“You have kept me waiting long enough. Have you not?”
“Forgive me, Your Lordship,” A dry old voice spoke — the bone monk. “What we found was most unexpected.”
Bee groaned, her head limp, tongue lolling down to her belly. Realising that, she slowly retracted it, smacking her dried lips together. Her world swam into focus, blurred and hazy at the edges. Pain radiated from the side of her head, pulsing in time with the throbbing of her heart. She blinked and winced. Gradually, she pieced together her surroundings, noticing that she was no longer in the dank cell where she had been taken after her capture. Instead, she found herself sprawled, kneeling on the cold, polished floor of a grand chamber.
Immediately, Bee struggled. One of her captors grabbed her by the arm, gripped her under her shoulder, and held her still. Harsh weight and strain on her joints revealed binding manacles. Iron fastened her elbows together behind her back, and her wings were taut behind her shoulders, their biomechanical engines pulled together into an uncomfortable, tight position.
The worm undulated sluggishly in her head. It was quiet and seemed to be just as disoriented as she was. Grunting and gasping as she briefly fought against her assailant, Bee managed to focus enough to look ahead, eyes adjusting to the light.
As her vision cleared, Bee saw towering pillars rising like ancient trees around her, their surfaces intricately carved with scenes of battles and conquests. Tapestries draped from the high ceiling, their rich hues and elaborate patterns weaving stories of power and prestige. Flickering torches cast dancing shadows across the room, their electric lights both illuminating the court and darkening the corners they could not reach. The opulence of a court stood in stark contrast to the shape of its walls. This space, once some industrial machine, had been hollowed out. Shards of its vast mechanism remained embedded in its hard silicon flesh, a memory.
And ahead of her, resting astride a cradled throne, the large centaurian form of a muscular, chitin-shelled noble was considering Bee. A thoughtful expression marked the eyes of his bestial head, mounted with an antler crown. He wore a golden cape, and his left hand idly turned a great spear — glittering ruby blade catching the light — planted beside his seat. A myriad of augmentations dotted his flesh, but they were unnervingly dark and still. He made Bee feel incredibly small and vulnerable. She struggled to sit up, still wrestling with the freak that held her still. Her head spun as she fought against the vertigo. Panic gripped her heart for a moment, but she forced herself to breathe deeply, steadying her nerves.
“So I see,” the noble said. “I recognise her. Her face. The one so prophesied.” There was amusement in his voice. A smile played upon his lips. “Is this another grave portent, Yonmar Free?”
“Yes. I believe she is the one who delivered the promise of vengeance, the true daughter of the fallen Vat-Mother of Sestchek” the bone monk said. Bee looked up at him, recognising him from her capture. He returned the look, fascination in his eyes beneath his old mask. Bee faltered, glancing to her left, where she found the freak who assaulted her scowling down at her. He was the one holding her still.
“Tell me, little one.” The seated noble’s attention was now fixed upon her, eyes narrowing. “What is your name?”
Bee hesitated, her chest pounding as she weighed her options. The pain in her head continued to hammer away in time with her anxious heart. Unable to maintain eye contact, she glanced at his chest, then down to the floor.
“My name’s Bee,” she said lowly.
“Your base name?” He laughed, but it was surprisingly soft — perhaps surprised, perhaps calculating. After a moment of pause, he seemed to realise that Bee had nothing more to say. So he looked to the others, “Sar-ek, why is my important guest in such a sorry state?”
“The bitch is feral,” Bee’s assailant — Sar-ek, apparently — grunted before adding, “Your Lordship.”
Bee shuddered involuntarily, her wings quivering behind her as she tried to ignore the fear that threatened to choke her. She met the bloodied gaze of Sar-ek with as much defiance as she could muster and said, “Fuck you.”
In response to that, the seated noble took his ruby-mounted spear firmly in hand. Extending it, he used the flat side of the blade to lift Bee’s chin. She felt the prickling of fear where the cool crystal touched her skin. When she tried to look away, he pressed firm. The blade pulled at her, sweat and dirt sticking to its smooth chill. Finally, terrified it would cut into her throat, she relented. And they looked into each other’s eyes.
“She’s not feral,” the noble said to his court. He locked his gaze with Bee briefly before lowering his blade. “Take her away,” he ordered, “And have her prepared for the feast. We shall discuss your conduct later.”
“Wait!” Bee cried out as Sar-ek seized her, lifting her roughly until she stood on her feet again. “Feast?”
Yet her captor seemed to have no regard for her question, and Sar-ek dragged her away from the throne and out of the chamber. Bee stamped her feet and tried to find purchase, but her plated soles slid and slipped over the polished floor.
“Stop squirming,” Sar-ek hissed, tightening his grip on her arm. “This is an honour, you know. You should be grateful.”
“Grateful?” Bee spat, her terror giving way to anger. “Grateful that I’m about to be eaten alive?”
The warrior paused, his angular head tilting quizzically to one side. There was a coldness in his eyes, one bloodied from her scratch as he considered what she said. “Eaten? No, no, you misunderstand. You’re not the meal — you’re the guest of honour.”
Bee’s racing thoughts skidded to a halt, her confusion deepening. The guest of honour? Why would he invite her to sit at his table and share in his feast?
“Then what—... what do you want from me?” Bee asked, her voice barely audible.
“I don’t want nothing from you,” Sar-ek said, contempt in his tone. Yet he seemed to realise that her struggle came from her lack of understanding and let her go. Bee staggered as he spoke, “The Lord wants to be seen with you. And you better be presentable. Now, this way. Don’t make me carry you.”
Bee considered running, but her arms and wings were still tightly bound. Reluctantly, she followed his lead, and they ascended a winding staircase. Bee couldn’t help but feel an unsettling mix of relief and unease as they ascended. Moving from the stairs into a corridor, they passed a small group of warriors who stepped aside, stopped and stared. Bee squirmed beneath their multifaceted eyes and twitching antenna, reaching out towards her.
They approached a final doorway, flanked on either side by more armoured guardians. Their attention remained fixed ahead, holding their lances with discipline as Sar-ek opened the door and pushed her inside.
The room into which Bee was thrust was a stark contrast to the dark, repurposed halls of the tower. Luxurious fabrics draped from the ceiling and walls, their deep golden hues shimmering as if imbued with life of their own. Ornate mirrors gleamed in the flickering torchlight, reflecting the bustling forms of small servants who moved about with purposeful grace.
A bustle of four small, demure freaks with flowers sprouting from their flesh, petals opening and closing in response to their every nuanced emotion. Bee stumbled forward, her heart pounding as she tried to make sense of the scene before her. They all turned, nervously clasping their hands together and bowing for her. As they did, Sar-ek stood behind her. His rough hands unbolted her restraints and lifted their iron weight from around her arms and wings.
“Please, sit, Your Ladyship,” one of the maidens said, gesturing to an elegantly carved bone chair before a large vanity gilded with shining metals. “We must prepare you for the feast.”
Bee shook her head and shrunk away from Sar-ek now that she was unbound. Instinctively retreating from him, she ducked behind a towering ivory wardrobe. Once more, the door opened, and the bone monk Yonmar entered. His masked gaze swept over the scene, his eyes soft with concern.
“Don’t be afraid, child,” Yonmar said gently, his hands raised placatingly. “I’m here to help you, not harm you.”
“Leave me alone!” Bee hissed, her voice trembling.
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“Very well. I shall do that for you,” Yonmar murmured, lowering his hands. Yet, as he stepped around, maintaining a distance, his gaze lingered on the lacerations on her back and the bruises marring her face. “But, first, at least let me tend to your wounds. If you let them be, there could be complications.”
Tension filled the room as Bee hesitated. The maidens stood against one wall, fearful of interrupting them. Sar-ek folded his powerful arms and watched with his perpetual air of contempt. Yonmar, though, stepped forward, holding out his hand.
“What Sar-ek did to you was wrong,” Yonmar said. “Find it in your heart to forgive us. The world is violent, and he only wanted to defend us, hearing tell of some cursed recusant. We shall not make that mistake again. We are not without honour.”
Bee glanced to Sar-ek, who shook his head and muttered, “I was hasty.” It wasn’t strictly an apology, Bee noticed, her eyes narrowing.
“Besides,” Yonmar stood between them, trying to diffuse the tension. “We wouldn’t want you to get blood on your dress.”
“Then you had better make it red,” Bee growled.
“Red?” Yonmar laughed, taken about by her outburst, but he quickly recovered. “I understand your apprehension, but I must advise against wearing red to the feast. It would be considered an insult to Lord Jhedothar,” the bone monk said as he pressed his hands together, bowing his body forward as if to place himself subservient to her.
“Insult?” Bee’s curiosity peaked through her stubbornness, momentarily pushing aside her fear. “Why?”
“Lord Jhedothar was once a Knight-Tyrant of the Xenozygote order,” Yonmar explained, his tone patient as he carefully chose his words. “Should you not know, they wear red in dedication to the Vat-Mother. However, Jhedothar left the Vat-Mother’s service on very bad terms.”
Bee’s eyes widened, her mind racing as she processed this new information. The idea of someone like Jhedothar defying the Vat-Mother intrigued her but also made her suspicious. What did it mean for her if the Knights-Tyrants were loyal to the Vat-Mothers or if Jhedothar had a vendetta?
“That’s his name?” Bee asked. “The one in the chair, Jhedothar?”
“It is, Your Ladyship.”
“I’m not a lady,” Bee said quietly. The maidens gasped in scandal, their blossoms opening and closing. Still, Yonmar gestured to the seat, seeming to understand her reticence, seeing that she was unsure of what to do next.
“Then you do not have to be one,” Yonmar said. Then Sar-ek grunted and moved to a position by the door, leaning against the wall as far away as he could possibly stand whilst still keeping vigil.
Slowly, Bee emerged from her hiding place, her eyes never leaving Sar-ek. She sat on the seat, and Yonmar gestured that he was about to begin cleaning and dressing her wounds. She was still wary of allowing him to touch her. But as she glanced down at her bruised and battered body, she knew she had little choice. With a resigned sigh, she finally nodded her agreement.
Yonmar removed cold metal tools and phials of liquid, setting them on the vanity, before using the implements to apply gels and unguents to her injuries. Bee tried to focus on the pain — a welcome distraction from the swirling maelstrom of thoughts that threatened to consume her. Still, it was impossible to ignore the myriad of questions that continued to plague her mind. She clenched her remaining fist, wings buzzing involuntarily, and glanced at Yonmar’s mask.
“Perhaps... perhaps another colour would be better,” she conceded, her voice uncertain.
“Indeed,” Yonmar replied gently, seeming to understand her internal struggle. “Now please, allow me to finish tending to your injuries so you can be ready for the feast.”
As Yonmar worked, Bee found herself lost in thought, her gaze unfocused and distant. Yonmar’s words echoed through her thoughts, gradually dissolving her resistance. She clenched her teeth as he cleaned the lacerations on her back, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the sting of the biogel, dabbed onto her wounds with the touch of metal. The gel seemed to corrode the implements as it was applied to her. No, that wasn’t quite what it was doing. It was dissolving the metal, Bee noticed, which turned into that quicksilver that slipped inside her veins. Seeing the constructive material slip inside of her, Bee’s thoughts turned unbidden to the worm in her skull. It was oddly quiet, as if resting, or perhaps it was hurt by the blow she suffered.
“Are you there?” Bee whispered.
“I’m right here,” Yonmar said, perhaps with a note of intrigue in his tone, given her odd question. Bee blushed, embarrassed, but noticed the worm did not speak a word. She could only feel it flex weakly in the meat between her ears.
Minutes later, Bee let out a ragged breath as Yonmar Free finished his treatment, and she murmured, “I guess I’ll wear a black dress then if I have to wear one.”
“Black would be suitable,” Yonmar replied with a gentle nod. “Your wounds are closed now. They should hurt no longer.”
Before either could speak further, the heavy door to the lady’s suite creaked open, revealing an imposing figure clad in ornate golden armour, with a visor hiding the nature of her skull. Like the maidens, a carriage of flowering vines trailed from her cloak, and knots of plant-like growth emerged wildly from her armour’s chain links and plate. Despite these similarities to the delicate flowery maidens, this new arrival was a formidable warrior, carrying both a sword and a lance with practised ease. Her piercing gaze scanned the room, settling on the guard who had dragged Bee in earlier. With an authoritative gesture, she ordered Sar-ek to leave.
“What is this? Men will not guard our guest while she is dressed,” the blossoming warrior declared, chastising him. Sar-ek snorted his displeasure and shouldered her on the way out, their mail clattering together loudly. The guards outside bowed their heads and retreated from the doorway, which was quickly sealed once again.
“Blade of the Rose.” Yonmar offered a polite bow of his head to acknowledge the newcomer, packing away his melting metal tools and viscous unguents. “Good to see you.”
The Blade of the Rose approached Bee, her stride confident and purposeful. “Allow me to introduce myself,” she said, extending a hand encased in a gauntlet adorned with thorn-like embellishments. “I am Toshtta Yew, a protector of Lady Rose of Thorns. I’m here to ensure your safety and well-being during your time captive in the lord’s court.”
Bee paused, then reached out with her hand to clasp Toshtta’s armoured fingers. It felt strange to touch such cold metal, but she sensed the warmth and strength of the being behind it. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Come,” Toshtta said, motioning for her to follow. “The Flowerbedside Companions will help you dress and prepare. And thank you, honoured thetspian Yonmar Free.”
The bone monk stopped in the doorway and inclined his head to them before disappearing beyond. As Bee was led through the opulent suite, she couldn’t help but marvel at the luxurious fabrics and intricate mirrors that surrounded her. The Flowerbedside Companions bustled about, their hands deftly selecting garments and accessories for Bee’s attire. Despite their unusual appearances, they seemed eager to assist, their floral faces lighting up whenever they caught sight of her.
Bee allowed herself to be guided by the maidens, her mind still reeling from the events of the day. Their odd customs, Bee thought, seemed to be filled with unknown dangers and strange beauty. They sponged her armoured plates and skin down with soapy water before wetting her hair and pressing it in cloth to clean it. Then, as the Flowerbedside Companions helped Bee step into a black gown, they also clad her left arm in a dark velvet glove that hid the plates on her hand and forearm.
After they were done dressing her, Bee stared at her reflection in an ornate mirror, barely recognising the figure before her. The Flowerbedside Companions had expertly cleaned her up, taming her wild hair and applying subtle makeup to accentuate her features. The black gown they had selected pooled around her feet like shadows. She marvelled at the luxurious fabric, which seemed to drink in the light, contrasting sharply with her purple skin.
Yet, she couldn’t help but notice the dress hid the plates of her left forearm, legs, and torso. Her upper arms, shoulders, neck, and head were so revealed that she looked... Human, like that hologram representing the Immortal, were it not for her gossamer wings that flicked into view and the fluted siphons extending from the engines embedded in her back, revealed as she turned. Was that why they seemed so fascinated with her? Bee wondered.
“Whose dress is this?” Bee asked, unable to keep the curiosity from her voice.
“Once worn by our Lady, Rose of Thorns,” the Blade of the Rose replied. “It’s only fitting that you wear it.”
“Rose of Thorns?” Bee echoed, intrigued. “Did she used to rule this place? What happened to her?”
Toshtta The Blade hesitated momentarily, her golden visor dipping as though she was grappling with a great weight. Finally, she spoke. “We are in Ymmngorad, a tower cursed to be the seat of Cruiros. Our mistress, Rose of Thorns, was once the captive bride of the Damnation, the cruel ruler of this realm. She remains after his death, trapped forevermore on the highest level of this very tower.”
“Trapped?” Bee couldn’t hide her concern. “By who? Or what?”
“By the very thorns that grow from her body,” the Toshtta explained solemnly. “They’ve grown uncontrollable, entwining her in their deadly embrace.”
As Bee absorbed this information, her heart ached. “Is there anything we can do for her?” Bee asked, her voice quiet and determined.
“Perhaps,” the Toshtta said cautiously. There was a hard edge to that word as if something very particular remained unspoken. Yet, it was hidden as she continued, “But, and forgive me for being so outspoken now, focus on your meeting with Jhedothar. I shall be there as a third party, but I can sense you are not used to the intrigues of court.”
The Flowerbedside Maidens finished fastening the gown and stepped back to admire their handiwork. As Bee turned to face them, she was struck by the contrast between her own appearance and the mottled, overgrown visages of the little attendants. Yet despite their inhuman countenance, they had shown her nothing but kindness.
“Thank you,” Bee whispered, offering a small smile.
“You are most welcome, Your Ladyship,” one of the maidens replied, a faint blush blooming on her petal-covered cheeks.
Lastly, they offered Bee a sable cloak. She reached out to touch it, the soft crush of its decadent fabric slipping between the velvet fingertips of her glove. Unable to properly put it on herself, the maidens tucked it over her shoulders and secured it with a loose clasp. As Bee prepared to leave the chamber with the Blade Toshtta at her side, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of the black gown upon her shoulders, a reminder that she carried a legacy so easily forgotten in the chaos of her life thus far.