Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When the gates of Wellgrove appear before them, Throné's reaction is to let out a sour "Finally."

Temenos doesn't respond, but in his silence he agrees with her frustration. The road from Crackridge to Wellgrove has taken significantly longer than expected due to a sudden run of bad luck. First they got lost, then they were attacked by an angry King Condor that seemed to have it out for them. They'd managed to kill the beast, but not before it had sunk its talons deep into Throné's arm.... and although Temenos had healed the wound, the following infection had taught him a great deal about the limitations of clerical magic.

Thankfully, Temenos - towing a feverish Throné - had found friendly faces in a little village in the woods soon after. Better yet, they'd been friendly faces with some knowledge of healing herbs on offer. He'll be indebted to the little tailor family there until his dying day, because the man had taken a single look at the two of them and opened his door, his daughter dropping needle and thread in favour of rushing into the forest to gather the right plants to beat the infection back. Still, it had taken over a week before Throné was well enough to travel again, and to begin with their pace was slow. It's only been in the last day or two that she really seems recovered, and Temenos is decided: he doesn't care what sort of cult they run into, this time they won't leave before picking up a donkey or mule of some sort. Dog is a wonderful companion, exemplary at keeping their spirits up, but she's no pack animal and the past few weeks have shown they really need one. Their finances won't stretch to actual horses, but a beast of burden is far cheaper. In addition to being able to take more with them - such as, to pick an example at random, medicinal herbs - being able to walk without load will already help if one of them is unwell.

Or walk without needing to carry the pack of the unwell person. Temenos' back still twinges when he thinks about it.

Anyway, for all that trade in Wellgrove has never quite been what one would expect for a town situated at such a crossroads (Temenos suspects the Blacksnakes have something to do with this), he expects they'll be able to find something even in its sleepy...

...markets?

To Temenos' general astonishment, the town is humming with life in a way he has never seen before. Merchants bustle around, mules like the one he wants are pulling carts laden high with bundles to and fro, and a large building to the north of town is alive with the sound of hammering and smell of sawdust. A hubbub of excited voices rises above everything, and every person he passes seems to have a spring in their step. It's so unlike how Temenos remembers the place that for a brief mad moment he wonders if he misread the map and took them to Timberrain instead.

But for all that the liveliness of the town is new, everything under the surface is familiar, brings his childhood whispering back into his ear. Another person might term it nostalgia; this hypothetical other person most likely had a far kinder upbringing than Temenos himself. Here is the street corner where he made twenty leaves as a shoe-polisher, the most coin he'd ever brought back to the Garden in his young life followed by the worst beating he'd ever received, Mother snarling a snake is not a pet, a snake takes what it wants between the blows. Here is the alley where he used to dig for scraps in the garbage - scavenging, although frowned upon, apparently less objectionable to Mother than trade. Here is the main street where he used to try his luck as a pickpocket, the crowds thick enough even then that he could easily dart into the sea of people to vanish if someone noticed his attempts... as they did far too often.

The memories of cold, hunger and pain bite at him, but Temenos fights them off. Here and now his belly is full, his back free of injury, his body comfortably warm thanks to the sunshine and his fine woolen clothing. Here and now, he can walk in the open without ducking away from the guards. And if he should need a bite to eat, the bag of jerky and dried fruit in his pack is still half-full. If the autumn should grow chill, he has the leaves to buy a thick lined cloak.

Nonetheless, old habit makes him appraise his surroundings with a thief's eye. That man over there looks a likely target, clearly distracted by a nearby argument, his purse dangling heavy off his belt - really, it's like he wants to be robbed.

Temenos' fingertips itch even as the scars on his back tingle. He clenches his hands into fists, grimly reminding himself that he is no longer one of the Garden's starving hatchlings, that the conversation he is planning with Mother will be one far different from dealing with her when he was a child- that her whip need never touch him again-

He's still looking at the purse so he sees when, between one moment and the next, it vanishes. It's only long years of training that let Temenos spot the culprit as she weaves her way away - a ragged slip of a girl, shoulder-length brown hair snarled, her eyes huge in her thin face. The merchant didn't notice a thing; this little thief is definitely better than Temenos was at her age. Might be able to graduate soon, securing her life and her lifelong servitude in one fell swoop.

It's probably good to know that Mother's way of raising her hatchlings hasn't changed at all since Temenos left, given how much of his plan relies on it. But Temenos can't muster any joy at the sight of the girl all the same.

To no one's surprise, Throné noticed. Her eyes flicker between him and where the girl faded into the crowd. "Was that...?"

"One of the Garden children? Yes."

He hears Throné swallow beside him, a dry click of a sound. Her hand finds his shoulder and squeezes.

"Let's go find the inn, Temenos."

As they make their way towards the place in question, little Luca's face flashes through his mind. His face as Temenos saw it when they left: well-scrubbed with clean silver hair and something shining in his eyes, a little moon radiant in the light of Papp's unstinting affection - almost unrecognisable when compared to the ragged little urchin he'd first met. But here there is no Papp Yellowil, here Mother's hand lies heavy and threatening. There is nothing Temenos can think of to do for the girl, much though the thought galls him.

"-still got a spot free on the upper level, friend-"

For a wild moment, Temenos thinks that thinking about Papp somehow pulled the man into existence. Then reason reasserts itself. Although the accent and intonation are exactly the same, the voice is lighter, younger. And its owner, standing next to the door to the inn, is Papp's height but not his bulk, body rangy under a bright yellow coat and silvery grey cylinder hat.

"Thanks, Partitio! I promise you won't regret it!"

The other man - a local merchant, by his garb - shakes the first's hand, then turns and dashes off into the crowd. Temenos doesn't watch him go, mind whirling. Partitio - that name is familiar. The name, the accent, even the coat and hat, all of them are reminding him of something, pulling something up from the depths of his memory. In a moment, he'll have it-

Partitio turns and sees them. His appearance, too, is reminiscent of Papp's, the same black eyes and strong nose. He is clean-shaven, far younger, and there is something different about the line of his brows and line of his cheekbones, but nonetheless the resemblance is unmistakeable.

And then that oddly familiar face lights up when he sees the two of them.

"Well, howdy there! You'd be Temenos and Throné, I reckon?"

Beside Temenos, Throné turns statue-still. Temenos doesn't blame her - travelling in disguise as she is, in most cases there is no good reason for someone to know who they are. But he cannot bring himself to feel threatened by this man. In fact...

The pieces snap into place.

"Partitio Yellowil, right? Papp's son?"

"That's me!" Partitio spreads his arms in a way far more suited to a dancer starting a performance than a merchant. "I've been travelling the western continent, had business here in Wellgrove and decided to stop by home on the way - coulda knocked me over with a feather when everyone told me what happened! Pops mentioned the two of you, said we might run into each other on the road, so I've been keeping an eye out."

"Keeping an eye out why, exactly?" Throné sounds cautious, and although it's probably not obvious to an outside observer like Partitio, the length of their acquaintance tells Temenos that she is tense as a bow-string. Throné, it seems, mistrusts the man's sunny demeanour.

Dark eyebrows rise in surprise at Throné's query. "Why - to thank the both of you, obviously! Sounds like my new little brother would've been up a creek with no paddle without the two of you, and what can I say, the scamp's grown on me."

Temenos breathes a quiet sigh of relief at this sign that Partitio isn't going to make things difficult for Luca. It disarms him, leaving him blindsided and unable to defend himself when Partitio continues by declaring: "You know what? The two of you look like you ain't had a good hot meal in days, and there's this great little eatery right down the street. Why not talk it all over some over some grub? My treat. I insist."

Partitio Yellowil, Throné decides, resembles his father in more than just appearance. In particular, the relentlessness, the sensation of being dragged along in his wake helpless to change the course of actions, was clearly passed down. (The only other person quite so unstoppable Throné knows is Ochette, and she finds herself wondering idly what would happen if the two of them ever met.)

Which is how she and Temenos end up in a small building just a few streets from the inn, the sign above the door weathered almost into illegibility. The man at the bar had given Temenos a long look (her friend ducking in on himself a little at the scrutiny), but brightened upon seeing Yellowil the Younger. A quick exchange of words, the flash of silver and another one of those brilliant smiles from the merchant, and they are being led to a private room on the upper floor. A few minutes later, the barkeep returns with three steaming bowls of noodles, all piled high with meat and vegetables and slathered in a red sauce, accompanied by cups of some sort of chilled tea. Then they're alone.

"Eat up, you two!" Yellowil the Younge... all right, Partitio makes a grand gesture in the direction of the food. "Best noodle bar in town, it is. Or so Alrond tells me, and after the first time I was here I sure believe him."

Throné, raised on church manners as she was, had been hesitating to start with her meal. Temenos had had no such compunction, which means that when he chokes badly at Partitio's words, Throné has to reach over and thump his back to make sure he doesn't suffocate.

"A- Alrond?" Temenos wheezes once he can talk again. Throné slides one of the cups in front of him; Temenos grabs it and takes a long draught. "Not... surely you don't mean Alrond Rondwell?" His voice is much clearer this time, although still very obviously bewildered.

"The very same!" Partitio, who'd sprung to his feet when Temenos had started choking, settles again. "Don't tell me you know him too, friend?"

"Know him? As in, am a personal acquaintance of the richest man on the western continent? No, I can't say I know him!"

"I figured maybe you would," Partitio continues serenely, entirely ignoring Temenos' sputtering. "Seeing as you both grew up here, and all. But then again, I shoulda expected it. From what I've heard about that garden of your Ma's, I don't reckon you got the chance to make many friends."

Absolute silence. The air feels cold and clammy on the back of Throné's neck. She has a sudden urge to bodily intersperse herself between Partitio and Temenos, who has gone ghost-white and doesn't seem to be breathing.

Partitio glances between the two of them, brows drawing together. "Here now, I didn't mean to scare you. This ain't... whatever you think it is. It's just, a man gets a little brother out of nowhere, he worries about him, right? So I was hoping to talk to someone who's worried about him too. Someone who I reckon knows a lot more about where he's come from than the finch himself. That's all, Flame take me if I lie." A pause. "And I really did mean about it the food. Would sure be a shame if it went cold."

After a long, frozen moment, the three of them pick up their chopsticks in unspoken unison. Partitio was right - the noodles really are delicious. It's a shame the atmosphere is so tense.

For a while, the only sound is that of chewing and chopsticks scraping against ceramic. Then Temenos breaks the silence.

"Luca told you, I take it. About the Garden." He sounds resigned, and his eyes don't lift from his bowl.

"That he did. What, d'you think he shouldn't have?" Partitio's eyebrows go up almost to his hairline.

"No. Of course not - it's his story just as much, it's his decision to share it. I just..." Temenos trails off, shoulders slumping. Hoped I wouldn't have to be involved, Throné fills in for him.

"He stayed quiet about it at first," Partitio says, pushing his empty bowl to the side in favour of picking up his cup. "Finally spilled not long after I showed up. And I was glad he trusted us that much, let me tell you, because that story worried me. Enough that I went straight to Wellgrove, instead of going to Sai first with Agnea like I'd planned, because I reckoned someone needs to look into it. So I sure was glad to clap eyes on the two of you earlier, for more reasons than the one."

The clink of Temenos setting down the chopsticks is almost deafening in the silence. "'Look into it,' you say." Throné doesn't think she's ever heard Temenos sound like this before, toneless and empty. It reminds her eerily of the Slaver, and she feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

Partitio must have noticed the threat in the air - you would have to be very stupid to miss it, and Throné is rapidly coming to the conclusion that for all his aw-shucks demeanour, if there is one thing this man is not it is stupid - but he doesn't visibly react. "Honest truth, I'm still thinking about that myself. Last thing I want to do is go barging in half-cocked and make a mess, y'know? Besides, I've been busy with other things."

He takes a long drink. Temenos stays silent, waiting, eyes fixed unblinking on the merchant.

"Still," Partitio continues, putting his cup down, "if there's anything I've learned in the last months, it's that sometimes barging in's the right thing to do. 'Cause I for one think that's one orphanage that needs a change of management, and the sooner the better. Or do y'all disagree? Think it's fine as is?"

His dark eyes meet Throné's, then shift to Temenos'. There is no sign of hesitation - if Papp has mentioned Temenos' very unique way of taking advantage of eye contact, it isn't putting Partitio off - and the steady gaze feels like a challenge in its own right.

"No," Temenos responds immediately, the word sounding almost as if it had been torn out of him. "It's... not a good place. There's something very wrong with the whole organisation, in fact. I was coming here to figure out what, and why. I just..." A pause. "I never imagined just making her stop."

Once again, Temenos sounds bewildered. There is something almost childlike about it his confusion, as though despite all his plans, despite his claims otherwise, he is unable to believe that the Mother who cast such a shadow over his youth is not so godlike and all-powerful as that. It reminds Throné of Reiza, and - further back - of Throné herself, stifled and unhappy in Flamechurch. Like an animal where the bars of its cage have long since rusted away, only for it to still pace the same small circle within.

Throné has stayed silent this far, knowing that this is Temenos' business and it is not her place to interfere. Here, though, she feels she must step in.

"I don't think either of us would object to the Garden finding some... better management, as you put it. It's been on my mind ever since I heard about the place, especially since it's passing itself off as Church-sponsored. Quite apart from what that does to our reputation, there almost has to be corruption somewhere in the Church itself involved for them to have gotten away with it for so long. Which, in turn, brings it into the purview of the Inquisition." 

Temenos shoots her a sharp glance. Throné meets it evenly. He's the one who keeps insisting she's not a failure of an Inquisitor - he must realise that there is no way Throné can know what she does and leave this place be.

Partitio responds with a bright, beaming smile, one which Throné suspects must be one of his most potent weapons when it comes to bartering. "Glad to hear it, my friend! Honestly, I'd sure be glad to have someone all official-like along from the Church, make sure we don't get no trouble on that front. I don't reckon Alrond'd be too happy otherwise, y'know?"

"You're... on a first-name basis with Alrond Rondwell," Temenos says blankly. "And you've told him about the Garden." He sounds worryingly like a man about to go into shock; Throné might need to get the barkeep to run up some brandy or strong coffee at this rate.

"Not yet," Partitio corrects. "Alrond's a good sort, don't get me wrong, and I'd bet this here hat that he'll want it sorted out lickety-split, but the two of us've been all busy with something else. Always best to take these things one step at a time, or that's what Pops always says. But I reckon our work on the department store is almost done and over," there is a definite note of pride in his voice as he says the strange phrase, "and it's about time to get cracking on the rest of it. Especially because there's another friend of mine in town right now who can help."

But then Partitio pauses, forehead creasing into frown. "He was supposed to meet me here, in fact. Now, I mighta lost track of time a bit, talking to y'all, but I reckon that at this point he's later than late. Said he had his own business to take care of, and I didn't want to pry, but the people he wanted to meet... well, they ain't good news. I hate to cut this short, I do, but I'm starting to think he might need some backup."

Throné and Temenos trade a glance. She's relieved to see that he's looking a little recovered and no longer likely to keel over from shock. Besides, in recent times Throné has become a firm believer that there's nothing better to center you and put all your problems into perspective than a good, solid life-or-death situation.

And so.

"Do you want any help?"

Chapter Text

If there's one thing Partitio's learned since he set out from Oresrush all those months ago, it's that the world can be a one heck of a small place.

Take right now. Throné wanted to know who, exactly, they were backing up. Partitio reckoned this made sense and told her. And...

"Hikari? Swordsman, about so tall, long dark hair, from Ku?" Throné's not too easy to read, but Partitio's something of a professional here and he can tell he's surprised her.

Which is just fair, because she's surprising him in turn. "That's him, sure as sunrise. Met him in New Delsta." He'd shown up at the tavern one evening, been real taken with Agnea's dancing - small wonder. The man'd turned out invaluable when they'd had to go talk some sense into that bully of a theater owner, too. See, Partitio's got him figured for some kind of nobility, maybe some supporter of old King Jigo who had to flee when he was killed, and having someone like that standing there next to country hicks Partitio and Agnea really helped get them taken seriously.

And when it hadn't stopped at talking - well, turns out the man's got one heck of a sword arm, too.

"He helped us out in Canalbrine," Throné says, shaking her head. "Which I still owe him for, actually, so if he's in trouble I'll be glad to return the favour."

Partitio's always a fan of people wanting to square their debts. And he ain't objecting to some reinforcements. For all that he's been enjoying his time here in Wellgrove - meeting Alrond and Misha, shaking some sense into the local merchants, getting the chance to see the town start to shine the same way Oresrush did after they'd handled Giff - he's been feeling Agnea's absence something fierce. World always seems a little brighter with her around, and they make a great team in a fight. Tell the truth, Partitio was a little worried he'd forget she wasn't watching his back and get his fool self killed all alone. Throné and Temenos don't seem like they'll let that happen.

"Agreed, but I for one would like to know exactly how we're returning that favour. What are we getting him out of?" Temenos asks. Partitio's glad to see the man's looking better than he had earlier, eyes sharp and grip on his staff firm.

"Ever since the rulership changed over in Ku, they've been buying weapons like there's no dawn," Partitio explains. "Lot of that trade flows through here, because if you head south there's a straight road to Ku that avoids Sai. Word has it one of those deals is happening tonight, and Hikari was gonna go check it out. Me, I offered to come along, but he didn't bite."

"Oh my," Throné says, her voice dry enough it's like a Ku desert wind in its own right, "a friend trying to do everything on his own and keeping you in the dark about his business, only for you to end up all tangled up in his problems anyway. I'm sure I can't imagine what that's like at all."

At her side, Temenos lets out a long groan. "How many times do you want me to apologise for that, Throné? And it's not like I haven't learned my lesson. Given that I'm standing here seriously considering letting Alrond Rondwell involve himself with the Garden." He looks faintly astonished by the words coming out of his own mouth.

And all right, for all that he can't see the resemblance himself Partitio reckons he gets why Pops thought the two of them were siblings, seeing as that's some prime brother-sister bickering right there. Partitio would observe - gotta get himself in shape for Luca, after all, now that he's no only child no more - but this really ain't the time for it.

"Misha said the deals with Ku usually take place in a clearing in the forest west of town-"

"In the beech grove? Just past the plank bridge over the creek, if you follow the dirt road west from the market?" Temenos asks, and right, he's a local. Even with their conversation earlier Partitio had clean forgotten. Don't help that the man's got a New Delsta accent you can hear from a mile away.

Then again, from what Luca'd said, it's not like the Garden kids get much chance to mingle with the townsfolk and pick up on the local lingo. And Partitio's gonna cut that thought off right at the root, before he goes and depresses himself.

"Yeah, that's the place. All of 'em want discretion, and the townsfolk don't really want them in town, either." He wrinkles his nose. "The weapons dealers ain't exactly shining examples of my profession. Could even be that they lean more towards that Ma of Temenos's side of things, let's just say."

Temenos doesn't respond. But he does pick up the pace.

By the time they leave the last houses behind and enter the forest, the last rays of sunlight are just fading. Silently, the three of them agree not to light a lantern. There's no saying what's up ahead, but when it comes to some of the possibilities Partitio'd rather take them by surprise.

And so, when a man comes storming down the path ahead, he almost straight-up collides with them. Partitio just barely manages to come screeching to a halt in time to avoid running headfirst into the newcomer. Good thing, too, seeing as the man makes the hair on the back of Partitio's neck prickle. He's holding himself like a mining charge ready to blow, he's got a blade at his side - Ku make to go with his Ku clothes, if Partitio's any judge - and he's carrying a...

"Is that a severed head?" Temenos asks from where he has a tight grip on Dog's collar. Partitio couldn't have put it better himself,

The stranger glances between the three of them, whites of his eyes visible in the darkness.

"Get out of my way," is his only response.

When they don't immediately obey, the stranger lets out a low snarl. His free hand goes to his blade, which flashes in the low light as he draws it out of its sheath.

"I said, get out of my way!"

Partitio's mind works, and at some point he's gonna have to take the time to sit down and let himself be rattled at how easily the math of life and death instead of coin comes to him nowadays. Everything about the man's suspicious enough that Partitio'd just love to ask him some questions, but they've got no reason to hold him here, ain't law enforcement to ask about the head, and he looks strong. If they get into a fight, it'll take a while and could go either way. And they still haven't found Hikari.

It's difficult, seeing as the part of Partitio that grew up holding his own in the tavern among miners is howling not to back down, but he forces himself to step to the side and clear the path. A rustle of cloth behind him says Temenos at least is doing the same.

The stranger stares at them for a long moment, eyes darting from one face to the other and hand twitching on the hilt of his sword until Partitio just about believes they'll be fighting one way or the other, but finally he rushes past them to vanish down the path.

Temenos tuts. "How rude. He didn't even say thank you."

"Gotta admit I ain't feeling too fussy about his manners here. Me, I'm too busy being grateful that wasn't Hikari's head," is Partitio's grim response. "Now let's move, because I don't like the looks of this one bit."

A short distance later they find the body the head belonged to - or at least Partitio sure hopes it is, because he ain't drunk enough to handle more than one headless dead body in the woods tonight. The man's lying in a pool of blood just off the path. His clothes are drenched with the stuff, but Partitio can still make out what he's pretty sure is a Ku military insignia - he can't tell the rank exactly, but it looks high.

What's the world coming to, really. Man can't even go three feet without tripping over some secret crime syndicate, corrupt trading company or political assassination these days.

But they quickly leave the body behind as well. Partitio feels his stride lengthen, something itching at his legs, some instinct telling him that he needs to hurry. He enters the clearing nearly at a run-

And comes to halt, seeing the dark-haired figure standing in the middle.

Relief rises in him, so fast it makes him almost giddy. Partitio's not ashamed to admit he was really starting to get worried there - but here his friend is, and although it's hard to tell what with the darkness and the shadows falling on his face, Partitio don't think there's so much as a scratch on him.

"Hikari! You're a sight for sore eyes, you are!" 

Partitio starts forward, but stops again just as quickly, arrested by a hand on his shoulder. It's Throné, her fingers tight enough it's almost painful as she keeps him in place. At her side Dog's growling, the sound low and steady.

"Wha-"

But Hikari interrupts him before he can finish.

"Partitio. And Throné and Temenos, too, and even the little dog. My... friends." Hikari lifts his head to look at them, and that very moment Partitio's skin erupts in goosebumps, all of the hairs on the back of his neck standing up dead straight. Because there's something wrong about the movement, jerky and sudden like Hikari's a puppet and the one jerking the string's never done this before. Same for the molasses-sweetness coating those words that reminds Partitio of the honey traps they put up for flies, and he swears he can see a strange purplish gleam where the moonlight hits his friend's eyes.

Light blossoms in the clearing, pure and white, throwing the forest into stark relief. Partitio dares a quick look to the side and sees Temenos, what looks like a glowing orb floating over his open palm, stepping forward.

"Answer me," he calls out, voice sharp and commanding as he stares at the dark figure ahead, and Partitio's suddenly reminded of what Pops said the man could do just by looking you in the eye. "What is going on here? Who are you?"

For a long moment, there's only silence. A cold wind brushes Partitio's cheek... at least, that's what it feels like, but his hair don't move and the leaves don't rustle. Hikari - if it is Hikari - is statue-still. Partitio reckons it's not of his own will. Something about the tense press of his lips speaks of a struggle, even if he ain't so much as twitching.

Then Temenos lets out a pained gasp, like someone just socked him in the stomach. The light dies even as he crumples to the ground; Partitio has to dash forward and grab him, help ease him down slowly.

"It's... not Hikari." He's conscious, don't look injured at all, but Temenos' breath is quick and ragged, his limbs don't seem fit to hold him and even in the new gloom Partitio can make out sweat shining on his forehead. "But he's... in there... somewhere. Buried. Fighting."

"Oh, but are you sure about that?" It's too dark to see the expression on Not-Hikari's face. Tell the truth, Partitio's kinda glad for it. The voice is bad enough. "How well do any of you know him, after all? You have no idea what he truly desires, in his heart of hearts. What he thirsts for, once you dig past all that bleating about peace and kindness and friendship."

A flash of white teeth in Not-Hikari's face, a smile that puts Partitio more in mind of a beast baring its teeth. Dog stops growling, letting out only a single whimper before falling silent. "I wonder what he would do, if he came to with your bodies scattered before him, your blood pooling on the ground." The way Not-Hikari says the word blood gives Partitio the creeps, like the man's caressing it with his tongue. "Yes. Your blood, and his hand the one that wielded the blade."

Before any of them can respond to that, Hikari's sword slides free from its sheath with a soft hiss. The creature that's squatting in his body laughs, long and low. "You know... I think I'll find out."

Just behind Partitio and to the left, so quiet you can barely hear it, there's a second hiss.

This time, it's Partitio's turn to grab Throné by the shoulder to hold her back, force her arm down until she lowers her dagger. He meets her wild-eyed gaze with his own, shakes his head.

"You take care of Temenos, all right? I got this."

Then Partitio turns his back on the other two, walks forward to meet Not-Hikari, lazy and unhurried. He keeps his hands in his pockets, don't go for his bow or spear. He might not have known Hikari for long, but Partitio's honed his sense for people since he was knee-high to a buttermeep and is willing to bet he's got the measure of him. Got a better measure of him than this weird shadow version, from the sounds of it, even if they do share a brain.

Sides, his merchant's instincts are really clear on what to do, and he's sure he's trusted those in worse situations than this one. (Even if they ain't coming to mind right now.)

"What are you doing?" Not-Hikari's trying to sound just as smug and threatening as before, but Partitio can hear the fear in its voice. "I'll cut you down. Are you that eager to die?"

"Howdy there, Hikari." Partitio keeps his voice friendly, stares into those purple-clouded eyes. He ain't got Temenos' trickery, can't force his mind in there, but... well, it didn't work out too well for Temenos, did it. It's like Pops always says - sometimes simple is best. "Hate to interrupt your nap, friend, but d'you think you could come help us out, here? 'Cause it sure looks like something's decided to come out and play that ain't got no right to. And I think it's high time you sent it back inside before it goes and does something you'd regret."

The sword in Not-Hikari's hand wavers even as it takes a small step back. "No! He... he wants this. It is his nature, he cannot resi... augh!"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'd call that resisting," Partitio says, but he doesn't think the creature can hear him. It's clutching its head in its hands, eyes squeezed shut, the sword falling heedlessly to the ground. Occasional pained grunts make it sound like it's locked in some fierce battle.

Of course, Partitio'd wager quite a bit that that's actually the truth. And he'd double that bet as to who's coming up the victor.

Finally, it ends. The eyes on his friend's face open again, and this time they're clear, unclouded black with no hint of purple.

"Partitio?" Hikari breathes. "What... I..."

Partitio feels the grin spread on his face, sheer relief drawing it wider and wider. "Hikari! Looks like I finally found you. I was getting real worried about you there."

"I..." Total confusion begins to give way to horror. "Did I..."

But before he can tell Partitio what, exactly, he's so afraid he's done, the evening's events take their toll. Hikari's eyes roll up in his head, and for the second time Partitio has to dive forward to catch someone as his friend collapses.

Partitio glances from the man now draped half over his shoulder - barely conscious, from the looks of it - to where Throné is crouched beside Temenos. The cleric's still sitting on the ground where Partitio left him, still looks like he ain't gonna be fit to stand anytime soon.

The giddy relief that filled him when Hikari finally came is punctured by a single thought: how, exactly, are they supposed to get these two back to town?

"Shoulda brought the mule," he grumbles aloud.

"If only we'd thought of that earlier," Throné's voice comes floating over. "Maybe if I take Temenos and you Hikari..." The doubt in her tone matches his own. It's one thing to help Joe or Harry home when they've had a few too many drinks, but they're deep into the forest and Hikari looks like he'll be a dead weight the whole way.

A whinny breaks the silence, and Partitio realises that he was so focused on Hikari he flat-out missed the carts at the clearing's edge. Carts with horses still in full harness, ready to leave at a moment's notice.

Carts that are piled high with crates... but not so high that you couldn't make some space for a couple people to hitch a ride.

Throné looks at Partitio. Partitio looks at Throné.

He is being rocked, gently. As though he were a child, a mere babe in his mother's arms, warmth and comfort surrounding him. And although some part of him knows he is too old for such comfort, although that same part hisses that he does not remember how he came to be here and this ought to worry him, surely it cannot hurt to indulge in it for just a moment...

"Hikari."

Except that that is not his mother's voice.

"Hikari, go back to sleep."

The warmth is gone, the comforting hold turned forceful, restraining. Images flicker by as his memory begins to reform, too fast to make sense of but the shared elements are clear nonetheless: violence, shadow, a sword in the dark-

Mocking eyes gleaming purple staring out at him from his own face. Yes- his face, but set in an expression of pure malice that makes it look a stranger's.

"Hikari, you know you have no chance against me. Why are you even bothering to fight? Just let yourself slip away-"

Hikari struggles. Shoves back the poisonous whisper, fights off the hands dragging him under-

Wakes with a gasp, eyes springing open to be met by the sight of countless brilliant stars in a clear night sky.

"Whoa!" comes another voice as he bolts upright. It is not the shadow's, which is all Hikari feels capable of registering in that moment. "Easy there, friend."

Slowly, awareness and memory both filter back in.

He is in a cart, sitting on something soft amidst crates. In one of the carts, the weapons shipment Kazan had asked him to hijack. He'd fought... fought General Rou, and then...

Then...

Hikari sucks in a breath. "Is- is Temenos all right?" he demands, gripped by urgency. The question should be nonsensical - he hasn't even seen the man in weeks - and yet the image in his mind's eye is horribly clear: the skittish white-haired healer he'd met in Canalbrine, sinking to the ground with blood bubbling at his mouth, Hikari's sword piercing through his belly and bisecting his spine to emerge out his back. As though his friend were nothing but a hunk of meat on a street-vendor's skewer.

"I'll be just fine, but thank you for the concern."

Another new voice, this one hoarse and weary, coming from his side. Hikari turns his head to see Temenos himself sitting propped up against the side of the cart, looking exhausted but entirely unhurt. An enormous wash of relief seizes him at the sight, but one that is cut with confusion.

"I... I could have sworn..."

"You have a very strong will, you know?" Temenos continues before Hikari can gather his thoughts. "I hope you'll pardon the breach of your privacy. Rest assured I won't be trying it again."

If that was supposed to clear things up, it failed horribly, because Hikari is now more confused than before. But he lets the matter go. After all, the important thing is that Temenos is uninjured, that the memory of him dying at Hikari's hand must have been something Hikari hallucinated while he was...

Was overtaken by the shadow within.

The horror of it unfurls slowly. So many times he'd beaten it back before, so many times he'd shut out its whispers, thrust it back into the depths of his mind. But this time his ire was up, fuelled into flame by seeing how many people were eager to thrust Ku back into endless bloodshed, seeing his oldest friend and a man he respected deeply standing side by side against him. This time he'd been hard-pressed, fighting against General Rou, forced to reach deep inside himself for strength, too desperate to be able to refuse when the demon offered exactly that-

And then his memory begins to splinter. He remembers General Rou, unflappable veteran of decades of Ku's wars, backing away with his face set in terror... but the scene is strangely shadowed, fragmentary, and after that all he remembers is darkness and mocking laughter and Temenos dying before him.

Which means that Temenos isn't actually the one he ought to be worrying about.

"General Rou! Ritsu! What happened to them?" He surges to his feet-

And sits down again just as rapidly when his legs give way.

"Careful there, friend," says the first voice he'd heard from up ahead. Partitio, Hikari realises now, driving the cart. "I reckon this evening took it out of you - and no wonder. Just sit down, let yourself rest, and me, Temenos and Throné can fill you in."

Throné is here, too? What, is the deserted clearing miles away from town suddenly the most popular meeting spot on the western continent?

Hikari stomps on the churlish thought, adds the presence of his three friends to the long list of questions he'd like an answer to at some point, and lets himself slump back against the side of the cart beside Temenos. Now that he's more present, he can feel the exhaustion weighing him down. He's gone through a full day's march followed by pitched battle and not felt this utterly drained.

"I'd appreciate anything you can tell me, Partitio. Truth be told, I'm still... a little unclear on... several things."

"Right. Well, you see, I'd run into Throné and Temenos here in town and was having a nice chat with them when I got to thinking that you were taking a little long..."

As the story progresses, Hikari begins to realise just how deep of a debt he owes his friends. Partitio brushes past it, but it's clear that the three of them had discovered him entirely taken over by the shadow - and, instead of fleeing as General Rou had, opted to face him and try to break him out of it. The risk of it chills Hikari to the bone, but he can't argue with the results.

Has a terrible suspicion that if not for them, his shadow-self might be roaming unchecked even now... leaving a trail of corpses in its wake.

But from the sounds of it, his friends managed to stop him before he was able to do any harm. And they seem surprisingly nonchalant about it, waving away Hikari's fervent thanks. None of them seem to consider him getting taken over by some strange demonic version of himself worthy of major concern, either - Partitio seeming to view Hikari's regaining control before it could actually do any damage as inevitable.

Get back, Captain Ritsu! It is the cursed blood - now that it has awoken it is only a matter of time before it consumes him!

General Rou's words, the last thing he heard before his consciousness was lost, still echo ominously in his mind. Hikari hopes with a force borne of raw desperation that it is Partitio's take that will prove true in the end.

Not that General Rou will be there to see it if Hikari proves him wrong.

Partitio's tale of finding what must be the man's body in the woods fills him with grief. Grief, and horror, his first thought being that his friends did not get there in time after all, that the shadow claimed one life before being stopped - but as soon as Hikari stammers this out, Temenos jumps in. The man can still barely keep himself upright, but the fire in his voice belies his limp body as he insistently argues that no, Hikari cannot possibly have been the one to kill General Rou, the angle of the killing blow and the position of the body indicate-

Hikari stops following at that point, but Temenos seems certain enough he just decides to believe the man. It aligns, too, with the emotions rising from the place in his mind where the shadow is once again locked away. It feels desperate, angry, thwarted. None of the triumph he would expect if it had gotten to sate any of its bloodlust.

Which, combined with the description of the man they met on the path (Throné navigating the cart she is driving closer to give a much better description than either Partitio or Temenos could muster), means the culprit must be Ritsu.

His oldest and closest friend. The one he'd sometimes quietly wished were his brother in Mugen's place. The one whose actions he has entirely failed to understand ever since the terrible night of Mugen's coup, and this is no different. Killing General Rou, of all people? Sometimes it almost feels like Ritsu is the one losing the fight against a demonic version of himself-

And yet it's not. It's Ritsu himself, gone terribly astray, and Hikari will get through to him one of these days. He has to.

And it is still Hikari who teetered on the threshold of losing himself tonight.

The stars swim before him, the bone-deep tiredness that has turned all his limbs to lead making his vision blur. Hikari decides, shamefully, that he will resume worrying about what all of this means - Ritsu, General Rou, the shadow - tomorrow.

Temenos seems to gain strength even as Hikari loses it. By the time the story has ended, Hikari can barely keep his eyes open, head lolling to the side, while the other man can sit up and turn towards him to put a white-glowing hand on his chest.

"Just exhaustion," comes the healer's verdict. The man frowns. "I suppose I could try to-"

"Don't you dare, Temenos," Throné's voice comes floating from the darkness. "No magic until you're fully recovered. It was bad enough wrestling both of you into the carts once, it'd be nice if one of you could stand under your own power on the way out."

"All right, all right," Temenos sounds as put-upon as a boy told he may not have dessert. The pout vanishes when he turns back to Hikari. "In that case - get a good night's sleep, take it easy the next few days, and you should be good as new in no time. Here." And he helps Hikari shift so that he is lying down once more.

From there, Hikari lapses into a half-sleeping, half-waking state, unable to keep himself fully conscious but a new, deep-rooted fear of a shadow's grasp pulling him under keeping him from dreamland. He catches snippets of conversation here and there. Something the three of them are planning, related to... a garden, somewhere in Wellgrove? Something dangerous, from the sounds of it. Was hoping Hikari would be willing to help, he hears Partitio say at one point. He's a solid man to have at your side. But I don't want to put no pressure on him as he is. Let's let him recover, not pile more worries on his back. In low voices, Temenos and Throné agree.

Hikari, clinging to wakefulness unnoticed, does not.

True, he doesn't know what they're talking about. But they are his friends, he trusts them (as you trusted Ritsu? something hisses - he ignores it). And he owes them an incredible debt. His sword will be with them, whatever they need, whether or not they ask for it. All he needs to do is recover his strength, first.

And it's that determination that lets him finally slip into a dreamless, unshadowed sleep.

They end up dropping Hikari off at the inn. The man had thankfully already reserved a room earlier in the day, so it's just a matter of a greatly recovered Temenos and Partitio between them hauling his limp weight up the stairs, taking off his boots, and settling him in his bed. Partitio's already wondering whether one of them ought to stay with him - man's dead to the world, clothes all fancy and foreign, and they all know there's lots of robberies in town - when Temenos turns to the dog.

"Dog, stay. ...I said stay."

It takes a few attempts, but she finally curls up on the floor with a huff.

"Good girl. You'll keep an eye on Hikari, won't you?" A flicker of movement from Temenos, and the dog is chewing on a strip of jerky, ears perked and tail wagging slowly. She doesn't even whine as the two of them leave, closing the door gently behind her.

"There," Temenos tells Partitio. "That should put off any thieves." His mouth twists. "At least, back in the day we always avoided rooms with dogs in them - even if they weren't trained to attack, too high a chance they'd bark and draw attention. I can't imagine that much has changed."

Right. With all the excitement Partitio'd almost forgotten, but of course Temenos would know better than anyone else.

"Thanks for telling me, friend." At some point Partitio'll have to pick his brain, see if he's got any other useful tips for a merchant who don't want to get robbed... but not tonight.

"Let's see how Throné's doing, shall we?"

Throné had taken charge of the carts, taking them and the crates (filled with weapons, it turns out) to one of the storage areas near the department store. Partitio's still not sure what to do with them - he ain't no thief and ain't got no hankering to get into the arms market besides, but even if they hadn't needed the transport, leaving them abandoned in the middle of the woods after whatever had happened there didn't seem all too wise either. Best he can think of is to hold on to them until Hikari wakes up and can tell him what he wants done. And the good thing about leaving them with the department store goods is that it's some of Alrond's own guards standing watch. Even without asking Temenos, Partitio reckons that means any would-be thieves are gonna be keeping their sticky fingers well away.

The guards ain't the only ones of Alrond's people around, either. When Partitio and Temenos get there Misha's leaning against a wall, eyebrows raised.

"There you are, Partitio. My master would like to invite you and your friends to dine with him tonight."

Partitio feels a broad grin stretch over his face. "Well, that's real friendly of him, ain't it? Sad to say that Hikari ain't well enough for it, left him sleeping at the inn. But what do you say, Throné? You feeling up for it, Temenos? Want to head to Alrond's place? It's not that late yet, and I know I sure need another bite to eat after all... that."

"'Alrond's place'," Temenos repeats in a wondering murmur. "I can't believe this is what my life has turned into." But he don't protest, and Throné's nod seals the deal.

Chapter Text

"Alrond! Thanks for the invitation!"

"You're very welcome, Partitio."

At the sound of his friend's voice, Alrond feels a broad smile spread over his face. Misha might have things to say about the trouble Partitio brings in his wake, but in Alrond's opinion, a little trouble was just what his life was missing. At least Alrond has found himself thriving on just how much more interesting things have gotten ever since Partitio showed up. Eighty billion leaves is a small price to pay for that. So is a little attempted kidnapping, especially when Partitio's quick fists and quicker tongue managed to get Thurston to back down before any lasting damage could be done.

Alrond thinks even Misha agrees, deep down, because for all the man's grousing Alrond has caught him smiling more than usual of late. Even if Alrond did end up giving way and hiring mercenaries to reinforce the guard after that whole hostage business. Partitio had seemed pretty certain Thurston wouldn't try it again, but Misha had been absolutely immovable on the subject of security, and Alrond supposed it had been pretty clearly shown that having the bulk of his private forces at the department store left certain... gaps. Thankfully, he knows Hemera very well - has even hired her company several times before - and trusts her and her people to get the job done.

One of the things that makes Partitio so very refreshing is that the chaos he leaves in his wake is broad. Alrond is reminded of that again as the small group filters into the dining room. Hikari Ku is unfortunately not among them - not feeling well, sad to say, Partitio informs him when asked. It's a pity, as any conversation with the man was sure to have been extremely interesting. And if His Majesty would surely prefer that Alrond stay well out of their prickly southern neighbours' political quagmire and not do things like invite the deposed younger prince for dinner, well...

Technically His Majesty isn't the king yet, the mourning period before the coronation can be held still nowhere near its end, and so his current ability to censure Alrond for his actions is... limited. It wouldn't have been the first or last time Alrond made shameless use of that fact, even if it makes Misha look like he's in physical pain every time it happens.

This line of thinking is one he suspects that one of the friends Hikari did bring along can identify with. As far as Alrond is aware, the duties and responsibilities of the Inquisitor of the Order of the Sacred Flame are primarily about the church's internal workings and so confined to the church's heartland in the eastern continent. He'd briefly met what must have been this Inquisitor's predecessor in Canalbrine years ago, at some interminable ceremony where the strange eastern guests were one of the only elements relieving the boredom, but given how the church's influence fades as you leave the coast - the small orphanage to the south of town pretty much the only church institution in the whole Leaflands, and even they seem to have little contact with their ostensible governing body - he'd never expected to see the Inquisition any further west. This Throné Mistral is well away from where she no doubt should be... but with the untimely death of the Pontiff, there is likely no one remaining who can recall her. Alrond wishes her much joy with her newfound freedom.

The last of Partitio's friends is, on the surface, less interesting than the Inquisitor or Ku's lost prince. Temenos Anguis is a slight man around Misha's age, in nondescript dark clothes and bearing a staff that, though well-made, is no symbol of high office like Throné's. Some cleric in the Inquisition's service, no doubt, but not one of great rank. Still, something makes Alrond's gaze catch to rest on him contemplatively. There is something familiar about the man, and a quick glance traded with Misha tells Alrond he isn't the only one who thinks so.

It's not the fact that his hair is almost the same shade as Alrond's. No, it's something else. Something that makes Alrond think of Wellgrove's street children, the ones he has never been able to help because the instant they see someone approach they startle and flee like birds taking flight.

No small number of them have silver hair. Back when his parents were alive, Alrond remembers this as a constant point of contention, his mother unable to quite rid herself of her suspicion that they were the result of her husband straying, his father insisting vehemently that even if he were inclined to dishonour her, she should at least credit him with more sense than to do so in Wellgrove itself, with women of child-bearing age and no precautions taken. Given that the coach accident that took them both from him lies well over a decade in the past and yet pale little faces topped with shining silver still appear in Wellgrove's streets, Alrond had come to believe that his father was telling the truth, the colouring simply a Wellgrove trait common among its nobility and poorest citzens alike.

Well, if his suspicion is true, Temenos has done well for himself. Rising from beggar on Wellgrove's streets to become a cleric in the Inquisition cannot have been easy - Alrond feels oddly, obscurely proud of him.

Over dinner (excellent as usual - Alrond has been paying the kitchen staff a hazard bonus ever since the Thurston incident and considers it worth every leaf) the conversation is light, superficial, Throné and Temenos both clearly feeling cautious and uneasy. It's exactly the reason Alrond usually prefers to meet new people in disguise, whatever Misha might have to say about the matter. Still, in this situation it was hardly possible - and he thinks he can rely on Partitio to bridge the gap.

And indeed, as soon as they've retired to the study, Misha pouring the wine for all of them (Alrond would ask him to sit down and join them, but knows from past experience that this is hopeless), Partitio turns to look him square in the eye.

"Alrond, friend - thanks again for inviting us. Real handy, it was, because there's something we really got to talk about."

"If this is some attempt to get master Alrond to pay out the money despite-"

"Hey now!" Partitio interrupts Misha. "I ain't gonna do that. We had a deal, fair and square. Just you wait a bit, and I'll be back with something to prove my merchant chops."

(In truth, at this point Alrond would be more than ready to give him a writ for the eighty billion anyway, his success with the department store more than proving his worth as a merchant... but he suspects that Partitio would be more offended than anything else at the idea of letting him cut corners, and so he hasn't offered.)

"No, this is about something else." And then, surprisingly, Partitio turns to one of his companions. "Temenos, d'you want to explain?"

Temenos is silent for a while, not meeting any of their eyes in favour of staring at the crackling fireplace. Finally - just when Partitio's face begins to fall in resignation - he looks up at Alrond, grey gaze serious and focused.

"Tell me, Lord Rondwell. How much do you know about the church orphanage to the south of town?"

The explanation that follows is as absurd as it is appalling. Alrond would dismiss it out of hand, if not for the many, many things it explains.

The street urchins that vanished whenever he tried to take a closer look, their numbers seemingly unchanged no matter what sort of measures to support the poor he tried to implement. Wellgrove's high crime rate - something many seem to view as a simple truth that does not need explanation by now, losing your purse in Wellgrove's markets part of tavern jokes across both continents, but Alrond hadn't been satisfied with that. Why should Wellgrove, sleepy border town that it is, have rates of theft rivalling New Delsta's slums? And yet when he tried to look into it he made no progress. Nor did his attempts to forestall the thefts - increasing the numbers of the city guard, funding programs aiming to provide gainful employment so that those in need would have an alternative to stealing - make any noticeable difference.

Even the very fact of Wellgrove's slow economy, when their position right on the trade-route to Hinoeuma should by rights have made them a trader's paradise. Partitio and his department store is the first time that Alrond had seen real progress on that front, despite years of trying... and hadn't he and Partitio both been surprised by the multiple attempts at sabotage? To the point where he'd been forced to send almost his full guard to put the place under round-the-clock watch, leaving him and his home vulnerable?

...how had Thurston known when and where to strike, come to think of it?

Alrond wants to dismiss the thought even as it crosses his mind. It feels paranoid, as though he is seeing conspiracy in every shadow, but.

Given that he's being informed that a criminal organisation has been pulling the strings of his town for decades, conspiracy no longer seems a very far-fetched explanation.

An unfamiliar warmth is building within him, making his limbs tingle and stomach twist. It takes him a moment to recognise it as rage. Anger is not an emotion Alrond is particularly given to - he has always considered it unbecoming, in someone with all his advantages in life - but he believes it understandable for this to be an exception.

Unused to his own fury as he is, Alrond is also not good at hiding it. He can feel Misha's and Partitio's concerned gazes resting on him. Temenos peters to a halt, the man shrinking in on himself slightly.

"Ah... I'm sorry."

All right. That's enough indulging himself.

Alrond takes the part of himself that wants to rail and scream and throw things and flattens it, tucks it away. Later, he promises himself. But at the moment, he is still entertaining company. Alrond prides himself on his hosting, and letting his anger get the best of him would be rude.

"You? I don't see what exactly you have to be sorry for, Temenos my friend." If the smile he turns on the man is just a touch less brilliant, the flip of his hair a touch less ostentatious than usual, nobody can possibly blame him. "Apart from some lost purses, mind you, but given the length of time since then I'm willing to consider those forgiven."

"If it helps, it wasn't very many purses." Temenos' own smile is sickly and strained. Clearly, Alrond isn't the only one who's having a hard time with this conversation. "I was always terrible at stealing... tried my hand at shoe-polishing once, did better at that, but Mother wouldn't have it." (To the side, Partitio lets out a noise of pure outrage.) "I was lucky she didn't dispose of me, honestly."

And that sentence yanks Alrond right back to the here and now. Here and now, where the fire of his anger is gone, replaced by ice.

"Dispose of?" Alrond repeats. His voice seems to come from far away, as though some stranger is speaking through him.

"Oh! Of course." Temenos blinks as though taken aback by his tone, but rallies quickly. "Mother didn't just let all of us leave the Garden. You had to prove yourself first, show you had a Blacksnake's skills. Those who didn't manage that before they were too old..." Temenos shrugs. "They vanished."

His tone is light, conversational, just like it's been this whole time. As though the horrors he is describing are so everyday to him he cannot quite fathom them shocking his audience. It's in this ssame tone that he goes on to explain his best theories for the fate of those children who didn't make the cut - murder out-of-hand or slavery, a quick death or a slow one - even as the frost creeps through Alrond's veins.

Always keep your eyes on what is most important. His father's voice echoes in his mind. Alrond had thought he had been doing well at following that advice, but in this conversation he slipped.

High rates of theft? Trade that has never been quite where it should be? None of them matter a thimble in the face of this: children, twisted from their birth into a life of crime - and sentenced to die if they should resist that pressure, with no more care than one of Alrond's gardeners might give the leaves of a hedge he is trimming into shape.

Children here, in Wellgrove. Children numbering among Alrond's people.

"It stops." Alrond still barely recognises his own voice, but no longer imagines anyone other than himself is speaking. "Right now."

Temenos stumbles to a halt, eyes wide. He's the only one surprised, though. Throné, who's been listening in grim silence this whole time, gives a short nod, while Partitio breaks into a smile - one distinctly more predatory than the man's usual.

"Glad to have you on the same page, friend! Now let's talk strategy."

As that discussion progresses, Alrond realises how invaluable having Temenos here is. His observations are incredibly detailed despite the intervening years and how young he must have been when he made them, leading to priceless additions such as a sketch of the grounds and building blueprints, exact numbers for the guards and "sisters" (Alrond notices Throné's wince at the word) and even old patrol routes. The man warns them repeatedly that it has been some years since he last set foot in the Garden, but given that Alrond is certain he would have noticed any significant change to the orphanage grounds or staffing even in his prior ignorance, he doubts things can be all too different.

Temenos also knows a great deal about the Blacksnakes' internal communication and structure, something that leaves Misha eyeing him with noticeable suspicion. Alrond, too, feels uneasy about what the man must have been up to in the years since leaving Wellgrove...

...but at the end of the day, isn't the important thing that he chose to, for lack of a better word, defect? Alrond doubts this 'Mother' would take his current treachery kindly, and yet has seen no sign the man is doing it of anything other than his own will. Throné and Partitio both certainly seem to trust him.

And in this case, his knowledge serves to alleviate another worry. Temenos is insistent that there are few ties between the wider Blacksnakes and the false orphanage, few enough that - if they are careful about how they go about it - a takeover could go unnoticed for quite some time. This comes as a real relief, as Alrond wasn't looking forward to inviting the wrath of a continents-spanning crime empire down on his head with no real time to prepare. They're only just getting the department store off the ground.

("I always figured they were killed and buried out back, but then again... the slave market always needed fresh warm bodies, you know?"

Alrond would have done it, though.)

The need to do things subtly does impose certain constraints. The attack must be swift and its success total, not a single person allowed to escape to warn the others. That means two things.

The first - a distraction - Throné says she will take care of, Temenos volunteering himself to join her a moment after. Alrond, seeing the pure rage burning in her eyes, opts not to argue. Silently, he apologises for assuming she did not have real business here in Wellgrove, because it is clear that the Inquisitor considers this orphanage's existence, and its claim to be church-sponsored, very serious indeed.

The second she, Partitio and Temenos stumble over: manpower. Enough to form a real perimeter, to ensure that not a single rat escapes through one of its holes to bring a warning back to its den. The city guard is not suitable; there is no way the rot in this city has left it unscathed. Alrond also has suspicions about his private forces. What they really need is an independent body, not bound to Wellgrove, under rigid military discipline and led by someone well and truly above suspicion.

Usually, this would be a problem. How lucky for them that Alrond happens to have hired a company of mercenaries recently.

"And you trust this... Hemera?" Temenos asks. He's managed to draw up a credible veneer of nonchalance as the discussion went on, but his knuckles are white where they grip the stem of his wine-glass and Alrond notices Misha has not opted to refill it.

"Implicitly," Alrond answers. "I've know her fifteen years and she's behaved with honour and integrity throughout. Also, she saved my life that one- all right, those two times." He phrases it as a careless afterthought just to see Misha twitch.

"Sounds like a friend worth having right there," Partitio comments. "So I take it we've got to fill her in, get her to agree to help-"

"I'll go and talk to her right now," Alrond interrupts, levering himself to his feet. It's late, true, but he knows she keeps late hours and Alrond himself can't imagine trying to go to sleep right now.

Besides - perhaps it is some instinct telling them they will lose the advantage of surprise if they do not move quickly, perhaps simply the fact that now that Alrond is aware of the orphanage's true nature he finds its very presence in his town unbearable, like feeling a tick burrowed into your flesh. Whatever the reason, Alrond is convinced: they need to move as soon as they possibly can.

"Mind if I join you? She sounds like someone it'd be good to know."

"Not at all, Partitio." Alrond suspects the two of them will like each other - and besides, the more people who fill Hemera in, the lower the risk of accidental miscommunication.

On which note Alrond looks towards Throné and Temenos. "You're welcome to come along as well, continue with the planning-"

But after glancing at Temenos, Throné is already shaking her head. "Thank you, but I think it's time for the two of us to be getting back to the inn. Neither of us have much experience with actual... military action, and Temenos needs to rest."

Partitio lets out a startled sound. "Criminy, with everything that's happened I clean forgot about earlier. You go and rest up, friend. I'll fill y'all in on what the plan is back at the inn."

And indeed, now that Alrond looks closer it's clear that the man isn't just pale for the stress of the situation. An embarrassing oversight, not to realise his guest was unwell. His father would be so ashamed.

That thought catches on something, stays even as he bids the two clerics a gracious farewell. Something about it in combination with the evening's events is tugging at some strand of memory long dormant. Alrond allows himself a moment to let his thoughts drift following it...

Slowly the image of a clear, crisp winter day builds in his mind, sun glaring white where it reflects off frost-limned branches and snowbanks by the frozen river. The people of Wellgrove hurry through the streets, wrapped in cloaks and scarves and thick coats but still unwilling to brave the cold longer than they have to.

Well... most of them.

"Here you go, sir!"

"Thank you very much. You did an excellent job, I'll have you know - my boots haven't been this clean in years." Alrond glances up from the leather, polished until it shines as brightly as the snow, to the small, pinched face of the polisher. No fur cloak or wool scarf is visible on his figure, but the child has found a way to protect himself nonetheless, bundled in a patchy coat clearly meant for someone half again his height with rags painstakingly wrapped around the places it is particularly threadbare or loose along with his hands and neck. A lumpy overlarge cap letting out only small tufts of silver hair here and there completes the picture. The red cheeks and bright eyes tell Alrond that no, this boy is not at risk of freezing... at least not at the moment.

Still, the cold as much as the shine of his boots spur him to add another two five-leaf coins to the one he passes the boy. Those grey eyes light up even more at the sight, and in moments the sum is secreted somewhere on the boy's person.

"Thank you! And... uh... please remember me if your shoes get dirty again!"

The delivery of the last line is unpracticed, Wellgrove's little would-be entrepreneur clearly trying to base it off what he has heard from merchants in the marketplace, but all the more charming for that. Alrond can't resist a smile.

"I'll do that. Thank you."

Even as he lengthens his stride, leaving the boy behind to find more customers, he turns the interaction over in his head. The older Alrond gets, the more he finds himself worrying about Wellgrove, about its people. About situations like there being a bright youngster out on its streets in rags in the dead of winter, trying to eke out an existence polishing shoes, even while Alrond sleeps on silk and wears mink-fur.

(Not that Alrond is planning to give that up. A man needs his luxuries, and besides, style is important. But surely it must be possible to lift up one without lowering the other?)

Father keeps telling him not to worry about it, but Alrond is of age now, no longer a child to be protected. Surely there is some way he can help.

Maybe, the thought strikes him, by taking the boy from earlier into service. Father has always appreciated those who are clever, who do not simply sit and wait to be helped but try to work with what they are given, and he's managed to instill the same in Alrond. Surely a boy from the streets who does not beg or steal but tries to earn an honest living could be a valuable addition to their household.

It would not solve the problem of Wellgrove's poverty, true. The street children would continue to exist. But it would solve the problem for one person, and Alrond has to start somewhere.

Unfortunately, when Alrond gets back to the manor, Father is clearly in no mood to discuss a possible increase of the household staff. He is in his study, bent deep over some ledgers, barely noticing Alrond's approach until he clears his throat.

"Ah, Alrond. I'm afraid I'm... rather busy, at the moment."

Alrond steps closer. "Anything I can help you with?"

Father blinks owlishly up at him before turning back to his papers. "No, no, son. You run along and play."

Run along and play? Indignation stiffens his spine, drawing him up to his full height (two inches taller than his father, he would like to note). "Father. I am twenty years old, not a toddler to be sent to the nursery. If something is wrong, I want to help."

That finally gives Father pause, setting down his quill and looking Alrond in the eye. "So you are, forgive me for forgetting. And I promise I will try to involve you more. But this..." He frowns down at neat columns of numbers, at the parchment beside it with its scrawl of letters. "It is... not something I'd like you involved in, son. Not yet, anyway, not before I confirm my suspicions." His gaze grows distant, seeming to stare through the books rather than at them. "If they are true... well, so much would be explained. We would finally know why trade here languishes despite my best efforts. But... no. I need the confirmation first."

And that is that, Father proving himself immovable. He and Mother set out only hours later, Father enveloping him in a warm hug. When I get back, he murmurs, his warm breath tickling Alrond's ear. I promise I will explain when I get back.

It's the last time Alrond ever sees him alive.

Alrond never encounters the little shoe-polisher again. But in the wake of the accident, he is far too busy to think about him anyway, sucked under by grief - grief, and the burden of suddenly needing to take on the duties he was meant to spend another decade preparing for. And so he forgets the encounter, and when he runs into a young man picking up trash around town and takes him into his household some years later, the only thing it rouses is a strange feeling of deja vu.

Now, though, fifteen years later, Alrond remembers. The boy in rags, hair as silver as his, who would be a young man now. Temenos' age, in fact.

But he also remembers Father. Father, and that last afternoon. If my suspicions are true... we would finally know why trade here languishes...

Just as with young Temenos, in the chaos following Father's death Alrond had almost forgotten those words. They take on an ominous new cast now.

Had Father discovered some sign of the Blacksnakes, hiding in Wellgrove's shadows?

And - this thought feels terrible yet inevitable, like a boulder bearing down on him - his death. The accident, the coach coming off the track to careen down a ravine. The one investigators from Timberrain later blamed on the icy weather coupled with a new coachman.

Was it truly an accident?

"Uh, Alrond? You all right?"

Alrond realises that he's come to a halt on the stairway, staring at the portrait hanging over the landing. His parents, together, his father's pensive blue eyes staring out at the world. His breath is fast, his heart racing as though he had just run straight here from town.

"I'm sorry, Partitio," he says. "I got distracted. It won't happen again."

"If you say so, friend." Partitio is studying him, brows drawn together, concern clear in those dark eyes. "But just so you know... anytime you want to talk, just let me know. My door's always open."

How many times has Alrond heard those words and known them insincere, the greed behind the offer obvious? And yet there is none of that in Partitio's face, his concern real and honest.

"I may take you up on that one day. For now, though, let's go see Hemera."

A true friend, a genius of a merchant, and, now, the person who will let Alrond avenge his father's death - when Alrond hadn't even known there was anything to avenge about it until today.

Eighty billion leaves truly is a small price to pay for what Partitio is gifting him.

Chapter Text

If, a few months ago, someone had told Temenos what he was about to do now, he'd have decided that person was clearly stark, raving mad. In all honesty, Temenos isn't sure he hasn't gone mad. For all that he was there when the plan began taking shape, heard every argument and finally agreed to it, now that it has all come together it strikes him as absurd. His original plan to infiltrate Wellgrove to question Mother and then escape unnoticed had already been daring. But this — having brought Alrond Rondwell (Alrond. Rondwell.) in on the whole thing, launching a full-on attack involving an entire mercenary company, the new goal of seeing the Garden shut down with Mother and the sisters imprisoned or dead — it is so far detached from everything he has ever known possible that it feels as though he is on a journey to the moon.

Is he sure this isn't some very strange dream?

But pinching his lower arm does not result in the woods around him dissolving to be replaced by the inn ceiling. Not a dream, then. That still leaves the possibility of a sudden onset of insanity-

"I can hear you overthinking this from here," comes Throné's voice. "Stop it. And stop fiddling with your clothes, too — you're making me nervous just looking at you. You look absolutely fine, I promise."

Temenos hadn't even realised that his hand had moved to twist one of the broad sleeves of his overrobe back and forth. He lets it drop to the side sheepishly.

He doesn't know where, exactly, Partitio had obtained the white cloak and green robes with the Order's emblem, close enough to Temenos' size to fit him with only a few quick stitches. Throné had also raised an eyebrow, but hadn't complained. Partitio isn't the type to have acquired them through shady means, and it's worked out in their favour. After all, if he is to play the role of a supporting member of the Inquisition, he ought to look the part. Throné herself has even dug out the formal dress of the Order she has apparently been carrying all this time, the first time Temenos has ever seen her don the uniform of her station.

The clothes should have felt like just another disguise, like the apothecary's uniform he'd donned back in New Delsta, like the servant's livery or merchant's dress or scholar's robe he'd acquired and squirrelled away in one of his caches. Temenos is well-practiced at those sorts of games, at playing at being something he is not. This should have been no different.

But it is. The white cloak, the symbol of the Order (of the Flame) worked into it in gold thread no doubt shining brilliant in the sunlight, the same symbol repeated on his front, the loose swish of the robes around his legs and heaviness of the sleeves where they hang contrasting the tightness around his neck where the fabric is buttoned up to the point where it completely covers his collar — all of it a far cry from his everyday wear, plain dark clothes loose enough to allow for free movement but tight enough not to rustle, scarf drawn up to hide his neck. It should have felt like a costume, but instead it rests as easily on him as if he had worn just this every day for a decade.

The cleric's robes feel more familiar than his regular clothing. The ease of it is so off-putting that it leaves him tugging the clothes to and fro as if trying to find the angle where they will start feeling strange and alien — made uncomfortable by his own comfort.

But it's something he needs to get over. This is already risky as is, after all. The turnover in the Garden staff is high, but not total, and so the chance that they will run into someone who knows him before they reach Mother cannot be discounted. Temenos is hoping the changes wrought in the last decade, his new clothing and Throné's presence will obscure things to the point where he slips by unnoticed, but looking awkward and out of place in clerical dress like the greenest snakeling will be a sure way to raise suspicion.

Perhaps he should have stayed behind, moving in with the mercenaries rather than as part of the distraction, but... no. The very idea is repulsive. For one, the chance that Mother will escape somehow seems far too high. For another, he refuses to allow Throné to set foot in his childhood nightmare alone.

Temenos closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. For a moment, an image crosses his mind: that of light filling him to drive out the shadows of his doubts and fears. (He is a little indignant that this seems to work.)

When he opens his eyes and resumes walking, his hands rest still at his sides.

Ten years haven't changed the area much. The crunch of branches under his feet, the dappled morning light filtering through yellowing leaves, the birdsong that stills when a larger animal passes — all of it brings memory roaring back, until Temenos almost expects to look down at himself and see a ragged child, the last ten years nothing but a strange, very vivid dream. He finds himself glancing at Throné at regular intervals just to make sure she's still there.

For a moment, he wishes they'd taken Dog along… but no. Comforting though he might find her presence, an innocent animal should not be part of what will follow. Far better to leave her guarding Hikari, who was still sleeping when they left.

Slowly, the Garden comes into view. First the brick wall, probably ten feet in height and topped with iron spikes that are certainly not only decorative. Then the stone building rising within its confines. Perhaps, to someone else, the ivy trailing up its walls and brightly painted shutters, rosy in the glow of the morning light, would give it a welcoming air. To Temenos, they make his nerves spark and his back twinge. He has to take a deep breath and force himself to go on.

More to the point, by the large wrought-iron gate stands their first obstacle. The guard is... familiar. Too familiar. Apparently Temenos overestimated the turnover among the staff, because he recognises that grey beard and the startling blue eyes in a lined face from his childhood.

He swallows. Draws himself upright, as if to emphasise the height he did not have the last time they saw each other. Fixes his persona in his head: a cleric who'd grown up in the Order's bosom, who has certainly never before set foot in a snake nest. Waits for Throné to speak, hoping she will distract the man enough tha-

"Why- Temenos? It is you, isn't it?"

Temenos deflates like a wineskin that has sprung a leak. He can't believe that they're failing at the very first hurdle.

For a moment, he considers trying to deflect, pretend he doesn't know who the man is talking about — but no. This guard has always been the sharpest of them all.

"...yes. Hello. It's... been a while."

"So it has." The wrinkled face creases into a broad smile even as the man looks Temenos up and down. "And you've done well for yourself, my boy. I'm glad to see it. It's nice to see you coming back for a visit. And bringing a friend, too."

Temenos glances to the side, where-

His arm snaps out to grasp Throné's wrist — too late to stop her from drawing the knife, but in time to keep her from attacking.

"Wait," he hisses.

Perhaps it's foolishness. All his training at infiltration whispers to him that the safest thing to do would be to dispose of this man before he can raise the alarm.

But.

One time, he'd stayed out too late. There had been a wandering cleric in town again and Temenos had gotten so sidetracked shadowing the woman that he'd lost track of time. He'd been coming back far past curfew and empty-handed, already fearing the punishment that would await when he had to face the sisters.

This same guard had been on duty, and to Temenos' surprise the man had smiled when he approached.

"There you are," he'd said, voice so low it could barely be heard. "I was worried something had happened to you when you didn't return with the others. There was an incident earlier which caused a great deal of confusion, and all the sisters are currently in the western stairway to deal with it. I don't believe any of them have noticed your absence yet, and if you move quickly and use the east door, they never will."

For a long moment, Temenos had just stared at him in utter bewilderment, wondering if it this was some trick, if he'd just be setting himself up for more punishment. But then he'd decided to risk it, giving the man a short nod and darting inside... and it had worked exactly as he said. By the time the sisters came round for the evening bed-check, Temenos had been in his dorm with no sign that he hadn't returned with the others. None of them gave him so much as a second glance.

There were other kindnesses, here and there. Always small, always subtle — a few leaves slipped into his pocket on days where he was returning with nothing, a blind eye turned other times he was out too late, once a small pouch of dried healing grapes tucked under his pillow when he came back from a beating. Nor was he the only child who received such forbearance. As far as he knows, none of them had ever mentioned it to anyone. They had all known without being told that if the sisters or (Flame forbid) the caretaker were to notice what the man was up to, it would go badly for him. But Temenos, at least, did not forget.

Now, years and years later, that selfsame man looks calm and collected as always despite the bared weapon. "I am the guard of this orphanage," he introduces himself to Throné. (Temenos has never heard the man's name, has the strangest feeling he might not have one.) "That is my role. As a guard, it is my duty to protect the children from outside threats. Do you mean them harm?"

Temenos does not think he imagined the pain that flickered over the man’s face at the word outside.

"...No," Throné says after a moment. She is still tense, but lowers the knife. Temenos releases her. "Not the children."

Making it blatantly obvious that they do mean harm to the adults. Temenos has to resist the urge to cover his eyes in sheer despair. How, how someone who is so skilled at every other aspect of a Snake's art is so incapable of even basic lying-

But the guard still hasn't gone for his sword. All he greets Throné's words with is a nod.

"Very well. Then I see no reason not to let you pass."

Temenos is fairly sure Mother would in fact see great reason not to let them pass. For all their clerical garb, they are clearly not here as reinforcements for the sisters — Temenos and Throné had discussed trying that route, but rejected it. There is Throné's difficulty with lying, Temenos has never seen a man among the false clergy before, and finally, they will be a very poor distraction if they pass unnoticed. More, Throné is a stranger, her bare neck proclaiming her an outsider. By all rights the guard should stop her here, knowing she has no business in the Garden.

All the little kindnesses. That brief agonised flash when he mentioned protecting the children. The way he keeps referencing his role.

No, for all his involvement Temenos does not think this man supports what happens within the Garden's walls. Thinks this might be one of his small attempts at rebellion.

It's that thought that brings Temenos to turn back to the man, heart in his throat.

"I... have other friends, who will be arriving later. Quite a few of them, but a man named Partitio and a woman named Hemera first and foremost." (The fact that he has never met the mercenary leader is probably better left unsaid.) "Would you allow them to pass too?"

A breath of silence. Temenos feels as if his skin has shrunk two sizes too tight. If this goes wrong, he has just given away the element of surprise-

The guard stares him squarely in the eye, and for once Temenos feels like he is the one who ought to be fleeing before someone's gaze. "Temenos. Will they harm the children?"

"They will make it so the children will never be harmed again." Despite all Temenos' earlier doubts, the words spring from him without a moment's hesitation.

The guard shuts his eyes. A shudder goes through him, as though Temenos has shaken the very ground he stands on.

"Then I will stand aside and let them in." The words are quiet, but as certain as Temenos' own. Then, even quieter, so that Temenos can barely hear him, "You were always such a kind boy. I'm glad to see that hasn't changed."

And so the two of them move on, leaving the guard behind. Temenos glances back to see him standing just as before, back to the orphanage, shoulders relaxed as he stares out towards the forest. There is no sign that he intends to make for the building and warn anyone.

"You'll tell me who that was and what that was about, yes?" Throné murmurs once they have passed the gate.

She's really terribly nosy, Throné is. Temenos would object, but knows he doesn't have a leg to stand on.

"I will, I will," he promises. "Just... not now." Throné seems to find this convincing, or at least she doesn't complain.

And then they are there, facing the tall wooden doors that lead into Mother's domain. Temenos' skin prickles. For an instant, shamefully, he wants to turn tail and run-

In the distance, a bell begins to toll. The familiar — the hated — sound drives anger into his veins and steel into his spine. Right now, a child is suffering, Mother, as always, is taking out her frustration on those who cannot resist.

It was Temenos, once. It was Temenos many times, powerless, unable to stop her. But he is not that person any more.

Throné's brow had wrinkled at the sound of the bell. She'd opened her mouth as if to comment on it, but then, after a glance in his direction, clearly thought better of it. Now, she speaks.

"All right, then. Let's do this." And without another word, she pushes open the great wooden doors leading into the Garden.

Before they have even stepped three feet into the large entryway, someone comes hurrying to meet them. The woman is perhaps forty, with a long scar running down one cheek and very credibly decked out in a sister's habit. She stares at Throné in clear bemusement.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't told we were receiving any new sisters today. And..." Her glance goes to Temenos, who has positioned himself a little further to the rear. "I didn't realise we were receiving brothers?" Her voice is bewildered. There's no sign she recognises Temenos, but Throné still considers it best to direct the woman's attention right back to her.

And she knows exactly how to do it, too.

One of the odder things Throné has learned about herself in recent months is that, although many other skills more common among the criminal element come to her as though she were born to them, outright lying is still something she struggles with. She'd spotted Temenos' expression when she flubbed her answer to the guard earlier. Such occurrences have not been unusual.

How handy, then, that for what she needs do here, she does not technically need to lie at all.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not here to join your number. I'm Inquisitor Throné, from Flamechurch. The Inquisition is in the process of... a review, shall we say, of the branches of the Order and its associated organisations here on the western continent."

Still true. In addition to any documents she finds here, Throné is absolutely planning to go through the central records at Canalbrine with a fine-toothed comb after this. The question of why, exactly, this place has gone unnoticed for so long has preyed on her ever since Temenos mentioned it, and she means to get answers.

The false sister is well-trained. She does not blanch, does not grimace. The only sign that this news is unwelcome is a slight tightening of her lips and a fraction of a pause before she responds.

"That... of course. Of course we would be happy to assist the Inquisition however we can. May I lead you somewhere more comfortable to wait while I inform the, the Mother Superior?"

"Actually, if you don't mind, we'll wait in the main area. Protocol, you know. Don't worry — you won't even notice we're there." Throné gives the woman a thin smile.

It's a narrow line they need to walk here. Until their backup arrives, Throné and Temenos will be desperately outnumbered. If the "sisters" decide to get rid of their problem in the way they know best, it will be hard to get out alive.

But they have gone to so much effort to maintain this disguise as a harmless orphanage under the protection of the Order. They must realise that those days will be numbered the instant a high-ranking member shows up on their doorstep only to vanish without a trace. As long as Throné makes it appear that she does not know, that this is a simple routine inspection, she is almost certain that they will try...

"A-all right, Inquisitor. I'll just go let the others know — someone will be with you in just a moment."

...to bluff it out.

The Blacksnakes have done their work well. Superficially, the main hall doesn't look much different from other, genuine such organisations Throné has seen before. Long tables with benches along both sides, false sisters moving to and fro (and Throné does not think she imagines a distinct uptick in the speed involved as the news begins to spread), children in neat uniforms scattered around — quite a few of the latter, given that they timed their approach to what Temenos said was just after a morning general assembly.

It’s those children that show the lie. Throné will not pretend that Church orphans normally live an entirely carefree, blissful life — not after growing up as one herself — but even so, these children are... off. Too thin, too silent, too many scars creeping out from under their shirts, and where Throné used to watch her fellow orphans warily, these children keep a careful eye on the “sisters”.

If anyone from the Order ever inspected this place before, they were either criminally blind or actively corrupt. Throné means to find out which one.

For now, she pretends that she hasn't noticed anything suspicious. Beside her, Temenos slouches against the wall with an air of noticeable boredom — the very picture of someone who has already seen twenty of these places in recent months and isn't expecting any change from routine in the twenty-first.

Finally, someone approaches them. Not a sister, nor the "Mother" Temenos has described. A man, a hulking giant of one who tops Throné by what must be over a head, who is decidedly not wearing clerical robes. His dark hair is flecked with grey and his mouth framed by deep lines. Of an age, in other words, to-

Beside her, she can hear the way Temenos' breath stops, feel as he goes rabbit-still. Someone else who was here ten years ago, who might recognise him. Throné is well aware of just how reckless this plan was, but she still silently curses their luck.

Except that the giant's gaze flicks past Temenos without any sign of recognition to rest firmly on Throné. "I'm Morezov, the caretaker of this orphanage," he introduces himself, frown fixed on his face. (And that is not an official church position, Throné notes). "What's all this about an inspection? We weren't informed."

"It's standard procedure," Throné says, making sure to keep her sudden tension out of her voice. The man has moved to stand just a little bit too close, enough that the difference in height lets him loom. She wonders if it was calculated, or whether this is simply how he is used to interacting with those he considers beneath him. "You're free to contact Sister Mindt in Flamechurch afterwards to complain if you like. For now, I do need to do my job, and the longer we stand here the longer it'll take. If you could show me to your archives?"

The caretaker's face begins taking on a distinct reddish hue. He takes another step forward, putting her close enough that Throné's instincts are screaming for her to drop the staff and go for her dagger. He doesn't seem particularly used to someone standing up to him, Throné thinks.

"Show you to our- don't know just who you think you are, you little-"

Throné is about to restate her title, and possibly thrust the Staff of Judgement under his nose to reinforce it, when the man does a visible double-take. For a moment, she thinks he's recognised Temenos — but no, his gaze is still fixed on her.

"Wait a moment. You- you're Marietta's whelp, you have to be. What's the meaning of this? Did Father put you up to this?"

Marietta's whelp?

But whoever the caretaker has confused her for, it seems it's enough to make him think there's no more need to tread carefully. His face is entirely red now, his fist raised threateningly, he looks fully caught in the throes of rage and unlikely to back down anytime soon.

Sliding her dagger into his ribs would probably cause the false sisters to attack them, and that is still not what Throné is aiming for. Thankfully, she has alternate methods — especially given that the man has so kindly positioned himself within reach.

One hand leaves her staff, darts to brush against that raised fist. This time, she eschews her usual gentler methods, carefully soothing him into slumber. Instead, she sends her magic out like a battering ram, flattening any resistance to hammer a single word into his brain:

SLEEP.

The man drops like a stone, Throné forced into a quick step back to make sure he does not crash onto her feet. She takes a deep breath, looks up from the unconscious caretaker to meet the eyes of the wide-eyed "sisters" where they are clustered in a gaggle on the staircases. The children, she realises with a shock that is almost electric, have made themselves scarce.

"As I said." Her voice is firm as she raises the Staff of Judgement, letting its brass-inlaid head catch the torchlight. "My name is Throné Mistral. I am the Inquisitor of the Order of the Sacred Flame, here on its behalf."

It's odd. So many times, Throné has felt unworthy of her station. The habit she wears now felt awkward and ill-fitting when she put it on earlier today, as though she were wearing a costume. The Staff of Judgement has always sat wrong in her hands, ungainly and liable to slip through her fingers at the same time. She has always considered herself a sorry excuse for a sister...

And yet, staring out at the Blacksnakes, at the actual false sisters who have used the Order's name and reputation as a shield for their vile acts, she feels truer to it than ever. As though Father is resting his hand on her shoulder and Roi standing at her side, behind them Ingrid and Giovanni and Mindt and Dimitris and the countless brothers and sisters of the order in silent support. As though instead of plain old inadequate Throné, she is standing here as the vessel of the Order's will.

Temenos was so sure that she was a good Inquisitor. Throné hadn't been able to bring herself to believe him, but... maybe he was on to something.

All the sisters are still staring at her as if spellbound. Throné considers, then decides to toss caution to the winds.

"I have heard appalling stories of this place, and so I mean to investigate it for heresy and corruption, as is my duty. Does anyone else have any objections to my presence?"

"Well, I for one sure don't!"

The voice doesn't belong to any of the false sisters. Doesn't, in fact, belong to any of the orphanage's staff. Throné sees a ripple of surprise go through their ranks, some begin to turn, to reach for where she expects weapons are hidden in their clothing, but-

Too late.

Armed and armoured figures flood into the hall. They must have encircled the building, because they come from all its entrances. At the rear is a familiar figure in a yellow coat and large hat, standing at the side of a grey-haired woman in a battered breastplate.

"Blacksnakes," the stranger calls out, her voice surprisingly deep and echoing. "In the name of Alrond Rondwell and the city of Wellgrove, I place you under arrest. Lay down your weapons, come peacefully, and your lives may be spared."

It seems their reinforcements have arrived.

The sisters try to fight, of course. Temenos hadn't expected anything else, can almost hear the voice hissing a Snake does not surrender, a Snake fights to the last moment into their ears. Especially the fact that they are facing no rival criminal gang but the law, when any single one of these women will have a list of crimes to her name taller than she is — no, there is no way they will come peacefully.

So they try to fight, but it doesn't avail them much. The mercenary leader used the distraction Throné provided well, had them flanked and surrounded before they knew what was happening with all the children whisked safely out of the way. (Temenos knows better than to believe the sisters would baulk at taking one of their "charges" as hostages. The charges in question will have been just as aware of this, which probably explains how silently this happened.) More, the strength of the Blacksnakes has never lain in direct combat, nor are they accustomed to fighting as a group. Snakes are ambushers, backstabbers, creatures of treachery used to keeping as close of an eye on each other than their enemies. And so it's no surprise when in short order, and at the cost of only a few minor injuries among the mercenaries, all the sisters have been neutralised. Most were simply disarmed, but Temenos catches sight of some limp bodies sprawled on the floor where the fighting was particularly vicious.

It makes his head spin, even worse than this morning's walk through the forest. The caretaker, dropped with a single touch from Throné. The sisters, some seething in futility where they have been bound, some unconscious or dead. The monsters of his childhood, taken out in mere minutes. Part of him still cannot believe it, despite it happening right before his eyes. Another part is-

Another part is angry. Because if it was possible, was easy, then why- why couldn't it have happened earlier? Why had nobody noticed before, nobody intervened, why could Temenos not have been one of the children now oh-so-cautiously approaching their rescuers-

But it's not fair! It is a child's cry, Temenos reminds himself, coupled with a child's jealousy. He is an adult now, and ought to know better.

Especially because there is something far more important to think about. To whit: the fact that not all of his childhood nightmares have been vanquished as of yet.

But there is no sign of Mother anywhere in the building, and Hemera insists it must be secured before they can send anyone to search the grounds. Temenos grits his teeth but accepts this. The mercenaries fan out, Throné, Partitio and Misha head for Mother's study and the documents there, while Temenos-

Temenos looks at the many small thin faces and drifts to help with the children.

No, he wasn't one of them. Wasn't rescued, had had to save himself. But there is no way of changing that fact, and every lash-mark he heals, every pinched expression that eases with the sudden absence of pain, feels like a small balm to that angry hurting child deep within.

The children come to him more readily than to the troop apothecary, too. It's not trust — he's not foolish enough to believe Garden hatchlings will trust any adult easily — but... a sense of understanding, perhaps. Now that he is no longer shielded behind Throné, it is hard to avoid the recognition of like recognising like, the way the children's eyes linger on his grey eyes and silver hair, on the robes he has buttoned up high enough to hide a collar and the sleeves that fall over the snake tattoo trailing onto the back of his hand.

The fact that one of the older sisters had glared up at him and hissed Traitor as he passed had probably helped with that.

(It was a surprise to Temenos how little it bothered him. As though she were speaking to the shade of a man who no longer existed, and possibly never had.)

Healing the children soothes something in him, but as the minutes pass something else winds tighter and tighter, because where is Mother? He'd expected her to be here. Had expected Throné's distraction to involve facing off against her, the two of them using Mother's own desire for a spectacle against her to draw things out and keep the sisters' eyes off the exits while the mercenaries got into position. It had worked out well without her, but for all that the whole thing has ended up firmly outside of his original plans Temenos had had one reason for coming here, and that reason is not yet fulfilled.

What if she escaped. Or had already left, out on the road back to New Delsta or Conning Creek or Montwise or one of the many other places where the Snakes have a nest, this time with no clue for Temenos to follow-

"Um. Sir?"

Temenos blinks down at the boy he has just finished healing. This time, his magic did not smooth out the wrinkle on his forehead. The expression does not strike him as one of pain, though. If he were to put a name to it, he would call it worry.

"Have you seen Mira?" Temenos doesn't think he's imagining the urgency in that voice.

"Describe her to me," he prompts.

"She's... she's about my age, brown hair to her shoulders, grey eyes. Um, Mother granted her her collar earlier, but then she took her... out back. I heard the bell ring, but it stopped, so I thought she was... done. But I haven't seen her at all." Thin lips press together. "I think she might still be out there."

So that's where Mother is. Temenos should have guessed. The lack of the bell had put him off, but sometimes Mother enjoys drawing things out — and she's always liked to drive home how earning a collar does not make you safe from her whip.

Temenos has never been a fan of physical contact, at least when Dog isn't involved, but he's willing to make an exception in dire situations. He leans forward and rests a hand on the boy's shoulder, squeezes now-unbroken skin.

"Don't worry. I'll get her back for you."

Temenos briefly considers alerting Hemera or Partitio, but discards the idea. This isn't their business. They've achieved their aims — regardless of Mother's presence, the Garden is now outside the Blacksnakes' control. They're still busy securing things here, and trying to get everyone mobilised again would take too long, have too high of a chance of tipping Mother off when they still have a chance of catching her by surprise.

All good, solid reasons, and the ones he would name if asked to defend his decision, but they're not actually why Temenos opts not to seek them out. No. The truth is that this is personal, and he does not want them involved.

A month or so ago, he would not have wanted anyone involved at all. Would probably have tried to get the key to the back gate and sneak out on his own without alerting anyone.

Now, he heads to the study.

It's only Throné there right now, going through a pile of loose paper. She glances up when she hears Temenos, her face a stormcloud.

"There has to be collusion from at least one high-ranking member of the Church, and definitely someone in the Sacred Guard, it's the only way to make this make sense. But I can't figure out whether they're the same person, and I can't find any names-" She breaks off. Her eyes narrow. "You need something."

"Mother is out in the back garden with one of the children." Temenos feels stretched taut even as he speaks, like his whole body is vibrating. "I'm going after her. Are you coming?"

Wordlessly, Throné puts down the letters and rises to her feet.

As they make their way to where the caretaker lies bound, ready to slip a key from his pockets, the bell begins to toll once more.

Chapter Text

If the scene within the main building was jarring for its dissonance, the monsters of Temenos' childhood so easily brought low, then the path out back is like being plunged straight into the depths of that selfsame childhood's darkest shadows. Hedges rise ominously to each side, towering above him bristling with thorns, cutting off any escape. The trees' branches reach down as if preparing to grab for him, the wind hisses mocking laughter as it passes through their leaves — wherever he looks, whatever he hears, his perceptions are overlaid by a young Temenos' terror.

Adult Temenos presses his lips together, tightens his grip on his staff, and forces the feelings down into the depths of his mind, because there is far too much at stake to let himself get distracted like this. The hedges are only hedges, the trees only trees, the wind rustles through leaves the exact way it does anywhere else. The only relevance any of it has is that the dense, thick shrubbery along with the iron fence it hides probably explains why the mercenaries skirted this part of the grounds earlier, seeing it offered neither entry nor exit.

(If he tells himself this strongly enough, he might even come to believe it.)

Finally, something gibbering in the back of his mind, Temenos approaches his goal. The rear of the garden (of the Garden, the heart of this place, Mother's private kingdom). The bell. The large figure standing before it, and the small figure tied to it.

"-useless, ungrateful little chit. Not even paying attention when your dear mother is so graciously telling you a story." Mother paces in front of the bell, whip held ominously at her side.

For a jolt of a moment, Temenos is actually surprised to see that the child suffering here now is brown-haired, a ragged mass brushing their shoulders. It shouldn't have come as one, not when the boy earlier had described Mira, not when Temenos has always prided himself on his memory. But somehow, without even realising he'd been expecting to see his own child self there in her place in punishment.

Temenos would have preferred to be able to take Mother in ambush. But her skills vastly eclipse his, and so — although he tries to walk soundlessly, had even thought he'd succeeded — it's no surprise when her head snaps around to stare in their direction, gaze coming to halt on Temenos.

Not, he notes with a thrill, behind him.

Mother is far more adept at stealth than Temenos, true. But as of late, he's far less sure about her skill compared to Throné's. An ambush isn't off the table just yet… just that this time, it's Temenos' job to play the distraction.

There's something gratifying about the way Mother's eyes dart away from his, the flicker of her gaze reminding him of rats fleeing from a human's footsteps. That gratification quickly fades, though, because although he can find traces of fear in her expression, the bulk of it is painted by an emotion he is far more familiar with.

Annoyance.

"Temenos. Did I ask for you to disturb me?"

What, not even a how did you survive?

Old instincts scream at him not to say that out loud. To lower his head and apologise profusely instead, in desperate hope it will be enough to keep that dangerously snaking whip from his skin.

Those instincts are strengthened here, in the place they were born, but they are nonetheless misplaced. Temenos ignores them, and gives voice to his thought.

He'd hoped that the reminder of how she'd considered him dangerous enough to have him killed only recently would serve to put Mother on the back foot. In vain. He senses no fear rising from her; instead, frustration joins the annoyance.

"It's disappointing, you're right. I'd thought Pirro was competent, but I suppose I overestimated him."

Not a sound, not even a whisper of displaced air comes from where Throné must be hiding in the shadows at his rear. Mother doesn't look towards her either. And still Temenos can feel the flinch she is suppressing.

Temenos himself has other things to worry about, though. In front of him, Mother lets out a dismissive huff.

"Now go back, and wait for me in my study. I'll see to your punishment for coming here unbidden once I'm through with this one." A snort. "And take off that disguise while you're at it, you look ridiculous."

Rising incredulity drowns all else. "You can't- are you honestly expecting me to just follow your orders like nothing happened after you tried to have me killed?"

And yet — the thought lances through him — is it such a surprise?

After all, if someone decides that their pet dog has grown a little too large, a little too aggressive, and decides to dispose of it — if someone thinks of this as little different from tossing a shirt that is worn beyond mending to the ragpickers — they don't particularly care what the dog's feelings are. Will not expect that dog to feel angry, betrayed.

To rebel.

And indeed, for an instant surprise shows on Mother's face. Finally, she turns to face him fully, and Temenos imagines it must take effort to make sure her gaze still carefully does not meet his. Finally, she is taking him seriously, paying attention to him-

But the triumph sours in his stomach even as Mother's stance shifts.

"Why, Temenos. Do tell me. If you're not here to do my bidding, what did you come here for? I'd hate to think you were getting any... ideas. My loyal hound."

Mother's voice is soft, sickly-sweet and dripping with poison. A dangerous light shines in her eyes, her mouth pulls into a smirk. At her side, she twitches the whip rhythmically back and forth, and the whisper of the leather moving through the air makes the skin on his back crawl.

For all his familiarity with her moods, this is one he has only seen a bare handful of times. Most of those times involved someone trying to escape the Blacksnakes. All of them ended with at least one person dead.

Every instinct he ever developed during his childhood in this place, his adolescence following in Mother's wake, screams at him to stop. To bow down. To grovel, because it is the only chance he has of saving himself.

Ignoring them is the hardest thing he has ever done.... and yet, somehow, with the staff in his hand and his robes warm around him and the symbol of the Flame on his chest, the easiest at the same time.

"I," says Temenos Anguis, cleric of the Sacred Flame, "have come here because I have some questions for you, and I mean to see them answered. ...Mother."

The way she cannot quite hide her flinch is gratifying. The rage that follows is less so.

"Ungrateful, insolent worm- I'll have your hide on my wall for this-"

Temenos steps to the side even as the whip cracks in the space where he used to be. His heart is racing, but in triumph. Because Mother is not Pirro, not Scaracci, Mother is not used to fighting while making sure to keep from-

There.

Her eyes meet his, widen as they realise her mistake — finally, finally there is terror there, finally she is giving him her full undivided attention-

This whole thing was never just about asking Mother about the Blacksnakes, was it?

No, it flashes though his mind. That was what he told himself, true. And it was certainly how it started. But without even realising, another motivation had grown within him. A seed that had been planted in that alleyway with Dog, watered every time someone paid him real attention, asked his opinion, respected what he said — with every conversation he had with Throné, every time she looked at him and pierced through all his defences.

Temenos wants Mother's answers. But also and equally, he wants her to finally take note of him, fear him, respect him, see him. To understand that he is and was more than her loyal hound, more than the struggling child she'd scorned or the teenage mind-reader she'd used or the adult Blacksnake she'd discarded, that he is, that he has always been, worth something-

The unfurling epiphany makes him hesitate a fraction too long.

Mother snarls. The hand not holding the whip snaps forward. Something glittering comes with it, a sparkling cloud billowing outward, spreading to envelop-

Temenos squeezes his eyes shut, but too late. They erupt in stinging pain, tears welling up, and even after he frantically coughs and brushes the powder off his face, when he blinks them open again the world is dark. The blinding dust has done its work.

He scrabbles backwards frantically, but knows it is hopeless, that there is no way he can defend himself like this. Up ahead, Mother laughs, full-throated and pealing.

"Why, Temenos, what's the matter? Something in your eye?"

A whisper of air. A crack of the whip, and yet he remains untouched.

"Leave. Him. Alone,"  comes Throné's voice from ahead.

Well, Throné thinks. This is bad.

She'd been preparing to leap from her hiding place and attack once Mother was fully distracted, hopefully able to end the fight then and there, but the blinding dust had been as unexpected for her as it had been for Temenos. Clerical magic is useless against an irritant like it, leaving him incapacitated and helpless until he can wash out his eyes with the right herbal tincture. And so Throné had been forced to leap to his defence — losing the element of surprise.

Worse: needing to cover both him and the girl at the bell. The child has been quiet until now, watching the happenings with wide eyes, but Throné knows better than to think Mother won't try to use her as a hostage if she realises Throné is weak to such things.

Or just randomly decides to unleash her frustration through violence. The woman hasn't seemed particularly capable of handling her emotions like an adult instead of a toddler throwing a tantrum until now, after all.

But at the moment, the rage that spurred her earlier is nowhere to be seen. Mother's eyes rove over Throné's face as though searching for something, squinting a little. "Interloper. Who are you?"

Well, Throné isn't going to turn down the opportunity for introductions. "I'm Inquisitor Throné of the Order of the Sacred Flame. Temenos is a friend, you see. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but..." She lets her eyes travel up and down the woman's form in distaste. "To tell the truth, it's really not."

To Throné's frustration, Mother scoffs. "Not your cover story. I want to know who you really are, girl." Her eyes narrow. "Girl who stole my hound from me."

For a moment, Throné's mind is nothing but confusion. Stole her hound? But the only dog she's been around is Dog, and she highly doubts-

Then, she hears cloth shift behind her and it hits her: the woman means Temenos.

The growing rage in her stomach is matched by the red blooming across Mother's face. "No matter," she snaps before Throné can respond. "I'll have him rip the answer from your mind before I finish with both of you."

Still, after all of this, she thinks she can just waltz in, snap her fingers and have Temenos jump to obey-

But the time for indignation is past, because at that point the whip cracks and the fight is on.

And unfortunately, it's not in Throné's favour.

It should have been. The whip, she'd thought when Temenos had explained what they'd be facing, is a telling weapon. It's an instrument of fear, a tool for inflicting pain on those who can't resist — not one for a fair fight. With next to no ability to strike a real killing blow and no ability to parry, even with its speed and range Mother should be on the back foot faced with an opponent wielding live steel.

If Throné hadn't been on the defensive.

For a brief moment, Throné curses the fact that she hadn't been allowed to join the Sacred Guard. This sort of fight is what they train for, while Throné's style of combat is poorly suited to it. But in truth, she's not sure even Crick could be doing a better job. The whip is too quick, snaps out at Temenos the instant she tries to go on the attack until Throné is stuck pinned down deflecting blows.

The tactically sound option would probably be to leave him behind and engage on her own terms. A few blows will hurt, true, but will not constitute critical injury. Temenos has had worse in the past. Has had worse, in fact, from this very woman with this very weapon, at an age where he would have been far less able to shrug it off.

But for all that it makes logical sense, that line of argument is exactly why, in the heat of the battle with her blood pumping and heart singing in her ears, she cannot bring herself to leave him. Temenos is her friend — is her best friend, by now, is like the little brother she never had. And-

I was lucky she didn't dispose of me, honestly.

Girl who stole my hound from me.

As long as Throné has breath in her body, his tormentor will not touch so much as a single hair on his head ever again.

Unfortunately, all of that doesn't help her find an opening.

As the fight continues sweat beads her skin, soaks into the robes she wears, makes the already heavy cloth even more ungainly. As if the situation isn't bad enough already, she's stuck fighting in her habit. The headdress especially throws her off, enough that when she has a moment, she reaches up, tears it from her head and tosses it to the side. Much better, she thinks as her damp dark hair falls around her. This way, she might have a chance.

The next whip-strike doesn't come. Startled, Throné looks forward, to see Mother staring at her in disbelief.

"You- I knew you looked familiar. You're her brat, aren't you. Is that what this is about? Trying to steal the Blacksnakes from right under my nose? Well, I won't have it! They're mine now, do you hear me? Mine!"

What in the name of the Flame-

But that's the last chance Throné has to think, because Mother leaps to attack with an unprecedented fury. The whip rains around her, Throné whirling to try to avoid or deflect its blows, desperately aware of Temenos' helpless shape behind her even as more and more lashes slip through, more and more lines of scorching pain erupt on her skin.

Then it happens. The whip hits her wrist, lash wrapping around it and yanking it forwards. She manages to keep herself from being pulled off-balance, but her hand opens reflexively and her dagger goes flying in the direction of the bell. Throné staggers back, defenceless.

"Well, well, well." A cruel smirk crosses Mother's face, the woman clearly aware of her victory and more than willing to gloat. "I'll have my answers from you, brat. But first- your punishment for defying me!" She raises the whip-

A bark.

A blur of motion. The glare of light off a blade.

Before Throné, the lash of the whip falls harmlessly to the ground, cleanly severed.

"I would apologise for being late," comes Hikari's voice from her side. "Except that you were the ones who didn't wake me up." Throné can't see his face from this angle, but there's something distinctly annoyed in his tone.

"I. Er. We thought you needed- um. Sorry?" Throné is still trying to catch up to this turn of events, but one thing is becoming obvious: her debt to this man is not going to be shrinking anytime soon.

"Already forgiven, friend." The lightness in Hikari's voice vanishes with the next words. "Now, to deal with this villain.”

Mother has been silent, clearly also struggling to adjust to this turn of circumstances. Her gaze darts between the two of them and the now-useless whip, her face gaining an unhealthy-looking purple tone with every passing second. "Another stranger in my garden? It seems Morozov has been failing in his duties when it comes to pest control." The words come out between gritted teeth.

Out of the corner of her eye, Throné sees Hikari dip his head in a shallow bow. "Many apologies for the trespass. This humble warrior is an associate member of the Inquisition, here to support its leader."

He has to be kidding right now, right?

Oddly enough, Hikari's words throw Mother more off-balance than anything that has happened so far. She lets the useless whip fall, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly as she stares at Throné as though she's never seen anything like her before. "You... you mean you're actually the Inquisitor?"

The look reminds her of Cubaryi's, when she'd heard Throné had been raised to the position. It brings irritation seething to the forefront. "What?" Throné snaps, fighting the urge to cross her arms defensively. "Is it so unbelievable for me to be a sister of the Order? Someone whose job it is to root out corruption in our ranks, who happens to look very dimly on what's happening here?"

"But-" Mother sputters. "But you're not a cleric!"

Not so long ago, this would have been a blow like no other. Now, instead of fumbling to claim that no, in truth she is one, she hears Temenos' words. He'd spoken them weeks ago, but her mind has replayed them far more recently than that, keeping their memory fresh and near.

But who said the Inquisitor has to be a cleric, anyway?

"It turns out that that's not actually a job requirement," Throné shoots back, feeling giddy and light-headed as though she'd been drinking wine. She still doesn't quite know if she believes what she is saying, but it trips off her tongue so, so very easily. "I delegated that part of the role."

"She did," comes a very welcome voice from Throné's left. With Mother empty-handed and Hikari standing with them, she risks a glance and sees Temenos — eyes red-rimmed but clear and focused, fingers tight on his staff, Dog pressed against his side. He must have finally found the herb-of-light tincture.

The sight of them all standing united against her pushes Mother over the edge. In the blink of an eye she's yanked a dagger from her belt, face distorting into an animal snarl as she throws herself forward. Throné, still disarmed herself, steps back and grabs the hilt of her sword-

But Temenos isn't done.

"Holy light, illuminate the darkness!"

The bolt of light lances down from the heavens, catching Mother mid-lunge and breaking her momentum. She tumbles forward without control until she hits the ground with a wheeze, clearly stunned by the spell and impact both. Throné doesn't give her the chance to recover. In a single motion, she yanks her sword out of its sheath and lunges forward to rest its blade against the woman's throat.

"Yield, or I will make you."

Mother's face contorts. For a moment, Throné thinks she is going to keep fighting, increases the pressure of her blade in warning until it raises a thin line of red against her skin. This seems to make the woman finally realise the futility of her actions. Her fingers loosen, and her dagger falls from her grip with a soft thump.

It's over. They've won.

What now?

The sight of Mother brought low, on the ground with her hated whip cut in two, her dagger wrenched out of her hand and a blade at her throat is delicious in the worst of ways. In any other situation he would stop to relish it, indulge in this reversal of roles, but-

Well, stopping to relish it is exactly why this turned into a fight in the first place, why his eyes still sting and tear (and Temenos isn't sure which he blames himself for more: leaving that opening, or not thinking to be better prepared. The first thing he will be doing when they are back at the inn is reorganise his belt-pouch so that the herb-of-light tincture is at the top). Snakes can wind their way out of many traps and are at their most dangerous when cornered, and Temenos knows better than to assume that doesn't apply to Mother just as much.

Right now, though, Mother isn't making a move to twist free. Instead, she is staring at Temenos in complete astonishment.

"You-" The words devolve into incoherent sputtering. Mother takes a breath, tries again. "What was that?"

"I've made a change of careers, you see," Temenos responds with a false lightness. "And I've found being a cleric of the Flame suits me far better than being a Blacksnake ever did. I'd apologise for not mentioning it before, but then again, you didn't ask." And for all that Temenos was just telling himself that giving her any extra time, any extra leeway, is a mistake, he cannot stop the words that come out of his mouth next. "I'm not your dog, Mother. And I never will be again."

At his side, the actual dog in the clearing presses against his leg with a soft whine, as though sensing his inner turmoil. In any other situation Temenos would reach down to scratch her ears, whisper good girl, but with Mother before him, with not your dog still reverbating in his ears, he cannot bring himself to.

Instead, he tightens his grip on his staff, firms his resolve, ruthlessly presses down the urge to spend longer in conversation, rub it in, gloat in her defeat. It is difficult, when it feels as though his past selves — the child who disappointed her, the teenager she used, the adult she decided to rid herself of — are peering over his shoulder in glee, but he manages. The light helps. It is still sparking around him, fizzing in his veins and winding through his thoughts, giving the whole situation a strangely distant feel.

Temenos reaches out to brush a hand against Throné's shoulder, silently sending magic racing through her to heal the welts left by the whip. (Bad enough Temenos' incompetence forced her to make herself vulnerable protecting him, bad enough Mother touched her — Temenos refuses to let her take any scars from the experience.) Then he fixes his eyes on Mother's.

"Now. As I was saying earlier. I have some questions for you."

The emotion that bleeds across her face in response is totally unfamiliar. Temenos takes a moment to identify it as sheer, animal panic. Her eyes dart to and fro frantically, searching for an escape — but with Throné still holding her sword to her throat, there is none to be found.

Temenos waits. She is not used to thinking of him as a true threat, nor to the game of avoiding eye contact. All he needs is a moment. It won't take long until she-

"Leave her alone!"

The voice is young, shrill, and one he has never heard before in his life. Temenos blinks up in astonishment to see...

The girl. The one from the market earlier that day, the one the boy he'd spoken to had been so worried about — he'd mentioned her name, Temenos knows, but it's not coming to mind right now. The one thad had been tied to the bell being punished by Mother when they'd arrived. Now, blood dampens her ragged clothing where the whip landed and there is still rope tangled around her torso, but she stands free and unimpeded. The way the rope falls clean-cut at her waist shows that she must have managed to free herself while no one was paying attention.

With, most likely, the dagger she now points at them. Throné's, Temenos recognises. Throné's, that Mother had torn from her hand earlier, that must have gone flying to just where this girl could reach it.  A real stroke of luck in someone's favour, that, and Temenos is reserving judgement as to whose.

"She-" A ragged inhale makes the collar around that thin neck stretch. The metal plates are shiny and new, the sign of a baby Snake fresh from the nest. With time, they will tarnish to match Temenos' own. "Let her go!"

Temenos doesn't know what to say. This is the last thing he expected, and his mind is empty with the surprise of it.

Throné is the one to break the silence. "Let me make sure I'm understanding this correctly. This creature whipped you bloody for her amusement, and you're defending her?"

"I know!" The girl's voice is frantic, but her hand is steady, the dagger unwavering from its threatening stance. "I know it's not good! But... but in my whole life she's the only one who's ever been kind to me. So- please! Please don't kill her!"

Mother's voice from where she lies is sweetly poisonous. "Good girl, Mira." Temenos watches the girl shiver under the praise in a way that-

That reminds him of Dog, wriggling happily under his hand as he pets her, and even as that thought crosses Temenos' mind he despises himself for it.

"She doesn't mean it." The words escape from Temenos before he can think about them, given strength by a strange urgency. Temenos knows what it's like to have Mother's eye on you, knows the rush of her rare words of praise, but-

But he'd never actually believed them, not once. Had always known exactly how trustworthy she was not, even as he tried to mould himself into the shape she wanted to ensure his survival. Would never, never have stepped between her and the blade like this.

Except that Temenos had not grown up with Mother's favour, had he? He'd only gained it later, when his ability had made itself known and she wrapped a collar around his neck to show her approval. As a child here in the Garden? He'd seen her praise others, but Temenos himself had never been among that exalted number. Had come to expect that, to not even hope for Mother's rare, treacherous moments of softness to ever land on him.

He'd been bitterly jealous of the chosen favoured few, at the time. Now, staring at Mira's frantic face, the words the only one who's ever been kind to me echoing in his ears, he wonders whether he shouldn't count himself lucky instead.

"She doesn't deserve your loyalty," he stresses, struggling to find the words to explain what he'd never thought would need explanation. "All she'll ever do is use you, and discard you when she's done." And oh, the truth in those words is bitter.

And yet apparently unconvincing, because Mira's dagger does not tremble. "I don't care if she's using me! At least that means I can be useful! She-"

But at that point Mira cuts herself off. She tenses, eyes filling with determination. Temenos has a bare moment to brace himself, and then-

Then things happen very quickly.

Mira launches herself at Throné. Throné, alarmed, jerks back, one arm coming up as if to fend her off. Unsurprisingly, Mother uses the distraction, twists like an eel and snatches up the dagger she'd dropped. Throné-

Throné must see the movement out of the corner of her eye and act on reflex. Reflex that Temenos taught her, worked on with her, practiced and practiced until it comes without needing to think. Reflex that sees her lash out at the threat, aiming straight for the most vulnerable area.

That sees her open Mother's throat with her blade.

Mother drops the dagger again, both hands coming up to clutch at the wound, but too late. Blood wells from under her fingers, soaking her dress. She opens her mouth, but the only sound she manages is a strange gurgling.

"No." Temenos barely recognises his own voice. "No! Not yet! Don't you dare die yet, not before I've had my answers-"

He fumbles for the light, but it eludes him. Even with all of Throné's help, Temenos still relies on instinct and will to cast his spells far more than any taught ritual. It works well enough in most circumstances. In this one, where the woman in question is one he despises, when in absolutely any other circumstance he would be delighted  to see her die in agony — well. It is probably no wonder that he cannot quite muster a genuine prayer of healing for her.

Frantic, he leans forward, tilts his head until he meets her gaze. Some quiet voice in the back of his mind whispers that this is risky. He's always had a sense that being in someone's mind as they die would not go well for him, has always steered clear of victims too badly injured in the past (to Mother's displeasure, at the time). Now, though, he is willing to toss caution to the winds if it gets him his answers-

But he is too late. Mother's eyes stare blankly through him, and when he lets the jaws of his mind race out it is like they close on water. She slips through his grasp, no longer solid enough to pin into place for interrogation. When Temenos tries again, there is nothing there at all.

Mother is dead. The woman he'd hated and looked up to and lived in fear of and so desperately wanted to please for so many years is dead. In the end, for all Temenos' plans, for all Temenos' finally being able to stand up against her, finally seeing her bested, she'd won this last victory: had escaped his questioning into death, and taken the secrets of the Blacksnakes with her.

Temenos crouches above Mother's corpse and has no idea what to feel.

Behind him, Mira begins to wail.

"-I'll kill you. When you're least expecting it, I'll hunt you down, stick my dagger in your throat and make you bleed out just like you killed her-"

"Uh... I ain't complaining about someone having a goal in life, but let's hash out the details later, all right? Come along now, if you don't want Temenos near you we got to get you to a healer-"

"Don't ignore me!"

Throné doesn't react to the girl's spitting rage. With Mira disarmed and Partitio's firm grip on her shoulder, she's unlikely to be putting her threats into action anytime soon. As for the vows of revenge themselves....

Throné knows she ought to say something, talk her down, change her mind, but — what could she possibly say? The facts of the matter are clear: Mother is dead, and Throné is responsible. She can't even hide behind it was an accident, I didn't mean to. She knew when they approached her that chances were Mother would not be leaving that clearing alive.

Part of her considers leaning into it. Fury is better than depression, and a vow of revenge will at least give Mira something to hold onto in all the changes that are coming for her. But the moment the thought crosses her mind, she imagines Father's expression at the idea and discards it.

"I hate you!"

You're allowed to, Throné thinks but doesn't say even as one of the mercenaries takes Mira from Partitio. I'd hate me too.

Partitio spends a last moment looking at Mira being led away, something sad and distant in his expression which doesn't suit the usually so upbeat merchant at all. It vanishes as he turns to face them, determination overtaking those features as he straightens and plants his hands on his hips.

"Throné! Temenos! And-" Whatever Partitio was building up to say gets lost as he stares at the last member of their group in visible confusion. "Hikari? Not that I ain't glad to see you, but the sight's something of a surprise. What're you doing here?"

"I had the feeling that my friends were in trouble, so I followed." Hikari is polite enough not to mention that the feeling was entirely accurate. "My friend here was very helpful in pointing the way." He reaches down and pets Dog, earning a lick of his hand and furiously wagging tail.

Partitio is still frowning. "How come I never saw you inside, then?"

Now Throné is confused herself. When Hikari had shown up, she figured he'd followed the mercenaries, checked in with them and then made his way through the garden. But if he didn't, as Partitio is making it sound, then how-

"Oh! I used one of the trees to come over the fence and hedges."

Throné looks around. The hedges, she'd noted earlier, are taller than she is and bristling with thorns, backed by an iron fence towering above them all topped with spikes. Some of the trees do have branches extending over them, but getting up to them  — and then down again, uninjured and unnoticed — would be no mean feat.

Especially considering that Hikari must have been carrying Dog at the time.

Partitio clearly made the same calculation, because he lets out a low, impressed whistle. "Well, I'll be switched! Didn't know you were such an acrobat, friend. You should tell Agnea next time you see her! Reckon she might have some ideas for a double act."

Throné doesn't think it's her imagination that Hikari's cheeks take on a decidedly rosy hue. "I... yes. I'll. I'll do that." Throné doesn't think she's ever heard him so flustered before. Hikari clears his throat, as though hoping to brush away the uncharacteristic moment. "As it was. I came just in time to aid Throné and Temenos in their fight against this... person. Alas, though we tried, we were unable to take her captive."

"Yeah, I figured out that part." Partitio glances after where Mira's vanished into the darkness, then at Mother's bloody corpse on the ground. Throné doesn't pay him much attention, too preoccupied by something Hikari said.

Just in time to help defend Throné and Temenos from this... person.

Because... Hikari wasn't part of their council of war yesterday. Wasn't read in by Partitio the way the mercenaries were, came straight to them without talking to anyone on the way. In short, he must have absolutely no idea what's going on. She'll have to fill him in, but now isn't the time.

...actually, had she ever explained the situation with Vados to him? She has a terrible feeling that, between one thing and another, she never did. Oh dear. She's honoured by the trust Hikari has placed in her and Temenos, to follow them unquestioningly into lethal combat twice now, but it would still be good to-

"Speaking of," Partitio's voice breaks through her thought. Throné glances at him only to flinch. Back straight, hands on his hips, lips firm, the resemblance to Papp is unmistakeable... Papp, in particular, in the process of dressing down Oresrush's overeager young men.

"Care to explain why the two of you went off on your own? Because me, I thought we agreed yesterday that we'd be taking on this place together. As a team."

Throné winces. Partitio is very clearly displeased to have been left behind. Of course, that isn't a surprise — Throné had expected it from the start. Had already prepared her justifications, when she and Temenos had entered the rear garden alone. Temenos had personal business with her, you see. He wasn't comfortable having anyone other than me involved. But now, with Mother's body slumped unmoving before them and the smell of her blood thick in the air, the words stick in her throat.

Because Throné, who has always considered herself to have a clear eye for her own faults, cannot deny it: their little solo mission had been a bad idea. If Hikari hadn't arrived at exactly the time he did, Throné and Temenos might have suffered far worse than some blinding powder and a few bruises. And even with his help, they completely failed at achieving their goals, Throné slipping and killing Mother before Temenos could question her.

True, Temenos had been the one who'd pushed to do it alone — but Throné could have called on him to wait. He trusts her, and she'd known going in that this whole day would bring up so many ghosts of his past that he wouldn't be thinking clearly. If she'd firmly told him that it was a bad idea and they should get Partitio and the mercenaries involved, he might very well have agreed... and then they might have been able to take Mother alive, Temenos given all the time he needed for his questioning and little Mira spared the horror of seeing the woman die.

But she hadn't.

And so no defence comes to her tongue. Instead, she bows her head.

"I'm sorry, Partitio. We should have informed you and taken her on together. I'll take full responsibility."

"Well." Partitio's stern countenance holds a moment longer, but then it dissolves. "So long as you've learned better, and don't do it next time, I reckon it's water under the bridge." A bright smile, one shaded by relief. For all that he was doing a good job at it, Partitio doesn't seem to be a natural disciplinarian. "Now, let's get back to the others. Don't know about y'all, but this place gives me the creeps."

And so they start heading back through the hedge-maze.

As they walk, Throné drifts closer to Temenos. He hasn't spoken at all since Mother's death, and when Throné glances over the expression on his face makes her wince, her guilt winding tighter.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I- I didn't mean to kill her, it just all happened so quickly-"

The drawn look on Temenos' face eases as he looks back at her. "It's all right," he responds, voice as quiet as hers. "I know you didn't. It was a long shot, anyway, when I knew she'd do everything she could to escape capture." He straightens, a new light kindling in his eyes. "Besides. I've still got another chance. You see... by now, Father will be in Winterbloom. I think it's about time for us to have an uninterrupted conversation."

Father. The second of the shadowy leaders of the Blacksnakes, one who'd featured far less in the stories Temenos had shared but who seemed as no less ominous, no less of a monster despite that.

"That does sound like a good idea," Throné says lightly. Internally, she is torn.

What she should do next is clear. She must finish going through the documents here, then visit Canalbrine — questioning the bishop there and either arresting him if he was involved in this place or getting his assistance for the cleanup if he wasn't is urgent. Taking the ferry back east from there instead of Crackridge Harbour would not be such a detour, true, and Temenos would no doubt follow her that far, but...

There is Stormhail, and there is Vados. At this point he must have arrived in the heretics' cells, and the Sacred Guard are not known to be overly kind to their prisoners. If she delays much longer, who says what there will be left to question? And Winterbloom is nowhere on the way.

Asking Temenos to delay, to visit Stormhail first, sits badly with her. But separating sits even worse — not when they have faced the world side-by-side since New Delsta, not when they are friends, and certainly not when she has just seen how poorly Temenos fared against Mother all on his own.

Not that Throné was all that much better. But next time, Throné promises herself, she will be better prepared. Next time, she will not need Hikari to rescue her.

Speaking of which, there are things more urgent than the question of where to go next.

"Thank you." Throné turns towards Hikari, dips her head. "For coming to our rescue. I don't know what we'd have done without you."

"Say nothing of it, friend. It was the least I could do, after what you did for me yesterday." Hikari's lips press together, his eyes darkening. Throné herself can't quite help a shiver at the memory. It's been easy to put out of her mind, given the events of the day, but... the clearing. The strange purple-eyed monster in it, wearing Hikari's body and yet so clearly not Hikari himself.

"It's Partitio you really have to thank, there. He's the one who insisted we look for you, and the one who talked you down." Throné pauses. "Are you... feeling better, today? Even aside from, ah, the obvious, you didn't look well at all when we brought you back to the inn." It was why they'd discounted the man for today, apparently unfairly.

"Much, thanks to you." Despite Throné's words, Hikari seems to be stubbornly clinging to his gratitude. "The shadow is under control again." Something dark flits across his expression. "For now."

That sounds... ominous.

"Unfortunately," Hikari explains, "I cannot promise it will stay that way. I thought I could - thought I had it under lock and key, but. Well. You saw how well that worked yesterday." The man pulls in a ragged breath of air. "So, my friend — I must warn you that I may become dangerous to you again.  Should you wish to reconsider our friendship, I won’t be offended.”

Throné considers this.

On the one hand, Hikari has a point — it is a risk. Throné has no wish to wake at night to find that terrible purple-eyed version of him standing over her with a knife… or worse, not to wake up at all.

On the other, if Throné were after safety in life, she would never have left Flamechurch. There are things worth taking risks for, and her gut tells her this is one of them.

She shakes her head. "Oh, you won't be rid of me as quickly as that. What kind of Inquisitor would I be, if I abandoned my associate members so quickly? Besides..."

It's not only the horror of Hikari's shadow-self that sticks in her memory from yesterday. What might have made the strongest impression is Partitio, walking towards that demon weaponless with outstretched hands even as it talked so gleefully of murdering them all. There is more of faith in the world than just in the Flame, and this one was humbling to witness: Partitio, unshakeably confident that his friend would win out.

And proven true in the end.

Throné borrows a little of that confidence for her next words. "I trust you. I think you're stronger than you believe, and will keep it from doing anyone harm."

The way Hikari relaxes at her words, his face lighting up, makes it clear just how much tension the man has been carrying. "Thank you," he says again, emphatically, but it's clear that this thanks is not just for yesterday.

But Throné isn't done.

"And... if there's anything I can do to help, let me know, all right? I don't know just what you're afflicted with, but the Order has resources."

The smile Hikari gives her in return is rueful. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't believe there will be anything. It is a curse carried in the blood, you see, already plaguing my ancestors many generations back. I know some of them searched far and wide for a cure to it, but all were in vain."

A curse carried in the blood.

The words catch in her mind as though they were barbed, coming back and back to the forefront of her thoughts even as their conversation dies, even as they reach the building again, even as the troop apothecary appears to fuss over Temenos' still-red eyes.

Not that Throné has anything comparable. In fact, Hikari's situation does very much serve to put her and Temenos' problems in perspective — for all the enemies they are facing, for all the ones they must yet face, their actual minds are still their own. Throné cannot imagine what it must be like, having to be on guard against ambush and takeover from inside your own head.

At the same time...

Marietta's whelp, the caretaker had called her. Her brat, Mother had spat out later. Throné has been paying attention, and she isn't stupid. Father had never spoken much of her origins. Perhaps there was a reason for that.

It always comes back to blood, doesn't it. The blood in Hikari's veins cursing him, the blood in Throné's an unforeseen, unbreakable tie to the Blacksnakes and their shadowy secrets.

Mother's blood staining her clothes, the pristine habit she'd brought from Flamechurch now splattered with crimson. The stench of it is still in her nose, overwhelming all else.

The Slaver's blood gushing forth, warm and wet against her hand on the dagger's hilt. It has been weeks since, but sometimes she still thinks she can feel it beneath her fingernails.

Killing Mother had been the easiest thing in the world, her hand striking forth on reflex before she'd fully registered what was happening. Killing the Slaver might have been mercy, but the suggestion sprang off her lips with no resistance, the motions of it so very natural. When she fights, without even realising she targets the throat, the belly, the large artery through the thigh, gravitates to lethal blows over incapacitating.

Throné realises, with a sudden lurch, that she truly despises killing.

And at the same time, she is so very, very good at it.

Marietta's whelp.

A curse carried in the blood.

She does not need to worry about a body-snatcher ambushing her within her own mind, true. But she cannot shake the growing fear that there is something dark lurking in her veins all the same.

Throné is still aware that, by all rights, she should make straight for Stormhail once she is done with the cleanup. She's delayed for too long already, the trail left by Father's murderer might be getting fainter by the day. And yet...

Father, Temenos called him, and the term seems a mockery when set against Throné's own. The second leader of the Blacksnakes, the second Temenos thinks might have the answers he seeks.

Might have even more answers than that to offer, answers to questions Throné is asking for the first time but which feel no less pressing for their newness. Might be able to tell her just where it is she came from... just what there is to fear from her blood.

She should go straight to Stormhail once she returns to the eastern continent. But Throné has never been in the habit of lying to herself, and so she knows where her feet will take her instead.