The Mother’s temple had long since turned to ruin. Its once-majestic entryway had collapsed, skeletal now, and clawed at the sky, blackened from the fire that had devoured it. Charred husks of its walls rose from the cracked foundations like teeth, and the scent of ash lingered in the air, a bitter reminder of what had been lost. Its walls had collapsed into piles of rubble that had been hastily repurposed into makeshift fortifications.
Bee stood at the edge of this desolation, her eyes wide as she surveyed the pall scene, and her plated feet hesitated on the fractured stone steps. Beside her, Jhedothar strode forward, his presence commanding even on the approach of his lifelong enemies. His cloak fluttered in the wind, and his armour shone bright and golden. Yoxsimer—hand twitching anxiously on the hilt of his sheathed blade—flanked him. Behind them marched the Blades of the Rose, disciplined and ready, as though eager for the battle to come.
Carefully, Bee adjusted the golden dress draped over her slender frame, the silken fabric catching on the edges of her biomechanical plates. The gown was Jhedothar’s heraldic colour—a bold statement of her supposed allegiance to him. It felt alien against her skin, a constant reminder of the precarious position she found herself in. Her wings twitched beneath the fabric, the engines in her back humming softly in protest at their confinement.
The Axiamati soldiers waited ahead, a formidable force despite their ragged state. Twenty of them stood in a grim line, led by a battle-hardened commander, his face, with its large, compound eyes, drawn and marked with scars of decades past. Though frozen in place, the soldiers clutched their lances, eyes wide as Bee approached. They whispered among themselves, their voices low and reverent.
Bee shifted uncomfortably under their gazes. She could hear the murmur of their disbelief, their awe, their hope.
“Is she real?” one of them whispered, his hand trembling on his weapon.
“She is. I told you. I told you the stories were true.”
And, indeed, she was real. Not a myth. Not just a whispered tale to pass the quiet and hungry hours by. She had been born in the decaying remnants of a dying city, far away, a flicker of life among ruins. Now, here she was, at the centre of a story that had begun long before she ever took her first breath. Bee’s heart raced, and she could feel their eyes on her, heavy with expectation. She wanted to disappear beneath their gazes, but there was no turning back now.
“Are you alright, Your Ladyship?” Yoxsimer of the Abbalate quietly asked, his voice carrying a melody that seemed out of place amid the devastation. The many-legged musician stood beside her, his faceted eyes reflecting the dim light that filtered through the smoke-stained sky. His dented armour clattered softly as he shifted his weight, knees grinding in a subtle symphony of metal and chitin.
Bee offered a faint smile. “As all right as I can be, I suppose,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the warped metal sculpture of the arrowhead—the last remnant of the Immortal’s shrine. It stood defiantly amid the ruins, its once sleek form now twisted and blackened by the flames that had consumed nearly everything else.
All except that wrought iron sculpture of that man in the centre that remained seemingly impervious to harm.
The soldiers parted, stepping aside in slow, reverent movements as the nobles Bee and Jhedothar approached the ruined heart of the temple. Their fear was palpable, but so was their hope. They had been waiting for this—waiting for her. Bee wasn’t sure what they saw in her, not really, but the look in their eyes somehow frightened her more than their weapons ever could.
Jhedothar, sensing the tension in the air, paused only briefly. His ruby spear caught the dull light, casting ominous reflections as his cold gaze swept across the Axiamati soldiers before locking onto their leader. The old warrior stood alone at the foot of what had once been the temple’s grand altar to the Immortal. His armour was scarred, his helm missing, exposing his worn, lined face. His dark compound eyes met Jhedothar’s with a hardened, knowing look.
Bee couldn’t help but look to where the altars of the Vat-Mother and the Wire-Witch had been obliterated to an unrecognisable collapse.
Now all eyes were on them. The Axiamati soldiers—twenty in all—stood amidst the rubble, their pale cloaks tattered and stained. Their bodies bore the marks of recent battles: bruises, hastily bandaged wounds, and the weary posture of those who had seen too much.
“Stay close, Your Ladyship,” Toshtta whispered, her voice barely audible beneath her helmet.
Bee nodded, swallowing hard. She could hear the murmurs spreading through the Axiamati ranks.
“Is it really her?”
“The Last Lady?”
“She’s real... she’s really here?”
The old warrior stepped forward, his bearing stoic despite the weariness etched into his features. His battered armour bore the remnants of intricate designs—a testament to a nobler past. Bee recognised the commander from below, Cruiros, a leader among the Axiamati.
“Jhedothar the Lance, is it?” Cartaxa said, inclining his head in a gesture that was respectful yet devoid of subservience. “We did not expect you here.”
“And why should you not?” Jhedothar bit back. “I am lord of this domain.”
“Truly?” Cartaxa’s mandibles twisted in contempt. “You never struck me as the sort to squat in an abandoned tower.”
“Abandoned no longer. I am Lord of Cruiros.”
“You are no lord, Jhedothar. The title of Ymmngorad hasn’t been bestowed upon you.”
Jhedothar’s eyes narrowed, his voice sharp. “Spare me, you pale sycophant. Where is the Eidolon?”
Cartaxa met his gaze evenly. “She has gone to find her.”
“Her?” Jhedothar’s tone held a dangerous edge.
Cartaxa’s eyes shifted to Bee, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mandibles. “The Last Lady of Sestchek,” he said. “The true daughter of the Vat-Mother. The one we came here to find.”
Bee felt a flush rise to her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and unease. She glanced at Jhedothar, noting the muscle twitching in his bestial jaw.
“You dare address her directly?” Jhedothar growled, taking a step forward.
Cartaxa remained unfazed. “I will address her as I please, Jhedothar. My allegiance lies with her,” he said calmly. “We have come to pledge ourselves to her cause.”
A murmur rippled through the Axiamati soldiers behind him, their eyes fixed on Bee with renewed intensity.
Bee’s heart pounded in her chest. “I... I’m not sure what cause you mean,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Cartaxa took a deliberate step toward her, meeting Jhedothar’s advance. The Blades of the Rose tensed, their hands tightening around their lances, but Bee raised her remaining hand to ask them to stand down.
“The Eidolon has shared tales of your journey,” Cartaxa said. “Of your intended defiance against the Immortal and her progeny. We believe you are the one who can free us from this nightmare.”
Jhedothar scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “She is under my protection. Any pledges will be made to me.”
“Protection?” Yoxsimer chimed in, a hint of amusement in his tone. “It seems the Lady can inspire loyalty on her own.”
Cartaxa turned his attention to Yoxsimer, his eyes glinting with recognition. “Yoxsimer,” he acknowledged. “Still clinging onto titles, I see.”
Yoxsimer’s mandibles curved into a wry smile. “And you, cousin, seem to have shed yours—along with a few limbs,” he quipped, his gaze drifting to Cartaxa’s altered, near-humanoid form, sculpted to fit the Axiamati prescription.
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Bee glanced between them, confusion flickering across her face. “You know each other?”
“Family connections run deep,” Yoxsimer replied casually. “Cartaxa here chose a different path, aligning himself with the lords above and abandoning his heritage.”
Cartaxa’s expression hardened. “I chose a path of honor, of sacrifice,” he retorted. “Not one of complacency.”
“Enough!” Jhedothar’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Be silent, Yoxsimer. I will not tolerate insubordination. You, Cartaxa, surrender your arms and what remains of this temple. Tell me where the Eidolon is, or face the consequences!”
Cartaxa’s gaze shifted back to Bee, pointedly ignoring the upstart lordling. “Our quarrel is not with you, Your Ladyship,” he said, ignoring Jhedothar’s outburst. “We are here to serve. Say the word and I shall silence this pretender on your behalf.”
Bee felt the weight of his words settle upon her. She searched his compound eyes, finding sincerity there but also wariness. “I don’t want anyone to fight,” she said softly. “There’s been too much killing already.”
A flicker of relief passed over Cartaxa’s face. “Accept our pledge,” he urged. “Let us stand with you.”
Jhedothar’s eyes flashed with anger. “You overstep, Cartaxa,” he snarled. “She is mine.”
Bee bristled at the possessiveness in his tone. “I’m not anyone’s possession,” she said firmly, meeting Jhedothar’s gaze.
The surrounding soldiers exchanged glances, the atmosphere shifting with her defiance. Toshtta shifted subtly, positioning herself between Bee and Jhedothar, her stance protective.
Bee’s gaze flickered between Toshtta and Jhedothar, a knot of tension tightening in her stomach. It was then she noticed the subtle angle of Toshtta’s lance—not pointed at Cartaxa or the Axiamati soldiers, but at Jhedothar himself. The realisation sent a jolt through her. Toshtta’s armoured form stood poised, the golden blade of her weapon glinting ominously in the dim light.
Jhedothar’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the ruby spear shifting as he became aware of the threat. The air grew thick with unspoken hostility. Bee saw the muscles in Jhedothar’s centaurian form tense, ready to spring. His bestial skull tilted ever so slightly toward Toshtta, a silent challenge.
At the same moment, Cartaxa’s hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword. His gaze remained steady on Jhedothar, his posture calm but resolute. The Axiamati soldiers behind him shifted, their hands inching toward their weapons. The Blades of the Rose mirrored the movement, creating a tableau of impending violence. All throughout, Yoxsimer and Yonmar Free watched closely, making no motion to intervene on Jhedothar’s behalf.
Bee’s heart pounded in her chest. The possibility hung heavily in the air: they could all work together to kill Jhedothar here and now. Toshtta and the Blades had perhaps been waiting for this opportunity to overthrow him and free their Lady, the Rose of Thorns. The thought was both tempting and terrifying.
But was that the answer?
She glanced at Jhedothar. Despite his arrogance and cruelty, he had shown moments of restraint—however fleeting. Did he deserve to be cut down in cold blood? And what of the soldiers loyal to him waiting outside? If they emerged without their leader, or if word spread that he had been slain, chaos would erupt. The fragile balance of power in Cruiros could shatter entirely, plunging the realm into deeper turmoil.
Bee swallowed hard, her throat dry. She recalled the warnings of Slashex and the Wire-Witch: trust no one. The intricate web of alliances and enmities was too dangerous to navigate impulsively. Allowing Jhedothar to be killed might solve one problem but create countless others.
Perhaps it would be better if these factions remained wary of each other rather than eventually unite against her, she thought guiltily.
No. Bee shook her head to dispel that thought. She couldn’t let more blood be spilt, not when there was a chance—however slim—to forge a different path.
“Stop,” Bee said firmly, her voice cutting through the tension. She stepped forward, positioning herself between Jhedothar and Toshtta. “Enough!”
Toshtta’s visor tilted toward her. “Your Ladyship...”
Bee met her gaze unflinchingly. “Lower your weapon, Toshtta.”
For a moment, the Blade of the Rose hesitated. Then, with a subtle nod, she eased her lance away from Jhedothar, though her posture remained alert.
Bee turned to Cartaxa, her expression resolute. “I won’t be the cause of more death,” she said. “We have to find a way to work together.”
Jhedothar scoffed, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. All sides turning on him at once had clearly shattered his delusions of invincibility. “You think unity is possible with traitors and deserters?”
“Maybe. You’re a traitor and a deserter too, after all,” Bee answered, actually making Jhedothar flinch. “We have to try. If we don’t at least try, then that’s it for us.”
A murmur rippled through the assembled soldiers. Some looked hopeful; others remained guarded. The tension began to ease, though the atmosphere was still heavy with anticipation.
Cartaxa regarded her thoughtfully. “You are wise beyond your days, Your Ladyship,” he said quietly.
She offered a faint smile. “I don’t know about that,” she admitted. “But I know that continuing to fight will only get us all killed.”
An uneasy silence settled over the group. Bee could feel the weight of their gazes—Jhedothar’s scepticism, Toshtta’s cautious respect, Cartaxa’s guarded optimism.
“Very well,” Jhedothar said, at last, his tone begrudging. “We will postpone any... decisions, for now. They may join us at Ymmngorad as our guests.”
Bee nodded appreciatively, sensing that this was the best concession they would get from him at the moment.
It was then that Cartaxa bowed his head. “We await your word, Your Ladyship.”
Bee hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at her. She glanced at Yonmar Free, who offered a slight nod of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, she made her decision.
“Very well,” she said. “I accept your pledge.”
A collective sigh seemed to ripple through the Axiamati ranks. Some smiled, others bowed their heads in gratitude. But before the moment could settle, a figure stumbled forward from among them.
He was young—or at least, Bee thought he might be. His features were obscured by grime and blood, one arm bound tightly against his chest with a makeshift sling. Despite his roughly humanoid form, his body was twisted and bent, showing signs of being another shape entirely once, then being carved into this one. Before anyone could react, he fell to his knees in front of Bee, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and desperation.
The suddenness of his approach made the Blades of the Rose move swiftly, their lances and swords drawn and poised to strike. “Stand back!” Toshtta commanded, her voice echoing through the ruins.
“Wait!” Bee exclaimed, stepping forward. She placed herself between the injured soldier and the drawn blades, her hand raised in a gesture of peace.
The Blades hesitated, their gazes shifting to Toshtta for guidance. Toshtta studied Bee for a moment before nodding to her companions. Reluctantly, they withdrew their weapons.
“Please, Your Ladyship,” he cried out, his voice hoarse. “When I joined the Axiamati, I first pledged myself before the Wire-Witch and she found me vile. I ask for your blessing. I ask you… please, save us. Please, lead us to Paradise!”
Bee knelt before the soldier, her golden gown pooling around her. “What’s your name?” she asked gently.
“Emris,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes.
Her heart ached at the raw emotion in his voice. “Emris, I... I’m not sure I can do what you ask,” she admitted. “But I promise to try. I’ll do everything I can to make things better.”
He grasped her hand—her only hand—with surprising strength. “Thank you,” he murmured, his gaze searching hers for hope.
All eyes there in that makeshift camp turned upon that sight. A lowly freak and a lady clasping their hands together. She didn’t pull away.
Bee offered a small smile. “You’re not alone,” she said softly. “There’s a lot of people suffering, right now. Together we can make it better.”
Behind her, Jhedothar scoffed. “This is pointless,” he muttered. “We should be hunting the Eidolon, not indulging in fantasies.”
Bee stood, her eyes meeting his with a newfound resolve. “These people need hope more than they need more killing,” she said. “If I can offer that, then it’s not pointless.”
Jhedothar’s expression darkened. “Hope doesn’t win wars,” he retorted.
“Perhaps not,” Yonmar interjected, stepping forward. “But it can inspire people to fight for a cause greater than themselves.”
“Careful, monk,” Jhedothar warned. “Your counsel borders on insolence.”
Yonmar bowed his head slightly. “Merely offering perspective, Your Lordship.”
A tense silence settled over the group. Bee glanced at Toshtta, who gave a barely perceptible nod. She turned back to Emris, who was being helped to his feet by fellow soldiers.
“We should return,” Jhedothar declared, his patience clearly waning. “There’s much to be done, especially if that butcher is on the loose.”
Bee nodded though her mind was elsewhere. She looked around at the faces surrounding her—worn, hopeful, fearful. They were placing their trust in her. She nodded to herself.
Bee felt a gentle touch on her shoulder as they began to make their way back through the ruins. She turned to see Toshtta walking beside her.
“You carry a heavy burden, Your Ladyship,” Toshtta said quietly.
“I know,” Bee replied, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t ask for it, but... I can’t turn away.”
Toshtta regarded her for a moment. “Your compassion is a strength,” she said. “Don’t let others make you believe otherwise.”
Bee offered a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.
Yoxsimer sidled up on her other side, his many legs easily navigating the rubble. “Quite a show back there,” he remarked. “You have a way with people.”
“I’m just trying to help,” Bee said.
“And that’s precisely why they’ll follow you,” he said, his tone light but his faceted eyes thoughtful.
As they moved away from the temple, Bee cast one last glance at the blackened sculpture of the Pilgrim. There it would remain evermore, impervious amidst the devastation, a silent testament to their past and futures both.