“No one fears an honest man, Chancellor. That’s why I killed all of mine.”


    — Dread Emperor Malignant III


    <hr>


    A pair of vultures crowded a patient’s bed.


    Tables and chairs, shoved aside. Another half dozen people could’ve fit beside us, yet the room felt crowded.


    Loose strands of dark brown hair caught in my fingers as Abigail writhed in the space below, caked in sweat from head to toe. All she needed was some chains, and she’d look about one twitch away from auditioning as a ghost in a theatre performance.


    I swallowed.


    “Fix this. Now.” I demanded, looking up at Esran.


    Green eyes like buttons, bulbous nose, swollen face—the Taghreb alchemist looked like an overripe melon left out in the sun too long. He sucked in his flabby cheeks before replying.


    “I… I need time to examine her condition,” the fevered alchemist stammered.


    Esran poked and prodded, muttering over bubbling concoctions. A prick of the knife drew blood, but his chants yielded no answers.


    “It’s beyond me,” he declared. “I can’t help her.”


    Nothing, huh. Well, at least we’d established a high baseline of uselessness today. I should’ve known better.


    “Try again,” I insisted.


    The room darkened.


    The herbalist shivered, gulped, stumbled backwards.


    “You don’t understand!” he exclaimed. “There’s no cure. No antidote. Saving her would take a miracle.”


    A miracle? In Praes? Might as well pray for a polite demon or a blizzard in summer. The only miracle here was how Esran still lived.


    “Miracles, huh?” I mused, “Guess you’ll need one too.”


    Black threads wove through loose furniture.


    “Please, Novice,” he begged. “I did everything I could.”


    Shadows cackled around us as I took a step closer.


    “Start convincing me why I shouldn’t gut you right here and now,” I challenged.


    Esran’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for water. It would’ve been funny if I didn’t want to shove a knife into his gut. Abigail’s chest rose and fell beneath my hands, each breath weaker than the last. My fingers twitched with the urge to shake her awake, as if stubbornness alone could keep her alive. She’d been so talented at staying out of trouble that I scarcely believed she’d fallen so deep into it.


    “I have a family!” he wailed. “Two daughters—Malaika and Farah. A son who’s just learning to walk. Please, Novice, I beg you”


    I stared at him. A family. Everyone except me had one, didn’t they? All of them so precious, save the ones I’d taken away. Those families didn’t get stories or second chances. Neither would his, if it came to that.


    “The last rebellion killed thousands,” I replied, shrugging. “What makes your kids so special?”


    “What?” he stammered, confused.


    “Every street orphan’s got a story,” I explained, fingers clenching as something sharp twisted behind my ribs, “and most of them don’t end with mercy.”


    The alchemist met my gaze, unflinching.


    “Wrong place for mercy, Esran. Start being useful, or your family will be mourning you come dawn,” I continued.


    “Have you no heart at all?” he pleaded. “You’re not Praesi.”


    “I won’t be dancing on your grave,” I shrugged, “but I won’t be losing any sleep over this, either.”


    The light in his eyes dimmed. His shoulders sagged, and his trembling hands clutched his robe as though it could shield him. Good. Maybe now he’d realize that poking the monster with a stick was a bad idea.


    “Please—”


    “Save it,” I snapped. “If she dies, so do you.”


    A dark promise hung in the air between us. My pets prowled at my heels. They curled up his robes like a noose testing the fit. Pathetic. I’d seen alley rats with more grit—and less pleading. The satisfaction I felt curdled almost instantly. Disgust? Guilt? Probably both. It’s not like I’d be earning my way into the heavens regardless.


    A faint noise slipped from cracked lips as Abigail stirred beneath me. I froze, leaning down so close I could feel the heat radiating off her fevered skin.


    “Don’t…” she muttered, her voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears.


    I froze.


    “What did you say?” I asked.


    Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused but bright with fever.


    “Don’t… do this,” she whispered. “Not for me.”


    For a moment, all I could do was stare at her. My shadows dispersed like fog under the glare of the sun. Then, memories returned. Abigail helping me escape through the sewers. Abigail breaking me out of prison. Abigail watching her parents die.


    Anger surged.


    “You’re dying, Abby,” I told her. “What else am I supposed to care about?”


    She didn’t answer, just squeezed my hand weakly. Her fingers were so cold.


    “Not like…” she murmured. “Not like…”


    Her words broke off into a cough as her whole body convulsed.


    “Not like what?” I urged.


    “No point winning if you’re like…” she trailed off.


    How thoughtful of her to echo my words, the voice commented.


    Shut up, I snapped.


    Taking the Tower means nothing if it changes nothing, it said in the judgemental tone a priestess used when reading scripture.


    A mountain of spite demanded I say something. Demanded I retort. I shoved it aside. The room blurred. I didn’t let go of her hand. Couldn’t. My other hand shot to my belt, fumbling with the small vial tucked inside.


    “Fine,” I spat, yanking it out and tossing it at Esran. “Catch.”


    He fumbled in his rush to grab it.


    A strangled sound left his throat.


    I leaned forward and caught it.


    “Careful,” I warned. “Wouldn’t want to turn this stalled murder into a suicide.”


    Esran didn’t reply. His trembling fingers fumbled with the stopper, his hands slick with sweat. He gulped audibly, then bolted like a rat escaping a burning granary. The door slammed shut behind him, and silence swept in, broken only by Abigail’s laboured breaths. I stared at the empty doorway for a beat longer, then turned to my friend.


    “You’re not dying, Abby,” I whispered. “Not while I have a say.”


    She didn’t answer.


    My desperation curdled into something darker. What was left? Vengeance? No. Filleting the snake responsible might be satisfying, but it wouldn’t heal my friend. I needed another answer, fast.


    Darkness purred in my ears.


    Akua’s name slithered into my thoughts, uninvited as always. Could she help? Unlikely. If sorcery could fix this, Esran wouldn’t be trembling in my shadow. She wouldn’t help regardless. What did that leave me with? Purging the poison with an Aspect was an option, but I wasn’t sure how it would pan out. Exsanguination wasn’t the prettiest death I’d seen, but… it might be better than poison.


    My hand hovered over her chest, trembling just enough to be annoying. “You know, Abby,” I murmured, “a dozen sorcerers would scream themselves hoarse over what I’m about to try.”


    Absorb.


    It happened much as I expected it. My Name thrashed against my control. Fought against my desire to make somebody else whole. I wasn’t a healer. I wasn’t supposed to make others better.


    I grit my teeth and honed my will to a point.


    My friend stiffened as darkness sank beneath her skin. A sickening miasma lurked beneath. I panted as my Name struggled against my demands. One last push and my Name burned the poison away in a heartbeat. I doubled over, spilling my guts all over the floor. How inconvenient.


    I spat the last of the foulness out and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Abigail’s breathing evened out, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Relief hit me like a cavalry charge ploughing through Legion ranks.


    “How many times do I have to tell you?” I inquired, smiling. “Watch what you eat and drink.”


    “What did I say about running here?” she retorted.


    “That it beats dying in a mob?” I replied.


    “It was a sweet smelling tea,” she explained, snorting.


    Sweet smelling tea. The words dug into my thoughts like a jagged blade, catching on memories of tea in my quarters. Few had access to those rooms. Akua and her mother flitted through my mind, only to be set aside. No, they had no reason to strike—yet. This nest of snakes had other vipers, though, and I’d root them out. And when I did? The price would be the longest one.


    “The poison?” I queried.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    She started to respond, her lips parting, but a ragged cough stole her words.


    I froze, before relaxing again. I wanted to believe she was fine. Needed to. Anything else was unthinkable.


    “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I declared.


    “It started this way,” she grimaced.


    My hands clenched into fists as despair threatened to drown me. I swallowed it down, forcing myself to my feet. If my power wasn’t enough, then I needed something—or someone—else.


    “Akua might know something,” I mused.


    I didn’t have much hope of that. Not after everything else. Still, I’d only have myself to blame if I didn’t make the attempt.


    “She’d probably dissect me for fun,” Abigail muttered, shivering.


    “You’ll make a better zombie that way,” I agreed.


    I glanced back at Abigail, her pale face partially hidden by the pillows, as if shrinking from the world. My jaw tightened. The problem had shifted from desperation to academic curiosity. If the poison returned even after I’d burned it away with an Aspect, it wasn’t something mundane. Akua—despite her devil’s contract worth of flaws—would find that interesting.


    The sharper in the orphanage would be in the convincing. Specifically, convincing her not to treat Abigail like a cadaver while she investigated. I glanced around the room while I thought and frowned. The surrounding clutter didn’t help, either. Best to pull Abigail somewhere else. How about…


    “Come on,” I urged, “let’s get you out of bed.”


    “Why are we moving?” Abigail asked.


    “We’re going to the Gardens,” I explained.


    Abigail raised a hand to protest, then thought better of it. Her watery blue eyes bored holes into me. Saint that I was, I didn’t comment on it. She’d roused a nest of wasteland bees in the gardens shortly after we’d first arrived and come out worse for wear from it.


    I hauled Abigail out of bed. Each step towards the door felt heavier than the last. It felt as if her fading strength leached into my own. The Western Wing was quiet this late at night. A sort of easy stillness had settled over servant quarters. The kind that signified a full day’s worth of schemes unravelling to plan in the background. Abigail leaned heavily on my arm as we made our way down the corridor. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped my wrist, but she hadn’t complained. Yet.


    “You there,” I addressed a young Taghreb man in neat livery. “Let Heiress know I’ll be in the Gardens—there’s something she needs to see.”


    The servant froze mid-step when I called out to him. I watched him hesitate for half a heartbeat before nodding sharply and hurrying off.


    “You’ve really got a way with words, don’t you?,” she muttered.


    “I’ll charm the paint off the walls,” I replied.


    Abigail snorted.


    “I’m just delegating to my future servants,” I joked.


    The halls of the Empyrean Palace were quieter here, less ostentatious than the main galleries but no less striking. Copper fixtures gleamed under the soft glow of magelights, and colourful tapestries depicting Wasteland victories added a muted warmth to the otherwise severe stone walls. Servants we passed gave us a wide berth. Smart. I’d have done the same.


    The palace paths gave way to gravel and greenery. The cooler air smelled of lavender and basil, a welcome contrast to the sterile halls. A faint rustle caught my attention. My shadows stirred uneasily at my feet, slipping over the gravel like spilled ink. Something was always hiding in this place. Hiding, and watching.


    “See?” I said, leading her toward a bench nestled near a cluster of flowering rosemary. “A garden’s a better deathbed than those sheets, don’t you think?”


    “You’re the first one I’m haunting if I die,” she warned.


    I couldn’t tell from her tone if she was joking.


    “Get in line with the other ghosts, then,” I replied.


    A laugh turned into a cough. I held her until she waved me off, sinking weakly onto the bench.


    The Gardens were quieter than usual, save for the faint rustle of leaves stirred by a breeze. Pink lilies bloomed beside nenuphars in a small pond, their petals shifting hues with the light. It was peaceful enough, but my eyes lingered on the plants that released a faint purple mist when disturbed. I snorted. Beauty masking danger. Couldn’t even cultivate a garden without having it kill the unwary.


    I sat on the edge of the bench, facing her.


    “From now on, you’re staying close,” I declared. “You’re not leaving my sight.”


    Her brows rose.


    “Not sure if that’ll improve or worsen my odds of survival,” Abigail muttered.


    I wanted to laugh, but the words stung more than they should. Monsters didn’t protect people. They just picked who to eat last.


    “Rude,” I replied. “I’m excellent at stabbing people, thank you.”


    The humour slipped from her sunburned face, replaced by something heavier. She looked down at her hands, fingers trembling like worms in her lap.


    “You didn’t come here to stay, Cat,” she said. “If winning means joining the Empire, it’s not worth the price.”


    “Maybe not,” I admitted. “But where else do we go? I wouldn’t trust me either, so why would anyone else?”


    “Walking away doesn’t mean much if we’re already dead,” she snapped. “And for what? Is this what you want to become? You’re Callowan, Cat. Not a proper Summerholm girl like me, but still.”


    I met her gaze, her stubborn defiance mirrored in my own.


    “I’ll think about it,” I lied. “But for now, we wait—the real game’s only just begun.”


    Her glare said she didn’t believe me. A shadow stirred at the edge of the garden path before she could press any further. Akua emerged from the dark like a serpent sliding between stones.


    “Catherine,” she greeted, raising an eyebrow. “I understand you’ve found something worth my attention.”


    “Abigail was poisoned,” I explained. “I burned it out with an Aspect, but the effects have returned.”


    “How fascinating,” my pulse raced as her eyes lit up. “The Wasteland does have a way with cruelty, doesn’t it? We’re nothing if not… resourceful.”


    The deliberate we hung in the air. The weight of it pressed down like a hand on my shoulder. I wanted to fling it off but found myself silent instead. She wasn’t wrong, not any more, and the thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.


    Akua turned to Abigail with a grace so practised it made my shoulders itch. Her mask slipped neatly into place as her hands moved in intricate gestures. Incantations flowed from her lips, shimmering faintly before fading like whispers in the dark.


    “There is little of interest to me here,” she declared nonchalantly. “Traces of the poison remain. Your intervention delayed its effects but did not nullify it.”


    My stomach clenched, but I kept my voice steady.


    “How long does she have?” I asked.


    “The poison’s effects will return in full within a fortnight,” she explained.


    Abigail yelped as my fingers tightened around her own. I winced and let go. A fortnight? Wonderful. Another two weeks of watching Abigail’s health wane. I knew that poison would become a regular part of my meals when I visited Praes, just not quite like this. We’d find a cure for this damn toxin, even if I had to force a miracle out of a hero.


    “Whoever dared to orchestrate this treachery will find their infamy long outlives them, I assure you,” I swore. “Echoes of their torment will still reverberate a thousand years hence.”


    “That, Catherine, I have never doubted,” she said, smiling widely with an almost fond look buried within her eyes.


    Akua strolled away down the garden path, disappearing into the darkness.


    The two of us trailed behind her.


    The garden''s stillness lingered in the back of my mind as I laid my head down to rest. Akua’s words clung like noxious perfume to my thoughts, heavy with their own brand of malice. A fortnight. At last, troubled thoughts were swallowed by sleep as I welcomed the land of nightmares.


    Dawn rose.


    Abigail followed behind as I departed the Elysium Palace for the force under my command.


    The camp was a mess: orderly rows of tents and well-placed supply wagons surrounded by a riot of mercenaries doing everything but behave like soldiers. Already, a game of dice spilled into a scuffle near the picket line. Someone cursed in what sounded like Kharsum, and a goat—because of course there was a goat—ambled through the chaos like it owned the place.


    “Friendly bunch,” I muttered, dodging a bulky man who staggered past with a skin of something that smelled flammable.


    “Mercenaries sober before noon?” Abigail muttered behind me. “That’s the real surprise.”


    “Give it an hour,” I shot back. “I’m sure they’re just pacing themselves.”


    It wasn’t much of a walk to the command tent, but I was tempted to clear a path with shadows just for the peace and quiet. My sickly friend flinched as a brawler stumbled too close, but the flicker of darkness curling at my feet sent him scurrying away without a word. Sometimes, I acknowledged, there were benefits to being a monster.


    The tent itself was simple—practical canvas reinforced with wooden beams, no frills or wasted space. The tattered Proceran banner fluttering at the entrance was the only concession to pride, which I supposed matched its occupant. Teresa waited inside, her grey hair tied back like she thought the world might end if a strand got out of place. She stood over the map table, arms crossed, her expression suggesting I was already late for something I hadn’t been told to attend. Amusing, considering I was the one in charge.


    “Finally,” she barely raised her eyes from the map as she groused. “Got orders? I’ve little time for theatre dressed as strategy.”


    “The Tyrant has taken Liesse,” I explained. “Long and short of it? We’re helping the Legions kick him out of Callow. Think pest control, but with more screaming and fewer actual rats.”


    Teresa’s eyes narrowed, her expression sceptical enough to put holes in parchment.


    “I wasn’t aware of a Callowan tradition involving bringing sick rabbits to war,” Teresa said.


    Her chin jerked toward Abigail, who was doing her best to fade into the canvas.


    “She’s here to keep me from strangling the first idiot I see,” I evaded. “So far, you’re not helping.”


    Abigail’s hand reached towards her hair, before she froze.


    “Can’t say she didn’t warn you,” Abigail muttered. “Definitely not here for the company. Or the smell.”


    “Didn’t think I’d live to see a Callowan licking Praesi boots,” the ageing mercenary commented.


    “On the contrary,” I countered, “doesn’t surprise me at all to see a Proceran doing the same. You’re paid to fight, not mouth off.”


    “You still expecting us to march like proper Legionnaires,” the former fantassin inquired, “or can we drop the charade?”


    “It worked for the Legions, didn’t it?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I’d restructure you all into proper Legions if I thought you’d follow along, but I’ll settle for keeping things disciplined on the field.”


    “Can’t you get somebody else to serve as intermediary with the mercenary companies?” Teresa complained, sighing. “They’re already griping about the no-pillage rule.”


    “The others elected you,” I drawled. “Something about you having the most experience. Seemed flattering at the time.”


    “How considerate of them,” the mercenary muttered. “Truly an honour to be chosen.”


    “Logistics are being handled by our hosts, but–barring major changes–I left internal operating procedures to each band,” I explained. “Seemed better than cracking skulls over whose wagon wheel broke first.”


    “Promote the captains who don’t need a map to find their own heads,” Teresa suggested with a grudging nod. “Let the amateurs dig trenches.”


    “Knew there was a reason I kept you around,” I replied. “Pick the ones you trust and get them organized. Have them report back to me.”


    “You’re trusting me with this?” she asked, squinting at me like she was trying to figure out if she’d stepped into an elaborate trap.


    “You’ve spent decades planting corpses like seeds, Teresa,” I explained. “And I trust you want to stay alive as much as I do.”


    “If we’re waltzing into a trap, I’d rather know where the teeth are,” she commented.


    “Tyrant’s got eight to twelve thousand split between cavalry and infantry,” I elaborated. “He’s been playing games with the Legions across southern Callow, all the while pillaging wherever he goes. Weird stuff—more theatre than war. Retreats, counter-retreats. They’ve been dancing around like they’re charging admission for a show.”


    “That’s not much to go on,” the grizzled commander replied.


    “He only just showed up,” I excused, “and it’s all we’ve got for now. We’ll talk with the Legions as we get closer.”


    “It smells like a trap,” Abigail asserted.


    Both of us turned her way. Abigail had taken to some of the reading I’d been assigned like a goblin to explosives. Considering how frequently she’d stolen coin off me in Summerholm in games of strategy, it didn’t come as a surprise. Still, I hadn’t expected her to throw an opinion into this discussion regardless of that.


    “Or maybe that’s just the goat,” she squawked.


    “What?” both of us asked.


    An awkward silence killed all discussion.


    “It’s a fox testing the guards at the hen house,” Abigail eventually explained. “Or worse, setting them up to open the door for it.”


    “There’s something to that,” Teresa mused, her eyes narrowing in thought.


    “Probably trying to bait out a story,” I agreed.


    I leaned over the map, tracing lines with one finger.


    “Pick your captains, and we’ll see who deserves the title,” I declared. “Let the journey test their performance. I want everyone ready to move by nightfall.”


    “Consider it handled,” the mercenary acknowledged with a smile.


    I smiled as I departed.


    The Sahelians never bothered to speak directly with the mercenaries in their pay. They probably considered it beneath them. True, they were loyal to coin before anything else first but… with the right words in the right ears, I was certain I could encourage a spot of treason among their ranks.