The Ossein Basilica was a cavernous expanse of bone and shadow, its cathedral-like heights swallowing the faint light that filtered through ancient vents and fractures in the City’s sprawling body. The Pilgrim sat alone, his throne hewn from fused vertebrae and jagged shards of skeletal remains, the old throne shattered and built over—larger—towering in its grotesque magnificence. Around him, the darkness pressed close, kept alive with the faint echoes of Acetyn’s restless movements, astride far below these storied heights.
Of the realm, none dare get close. Not of that baying horde of mongrel freaks, who cried oft’ for his overthrowing through violent rapture the misbegotten rulership that had arisen in his absence. Yet, even though he might just possess the might to scour the realms by brute force, his hand was stayed. He remembered well the words of the so-called Immortal when he had first arrived at the Ossein Basilica.
Kill him… Do not disappoint me, or I shall wipe this place clean and start again.
The Pilgrim was amongst the few who knew—who truly knew—that such profane and diabolic weaponry existed as to slay a City. To wipe it clean, indeed.
Still, they had failed to stop him from taking this seat and finding his grandchild. Such a doom never came to pass. But how far could the Pilgrim push this? How far could he upset the balance before such an intervention took place?
Was it another lie? Some grim bluff so as to disarm him via his own doubts?
Helmeted and silent, the Pilgrim sat with his head bowed, the dim glow of his visor casting faint streaks onto the bone floor beneath him. His thoughts churned, whispers of memory and pain swirling in the abyss of his mind. It was here, in the stillness of the Basilica, that he allowed himself to dwell on the journey that had brought him to this place—from his fall to his rebirth, to the bloody ascension that had claimed the Lord of Bones’ throne. Here, in the oppressive solitude, he was nearly Eberekt again. He needed only the time and the peace to find his own voice amidst the cacophony within.
Then, faint and mournful, the bell tolled. Its sound, distant and deep, resonated through the Basilica, shaking loose the silence as it cast through the suffocating gloom. The Pilgrim stirred. Slowly, he straightened, his massive form rising with a creak of ancient plates and strained servos. His helmeted gaze turned toward the unseen source of the sound, and with an internal command, he willed himself into the ghost space.
The shift was immediate. The bone and shadow of the Basilica dissolved into a yawning void, and he found himself seated once more. This place was disconcertingly seamless—an unnatural blackness stretching infinitely in all directions. The Pilgrim knew no words for it, no understanding of its construct, yet it felt almost familiar. A twisted echo of what was or what might be.
A long table materialised in the void, its surface an inky sheen that drank in the dim, sourceless light. Around it were scattered chairs—some occupied, others conspicuously empty. The Pilgrim’s gaze swept the table he loomed over as a titan in stature, taking in the grim assembly of those who ruled Acetyn’s disparate domains.
The Vat-Mother sat across from him, a silent and inscrutable figure cloaked in a billowing mass of translucent skirts that shimmered faintly with the bioluminescence of their vat-born creation. Her stolen face wore a frown on its ruby-red lips, but her stillness and the empty eye sockets beneath the glassy dome that she wore over her skull spoke of a calculated patience, her every motion deliberate. Further down the table, other presences loomed in the periphery, their forms shrouded by the void or rendered indistinct by the subtle distortions of ghost space.
At the head of the table stood an empty throne—The Immortal’s place, unoccupied as ever, yet radiating an invisible weight that bore down on all present. Beside it, the Wire-Witch’s seat stood vacant, as did the Lord of Bones’—a grim reminder of the Pilgrim’s bloody coup that that seat should ever stand apart from his own.
But it was not the absences that drew the Pilgrim’s attention. It was the newcomers.
At the far side of the table, in a chair that had been empty in countless prior assemblies, sat a young girl. Her presence was an anomaly, a disruption to the grim procession of figures who ruled Acetyn’s depths. Her skin was a deep, amethystine purple, and her black hair was glossy, shimmering in the indistinct light, cleaned and styled into a fashion that escaped him. Together with her skin, obsidian-like plates adorned her body, their bioceremics reminiscent of the agent who had haunted Eberekt’s memories for years. The recognition sparked a cold, simmering anger in him, though he made no outward sign.
And she wore a face. A face like the old ones used to possess. The ones he was reminded were human, whilst he was not.
The girl’s expression was unreadable, but there was an undeniable weight in her presence, an assurance that belied her apparent youth. As her dark eyes gleamed faintly in the half-light of the ghost space, she briefly regarded The Pilgrim with a flicker of curiosity. This was her first time seeing the one who had taken the Lord of Bones’ throne. Her gaze lingered for a moment, but then she turned her attention to the head of the table, where The Immortal’s seat stood conspicuously empty. A slight frown crossed her face, fleeting but telling.
Her interest shifted again; this time, it rested on The Vat-Mother of Acetyn. For the rest of the introduction, the girl’s focus remained on the enigmatic figure cloaked in a shimmering gown. Something about the Vat-Mother’s presence captivated her, and she seemed to be silently studying the figure with an intensity that suggested questions unspoken.
Standing on either side of her were two figures of equally questionable authority, but for their managing to pierce into this council in ghost space on the merits of their deed and actions. To her left was a woman cloaked in tattered fabric, her immense cybernetic enhancements visible even in the half-light. Her face was a grotesque amalgam of prehensile teeth arranged in concentric rings around a maw encircled by twelve shining, unblinking eyes. Eberekt recognised her. Some sycophant and traitor best left forgotten. Her failures were a multitude. Yet now she was here.
To the girl’s right stood a hybrid of a giant, centaurian stature. His upper body was armoured in mottled, scarred plating, augmented with countless crude modifications. His head bore the skull of a beast, crowned with antlers that gleamed faintly in the void. The weight of his presence was palpable, a warrior poised to charge at the faintest provocation, a hand resting on a brilliant ruby spear that stood at his side.
The bell tolled again, its sound reverberating through the void and sending faint ripples across the table. As the Pilgrim leaned forward, his shadow stretched unnaturally across the void, his attention drawn to a sudden, eerie motion at the far end of the hall.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
The Herald had arrived to call an official start to the council.
A sibilant creature, its body an amalgam of sinew and elongated limbs, emerged from the void. Its stilt-like legs clattered softly against the unseen floor, and its head, a twisted trumpet-like structure that hung low between its legs, emitted a faint, whistling tone with each movement. The sound was both melodic and discordant, a strange harmony that set the nerves on edge.
The Herald paused, its head swaying gently as though sniffing the air. Then, in a voice that resonated like a chorus of hollow windpipes, it spoke.
“The table calls. Present are the rulers of Acetyn’s will. Hear their names, their honour, their deeds. The Pilgrim, reclaimant of the titlesure of the old Lord of Bones, master of the highest reaches, who ascended the throne through fire and strife.” Its gaze, if it had any, lingered on Eberekt for a moment before moving.
“Lady Eye, Vat-Mother of Acetyn, birther of life and sustenance for the spire-folk, and all them that scrape ‘ere below.” The Vat-Mother inclined her head slightly, her gown shimmering faintly in acknowledgement.
“Lady Bhaeryn, the Last Lady of the Dead City of Sestchek, and claimant of the silent courts of Ymmngorad.” The girl’s gaze remained fixed on the Vat-Mother, her expression unreadable as the Herald’s voice passed over her.
“Dame Vashante Tens, the Eidolon, and Knights Consort of Lady Bhaeryn.” The woman with the ringed maw gave no acknowledgement, her shining eyes unblinking as she studied the assembly.
“Sir Jhedothar the Lance, claimant protector of Cruiros, and Knights Consort of Lady Bhaeryn.” The centaurian sentinel shifted slightly, the antlers on his skull scraping faintly against the void beyond the table as he nodded his acceptance.
The Herald paused, its voice trailing into silence as it stepped back, retreating into the shadows, ever watchful. The table sat in tense quiet, the weight of the absent figures and the presence of the new ones pressing on all assembled.
The Pilgrim waited. It was Sir Jhedothar who broke the silence. His voice filled the space with a practised, commanding volume. “This assembly must acknowledge Lady Bhaeryn as the holder of the titles of Ymmngorad and the realms below it.”
The Vat-Mother’s head tilted slightly. Her gaze, though eyeless and unseen, bore down on Jhedothar with such intensity that he visibly shrank under the weight of her scrutiny. He faltered for a moment, his antlers lowering slightly, before regaining some composure.
The Pilgrim’s voice cut through the quiet that followed, his mere words enough to kick back everyone at the table with its bassy resonance. “And why should I acknowledge this... Lady Bhaeryn?”
Jhedothar’s gaze shifted to The Pilgrim, his tone cautious but firm. “She is the Vat-Mother of Sestchek’s true-born daughter. The granddaughter of the Immortal herself. She has gained the loyalty and service of those under her dominion.”
The Pilgrim and the Vat-Mother watched them, their postures rigid with noncompliance. Neither moved to support Jhedothar’s assertions, their collective silence pressing down on him.
After a tense moment, Jhedothar straightened, his voice growing more pointed. “Unless this assembly recognises Lady Bhaeryn, then we shall move to take the Gzolthit Terminals under her sole dominion. Rail transport of materials and salvage from the wastelands beyond Acetyn to the technology centers of the Ossein Basilica and the arming halls of Enelastioa will cease. Moreover, weapon exports to the higher reaches will be terminated. The lesser families shall receive our support and supply only through pledges of fealty to us. And we will take your acknowledgement through action rather than word.”
The threat hung in the air, heavy with the weight of its implications. The Pilgrim’s helmeted head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable as he regarded the three. In particular, that prospective Lady who had thus far not said a word.
Around the table, the tension mounted, each figure waiting for a response from the heads of the council present. Those swirling and nebulous figures beyond the veil of low resolution, further down the table than these higher rulers, stirred as they watched closely these events.
Lady Bhaeryn had remained silent thus far, weighing the measure of these figures and the labyrinthine politicking laid bare before her. Though but a child in the eyes of these monstrous elders, she had crossed wastelands and horrors unspeakable to stand here. Now, she had been granted a name to wield like a blade and told to take entitlement with it.
She spoke abruptly, her voice carrying with it a quiet steadiness as she leaned forward. “Why did you try to eat me?”
Lady Bhaeryn’s words were plain and direct, cutting through the vaulted silence that belied the multitudes said in this space with mere glances. There was no trembling in her tone, no falter. Just a quiet demand, as if asking after some trivial slight rather than an act of primal cannibalism.
Across the table, the Pilgrim stirred, the colossal helm tipping slightly. Within that metal carapace, Eberekt—now the Pilgrim—waged an inward war. The legion of voices that gnawed at him, the hungry choir that implored him to act, to seize the humanity he lacked by devouring it—her—just out of reach. He said nothing. He merely leaned back in his seat, gauntleted fingers curling into a fist as the clamouring within urged him, starved and desperate, to claim what must not be claimed. His silence offered no assurance to the erstwhile Lady, only a subtle reminder of the razor’s edge upon which she balanced.
The Vat-Mother’s blank stare turned upon Lady Bhaeryn. The ruby lips of her mask twisted in distaste. Her coral skin gleamed with an unnatural sheen beneath the glass dome that framed her skull. A nest of sinews and arteries twitched behind her as if agitated by the presence of this girl who dared question her so directly. The Vat-Mother exhaled with a sound that might have been laughter or perhaps the hiss of a vented threat.
“You are a foolish waif,” she said, voice cold and measured as if Lady Bhaeryn’s question deserved no courtesy. “Ill-borne. A false pretender. Do not think that I acknowledge your claim to Sestchek, child, much less Ymmngorad nor your supposed lineage. You are not the daughter of that Vat-Mother. You are a lie dressed in flesh and bone—nothing more.”
The words hung heavy in the ghost space. Countless eyes watched on from beyond the veil, taking note of these historic words from their rulers and keepers and gods. Lady Bhaeryn’s dark eyes narrowed, her jaw set. She felt the weight of that rejection pressing upon her, felt the doubt chewing at her heart. Yet she refused to show weakness. She held that hateful gaze, letting the accusation slide over her without stooping to answer it. Her scowl deepened, and in that stern line of her mouth, one might glimpse the steel spine that had allowed her to reach this exalted circle.
With a final glare, Lady Bhaeryn turned her head slowly toward the Pilgrim. She examined his armoured figure, searching for any crack in his stoic fa?ade. He offered nothing—no tilt of the helm, no tremor in the hands that might betray his thoughts. She saw in him a hollow bastion, a fortress sealed tight around a tumult of voices he would not reveal.
The silence stretched, and the Eidolon at her Lady’s side shifted, her ringed maw of prehensile teeth chittering softly, those dozen luminous eyes unblinking in their watchfulness. Without looking at the Eidolon, Lady Bhaeryn addressed her, voice low, taut with disappointment and a kind of weary resignation.
“You were right,” she said softly, bitter satisfaction lacing her tone. “This is a waste of our time.”
The words were quietly spoken but rang out in the hush like a distant clarion. The Vat-Mother’s mask did not so much as twitch. The Pilgrim did not stir. The assembly remained caught in the quiet friction that Lady Bhaeryn’s candid question and curt dismissal had ignited. Only the Eidolon inclined her head, acknowledging her Lady’s conclusion with silent gravity.
And it was Lady Bhaeryn—Bee—who dismissed the high council and ended the meeting with a command from her neural lace.