Late in the evening, Vashante Tens and Bee stood alone in the banquet hall. The long table stretched out behind them, bare of dishes or candles, its polished bone surface reflecting the flicker of hot light from the roaring hearth. No Flowerbedside Companions scurried about to lay out place settings or attend their Lady’s every need. Indeed, not a single attendant remained to observe how the tower’s hush set upon them—an unusual moment of solitary calm.


    Vashante took up her now customary post by Bee’s side, silent and watchful. She let her eyes roam across the hall’s high, curved ceiling, carved of Ymmngorad’s living bone. Even the City seemed to slumber at this hour, a subdued tremor in the walls rather than the relentless pulse of the day. Her gaze drifted to the hearth itself—an old metallic coil embedded in its heart, glowing red-hot in the embers, bathing the hall in a sullen glow that cast wavering shadows across their feet.


    Bee stood at the edge of the fireplace, arms folded, shoulders tense. She, too, gazed into the coil’s fierce heat as if seeking answers in that molten brilliance. Vashante studied Bee’s face. No longer a child, grown too soon into a woman with responsibilities none would envy, she wore a distant weariness in her eyes. The crackle of burning coals punctuated the crush of the atmosphere abound. The night air beyond the hall’s bone doors felt suspended in anticipation.


    The double doors of living, metallic bone and hardened plating swung open, accompanied by the dull thud of heavy footfalls. Jhedothar entered, his centaurian form partially silhouetted by the lamplight behind him. He advanced, the spear of ruby hue held upright, each measured step betraying his layered resentment. His gaze darkened when he drew close enough to look upon Bee and Vashante.


    “You did not tell me she would be here,” he spoke, voice low with barely restrained acrimony. Vashante, though voiceless, braced herself at his affront, tensing her mechanical limbs in readiness should his ire boil over.


    Bee turned from the fire, meeting his glare. A frown shadowed her features. “It’s just us,” she said quietly. “You, me, and Vashante. We have things to talk about.”


    Jhedothar’s posture stiffened, antlered head inclining fractionally. Though he was now the lesser in the face of Bee’s rising authority, here behind closed doors his pride was far from cowed. Through every line of his bristling form, Vashante sensed the deep well of grudges still churning. Yet he let the silence linger rather than pressing that bitterness.


    Bee lowered her gaze, turning it aside. “I have yet to bestow all the tokens I promised. You, Vashante, and the rest—my so-called Knights Consort. I wanted…” She paused, glancing again into the coil’s heated luminescence. “I wanted to make something for each of you.”


    Jhedothar’s lips twisted. “I have no taste for trinkets,” he growled, a deep rumble of disdain. His tail lashed once, punctuating the contention in his stance.


    Vashante, who had silently watched him from Bee’s flank, studied his posture—ready to intervene if his scorn flared to violence. But Jhedothar merely shifted the ruby spear, resting it at an angle against the floor with care. He had come to talk, after all, not to murder. Vashante exhaled softly.


    Bee’s mouth twitched in a troubled half-smile. The press of night around them was absolute, broken only by the metal coil’s crackle and the distant press of Ymmngorad’s breathing bones.


    Finally, when Bee spoke again, her voice remained subdued. “I’ve been learning from Slashex how to… how to use this power I hold, inherited from the Immortal’s line. I can’t say I truly understand it—and I don’t have time to master it.”


    At these words, a flicker of dark comprehension crossed Vashante’s mind, recalling Bee’s dire infestation. Bee’s next words, delivered with grim acceptance, confirmed her wearied resolve. “I might not have long,” Bee said, voice soft. “So I should do what good I can now, before I might… Well, you know.”


    Jhedothar barked an abrupt laugh of bitter surprise—perhaps a show of disbelief or an attempt to remain unmoved by her candour. “My forces gather. We are near ready to see to the taking of the rail terminals and forward access ways. Then we ascend to the higher reaches. We remind these rotten old families what it means to take guardianship of the realms. Or did you prefer we kneel in your hall until doom falls upon you?”


    Bee shook her head. Vashante watched the coil’s glow reflect in Bee’s eyes—a dull red, like living embers. At a quiet prompt from the Eidolon—no more than a hand on her elbow—Bee turned back to face them both. There was a small, sad warmth in her gaze when she glanced at Vashante. Then she addressed Jhedothar again.


    “Slashex,” Bee said haltingly, “has taught me how to ‘speak’ in the old sense. Not… spells, as you might guess, but the software and the transmissions that shape the living nanites in our flesh. It’s all around us—wired through the City, through every ‘freak’ and ‘chimaera’. I don’t think either of you would name it anything but ‘witchcraft,’ but that’s not really what it is. I get that now. I can use it to help you both.” Her voice dropped as if mindful that even Ymmngorad might be eavesdropping.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Vashante realised her tension had slipped away somewhat, replaced by a cautious curiosity. What could Bee do for them—and at what cost?


    Bee let the silence hold for a time. Vashante felt a prickle in the air, some subtle static that crept over her augmented limbs. She saw that Jhedothar felt it, too, gripping his ruby spear as though it might vanish if he did not as he stood across from Bee, half in shadow, half in the hearth’s red gleam.


    “I wanted you both here, alone,” Bee said quietly, “because I wanted to tell you that I can help you.”


    Her words stirred no immediate reply. Jhedothar’s jaw set; Vashante’s many eyes drifted toward Bee, transfixed by the audacity of her claim. Bee let her single hand rise, pressing it lightly against her chest as though steadying herself. Her voice carried gently above the low roar of the metal coil in the hearth.


    “I know neither of you will believe this. Or trust me when I say it. But Slashex has shown me how to... to do things.” She faltered a moment, her gaze flicking from the scarlet embers to Jhedothar’s resentful stare. “They call them eternal curses—your afflictions—but I can undo them.”


    Vashante’s heart lurched, mechanical though it was. In her chest, she felt the faint clank of internal servos turning with a surge of feeling she had long struggled to repress. Jhedothar’s tension was more obvious: his shoulders bunched, the muscles in his bestial shoulders rippling beneath the black cloak and gold insignia he wore.


    “What foolish talk is this?” His tone was sharp, suspicion edging each word. Yet, he did not interrupt further. He only tightened his grip on the spear, the haft squealing under pressure.


    Bee lifted her gaze to Jhedothar. “Your augmentations—crippled and darkened after your confrontation with the Wire-Witch. She sealed them, locked them. Slashex told me how to bypass her encryption. I can bring them back online.”


    The words hung between them. Vashante saw the flicker in Jhedothar’s eyes, half-hope and half-disbelief, hidden by the scowl that shadowed his bestial visage. He glanced, uncertain, toward Vashante. She met his gaze but offered him no comfort; she herself felt the ground slip beneath her.


    Bee took in a slow breath. “You’d have your full might again. The speed, the strength, all that made you so formidable.” She paused, letting him grasp the enormity of it. “I ask nothing in return… Except that you help me do the right thing, I guess. That’s all.”


    Jhedothar’s lip curled. “To trust you is to trust the Immortal’s line,” he said, voice dropping to a near snarl. But the longing in his voice betrayed him. He had once risen in glory, subjugating this realm. To be restored might end the bitterness that gnawed him now. “Curious coincidence that I find myself under the thumb of another Lady. Now, you tempt me with illusions of power.”


    Bee did not rise to his hostility. She only turned quietly to Vashante. The Eidolon felt the weight of those dark eyes on her, their compassion and sorrow mingling in one. Vashante’s ring of unblinking camera-eyes followed Bee’s movement, tension coiling in her mechanical joints.


    “Vashante,” Bee said softly, stepping near with care. “I can fix your body. Make it living again. Give you back your voice… If you want it.”


    At this, Vashante tensed. The memory of the Pilgrim’s harsh modifications, the severing of her capacity to speak, cut deep. Could it really be undone? She had lived so long in silent servitude, and violent purpose that imagining the return of her old self was unthinkable. A thousand flickering images of her past violence rushed through her mind. She dared not raise her eyes to Bee or to Jhedothar. She looked away instead, hooded head dipping, teeth flexing in silent distress.


    For a span, no one spoke. Only the hush of Ymmngorad’s breath, the low hum of the burning coil, and the faint resonance of the City’s heartbeat somewhere in the deep.


    That bell rang out, a summoning from the heart of Acetyn, and Bee ignored it.


    The tower Ymmngorad suddenly stirred, awoken. Its many hardened buttresses and steeples arched and flexed, preparing for what may come.


    Jhedothar scraped the spear haft on the floor once, betraying his wrestle with pride. Vashante stared at the ground, forcing herself into a measured stance.


    At last, Bee spoke again, gently, “It’s not magic… not really. I guess the people in the City call it witchcraft when the Wire-Witch does it. Or the Vat-Mother. Slashex calls it code, software, instructions. But we can override what it’s done to your bodies. There’s a cost, an effort, a risk. But, if you let me, I can help. I want to help.”


    Jhedothar’s frown deepened. Vashante saw his distrust wage war with the simmer of possibility. Vashante felt her own heartache, a fierce longing as her mechanical spine trembled beneath the black cloak. To speak again? Yet, fear gnawed: would it warp her further in ways she could not bear?


    “If you truly wield such power,” Jhedothar said, voice steeled, “Why share it with me, your rival to the seat? I am defeated and cannot challenge your new-found witchcraft. I have agreed to service as things stand. To empower me risks your overthrow.”


    Bee shook her head, dark hair loose across her shoulders. “Because I need you both strong. I need you...” She exhaled, refusing to meet his glare. “Because it’s just the right thing to do. I don’t really care if you serve me or not. You can’t hurt me anymore, not worse than what’s going to happen to me if we don’t work together.”


    As the last echoes of her plea faded in the cavernous hall, Bee turned her gaze again toward the red coil in the hearth, letting it cast its restless glow over her face. Jhedothar lowered his grip on his spear, though his stance remained rife with conflict. A thoughtful cast came over his eyes. Vashante kept her gaze on the floor, overwhelmed by the enormity of Bee’s promise.


    “We can do it tonight,” Bee said, voice catching in her throat. “We can do it before the Rose of Thorns.”