barely out of sight from that vantage point. "I'm sorry," Ambraea says, "did you forget how doors work?"
Maia smiles to herself. "I wanted time to think."
Ambraea leans against the railing of the balcony. "Were things as bad as you thought?"
"More or less," Maia says. Bad enough to leave her brooding on rooftops. "My grandmother was there. We... talked about your adoption. What it's going to mean."
"What is it going to mean?" Ambraea asks, although she must understand. Maia has told her more than enough for that.
"As far as my family is concerned, you're a V'neef already."
"I'm still me, you're still you," Ambraea says, quietly. "We're not our families."
Maia wants more than anything for that to be true. She unfolds herself from her perch and slips down off the roof, landing beside Ambraea almost soundlessly. "It's going to be hard sometimes."
Ambraea looks down at her, unphased by her entrance. "You're worth that."
"Sometimes, I'm not sure I am," Maia says, almost too quiet to hear. She isn't worth Ambraea's life.
Ambraea reaches down, cupping Maia's face in her hands. "I think that's my decision. You asked me to wait for you, I will."
Maia's family is proud of her as long as she's their well-honed weapon. Kill who they say, unflinchingly, without question. Others in her life have never had to see that side of Maia in its fullness. Ambraea has, though. She is still the only one who has seen every part of Maia, has seen her at her best and her worst and her lowest, and still wanted her. After everything, still thinks that Maia is more than just a honed blade. That she's someone worthy of being treasured and protected. Maia doesn't know how to express how much that means, but maybe she doesn't need to. "I love you."
Ambraea leans down and brushes a kiss against her forehead. "I'll remember that, no matter what happens. I love you too."
Maia leans her slight weight against Ambraea, letting out a gentle sigh. "I know you will," she says. "So will I."
"I'm not sure that your father likes me," Sesus Amiti says, hands playing over her soulsteel pendant. She walks the path through the grounds of your father's estate half-oblivious to her surroundings, simply following you. The sky is overcast today but not excessively so. The breeze is pleasantly cool against your skin.
You give her a rueful shrug. "He's uncomfortable with necromancy. More than most people. Prasadis are — well, the Pure Way is — harsher on matters related to death than the Immaculate Philosophy is."
"Oh, so I wasn't imagining it," Amiti says, seemingly happy for the confirmation as much as anything. "It's nice of him to make as much of an effort as he did."
You resist the urge to sigh at that, continuing to lead Amiti away from the house and its surrounding gardens, out toward the edge of the grounds. "I'm sure he didn't mean for you to notice at all."
"I notice more than people expect me to," Amiti says, giving a light little shrug. Seemingly genuinely unbothered.
"You do," you acknowledge. You can't see the others yet, although you know that they must be over the rise up ahead.
"I've never gotten to see a Hearth Oath be sworn, though," Amiti says with genuine enthusiasm. "I've read about a lot of them, but never the real thing!"
"I'd like to talk to you about that, actually," you say. You'd obviously already intended to, but it's a good lead in.
"Hm?" Amiti looks up at you in surprise. Her dress today is red and brown, a feather pattern embroidered into the sleeves and collar — it wouldn't have reminded you of dried blood if anyone else were wearing it.
"You must have noticed," you say, "even with L'nessa joining us, we have room for a fifth member."
Amiti stares up at you for a moment, briefly puzzled. When she takes your meaning, she stops short, a look of genuine surprise coming onto her face. "Me?"
"You," you say. "The Dynasty is turning into a dangerous place. We all need to know we have people we can rely on, who we can trust. You're our friend. It can't be that surprising, can it?"
Amiti searches your face, the emotions heart-wrenchingly clear on her face. Sincere shock, happiness... and a strange sort of reticence. For the first time, you wonder if surprising her with the question was a good idea. "Did Kasi put you up to this?" Amiti asks, the insight catching you off guard.
You don't balk, or lie. "She suggested it. We wouldn't be asking if we didn't want you as Sworn Kin, Amiti. This is too serious a matter to make decisions based on pity or favours to your sister, as pleasant as her company is."
"You know I... cause problems," Amiti says, looking away, "even when I don't mean to. Do you want to have to deal with that for the rest of our lives?"
"We all cause problems, sometimes," Maia says, stepping in between you. Amiti gives a little start at her sudden appearance, although you knew she was coming. "You don't have to be alone."
Amiti stares at her, looking briefly outright overcome. She masters her emotions, though, and nods. "... Thank you. I would be... I do want to, if everyone wants me there."
"Do you know the words?" you ask, more just to change the subject than because you think she might possibly not.
"Yes!" Amiti says, finally letting herself get excited. "I've memorised several versions, actually. I never thought I'd have to use one of them, though."
"Don't get too emotional on us, Sesus." You've crested the hill, revealing Sola, perched on a large stone. She smiles as she says it, though, a genuinely fond expression for all three of you. "She said yes, then?" she asks you.
"I did!" Amiti says, returning the smile in a way that chases away whatever doubts you might have had.
"Oh, good, I knew you would." L'nessa stands nearby, trying not to look either excited or nervous. A single leaf flutters out of her hair, giving her away.
The stone Sola sits on is one of many — they're arranged around a bare, flattened patch of earth, one set aside for sparring or for certain games. More importantly, it's also somewhere where the combined anima flux of five Dragon-Blooded and four elements won't scar the land too badly. You're trying to be considerate to your poor father, after all. From your vantage point up the hill, you can see that you have an audience in the near distance, your father and more than a few of the servants having gathered, looking on with rapt attention.
"Well, I suppose there's no use belabouring things," Sola says, tone light. She steps past the others, taking up a place near the centre of the ring, and holds out one hand in front of her. Catching on, you follow, taking your own place in the circle, and laying your hand on top of hers. A moment later, Maia lays her small hand on top of yours, followed by L'nessa, and a distinctly nervous looking Amiti.
There's a moment of preparatory silence before you begin to speak first, feeling the power in those familiar words for the third and final time. "I, V'neef Ambraea, swear to stand beside you as Sworn Kin..." Sola speaks her oath next, her anima bursting into life, sky blue, intertwining with the white of your own. Maia speaks next — it doesn't match up with any of the major elemental cycles, but it feels right, the three of you renewing your vows to one another and to your companions first. Maia's blue-black light joining yours and Sola's.
And then it's Amiti's turn. You're afraid for a moment that she might lock up, but after taking a very deep breath, she plunges ahead. Her oath is simple, but the sincerity in her words is palpable:
"I, Sesus Amiti, swear to stand beside you as sisters and Hearthmates. In joy and sorrow, peace and war. To defend you all above all overs. To keep faith with you all above all others. By Air, by Water, By Earth, by Wood, by Fire, I swear." Her pallid anima whispers up around her, but it doesn't feel cold to you, for once.
L'nessa doesn't miss her cue, smiling with true happiness. "I, V'neef L'nessa, daughter of V'neef, swear to stand beside you as Sworn Kin. To share in your triumphs and failures, to shoulder your burdens and allow mine to be taken in turn. To be your shade, the nourishment of your souls and the thorns that keep our enemies at bay. By Sextes Jylis I swear. By Hesiesh, by Mela, by Danaa'd, by Pasiap, I swear. By Wood, by Fire, Air, Water, Earth, I swear." With that, brilliant green joins three other elements, and you are a Hearth of five.
You stand like that, hand in hand, each filled by the comfort of being among Sworn Kin. At least for now, it banishes away your worries for the coming succession crisis, your grief for your mother and your fear for Lohna, the powerful forces arrayed to destroy the fledgling house you've attached yourself to.
When you'd come to the Heptagram, you realise now that you'd been alone in a way that even most of your classmates had never been. You aren't anymore. You've spent the past seven years with these four women, bound by joy and hardship, supporting one another in problems large and small. The world is hard and dangerous, but you've ensured that you will all continue to have each other. Those bonds will certainly be tested in the years to come, but you're determined never to let them break.
When your collective anima finally dies down, you finally pull your hands apart, although you don't step away. L'nessa is the one to speak first. "Life with you is always so dramatic, Ambraea. I suppose it's good we're all used to that."