Interlude 6


    Where Tomorrow Bleeds Into Forever


    Helena sits in the grand observation chamber of House Vermilion, surrounded by walls of crimson glass. Each pane refracts the light of a solar system conquered by the Red Dularch during his six-year campaign since the Second Shattering. Starbursts, auroras, and strange constellations gleam across the surfaces, shifting subtly with the rotation of the world.


    The glass does more than commemorate triumphs; it memorializes sacrifice. Beneath each pane’s vibrant light lies a faint shadow—etched figures, bent in prayer or locked in combat, reminders of the cost of Vermilion’s conquests.


    Helena’s Skathrith floats above her, a pinpoint of shifting light against the display. As her thoughts churn, so does its form. It becomes a goblet like the one she holds, then stretches into a jagged knife, and finally warps into a hollow crown. The shapes unsettle her, though her composure remains intact.


    The wine in her hand, as always, is for effect. It catches the light of a red supergiant reflected in the glass, glowing faintly in the dim chamber. She lifts the goblet to her lips, letting the liquid touch her mouth without drinking. The Zarath within her body ensures that indulgence—of wine, or any other escape—is a distant memory.


    A faint vibration brushes her neck. The torq. Helena’s lips tighten as she places the goblet down with deliberate care, her fingers never trembling. She turns her awareness inward, flipping her consciousness in an act that feels both natural and disorienting. The room dissolves as her vision shifts backward, and her head becomes a black, featureless cube.


    The plane around her is vast and chaotic, a lattice of folding geometries, ever-shifting but always tethered to her will. Stars pulse and contort, threading themselves into faint constellations. Helena feels his presence before she hears his voice—a heaviness in the expanse, dragging the shapes around him into sharper definition.


    “Andros,” she says before his form solidifies.


    He steps forward, his appearance fractured at first but resolving with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His armor, crimson and black, is dulled from long campaigns. The sigils etched into its plates flicker faintly, barely maintained by his intent. His silver-streaked hair clings damply to his temples, but it’s his hands that draw Helena’s attention.


    Andros rubs his left palm with his right thumb, over and over, his eyes darting to it as if he’s trying to catch something in the act of vanishing. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it.


    “Andros,” Helena repeats, sharper this time. His head jerks upward, as though he’s only just realized she’s there. “You’re distracted.”


    “Helena—beloved,” he says, his voice strained. “It’s been… a long night.”


    “Oh,” she says. “You’ve been having one of those as well?”Stolen novel; please report.


    “The Ronolyths,” he mutters, his thumb still tracing circles on his palm. “They’re the worst Autochthons we’ve faced in six years. Every day.” He shakes his head. “We lose weeks in the field without even realizing it. Entire battalions… erased. Wait. You said ‘as well’? What’s wrong?”


    Helena’s gaze sharpens. Above her, the Skathrith shifts, condensing into the shape of a burning map. “The Northern Front goes poorly? Have they mastered the temporal arcs?”


    “No! No.” The Dularch takes a deep breath. “Thank the Autarch. But they are close.”


    “Define close.”


    He waves the question away. “Stop trying to distract me. Something is wrong. What is it? Is it Titus? The children?”


    “The Ronolyths are no—” she begins.


    “Blah,” he interrupts. His reflection fractures across the glass-like edges of the plane, his focus sharpening. “They’re no worse than the Thrynix swarms we faced in the Upper House. Now, I command you—speak!”


    Helena stiffens like frozen water, then slowly melts, lowering her head in a deep bow. “As my Drake commands—”


    Andros grips her chin between thumb and finger, halting her bow.


    His touch feels more like the memory of touch than the real thing.


    “You’re no flower, Helena,” he hisses.


    “No?” she asks, trying to quell her rising amusement. “What am I, then, my Drake?” Her voice is as smooth as velvet, her tone as sharp as a knife’s edge.


    “Thistles.”


    She snorts with laughter.


    Andros whirls away from her, rubbing his thumb against the back of his hand. He paces back and forth, his back hunched, his double pupils locked on things that cannot be seen.


    Helena folds her arms, her amusement fading. “It is the children,” she admits after a moment.


    Andros stops, his gaze snapping back to her. “What’s happened?”


    “They’re strong,” Helena says quickly, the Skathrith above her wavering between a crown and a blade. “They survived the First Baptism…"


    "But?"


    "But Titus… he’s forcing them to face third-year trials. Already.”


    Andros exhales slowly, his gaze darkening. “You provoke him too much.”


    “He deserves it.” Helena’s voice is cold, but her composure flickers. “He hates me. And he thinks punishing them is a safer way to vent that hatred.”


    “Safer for him,” Andros mutters. “But not for them.”


    Helena’s silence is telling. Above her, the Skathrith fractures into a jagged map of stars. “If he thinks he can break them,” she says, her voice low and dangerous, “he will find they are made of sterner stuff than he imagines.”


    “They’re strong,” Andros agrees. “But not invincible.”


    Helena stiffens, her gaze narrowing. “And who is?”


    Andros turns away, his shoulders heavy with unseen weight. “Do not let your hatred of him blind you, Helena,” he says quietly. “You mock Titus every time you see him. Do you think he doesn’t notice? Do you think he’ll stop at the children?”


    Her voice is ice. “If he lays another finger on them—”


    “What will you do?” Andros rounds on her, his voice sharper now. “Kill him? Overthrow him? He is still my co-ruler, Helena. Without him, the balance collapses.”


    “Perhaps it should,” she says, her voice tight.


    Andros’s gaze is heavy. “And what will be left for Castor and Penelope if it does?”


    Helena looks away, her throat tightening with things she cannot name.


    "Tell him," Andros continues in a voice brimming with passion. "Tell him you are my line."


    "What? What are you saying?"


    "Tell him if he touches you, I will lead the Umbral Legion home. I will mount his head on a spike before Malkiel so all can see."


    "What about our children—"


    "We can always have more."


    Helena stiffens, her gaze darting toward him, her voice catching on words she cannot release.


    Andros dissolves into the plane, his form flickering out like a dying star.


    When Helena’s consciousness snaps back to her body, her reflection fractures across the glass panels. Her Skathrith, jagged and unsteady, coalesces into the shape of a metallic thistle. She stares at it for a long moment before finally speaking.


    “There will be enough,” she murmurs, though whether it was meant to reassure herself, the children, or no one at all, even she did not know.


    Her shadow stretches long behind her as she strides out, her steps echoing like the war drums of a distant battle.