In the dimly lit corridors of Ymmngorad, a tower renowned throughout Cruiros for its ancient grandeur and sombre beauty, Bee, clad in a flowing black dress that whispered against the cold stone floor with each step, made her way towards a private feast. Having heard word of the tower’s former Lady, her eyes glimpsed there upon the ceilings and snaking across the walls, boundless thorny vines and mottled plant matter, content to spread endlessly amidst the stony flesh of the tower. She began to realise this ever-present spread that appeared to fill the realm of Cruiros itself, issued from one singular entity. Looking down one passage as she stepped past its door, she caught sight of a menial servant prying it from the walls with crook and fire. It seemed a hopeless, endless task to tame the wild overgrowth.


    Beside her was an unusual escort: the flowerbedside companions, handmaidens both bizarre and mesmerising. These figures, freaks as any other in the eyes of the unaccustomed, bore the delicate beauty of flowers sprouting from their flesh, a vivid display of life in stark contrast to their surroundings. Petals of vibrant hues bloomed from their skin, marking each a diminutive walking garden that moved with a grace that belied their lesser forms. Leading them, Toshtta the Blade, golden armour rattling with every footfall, a cascade of plant matter sweeping behind her, cloaking her step. Bee couldn’t take her eyes off of their strange flesh and the budding stems that grew from them, so different from her own.


    Together, they descended a spiralling staircase, the tower’s stones echoing with the soft sounds of their passage. The air was heavy with anticipation and the subtle fragrance of the living bouquets that accompanied Bee. As they approached the feast hall, laughter and music began filling the corridor, breaching the solemnity that was ever present in Acetyn proper.


    Yet before the grand doors leading to the hall, a flood of the small flowery maidens filled the entryway and poured in from adjacent tunnels. Their petal-covered faces peered at Bee’s human-like appearance with curiosity and awe, and the air grew heavy with the scent of blossoms, teasing her nose with a perfumed warmth.


    “Um, hello?” Bee said hesitantly, her voice barely audible among the excited whispers that filled the air.


    One of the maidens stepped forward, her flower-dappled skin glistening with dewdrops in the flickering lamplight. “We heard you were here, Your Ladyship,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “We wanted to meet the one who vowed to save our people.”


    Another leaned in. “You poor thing, Your Ladyship. You are missing a hand. Where is it?”


    “I lost it,” Bee blanched at the unexpected question as they surrounded her. “Outside the City.”


    “Outside the City?” One of them called out. Whispers abound between them all.


    “Are you from Paradise?” One asked.


    “Are you here to free us?” Another.


    “Quiet Meb,” someone shushed. “You cannot ask a thing like that. You’ll get us in trouble.”


    Bee, overwhelmed, turned on the spot to look around them all. Toshtta the Blade had stopped to witness the exchange and did not seem inclined to interrupt. To her surprise, Bee could see that these so-called Flowerbedside Companions needed something to cling to, and for now, that was her.


    “Do you want to sit with me?” Bee asked before kneeling down in her dress in the middle of the corridor. The maidens shared glances — scandalised, excited to be breaking decorum — but inevitably, they crouched with her, their leaves and petals rustling. Toshtta’s golden visor glanced to the doorway beyond but made no objection. Bee continued, once settled, “Tell me what’s wrong.”


    The maidens exchanged solemn glances, and then, one by one, they began to share their stories. They spoke of the days before the Damnation when the Rose of Thorns held power and hope bloomed within the tower. They recounted tales of a fairer time, where the streets were safe from hounds, and the realm grew by the day.


    “But now,” one maiden murmured, her eyes downcast, “all that remains are echoes.”


    “Since Jhedothar took control,” another added, “the tower has fallen into disrepair. Many of us have been forced to serve him and his court, while our Lady remains imprisoned above.”


    “Why is she imprisoned?” Bee asked.


    Toshtta answered, speaking over the crowd, prompting Bee to look up at her, though her tone was guarded. “Your Ladyship, the Damnation was given this demesne by the old Lord of Bones, and our Lady was forced to submit. Sensing opportunity, the Vat-Mother of Acetyn then bestowed upon them an unholy blessing. The Lady Rose of Thorns was forced to bear fruit, endlessly. The fruit — weaponry, lances. Cruiros is a fiefdom once dedicated to producing armaments for the old families. Lord Jhedothar has defied the old oaths since taking the realm and seeks this power for himself.”


    A painful silence filled the corridor as the maidens shook their heads. The weight of their sorrow pressed down upon Bee, suffocating her with its intensity. Her hand clenched into a fist at the injustice of it all, the fabric of her gown crumpling beneath her fingers.


    “Thank you for telling me,” Bee said finally, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging within her. “I promise, I’ll talk to him about this. I’ll try my best to help.”


    The maidens looked at her with grateful eyes, their petals trembling ever so slightly as they clung to her words like a lifeline. And even though Bee didn’t know how she would fulfil her promise, she knew she couldn’t let them down.


    Upon entering the vast dining hall, Bee was momentarily struck by the enormity of the space, the shadows cast by electric torchlight stretching out towards her like grasping hands. Bee glanced back to Toshtta, who remained by the door and ushered her in with a gesture of her hand.


    A massive iron coil rose up from a hearth, red hot and washing the chamber in its glow. Nearby, a long table stood at the centre of the room, laden with foods — some still living, squirming, others oozing or shimmering with iridescent hues. Fruits pulsed with a heartbeat of their own. Pastries were filled with viscous oils and metallic fluids meant to nourish biomechanical augmentations, not the stomach. Bee had to tear her eyes away from the sweeping plates and deep bowls laid out for her. She had almost forgotten how hungry she was.


    “Please sit, Your Ladyship,” one of the maidens urged gently, guiding Bee to a high-backed chair that seemed to dwarf her small frame.


    Finally seeing an activity she recognised from her time visiting the Wire-Witch’s demesne, Bee leapt up onto the chair, squatting in her dress to see across the table, down to the far end where an empty seat loomed tall.


    The sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the vast dining hall, announcing Jhedothar’s arrival. Bee watched as he entered with a commanding centaurian stride, his monstrous body and crowned skull casting an imposing shadow before him. In his hand, that massive ruby spear shone as it caught the light of the hearth.


    “Ah, my dear guest,” Jhedothar said, a smile on his lips, if not in his tone. “I’m glad we have this opportunity to speak.”


    Jhedothar made his way to a seat at the far end of the table, specifically designed to accommodate his massive form. The chair creaked beneath his weight as he settled onto it, his thick, shelled legs folding beneath him. Then, with almost casual regard, Jhedothar stood his spear in a stand beside his place at the table. Nearby, a freak with a dozen legs, dressed in Jhedothar’s golden colours, stirred. Grinding his knees together, they chirped in an insectile concerto, and he lazily banged a drum and hummed his voice to perform in the background.


    “Isn’t anyone else coming to eat?” Bee asked, raising her voice to be heard across the table. Then she glanced to the few maidens who had followed her in and back to Toshtta, noticing they weren’t sitting down.


    “No, no,” Jhedothar laughed, leaning forward with his armoured elbows on the table. “I wanted to get to know you. And I wanted to make amends for the treatment you received at the hands of my associate.”


    “Did you not tell them to beat me?” Bee asked, frowning.


    Jhedothar seemed to consider Bee across the table before he answered that. “Your arrival here is a surprise, Bee,” he said, enunciating her name with deliberation. “Or do you prefer Lady of Sestchek?”


    “Not really,” she winced, recoiling from the title and the memories it brought. “Bee’s fine.”


    Then, as he watched from across the table, Bee nervously fidgeted with one of the eating utensils.


    “Try this, Your Ladyship,” a maiden suggested, offering her a silver platter piled high with wriggling, pale tendrils. “It’s a delicacy farmed from the below.”


    Bee stared at them, rolling on the plate. Her belly tightened, reminded of the worm that remained still in her skull. Yet, even as her stomach churned, she looked around the dining hall and knew she had little choice but to play her part.


    She nervously picked up one of the eating utensils, trying to mirror the elegant movements that the maiden beside her prompted. She used the spoon-like crook to scoop into the mass and turned the spiralling stem between her fingers to secure a morsel and stop it from wiggling away, all as the maiden beside her slowly demonstrated.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Placing the squirming meat to her lips, she slurped it up. It nearly choked her, and she spluttered before swallowing it down. The taste was savoury, and the texture, unfortunately, was succulent. The alien flavours danced across her tongue, intriguing yet unsettling, much like the man who sat before her.


    And all the while, Jhedothar watched.


    “You are a stranger to high courts, aren’t you?” He asked, his gaze intense and penetrating.


    “Is that what this is?” Bee asked, clutching her metal spoon close, taking a reprieve from the squirming meal. “A court?”


    Jhedothar laughed again. “Ah, and to think,” he leaned back with a relaxed air. “Our fates have been so intertwined.”


    “Have they?” Bee had her doubts.


    “For my entire life, I served the Vat-Mother.” He rapt a knuckle on the table, a loud double tap. Bee noticed the tension in his jaw as he spoke, the tiny tremors running through his massive form. It seemed that the memory still haunted him, a dark stain upon his honour that refused to fade. “Something I suspect you know a little of.”


    “I heard about that.” Bee’s eyes narrowed. “I heard you were cursed.”


    Jhedothar took up a piece of meat on the bone, larger than Bee’s leg. Her eyes locked on to it. It was a leg. A thigh, cooked and seasoned. He tore into it with his teeth and spoke with his mouth full. “I had thought my prowess in battle and my dedication to her cause earned me high honours within our ranks. And yet, when the Wire-Witch came, and I stood against the intrusion, I found myself brought low.”


    At that, Bee’s eyes turned down to Jhedothar’s body beneath his golden cloak. It was studded with countless augmentations, biomechanical enhancements that she could glean would make him stronger. Perhaps impervious to harm in ways other vat-born were not. Perhaps in ways she couldn’t imagine. But they were dead, deactivated, dark. They were, in a manner of speaking, cursed.


    Jhedothar continued, his voice laced with bitterness. “The Vat-Mother deemed me useless, and I was cast out from her service. Exiled and reviled, I wandered the realm of Enelastoia, a disgraced pariah amongst the very people I had once protected,” Jhedothar spat, his voice thick with resentment. “Even the freaks turned their backs on me, leaving me to face the harsh truth that I was truly alone.”


    Bee could hardly believe what she was hearing. It seemed impossible that this influential, imposing figure before her had been brought so low.


    “I was made to kill the City,” Bee murmured, looking down. The maidens by her side gasped, and across the table, Jhedothar stirred, leaning forward. A pause in the music quickly resumed, stilted with fright. “I mean, yeah. I have poison in my genes, or something.”


    Bee looked up to meet Jhedothar’s eyes again, saying, “I don’t really understand how it was supposed to work. But mother was dying. Everyone else was dead.” Taking a breath, Bee dug around the bowl of tendrils with her spoon before continuing. “Mother told me it was the right thing to do — to get revenge for her. I don’t know. But the City seemed to know how to stop it, anyway.”


    Shaking his head, Jhedothar’s demeanour softened, seeming to recognise something in Bee. “The Vat-Mothers, they are all the same,” he mused. “I lied to you, myself.” Their gazes met, and Jhedothar paused before his confession. “For a time, I haunted the Enelasian Court, even in my sorry state. It was actually an omen delivered to the Vat-Mother by one whom is now my advisor, Yonmar Free, that made me realise my folly.”


    “What omen?” Bee asked, her brows furrowing together.


    “Now, what were the words?” Jhedothar considered the ceiling above, arching braces amongst the vaults and the disparate sections of industrial machinery that yet remained. “I am coming to Acetyn. I shall arrive? No... I am coming to Acetyn. My arrival shall seal the Immortal’s fate. All the noble lineages will die. It will be justice.”


    Bee’s face fell, fright shooting up her spine. Was he toying with her now? “You got the message,” she said, lip quivering.


    “I got the message,” he repeated, setting down the piece of his meal and wiping his muscular hands before working them together in thought. “Each and every court, even across the world and in the Cities far removed, received your message. It was very ambitious of you — to threaten us — now that I see you for what you are.”


    The flowerbedside maidens retreated back a step, just as frightened as Bee.


    “And poison in your genes, you say, which was useless. I suppose the City or the Immortal were meant to devour you,” he continued before asking, “You possess no witchcraft?”


    Speechless, Bee slowly shook her head.


    “No secret weapons? No army at your heel.” Jhedothar intoned a hum, boring down on her from across the feast.


    Bee put down her spoon and pushed her bowl away. She gripped the edge of the table as she asked, “Are you going to kill me after all?”


    Brief amusement danced behind Jhedothar’s eyes. With a weighty lean and elbows on the table, he shook his head as he spoke. “I wandered far through the unformed chaos. There are horrors in the dark. Perhaps you have seen some of them. I expected to die. Then, after losing myself in the depths, I came across this damned and ruined realm of Cruiros.” He paused, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “By happenstance, I arrived to find helpless survivors beset upon by a mad hound. And, despite my wretched state, something within me stirred. I took up my spear again to defend them.”


    Bee glanced at that ruby spear standing at his side, glimmering as it did in the red light of the hearth. “Even after all that?”


    “Especially after all that,” Jhedothar replied, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Bee’s heart race. “The pain and despair I had endured only served to remind me of the sacred duty of a Lord — of a God. To carve out a realm in this damned City where the innocent can survive. To protect those who cannot protect themselves.”


    A silence stretched between them, and Bee’s gaze lingered on the twisted biomechanical augmentations woven into Jhedothar’s centaurian form, even in their deadened state. In spite of his monstrous appearance, she felt a growing sense of admiration for him but silently chastised herself for it. She’d made that mistake before. He was arrogant. He was just like the others.


    “Is that what you are?” Bee asked. “A God?”


    “Not yet. But you...” Jhedothar gestured towards her over the table with a swing of his arm. “The Last Lady of Sestchek, the Vat-Mother’s only true-born daughter. Across all the world, in a thousand Cities, never has she birthed a real child — a human child. Never have any of them done ought but steal babes from the wombs of others. The Xenos cult knows this well, yet I was as blind to its implications as the rest. Until I saw you, here, before me.”


    “What implication?” Bee asked, frowning.


    “You are the Immortal’s granddaughter. Within you is their destiny. The key to their power. Yet, more than that, you are a symbol of hope,” Jhedothar observed, studying her reaction intently, his chitinous face unreadable. The flickering lamplight cast eerie shadows across his angular features, making it difficult for Bee to discern his thoughts.


    “So is that why I’m here?” Bee asked tensely. “You want a symbol?”


    Jhedothar looked towards the doorway. “Each and every soul sworn to my service is here because they believe in my cause. And with you by my side, their numbers shall surely grow.”


    “What about the flower maidens?” It was Bee’s turn to lean forward, rocking on her feet as she continued to crouch atop her chair. “What about Rose of Thorns? Do they believe in your cause?”


    Jhedothar laughed again. This time, it was louder. He gestured now across the hall towards Toshtta and the maidens. “What would you have me say? Any other taking the seat of Ymmngorad would have put them to death. I let them share my home, provided they remain obedient. You should understand that, even uncivilised as you are.”


    Obedient. Bee repeated that word to herself. She took a knife in her hand, stood on her chair, and jumped onto the table. The maidens around her gasped, and she stomped over the plates and bowls, kicking food, her skirt dragging through the remnants. All the while, Jhedothar leaned back, regarding her approach with another turn of casual amusement. When Bee finally reached him, she crouched down over his food and looked him in the eyes. No more shouting over the absurd table. No more profane etiquette. Just the two of them — face to face, or what passed as his face at least. If he didn’t take her seriously, then she would have to convince him she was to be taken seriously.


    “Let them go,” Bee hissed, holding the knife up to him.


    Jhedothar searched her face, seeming to study both her determination and the fair features of her latent humanity. He then reached forward and took her chin with a pinch of his thumb and forefinger. It took her breath away as he growled in return. “So there is strength in you. You’re more than deactivated, poisoned genes, after all.”


    At that moment, as the darkness of the dining hall seemed to recede ever so slightly, Jhedothar’s centaurian form appeared both monstrous and regal. Bee looked into his calculating eyes and said, “Don’t change the subject.”


    “Your future is here in Cruiros,” Jhedothar announced, his voice echoing through the vast dining hall. “I propose you remain as my Lady and betrothed. Bear for me a human child. Then, if you truly want to release the erstwhile Rose of Thorns, and if you can find a way to do it, so be it.”


    Bee’s hand trembled as his obscene proposal — his arrogance — enraged her. She slashed at him. The knife glanced off, sliding over his muscular chest with the stickling feeling of a blade that failed to find purchase. Jhedothar grunted, then slapped the knife from her hand with ease. His mighty hand reached from her chin and gripped her hair tight. With a gasp, Bee froze up, having expected it to at least cut him. Leaning back in his seat, Jhedothar took a deep breath and scowled as he looked at Bee.


    “This is your opportunity,” Jhedothar spoke lowly. “Apologise and pledge yourself, you senseless outsider.”


    “S-sorry,” Bee stuttered.


    “And?” His grip tightened, making Bee cry out as her hair was pulled between his biomechanical fingers.


    “Thank you—” Bee pleaded, her eyes finding him again. “Thank you for not killing me. I’ll do it. Anything you ask. Please don’t—...”


    Jhedothar stood, towering over Bee, even crouched on the table as she was. He pushed her by the head down onto the table in a clatter of plates, and Bee was crushed against the surface. She kicked bowls from the table with a crash as she struggled and sprawled out amongst synthetic oils and sticky, warm meat.


    Toshtta had run to the table, her spear raised. It wasn’t clear who she would have defended as Bee glanced towards her. The many-legged musician had also stopped playing his song and drawn a slender blade. Bee thought she perhaps had gone too far in attacking the Lord. Yet how could she not at least have tried? He obviously didn’t consider her a threat, just someone to play with.


    “You test my patience so,” Jhedothar shouted, more to be heard by Toshtta, the maidens, and any lingering servants than Bee. “I was beyond accomodating, given your hateful lineage. Whatever obscenities the Vat-Mother taught you, you shall learn to behave with grace.”


    Bee, trying to look up from her fallen position, saw Jhedothar take up his glimmering ruby spear. His face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation, his monstrous form casting a shadow over Bee. After weighing the weapon in his hand, his furious gaze turned to Toshtta.


    “Escort the Lady to her suite,” he barked. “She will be sent for when needed.”


    And Toshtta, lance in hand, hesitated before acquiescing to a bow. “Yes, Your Lordship.”