Chapter Text

The others gravitated to the hotel’s small pub space long before Asellus found the presence of mind to leave her room. Her group had claimed a large round table in the corner, to give themselves as much space and privacy as possible. The night was young; few customers sat under the hanging lamps at the bar or at the wobbly tables. And Koorong was the rare city where the loose handful of humans and mystics that were Asellus’ travelling companions could move about without so much as a second glance from passerby. The barmaids were used to stranger and more colorful characters, and cared little unless their tips were lacking.

The bass-heavy music pounding from the jukebox masked her footsteps, and Lute was the first to notice her as she slowly approached their table. “Hey,” he drawled, setting his ale mug on the table and raising his other hand in the air to greet her. He nudged an empty chair out from its resting place with a foot. “How you holding up?”

Asellus pulled back the empty chair between Emilia and Lute. “I’m okay,” she lied, settling uncomfortably in the worn chair with a ramrod-straight spine and casting another quick glance around the room. Old habits die hard; one never knew when an adversary might suddenly spring from nowhere. “Thanks for waiting for me.”

Emilia, who was sipping a cocktail, touched Asellus’ shoulder briefly with her free hand. Next to Emilia, Rouge offered a small smile in greeting. Her human friends seemed to have a better understanding of her grief than the others and she was grateful for that. “What are you guys doing?” Asellus asked.

“Waiting for you to join us. I was wondering if I’d have to drink for both of us.” On the other side of the table, Zozma was leaning back so far in his chair that only the back legs touched the floor. A mug and a plate with a mess of bones sat before him. He gestured to the pile of chicken wings in the center of the table. “Try these. They’re not bad for human food.”

“Maybe later,” Asellus murmured. An alert waitress appeared at her side with such swiftness that Asellus would have thought her another teleporting mystic if she hadn’t seen her march across the room.

“Something to drink, hon?” she asked, setting a cocktail napkin and plate in front of Asellus. She cleared the plate containing Zozma’s poultry graveyard from the table and set a clean replacement in front of him.

“Water,” Asellus answered to Zozma’s disapproving snort.

“Okay.” The waitress smiled at Asellus over the dirty plate she held in one hand. “Anyone else need anything?”

“I’m good,” Emilia replied as Silence shook his head. Rouge, whose wineglass was half full, also declined.

“I need a refill, and this guy does too,” Zozma pointed at Lute. “I know you won’t let me drink alone.”

Lute’s smile crinkled his entire face. “Can you bring us an order of nachos too?” He asked the waitress, who nodded without bothering to write anything down.

“Sure, hon,” the waitress assured them both, and then tilted her head toward the scowling presence in the corner. “Anything for him?”

When no response came, she turned back to the table with a smile. “All right, water-two-ales-and-an-order-of-nachos. Be out in a jiff!”

When their waitress departed, Emilia turned to Lute with a frown. “Are you paying for all of this?”

It was Zozma who answered her with a smirk, “They could be persuaded not to charge us.”

“Don’t you dare!” Emilia retorted immediately, setting her glass down on the table with more force than necessary. The tiny paper umbrella adorning her beverage tumbled out and rolled lazily in a half-circle. “My friend is a waitress. It’s a tough job! And you should see what she does to dine-and-dashers.”

In his seat between Rouge and Zozma, Silence raised one eyebrow, commanding Zozma’s attention before he could reply. He lifted his badge halfway out of a coat pocket, so that four accusatory letters were visible.

“Oh, I forgot,” Zozma groaned, lacing both hands behind his spiky head and leaning farther back in his seat, rear chair legs squeaking in protest. “You all invited the fun police.”

“I remember all of us agreeing that we wanted to attract as little attention as possible.” It was Rouge who spoke up. “I think that what you have in mind would go against that.” Neon signs hanging on the walls painted his pale hair pink and yellow, and glinted against the medallion that he wore. Although he’d admitted when they met in Luminous that he was “new to working with others,” Rouge had proven to be not a hothouse orchid, but a calm voice of reason in Asellus’ wanderings.

“I—“ Asellus began, then swallowed, wishing the waitress would hurry up and bring her the water she’d ordered. The words she wanted to speak weighed heavy in her throat, yet they could not be contained any more than she could will herself to stop breathing. She knew that this was the logical conclusion to the long, meandering path she’d begun the moment she ran from Facinaturu.

“I wanted to tell you all something.” She paused again for a breath.

Knowing that the group’s full attention was now on her, she used it to fuel her courage and began again. “I’m not going to run and hide any longer. I’m tired of being on edge all the time and waiting to see who’s going to come after me next. I’m going to take the fight to them and I’m going to make them stop.”

Her words brought the entire table to life. Silence’s eyes widened, uncharacteristically dramatic, as Zozma exclaimed “About time!” Lute and Rouge erupted into chatter at the same time, their voices melding into each other and becoming indistinguishable over the hubbub.

Emilia found Asellus’ right hand, which had formed a determined fist, and gave it a squeeze. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered into her ear.

“Well then,” Lute began, when the commotion had died down somewhat, “I guess you’re gonna need someone to play at your victory party.” He motioned to the instrument that shared his name, strapped to his side like always.

“And you’re going to need someone to dance at your party,” Zozma added. He stared directly at the human across the table with a sudden dazzling smile. “How about it, Blondie? You’ll dance with me, right?”

“Ummm.” Emilia had grown familiar enough with mystics to resist Zozma’s blatant attempt at manipulation. She managed to keep her own annoyance front-and-center. “Help her win first. Then maybe we’ll talk about it.”

The glowering shadow standing in the corner of the room, far enough from the impromptu gathering to make his participation deniable, yet close enough to constantly surveil it, chose the moment to remind others of his presence. “This is mystic business. Humans should stay out of it.”

Ignoring him, Zozma dropped his attempt at “persuasion” and went for the kill shot. “I’m just saying that you can’t mourn forever. It’s not good for you.”

Emilia, who had chosen that moment to take another sip of her drink, fought hard against her instinct to spit it out in shock.

Lute turned to Zozma with a rare frown on his face. “Slow your roll.”

“That was uncalled for,” remarked Rouge, adding his own reproach to the pile.

Silence, who had pulled a small notepad out of another pocket, pushed his snifter aside to scribble something. The argument stopped when he held it up for all to see. I have no desire to return to that place, it read in a looping, intricate script.

“That’s understandable.” Rouge was the first to react, reaching for his wineglass and closing his eyes briefly. “Sometimes there are places we don’t wish to return to. I can’t fault you for that.”

Silence placed his notepad on the table and continued writing. If an IRPO agent infiltrates the Chateau, it is a violation of the treaty. Mystics could then attack human regions. We must avoid that. I also need to return to headquarters and tell them that they were fed faulty information on Omble.

“Yes, do that.” Emilia, still on edge from Zozma’s unwanted “advice,” turned to Silence with unmasked irritation. “And when you do, remind your friends at IRPO that they haven’t found Ren’s killer yet. What are they waiting for?”

Silence touched two fingers to his forehead in a brief salute, a gesture that could have been meant either to show respect for a fallen colleague or to dismiss Emilia’s criticism.

In another life, Asellus might have been touched by the outpouring of support from her companions. Instead, she wanted them to distance themselves. Didn’t they know what was good for them?

“The rest of you need to know something too,” she began, and once more the table’s full attention was on her. When had she been able to command an audience like this before? She might have had the presence of mind to feel jittery, were the stakes not so high. “This isn’t like all those others that we fought. This person, Orlouge, he’s…he’s a big deal.”

Asellus kicked herself mentally for downplaying the threat, and tried again. “I mean, he has an army at his control, and he’s a mystic lord. Which means he might be the most powerful mystic in the world. If you come with me, you might not make it back.”

The image of snow-white petals, spiral curls, and a soft smile chose that particular moment to assault her, and Asellus shut her eyes lest they give way to more tears. She thought she’d spent them all. “I want him to leave me alone and let me live whatever my life is now in peace. I want to tell him that people aren’t his playthings. I want justice for her—for White Rose. And I don’t want to lose anyone else because of him.”

Asellus met Lute’s eyes first, then Emilia’s, then Rouge’s. The three humans had become her companions by chance and random encounter. They were all untouched by the supernatural, just as she once was: so alive, so full of passion and drive to see their own journeys through to the end. So fragile. She could not put them in such danger, could not ask this of them. “So please…wait for me, if you want. But I can’t let you do this with me. Because if you face him and die it will be my fault.”

Her warning delivered, Asellus touched both hands to her temples as if to ward off a headache. She could count on Ildon to help her scare them off, she knew.

She knew also that White Rose would have followed her. She would have fretted, as she frequently did, about disobeying her lord, her obligation to the one who’d bestowed upon her a new name and new life warring against her affection for the one he’d charged her to protect. How cruel had Asellus been to force her to make that choice in the first place?

No one spoke at first. Asellus felt vulnerable in a way that she hadn’t before, not even after the dismal triumph over the Labyrinth.

After a measured pause to give her words the weight they deserved, Rouge ran a hand through his forever-mussed hair and broke the silence. “I can’t say that I know how you feel right now,” he began, choosing his words very carefully. “You have been through a lot.”

Asellus removed her hands from her head to favor him with a wan smile.

“But I would like to go with you,” Rouge proceeded. “You helped me find two magic gifts, and I will do what I can to help you too. And…” His dark eyes lit up with the enthusiasm of a child about to unwrap a toy during a birthday party. “You’re going to Facinaturu. I’d like to learn more about mystic magic at its source.”

“Humans can never master mystic magic,” Ildon scoffed from his post in the corner. He glared at Rouge over the dark feathers on his collar. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Maybe so,” Rouge allowed with a thoughtful look on his face that suggested he didn’t necessarily agree that it was settled fact, “but that’s all right. Knowledge of all kinds of magic is what I seek.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Asellus turned to him in an instant, incensed. Her chair squeaked indignantly on the floor. “I just asked you to stay here!”

“I heard you,” Zozma broke in. He was no longer leaning back in his chair. Instead, he rested one elbow on the table, fist supporting his chin. He looked first to Asellus, then to Rouge in a deliberate sideways glance that suggested he found the exchange intriguing. “But it I was going to have it out with the ruler of Facinaturu, I’d want Mage Boy here on my team. I don’t know any other humans that can summon meteors when they fight. Hell, I don’t know any mystics who can either.”

Rouge looked surprised at the unexpected compliment, then offered a polite smile. “Thank you,” he said.

Unmollified, Asellus opened her mouth to protest again, when Emilia interrupted from her left.

“I don’t want the guy wearing star pasties to get a bigger head than he already has—“ Emilia waved at Zozma without looking at him, missing the smirk on his face, “—and I think hell must be frozen over, because I agree with him. And I’m going too. Just listen for a minute.”

Emilia held a hand up to stop Asellus from interrupting, and continued. “You already told me that I was better off not knowing you. That was in Trinity Base when we escaped a predator together. Remember?” Emilia frowned; the circumstances of their meeting were not something that she enjoyed rehashing. “Another guy who thought he could collect women for his own twisted pleasures. You’re seeing the pattern here, right?”

“That was different,” Asellus muttered, cheeks blushing violet at the thought of the gaggle of dancing girls at Trinity Base. “That was—“

“And,” she continued, cutting Asellus off, determined to say her piece, “I lost someone I care about too. I watched him die, right in front of me. I know what it feels like, wanting revenge. And it would make me very, very happy to help you get it.” Her blue eyes lit with determination; she slammed the table in front of herself loud enough to make Lute jump.

“But Emilia,” Asellus began, trying to calm her own racing thoughts enough to sort through Emilia’s history, “I thought there was someone that you were going after. Isn’t that why you joined your—your—Groupius?”

Emilia nodded. “It was. I thought I could find the killer if I worked with them. And instead they tricked me and shipped me out to a pervert against my wishes. Maybe I’ll go back to them after this, and maybe I won’t.”

Emilia’s expression darkened. “Maybe I’ll just go after Ren’s killer on my own. I haven’t decided yet. But I’m definitely going to give their leader a piece of my mind, because I am sick of these men who think they can use people any way they want. And if you want to come with me when I do it, I won’t say no. Because we’re more alike than you realize.”

Asellus turned this over in her head. Here were Emilia, strong and confident, and Rouge, the quiet force of nature, offering their hands in friendship and understanding. It was a new feeling, to be accepted and supported by humans like this. Perhaps it made her selfish, but she found herself wanting more. It might help the hole in her heart hurt a little less.

“I’ll go with you too,” Lute offered, brushing an unruly shock of hair out of his face. “Sounds like you need all the help you can get. Stop trying to push us away.”

The pleasant, warm feeling growing inside Asellus turned to ice as a singular encounter from the recent past played in her mind, unbidden: her aunt, hair now stark white and back stooped ever-so-slightly, backing away from her in slow, horrified steps. “You’re either a ghost or a mystic playing a horrible trick on me. Asellus is dead!”

“Lute, no!” Asellus protested with a vehemence that surprised even her. “You can’t go.”

Lute cocked his head and stared at her. “Why’s that?”

“Because you have a family.” Asellus fought to slow the words that wanted to tumble out of her mouth. “You have a mother who cares about you.”

“That’s debatable,” he muttered.

“You’re all she has. And if something happens to you,” she continued, “she’ll be left alone. And she’ll never know what happened. Every night she’ll go to bed wondering if you’re really dead or if she’ll ever see you again. And then one day she’ll just…stop. She’ll give up, but she’ll never have closure.”

Asellus returned Lute’s stare with eyes that traitorously threatened to give way to tears yet again. She couldn’t let that happen, though. She must make him understand. “Do you really want that? Do you really want that for me? Knowing that I broke another old woman’s heart? That I destroyed yet another family?”

“Asellus…” Lute’s voice trailed off and his eyes wandered to something in the distance, considering. “This means a lot to you, huh?”

“It does,” she continued, closing her eyes against the storm inside. “You have something that I wish I did. Don’t take it for granted.”

“Ah, dammit…” Lute stopped for a long swallow of his ale, then set the mug down with a sigh. “I really do want to help. But it seems like I’m just stressing you out.”

“It’s not you,” Asellus assured him, palms resting in her lap. “I’m grateful for all the help you gave me.”

“Well, I don’t want you to choke up during your duel of destiny because you’re worried about me.” Lute picked up his mug again, but held it in the air and stared at it as though he were looking for an answer.

“So if it means that much to you…tell you what. I still want to play for your victory party,” he began, and hurried to beat her to the punch when he saw her gear up to object again. “But I’m counting on you to come back for it. And here’s what I’m gonna do. You have folks in Shrike, right? If it’s okay with you, I’ll go pay them a visit and tell them you’re okay. I don’t know if they’re gonna believe me or not—I hear you didn’t have much luck with that yourself. But I’ll try. And hey, if they don’t believe me, I’m used to getting kicked out of places. It won’t bother me any.”

“Lute…” Touched, Asellus favored him with a small smile. “Thank you for that. I mean it.” The scruffy-looking musician had a strange way of working his way into other people’s lives, of listening to their problems with a sympathetic ear. Whether it was his unassuming appearance, easy smile, or something else entirely, Lute had a knack for putting people at ease. If there was any way for a layperson to get through to Asellus’ aunt, Lute would be able to find it.

“You won’t be able to beat Orlouge without me. You know that, right?” Zozma resumed leaning back in his chair. “Other than him, I’m the most powerful. That ‘army’ you’re worried about isn’t going to be a problem when I’m there.”

Ildon’s arms remained folded and expression unchanged as he turned his body to face the group. “I’ll escort you a little longer. There is,” Asellus did not miss the ever-so-slight pause between words as he sought the correct ones to convey urgency without giving too much of himself away, “something that I need to check on.”

“Thank you, Zozma. Thank you, Ildon,” Asellus offered. They would put little value on her thanks, she knew, but human courtesy demanded it. She knew very little of Zozma’s history in Facinaturu, but could tell that he felt no inner conflict about going against Orlouge. Yet she doubted very much that he’d choose to support her so openly unless he stood to somehow gain from doing so.

Ildon, on the other hand, had seemed unshakeable in his allegiance to the Charm Lord. Since his surprise reappearance, he remained a distant shadow on guard for threats, and offered little in the way of conversation. His obvious reluctance to be with her in the first place made her wonder what exactly Rastaban said to him to get him to do so, and she suspected that he’d consider the job done and take his leave once they arrived at Facinaturu.

“Guess I’m counting on you guys too then.” Lute raised his mug in the air, toasting them all at once. “It’s gonna feel awful lonely without you. Come back safe, you hear?”

The waitress reappeared then, doling out fresh mugs of ale, and she placed a glass of water in front of Asellus, who grabbed it immediately. The glass was wet with condensation and refreshingly cold. The waitress deftly shuffled some of the existing tableware around to make room for Lute’s nachos and a new stack of plates for sharing.

Though she focused on not getting in the waitress’ way as she rearranged their table, out of the corner of her eye Asellus saw Silence considering her with a sidelong glance. She looked at him directly, eyebrows raised in a query. He shook his head, mouth and eyes both turned slightly downward, and turned away in favor of his snifter.

Chapter Text

Rootville’s bar was one in name only, and Asellus stood outside it as she considered the tailor’s shop nearby. The shop had no windows that faced her; it was easy enough for her to stare at it without those inside being aware, but she still made sure to stand far enough away for plausible deniability. She could go inside and say hello. She should check on Gina while she was around. The girl had latched onto Asellus as if she were a lifeline before she and White Rose fled Facinaturu together, and the value of a real friend in this terrible place was immeasurable. She would like to tell Gina that she was okay, and recount her sorrows to a sympathetic ear. Above all, Gina would be happy to see her.

At the same time, Asellus did not want to drag Gina into her own mess. The simple uniform of a tailor’s apprentice did nothing to disguise her uncomplicated, girl-next-door beauty, and Asellus knew that the master tailor was right to worry about his ward being dragged off to the castle. Gina had enough problems of her own without Asellus painting a target on her. If Orlouge decided that his next princess ought to come from the close environs of Rootville, there would be little Asellus could do to save her.

Making up her mind, Asellus cast one last regretful look at the tailor shop before wandering the empty streets in search of her group. They’d decided that a slight delay before Asellus’ return to the Chateau made more sense than storming the castle unprepared. “It’s not like we’ll be able to catch them by surprise,” Zozma had said during their discussions in the back of a smuggler’s plane. “Orlouge will know you’re back the moment we arrive.”

She found Emilia standing in a clearing, staring up at the Chateau’s dark spires, lost in thought and oblivious to her approach. Staring into the distance, her form and features illuminated by the light of the crystals on the ground, Emilia looked like a figure from legends herself. She could be a goddess, Asellus thought: tall, beautiful, and leading the way to victory. Her heart began to beat slightly faster; Asellus frowned as she willed it to behave.

As she walked closer, Emilia noticed her at last. She turned and smiled, but her eyes were troubled. “This place kind of reminds me of Devin with all its plants and crystals,” she began, “except it’s so dark and gloomy. Even the air feels heavier.”

“Yeah,” Asellus agreed, placing a hand behind her neck in an attempt to hide its flush. “Rootville’s not a very happy place.”

“Why is that?” Emilia played with the ends of her blonde hair thoughtfully. In the low light, it shone. “Every city I’ve ever been to has people out and about, just living their lives. But it looks like no one ever leaves their houses here. And then there’s that,” she added, pointing to the castle. “It looks like the witch’s castle from a fairy tale. I’m waiting for someone to fly out on a broom and try to eat me.”

“Well,” Asellus began, toeing one of the vines on the ground, “Rootville is where mystics live if they aren’t high-ranking enough to stay in the castle. There’s also some humans and monsters. And you’re right, no one here seems happy.”

“And there’s no way for them to leave,” mused Emilia, “no connection to the outside world unless you want to take your chances with criminals. So how did humans even get here in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” Asellus answered, “but probably not in a good way.”

“Of course,” Emilia frowned, lips pressed tight and shoulders suddenly tense. “It’s the same thing everywhere, isn’t it?”

“Seems like it."

Emilia’s expression turned to resignation for a moment before she switched topics. “Once you’ve sorted out things here, what are you going to do?”

“Live my life. Make my own decisions. And…other than that, I haven’t thought about it,” Asellus admitted. Life on the run gave her little time to think that far into the future.

“Living sounds like a good plan,” Emilia agreed. “Let’s talk about something good for a change. You’ll be able to do anything you want. What’s the first thing you’ll do?”

“I want some new clothes,” Asellus decided, tugging at the sleeves of her tailcoat. “I hate this thing. I want something comfortable. I want…pajama pants.”

“Pajama pants!” Emilia’s face brightened in delight. “Some nice fleece or flannel ones? The kind with all the cute patterns on them. Why not?”

“I want a hoodie, too. You know how they’re really soft and fluffy inside before you wash them too many times? Like that.”

“Of course,” agreed Emilia. “We’ll get you the most comfortable hoodie ever, and some pajama pants to match. Then we’ll go out and have coffee, and we’ll laugh at the people who get upset that you’re wearing pajamas out in public.”

“Yeah,” Asellus grinned broadly. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

“It’s good to see you smiling,” Emilia remarked, and Asellus realized that, despite everything, she was.

“I’m kind of jealous of you,” she admitted, and Emilia looked quite surprised at that. “You’ve lost a lot too, but you’re just so put together. You’re really strong, Emilia.”

Mild shock dawned on Emilia’s face before she blinked and laughed lightly. “You know, I don’t feel strong myself. I was a mess for quite a while, and I still have my moments. But you’re strong, too. Don’t underestimate yourself, okay?”

Blushing slightly, Asellus chose not to respond to that. “What are you going to do after this?” she asked, and Emilia shook her head.

“I’m still not sure,” she answered. “Either look for Ren’s killer or murder Roufas. And I’m only partly joking on the second one.”

“Remind me not to piss you off,” a new voice replied, before Zozma appeared to the side in all his topknotted glory. The chains he wore to accentuate his outfit jingled.

“You’re too late for that.” Emilia narrowed her eyes. “Eavesdropping is rude.”

“That’s not my problem,” he responded simply, then turned to Asellus. “I finished checking the place out. It’s pretty empty.”

“Empty?” Asellus repeated, baffled. The mass of knights Orlouge had at his disposal could not have simply vanished. “Where did everyone go?”

“Staff can be dismissed when they’re not needed. Looks like he’s waiting for you.”

“…Great,” Asellus muttered. “Either he’s playing a game or we’re walking into a trap.”

“You’re going to have to take the risk,” Zozma answered, seemingly nonchalant. His true thoughts on the matter, Asellus suspected, were more complicated. “But it’s nothing you won’t be able to handle.”

Asellus heaved a sigh. “Never thought I’d be going back there,” she mumbled.

“And I never thought I’d be hanging out with humans, but here we are. Did you do what you need to do?”

“I’m good,” said Asellus, “and Ildon left, so I guess we’re just waiting on Rouge.”

“Ildon’s off playing nurse,” was Zozma’s reply, and Asellus found that she could not imagine such a thing.

“Really?” she asked, incredulously.

“Yeah.” Zozma touched his hair with his fingers as if ensuring its spikes were still to his liking. “Give him a bit. He could be back.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asked. “If Orlouge says ‘jump,’ Ildon asks how high. He might be off telling him everything right now.”

“And if Rastaban asks him to light himself on fire, he will,” Zozma replied matter-of-factly. “Wait and see.”

“That’s sweet,” Emilia interjected, to Asellus’ surprise.

“Sweet?” she repeated. Had she stepped into an opposite dimension by mistake? Of all the adjectives in the world, that was Emilia’s impression of Ildon?

“It’s nice that he has that,” Emilia elaborated, and her eyes turned distant. “If Ren had listened to me when I asked him to quit the force, things would be different now.”

Quickly, Asellus shook her head at Zozma, warning him not to pursue that line of conversation. Mercifully, he didn’t. “So uh…” she began, wondering how to change the subject, “I don’t suppose you know where Rouge is?”

“I think he went over to the magic shop,” Zozma shrugged.

“Of course he did,” Asellus realized. “I’ll go make sure he’s behaving himself.”

“I will too,” Emilia added, preferring Asellus’ company over Zozma’s. She wiped a hand across her eyes. “I wonder what the stores are like here.”

“Not very busy,” Asellus answered, leading the way through crystal-studded pathways. “Dark, lit by crystals. Indoors and outdoors are pretty much the same.”

“I guess it’s mood lighting,” Emilia quipped.

When they stopped outside the nondescript wooden building housing the magic shop, Asellus realized that she could hear Rouge inside. His voice was unusually loud and fast.

“It might take both of us to drag him out,” Asellus sighed, and pushed open the door.

“—absolutely fascinating. There’s no reason that they should affect each other, since my realm is many astronomical units of region space away. But they do!” Rarely was Rouge more animated than when discussing magic or magical theory, and he was in his element as he babbled at the poor worker trapped behind the counter of the magic store. His entire face was lit in excitement; one hand clutched a dark leatherbound book while the other gripped the shop counter.

“I can feel it. An equal and opposite reaction between my own innate magic and mystic magic, like a dipole. They attract magical energies but repel each other. Can you feel it too?” Rouge manifested a small ball of energy in his palm and let it crackle there.

“…Uh, yeah. I definitely feel it. Can you put that away now?” If not for the pointed ears and gossamer wings sprouting from her back, the girl manning the store could be any high schooler in Shrike with a part-time job who didn’t get paid enough to deal with the occasional crazies.

“It makes me wonder,” Rouge continued, waving away his magical demonstration to the employee’s great relief, “if my kingdom is connected to this one somehow. I don’t mean physically,” he added quickly, as if he were defending his thesis to an audience of skeptics ready to pounce on him, “but I’ve thought for a long time that the opposing schools of magic offer clues as to how the regions were initially formed. In a way it makes sense. Oppositely charged magnets attract each other, so could that mean that regions with conflicting magic were once connected as well? And if so, in what way?”

“I don’t know, buddy,” the girl sighed, irritated, “my shift just started.” She looked over Rouge and met Asellus’ eyes. Help, her expression read clearly.

“It would also mean that something happened to cause them to separate,” Rouge continued, oblivious to the rest of the world, “but what would cause that? I can only speculate! It would have to have happened before written history. Maybe before life came to the regions in the first place.”

“Rouge!” Asellus called, warning him before she and Emilia approached. If Rouge was going to start testing spells again, she wanted him to know that someone was behind him in the splash zone.

“Give her some room to breathe, Rouge,” Emilia added, and Rouge startled as if he were yanked out of a daydream.

“Oh!” Sheepishly, Rouge glanced over his shoulder at Emilia and Asellus before turning back to the girl behind the counter. He backed away several steps. “My apologies. I got carried away.”

“It’s fine,” the girl mumbled, though her face said otherwise. “I have to go…do a thing in the back room.”

Rouge nodded his head politely. “Thank you for the discussion.”

“Come on,” urged Asellus, glancing at the girl behind the counter sympathetically. “We’ve got stuff to do too.”

Rouge’s excitement was still palpable as Asellus and Emilia herded him out of the magic shop. “You were making her nervous,” Asellus told him, once they were outside.

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to corner her like that,” Emilia added, “but it can still be scary.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Rouge admitted, but he did look remorseful. “But thank you for telling me. I’ll be more mindful.”

“What’s that?” Asellus asked, pointing to the hardbound book he held in his left hand. “Did you do some shopping?”

“This is a book of basic mystic magic,” he answered, holding it up for her to see. “You’re welcome to borrow it if you like. I suspect you have the gift, and it could be useful to you.”

“I do,” Asellus admitted, “but White Rose tried to get me to learn it before…before things happened. And I just couldn’t quite get it.”

Emilia looked at Asellus sympathetically; even Rouge paused, considering his next words before he continued. “You might have started with the wrong spell,” he suggested. “Magic is tricky that way. A good first choice for one person may not be the same for another.”

“Maybe,” Asellus shrugged.

“I can’t learn these spells,” he continued, “because my own realm magic is in opposition to mystic magic. I can read the book without any difficulty, but when it comes to actually using the magic? It’s not possible. My body rejects it. It’s the strangest feeling, and leads to so many questions. It would be very interesting if you,” he gestured to Emilia, “learned one of these spells, for the sake of comparison.”

“Me?” Emilia repeated, then shook her head. “You make magic look easy, but I don’t think I have any skill myself. If you can’t do it, there’s no way that I can.”

“It’s not that. What I mean is that I think that you could learn it, even without the gift, while I can’t.” His free hand motioned in the air as he attempted to explain his thoughts.

Clad in robes the same color as his name and bright with excitement, Rouge was like a burst of fire that had strayed from Facinaturu’s eternal blaze. “All who are born in the Magic Kingdom have the gift of realm magic. All mystics are born with the gift of mystic magic. Since the two disciplines are opposed, I would expect the qualifications to be diametrically opposed as well: All humans are born with realm magic, say, or only mystics born in Facinaturu have mystic magic. Yet that isn’t the case. Why do you think that is?”

“Life is full of mysteries,” Emilia replied simply, while Asellus chose not to fuel Rouge’s fervor by saying anything herself. He’d make a good professor at Shrike U, she thought, among people who appreciated his interests rather than humored him. Other professors would love him, even if the students might not.

“So I think,” Rouge concluded, eyes dancing between them in delight, “that since you weren’t born in the Magic Kingdom, you could learn low-level mystic magic, even without the gift. And that would be a very interesting theory to test, if you’re amenable to it.”

“Maybe after we finish everything up,” Emilia offered, noncommittally. “You know, Asellus and I were just talking about what we’re going to do after this is over. We decided that a coffee-and-pajamas party sounds fun. Interested?”

“…What?” Rouge asked, dumbfounded. Asellus stifled a laugh, and decided to offer him a lead.

“It sounds like you have something you want to research later,” Asellus suggested. “You should pass by the incinerator, because Zozma told me once that its flames connect to another region. I heard you in the shop, wondering about the regions being connected. Just don’t do anything silly like try to jump in yourself,” she added, just in case. “And then when you’re done exploring you can just use your magic and warp yourself back to a place that’s nicer than this, right?”

“That’s incredibly interesting,” Rouge murmured. “There is so much more to magic than just practice and theory, and I feel that I’m just scratching the surface. There are so many mysteries waiting to be uncovered. But unfortunately, time is short.”

“Yes, but when we’re finished—“

“I mean that my time is short,” Rouge amended, a darker look clouding his face. “I’d like to explore my theories in depth, but acquiring magic has to take priority. I’m not strong enough yet.”

So they were back to this. “Hey Rouge,” Asellus tried, “I know that you have to fight your brother for…reasons…but maybe you don’t have to, you know?”

“The time of reckoning is drawing closer,” was Rouge’s response. “I can feel it.”

“I’m about to go tell someone that I refuse to live the way they want me to,” Asellus reminded him, hoping that he would catch the meaning in her words. “You can do the same, if you want.”

“It’s not possible,” he replied curtly. “I must fight and win, or he will kill me.”

“We don’t want anyone to kill you,” Emilia interjected, and she and Asellus shared a look of distress. “I know that we don’t understand the Magic Kingdom’s laws, but would you at least let us give you a hand, if you need it?”

“It’s for me to resolve. This is the fate I was born under,” Rouge answered, unmoved. “But I understand that you want me to survive.” His expression softened. “Thank you for that.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Asellus’ tone was flat, belying her frustration. She wondered how someone so intelligent could be so maddeningly dense. When she demonstrated her determination to decide her fate, she might mellow Rouge’s insistence that his own was beyond his control. She could hope so. And Rouge was fooling himself, she thought, if he expected her to just sit and watch while another magician jumped him, after he’d helped her fight off multiple pursuers from Facinaturu who had done the same to her.

“Is everyone you know out for blood? No wonder you’re so angry all the time.” Zozma appeared to Asellus’ right; briefly, she considered that it might be satisfying to give him a good shove. 

“If you have something to say, say it,” she told him pointedly.

“I was wondering if you’re ready. Ildon wanted me to tell you that he’ll be waiting at the gate.”

“Really?” Despite their previous discussion, Asellus hadn’t expected Ildon to actually show up.

“Really. What did I tell you?” Zozma wore a smug expression as he spoke. But when is he ever not smug? she asked herself.

“There’s no way that he actually wants to do this.” Although Ildon was unquestionably skilled, it simply felt wrong to ask him to support her if he didn’t truly wish to do so.

“Does it matter? Use what you’ve been given.” Leaning on his back leg, arms folded, Zozma looked far too casual about it all for her liking.

“When you put it like that, it sounds horrible,” Asellus frowned, looking at him directly. “And I feel like you’re trying to play chess while I’m playing checkers. I don’t like that. Too many people are doing that already. I won’t let anyone force me into something that I don’t want.”

“I’m not trying to force you to do anything,” Zozma replied, resting one hand on a hip. “Our interests align. That’s all. No tricks. And I can tell I’m going to have a good time. Is it really a bad thing to have my strength backing you up?”

“You’re going to have a good time?” Asellus stared at him, narrowing her eyes. She knew that mystic values were divorced from human sensibilities to the point of absurdity, but having her struggles minimized still stung. “I’m glad someone is!”

“Asellus,” Emilia broke in, turning to her and disregarding Zozma entirely, “this doesn’t happen until you’re ready. You decide when that is.”

“Let’s do this,” Asellus decided abruptly, walking past all three, and heading toward the long set of stairs that led to the Chateau’s gated entrance. “I won’t lose my nerve. Not now.”

She heard footsteps behind her and knew that they were all following. The castle loomed ahead, dark, forbidding, and alive. How many, she wondered, had entered, never to find their way out again? How many had escaped and were crazy enough to come back? Only me, she thought as she began the steep climb leading to the gate, rose-bedecked and forbidding, but that’s enough. Because there’s only one me, and there’s only one way that I want my story to go.

Chapter Text

Asellus reached out, as if she could somehow prevent Princess Lion from disappearing, or snatch her soul back from the ether. Her fingers, spotted with the princess’ blue blood, touched nothing but empty air. She felt a deep, mournful howl welling inside her and gritted her teeth to quash it. No one must see her lose her nerve. Not now.

“Are you all right?” Emilia asked from somewhere behind her. Of course it would be her. Ildon and, to a lesser extent, Zozma, had made it clear in the past that they had little patience for her grief. And Rouge, while much more attuned to others than he had been months ago, was simply not as quick on the uptake as Emilia.

“…Yeah,” Asellus lied, and closed her eyes briefly. This was worlds removed from the previous bout with Ciato, who was barely clinging to life. That particular fight could even be viewed as a mercy killing. This death was meaningless.

“You have just ended the lives of two formidable mystics.” Ildon’s tone was emotionless as he stated the obvious. “Your power grows.”

“I don’t feel powerful,” Asellus replied without turning. It was better to stare out at the crystal stairs ahead that stretched ever upward like the vertebrae of a lumbering dragon, than to turn and betray her feelings to them. “Why didn’t she just listen? We could have avoided this.”

Ildon made a sound under his breath to indicate his irritation. She’d heard him make that same sound often during her earliest training sessions. It didn’t matter. “Maybe she can be reborn, like Princess Rei,” she wondered out loud, and her voice wavered at the end.

She felt Emilia’s hand on her shoulder, and stayed still, accepting the comfort without words.

Zozma was the next to break the silence. “She left you her sword.”

Surprised, Asellus realized that the princess’ sword was indeed at her feet. The blade was double-edged, the central fuller threaded with a magnificent gold sheen. It wasn’t a faeblade, then, or it would have ceased to exist along with its owner. For reasons unknown, the lion princess had chosen to fight with a human sword.

Asellus made no move to take it.

“It’s a waste to leave it just lying there,” Zozma offered. “I’m sure it’s stronger than what you have now.”

There was a long pause, as if Zozma had decided to give her time to digest his words. Finally, Rouge spoke. “I think,” he began, and then fell quiet for a moment, as if searching for the right words, “that she wanted you to have it.”

Those words were what broke the spell, and Asellus turned over her shoulder to look at them. “You think so?” she asked, searching their faces for meaning in senseless tragedy.

“Why not?” Zozma responded as if she’d asked the question of him, and shrugged. “She could have come at you with her faeblade. She didn’t. You said you fought her once before, so she must have known that you don’t use yours.”

“You should be using yours.” Ildon pointed a disapproving frown at Asellus, as though she were an annoyance or a simpleton. She was used to being on the receiving end of that as well. “What fool gains power and refuses to use it?”

“Is this really the time?” Emilia whipped herself around to scowl at Ildon, who spared no reaction at all. “You are not helping here.”

Zozma broke into a delighted grin. “You’re not afraid of offending any mystics, are you? This is going to get very interesting when we find Orlouge.”

“Don’t you start, either,” warned Emilia, and Asellus tuned out the rest. Her group had not quite overcome the barriers of disdain that mystics held for humans and distrust that humans held for mystics, but they had settled at a point where both sides could tolerate each other. Most of the time. Right now she was grateful for the disruption, because it took the focus off her and let her gather herself.

Rouge extricated himself from the other three and walked slowly over to Asellus. “I know little about swords,” he offered, almost apologetically, “but this one looks very well cared for.”

“Yeah,” Asellus agreed. “Princess Lion, she was…really amazing. She was so strong, you know?” The words came tumbling out. “Ildon said that she’s stronger than he is, and he’s just relentless when he fights. I don’t know why she said there was no other way. I didn’t want this.”

Rouge let her vent without commenting, then looked toward the sword on the ground. “Will you pick it up?” he asked. “Maybe you can make your peace with her.”

“Huh,” was Asellus’ answer. She was fairly certain that Zozma meant well when he’d asked her to take the sword, but it felt like he was urging her to rob Lion’s grave. She liked Rouge’s interpretation better. She bent over and let her fingers linger over the hilt, appreciating the soft leather strips that masked the cool touch of metal, before taking it off the ground.

“It really is a nice sword,” Asellus mused. “It’s a broadsword, but it’s not too heavy. It feels balanced. It’s kind of funny how much of this stuff I’ve learned. Back home I didn’t know anything about swords, except that one end was sharp and the other end wasn’t. You know, I feel…kind of like this sword was special to her. It meant something and she had a lot of pride in it. I can tell.” She swung it experimentally, careful not to accidentally hit anyone else.

“Is your sword special, too?” Rouge asked, and Asellus blinked.

“My sword? The one I have now?” When Rouge nodded, she shook her head. “No, this is just what I picked up in Koorong before we left. I wanted something that could stab things without falling apart. It’s done that, but…yeah. I see where you’re going with this. I know I’d rather have Princess Lion with me in battle, instead of something I bought in the Koorong sewer. This way she can be by my side. Thanks, Rouge.”

Rouge looked mystified at Asellus’ gratitude. “I…only asked a question…?”

“But it was the right question.” She busied herself unbuckling her current sword from her belt. “That matters, you know?” When it was free, she looked up and saw that the other three had stopped talking, and she once again had their attention.

“Finally!” Zozma threw his arms in the air as if he were coaching a sports team. “I was wondering how long you were going to stand around moping.”

“It’s about paying respects,” Asellus shot back as she laid her sword on the ground, and then picked up the one belonging to Princess Lion. The sheath had settled nearby; she picked that up too. Let her own sword, now lying at the place where Lion had breathed her last, be her tribute to the princess’ memory.

“Ready,” she called, once she tested Lion’s sword on her belt and found it secure. “The last two stairways had surprises at the top, so I’m sure this one does too. Do you know anyone else who might want to fight us, Ildon?”

“Lord Orlouge could command anyone to fight us,” Ildon answered simply. “But with Ciato and Princess Lion gone, there would be no strong opponents.”

Asellus waited for Zozma to add his opinion, but he stayed silent.

“All right,” she decided, “let’s go, then.”

The group had chosen a single-file formation when they began their ascent up the Chateau’s stairways, and they found their positions once more with no discussion necessary. Asellus had insisted on taking point, and Zozma followed behind her. In the center was Emilia, one hand on the pistol that rested in her holster. After Emilia was Rouge, and Ildon stayed at the end of the line, on guard for attacks from behind. They might have been overdoing it, Asellus thought, because nothing had actually surprised them as they were climbing upstairs; the threats were waiting for them in plain sight when they reached the large landing platforms between stairways. It was still better to be safe than sorry.

They were well on their climb when Emilia’s voice came from behind her, unnecessarily hushed. There was no need for stealth when anyone who was in the castle was well aware that they were coming. “Shingrow Palace is much, much nicer than this place.”

“Yeah?” Asellus’ mouth twitched; she wondered what Orlouge would make of the comparison. “Do they have lots of flowers too? If I never see another rose in my life, I’ll be happy.”

“It’s all jungle there,” Zozma butted in, surprising her. He’d offered so little information about his own past travels. “No flowers, but there are spiders the size of your head.”

“Really? I’ll take giant spiders over this any day,” Asellus declared, then sobered as they approached yet another wide landing. Unlike the previous two, this one was empty. “There’s no one there. Is this a trap?”

“I would know if it was a trap.” For once, Zozma’s cockiness was reassuring rather than irritating. “You’re fine. Keep going.”

Their tight formation relaxed when they all reached the landing. Asellus stretched her calf muscles as best she could. She was relieved to see that the stairs on the other side of the landing led down rather than up. It didn’t make much sense from an architectural standpoint, but her legs could use the break. Ildon kept to the back of the group as always, keeping an eye on the stairs they’d just ascended as if expecting someone to approach from behind. Zozma was doing something similar on the other side of the landing, watching the stairway they’d yet to descend. It’d be easy to catch them in a pincer attack, she thought, and realized that she was beginning to think like them.

“We probably shouldn’t stay here much longer,” Asellus decided, and as she spoke she felt the hair at the back of her neck tingle with the certainty that someone was there, listening. Nothing was ever easy, was it? “Someone’s here!” She put her hand on the hilt of Lion’s sword and turned her head, trying to locate the danger they were about to face.

Asellus wasn’t sure who or what she expected to materialize from the shadows, but it definitely wasn’t Rastaban. He appeared in an unmarred russet coat, his hair in neat waves, shoes polished to a mirror shine. He looked not at all like a person who’d recently suffered a grievous injury, but it was evident in the slow, labored way that he turned to face her, as if the movement was painful. Behind her, she heard Ildon draw in a sharp breath. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

Rastaban ignored Ildon entirely. “Lady Asellus!” he exclaimed, as though they were old friends. That was a stretch; she’d rarely interacted with him before she fled Chateau Aiguille, even though he’d been one of the least objectionable of all the personalities there. “How fortunate for all of us that you’ve come this far.”

Emilia and Rouge warily circled to flank Asellus; Emilia had drawn her pistol, but was not yet pointing it. Zozma merely watched the unfolding scene with curiosity, and this made her feel less on edge. If Zozma was unworried about Rastaban causing trouble, that was a good sign.

“What are you doing here?” Asellus asked, echoing Ildon.

Rastaban smiled at her. It was a knowing smile, one that was genuinely pleased, and extremely out of place on anyone who called the Chateau their home. “It’s time,” he pronounced, and left little pause for Asellus to wonder what he was talking about. “Now is the time for you to defeat Orlouge. Take your place as the rightful ruler of Facinaturu.”

“Rastaban!” Ildon’s voice behind her was filled with shock.

“What?” Asellus stared at him, wondering if he had head injuries as well. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have never been more serious. Look around you, Lady Asellus.” Rastaban lifted a hand, and gestured in a broad circle. With fervor she’d thought mystics incapable of, he continued. “The realm lies in stagnation. Time has been stopped for far too long. With no opportunity for growth, living things slowly die. Facinaturu is in need of disruption, of change, and the one to bring that change is you.” He held his arms slightly extended, palms up, the stance of a zealot.

Asellus considered her words carefully. If this had been his reason for sending Ildon to her, then the idea had been in the works for some time, and she was worried about what he’d do if she flat out told him no. Then again, he might be incapable of attacking her if he was still recovering from Ciato’s attack. Could she really count on that, though? She knew so little of him, and had no idea what he was or wasn’t capable of. She would prefer to avoid a fight, though, for Ildon’s sake if nothing else.

“I get what you’re saying, really,” she began. Attempting to defuse the situation was annoying when she would much rather assert herself. “This place is very sad. I can see that myself. But I have no intention of ruling it. I’m here to settle things with Orlouge and take control of myself, not Facinaturu.” Seeing Rastaban’s mouth tighten, she followed with “But if that’s what you want to do, go for it.”

All enthusiasm gone, Rastaban simply regarded her, face closed and expressionless. “Very well, then,” he assented, and vanished.

Asellus did not move, in case he was planning to appear behind her, or a similar trick, but the sense of his presence was gone.

“That absolute idiot!” Ildon erupted, directing his invective to the space where Rastaban had stood. “Is he trying to get himself killed?”

Zozma’s face held no surprise as he looked past Asellus to Ildon, who stood fuming. “I saw this coming a while ago. Are you going to tell me you didn’t?”

“Far be it from me to expect sense from him.” Ildon’s voice was fraught, a rare display of unguarded emotion. “What is he thinking?”

In the center of the landing, Asellus was caught in the crosstalk, but chose not to intrude. Beside her, Rouge murmured a question to Emilia, who whispered something back.

“Sounds like he’s made his choice,” Zozma eyed Ildon. “Have you made yours?”

When Ildon did not respond, Asellus turned around and directed her own question to him. “Ildon, if you want to stop now, you can. You’ve done a lot for me, but I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Ildon did not look at or acknowledge her, so she tried again. “If you want to go to Rastaban—“

Ildon’s eyes slowly trailed to her. “If I don’t help you strike down Lord Orlouge,” he began, voice low and full of barely controlled anger, “Rastaban will die.”

“What?” Asellus looked from Ildon, to Zozma, and back, hoping that someone would help her make sense of the riddle. “What do you mean?”

“He’s right, you know,” Zozma agreed, voice nonchalant as if he were discussing tomorrow’s weather instead of regicide. “I’m sure Orlouge knew what Rastaban was planning all along, but for him to actually show up like that and try to convince you to overthrow him? I don’t think there’s any way out of this for him now.”

“I wasn’t planning to ‘overthrow him,’” Asellus protested, trying to maintain her own control of what came next. “I’m going to tell him to release White Rose, and stop chasing me around. Just let me be. That doesn’t mean that we have to—“

“Do you really think he’ll do all that if you ask nicely?” Zozma shook his head; the spikes in his hair bounced slightly, then resettled. “You should know by now. There’s only one way for you to get what you want.”

“I—“Asellus gritted her teeth. Even now, in the heart of Chateau Aiguille, on her way to face the person responsible for all her suffering, she had little control over her own path. She had been played so very masterfully, by so many different players.

“I meant what I said,” she announced finally, challenging Zozma with an icy glare. “I’m not going to rule this place. Not ever. And I’m not going to Orlouge with the intent of overthrowing him. If he makes it into that, that’s on him.”

“That’s up to you,” Zozma shrugged. “If you don’t want to rule Facinaturu, there are a lot of others who do. It’ll be interesting to see how that plays out.”

“So everyone suffers then?” Asellus scowled.

“Everyone is suffering right now. I know you see that.”

Asellus heaved a sigh. “I don’t know why everyone expects me to be able to solve things,” she complained. “I haven’t been able to solve my own problems.”

“Don’t start moping again,” Zozma warned, and Asellus felt that she’d like to give him a reason to mope for a bit.

“That’s enough.” It was Ildon who spoke, surprising her. She turned back to him to see that his face was impassive, all traces of his inner turmoil hidden once again. “Let’s go.”

“Fine, then. Let’s do that,” Asellus agreed, and they found their formation with no hesitation.

The trek down the next set of stairs was mercifully short, and it led to a grand canopied balcony that circled around an interior room; light poured from an open doorway in the center. Asellus stopped, one hand on the balustrade, because the place had the feel of finality. She did not see, but rather felt that this was the pivotal point in her journey.

Rouge had found his way to her side. “Be careful,” he murmured. “The aura I feel is formidable. It’s far beyond anything we’ve faced before.”

Ildon stood next to the door leading to the interior chamber. “Lord Orlouge is waiting here,” he concurred. “Make sure you’re prepared.”

“I’m ready,” Zozma added with a smile, and Asellus wondered if she would ever know the true reason that the prospect of toppling the Charm Lord made him so happy.

“Are we all ready?” Asellus asked her group, and after the rest answered in the affirmative, she placed her hand on the hilt of Princess Lion’s sword. It was a comfort to have Lion’s strength with her at this moment; she gratefully accepted it. “All right then…let’s go.”

Chapter Text

After passing through Orlouge's portrait gallery, the group clustered before the entrance to what appeared to be a private balcony. No one spoke. Asellus could hear that her breathing was faster and shallower than usual; it was not from the exertion of navigating yet another flight of stairs, but from the same anticipation that made her heartbeat reverberate in her ears. Almost there, she thought.

Though they had not discussed it, the unspoken agreement seemed to be that Asellus should lead, so the others remained in place until she took her first step out the doorway and on to the balcony. As she walked slowly forward, the light crystals mounted on the balcony's perimeter threw divergent shadows of her figure against the stone tile underfoot.

A canopy stood at the center of the balcony; underneath it sat a small table and single, unoccupied chair. Picturing the Charm Lord enjoying a spot of tea in the nighttime air filled Asellus with a sense of familiarity that she sought to banish immediately. What he chose to do in his spare time was not her concern, even if it was unsettlingly close to human pastimes. She wasn’t here on a social call.

The architect of her ordeals stood at the far edge of the balcony, back turned, gazing over his territory as though there was no threat approaching him from behind and no intruders worth concerning himself with. Despite the still night air, his long hair rippled gently, as though a soft breeze was blowing. Asellus willed him to turn around and acknowledge that she'd fought her way to him and bested the challenges he'd thrown at her. She deserved that much.

The others filed out after her, the stone dulling their footsteps. They paused under the canopy with her, waiting. When Asellus resigned herself to the fact that Orlouge intended for her to approach him first and took a step forward, Rouge and Emilia immediately moved to join her. Emilia reached for her pistol.

Zozma stepped in front of them and held up a hand. His topknot bobbed as he shook his head. "Stay here. Let her do this."

Ildon stood slightly behind the rest of them, as motionless as the pillars holding up the canopy. Despite his previous distress, his face was firm and unwavering. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Asellus turned her head and looked to her friends one last time before she continued her approach. She stopped before Orlouge's turned back when she was within speaking distance, but not within arm's length. As she worked out what she wanted to say to him, to her surprise, Orlouge spoke.

"Have you come to worship me, my daughter?" He did not turn to face her; his voice ought to have projected away from her and into the dark, but the words were as clear as if he were standing right beside her.

Flabbergasted, Asellus cocked her head. "Worship you?" she repeated.

"Have you come to adore me? To bask in my radiance? To bow down to me? Have you learned at last that roses wilt without a light to guide them?"

The audacity. Asellus narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm not your daughter." She spoke slowly, purposefully. Let her truth be heard. "I'm still me. And no matter what color my blood is, that won't change."

He did not react. Asellus continued. "But I know that doesn't matter to you. You don't care about mystics or humans. White Rose worried about whether or not she was betraying you until the very end, and you rewarded her for that by dumping her into that labyrinth to rot. And if you cared about what happens to me at all, you would have stopped Ciato from trying to kill me. Multiple times."

Asellus paused to take a breath. She felt the weight of four sets of eyes upon her own back as she addressed Orlouge's turned figure. They were there too, she reminded herself, and so there was no need to worry. "So I'm not going to let you live rent-free in my head any longer. I'm going to take my own life back and live it the way I want to. I'm leaving this place for good."

Slowly, in a swirl of flowing fabric and floating hair, the Charm Lord turned to face her at last. Asellus wondered momentarily what her human friends' first impression could be of the man they'd infiltrated the Chateau to confront. Emilia might rebuke him for his unusual sense of fashion, and Rouge would be wary of the power he radiated. Or maybe not. Maybe they would find his powers of fascination overwhelming, as White Rose apparently had an eternity ago. She hadn't considered that. Hopefully we don't have to deal with that, she told herself. Like Auntie says, don't borrow trouble.

"Wait," he uttered, and she felt his voice echo in her chest as though it were her own.

That doesn't work on me, she thought with a touch of triumph; as a recipient of the Charm Lord's own blood, she was apparently immune to his powers of compulsion, of control.

"Do you realize what you are saying?"

"Of course I do," Asellus frowned. There was no ambiguity in her words.

"You, who have received my blood, have powers beyond mortal comprehension." His gaze upon her was unyielding, his mouth set, but he was, Asellus realized with a start, making a plea in his own way. That was unexpected. "Rather than concern yourself with one life, realize that you have the power to control all lives. Make humans and mystics alike bow at your feet. Take what you want without bounds. Your own desire is all that limits you."

Asellus thought she heard a sharp intake of breath from one of her companions behind her—or was it her own? Had the Charm Lord's goal ultimately been to remold her into his own image? Ridiculous. "I'm not you!" she protested, scrunching her face into a knot of distaste. "If that's what makes you happy, then you go and do it yourself. Leave me out of it.”

At that, the Charm Lord's eyes turned skyward. Instantaneously, the unsettling breezes that wove around him also changed direction, rustling the edges of his long, trailing robes and hair upward; she could hear the sigh in her mind as though the wind had somehow gained a voice. "What a waste," he pronounced, staring at her sharply, and then he disappeared, leaving Asellus staring at the starless sky.

Asellus waited until she was certain that he was truly no longer present and that there was no trick, and then turned around.

"I don't want to say I told you so," Zozma began, leaning against a pillar with his arms folded, "but I did."

"Did you know?" Asellus asked him pointedly, walking back to the rest of the group. Her face was clouded.

"Did I know what?"

"Did you know what his goal was all along? What he wanted me to do?"

"No." Zozma kept his eyes focused on her as he shook his head. "I don't think anyone can understand that guy. But it really doesn't matter. What's important now is that we stop him."

"He isn't gone," Rouge broke in urgently. His right hand, Asellus saw, was fisted at his side, and it trembled ever so slightly. "That presence contains the knowledge and power of many centuries, and it’s still nearby. I can feel it."

"You need to be ready to fight with everything you have." Ildon kept his hand on his sword as he addressed the entire group. "If you don't, you will die. Worse, you become a liability. I won't waste my efforts saving anyone who hesitates."

"I don't think you have to worry about that." Emilia brushed her hair over her shoulders. "That's the guy who's been causing you so many problems, Asellus? I really don't like him. That speech of his was sickening."

"Yes." Asellus scowled. "Well, I tried. I guess there's no way around this. Who's got our stuff?"

"I do." Emilia lifted Asellus' scuffed backpack in one hand. "Do you want it back?"

"No. I think you're the best one to carry it, because you have a gun. Those of us who need to fight close-in are more likely to drop it. We need those potions."

"Would you like me to attack first, or should I focus on support?" That question came from Rouge. His voice wavered no longer. If Orlouge had spooked him earlier, he'd evidently made peace with it.

"I want you to hit him hard."

"Hold on," Zozma interrupted. "This isn't going to be over in a few minutes like it was when we fought Lion and Ciato. This is going to take a while." He looked at Rouge thoughtfully. "Use those runes you have first and make us all stronger. Then you can send down your glittery meteors."

"Understood," Rouge replied, all business.

"I'm going to be up close and personal the whole time." With a hand, Zozma flipped the spikes on one side of his head. "Don't shoot me, Blondie."

"Stay out of my way then," Emilia parried immediately, then softened. "If anyone gets hurt and needs a potion, say so. I'll find a way to get it to you."

Ildon turned to Asellus. "Your attack must be relentless. Lord Orlouge will not hold back."

"Not a problem," Asellus assured him. "I won't, either. What about you?"

"I have no choice but to follow your path to the end." Ildon's voice mellowed slightly as he looked down at her smaller figure. "Remember what I taught you."

Asellus nodded briskly, a student acknowledging the teacher for the last time. "I will." Her heart swelled with gratitude as she looked at the four who'd accompanied her into the Chateau. They all had different reasons, but they'd come this far with her.

I don't need to control people like you do, she thought, addressing the absent Charm Lord mentally. We have a common cause that binds us.

"Do any of you know where he went?" Emilia turned her head to take in the whole of the balcony once more, as if the answer could be lurking in the shadows. "If he’s planning to take us by surprise, we should be extra careful."

"He won't do that." Zozma's answer was confident, but his usual cockiness was missing. "You can't admire what you can't see, after all."

"Seriously?" Emilia dropped her objection when she searched Zozma's face for any trace of sarcasm and found none. “Well, I like him even less now. Let’s get him.”

“Good!” The smile that Zozma flashed was genuine, before it disappeared into a wide, fanged shark’s grin. “I want to see you put as many rounds in him as you can. Keep that attitude. It looks good on you.”

“And I thought you were finally being serious.” Emilia shook her head. “So where are we going, then?”

“Not far.” Rouge stared back at the doorway that led to Orlouge’s portrait gallery. “I can’t say where exactly, but his presence is still very near.”

“So we’re retracing our steps.” Asellus had no reason to doubt Rouge, attuned as he was to magical phenomena. “I’m going first. Everyone…just be careful, okay? And thank you.”

The group fell into the formation they’d adopted for traversing the Chateau as though it were second nature. Asellus heard Zozma’s footsteps directly behind her, followed by the others’, as she strode back across the balcony. Unlike her original cautious approach, this time her steps were purposeful and devoid of hesitation.

They filed through the entrance of the enclosed portrait gallery, and headed up a small winding staircase. Although they’d already passed through on their way to Orlouge’s balcony, the gallery’s main floor, inlaid with a startling mosaic, was no less breathtaking the second time.

Asellus’ heart began to pound as she cleared the staircase and beheld what was waiting for them in the center of the room. Orlouge stood under the domed ceiling, unmoving and impassable. The breezes surrounding him had become a tempest, whipping his hair and clothing into a frenzy.

Once the rest of the group joined her at the top of the stairs, Asellus swallowed. “Let us through,” she demanded. She knew that her request would amount to nothing, but she had to try.

Orlouge turned his head slowly in her direction. He looked at her for a moment that seemed to drag excruciatingly, then raked his gaze across the group behind her, taking them all in for the first time.

“My daughter,” he began, meeting her eyes once again, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You must get through me.”

Two things happened then: The Charm Lord reached out a hand, extending it palm up as though inviting an unseen paramour to dance. At the same time, one of the frescoed portraits above his head shimmered, and a ghostly figure appeared behind him.

“It’s happening!” Zozma shouted, and his words jolted them all into action. “Go!”

“Are those people?” Emilia had taken a position somewhere behind her; Asellus could not see her face, but could imagine the wide-eyed expression she must wear from the disbelief in her voice.

“So those are the Three Mistresses,” Ildon murmured as he appeared at Asellus’ side. “The rumors are true. Lord Orlouge maintains his hold on them even after their bodies are no more.”

“Unbelievable,” Asellus spat, Princess Lion’s sword in hand. If there was a greater hell than to be trapped in a portrait forever, awaiting the Charm Lord’s summons, she didn’t want to imagine it. “Can we free them?”

“You can’t kill a ghost.” Zozma stood at Asellus’ other side, energy crackling over the surface of both hands, which had lengthened into claws. “But maybe prison doors will open after we get rid of the one who locked them. Let’s find out.”

A welcome burst of energy thrummed down Asellus’ arms and legs, hot and buzzing with extra adrenaline, and she knew from experience that this was Rouge’s Victory Rune at work. Thanking him mentally, she advanced as fast as she could while holding her sword in front of her. Don’t run, she reminded herself, echoing Ildon’s instruction, or you’ll leave yourself vulnerable. Go forward swiftly but surely, and always be ready to defend yourself.

Orlouge did not move as she closed in on him, nor did he raise a hand to threaten her. He did not flinch as Princess Lion’s sword cut diagonally across his chest. His attendant breeze stilled momentarily, then resumed. By all rights, his beautiful clothes should have been shredded, and her attack should have drawn blood. Protective wards? she wondered, lifting her sword again. I need to cut through them.

The winged apparition behind Orlouge pointed its trilobed lance. A sharp current of air stung Asellus like needles, startling her enough to interrupt her next attack. When she stopped to regain her footing, she heard a soft hum as a magical ward of her own enveloped her, courtesy of one of Rouge’s realm magic spells. I owe you again, Rouge, she thought.

A gunshot rang out. Emilia had aimed not for Orlouge, but at one of the overhead portraits instead. Her aim was true, but where there should have been surface damage and plaster dust raining down, there was nothing.

"That won't work!" Zozma's shout came from somewhere behind the Charm Lord. Derision dripped from his words as he followed with "Aim for his charming face!"

Zozma erupted into a blast of wild energy as he sprang upon Orlouge from behind. Claws flashed, raked across the Charm Lord's figure, and Zozma's snarls turned to roars as he struck again and again. When the Charm Lord raised a hand to fling him off, Asellus moved. She held up Princess Lion's sword and pushed forward and through the target. Her momentum carried her behind him; she quickly reversed and thrust through him again. She followed with a third, final strike that landed her behind the Charm Lord once more.

Taking advantage of the battle's momentum, Ildon pointed his sword straight ahead. Rather than thrust forward with it as Asellus had, he raised one booted foot and stomped the ground. Waves of mystic energy poured forth, cracking the marble tiles in front of him, and striking the Charm Lord where he stood stunned from Zozma and Asellus' attacks.

Though she'd refused to unlock the potential of her own mystic weapons, Asellus was profoundly grateful for Zozma and Ildon's mastery of theirs. We're a good team. The three of them formed a rough triangle, with Orlouge trapped in the center. We can do this. As if to punctuate her thought, another gunshot cracked through the air. Emilia had aimed for the Charm Lord this time; Asellus saw drops of blue blood hit the floor.

Red lights flashed across the room then; a cluster of giant rubies materialized overhead before exploding into fragments and raining down upon their foe. Rouge had taken the opportunity to cast his strongest spell. Scarcely had the barrage ended before another burst of red light strobed across the room. From her vantage point behind the Charm Lord, Asellus could see a shadowy double standing next to Rouge, mimicking his actions; she recognized his gift of shadow magic at work. As the second storm of what Zozma termed "glittery meteors" pounded Orlouge and doubled him over, Asellus wondered how much power the Charm Lord possessed to remain standing after the assault they'd all unleashed. That had to hurt, she thought, even if he doesn't want to show it.

"That's right," Zozma gloated, his voice the growl of a rabid animal. "You want to play? Then let's play. I've been waiting for this."

The winged ghost had disappeared at some point in the scuffle; a new figure appeared at Orlouge's side. This one was leonine, with claws as sharp as Zozma's, but instead of hair, flames flickered from the crown of her head. Asellus was close enough to see her face; the spirit’s expression was completely blank. She sighed, filled with regret for whoever the spirit had once been. We'll set you free too. Just a little bit longer.

Emilia's gun fired several times, faster than what should have been possible. Rouge must have invoked the runes' blessing on her as well.

A feminine laugh filled the air, deep and throaty; to her surprise, Asellus realized that it was coming from one of the portraits above them. The ghostly mistress glowed; her empty eyes burned like the embers of a doused fire. She raised one claw in the air.

"Guard yourself," Ildon urged, and that was her only warning before a spiral of flames erupted from the spirit’s claws, engulfing Asellus and the two mystics.

Asellus' exposed skin screamed. Mercifully, the ward Rouge had cast ensured that the fire went out very quickly, or she might have lit up like a torch. She could see skin sloughing off her forearms, and her stomach turned. Zozma, whose resistance to magic was leagues higher than her own, was faring much better. Ildon, off to her side somewhere, was preparing another attack; Asellus could not see how hurt he was.

"I've got you!" Emilia ran up to the front line, the backpack bouncing over her shoulder, and handed Asellus a potion. Asellus mumbled thanks, backing a few steps out of the danger zone to pour the concoction over the worst of her burns. She quickly swallowed the rest. That took the edge off; it was enough to kick start the healing process until her regenerative mystic powers could handle the rest.

Orlouge, who had been buffeted and bled by their attacks without a word, turned his head sharply in Asellus and Emilia’s direction. His outstretched hand closed suddenly; his hair and sleeves blew toward them as if pointing the way. Asellus felt something fly through the air towards them; she felt the energy as it sailed by her face, barely missing her, before striking Emilia. The terrible sound of breaking glass followed.

Asellus turned her head to see that Emilia had become a stone statue. The backpack that she held had fallen to the floor, the broken phials inside leaking their contents into a puddle.

Asellus cursed. She'd have to leave the attack to Zozma and Ildon, then; fixing this was urgent. "Somebody cover me!" she shouted, hoping that the others would hear and understand. Asellus stooped down and unzipped the soaked backpack. Her hands, instantly slimy from the mess inside, slipped repeatedly as she searched for an undamaged bottle of the remedy she needed.

I'm a sitting duck like this, she realized in dismay. Come on...

"So you can do more than beg your girls to protect you. Or is that all you've got?" Zozma's taunt carried above the chaos; he was, Asellus realized, attempting to draw attention away from her. Good.

A low drone filled her ears, and suddenly, her arms and hands were no longer visible. Shocked, Asellus quickly brought a hand to her face, and the weight of wet fingers on her cheek assured her they were still there; she had not been hit by a curse. She looked over her shoulder quickly to see Rouge tracing shapes in the air, and relief flooded her. The Hide Rune. Of course. She'd be invisible for a time, and hopefully much harder for Orlouge to target.

At the forefront of the battle, Zozma bellowed as he unleashed a fierce attack. She could feel traces of his signature wild magic even at this distance, and his taunts became inhuman roars once again. Ildon, who preferred to engage with as little noise as possible, followed with a flurry of sword strikes, his blade flashing in the air.

Asellus’ hands finally closed on a small, slim vial labelled Snake Oil. Thankful that at least one of them had survived impact with the ground, she held it up and uncorked it carefully. She must not drop it with her wet hands. According to the alchemist who sold it to her, contact with an afflicted person was sufficient for the tincture to work. She hoped he was right. Asellus held her breath as she splashed the vial's contents on Emilia's petrified form, willing stone to return to flesh once more.

The transformation was nearly instantaneous. Emilia blinked in surprise as she regained control of her body, then her eyes widened as she beheld the sodden backpack and mess on the ground. "Oh, no!" Anger filled her face as she lifted her pistol and fired.

"He had that coming," she growled as she regrouped in the back of the room with Rouge. Asellus joined them, wiping her hands on her clothes as she did so.

"Something seems wrong." Rouge paused his casting, face etched with concern. "He's hardly using his own power at all. I don't like this."

"Did we lose our potions?" Emilia asked, readying her pistol.

"Yeah," Asellus sighed.

Startled, Emilia looked in the direction of her voice. "Asellus? Where...?"

Oh. That's right, she was invisible. "It's from Rouge's magic," Asellus explained quickly. "We can't heal anymore, so we've got to try to end this as fast as we can."

"I have the Vitality Rune," Rouge reminded them. "I can help with that." He was the only one who remained unscathed, but he had to be burning through his magic power at a rapid clip. His shadowy clone spoke the same words that he did, adding an eerie echo to his speech.

"Not yet." Asellus shook her head, before realizing that he wouldn't see it. "Ildon and Zozma have been holding him off by themselves. We've got to hit him now and take the heat off them. Save the healing for when we need it, okay?"

"All right. But first—“ Rouge and his shadow moved their hands in unison, drawing a four-pointed shape in the air, and warmth surrounded Asellus. They must have also invoked the rune on Emilia, because she looked at him in surprise. "The Freedom Rune," he explained. "If he tries to petrify you again, this will stop it."

"Thanks, Rouge." Asellus smiled, even though it would remain unseen. "All of us are getting that coffee later, okay?" She sprinted back to Ildon and Zozma, who remained engaged in battle with the Charm Lord and his pet ghost. Ildon would have scolded her for running on her approach, had he known. Several more rapid-fire gunshots filled the air.

"You guys okay?" Asellus asked when she reached the front again. Ildon raised an eyebrow when he heard her voice, then shrugged it off.

"Fine," Zozma remarked dismissively, unbothered that Asellus was nowhere to be seen. "Now come on, girl. Work out those daddy issues. I know you want to."

"Oh, shut up!" Taking advantage of her invisibility, Asellus rushed forward, thrusting once again through her opponent. This time, she focused her will on the blade when it made contact; she felt it sink in. This has been a long time in coming, she thought with satisfaction, then slashed outward with all her might, the better to tear a wide swath in him.

"This is for White Rose," she hissed as she finished her strike; the force she'd put into it sent the Charm Lord's hair and the hem of his robes streaming backward and up. To her astonishment, she could see the energy she’d used in her attack; a flare of light illuminated her opponent like a burst of fireworks. Whether she’d mustered that from her own power or it was some trick of the light in her overstimulated eyes, it didn’t matter.

Once she finished the attack, Asellus realized that she could see her hands again. So be it; the magic that hid her from view had served its purpose and then some. The healing abilities in her mystic blood, combined with Emilia’s potion, had also done their job; her arms looked much better than they had before.

"Well done," Ildon nodded to her before resuming his own assault. Ildon had never complimented her before; that in itself would make this day one for the record books.

“Does that hurt?” Zozma hissed at the Charm Lord, his smile full of fangs. “Good.”

A dark sphere, shadow magic swirling across its surface like eddies of water, materialized between Orlouge and the assistant he'd summoned. It was more than half as wide as Asellus was tall, and it launched itself at their foe as though it were a guided missile. Lightning cracked as it struck home. No sooner had Orlouge shaken off the first attack than another sphere formed, courtesy of Rouge's double. This too hit the Charm Lord, and the sound of gunshots followed.

Through all of this, Orlouge remained silent even as attack after attack found their mark and blue blood showered the ground, merely watching them through half-lidded eyes as though their efforts disinterested him.

Without a sound, the winged mistress reappeared to join her clawed counterpart, followed by a third, previously unrevealed apparition. The new figure was cloaked almost completely, and the shape of its body was indeterminable under billowing robes. Its eyes were shadowed by a weighty headpiece that covered half of its face as well; Asellus only could make out the mouth and lower half of the nose. Perhaps it was better this way; the emptiness of the other ghostly faces was enough. The winged spirit clutched her spear and began to rapidly beat her wings in the air, while the feline mistress raised both claws.

"Stop hiding behind others and fight!" Zozma barked. "Or are you that scared?"

Orlouge did not look in Zozma's direction at all, but raised both hands in the air, as if conducting an orchestra.

"They're coming," Ildon warned, at the same time that Rouge shouted in alarm from behind them. The three spirits’ wispy forms suddenly turned opaque, as though made corporeal by the will of their master, and tore through the battlefield like a storm of trained hawks.

The mistresses barreled through her, tearing with claws and piercing with the point of a spear. Flashes of light blinded her while blasts of energy struck her—Was that from the third mistress or the Charm Lord himself? It didn't matter. Women's laughter echoed throughout the room.

When the assault finished, Asellus somehow regained her footing. She gasped, sucking as much air as she could into her battered body. The floor where she stood was now stained purple.

The mistresses surrounded Orlouge once more. Their faces remained expressionless as before, but they resumed their aggressive stances.

Asellus looked quickly for her companions, and her heart sank when she saw that the attack had struck them all. Not one of them had any magic or healing abilities that would cover the whole group at once; they'd have to rely on Rouge and hope that he could move fast enough. The mage was the only one unhurt; his shadow had taken the blows meant for him and was no more.

A cool breeze tickled her skin; woozily, Asellus thought of peppermint. Her mind sharpened and hands quivered with adrenaline; she realized that her wounds were slowly closing from the inside out. Oh, it was so, so much slower than a potion. Would it be enough? It would have to be. She looked back to see Rouge frantically weaving runes into the air.

Next to him, Emilia was bent slightly, one hand on her torso. "That was dirty," she glowered. "But I'm not finished yet." She winced as she straightened upright, pointed her pistol, and fired.

Ildon and Zozma were still standing as well, but the blue blood coating the floor no longer belonged to Orlouge alone. Zozma's predilection for going shirtless meant that the stripes torn across his torso were on full display. He must have felt them, but his face betrayed nothing but anger. Ildon's injuries were less visible, covered as he was in regalia, but the blood spattered on his face said enough.

Once Rouge invoked the Vitality Rune on him, Zozma launched himself at the Charm Lord once again, his enraged howls louder than all three spirits' laughter had been. Asellus readied her sword to follow up.

Orlouge threw Zozma off, then raised both hands in the air again. Quickly, Asellus positioned her sword defensively before the spirits flew across the room again. But this time, they headed straight for Rouge.

"No!" Emilia shouted, firing wildly at the ghosts-made-flesh. Asellus could only watch in horror as the spirits tore through the magician, the force of impact knocking him off his feet. The mistresses' blows struck him repeatedly before he hit the floor, and once he did, he stayed down.

He's not getting up, Asellus realized. For the first time since the start of the battle, real fear seeped in. We can't heal any more. We've got to throw whatever we have left at him or we're all going to die.

Two of the spirits struck Emilia on their return trip to their master; she grunted, but did not take nearly as much of a hit as Rouge.

Ildon met Asellus' eyes. "You need to use all the strength you have," he hissed through clenched teeth. He was in pain, she saw, and doing his best to hide it.

A projectile flew through the air, missing Orlouge’s horned head by inches; when it hit the floor on the far side of the room, Asellus saw that it was Emilia's pistol. She'd joined them at the forefront of battle. "I'm out of ammo," she coughed regretfully; Asellus could see that Emilia was trying to prevent her own despair from showing. "But I'm not out. Maybe I'll be the first person ever to punch out a mystic lord. That's something, right?"

The four who remained surrounded the Charm Lord and his entourage. Orlouge, who had not uttered a sound since the battle began, still said nothing, but his eyes glowed in mirth—or was it cruelty? Maybe it's all the same to him, Asellus thought.

Zozma's eyes blazed. He stared directly at the Charm Lord as though the others had ceased to exist, but he acknowledged them with a throaty growl of "Go," before a shock of eldritch energy surrounded his form and he leapt at the enemy once more.

Ildon and Asellus moved to close the distance. Asellus raised her sword high, disregarding her own defense entirely. Did it even matter? Their weapons afforded no protection against the otherworldly assailants. Once Zozma was clear and there was no danger of striking him by mistake, she brought her sword down as hard as she could, aiming to cleave, to rend flesh and bone. The blade struck home, but the wound it carved was far too shallow. Either I'm hurt more than I realized, or he's upped his defenses, she thought forlornly.

Ildon's sword flashed, his movements a frenzied dance. If any of his strikes harmed the Charm Lord grievously, there was no indication; though blue blood dripped on the floor once more, Orlouge did not so much as flinch.

With renewed determination, Emilia ran to Orlouge and rained as many blows as she could with her bare fists. Orlouge did not raise a hand against her, but when Emilia lifted a leg to kick, she suddenly doubled over as though someone unseen had struck her. No, Asellus thought desperately.

To Asellus’ shock, Emilia flew into the air above their heads as though suspended by wires. She plummeted back to the ground, harder and faster than the force of gravity alone, and slammed into the floor with a sickening thud, cracking the marble tiles. Another unseen blow sent her sliding bonelessly across the floor.

Just keep going, Asellus told herself. End the threat, then you can help them afterwards. You have to—

A blissful smile appeared on the Charm Lord's face as he raised both hands in the air again. Asellus hardly had time to register what was coming before the blunt force of a collision knocked her backward. A spear pierced her midsection once, twice, three times. Claws tore at her as magic battered her. Wildly, Asellus thought of trampling hooves, of Ciato’s sword impaling her. She heard something ringing in her ears. She was screaming, she realized, but the sound of her pain and anger was lost in the cruel euphony of the mistresses' laughter.

Chapter Text

The room had become a theater. Three frescoed figures with unseeing eyes bore witness to the final curtain call from a domed ceiling overhead. At that distance, the variegated marble tiles of the stage deck formed the image of a rose in full bloom. The spectacle had drawn to a close; the players, save one, lay motionless upon the darkened stage.

Zozma sprawled gracelessly on his back. His hair had come free of its topknot and streamed across his shoulders. The strands touching the floor soaked up spilled blood as easily as paintbrush bristles and clumped together in tufts. He had pushed himself beyond the point of exhaustion, to the verge where blood loss endangered his survival, screaming his fury like a thunderclap as he launched assault after assault with fangs, claws, and dark magic. Whether emboldened by past grudges or a desperate attempt to prevent total defeat, he had given all he had until he simply collapsed, his spent body overriding his will.

Next to him, Ildon tried to push himself up to a sitting position, to have the pride left to at least look death in the face. He tossed his head in an attempt to move hair out of his face; he needed both hands to hold up his torso. How ironic for him to meet his end in a way similar to White Rose, caught between the master he’d sworn loyalty to and the child he’d been tasked with protecting.

It was Rastaban, once torn and bleeding as he himself was now, who had requested this of him after he thought his duty long over, and Ildon’s inability to refuse him had turned out to be his damnation. A soft chuckle escaped him; what was so funny? He was. The humorless sentinel had turned out to be the biggest joke of all. “So it all ends like this,” he sighed, and found that his arms no longer had the strength to support him. He sank to the ground, but stubbornly fought to keep his eyes open.

Heels clicked on the ground as Charm Lord stepped forward, regarding him. “Does it?” he asked mildly. His voice was soft, conversational, devoid of the fury one might expect from a sovereign surveying a batch of insurgents.

Ildon’s damp brow furrowed. Of all possible responses his lord might have to offer, that particular riposte was unexpected, to say the least.

As his master turned away from him in a swish of trailing robes, uncovering the meaning of those words seemed much less urgent. Ildon instead devoted himself to preserving what energy he had left, to prevent himself from collapsing completely like Zozma. He would hold on to the last shred of his pride until nothing remained.

Emilia, crumpled on her side, stirred and tried to turn her head in the direction of the footsteps. “Ren?” she called in a voice that shook slightly, “Ren, is that you?”

“This is a very beautiful human,” Orlouge remarked to all and no one in particular, continuing his lazy promenade around the center of the room before coming to a stop next to her nearly motionless form. “My daughter has discerning taste.”

“I can’t see, Ren,” Emilia continued. “I think I messed up. Maybe I’ll see you soon.”

“I am not the one you are calling for.” Orlouge considered Emilia, whose empty pistol lay abandoned on the far side of the room, where she’d previously flung it in desperation. “You gave your heart to another human, girl, didn’t you? Humans are as numerous as stars in the sky, yet you live and love for the briefest of moments before you die. Your lives would be tragic were they not always the same.”

“Wanted to show you my wedding dress,” Emilia smiled wistfully. “I’m sorry.”

“What first drew her to you?” Charm Lord asked out loud, the fallen fighters a captive audience for his soliloquy. “Your beauty? Your fury? You charged into my domain like an avenging angel, swearing to right a wrong beyond your mortal comprehension. How fascinating that my daughter would use an appeal to justice as one of her forms of charm. How very human of her. Yet she didn’t claim you completely, did she? In the end, you call out for a different human.

“What a shame to trample such a beautiful bloom underfoot.” Orlouge mused, and Emilia gasped lightly as she was swept off the ground. Her head lolled, blood dyed a tacky streak in her hair near her left temple, and one leg dangled at an impossible angle from a shattered tibia.

“No. I am not the one you’re calling for,” Orlouge repeated after gathering Emilia into his arms. She did not protest. “I would not abandon you to a suicide mission in a foreign land and leave you to die like a dog. Beauty such as yours should be protected and cherished.”

Emilia reached a hand outward, trying to touch a dead fiancé that she could not see.

“Had you been born in a past age,” Charm Lord intoned, “not so long ago, really, mystic lords would have chased you on horseback. Or on wings, or by the sea. It matters not. All would have hunted you, to be the one to find and claim you for himself. They would have fought for the right to do so. What exciting days those were. Yet here you are, a doe in the lair of the hunter, and have I not already won that right? It is over, and to the victor go the spoils.”

Emilia, though wounded and delirious, had enough presence of mind remaining to realize that Ren wasn’t the one monologuing at her. Wisps of Orlouge’s long hair tickled across her cheek as it blew in the breeze that existed only for him. She frowned in confusion. “Who—“

Orlouge gazed into her sightless eyes. “Your heart is hurting. There is yearning there. Ah,” he continued, one elegant brow arching in a semblance of commiseration, “The one you seek is already lost. Let me love you. I will be your protector, your keeper. I alone can promise you love that is eternal, for I never abandon those I cherish. Give your heart to me, and I will give you what you want. Never again will you grieve, for you will be mine forever.”

The fragrance of lilacs and wisteria numbed the wariness that had sprouted in Emilia’s mind, and she felt sunlight on her skin, warm and soothing. An exhausted smile bloomed on her face. “Forever…” she sighed, reaching futilely for the future torn from her when she stumbled upon Ren’s cooling corpse in her bedroom so many months ago: her life as she knew it, gone in an instant.

“I will give you forever,” Orlouge promised. He held her to his chest, lavender hair falling across her form like a waterfall of vines. “I will give you always. I am the perpetual bridegroom; I am the consort enduring. I have and I hold. Rest now, and give me your heart.”

To her surprise, the darkness suddenly lifted, and Emilia could see that she was wearing the wedding dress she’d so recently chosen. The form-fitting bodice and lace sleeves provided a simple contrast to the gathered satin skirt and voluminous train. Oh, she had enough experience with formal gowns to maneuver even with the train unbustled, but she’d have to remind her silly beau to watch where he stepped. Her hair cascaded down her back in perfect golden waves. Emilia knew she cut a beautiful figure just as she knew that grass was green; her career depended on her ability to look stunning, after all. Yet she suspected that today was different. Today of all days, she would be radiant in a way that comes only from true happiness.

Her groom held her in his arms, looking deep into her eyes, smitten. One corner of his mouth turned up, a smile just for her, the promise of many more to come. She beamed, reaching for that face to playfully tug the other corner of his mouth upward. “You have to smile for the pictures,” she teased, giggling as he tried unsuccessfully to avoid her grasp. “Do you want them to think this isn’t the happiest day of your life?”

“You always try to make me look silly,” he groused, but accepted her teasing good-naturedly and smiled genuinely as she ran a hand through his hair. Though she’d prodded him into a more natural smile, Emilia found that she couldn’t quite make out the rest of his facial features.

“I have a lot of time to make you look silly,” she agreed. “This is just the first day of our lives together.” She attempted to speak his name and paused unexpectedly, searching through memories and coming up empty. It was on the tip of her tongue, perhaps, lost in the moments that come between dreams and waking. Somehow, it didn’t seem important.

“Together,” the groom agreed, gazing upon his bride with open adoration that suggested that she was his entire world. “We’ll be together, forever.”

Emilia, sightless and broken in the arms of the enemy, adrift in the balm of dreams, reached with shaky hands for the lost future that she saw before her. “Forever,” she sighed again, and shut her eyes as Orlouge bent his head over her to claim his prize. When he finished, he laid her still form gently back on the floor, the wound in her throat already closing.

“This—is—unbelievable,” Rouge coughed from his own place on the ground several meters away. His attempts to force breath from his lungs landed somewhere between a grunt and a gasp.

“This one has beauty too,” Orlouge commented as he turned to face Rouge, scrutinizing him as if he were buying stones from a jeweler. “And such surprising power for a human. Where did she find you?”

Rouge’s robe had come unfastened at some point during the chaos of battle; both sides of it hung from his shoulders like incongruent broken wings. A fine-boned hand with long, pointed fingernails, inconceivably strong, fisted in the collared shirt he wore underneath his robe, and he found himself lifted halfway from the floor. His torso heaved as he struggled to draw air into a half-crushed chest.

“Funny that—the one who—kills me—won’t be him,” Rouge managed to force out, staring up into the face of a foe that was in maddening point blank range for a blast of magic. It no longer mattered; Rouge had exhausted his magical reserves trying to keep the group alive at the end.

“Who is he that you fear more than the Lord of Facinaturu?”

“Doesn’t matter now.” Rouge’s efforts to spit out an uninterrupted phrase were rewarded by a paroxysm of coughing. Blood flecked his lips. A long, slender finger reached out to wipe it clean; Rouge struggled against his own leaden limbs in an attempt to marshal a hand in defense. He looked away when the mystic lord lifted the finger to his own mouth. A bird has no desire to watch as the snake consumes it.

“There exists only one half-mystic in the world,” the Charm Lord began, once he was finished with the aperitif.

Rouge turned back to find the mystic gazing at him, the deceptively refined features of his face unmoved, but eyes alight with intent. One hand remained tangled in Rouge’s shirt, dangling him off the ground from the knees up.

“I am referring to my daughter, of course. She is half mystic, half human. That wasn’t my intent, you understand. It was an unexpected effect of the blood I gave her. Yet those two facets comprise a single being. She is no half-human who exists without another half to anchor it.”

“And?” Rouge scowled, wondering where exactly this was leading, yet careful not to speak too much, lest he produce enough blood to be sampled again. All members of the group were familiar with Asellus’ tale; she hadn’t tried to hide it.

“So how is it,” Orlouge asked him, as if he were a teacher explaining a concept to a particularly dense student, “that you do just that?”

Rouge coughed in response. His sunken chest hitched; strained wheezes ignited his broken ribs into a sunburst of pain. Rather than attempt to speak, he shook his head. Why waste any of his last moments trying to make sense of the senseless? He could spend it pondering other mysteries instead, such as the length of time Blue would wander around the regions seeking him in vain. How long would it take his brother to realize that someone else had gotten him first?

“Half a person.” The lord of Facinaturu was staring at him still; frowning slightly, as if Rouge were a puzzle he could not yet solve. His long purple and green robes rustled against the tiled floor, skating across and somehow floating over the blood streaked here and there, remaining unsoiled. “Half a mind, half a heart. Yet so powerful. How formidable you would be if you were complete. Humans claim to be the arbiters of right and wrong, yet even I, who they call merciless, have never torn a soul into two halves.”

“Not true,” Rouge argued, risking precious air to argue the insanity that was being forced upon him. He shook his head again, eyes narrowed. At least his brother would have just snuffed him out at the end, rather than let him marinate in his failure first.

“Believe what you wish, boy, but know that I speak the truth. You have been searching for something, have you not? Your destiny. Your fate.” The hand that was unmoored in Rouge’s shirt gestured. “What exactly are you looking for? What will happen when you find it? Will the emptiness inside of you be filled at last? Will you be whole?”

Rouge stared back at Orlouge, apprehension prickling the edges of his mind. Of course he’d spent his recent years away from the Kingdom searching for magic like a bug collector chasing rare butterflies. If he didn’t kill Blue when the time came, if he wasn’t strong enough to strike him down, then Blue would kill him. He’d known his fate for years, and never did it occur to him to question it. All who lived in the Magic Kingdom knew what he was meant for.

“You don’t need to run any longer,” Orlouge murmured, drawing the mage closer to him. Rouge’s legs dragged heavily on the floor. “No more scurrying to find the most powerful magic before your other half does. No more running from the emptiness you feel inside. No more semblance of an existence. I will remake you.”

“Can’t,” Rouge protested, and the word hung, unclaimed. Whether it was meant to be I can’t or You can’t, Orlouge continued unbothered.

“I can’t unite you with your other half. He isn’t here. Nor is it necessary. My gift to you is liberation. For the first time since you drew breath, you will be free of the curse placed on you, of the quest charged to you. You will be complete as you are. If you wish knowledge and power for its own sake, it will be within your reach. If you wish to grow your strength, your own desire will be all that limits you. Hone yourself solely for the pleasure that comes from power itself. Give yourself to me. Be free.”

“…Madness,” whispered Rouge, staring up at Charm Lord with eyes that were wide and so very transparent. His heart beat like a sparrow’s wings in his ruined ribcage.

The mystic lord met Rouge’s gaze with eyes that shifted from green to purple in the low light, the spectral glow denoting the centuries of knowledge and power contained within. “Is it? Is the thought of accumulating knowledge because you wish it, of power available to you without artificial limits, so unbelievable to you? Is it less desirable than the fact that your life has never been your own, that you have been charged with a destiny that would offer you as a sacrifice to your other half?”

Desperately, Rouge shook his head again, yet Orlouge gave him no respite.

“I offer you freedom. I offer you the chance to be complete as you are, the void inside you filled. Cast aside your fate and submit to me instead. Give yourself to me, and be reborn. I will make you perfect.”

Rouge shut his eyes simply because he could not shut his ears instead. Perhaps that made him a coward, but perhaps here, at the end of his life, that was forgivable. He wondered for a moment whether Blue would somehow know when he breathed his last, but dismissed it as unlikely, not to mention egotistical.

“And…” His foe paused for effect before continuing. “When you are mine, your other half will no longer be bound to his destiny.”

Rouge’s eyes blew open wide. He’d carried the weight of the fate he was born to ever since he was a child old enough to understand. He and his brother limited each other’s potential solely by existing. If Blue acquired a gift for a school of magic, then Rouge, for a reason that no magister was ever able to satisfactorily explain, could not. The reverse also applied: When Rouge mastered a magical discipline, its secrets were forever beyond Blue’s reach. Rouge held no love for his brother; that had been supplanted at an early age with a hunger for knowledge and a desire to survive. But what if things had been different?

What might he have been, if Blue hadn’t existed? What would it have been like to be able to choose his field of magical study simply for the fact that he found it interesting? Rather than a restless wanderer, unable to put down roots lest Blue find and attack him during his complacency, he might have been a professor teaching the Kingdom’s next crop of eager young minds. He could have been a traveler for the sake of experiencing other cultures, rather than rushing to and fro for clues to ancient magical powers. He might have settled outside the Kingdom, discovering talents within himself secondary to his magical skills, just waiting to be developed. He could have done any and all of those things, but by virtue of being Blue’s brother, they were all closed to him.

Ah, but Blue wasn’t the one currently at the mercy of an enemy. With Rouge gone, could Blue not do these things instead? No longer forced to fratricide, couldn’t Blue try his hand at swordplay or marksmanship? He could bury himself in a library, learning about ancient civilizations instead of ancient sorceries, or go on a whirlwind tour of the regions just to see what else was out there. He could go prospecting in Scrap, admire the scenery in Kyo, spend and drink to excess in Baccarat and regret everything the next day. With no Rouge to dictate his life’s path, Blue could instead do so for himself. Would he understand what a blessing it was?

The mise-en-scène of the group’s ill-fated battle faded. Rouge saw, then, a tableau set with jutting cliffs and harsh rock spires. It was nighttime; a cold wind blew. The moon, reduced to a slim crescent, hung low in the sky, encumbered by shadow. This was, Rouge realized, where he and Blue were to fight their preordained battle to the death. Prodded along like cattle, two pack mules bearing magical power instead of cargo, this was where one must fall for the glory of the Magic Kingdom.

Yet there were no combatants upon the dark battlefield. Perplexed, the breeze streaming in his hair, he saw that there were no footprints or any other indicators that the setting had been disturbed at all. Was he supposed to be here now?

The moonlight grew brighter then; the wind gentled, redolent with the slight scent of flowers. Would you choose this for yourself? The wind asked, as it rippled through Rouge’s hair, which was nearly as pale as the moonlight itself. For him?

“It wasn’t my choice to make,” Rouge answered, wondering at the tranquil fragrance of magnolias that enveloped him. “It never was.”

I bring you the gift of freedom, the wind whispered. Stop fighting me, and rest.

“…Freedom,” Rouge concluded, shakily, as the allure engulfed him at last. Orlouge smiled as he pulled the mage to himself. With a hand he tilted the unresisting head to the side, and Rouge groaned at the sting of sharp teeth in his throat. Orlouge did not drop him when he finished, instead lowering him carefully to the ground, noting with approval how the mage’s chest once again rose and fell without restriction.

“Damn you!” Though dizzy from blood loss, Asellus spat the words through clenched teeth and used her arms to push herself up. Her glare was red fire.

“My daughter.” Heels clicked on the tile as Orlouge turned to regard her. “I had high hopes for you.”

“I’m not your daughter. I told you that already.” From her prone position, Asellus could see that her allies had fallen. She had the sense that her body would simply fall to pieces if she attempted to stand. They had lost; now came the reckoning. Yet though she could no longer lift a blade, she could still say what needed to be said. She owed herself that much, she decided, consequences be damned. If it angered Orlouge enough to hasten her death, then so be it.

“I am not you and I never will be,” she added, emphatically. “All I wanted was for you to leave me alone.”

“Had I left you alone, you would have died on the filthy streets of your human city. Another inconsequential human life snuffed out. Instead, you received the gift of eternal life.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Asellus scowled. Her hands were wet with blood—her own, she realized, puddling from her punctured abdomen—and were too slippery to hold her up reliably, so she shifted her weight onto her elbows instead. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“You don’t understand what you are.” Expression inscrutable, Orlouge looked down at her. “With the power that is yours by right, you should have been a threat to my rule.”

“What?” Astonished, Asellus could only stare. “I didn’t come here to threaten your rule. I just wanted you to leave me alone! I wanted—“

“You felt no joy when you rent Ciato to the winds? You had no desire to steal Princess White Rose from me?”

“Don’t say her name like that!” Asellus exploded, spouting her outrage as fresh blood seeped underneath her. Orlouge’s words were salt on a very raw wound in her heart. “She’s not yours. You have no right to lock people in coffins or trap them in darkness because you feel like throwing a temper tantrum. People belong to themselves, not to you!”

“I have the right to do what I wish with what is mine.” Orlouge’s eyes, the color of Facinaturu’s skies, darkened. “You fail to understand that as well. You will.”

“No one is yours,” Asellus insisted. “It doesn’t matter if you kill me—I’m not. And I never will be.” In the face of overwhelming failure, she could be content with that, she supposed. She had failed to free White Rose from imprisonment, and led her friends to their deaths, so it was only right that she follow them. Yet she would remain herself to the end, defiant until the last.

“I had thought to erase my mistake,” Orlouge began, as though she were an uncontrolled variable in an experiment. “I saw how you fought me. You spurned the mystic gifts in your blood and challenged me with a human blade instead. You gathered a coterie of humans and left their hearts unfettered. You cannot best a mystic lord if you refuse to think like a mystic.”

The adrenaline fueling Asellus’ rage was slowly fading, overtaken by the lassitude caused by blood loss. The wounds she’d suffered didn’t hurt that much, she rationalized, compared to the sting of her guilt.

Sorry, White Rose. Asellus voiced her regrets in her own mind to prevent Orlouge from deriving any satisfaction from hearing them out loud. Sorry, everyone. I let you down. I didn’t want you to die for me.

“It’s clear that you need guidance.” Orlouge’s gaze turned thoughtful. “And you took something from me, but you returned bearing gifts. You may yet be salvageable.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Asellus rolled her eyes, at that moment an archetypical teenage girl.

One corner of Orlouge’s mouth lifted in a half-smile, and Asellus decided that she liked it much less than the previously confounding expression he’d worn. “As I said, you will.”

Orlouge took several steps toward her, and Asellus closed her eyes, waiting for the blow that would end her life. Would he do it himself or delegate the job to one of the laughing spirits under his control? Either way, she didn’t want Orlouge to be the last thing she saw, so she summoned memories of White Rose instead.

It was comforting to see White Rose behind her closed eyes. Asellus drank in the sight of White Rose standing before a window, her beauty even more resplendent in the soft silver moonlight. Her fingertips twitched while White Rose gripped her hand as they skulked through an alley, squeezing tight so that they wouldn’t be separated in the throng of people. Her eardrum tickled ever-so-slightly when White Rose whispered encouragement as Asellus tried, for the umpteenth time, to conjure the simplest spell of mystic magic.

“You have lost a great deal of blood.” Orlouge addressed her matter-of-factly, pointing out the obvious. “Without sleep, you will not recover.”

Asellus opened her eyes to see him simply standing in front of her, without raised hands or any magic readied whatsoever. She laughed despite herself. “Like that’s going to happen.”

Orlouge continued as if she’d said nothing at all. “What will you do? If you keep fighting it, your body will be unable to recover and you will die. You will disappear.”

“And if I don’t, you’re going to kill me,” Asellus retorted. He couldn’t possibly think she was that stupid. “So it really doesn’t matter either way.”

“Whether you live or not is up to you.” Startled by those words, Asellus stared as he continued speaking in riddles. “It will take time, but your body will heal.”

“I don’t trust you!” Asellus spat the words out. “You want to stab me or stuff me in a coffin or—something worse.”

“If you decide that arguing with me is more important, you will bleed to death on the floor here. You still think like a human, but even humans seek not to let themselves die.” He sounded like an adult explaining to a young child that climbing on furniture was dangerous, Asellus thought in annoyance.

“You expect me to believe that you’ll let me heal up and then—what?” Asellus blurted. “Everyone else jumps up back to life? We forget this ever happened and everything’s great?” She spared another look in the direction of her friends, and regret more piercing than any battle injury stung her heart. From her viewpoint on the ground it was hard to tell the collapsed forms apart. Three different colors of blood spattered the battlefield; pettily, Asellus hoped that at least some of it was his.

“You have my blood. Do you truly have no idea of what comes next?”

“I can’t stand you,” glowered Asellus, the loss of said blood slowing the pounding timpani of rage in her heart. The best insult to Orlouge, she knew, was indifference, yet she couldn’t deny herself the chance to spit out her anger at all that had been forced upon her. “Just stop bothering me and get it over with then.”

Orlouge smiled then, and a beatific expression settled on his delicate features. “Good,” he answered, looking upon her with approval. “Hate is yet another form of love.”

“You’re crazy,” whispered Asellus. Her hands and feet felt very, very cold, she realized, and the effort to prop herself up was more than she cared to expend; she let herself fall slowly to the ground.

“Prideful to the end? Good. This is what it takes for you to finally begin to act like a mystic, then.”

There was more that Asellus wanted to say to him. She wanted to regale him with long, impassioned speeches about justice and respect. She wanted to deliver an oral thesis on how love is different than control. She wanted to tell him that despite all efforts, she lived life as herself and rejected what others would try to mold her into. She wanted to say more, but the world swam in front of her.

There was too much of her own blood on the ground, dark with the curse of unwanted power, a stark contrast against the brighter palette of the tiled floor. I hope he never gets the stains out, she thought dizzily as her vision faded, and closed her eyes as her body’s desperate need for regeneration pulled her into deep slumber.

Chapter Text

Rastaban offered no resistance as four hoplites pulled him up the stairways of Chateau Aiguille. It didn’t prevent them from interpreting his slow speed as hesitation, and he merely offered an apologetic smile when they growled at him to get moving. They’d figure out soon enough that he was going as fast as his still-healing body was capable.

It was ironic, he supposed, that they were retracing the same steps the half-mystic had walked not too long ago, and this did not bode well at all. No, this was very much the opposite of “well.”

They passed through the bloodless landing that had been Ciato’s final stand, the next—far messier—that had been Princess Lion’s (and how that girl had lamented after she’d seen the princess vanish!), and finally the place where he’d stood to bear witness to the half-mystic’s measured ascent. She’d much improved; Ildon had done his job well.

But. It was this space where he’d exhorted her to kill Orlouge and take the kingdom for herself. And it was here that she’d looked at him like he’d grown two heads and informed him that she had no intention of doing so. Very well, he’d answered, and disappeared to the safe house in Rootville to await the outcome.

There were unknowns either way, of course; the best-case scenario would be a victor so weakened by battle that they could be easily taken care of—not by him, perhaps, he still lacked his power—but there were others that could be swayed. The worst possible outcome wouldn’t necessarily be the Charm Lord suspecting his involvement and dragging him out of his convalescence to explain himself. No, the worst outcome would be the Charm Lord having him summarily executed. But now that the former was currently unfolding, the worst could still follow.

The knights dragged him past his former perch and to Orlouge’s private quarters. He was able to maintain his calm, unruffled expression through many years of practice, even as his mind spun in earnest. He had a good idea of what he was about to witness, but he must project the very image of surprise and naiveté if he wanted to have a chance of survival. There was also a nonzero chance that Orlouge already knew the details of his machinations and had been humoring him the whole time for his own entertainment.

He was brought up one more flight of crystal stairs and shoved roughly to his knees. He took in the fallen humans, fallen mystics, lone half mystic, and floor beneath him soaked in blood. His coat and certainly his breeches would be terribly stained, and were probably a lost cause. A shame; he really liked this ensemble.

If Ciato were in his position, he’d probably have no qualms about lapping the blood right off the tiles in an attempt to restore himself. The hunter had been a useful idiot, desperate in his own way and so very predictable, so easy to provoke down the path that Rastaban wished him to follow. Now that he was gone, none would mourn him, but there would be some jockeying for position among Orlouge’s knights as they sought to be the one to replace him. Such was the fate of a mystic.

“Leave us,” his master’s voice echoed, and Rastaban heard retreating footsteps as his escorts scrambled to follow orders.

Orlouge, of course, was standing in the center of the room, a thistle whose thorns grew sharper for the years upon years of unquestioned rule over his territory. Rastaban tried to remember the last time that a serious threat to Orlouge’s reign over Facinaturu had emerged and found that he could not.

“Rastaban.”

The Charm Lord spoke his name, and Rastaban found himself pulled to rapt attention, as if tugged on a string. The sway that the lord of Facinaturu held over them all was inescapable, even now. Rastaban detested it. His own inability to resist frustrated him, but perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t. He must be reverent if he was to seem non-threatening, but not so much so that it seemed an obvious act.

“My Lord,” he answered, and bowed his head. “I apologize for my absence. I have been indisposed.”

“My court has been interesting as of late,” Orlouge began, disregarding his apologies. “Ciato attacked you and pilfered your power. Not long after, Ildon left Facinaturu to head to my daughter’s side, despite his lack of enthusiasm when I appointed him her tutor. Such unexpected behavior from all three of you amuses me, but I wonder at the cause.”

“Yes, Ciato turned on me, My Lord,” Rastaban agreed, keeping his head down as a show of deference. None of the mystics in Asellus’ party had vanished, he saw, which might be a good sign. It was very hard to tell with Orlouge. His plan might be for Rastaban to watch them all die, to gauge his culpability by his reaction. He would prefer Ildon not to die, but that was beyond his control.

“He gave a megalomaniacal speech about how powerful he planned to become,” Rastaban continued, with suitable gravitas. “I doubted his sanity, and I feared that he would attack your heir next. I asked Ildon to go to her side and protect her.”

“How charitable of you.” The Charm Lord’s voice was even, betraying nothing. “You had no idea that he would remain by her side when she turned her blade on me?”

“I can’t pretend to know what she was thinking, My Lord.” Rastaban answered an adjacent question rather than the one actually posed; it would not escape Orlouge’s notice, so he followed up quickly. “But I did ask Ildon to protect her, and it’s possible that he took my request quite literally, to its absolute end. He was…quite upset when he saw the state I was in. It haunts me that I may have set him on a path to stray, and I apologize.”

“You apologize,” his lord repeated drily. “You had nothing to do with my daughter’s outburst?”

This would be a lot easier, thought Rastaban, if Orlouge’s voice gave any inclination of emotion whatsoever, something for him to work with.

“I have been convalescing, My Lord,” Rastaban replied. If Orlouge refused to show his hand, he should react in kind so as not to paint himself into a corner. He could add something about how he might have convinced her otherwise had he not been out of commission, but that would be too much. Orlouge would see right through it.

“Your body may be weak, but your mind remains keen. You know very well the effect of your words on certain people,” and Rastaban did not miss the emphasis on certain, “and you expect me to believe that you had no part in this, schemer?”

Rastaban knew that his time to derail the interrogation was short; in truth, he understood that he had no real chance of deceiving Orlouge. He could have waited for a better candidate before setting his plans into motion, but how many additional hundreds of years would that take? Would another opportunity ever have presented itself? Too late for regrets now, in any case. He opened his mouth to deny his involvement once more.

“He didn’t.” The voice, low, weak, and yet so familiar, came from across the room. Rastaban hurriedly shut his mouth as Ildon continued, “This was my decision alone.”

Ildon, man of few words and fewer sentiments, who lay on the ground in a far more precarious state than he himself, was speaking in his defense. Ildon was offering himself so that Rastaban might be spared.

You fool, Rastaban thought. He had to know that Rastaban would not have done the same if their positions were reversed.

Orlouge’s tone changed then, his voice full of mirth as he regarded Rastaban again. “Will you try to convince me that what he says is true? That my most loyal knight plotted sedition while I remained oblivious? Or will you shoulder the blame to save him? You must assuage my curiosity, Rastaban.”

Rastaban, who had not expected Ildon to be in any condition to appeal for him, did not have a stock answer prepared. He would have to go with his instinct and hope for the best. “Ildon is wounded, My Lord,” he began, choosing a middle-of-the-road, non-committal response. “I would not expect him to be capable of a true accounting of his actions at the moment.”

Two sounds followed his statement: a muted scoff from Ildon, and a delighted chuckle from Orlouge. The latter was musical, more a shirring of wind chimes than vocal exclamation. “I can’t expect you to admit to your own actions either then, since you are also wounded. Is that right?”

Inwardly, Rastaban cursed that his words were so easily used against him. Not his finest moment by any measure.

“I expected you to seize the opportunity to save yourself,” the Charm Lord continued. “How amusing that you chose not to. Shall we see how long this resolve lasts?”

Rastaban felt it would be a mistake to respond to Orlouge at that moment, so he simply remained silent.

Orlouge gave him a moment to take the bait before he continued. “You will need to make a choice. Both of you. Will you still choose each other in the end?”

“My Lord,” Rastaban ventured, because Orlouge’s voice had changed again, to something sharper, more dangerous, and he suspected that it was now safer to say something than to hold his tongue. Perhaps there was no right answer, for at that moment his surroundings plunged into darkness.

Rastaban’s eyes took some time to adjust, and he found that the ground underneath him and all the space around him was inky black. The air rippled with just enough witchlight to see, and the contrast ironically made the darkness that much more profound. Ildon lay several feet away, wounded deeply but not dead; he had not vanished. Somewhere behind him, Rastaban could make out the wavering shape of a door. Oh…

Ildon opened his eyes and fixed him with a steely glare. “You’re an idiot,” he proclaimed, a litany of complaints distilled into one simple sentence.

“Hello to you, too.” Rastaban rose from his knees at last, shuffled closer to Ildon, and sat next to him. “Would this be what I think it is?”

“Yes.” Ildon still glared at him, though he had to adjust the angle for Rastaban’s proximity. “The Dark Labyrinth. Wander for eternity, no exit without a sacrifice. I’ve been here before, you know.”

“I know,” Rastaban replied, reaching over to brush some damp hair out of Ildon’s face. “You told me about it before you went off to storm Chateau Aiguille.”

“Now I’m here again.” Ildon did not try to shake off Rastaban’s hand. He’d probably wanted that hair out of his eyes for a while. “And once again, it’s your fault.”

“You wound me,” Rastaban sighed. He pulled his hand back; his white glove now bloomed with blue patches. “I didn’t tell you to follow that half-mystic as she clashed with Lord Orlouge. That was your decision.”

Ildon snorted, and Rastaban tsked at the undignified sound.

“When did you lose your mind? Was it after Ciato attacked you, or did it happen before then?” Ildon’s sharp tongue was unchanged, and with luck it would mean that he was not in danger of death.

Rastaban would take that small victory. “You must tell me what happened,” he urged.

“There’s not much to tell.” Ildon closed his eyes briefly. “The half-mystic argued with Lord Orlouge for a bit, and when we left his private balcony, he was waiting. We fought, and you saw the results.”

“I did,” Rastaban agreed, “but I didn’t see anyone dead. And that surprises me.”

“I surprise you. Wonderful.”

“You know what I mean. No one vanished, and I don’t think the humans were dead—but it’s so hard to tell with humans.”

“He did help himself to her humans,” Ildon added.

“I suppose that isn’t unexpected. But the full picture remains a puzzle. Our lord is many things, but I wouldn’t expect him to be so charitable after an attempt on his rule.”

“It wasn’t an attempt on his rule, you twit.” Ildon had a new scowl ready for every exchange, as if he collected them the way Rastaban collected jabots. “She didn’t even use mystic power when she fought. She told him after it was over that she only wanted to be left alone. Why did you ask me to protect someone so ill-suited to being a mystic?”

“Interesting,” Rastaban began, thoroughly unaffected by Ildon’s jabs. “I wonder what his game is.”

“Trying to understand a mystic lord is a fool’s errand,” Ildon replied. “So is trying to understand you.”

“How you flatter me,” Rastaban sang, and placed a hand on Ildon’s shoulder. There was more blood on Ildon’s coat than he’d first realized. Its dark color made it difficult to tell. “Tell me. How badly hurt are you?”

“Enough to be thoroughly useless.” One could always count on Ildon to not sugarcoat anything. “I don’t feel that I’m going to disappear, but I’m not getting up again without blood or rest.”

“Are your injuries worse than mine were?”

“Seems so,” Ildon replied brusquely, and then eyed Rastaban. “Don’t you dare offer me your blood. You don’t have any to spare.”

“Unfortunately, you’re correct,” sighed Rastaban, squeezing Ildon’s shoulder gently. “Well, you can’t walk, so shall I carry you?”

“How do you expect to do that when you can hardly walk yourself?” Ildon snapped, and Rastaban smiled at him. “You should have stayed out of everything in the first place. I told you that.”

“Maybe I missed you,” murmured Rastaban, and Ildon’s glower was its own reward. “Or maybe I wanted to see how things would play out. Well, it’s over now, either way. I could pull you along by your ankles, if you prefer?”

“Stop,” Ildon growled, and Rastaban’s smile grew. “You aren’t taking this seriously.”

“I find that levity helps one not ‘lose their mind.’”

“You should be thinking about taking care of yourself, instead of bothering me.”

“Why are they mutually exclusive?” Rastaban asked, then turned serious. “I am also in the position of needing time to heal properly. Do we have that here?”

“We have nothing else,” Ildon responded, and shut his eyes again as he spoke. “Unless Lord Orlouge sends people here to finish us off.”

“I’ll keep watch then,” Rastaban assured him, and he felt the tension in Ildon’s body lessen momentarily at his words. “Why don’t you rest.” He did not need to command as the Charm Lord might. Not when they had no other options remaining.

“Ironic,” Ildon mumbled. “I said something similar to you not long ago.”

“You did,” Rastaban agreed, “but I don’t remember being angry about it like you are.”

“Because you’re insufferable,” Ildon complained, but said nothing further.

Rastaban moved a hand through the green shroud of Ildon’s hair. The blood in it had grown tacky, and he’d need more than a makeshift combing session to get it out. The black clothes Ildon favored would hide most of the bloodstains, but he really should get them replaced rather than mended. He would need to remind Ildon of that later.

Chapter Text

Solitude, Rastaban thought, was enough of a punishment in itself. His offer to act as lookout had put Ildon at ease enough to enter healing slumber, but now Rastaban was left without company or stimulation of any kind.

The currents of low light in the gloom were scant entertainment; Rastaban had plenty of time to contemplate their exact shade of blue before the colors changed before his eyes. He blinked and realized that there was no color shift; his eyes merely responded to his fixation by blurring the image. His gloves lay macerated and discarded somewhere to the side after he’d removed them and sucked what blood he could off the soft leather. Waste not.

With enough time, he too would recover his full strength, but not nearly as fast as he would if he’d let himself rest as well. It would have to be that way, for he could not leave them unguarded in their current surroundings. Keeping his mind busy for that time would be the challenge.

Isolation, cruel and insidious, lapped at the edges of his mind, an eroding tide upon rocky shoreline. It might be easier, he thought, if he were free to wander around the place, looking for whatever secrets it had to offer. The door-shape in the distance was tantalizing, solid in a way that the rest of the environs were not. But shuffling off to investigate would mean leaving Ildon, and Rastaban was not ready to do that. He could in the future, if he chose, when more of his power returned and his gait was surer.

Leaving Ildon could also mean that by the rules of the place, Rastaban was free to leave. But that was a question for later. Best to wait until he was assured that he could actually find the exit before doing so.

When, after an unmeasurable stretch of time, the door in the distance slowly pushed outward and a pastel-toned figure appeared, Rastaban first assumed it to be another trick of his weary eyes, or of boredom. He reconsidered when looking briefly elsewhere did not banish it, stood as quickly as he could bring himself to, and prepared to call his faeblade until he realized that it was someone he recognized.

The delicate scent of rose petals filled the air as the person hesitantly approached, accompanied by the slight bounce of tulle and the flutter of a lacy train. Once she was close enough to see who was before her, her hand flew to her mouth and she hurried toward them.

“My Lord Rastaban!” White Rose exclaimed breathily; her eyes were wide with shock. Although her spiral curls were unmussed, the namesake flowers in her hair drooped slightly. “And Ildon, too? He’s hurt! What happened?”

“Ah, Princess White Rose. You are a vision, even in such a desolate place as this.” Rastaban’s smile was practiced enough to come easily as he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.

“Ildon is hurt,” White Rose repeated once Rastaban released her hand. Smoothing the front of her skirt, she bent down for a closer look at Ildon’s motionless form. “He’s badly injured. What in the world…”

“He is hurt, my lady, but he will recover,” Rastaban assured her. “It was quite the challenge convincing him that he should rest. I’m sure you know how Ildon is.”

“What about you?” White Rose stood to look him over. Though she must have found him in much better condition than Ildon, her eyes were full of worry when she met his.

“What you see are the lingering effects of my encounter with Ciato.” Rastaban’s continued smile had no effect on the concern that pinched White Rose’s doll-like face.

“Lady Asellus defeated Ciato,” she stated.

Rastaban, well aware, maintained his benign expression.

“Then who…” Her voice trailed off; she drew in a breath before continuing. “Who did this to Ildon? And where is Lady Asellus? Is she safe?”

“My dear lady,” Rastaban began, in the delicate tone of a messenger delivering bad news, “since Ildon and I are here, in the Dark Labyrinth, you must have an idea of who is responsible.”

“But why?” Although she kept her stare fixed on Rastaban, her voice began to waver. “Ildon escaped the Dark Labyrinth with Lady Asellus. What did he do to anger Lord Orlouge? Where is Lady Asellus?”

“Lady Asellus is not with us.”

“Where is she?” White Rose’s voice rose a half-octave, edged in worry.

“Ildon joined Lady Asellus when she raised her sword against Lord Orlouge.”

At Rastaban’s words, White Rose gasped and raised both hands to her mouth.

“They were unsuccessful,” Rastaban continued. “I did not join them, but Lord Orlouge suspected me just the same and pronounced judgment on Ildon and I. Lady Asellus was alive when he did. That is all I know.”

“No…” White Rose shook her head; her curls bounced about her shoulders as she did. “I told Lady Asellus to be free. I stayed here to ensure that she could be.”

“A sacrifice befitting Facinaturu’s most compassionate princess,” Rastaban added soothingly.

“I knew that if I performed penance here, then my lord’s anger at Lady Asellus would fade. She didn’t want to return to Facinaturu. Why did she?” Lost, White Rose searched Rastaban’s face for answers. “Why did she attack Lord Orlouge? I don’t understand.”

“Her reasons are her own, my lady.” Rastaban took both of White Rose’s hands and held them in a gesture of comfort. “You could not have known.”

“But you know.” Unmollified, the princess looked up at him. “Why?”

“Lady Asellus believed that she would not be free of Lord Orlouge unless she settled matters with him herself,” Rastaban began. When White Rose’s face began to crumple, he added, “I believe she also wished to free her dearest companion from the Dark Labyrinth.”

“No!” White Rose pulled herself away. She covered her face with her hands and hunched her shoulders, as a flower draws its petals together at dusk. “There was no reason for them to fight if I stayed here! I meant to protect Lady Asellus from my lord’s ire, not kindle her own! How could this have happened…” The anguished voice, muffled behind the wall of her hands, trailed off.

Rastaban had thought the concept of self-sacrifice alien to mystics. Yet Ildon’s attempt to save him from Orlouge’s wrath, and White Rose’s grief at the half-mystic’s fate, led him to consider that it might not be the case. Perhaps it was only he for whom it was a distant notion.

As he watched White Rose suffer in silence, he concluded that it would indeed be better for the idea to be completely absent from mystics’ comprehension. It hadn’t done Ildon or White Rose any favors.

At length White Rose removed her hands from her face and straightened her posture. Her face showed no sign of tears. Perhaps she’d simply wanted more privacy as she dealt with Rastaban’s news. The irony of the Dark Labyrinth was that one was both completely exposed and completely isolated at the same time.

“Tell me,” White Rose tried, looking at Rastaban forlornly, “what do you think will become of Lady Asellus?”

“I couldn’t presume to know Lord Orlouge’s mind.” This was certainly true.

“But you must have some idea,” White Rose persisted, eyebrows drawn together. “They say that nothing that happens within the castle walls escapes Lord Orlouge’s notice. But you’re also very astute, Rastaban.”

“My lady, you assign a level of capability to me that I can’t possibly live up to.”

White Rose may have been known for her soft nature, but she was no fool.

“I can guess what might happen,” he allowed, “but it would be just that—a guess.”

“Guess, then.” She would not be easily rebuffed. Not here.

“Although the battle was lost, there were no fatalities. Lord Orlouge could have easily erased both Ildon and I, but he didn’t. He didn’t even seem angry, just amused.” There was no harm in telling her the truth. “He told Ildon and I that we need to make a choice, and here we are.”

“A choice,” White Rose repeated. “A choice between…?”

“Between each other and him,” Rastaban elaborated. “What else could he mean?” The unspoken decision, the hedged bet between the upstart half-mystic and the lord of Facinaturu, would remain his alone.

“What did he tell Lady Asellus?”

“If he said anything to her, it was not in my presence. She told him that she only wished to be left alone, or so Ildon tells me.” At White Rose’s expectant expression, he continued. “It is possible that Lady Asellus will be executed to show what happens to those who defy the Charm Lord.”

A low, anguished moan came from White Rose’s throat. As a longtime denizen of Chateau Aiguille, she had to be aware of the possibility before Rastaban spoke, yet perhaps she waited for him to say the words out loud before truly acknowledging it.

“It’s also possible that it won’t happen. Lord Orlouge delights in subjugating those with the will to oppose him. His goal may be simply that.”

Stricken, White Rose said nothing as Rastaban mused.

“But I wonder if it really is that simple,” he continued. “Lady Asellus seems unaffected by his charm. Does his fascination with her stem from that alone?”

“Lord Orlouge stressed to me that the education of his daughter was important,” White Rose interjected softly. “He told me that she held a great obligation to him and the kingdom.”

“Yes, he caused distress to many when he announced that she is his daughter and heir,” Rastaban agreed. “I thought it just a passing fancy at first. But perhaps…”

“Perhaps?” White Rose prodded.

“Unlike the rest of us, Lady Asellus feels no compulsion to obey Lord Orlouge,” Rastaban began. “Yet he still named such a creature as his successor, and tasked his most loyal knight and gentlest princess as her educators. And he didn’t seem angry that she turned against him. He must want something from her.”

White Rose eyed him warily. “What else could Lady Asellus have that Lord Orlouge wants?”

“If he does truly wish for her to be his heir, as he says, then he may wish for her to follow in his footsteps.”

White Rose appeared unconvinced. “Why would Lord Orlouge want that? He is the supreme ruler of Facinaturu. Surely Lady Asellus could not match him, even if she wanted to.”

“Perhaps.” For the sake of discussion, Rastaban voiced agreement. “But is that what matters to him? Lady Asellus is the only person in Facinaturu who isn’t infatuated with him, but there may be another way for him to conquer her. Is imitation not a form of adoration?”

White Rose shook her head; auburn curls floated in front of her face as she did. "No matter what happens...Lady Asellus will never be free. She will never find her happiness now, will she? All of this...it's come to nothing."

"Was freedom ever within her grasp?" Rastaban asked. "There was but one path to achieve it, and she rejected it."

"Lady Asellus, why did you return to Facinaturu? Is this, too, my fault?" White Rose's hands fidgeted nervously with one of the gathered puffs of her skirt. She laughed suddenly, a broken and miserable sound in the emptiness of the Labyrinth. "Even when I try to help Lady Asellus, I only hurt her."

"My lady," Rastaban began, letting her have her space, "you cannot hold yourself responsible for the poor choices of others."

Sorrow filled White Rose's face. Rastaban smiled at her, almost, but not quite apologetic. "And now you'll have to excuse my rudeness. I believe I've reached the limit of my stamina, and I beg your pardon."

The princess startled in surprise as he carefully sat back down on the ground. His weak legs groaned in relief.

"I'm so sorry! I should have done this sooner," White Rose exclaimed, now looking down at him.

He had little time to wonder what she was on about before a warm light shone upon him, momentarily illuminating the gloom. His recuperating body drank it in. White Rose's light magic would not be enough to heal him to full strength, not even close, but every small bit was a help.

A moment later, healing light illuminated Ildon's slack form. Rastaban could not help but smile wryly. "Your efforts are much appreciated, my lady," he told her, "but we are beyond healing magic now."

"I was too caught up in my own worries," White Rose offered, moving the few steps closer to them. In the void, her heels were soundless. "I know this won't restore you. But I want to do what I can."

"Your company is respite enough in this dismal Labyrinth."

"No. No." White Rose stared down at him intently. "You cannot stay here."

Rastaban chuckled. The darkness beneath him remained undisturbed. “I share the sentiment, my lady, but where would you have us go? Ildon is in no position to go anywhere, and I am not fit for a journey.”

“Rastaban. Please escape.” White Rose’s face was set, her voice resolute. “I will watch over Ildon as he heals. With both of us remaining behind, the door to the outside world will open for you.”

It must have been the mental muddle born of prolonged solitude that made him uncharacteristically push back on her request. Had the perfect opportunity not dropped right in his lap? “While I am grateful for the offer, I doubt that I can make it that far. I am still in very precarious shape.”

“I know the way out. I’ll make sure that you do too before you go.” Undeterred, White Rose continued. “Can you walk, even a little? Rest when your strength ebbs, and continue when you are able.” Perhaps the princess, who had remained in the Labyrinth longer than he, had taken leave of her senses.

“Why are you so eager to see me leave?”

“Because you must look after Lady Asellus.” She spoke boldly, as if Rastaban would not dare to disagree. “I can’t abide the thought of Lady Asellus lost and alone. Please, do this for me.”

“I would have expected you to leave Ildon and me here,” Rastaban pointed out, “and leave this place to do so yourself. It makes more sense for Lady Asellus to be protected by the one who loves her.”

“I can’t,” she protested, and knelt beside him so that they were at the same height. Her skirt rustled. “I love Lady Asellus, but I also love my lord. And because of this, I’ve brought her nothing but misfortune.”

“As I said, my lady, you can’t blame yourself for others’ failures.”

“I couldn’t stand to leave and see them at each other’s throats.” White Roses’ eyes, clear and unwavering, met his. “I belong to my lord, but my heart yearns for Lady Asellus. Watching them locked in opposition would hurt deeply, especially when there is nothing I can do to stop it. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Ah.” That explained things. Compassion would ever remain her downfall. “You are in an unenviable position, then. Is that why you chose to stay here in the first place?”

“I stayed here to prevent a situation like this,” White Rose corrected. “But perhaps…perhaps it was inevitable.”

“So the wheel turns,” remarked Rastaban. “Who knows what further parts we may have to play?"

"Do this for me, please," White Rose pleaded. "Ildon will be safe. I'll make sure of it. I'll send him to join you once he's recovered."

"It would be safer for Ildon to remain here. Facinaturu is no place for him. Not now." What future could Ildon, forced by Rastaban's own hand to play turncoat, have in a realm where the regent stood triumphant?

"That's up to him, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," Rastaban allowed. "Where does the Labyrinth lead? If I find the exit, where will I be once I leave?"

"I don't know," White Rose replied. "But you are resourceful. I know that you will be all right, whatever happens."

"My lady, I don't deserve such compliments." It wasn't meant as a compliment. They both knew that. "You must understand that if I leave, I won't be back. Are you prepared for that?"

"Yes." Satisfied, White Rose leaned close to him. "Please listen carefully. I'll tell you how to reach the exit. Repeat as much as you can back to me. When you have the route memorized, go. And may luck be with you."

"Luck is not what will save us." Rastaban stretched his legs to see if they were ready to try standing again. "All right then, my lady. I am ready."

The journey to the Labyrinth’s exit was laughably slow. Rastaban was able to walk, very carefully, but had to stop and rest more times than he would like (or would ever admit). With Ildon in capable hands, he had no reason to stay any longer. The only worry in his mind was what awaited him on the other side of the final door once he found it.

“Listen at the doors before you open them,” White Rose had advised, before he’d set out. “Then you’ll know if there are monsters on the other side.” That advice proved to be correct; the agitated snarls and footsteps behind some of the doors faded if he waited long enough. It also provided him with an opportunity to regain some energy before proceeding. White Rose, ever eager to be helpful, had cast one last healing spell before he left her. If it would extend his stamina by even the smallest fraction, he would take it.

The door that White Rose claimed to be the exit could not have been more obvious. Three short marble steps led to a set of mahogany double doors framed by heavy, ornamental brass hinges. Were it not for the princess’ certainty that it was indeed the means of egress, he would suspect it of being a trap.

Oh, he would not miss the current surroundings. Even if the door were to drop him into Facinaturu’s incinerator, or on some mountaintop far from civilization, it would be immensely preferable to the place he’d unwillingly sojourned. For how long had he remained beside Ildon in the unyielding darkness? Time in Facinaturu itself was difficult to mark, and inside the Dark Labyrinth, it was impossible.

Rastaban leaned against the doorway for a moment, listening for threats. It would be a terribly ironic end if he found the way to freedom, only to be eaten by a beast as soon as he stepped through it. But he heard no sounds from the other side. Without another thought, he reached for the doors’ handles and pushed them outward.

The contrast in light between the Dark Labyrinth and the world outside was enough to make him shield his eyes and force them shut. He stood for several moments, slowly squinting less and less, until they’d adjusted. Finally, he was able to open them fully.

To his dismay, he found himself back in the same place he’d entered the Labyrinth: Orlouge’s portrait gallery. This time, he was alone. There was no trace of the scene he’d witnessed before the Charm Lord condemned him to wander the darkness. No blood of any color marred the fine mosaic tiles underfoot.

Slowly, he turned around to confirm that the Labyrinth’s door was gone. Indeed, there was nothing there, as if it had never existed. He had no desire to return to the Dark Labyrinth, but he certainly wasn’t in any less danger now.

What was the best course of action from here? Did Orlouge expect him to ever return in the first place? Was there a trap waiting for him, one more jest for the Charm Lord at his expense?

In better times he would simply fade from his current surroundings and reappear at a safer space of his choosing. Yes, that would be ideal, but after limping through the Labyrinth, he didn’t have the strength for that. There was also the pesky fact that Orlouge’s knights had been able to find him, even when he hid in Rootville.

It would have to be on foot, then. He almost sighed, but stopped himself before giving it form. That expression was unbecoming, even with no one around to witness it. And when his legs lost their strength and required that he sit until they regained enough to proceed, he would be out in the open and exposed in his indignity. How regrettable.

There were two spiral staircases before him. He recognized one of them. Yes, he’d been dragged up that very staircase to face Orlouge’s judgment. There was another; he had no knowledge of where it led, and so taking it was assuredly not an option. Delving deeper into the Charm Lord’s private quarters was a terrible idea if he hoped to survive.

Slowly, one halting step at a time, he edged down the set of stairs he remembered, his first obstacle on the path that eventually led outside. If he could somehow make his way undetected down all the flights of stairs awaiting him, it would be a miracle. Yet miracles would not happen to those who hesitate, and so Rastaban crept forward. As White Rose said, he was resourceful.

Scarcely had he made it to the bottom of the stairs in the portrait room and approached its doorway than he heard familiar voices. Surprised, he gripped the door frame and willed himself not to make a sound. He longed to sit and give his aching legs a break. To do so now would be foolhardy.

“I know this has all been a lot of fun for you,” one of the voices asserted, direct and cutting. Rastaban’s eyes widened.

Zozma. It could be no one else. The escapee from Chateau Aiguille who’d returned with the Charm Lord’s anointed daughter, and attempted to topple him. He was alive, then.

“A splendid diversion,” the unmistakable voice of the Charm Lord responded. “You awoke quickly, but you haven’t fully recovered. What do you hope to do now?”

Of course he would be waiting for Rastaban the moment he left the Dark Labyrinth. It was perhaps good fortune that Zozma ran into him first. If Rastaban was lucky, Orlouge would direct whatever he was feeling at Zozma and leave Rastaban in relative peace.

“Why don’t we have a little chat? Like old times.” Although Rastaban could see neither interlocutor from his position, the scorn in Zozma’s voice was unmistakable. “What were you doing, bringing some human girl back here and calling her your heir? I knew that you liked to hunt humans, but this is beyond the pale, even for you.”

“Are you jealous?” The words were delivered with a lilt of amusement. “You had your chance. You rejected it.”

“And so did she.” Zozma delivered his line with smug satisfaction. “All that rejection’s got to bruise your delicate ego. But we both know that it doesn’t matter who it is. You could die a thousand deaths and you still wouldn’t give your kingdom to anyone. It’s just a game to you.”

“This one is different. She has my blood, though it has yet to awaken fully. That will change.” Just as before, when Rastaban had faced him in his portrait room, Orlouge did not raise his voice. “If you want my kingdom, you need to be strong enough to take it. You are not.”

“I didn’t want it then, and I don’t want it now. I’d be happier never seeing this place again, but life’s funny like that.”

“Then why did you return? Were you captivated by my daughter’s charm?”

“Her charm is your charm. So, no. Not even close. See, when I was out in the world I realized that all the mystics I ran into had something in common. Can you guess what that is?”

Rastaban heard no reply. What the Charm Lord’s reaction might be, he could only guess.

“Yeah, I thought not. This place is pretty miserable.”

Rastaban had never known Zozma to see value in flattery, but delivering this diatribe in person was madness.

“There’s only one person who’s happy here, and even then I have doubts,” Zozma continued. “I thought that mystics who live in other regions had to be better off than the ones who are stuck here. But what a surprise it was to discover that mystics everywhere were unhappy, especially the lowest ranking ones.”

“How could they not be? Mystics who live with humans can hardly be called mystics.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it? Wherever they are, mystics are bound by the mystic laws and the rank they were assigned when they were born. That never changes.”

“Mystic law is absolute.” The Charm Lord sounded almost bored.

“No matter what they do, they’ll never escape it. They’ll never rise beyond their station.” Zozma’s voice sharpened. “If they want to improve themselves, it’s all worthless in the eyes of other mystics. Humans will never be equal to mystics, but they’ve got one thing right. And that’s the fact that anyone can learn and grow. They’re never stuck in one place unless they want to be. Isn’t that interesting?”

“That is ridiculous,” sniffed the Charm Lord. “How low you have fallen to even consider this.”

“Of course you think so,” Zozma shot back. “I don’t know if you’re responsible for the mystic laws in the first place, but it doesn’t matter. You’re one of the ones perpetuating them now. And that means that mystics everywhere, even those who have never been to Facinaturu and never will, are suffering because of you.”

“It is because of me that lesser beings have no need to struggle against fate. They take comfort in knowing that their place is assured,” Charm Lord replied. “As you did, before you decided to bear your fangs at your benefactor.”

“So if the Charm Lord were to vacate his throne,” Zozma continued, ignoring the rebuttal, “those laws could go away. It doesn’t matter if you’re replaced by a half-mystic or a trained parrot. For the first time in an eternity, mystics everywhere will know what it’s like to be free. And that’s what I fight for.”

“What you fight for.” A dark chuckle accompanied those words. “Are you willing to die for that?”

Rastaban, whose instincts screamed at his useless body to flee to safety, could do nothing but sink his chipped and snagged fingernails into the door’s frame.

“You want me to plead for my life, huh? I’ll never give you the satisfaction.” Zozma’s retort was edged in dauntless pride. “We failed, and I know I’m not strong enough to kill you on my own. But where we went wrong, someone else won't. It might not happen in a hundred years or a thousand, but it will happen. You can’t step on people forever and expect them to smile and take it.”

“You have a twisted sense of reality.” The Charm Lord’s sneer was evident in his words. “You say that you admire humans' ability to change, when change is the cause of their infinitesimal lifespan. What you call ‘stepping on others’ is giving them purpose. I say that all beings are happier when they submit to those who hold power."

"Without your power, you'd have no one," Zozma broke in confidently. "No one would bow to you—or love you—without your powers of fascination and charm. You will never know real love. Isn't that sad?"

If Zozma was attempting to drive Orlouge to anger, there was no evidence of it in the Charm Lord's continuing monologue.

"You should understand most of all,” declared the lord of Facinaturu. “You showed promise, once. You, who I first named my successor. When you rejected my gifts and fled the kingdom, did the outside world welcome you? Of course not. You discarded the security of your position here for the chaos of the rest of the regions. You threw away the Charm Lord’s protection and lived on the scraps of humans and monsters."

"Better to be a stray living on scraps than a dog of the Charm Lord. Strays are much better company."

"And now you come back to me with my second wayward heir and claim that you fight for ‘freedom.’ Your life amounts to nothing. You are a joke.” Orlouge’s tone turned harsh and hazardous. “A worthless moment in time, a fancy of the Charm Lord turned sour.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Zozma was remarkably bold for one who must be coming to terms with mortality for the first time in a long time. “You know what I think? I think you’re scared. Get used to it. Your rule isn’t going to be eternal after all, Charm Lord.”

“Is that what you think?” Orlouge’s voice now rang with amusement. “Then it is fitting that I give you eternity. Mourn your freedom, and see for yourself how wrong you are.”

A sudden burst of light flashed in Rastaban’s eyes; he lost his precarious balance and tumbled to the ground. Either Zozma or Orlouge must have struck out at the other. He would expect shouts or loud noises to accompany such an attack, a grunt of effort even, but there was nothing. The faint sound of his own breathing was all that broke the unsettling silence.

"Rastaban," the Charm Lord called, far from the doorway and out of sight, "I know you're there. Come out now."

"My Lord," Rastaban offered desperately, wincing. He picked himself off the floor and stood awkwardly on shaky legs.

He shuffled out of the doorway, each tremulous step bearing the weight of his predicament. There was no way out of this now, other than to face the Charm Lord alone. With no Ildon to save him, and lacking strength to properly defend himself, Orlouge's whim alone would determine whether he lived or died. And Zozma had already provoked him.

The portrait gallery’s outer terrace was encircled by a balustrade. Rastaban grabbed it as he neared, to prevent himself from falling. It was of no consequence now if the Charm Lord saw evidence of weakness. How could he hide it?

He followed along the railing slowly until he saw Orlouge standing in the evening air, accoutrements aflutter. He pierced Rastaban with a winsome smile, as though he were a long-awaited guest. And where was Zozma? Rastaban looked, but saw no sign of the man.

"You've returned, Rastaban," the Charm Lord said to him. "Have you made your decision? The traitor who recently stood before me did. I urge you to consider yours more carefully."

He lifted a hand, pointing with long fingers, and Rastaban followed it with his eyes. Surprised, he nearly flinched when he beheld what was being pointed out to him. It was now clear why he hadn't noticed Zozma at first.

"Y-yes, My Lord," Rastaban managed to force out, his normally glib tongue now useless, before he paused to gather himself. It was inevitable, then, that the one who held his strings remained one step ahead of him, out of reach and out of play. Even so, he had to try to retain some semblance of his dignity. "My choice is clear."

"Good." The Charm Lord, the immovable king who could simply end Rastaban’s existence if the mood struck him, stared at him expectantly. "Now, there is much to be done.”

"Of course, My Lord," Rastaban replied, doing his best to bow, while still relying on the balustrade for balance. "As ever, I am at your service."

Chapter Text

“I just can’t today,” someone complained, skirting the edge between a rant and a whine, voice muffled as if coming from underneath a pillow or blanket. “I stayed up late working on my senior project and none of my other group members bothered to help because of their softball game. And I have a chemistry test that I didn’t even have time to study for and oh yeah, I’m going to get in trouble for falling asleep in class because I’m so tired. Auntie, can’t I just stay home for one day? What’s wrong with taking a mental health day?”

“You’re too young to need mental health days,” replied the voice of someone older, distant but familiar. “Sometimes you need to power through. It builds character.”

“Urrgggghhh,” the first voice groaned loudly, followed by angry squeaking springs as someone flopped dramatically onto a bed—

—bed—

—on top of a bed, in a dark room lit by crystal lamps and the magenta sky’s thin light that seeped through the windows.

The tribulations of Asellus-that-was faded as Asellus slowly opened her eyes to a place that she knew all too well; the cold, exacting grip of dread pervaded her still-dazed mind as she realized that it was the last place she wanted to see again. Maybe this was a dream, and her mind was rehashing the fear and disorientation from waking in that bedroom in Chateau Aiguille after her accident. Or maybe she was having a flashback.

But her clothing was all wrong. She was not wearing the bloodied human clothes from the day she first awoke as a half-mystic. Nor was she wearing the fuchsia tailcoat that Gina had fit her into later on that first day. Instead she wore something similar, but pristine, trimmed from collar to tail in scratchy white organza ruffles. Shouldn’t my clothes be bloody again after—

Adrenaline flooded her body as she sat up, and her eyes widened. She had come back, yes, intending to tell Orlouge that she was finished with his games and his pursuit and going to live life on her own terms, thank you very much, but—

But it had ended up, as she thought it might, with a fight. She and her four companions fought fiercely, but in the end—

By all rights she should be dead, not in this lonely bedroom with new clothes and new bewilderment. She should be, which means the others should also—

Wild-eyed, Asellus scanned the cornerless room, seeking the presence of someone, anyone else. Were any of the others alive like her? Had they managed to run? The aftermath of the ill-fated battle was a void in her memory; she had no idea how she had come to be where she was. She cast her eyes to the far wall, where Ildon had first appeared so long ago, drily remarking that she had awakened faster than he expected. This time, there was no one.

Ildon. His reluctant presence in her group was owed solely to another’s request, and she wondered what turmoil raged in his mind when he turned his blade on a master to whom he’d seemed unflinchingly loyal. Had she repaid him by getting him killed?

Bile rose in the back of her throat; despite there being nothing in her stomach to bring up, she squirmed, certain that she would retch all over the mosaic-tiled floor. After a moment, it settled, and she brought a hand to her mouth, looking toward the room’s doorway.

It was open; there was nothing locking her inside. With no minders checking on her as before, she could stand and leave. She could look for the others; she shuddered as she considered that she might be looking for corpses. She could flee.

Her sword—Lion’s sword—was gone; another look around the circular room confirmed that it was not here and probably lost to her. There was little to be done about that now. She’d apologize to Princess Lion later. A trapped animal is a resourceful creature; she’d use her bare hands if she must.

Carefully, Asellus swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Her legs felt steady, and a quick check of her torso showed no wounds. She was certain that she’d sustained serious injuries, but she knew mystics were able to heal from many things given enough rest, and time.

Just how much of that has passed? Her inner voice fretted, and Asellus was not sure that she wanted the answer. Not yet.

Her priority must be locating the others, if she could, and escape. She would probably run into an obstacle on the way: one of the multitude of servants, perhaps, or one of the knights, if she was very unlucky. Servants could be outrun, dispatched if necessary, but Asellus wasn’t happy with her odds against one of the knights while she was unarmed.

She would have to try anyway. Cautiously, Asellus poked her head out the doorway and stared into the room, full of coffins, that adjoined hers. Other than the caged princesses, no one was there. With trepidation she looked again to see if there were any new coffins, but they all seemed to be in the arrangement she remembered. They lay undisturbed in that familiar semicircle, wrapped in thorny vines, and all but forgotten.

Cautiously she stepped into the room, staying as far away from the coffins as possible, while making her way to the exit on the other side. No armored mystics jumped out of the shadows to ambush her, which was a short-lived relief, but why would they? They’d dogged her steps to drag her and White Rose back to Orlouge. Now Asellus was within the maw of the castle once again, and White Rose was lost.

One room down. Asellus peeked out the doorway, down rail-less staircases gleaming like rows of teeth in the gloom. She could see no one there, but that meant nothing with mystics and their ability to appear out of nothingness.

Asellus paused to briefly consider whether it was a better idea to sprint down the stairs and minimize her time out in the open, or tiptoe down and make as little noise as possible. After a moment she settled on a slow and careful descent.

She wanted nothing more than to hurry, but rushing opened the possibility of losing her footing and falling from the stairs entirely, and there was nothing at the bottom of the Chateau to break her fall. Asellus grimly wondered whether any length of slumber would be enough to heal her body from a fall at that height, then dismissed the thought as too distracting. Carefully, each step light and purposeful as a cat’s, she descended the stairway to the landing at the bottom. Relying on memory, she took the left path.

Zozma had plagued her wanderings after she awoke the first time, she recalled, popping out of the darkness in a burst of jaunty tufted hair and ridiculous clothing. He’d appeared before her in the castle several times to trickle truths and then disappear.

Zozma had accompanied her in her fight against Orlouge, and he’d even seemed to look forward to it. Unlike Ildon, he felt no obligation to the leader of Facinaturu. She found herself hoping against hope that he’d once again materialize in front of her unexpectedly, with one of his impertinent comments. She’d welcome it this time, rather than snap at him in annoyance.

The winding path she followed should have allowed her to reach the lower level and proceed quickly to the Chateau’s front gate, yet instead of joining the critical intersection of pathways that she remembered, it simply continued laterally and then veered to a different set of stairs leading up. Confused, she followed the path until it ended abruptly at one of the rooms containing those odd teleportation devices. A pool of still water stared back at her.

If memory served, the other side of this teleporter led to the courtyard where Ciato (May he rest in pieces, a quiet, dark corner of her mind exulted) once stabbed her, so long ago. That courtyard was also perilously close to the route that led to Charm Lord’s private tower. If there were guards posted to ensure that no one sullied it with their presence, then things were about to get much more difficult.

She hesitated, wondering if this was a good idea. Could she even trust that the flower petals would bring her to same place as before? And if they did, would someone know she’d disturbed them?

Asellus took several deep breaths. With her head slightly clearer, she considered her options. There seemed to be no other way to leave this area of the castle. Her task would be so much easier if she were able to move by fading in and out like other mystics, but neither White Rose nor Ildon had offered to teach her, and she had no idea if it was even a skill she could learn.

She would have to avail herself of the flower petal transport that was the Chateau’s answer to modern technology, and hope that she would end up in the same place she remembered. If she did, she would have to move quickly through the courtyard on the other side and hope that no one was around to see her. If anyone was there, she would run and hope that their reaction time was slow enough for her to gain distance. And if not…

Go for the eyes, she thought grimly. That’s what they always told us. Go for those first. If the just-in-case self-defense tips offered to young women who felt they absolutely must go out alone at night were actually helpful, wonderful. She’d go back to Shrike one day and personally plaster them on a billboard.

Satisfied that she had as much of a plan as was possible, Asellus bent down and touched a finger to the pool of water.

A riot of pink flower petals swirled about her. When they cleared, she stood in a small, similar room, staring into another placid pool; the transport had worked. Asellus realized that she’d half expected to simply wink out of existence entirely, a cruel act of revenge, perhaps.

Asellus dashed to the wall of the small, circular room and attempted to make herself as unnoticeable as possible. Edging against the wall, she crept close to the doorway and peered outside, trying as best she could to keep herself unexposed.

The courtyard lay outside this room, filled with plants and pearl-hued flowers as she’d remembered. There was more light here as well, as if the architect had tried to simulate a moonlit stroll in a garden.

When she’d first stumbled across this area of the Chateau, blissfully unaware of all that had befallen her, she’d thought it beautiful. Now, the flowers struck her as ostentatious, their scent cloying, the lighting harsh and unwelcoming. Adding window treatments to a prison makes it no less inhospitable.

Asellus realized that she was also uncertain where she should go from here. The bedroom that she was loath to think of as hers simply had no connection to the castle’s main thoroughfare any longer. Had the other routes in the castle changed as well, and the path to freedom now lay in a different place? She would just have to find it, she decided.

The courtyard had three entrances; one connected to the room in which she currently hid, and the rightmost should lead, eventually, to Orlouge’s private quarters. That left the prominent set of double doors across the courtyard, directly opposite her current position. She would have to hope that the architecture hadn’t inexplicably changed yet again and that the correct path lay behind them.

Asellus allowed herself a few more breaths to steady herself, exited the room, and headed across the courtyard in a brisk walk. Dashing across it would run the risk of attracting more attention through the extra noise, and she was also guaranteed to flatten more flowers than if she simply walked. Trampled flowers were evidence that someone had been there. She must not leave a trail.

She reached the set of double doors without incident. She placed a questing hand on one of the doors’ smooth, glossy panels to push it slightly open, hoping to get a glimpse of what lay beyond, but stopped instantly upon hearing a voice behind her.

“Lady Asellus?”

The tone was not threatening, merely curious, and familiar in a way that she could not quite place. It mattered little; her body reacted on a hair-trigger, right hand reaching for a sword that was no longer at her side.

She realized her mistake, clenching both hands into fists instead and whipping around to face the danger, muscles tense and body humming with nervous energy. If it was time to fight, then so be it. She may not be able to best an armed opponent—if that was what she was up against—with her bare hands, but neither would she make it easy for them.

The fight left her instantly when she beheld who it was that had hailed her. Standing in the silvery light of the courtyard, watching her inquisitively, was Rouge.

Quenching relief flooded through her, to see that one of the people she’d brought into her ill-fated journey back to Facinaturu was alive after all. And really, didn’t it make sense for Rouge to have found a way to survive the battle? The enchanted artifact map he carried from his homeland, combined with his native magic, gave him the ability to move from place to place with skill that rivaled that of a mystic. He also had a measure of healing magic, Asellus recalled, in the form of runes and incantations.

She wanted to run to him, cry out her delight in seeing him unharmed, and ask so many, many questions. But—

It was her subconscious that stopped her from doing so, a disquiet in the back of her mind that whispered that something was not quite right. It took only a brief moment to comprehend what had unsettled her so, and the moment of joy disappeared as quickly as it arrived, as surely as a balloon must burst when pierced with a needle.

Rouge no longer wore the vermilion magician’s garb he’d favored when she traveled with him; he was clad instead in a long, heavy burgundy coat that was definitely not a robe. That might not have been unreasonable; clothes must be rotated, after all, but the medallion he’d worn around his neck, engraved with protective wards from his home region and which he’d refused to ever remove, was missing. The only flash of metal to be seen came from the coat’s shiny brass buttons.

He began to walk across the flowers, approaching her, and as he did she could see that his hair was different as well. The mop that he always wore loose, and never seemed able to prevent from becoming wind-tousled, was now pulled back into a neat, tight braid. And it was white, too, as if all the color had drained out, the hue of an apparition rather than the faded color of old age.

The most startling change, the one that she saw only after he came much closer, was his eyes. They were stark red now, the color of the roses that plagued almost every room of the Chateau, so close in color to her own eyes. And finally, she understood.

“No!” she shouted, looking at her friend’s new face with horror, and he startled slightly, his face painted with confusion.

“No, no, no, no! Rouge! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I can’t believe they did this to you! I never thought—“ Here the strength left her legs and she fell onto her knees, burying her face in her hands to hide her shame and prevent the angry tears that threatened to burst forth.

She heard hurried footfalls as Rouge sprinted to her side. “Lady Asellus, are you all right?”

She could find neither anger nor accusations in his voice, only concern, which was so much worse.

“I’m sorry,” she moaned, voice muffled in her hands. “Don’t say you forgive me, Rouge. I don’t deserve it.”

“I think you may be disoriented, Lady Asellus,” was his response; and oh, how it stung to hear him call her “Lady Asellus.” “Have you just awakened? I remember being very confused, too.”

“I wish I hadn’t!” Asellus removed the hands from her face and stared up at him, facing the consequences of her failure head-on. “What did they do to you?” she whispered.

It would be acceptable if he blasted her with one of his magic spells, she decided. It was what she deserved, and a wild thought fluttered in her head: That would make things okay again; it would prove against all evidence to the contrary that she was wrong and that Rouge was who she knew him to be.

“I will help you if I can, Lady Asellus,” Rouge said after her outburst, in the careful, measured tone of one trying to placate a spooked horse. “But you shouldn’t be on the ground like this. Can you stand?” He extended a hand to her.

“I won’t let you get away!”

After theatrically announcing his presence, Facinaturu’s newest pursuer pointed a glowing azure cutlass at them. Even the weapons of Facinaturu were gaudy.

“This is a misunderstanding.” White Rose, still choosing to believe that the situation could be salvaged, stepped toward the mystic knight before Asellus hurriedly jumped in front of her. “I am doing only what my lord asked of me.”

“Stay away from her!” Asellus barked, drawing her short sword.

The hunter’s face was hidden under a horned blue helmet, but the lack of regard he held for either of their words was obvious.

“Right out in the open, like this?” Emilia drew her pistol, sparing a wild glance around the plaza outside Luminous’ port to see if there were any passersby in danger of being caught in the crossfire.

“Buddy. Look,” Zozma frowned, folding his arms and staring down the adversary. “A hound’s life is no life at all. If you want to get out of Facinaturu, I can help you do it. If you come at me, I’m going to kill you. Your call.”

The blue knight’s response was to leap at them with a wild swing; White Rose and Asellus scattered to avoid it. Zozma grinned, fangs flashing as he charged, weaponless, hands sparking with wild fae energy. Asellus rushed to join the melee; White Rose stayed back and readied a spell. Emilia circled, seeking a clear field before she shot.

A man clad in bright red robes chose that particular moment to walk out of Luminous’ travel hub. He held a map in one hand; with the other he scribbled something on it with a pen. When he finally looked up, his expression, the picture of complete bafflement, would have been funny if the situation weren’t serious.

”What…?” he asked out loud, goggling at the four combatants mobbing a lone swordsman in a garish old-timey knight costume.

“Get out of here!” Asellus yelled to him, sacrificing an opportunity to strike to remind the stranger of the importance of self-preservation.

“Those who see me will die,” the knight announced gruffly, before taking advantage of Asellus’ hesitation and slashing at her.

Those words spurred the traveler into action, but instead of bolting back toward the port, he frowned and held a hand in the air. A ball of energy formed in his cupped palm before he extended his hand forward to launch it at the mystic hunter.

Asellus spared no more words for the stranger, reasoning that if he made the choice to get involved, he would be responsible for handling himself.

“This region is barbaric,” the mage muttered in disbelief, before taking up position well outside sword range and preparing his next attack.

Asellus clasped his hand and pulled herself off the ground. She didn’t need anyone’s help to get up, she told herself, but she wanted to see if he was real or not.

His hand was solid, and it felt cooler than she’d expected, but there were no tricks. No electricity jolted through her when she touched him; no claws burst forth to shred her. Now that they were closer to one another, she could see the patterned damask on his coat. A curious motif was woven into the silk: a symmetric, stylized design consisting of two curled ram’s horns shadowing two eyes, and what might have been a nose below them. It looked like a partial stylization of a monster’s face, or perhaps two creatures staring each other down.

“I should introduce myself,” he said once she was standing again, as if he hadn’t already done so long ago, after their fight against the Charm Lord’s flunky in Luminous. “My name is Pollux.”

“No, it’s not.” Asellus reacted immediately, shaking her head at him. “You’re Rouge.”

It was clear that he wasn’t sure how to respond to her. “I am Pollux, Lady Asellus. Are you still hurt? I was told that your injuries were severe.”

“Your. Name. Is. Rouge,” Asellus replied, her voice growing louder with each syllable. She glared at him, as if she could right this wrong with the strength of her own will. “Did they take your name from you too?”

“I suppose that you have the right to call me whatever you wish.” Rouge drew a shape in the air with two fingers. Asellus realized that she recognized it, before the cool tingle of the Vitality Rune tickled her skin. “Forgive my imposition. If you are still injured, this will help.”

One of Rouge’s final acts before falling in battle had been to call forth the Vitality Rune to try to keep the others on their feet. Asellus closed her eyes against the waves of guilt that threatened to drown her.

“Do you know what happened to the others?” she asked, finally.

“The others?” Rouge repeated.

“Yes. Emilia. Zozma. Ildon. Are they alive? Have you seen them?”

She was afraid of the answer. If Orlouge had taken Rouge’s humanity, whether an act of cruelty or one of caprice, what could have befallen the other three?

“I don’t recognize those names, Lady Asellus,” Rouge replied, and her heart sank. “Will you walk with me? Our lord will want to know that you’ve awakened.”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed, venomously. “I have a lot to say to him.”

Rouge gave her a worried look. “If your mind is still addled from your recuperation, there is little I can do about that. I can help you back to your room—“

“No,” she cut him off, shaking her head vehemently. “No, Rouge. We’re doing this. My mind is crystal clear.”

“Then please come this way.” He pushed open the door for her, then bowed slightly as she went through.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Asellus asked once they both crossed the doorway. “Mystics aren’t like that.”

Most of them weren’t, her mind corrected. Mesarthim had been polite and kind, once she overcame her initial fear of Asellus. And White Rose…had been White Rose.

“It would be rude not to show you respect, Lady Asellus,” Rouge replied, as if it were obvious, while they walked through the pathways of Chateau Aiguille.

“You don’t have to,” Asellus insisted. “Besides, you should be angry with me. You should be furious! Don’t you know that you’re supposed to be human? Do you remember what happened?”

“I awoke three years ago, Lady Asellus,” he said matter-of-factly, and Asellus wondered again how long it had been since the fight with Orlouge. “I know nothing of my life before that. I don’t need to.”

“Then how do you know who I am?” Asellus asked triumphantly, as if she could change fate by finding the flaw in his argument.

“Everyone knows of Lady Asellus,” he told her, “the Charm Lord’s first and only half-mystic heir.”

“Of course everyone does,” she grumbled, kicking out at the ground with one foot. “And it’s ridiculous that you don’t remember being human. I do, and I’ve been a mystic longer than you have!”

“You are still partly human, Lady Asellus,” Rouge began thoughtfully, and she thought that she could see a distant shadow of the Rouge she knew within him, eager to speculate about any magical matters that presented themselves. “That might be the difference. But I don’t feel the need to wonder about who I might have been. I am who I need to be.”

“Well, who do you need to be, then?” she challenged, uncomfortable with his acquiescence. He shouldn’t be like this, she decided. He should rage against his fate. He should burn, as she did, with the desire to take control for himself.

“I am what my lord requires of me,” he answered calmly, and Asellus found herself wanting to throw him off the stairway in frustration.

“That’s wrong, Rouge,” she countered, brows drawn in concern, “You’re so much more than that. You’re really good with magic, and you’re smart. And so dense sometimes,” she added.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such praise, Lady Asellus.” Rouge spoke as if he found her words mystifying. “One rune is hardly a measure of one’s magical competence.”

“No, you don’t get…argh,” she concluded, deciding that he had just proved her point. “You are not his servant. You’re not.”

Rouge did not answer her. They had come to a three-way intersection and he pointed out the way they should go.

“When did all of this change? Why can’t I get here from my room now?” Asellus wondered out loud. She now had an idea of where they were. The castle gate was a straight shot down a few more stairways.

“I can’t say. It has been like this as long as I’ve known it.”

Rouge was watching her closely, she realized, as if he worried about her ability to stay steady on her feet during the descent. She did not like this new Rouge, ever-attendant and deferential. One day he would understand that she did not deserve any consideration from him.

They came to the terrace at the castle’s entrance, framed by tall, radiant crystals reminiscent of stalagmites. The doors to the throne room, draped with roses and climbing vines, were open, a clear invitation. Asellus frowned, then took another deep breath. She was not afraid, she told herself. What more could he take from her?

My life, she thought, then dismissed it. She would not let fear for her own self stay her tongue. She owed Rouge, and the rest of her missing companions, that much.

“It seems that Lord Orlouge expects us.” Rouge looked at her with concern. “You don’t look well, Lady Asellus. If you need assistance—“

“No,” she cut in sharply, then stopped herself. Rouge wasn’t the one she was angry at. “Thanks, but I’m fine. Really. Let’s just get this over with.”

Rouge bowed slightly, sweeping an arm to the door. After you, the gesture plainly said. She pressed her lips firmly together and made sure to keep her head high as she marched into the throne room.

Despite the carved-crystal roses and chandeliers surrounding Orlouge’s throne, the throne room was one of the darkest places in Chateau Aiguille. Light could not penetrate the far corners, and Asellus wondered if the metaphor was intentional. In that sense, it was a microcosm of Facinaturu itself.

Orlouge, the prime mover of all that was wrong in Asellus’ world, sat imperiously on his elevated throne, flanked by female attendants. His never-ending zephyrs rustled his long lavender hair and flowing garments; those standing closest to him were, as always, untouched by them. When she’d come here for the first time, she’d been stared at by the trio of Ciato but he was dead and Ildon but he was not here and Rastaban but he was not important as well, but today there were no others in attendance other than Orlouge’s handmaidens, and Rouge, following her with footsteps muffled by the plush red carpet.

When they approached the dais containing the throne, Rouge bowed deeply, and her insides wrenched at how wrong that was. Her revulsion must have been present on her face as well, but if the Charm Lord noticed, he made no mention of it.

“You are awake,” he stated, looking down at her from his lofty perch, and his voice echoed throughout the room. The strings of gems hanging from his headpiece sparkled in the dim light.

“What did you do?” she accused, wanting to point and shout and shake the entire world with what boiled inside her, but careful to keep her voice under control. Angry women were too often dismissed as hysterical, and she wouldn’t fall into that trap. Not here. “What did you do to him? Where is everyone else?”

Rouge’s eyes widened; the sight of anyone gearing up to go toe-to-toe with Charm Lord must have been new to him. “Lady Asellus…” he murmured, choosing to warn rather than chide her.

“I see that you’ve met Pollux,” was Orlouge’s reply, and he lifted a finger in Rouge’s direction by way of acknowledgment, “who has done well to help you find your way here.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Rouge responded quickly, bowing once more. “I fear that Lady Asellus is still disoriented. She seemed very confused when I met her.”

New anger flared within her. “Where are they?” she demanded again, letting her voice get louder. After witnessing the extent of Orlouge’s power over Rouge, she truly feared for Emilia. And if that was what the Charm Lord had in mind for her human friends, what additional horrors could have befallen Zozma and Ildon?

“As strong-willed as ever.” Orlouge fixed his gaze on her, unruffled. She met it, a challenge in her eyes. If she could not beat him in a battle of might, she’d try a battle of wills next. “You have returned, my daughter. As we discussed, there is still much for you to learn.”

“I didn’t discuss anything with you!” Asellus protested. “I told you that I was taking my life back. And then when I tried to leave, you attacked me.”

“You don’t remember?” The Charm Lord arched an eyebrow. “That does not change your obligation to me, as someone who has received my blood.”

“I don’t have any obligations to you,” Asellus argued, heat rushing to her cheeks. She was failing to gain control of the conversation, she knew. “And neither does anyone else! You don’t own—“

“You’ve said this already,” Orlouge waved one hand in the air, dismissing her sentiments. “And yet, here you are.”

“Because you didn’t kill me. What do you even want?” Asellus felt her lips curl from her teeth as her grip on her temper loosened.

“Enough,” Orlouge declared, then turned to Rouge, who stood scandalized beside her. “Pollux.”

“My Lord,” he answered, instantly at attention.

“My daughter has not yet learned how to behave. I don’t expect you to be able teach her, but she would do well to have a reminder of how to comport herself. You took to those lessons well. Lead by example.”

“My Lord,” he repeated, and Asellus’ anger cooled instantly, superseded by an icy feeling of dread. By telling Rouge to babysit her, Orlouge was forcing her to constantly confront her failure. She would get no respite.

“She is not to leave the castle,” Orlouge continued to address Rouge, as if Asellus were a mere topic of discussion. “Those in charge of the gate know this already. I will send for you when I have more orders for you.”

With that, he disappeared, followed a moment later by his servants, leaving her standing in the throne room alone with Rouge.

Asellus let her breath out in a huff, then spun around and walked briskly and wordlessly out of the throne room. Surprised, Rouge followed, picking up his pace to catch up with her. The doors to the throne room closed behind them.

With Rouge her shadow, Asellus strode across the terrace outside the throne room, straight to Chateau Aiguille’s front gate. It was closed, its stern iron bars covered in winding, climbing roses. Through those bars, Asellus could see the long, long stairway that led to the town of Rootville, and to the possibility of freedom.

“Open the gate!” she shouted, hoping against hope that it would work once more.

When nothing happened, Asellus rested her forehead against the bars and shut her eyes. The cold metal against her skin felt nice, she thought. This sensation, this small thing, was something she could control.

“Lady Asellus,” Rouge tried after a time, and she opened her eyes to acknowledge him. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable. You should sit down, at least.”

“Let me out,” she groaned, as if the bars or Rouge or the unseen gatekeepers would respond to her when they hadn’t before.

“Our lord wants only what is best for you,” he told her, and she felt that it would feel very nice, cleansing even, to scream.

Instead, she said: “Then you get out. Go, as far as you can, and don’t look back.”

“Let me help you, Lady Asellus,” he insisted, and Asellus wondered if it was kinder that he seemed to have no idea how far beyond help they truly were.

Chapter Text

Asellus pushed the crepe around with her fork, and was unsurprised to uncover a meticulously painted rose on the well of her plate as she did so. Not even the tableware was spared from the very particular aesthetics of her host. She wondered how many of these existed in the Chateau in the first place; mystics did not need to eat as humans did, but she knew they could if they chose—as exemplified by Zozma, a true bottomless pit when bar food was involved. Briefly, she wondered what food poisoning would do to a mystic. One particular mystic. The thought brought her a childish sense of glee.

Unlike everyone else in the Chateau, Asellus did need to eat, but she found that she had very little appetite. The crepe was filled with something sweet and creamy and smelled like vanilla; a decorative smear of sauce on the side served as garnish. Asellus wondered if it was caramel, then decided that was too plebeian. It was probably something she’d never heard of, something with a very pretentious name. But at least it isn’t blood, her mind whispered.

In a far corner of the room, Rouge was sitting and doing…something. Asellus alternated between picking at her food and watching him. He was leafing through a heavy book, pausing from time to time to look up into space, as if deep in thought.

Asellus swallowed what she’d managed to force into her mouth and called to him. “Hey, Rouge. Do you want to try any of this?”

“Thank you, Lady Asellus, but I have no need.”

Rouge set the book down; it thumped softly. The binding looked ancient to her. Was it the same leather she was familiar with, or some other creature’s skin?

“Can you stop calling me ‘Lady Asellus?’” Never mind that her request would most likely be treated the same as the last time she’d asked. “And it’s rude for me to just sit here and eat without offering you any.”

“It would be rude not to call you ‘Lady Asellus.’”

Yes, same as before. She hadn’t expected any different, yet she’d had to ask anyway.

“Well, I’m not that hungry, so it’s just going to go to waste.” Asellus pushed her plate to the side; she’d gotten approximately a quarter of the crepe down, and ignored the offering of fruit that also graced the small table. “And before you ask, yes, that’s all I want. I think my stomach’s still getting the hang of things.”

“Mirphak,” Rouge called into the air. Moments later, one of the multitude of servants appeared to clear the table.

As far as Asellus could tell, every single maidservant was called “Mirphak.” It seemed incredibly disrespectful to make them all answer to a name that wasn’t their own, as if they were interchangeable. She wondered if the maids felt the same. If they did, would they even tell her?

“Thank you,” Asellus said to the woman as she piled the dishes onto a tray.

The servant kept her eyes down, as if she were afraid to look at her, and did not answer. They didn’t look directly at Orlouge either, Asellus knew, and it was a fresh grievance that she would be equated with him on any level. Orlouge certainly didn’t thank the ones who did all the work for him.

Deciding that she and the maid would both be more comfortable with some distance between them, Asellus stood up and walked over to Rouge. He stood hurriedly as well, and she really wanted to roll her eyes at him.

“What are you reading?” she asked, attempting to make conversation.

He held the book up for her, and she tried to look interested. “Theories on the Nature of Summoned Beasts. Have you read it?”

“No,” she answered, and, remembering numerous past conversations, added: “Could you give me a very, very brief summary?”

“Absolutely. It explores the methodology involved in using mystic magic to summon phantoms. It also posits that the ability to call upon one of the caster’s choice might have been the purview of the lost school of magic from which mystic magic was derived.”

His eyes, so red and so wrong, had a gleam in them that she recognized from similar one-sided discussions in the past. Here, at least, was a vestige of the person she’d known.

“The author also cautions that it may not fall within the sphere of mystic power,” he continued, as if she’d asked him to elaborate, “so I suspect that’s why no further research has been done.”

“Summoning phantoms?” The word choice was puzzling, but Asellus recalled something that seemed likely enough. “White Rose had a spell she used to summon a cat. She tried to teach me. Is that what you mean?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Rouge smiled, extending one palm, and Asellus nearly jumped as a phantasmal, hissing black cat appeared in front of her.

“Um…” she swallowed, looking into its yellow eyes, “I like cats, but can you warn me next time?”

“Of course, Lady Asellus,” Rouge replied, and the cat disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. “Pardon my presumptuousness.”

“No, it’s okay.” Asellus shook her head. “I like dogs too, if you want to summon any of those—Hey, wait!”

Before their entrance to the Chateau, Rouge had held forth to her and Emilia on the principles of mystic magic and how it was opposed to his innate, native magic. “It’s not possible,” he’d said of mystic magic at the time. “My body rejects it.”

“Did you just use mystic magic?” Asellus asked, surprised.

With an equal look of surprise, Rouge nodded. “I did, Lady Asellus. I am a mystic, after all.”

“So what happened to your realm magic?”

“Realm magic?” Rouge repeated, as if she were joking. “Why would I have that?”

“Because it’s the magic gift that everyone from the Magic Kingdom is born with,” she told him, proud of herself. It had seemed unimportant, just an unnecessary detail, back when he’d originally told her. “And I know it can’t coexist with mystic magic. You told me that.”

“Did I?” he asked, bewildered. “I don’t remember having that conversation, but what you said is correct. I’m happy to see that you have an interest in magic too.”

“I don’t have…” Asellus started to protest, but decided against it. She’d rather have him talk at her about magic than gush about how amazing “our lord” was. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Where’s your realm magic?”

“I think you’ve answered your own question, Lady Asellus,” Rouge told her, but his tone was not unkind. “The gift for realm magic is limited to humans born in the Magic Kingdom. Why would I have it?”

“Because—“ Asellus was ready to give him a good shake, to spew forth his lost identity into his face, to make him find himself again. She suspected, though, that it was a lost cause.

Whatever Orlouge had done to make him arise as a mystic had consumed him, down to his own name. Whether Rouge was still inside him somewhere or not, she had no idea. Her attempts to remind him of who he was did nothing but hurt her as they fell on deaf ears.

Regardless, she still refused to use his new mystic name. Doing so would be giving up on him. She would not do that.

Seeing the distress on her face, Rouge suggested, “Why don’t I ask you a different question, Lady Asellus? Which phantoms have you summoned?”

“Huh? Me?” Snapping out of it, Asellus shook her head. “White Rose tried so many times to get me to learn it and I failed every single time.”

“Would you like to try again?”

“Not really.” Asellus sighed. “It seems like I’ve failed everyone who tries to teach me that spell, huh?”

“Lady Asellus.” Rouge looked at her carefully. “You haven’t failed me. You haven’t tried—“

“Not what I meant,” she said curtly, without explaining further.

“Be that as it may,” Rouge began, adroitly skirting the issue. His ability to sense and react to her moods was as new as his mystic magic. Rouge the human had been well-meaning but clumsy at times, although he had, to his credit, recognized this and tried to do better. “I had another reason for asking you, if you’d like to hear it.”

“Go for it,” Asellus agreed. She’d let him ramble on for hours if he liked, because it was something to distract herself with. When silence was her only companion, the guilt was suffocating.

“It’s common knowledge that the strength of the caster determines the type of phantom beast summoned.” Rouge looked at her as if he was waiting for her to agree, and she nodded as if it was, in fact, something she was aware of. “But I noticed something. The amount of energy that I spend when I cast this spell affects the results.”

“Oh yeah?” she offered, feigning interest.

“That’s right. When I put a minimal amount of energy into it, the result is invariably a cat, like the one I just showed you.”

“Cats are minimal energy?” Asellus thought about house cats sleeping the day away in the sunlight, and decided, “I guess that makes sense.”

“But if I exert myself more, I get different results. It’s interesting. I wonder if that’s what the author is implying when they suggest that it may be within the caster’s ability to choose the phantom that appears. I’m not sure I agree that it would be an entirely separate discipline, but perhaps it would require more refinement before it became so.” Rouge’s voice trailed off thoughtfully.

“You mean there’s more to it than cats and dogs?” Asellus blurted. Not that she had any particular basis for comparison; Ildon’s focus had been physical fighting, and Zozma preferred the strange magical arts that he claimed he’d learned from monsters.

Rouge smiled; Asellus greatly preferred it to Ildon’s habitual “Idiot!” whenever she said something foolish. “There’s much more than that. I could show you, if you like?”

“Sure,” she nodded. Watching him do whatever he was going to do was better than sitting around and being bored.

“In that case, we should move to somewhere with more space. We should spare the furniture.” Rouge cast an almost apologetic look at the chair he’d occupied, as if he’d narrowly avoided disaster.

In times past, Asellus might have laughed, but she was far beyond smiles now.

Asellus fell back into step beside him and let him lead the way to wherever it was he had in mind. “So are you going to try to refine it?” she asked as they walked.

“Pardon?” Confused, Rouge turned his head to look at her. His long braid brushed his shoulder.

Asellus tried again. “You said that maybe this magic requires ‘refinement’ before you can prove whatever you were reading in that book. Are you going to do that?”

“Oh.” Rouge appeared contemplative as he considered his answer. “It’s difficult to say. If, as the author says, the result isn’t limited to the scope of mystic strength, then I might be better able to serve Lord Orlouge if I focus my attention elsewhere.”

“Mystic strength?” Asellus spat the words as if they tasted bad. “Who cares about that? Would it make you happy to figure it out? Then you should do it.” She pointed at him for emphasis.

“The mystic laws hold that the power one is born with is superior to skills that one works to achieve,” Rouge stated, and Asellus could not stop herself from groaning.

She had heard this before. Of all the peculiarities in the mystic belief system, this one in particular had to be the most detached from human custom.

“So if that’s the way it is, why bother learning anything at all?” Asellus challenged. “It’s just another heel to keep people in their place. Even I can see that.”

“There is a difference between power from within that has yet to be developed, and power that comes from without,” Rouge explained patiently. His boots echoed softly against the stone underfoot. “I can be of more use if I cultivate the correct strength.”

“Sure you can.” Asellus waved her hand, both dismissive and discouraged, “because who cares what you want, right?”

“Serving Lord Orlouge is an honor and privilege,” Rouge replied simply. “That is what I want above all, Lady Asellus.”

Asellus scowled at the unyielding stone they trod upon. Her heels clacked angrily. It was the Charm Lord’s blood inside her that inoculated her against the power he held over others’ minds, and that was the irony. Orlouge’s unwanted blood was what kept her from becoming yet another fawning servant.

Anxious to change the subject, lest she drive herself deeper into an existential crisis, Asellus decided to try her luck at having some of her questions answered. “Hey…do you know about Princess Lion?” she asked.

“The forty-fourth princess of Lord Orlouge? I’ve heard of her,” he responded, “but I’ve been told that she died before I awoke.”

“Yeah.” Asellus chose not to bring up the fact that they were personally responsible for her passing. “I was holding on to her sword for her, but when I woke up, it was gone. I don’t know what happened to it. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?”

“I’m afraid not, Lady Asellus. Is it a precious sword? Perhaps it’s in the treasury,” he suggested.

She could have cheered for this one small lead. Instead, she fought hard to keep the excitement off her face.

“You know what?” she offered, carefully keeping her voice even, “That makes sense. Thanks, Rouge.” She resolved to check as soon as the opportunity arose. Pressing her luck further, she continued. “Have you ever been to the tailor in Rootville?”

“Once or twice,” Rouge replied. “Do you need something, Lady Asellus? We can send someone right away.”

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head, “I don’t. I just knew someone who worked there—a human named Gina. I was wondering how she’s doing, that’s all.”

“A human named—“ Rouge stopped for a moment to think; Asellus’ thumbs twitched as she awaited his answer. “I don’t recall seeing any women working there, Lady Asellus.”

“You don’t?” Chagrined, Asellus felt the weight of what had come to pass press on her once more.

She had intentionally avoided paying her regards to Gina during her return to Facinaturu, hoping that it would shield the girl from the Charm Lord’s attention. Had it all been for nothing? Had Orlouge gotten his hands on her anyway? Or was Gina safe, hunkered down elsewhere in Rootville, trying to escape notice?

Or maybe, her mind whispered, spiraling into the abyss, it’s been a hundred years since then and she’s long dead.

“Lady Asellus?” Rouge wore a new look of concern; absorbed in her thoughts, Asellus hardly noticed. “Are you all right?”

“I should have—“ Asellus mumbled, before closing her eyes and shaking her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be all right.”

“Your mind is fatigued. You’re pushing yourself too hard. Let’s rest a moment,” Rouge urged.

They had stopped on one of the many landings in Chateau Aiguille; he turned around to study the current surroundings, as if he were assessing the need to childproof them.

Asellus bit back a laugh. The burden of guilt and shame was far different than fatigue. She wondered if Rouge would be able to understand that.

“As far as I can tell, your body has healed from its injuries.” Rouge scrutinized her as he spoke; Asellus decided that she didn’t care if he stared. “Your mind has not. Unfortunately, I don’t have any magic that can assist with that. We’ll need to keep your limitations in mind.”

“Limitations,” Asellus echoed. “I’m not an invalid.”

“Not at all, Lady Asellus,” Rouge assured her. “It makes sense that your recovery would be different than others’. As a mystic with human blood, you are unique, after all.”

“Don’t remind me,” Asellus grumbled. He’d called her a mystic with human blood, not a human with mystic blood as the rest of Orlouge’s cohort did. “Why don’t we just talk about something else. Weren’t you going to show me something?”

“Will you be all right, Lady Asellus?”

“I’ll be better once I stop thinking so much. Help distract me, okay?”

“Of course,” he agreed, and looked around once again. “I suppose this is as suitable a place as any.”

“Sounds good.” Asellus did not mention that they’d fought two of Orlouge’s chosen to their deaths on similar landings. It was as if the Chateau’s stairways had been designed for dramatic scenes.

Rouge backed up several steps; Asellus did the same in the opposite direction, adding the tapping of her own heels to his. She wanted to give him plenty of room. She had trusted Rouge in the past to not accidentally hit her when practicing his craft, but this was new territory altogether.

“I mentioned before that expending a minimum amount of energy yields the same result each time,” he reminded her. He moved his arms as if to stretch them; his long sleeves glimmered gently in the low light. “But if I put different amounts of energy into the spell, the result will be different. I think that you mentioned dogs?”

Rouge extended his hand as if ready to pull a rabbit out of a proverbial hat, and Asellus saw the space in front of him waver slightly, heavy with magic, before a canine form appeared.

“You can summon dogs!” Asellus exclaimed, momentarily delighted, despite the phantom beast’s snarl and glowing red eyes. She put her hands on her knees and bent slightly for a better look. “I like dogs. I said that, right?”

“It’s a jackal, Lady Asellus.” Rouge smiled before he waved his hand, dismissing the phantom he’d summoned. “But I believe it’s a type of dog.”

“Good enough!” These creatures were intended to be used for a purpose, Asellus knew, and if she were a phantom herself, she’d be annoyed to be summoned only for show-and-tell, but on the other hand…dogs.

“I’m happy to hear that you like it.” It felt much better to hear contentment in Rouge’s voice, rather than concern for her. “And there’s another that I’d like to show you,” he suggested, the slight uplift of his mouth betraying his eagerness. “Are you ready?”

“Go ahead,” she agreed, wondering what he had that could top grouchy, furry animals. “It’s not a dragon, is it?”

“It’s not,” he assured her. “This is what happens if I put all my effort into the spell.” He pulled his hand to his chest, narrowed his eyes, and pinched his brows together in concentration. After a moment, he extended his hand, as though setting free a trapped firefly.

This time, Asellus felt the crackle of magic in the air; the tiny hairs on her skin ruffled in response. The space in front of her distorted like heat waves shimmering off city streets, and an ominous hooded figure appeared. A long, dark robe obscured most of its form; the skull and hands were the only body parts visible. They were fleshless, the bones the color of weathered parchment paper. Its skeletal fingers clutched the handle of a long, dark sickle.

“Rouge?” Asellus asked, careful not to look the apparition in the eyes. “Did you just summon the avatar of death?”

“Oh, you’re familiar with this one!” Rather than sharing Asellus’ dread, Rouge sounded pleased that she recognized it. “These creatures can bring the curse of death, yes. I believe humans have legends about them. They call them reapers, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re right. Kind of.” A chill crawled down her spine like an army of spiders on the march. Even if Rouge had complete control, Asellus did not wish to be in its presence for longer than she had to. “It’s creeping me out. Can we stop now?”

“Of course.” Upon Rouge’s words, the specter vanished. He blissfully continued his explanation. “I think this demonstrates the spectrum of phantoms contained within just one spell. I’m sure I’m not the first to realize that results differ based on the magical expenditure of the caster. Someone took the time to write an entire book about it, after all.”

“Yeah.” Asellus brought a hand to her neck, as if to make sure it was still in one piece.

“I would be happy to help you learn mystic magic, Lady Asellus, if you’re willing,” Rouge offered again, and Asellus closed her eyes.

A soft hand upon her shoulder. The delicate scent of roses. The memories of her past lessons in mystic magic were wrapped in sensation rather than imagery. They would remain a pale imitation, now that all of that was lost to the world.

“No thanks,” she replied after a moment, opening her eyes once more. “I appreciate the offer, really. But the person who originally tried to teach me is gone. And it’s all because of me.”

“I see.” Rouge looked at her solemnly. “There are other spells that comprise mystic magic as well. I could help you with those instead. The offer stands.”

“Thanks,” she said, simply. “I’ll think about it.” There was no need to ride the Ferris wheel of regret once again when she was already well aware of her shortcomings.

“We must consider the state of your mind as well,” Rouge continued, as if he were admonishing himself. “It would be detrimental to overwhelm you.”

Perhaps she should have laughed at the irony, as out of place as it would have been in the Chateau. Here she stood face to face with a friend she’d damned as surely as if she’d pushed him into hell herself, and he was worried about “overwhelming” her.

Yet there was no time to dwell on it further, for Asellus felt the telltale tickle at the back of her mind that told her someone was watching her. Startled, she looked up to see that Rouge was watching the stairs behind her.

She turned around to see another one of the maidservants approaching them. This was a different person than the woman who’d cleared the remnants of her meal earlier, but she was dressed identically. That makes laundry day easier, Asellus’ mind jabbered.

“Many pardons,” the woman addressed Rouge in a low voice. “Lord Orlouge summons you both to the eastern parlor.”

“Ah. Thank you, Mirphak.” Rouge nodded to her, and the servant disappeared without another word.

“Great,” Asellus muttered with deep disdain. Her previous meeting with Charm Lord had gone so poorly for her. What could he want this time?

“We will need to leave at once, Lady Asellus. It is a bit of a walk. I hope this has been enough of a rest for you.” Rouge looked her over as though she were a teacup prone to stress cracks.

“Of course it’s a walk,” Asellus carped. “I need hiking boots to get anywhere around here.”

“It surprises me that you are unable to travel like a mystic,” Rouge wondered, as he set off up the stairs. With no other options, Asellus followed. “Have you tried?”

“I don’t know how to even start. White Rose told me that it was just natural for her. But for me it isn’t.” If she were able to phase in and out like other mystics, Asellus thought, it would be a lot harder to keep her in the castle.

“Interesting,” Rouge murmured. A hand rose to his chin in contemplation. “I wonder if there’s anything to be found about this in the libraries. I’ll have to look.”

“Fine, do that.”

There had to be other ways out of here, Asellus told herself as they finished climbing stairs and came to an unfamiliar intersection. A service entrance in the back, perhaps, or a fire escape…

Never mind that applying human building codes to Chateau Aiguille would be nothing more than an exercise in frustration and that she had little hope of persuading Rouge to escape with her. If she were able to leave the castle freely, she’d have many more options available to her.

“It’s this way.” Rouge led her to a doorway and waited for her to enter, offering her a slight bow as she did so.

The door opened to one of the long skyways that crisscrossed between the many towers of the Chateau. Arbors heavy with climbing roses accentuated the path.

“Are you ever going to stop bowing to—“ Asellus began once he joined her again, then stopped abruptly when she saw that there was a person walking toward them. This, too, was someone she recognized.

It was Rastaban who strode briskly toward them from the other end of the walkway, as if he were hurrying on his way to something very important. She had last seen him right before they entered Orlouge’s private balcony, when he’d admonished her to take Facinaturu for herself. Now his body moved with fluidity that suggested that the injuries he’d once suffered were no more.

Trepidation welled inside her; she’d refused his request and failed against Orlouge, leaving her a witness to his transgression against the Charm Lord. She was also responsible for whatever had befallen Ildon after their battle. Would he seek vengeance against her, or try to protect himself by eliminating loose ends?

But she would not run. Nor would she hide behind Rouge.

As their paths neared, Rouge did not quite bow to Rastaban as he had to her, but he did move his head and upper body in something more than a respectful nod. “Lord Rastaban,” he offered by way of greeting.

Rastaban stopped; eyes moving quickly from Rouge to Asellus and lingering on her briefly, before considering Rouge again. “Pollux. And Lady Asellus,” he replied, voice perfectly even, as though they’d all simply bumped into one another at a grocery store. “What brings you here?”

“We’re responding to a summons,” Rouge explained. Politely, he followed with “Are you already acquainted with Lady Asellus? She awakened only recently.”

“I am,” Rastaban answered, still responding to Rouge directly. “We first met many years ago. Are you assisting Lady Asellus?” Rastaban’s eyes flicked to her again, his face mild, affable, betraying nothing.

She met his glance with her own deliberate stare.

“Yes,” Rouge replied. Apologetically, he added, “I suppose I don’t need to introduce you, then. I must beg your pardon, Lord Rastaban. We do need to hurry, but we should have more time later, if you like.”

“Of course,” Rastaban agreed, nodding his head at Rouge. “If Lord Orlouge has summoned you, then you must be on your way. I know that Lady Asellus is in capable hands with you, Pollux. You’re very diligent.”

“Thank you, Lord Rastaban.” Rouge performed another not-quite-bow as Rastaban walked past them on his way to wherever he was headed.

Asellus watched him go until she was satisfied that she wasn’t going to find a dagger between her shoulder blades.

“You know him?” Asellus asked when they set off once more. Perhaps it was a good thing after all that Rouge was hovering over her. Alone, she would be a much easier target.

“The higher ranks are known to everyone, Lady Asellus,” Rouge told her, and she supposed that was true enough. “But shortly after I awoke, Lord Rastaban was kind enough to show me to the libraries when I expressed an interest. I’m very grateful for that.”

“How nice of him,” Asellus muttered, perplexed.

Rastaban had apparently returned to playing obedient soldier to Orlouge. Either he’d given up on his hopes for revolution, or he was playing a very long game. Asellus doubted that she was a part of his plans any longer, if he still had them. Who would bet on a failure for a second time?

But she was still left with the unsettled feeling that her presence was a liability to him. With Rouge unaware, she would have to rely on her own instincts to detect the threat. She wished once more that she still had her sword.

They entered another of the twisting, organic spires of Chateau Aiguille. This was not a place she recognized; the foyer contained two doors and a stairway leading higher up. Somehow she knew even before Rouge spoke that they would be taking the stairs. My life is nothing but climbing stairs now, she thought, wondering briefly if there was a deeper irony to be found here. Probably not.

She couldn’t quite help the huff of exertion that came once they began their ascent. Despite all that had happened, her legs still complained about marching upstairs.

Hearing this, Rouge looked back over his shoulder. “We’re almost there, Lady Asellus,” he assured her.

“This place needs elevators,” Asellus grumbled. If she had been in charge as Rastaban wanted, she thought, that would be the first thing she’d do.

Finally, they stopped navigating stairs and came to a doorway. After taking a moment to catch her breath, Asellus breezed by Rouge before he had a chance to perform his customary bow in front of the door. They were on their way to see Orlouge, after all, and she would have to watch her friend bow and scrape before him again. She would spare herself the further indignity of Rouge bowing to her as well, as though she were comparable to the Charm Lord in any way.

The room she entered contained a large panoramic window on one side; through it she could see the twinkling lights of Rootville under Facinaturu’s violet-red sky. The room itself was sparsely furnished, as though the view itself was the focal point and extra ornamentation would simply distract from it. Unlike the tiled floors of most of the other spaces within the Chateau, here plush carpet lay under her feet. A table with three chairs stood in the center of the room; all were unoccupied.

Orlouge stood aripple at the window, gazing purposefully over his territory as though ensuring his presence would be felt in even the farthest reaches.

Wasn’t he doing the same thing on his balcony before I fought him? Asellus remembered. Maybe that’s his thing.

Rouge, who’d followed her into the room, immediately fell into a deep bow, and Orlouge turned to regard them.

Asellus made sure not to look in Rouge’s direction as he demonstrated his fealty. She did not want to see it. She also ensured that she didn’t react to it this time. She didn’t want to give Orlouge the satisfaction.

“Before you leave, Pollux,” and oh, hearing Orlouge call Rouge by that name was a fresh wound to Asellus, “I have orders for you.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Rouge replied, at rapt attention. Did Orlouge demonstrate his control over him simply to hurt her?

“Soon, I will call for you again. See that my daughter is prepared to show her faeblade to me when I do.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Rouge repeated.

“You will continue to guide her. That is all for now.”

“My Lord.” Rouge bowed once again, his face bright, as if he was overjoyed that the Charm Lord deigned to order him around. As if acting on an unseen signal, he walked out of the room, leaving Asellus alone with the target of her ire.

“My daughter.” With Rouge gone, Orlouge turned to Asellus. “Have a seat.”

He apparently meant for her to sit at the table in the middle of the room.

“Are we going to play cards?” Asellus snapped, without thinking. Inside, she cringed. She could have come up with a much better retort than that.

“I wish to have a civilized discussion with you. I don’t expect Pollux to teach you manners when White Rose was unable to, but he was able to learn. You should be able to as well.” Orlouge walked to the table; the carpet that muffled the fall of his heels and the robes that rippled over that same carpet gave the impression that he was floating.

“That isn’t his name,” Asellus asserted, not moving from where she stood.

Orlouge stood next to the table and looked at her expectantly.

Asellus stared back. She burned with anger in search of an outlet, with hands that wanted to curl and shoulders that sought to hunch. She couldn’t allow it to show. In the throne room, her fury had allowed Orlouge to control the conversation. It wouldn’t happen twice.

“You may remain there if you wish,” Orlouge told her, breaking the impasse, “but you risk leaving a vulgar first impression.”

“First impression?” Asellus echoed. “Who am I trying to impress?”

At once the soft, almost inaudible sound of footsteps upon plush carpet came from behind her. Apprehension surged inside her once again; her heart stuttered. Torn between the urge to turn around and face the unknown threat, and the certainty that she should not turn her back on the danger that was Orlouge, Asellus froze.

Still facing Orlouge, she could not see the newcomer behind her, but heard an excited “You called for me, My Lord?” from a feminine voice that sent alarm tones ringing inside her head.

I know that voice, her mind insisted, but the words she’d just heard did not fit. Please, no, she thought desperately, suddenly fearful of what was to come.

“Yes. Come in.” Orlouge smiled invitingly at the person behind her, and while that smile may have charmed dozens of maidens in times past, to Asellus it was the sinister grin of a crocodile.

Asellus’ budding horror won against the base survival instincts that told her to keep the Charm Lord in her sight, and she slowly turned around to face the newest atrocity head-on.

Chapter Text

Asellus clutched White Rose’s gloved hands, as if by doing so she could ensure that they would not be separated again. Both of them stared over the balcony, watching monsters stream in across the lower level.

“Zozma did this?” White Rose asked, her mouth a perfect O of surprise.

“He said he was going to teach them a lesson.” Asellus would shed no tears if Trinity’s personnel became food for the creatures pouring down the stairways, but she realized that their escape from the base had suddenly become much more complicated. “But now we’re stuck in the middle of it. We have to get out of here.”

It was unclear how they would do that without running afoul of the same monsters. Asellus’ sword had been taken from her when she’d boarded Trinity’s ship, and despite Ildon’s attempts to force matters back in the Chateau, she had thus far been unable to manifest a faeblade.

Behind them, Asellus heard the heavy mechanical sound of a door opening; both she and White Rose spun around. It was not a monster, but another one of the dancers: the newest captive, if she wasn’t mistaken. The woman was sprinting as well as one could in stilettos; her sheer chiffon skirt streamed behind her. She stopped herself before she ran into them.

“Hurry, get out of here!” the dancer exhorted them.

Asellus’ breath caught to see her up close. The woman was tall, blonde, and stunning in a rhinestone-studded bikini ensemble that was not designed with the wearer’s comfort in mind. She could see why the creepy masked visitor and the pigman in charge of Trinity’s base had argued over her, as though she were a door prize. Blushing furiously, Asellus dropped her eyes to spare the woman her dignity.

“What about you?” Asellus asked the dancer’s feet. “You aren’t staying here, are you?”

“I’m trying to track someone down, but—“ Asellus looked up to see the other woman frowning, a bitter expression on her face, “—things got complicated.”

“Did you get tricked, too?” Asellus asked suddenly, and the dancer sighed. Her long gold threaded earrings shook gently.

“It’s part of the job,” the woman assured her, and then, with feeling, added, “But I did get tricked. And I’m not happy about it, so this is probably going to be my last job for a while.”

“Let’s all get out of here together,” Asellus urged.

If this woman’s “job” had her tracking people down, she most likely had some fighting skills, and they would need all the help they could get on that front. And it would be unconscionable for Asellus to escape with White Rose, only to leave another captive behind.

“Sounds good to me,” the dancer agreed, and then began issuing directions as though she were a commando or spymaster. “The first thing we need to do is find some weapons. Liza taught me a little about grappling, but things will be much easier if I have a gun. I’ll take one off a guard if I have to. Do either of you have anything you can use to fight with?”

“I’ve had some sword training,” Asellus admitted. How strange, how out of place it felt for those words to come out of her mouth. “But they took mine from me. Let’s try to find one.”

“Yes, I can fight,” White Rose answered simply. Of course she could; White Rose was well-acquainted with her mystic abilities and needed nothing else.

Next to the other two, Asellus felt like dead weight. Once I find something sharp I’ll need to do more to make up for it, she decided. I don’t want to be someone that others have to protect. I want to fight.

White Rose curtsied to the newcomer. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Princess White Rose.”

“That’s quite a name!” the dancer exclaimed. “I’m Emilia.”

“And I’m Asellus.” Now that introductions were finished, her hands felt uncomfortably empty; she itched to get moving. “So…where do you think we’ll find their weapons?”

The emotions he evoked in others were fuel to the all-consuming fire that was the Charm Lord. That was why, mere minutes ago, Asellus had assured herself that she would conceal her own for as long as the meeting lasted. She’d vowed to show no anger or pain as Rouge kowtowed unknowingly to the person responsible for their plight.

Now, as she sat at the table with Orlouge and his newest concubine, Asellus had no idea what expression was on her face. It might have been the wide-eyed gape of shock, or the pinched grimace of grief. It might simply have been the unfocused stare of a mind digesting a waking nightmare.

Orlouge and Princess Whatever exchanged pleasantries as a tea service and tiered tray filled with sweets appeared on the table, either by servants’ hands or by conjuration. Asellus wasn’t sure which it was. She hadn’t paid attention to that.

The haze of surreality had descended over her mind earlier when Emilia entered the room at Orlouge’s invitation. With a swish of crepe and chiffon, she’d walked right by Asellus as though she were a piece of furniture, to approach and fawn over Orlouge.

Stricken by grief, with the certainty that a terrible wrong had been committed and that it was all her fault, Asellus had made some noise. Whether it was a gasp, or an exclamation, the effect was the same. Orlouge had smiled brightly and introduced the latest addition to his collection, who then exclaimed and cooed over Asellus as though they’d never been previously acquainted.

She doesn’t remember me either, Asellus thought miserably. The teacup in front of her was filled. She did not care. I failed her too.

After what happened to Rouge, she knew inside that this was a possibility, but she had hoped against hope that Emilia had found a way to safety. This, the alternative, was too cruel.

“A face as pretty as yours shouldn’t wear such a frown, Lady Asellus!” Emilia chirped from her seat. Her hair, pinned into a side-swept chignon, was still the same champagne blonde, but her eyes were now a preternatural golden color. Adorned by layers of smoky eye shadow, they were guileless as she smiled at Asellus from across the table. “Maybe something sweet will cheer you up.”

Asellus said nothing. No words seemed adequate to express her regret to a friend who’d promised to help her win freedom from the Charm Lord, only to fall prey herself.

“I’d love to take you shopping,” Emilia continued, oblivious. A fascinator was pinned in her hair; the longest of the feathers, white and wispy, bobbed slightly with each movement she made. “We could find a gown in the perfect shade to accentuate your lovely green hair. Maybe a nice pale blue, or something in gold…”

“You may not see her alone, my Archangel.” At Orlouge’s pronouncement, Emilia merely smiled, as though his imperious words were a gift. “She has led my princesses astray before.”

“My goodness!” One of Emilia’s smooth, manicured hands flew to her cheek as her eyes widened. “You have a mischievous streak, Lady Asellus? I never would have guessed!”

“She has a rebellious streak,” Orlouge corrected as Emilia reached for her teacup. “Even so, the prodigal daughter has returned.”

Asellus wanted to correct him as she had before, to tell him that she was not his daughter or anything that could be labeled as “his.” But the words were difficult to form. If she were to open her mouth, a sob or scream might escape.

Instead, she watched Emilia, who was acting with care so as not to leave lipstick prints on the porcelain, delicately sip her tea. At last, she turned to Orlouge with unmasked despair.

“Why?” she asked finally, letting the single word speak all for her.

“Why?” the Charm Lord echoed her word, watching her with interest. “Be more specific.”

The dam burst. Asellus wanted to throw herself at Emilia and beg her forgiveness. She wanted to plead for her friends’ freedom, her own pride be damned. Instead, she willed her voice not to waver and asked “Why didn’t you kill me? Why did you do this to them?”

“My daughter.”

Asellus realized that in all their interactions, he’d spoken her name only once, when she’d first given it.

“Perhaps I should have. In terms of strength, you are inadequate. My blood should have produced someone to rival me.”

Orlouge’s words could not possibly hurt as much as the sight of Emilia serenely sipping her tea as if all was right in the world.

“I was wroth that you caused White Rose to betray me.” Orlouge was calm when he said this, a far cry from the thunderous rage she’d heard when he’d sentenced them to the Dark Labyrinth. “You won’t get a chance to repeat that. The fact that Ildon also chose to turn against me was a surprise. But it is the nature of the child to defy the parent.”

Orlouge’s eyes glinted. “And you returned with tribute. You brought me two traitors and two exquisite humans.”

That stung. Heat bloomed on Asellus’ cheeks; the horror of his words rekindled some of the fire she held inside. “Their only mistake was believing in me. They don’t deserve this,” she protested. “Are you mad at me? Then take it out on me.”

“Are you angry, my daughter?” Orlouge riposted. “Drown others in your sorrows. Write your regrets in blood. That is the way of a mystic.”

“I’m not a mystic,” Asellus answered immediately. “I’m not a human either. You know that.”

“A mystic,” Orlouge replied, staring at her directly,“would have struck with the intent to kill, and not tried to appeal to reason first.”

That fateful moment on Orlouge’s balcony, when she’d approached his turned figure and nudged the first domino, had never seemed so long ago. He must have known that she hadn’t wanted to fight the moment she opened her mouth.

Across the table, Emilia sat utterly undisturbed by their argument. She, who had once hurled her pistol at Orlouge when it ran out of bullets, now stared at him with a half-smile as if he were the sun that brought light to her world.

“How long,” Asellus demanded, breaking through the mire of guilt to stand up for her hapless friend, “before you get bored with her and lock her in a coffin? She’s a person, not some doll. She was going to go kill the guy who murdered her fiancé, did you know that? Do you even care?”

Her voice rose in volume again. Let the entire castle hear her indignation; it did not matter. “She helped me escape from someone just like you and she always stood up for me after that. How dare you treat her like she’s just another one of your coffin-warmers? Like she’s just a number?”

“Who she was does not matter, because now she is mine." Orlouge’s tone was one of disinterest, as if he found Asellus’ tirade merely tiresome.

“She isn’t!”

“All who enter the Chateau discard their pasts and become what I say they are. The same applies to you.” With his long fingernails he took a small tart from the tray in the center of the table and turned it this way and that, considering it. The tart was plain and not sugared, save for a dab of red jelly in the center.

“No!” Asellus protested, clinging to her denial as though it were a life raft. “Just let them go. Can’t you be satisfied with what you have already?”

“A mystic would not grieve the loss of her humans because she would have already bound them to herself.” Gleaming teeth bit into the tart then, piercing it; the jelly disappeared entirely.

Revulsion churned inside her. “That’s what you would do. I’m not you. Forcing someone to change and taking away their freedom—that’s not friendship. And it definitely isn’t love.”

“You failed because you did not act like a mystic.” The remains of the tart crumbled between his thumb and index finger. “Your loss was preventable. You hold limitless power, and you reject it.”

“Because I’m not you!” she repeated, her voice growing higher and louder in her frustration. “And I don’t want to be. I’m not your daughter either. My father died when I was in preschool.”

“My blood in your veins says otherwise,” Orlouge concluded.

Next to him, Emilia set her teacup down and smiled again, unaware and unburdened. Asellus wondered whether White Rose had once been the same, intoxicated by the Charm Lord’s aura.

“Why does it have to be me?” Asellus’ accusations and demands crashed impotently against the breakwater that was the Charm Lord. She’d count it as a victory, no matter how small, if she could spur him to anger, or even annoyance. Anything would do, as long as it broke that calm, maddeningly smug countenance. “You have more than enough mistresses to give you an heir if that’s what you really want. I’m just someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got run over by your carriage.”

“I gave my blood to a human. I allowed a human into my castle.” A touch of disdain accented the word “human;” Orlouge’s eyes met hers. “My subjects flew into a frenzy. Their apathy turned to panic and their complacence to dread as they forgot their petty concerns. Is that not amusing?”

“Amusing?” Asellus had not thought it possible for her to be furious on behalf of the rank-and-file in the castle, the same people who’d once tormented her so. “Is this all a joke to you?”

“Merely a diversion.” Orlouge leaned back in his chair slightly, his smile closed-mouthed and self-satisfied. “I have not been so entertained in ages.”

“You did this because you’re bored?!” Asellus’ voice rose to a shout; saucers clattered as she jumped to her feet, brimming with righteous anger.

Emilia, who had been sitting placidly on the other side of the table, looked up in shock.

“Then get a hobby!” Asellus demanded, curled fingers seeking an absent sword. “Take up knitting!”

“Are you all right, Lady Asellus?” Emilia was the one to respond. Her face was drawn lightly with concern.

Overwhelmed with the irony that once again, one of her ill-fated friends would ask if she was all right, while remaining unaware themselves that nothing would ever be right again, Asellus did not answer.

Orlouge no longer smiled and kept his gaze fixed on the seat that Asellus had recently vacated, yet his tone was even as he spoke. “Sit down.”

“No.”

It felt good, even if it was childish, to tell the Charm Lord “No” to his face. How many others had ever been able to do so?

“Sit down,” he repeated.

Although Asellus felt no compulsion to obey him as others might, sudden pressure settled on both of her shoulders, as though an unseen force was pressing down on her. Gritting her teeth, she resisted until the force trebled, turning so overwhelming that she had to stoop or risk both collarbones snapping. She fell back into her seat with a grunt.

“We are finished when I say we are finished.” Orlouge’s voice was unmarked by agitation, but contained the finality of a law of nature, and the unwavering confidence of one who expects to be obeyed and has the strength to back it up.

Asellus realized that she was still clenching her teeth.

“I have not yet given you your orders.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Asellus spat, not caring if Orlouge would respond by crushing her like an insect. “I’m not one of your servants and I’m definitely not your daughter. And even if I was, parents don’t order their kids around!”

“A strongly worded request, then, if it suits your human sensibilities.” Orlouge’s mouth curled into a smile without a hint of warmth. The corners of his eyes turned upward in amusement, as though he were indulging an audacious child. “I have instructed Pollux to show you how to awaken your faeblade’s potential—“

“Don’t care,” Asellus huffed, crossing her arms.

“—and you will demonstrate to me what you have learned. It is unbecoming of a mystic to forswear the faeblade that is hers by right.”

“I already know how to use it and I’m not going to.” 

That damned faeblade had first appeared in her hand, unbidden, as she stood trembling on her aunt’s front lawn, after she’d shrieked her rage and heartbreak at the first disposable Facinaturu knight sent to drag White Rose back to prison. It was a weapon meant to steal souls and served as little more than evidence of the humanity she’d lost, as if her aunt’s rejection wasn’t enough.

Unless Orlouge’s power included the ability to maneuver her arms as though she were a marionette on strings, he could not force her to use it. She could take comfort in that, at least. Stubbornly, she added, “Die mad about it.”

“Your strong will is as much a part of you as your forsaken faeblade.” Orlouge still smiled at her, as if her resistance counted as part of the "entertainment" he’d mentioned earlier. The threaded gems adorning his headpiece shimmered like stars; she wondered, not for the first time, if the horns were also part of the ensemble or if they grew naturally from his head like those of a demon. “What will it take to break it, I wonder?”

“That’s sick.” Asellus’ face pinched with disgust. “Is that what you do to people? You break them?”

“Those who hold absolute power have the right to wield it as they wish.” The merriment was gone from Orlouge’s face; he regarded her with a pointed look that said she should take his words to heart. “You, who have my blood, should understand.”

“You treat people like objects,” Asellus scowled. She dug her fingernails into the seat of her chair. “Things for you to collect or play with or—or break. Do you even care about the pain you cause, or does none of it matter as long as you’re ‘entertained?’”

“All lesser beings desire to be ruled by the almighty. I am giving them what they want.”

Orlouge held one hand out to her, palm up; Asellus could see no blood vessels through the skin as one would with most other living creatures. Even the hand of a marble statue would contain mineral veins.

“You, who are no lesser being, should realize this. Accept your power or be ruled alongside the powerless.”

Asellus, who had no fitting response to a man who equated his tyranny to generosity, was silent.

“I, too, was negligent,” Orlouge continued. “I entrusted the task of educating you to others when I should have guided you myself. I intend to remedy this. A rose will not bloom unless it is cultivated in fertile soil.”

At Orlouge’s words, Asellus shivered involuntarily. The sudden chill she felt was as tangible as spiders crawling down her arms. She could do without the rose comparisons as well. She had already become blind to the beauty of roses, unable to see the soft petals, only the thorns. She rubbed her hands on her forearms to chase the unwelcome sensation away.

Orlouge reached a hand out to stroke Emilia’s perfumed cheek; she smiled and leaned slightly into the touch, her gemstone earrings glinting softly in the light. No words were exchanged, but Asellus looked down at the empty plate in front of her so that she would not have to see. She wanted to knock his perfect hand away from Emilia.

With the conversation drawn to a lull, Emilia looked up and smiled brightly at both of them. “Lady Asellus, I believe that you would be absolutely radiant if you were in better spirits.” She reached across the table to place a sugar cookie in front of Asellus, whose frown only deepened. “We’ll have to see what we can do to put a smile on your face, won’t we?”

Chapter Text

Asellus placed a hand against the windowpane. The cool touch belied the warm night—for was there any other time of day in Facinaturu?—air outside. Beyond her reflection, she could vaguely make out the rocky slopes that lay behind the castle, untouched by civilization; Rootville bordered the castle's front gate and did not wrap all the way around.

If I had wings, I could get out of here, Asellus mused. It doesn't matter if they're bat wings like Ciato or butterfly wings like Silence, as long as they work. And if I were in charge, I'd make sure there was a gate in back. That'd make things easier too. Ignoring the likelihood that the imaginary Queen Asellus wouldn't need to escape her own castle, she catalogued it with "elevators" in her list of features that would make the castle more livable.

The window panes appeared to be thick glass, but pulsed with energy, refracting the purple hue of Facinaturu's sky. Instead of glass, they could be crystal. They might be made out of the same mineral as the fluorescing crystals that were Facinaturu's analogue to light bulbs, or they might be something else entirely, but either way, it would mean that there was a quarry—

A light knock on the room's doorframe startled Asellus out of her thoughts.

"Lady Asellus? Is this a good time?"

Asellus could have laughed at the consideration for her privacy, when she had so very little of it. Instead, she turned her head around and called, "You can come in, you know. It's all right."

Hesitantly, Rouge tiptoed into the room as though he were treading on sacred ground.

"There's no burglar alarm," Asellus offered. "You don't need to be so careful. Ildon and Zozma both popped in and out of this room and didn't even ask first."

Rouge's mouth dropped open slightly. "I would never do something so disrespectful."

Would Rouge have scolded Ildon and Zozma like the headmistress of a finishing school? The thought was priceless, and had one corner of Asellus' mouth threatening to twitch upward. She clamped down on it before it became a reality. There would be no smiles without her express approval.

“Well, you wouldn't. But neither one of them would ever win the prize for Miss Congeniality. They—" Her words trailed off. She had been about to say the words "they were," instead of "they are," as though they were relics of the past.

"Lady Asellus?" Rouge's voice took on that familiar edge of concern once more.

Asellus shook her head. "Sorry. They're my friends, and I don't know what happened to them. I'm worried about them."

Understanding dawned on Rouge's face, but Asellus was certain that it wasn’t the right kind of understanding. He may have been capable of comprehending how she felt, but the names of their companions apparently meant nothing to him.

Still, she had to try.

"You knew them too, you know," she probed, watching Rouge intently for any sign that she'd dredged up something in his psyche. "We fought together. Zozma respected your strength, and that's saying something. And Ildon— Well, I don't know what he was thinking. I thought he was just a jerk at first.”

Her throat tightened and words faded in a rapid decrescendo; moments passed before she found the strength to speak again. “But now I'm wondering whether he was afraid to open up to us."

“I knew these people, Lady Asellus?” Rouge repeated.

When Asellus nodded emphatically, he looked back at her with a somewhat sympathetic expression. “I don’t remember any of this, but perhaps it’s as you say.”

“I don’t lie,” Asellus said simply. As with her other attempts to break through to him, this too had ended in failure. “But that’s not why you came here, is it?”

“No.” He straightened slightly and met her eyes, his face open and earnest. “Do you remember, Lady Asellus, that our lord asked for you to demonstrate your faeblade?”

“Yes,” she responded, drawing out the vowel in irritation. “Did he send you for that?”

“No, Lady Asellus, but it’s a matter of time before he does. I came to help you prepare.”

“Well, thanks for thinking of me,” she said airily, “but I don’t need your help with that.” Despite all of the swordplay lessons she’d received from Ildon, the faeblade itself hadn’t materialized for the first time until long after she’d escaped Facinaturu, an unwanted souvenir of her time in purgatory.

“You already know?” Rouge visibly relaxed. “That’s good, then.”

“I do already know,” she assured him. “But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to do what he wants. He wants to see a faeblade? Too bad.”

“Lady Asellus?” No further words followed this inquiry as Rouge stood with stark astonishment.

“See, just because you want something, it doesn’t mean you get it.” Asellus’ face was firm, resolute. Her hand drummed the windowsill. “It’s about time he learned that. Don’t you think?”

The seconds ticked by as Rouge struggled to process her statement. Asellus could almost see the neurons misfiring, attempting to make a connection between the words she spoke and what he believed reality to be. I hope I didn’t break him like the time I spilled lemonade on Auntie’s laptop, she thought.

At last, Rouge raised his eyebrows and regarded her with a look of mild distress. “I hope that you can forgive my lack of propriety, Lady Asellus, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Have I ever cared about ‘propriety?’” Asellus waved a hand in the air as if to shoo away a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

“Lord Orlouge,” Rouge paused and took a breath before delivering the next part of his sentence, “will expect to be obeyed. I don’t want you to be punished for defiance, Lady Asellus.”

It was somewhat comforting to see that Rouge cared about her, even after all that had happened. “Don’t worry, Rouge,” she assured him, an ill-fitting grin forming on her face, “I don’t intend to be punished either.”

Relief washed over Rouge’s face. “I’m glad that you understand, Lady Asellus.”

“That’s right, and now I need you to understand something.” Asellus turned away from the window and took several deliberate steps toward the center of the room. “I’m stuck in this horrible castle. Again. Half of my friends are missing and the others turned into people I don’t even recognize, and if the only control I have left is to refuse his stupid order like a little kid, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

Without waiting for Rouge to react, she continued. “Do you know why I didn't want to use my faeblade in the first place? It’s because I felt like using it would be giving in, and accepting the fact that I’m not human any more, and I refuse to do that.”

She scowled. Feelings were one thing, but speaking the words out loud made them so much more real. “Maybe my body will never be human again, but my mind will always be my own. And I’ve made up my mind that I’m not going to use the faeblade and it doesn’t matter what he threatens me with. What else can he do to me that he hasn’t already?”

Voicing those words brought sweet catharsis, even as she saw Rouge struggling to understand. He let out a long, slow, exhale, then looked up, his face pleading. “Lady Asellus, I can’t say that I understand what troubles you. All I can say is that I don’t want to see you punished. I hope that you reconsider.”

“I’ve been through some things, Rouge,” Asellus offered, as an explanation. “We all have.”

Rouge watched her for a moment longer before his features settled with purpose. “I’d like to try to help you clear your head,” he volunteered. “Will you come for a walk with me?”

“Sure,” Asellus agreed, walking to where he stood just inside the doorway. “I was just looking out the window anyway. It’s kind of boring here.”

As she approached him, Rouge moved two fingers in a four-pointed outline, tracing the shape of a hatchet in the air. Instantly, a traitorously soothing feeling coursed through her, warm as a summer breeze.

“Hey!” she protested, narrowing her eyes.

Rouge bobbed his head apologetically. “I mentioned that I can’t do anything to heal an afflicted mind, Lady Asellus, but the Freedom Rune will prevent any other ailments from befalling you. I hope that you’ll understand.”

“That’s nice of you,” Asellus mumbled. He was trying to look out for her in his own way, which was more than she could say for the other castle residents. “But I would really like you to ask me first.”

“That’s fair.” Rouge nodded. With the matter settled, both of them looked past the doorway leading to the rest of the castle. “Do you have a place you’d like to go, Lady Asellus?”

Right out the front gate, Asellus’ mind supplied, glibly. Instead, she offered, “When I had a lot on my mind, I used to like to go for a walk in the park. Down a nature trail, or whatever else was there. I’d just go wherever my feet pointed me. Want to do that?”

“That’s a good idea,” Rouge agreed, readily enough that she could almost imagine that they were schoolmates planning to walk home from school together, instead of inmates in a reformatory. In a kinder world, perhaps.

Asellus’ lips curled in disgust as they exited the bedroom and stepped into the adjoining room full of coffins. “Don’t let this happen to you,” she warned.

“This?”

“See all the princesses in coffins?” Asellus moved a hand in a wide, circular gesture to encompass the entirety of the room. “Don’t ever let anyone throw you away like that. I’m afraid that it’s going to happen to Emilia and I don’t want it to happen to you too.”

“I’m not a princess, Lady Asellus.” Rouge smiled gently, as though he were explaining the facts of life to a child.

“I hope you’re right,” Asellus frowned, “but still. If you’re allowed to worry about me, I’m allowed to worry about you. All right?”

To her surprise, Rouge answered her by clasping his hands and bowing deeply enough that she could have balanced a tray on his neck. “You honor me with your concern, Lady Asellus, when I have done nothing to deserve it.”

“Ugh, stop that!” Asellus complained, wrinkling her face. “Forget what I said. I’ll tell Orlouge to lock you away somewhere if you ever do that again.”

Rouge straightened at once, but she detected a trace of something—satisfaction, perhaps?—in his face that wasn’t previously present. “As you say, Lady Asellus.”

“I don’t like this room, so let’s get walking.” They resumed their steps, leaving the unlucky princesses behind.

It might be easier, a quiet corner of Asellus’ mind whispered, if Rouge and Emilia were imprisoned in coffins after all. With every attempt to break through to the people she had known unsuccessful, the best chance she had at freeing them from the Chateau would probably be carting them off with her like luggage.

Don’t think like that, she admonished herself. And it’s not like I’ve figured out how to get myself out yet.

When their path took them to a room holding a teleporter, Asellus asked, “Do you want to do the honors, or should I?”

“Let me,” Rouge answered, bending to disturb the surface of the water. One storm of flower petals later, they stood in the twinned teleporter room next to the courtyard.

“This is where I found you, right?” Asellus asked, stepping into the courtyard replete with white flowers and white light. How ironic that the one room in the entire castle devoted to the color of purity would be the place where she’d first shed her tainted blood, so long ago. “Why were you here, anyway? Do you like this place?”

“Yes, this is where I met you, Lady Asellus,” Rouge told her, turning his head slightly to take in the entire panorama. “It’s pleasant here, although I do favor red flowers.”

“Yeah, it makes sense that you would.” Asellus poked one of the small blossoms underfoot with a toe. “All the white flowers are here, right? They don’t grow anywhere else in the castle.”

“I think you’re correct, Lady Asellus.” Rouge watched as she toyed with the flowers, but did not join in. “This is the only place that I can remember seeing them.”

“There’s a game that people play with these.” Asellus crouched and picked one of the flowers, an aster with white petals and a dark center. She stood up and held it out so that Rouge could see. “You pull out one petal at a time, like this.”

With her other hand, she began to pluck long, slender petals to demonstrate. “And with each one, you alternate. ‘He loves me. She loves me not.’ And then you’re left with just one petal, and it tells you whether or not the person you have a crush on likes you back. Of course, if you don’t like the answer you get, you just grab the next flower and try again.”

“Is there someone that you’re thinking of, Lady Asellus?” Rouge asked, once she had removed all the petals and was left with just the central disc.

“No,” she replied, turning the barren stem in her hand. “I’m just wondering…do you think it’s crueler for the flowers to have their petals torn out one at a time, or to be crushed all at once?”

“That’s a question for the flowers, I think,” Rouge answered mildly.

“We never asked the flowers what they thought.” Asellus dropped the stem on the ground, looking away as it fell. “I don’t have any good memories of this place. Where else can we go from here?”

Before Rouge could answer, Asellus felt a hum in a far corner of her mind, a certainty that someone else was present.

Rouge looked up and over her shoulder. Asellus turned around to see Rastaban, brightly colored coat tails bouncing merrily as he stepped lightly through the flowers, a pleasant, unobtrusive smile on his face.

Great, she grumbled internally as Rouge performed his bobble of respect. He wasn’t at Orlouge’s level, but Rastaban was high on the list of people that she didn’t want to see.

“Ah, Lady Asellus! Pollux! Good day to you.” The bonhomie that Rastaban projected was particularly ill-suited to the Chateau.

"Lord Rastaban," Rouge replied agreeably. "What an honor to see you."

Asellus, who did not share the sentiments, chose instead to study him carefully. He held nothing in his hands, but of course that meant little when the weapons of mystics could be manifested at will.

"I find myself in a bit of a predicament," Rastaban told them with a touch of a self-effacing smile. "I have something for Lady Asellus. I believe it could help her with the problem that you and I were discussing earlier, Pollux. But how silly of me, I seem to have left it in the solarium."

"You two were talking about me?" blurted Asellus. The last thing she needed was Rastaban whispering in Rouge's ear. She didn't want to lose the one safe person that she had in the castle.

"Forgive me, Lady Asellus." Rouge held a hand to his chest. "You seemed to enjoy watching mystic magic, even though you've been unable to use it yourself. I thought that I should ask Lord Rastaban for advice."

"Of course you did," muttered Asellus. Rouge was determined to "help" her, after all. He had no idea that Rastaban's idea of help could be the exact opposite.

"I wonder if I might impose on you to bring it back, Pollux?" Rastaban asked politely.

Panicked, Asellus felt her breath began to quicken. No, no. This was the exact situation that she wanted to avoid.

Asellus opened her mouth to protest, but Rastaban masterfully cut her off before the words left her mouth. "Fear not, I'll watch over Lady Asellus while you're gone."

"Don't!" Asellus erupted, and Rouge looked at her in surprise. "Don't go, Rouge. Stay with me."

Torn, Rouge looked back and forth between Asellus and Rastaban. "Lady Asellus is still recuperating, Lord Rastaban. I worry about leaving her."

"As expected of someone as dedicated as you, Pollux. Truly, Lady Asellus is lucky to have you attend to her.” Rastaban favored Rouge with an approving nod. “Pay me no heed, then. I'll see you both again another time. I wish you success when you meet with Lord Orlouge."

Rouge's eyes wavered momentarily before he decided. Hook, line, and sinker. "No...I'll find it for you, Lord Rastaban. But, please. If you would make sure that Lady Asellus is safe while I'm gone, I would be very grateful."

"I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise, Pollux. We'll be here when you return." Rastaban smiled reassuringly as Rouge bowed lightly to them.

Rouge then turned around and headed off, back in the direction of the teleporter room. He did not simply disappear in front of them; Asellus wondered if he was trying to observe decorum by leaving on foot, instead of using mystic magic to send himself there. She watched him go, despairing.

Rastaban also watched Rouge leave the courtyard. "He's very gifted," he told her, his voice light and conversational. "I can see him becoming a knight."

"What do you want?" Asellus snapped.

No more games; let it be all out on the table. She still had no weapon, but she was ready to do what she must to prevent her blood from staining the flowers once again. She had no idea how much power Rastaban possessed, but given the combat prowess of Ildon and Ciato, she could form an assumption.

"Lady Asellus." Rastaban scrutinized her for several seconds, long enough that Asellus felt droplets of sweat begin to form on the back of her neck. "You certainly have brought change, haven't you?"

That was a low blow. Fuming, Asellus spat, "You're a jerk."

Rastaban, who had probably been called many other things in his lifetime, did not react to her insult.

Belligerently, Asellus continued. "Are you here to try to kill me? Then let's get it over with. But I'm not going to just sit here and let you do it."

"Why would I kill you, Lady Asellus?" Rastaban was unperturbed by Asellus' outburst. Standing in the courtyard, dressed to the nines as always, he looked like a suitor waiting for his betrothed, instead of a fanatic who’d once urged her to lead a revolution. "What would I say to Ildon?"

“Not good.”

Ildon towered over Asellus, who’d pulled herself up to a crouching position, with both palms resting on the ground to steady herself. Although the superficial cuts she’d acquired from one of Ildon’s innumerable monstrous opponents—where did he find so many?—were already closing, the bite the creature took out of her lower leg would take longer. Ildon’s training had taught her exactly one thing so far: If allowed enough rest, mystics’ injuries would heal.

But she knew that wasn’t enough for Ildon. It would never be enough until—

“You have yet to manifest a faeblade,” Ildon reminded her, as he did at least once every session, voice flat and unimpressed. “Once you do, your training will truly begin.”

“Because I don’t know how to!” Asellus protested. Her head hung, hair dripping sweat into her eyes. She stared at his shiny black boots. They were maddeningly free from scratches. “If that’s what I’m supposed to do, why don’t you just tell me how?”

“A faeblade is an extension of one’s own mind. I shouldn’t need to give you instructions.”

She chanced a glance upward. Ildon was looking down at her, his mouth set as firmly as his words. She knew better than to expect sympathy from him, but it didn’t change the fact that his brusque mannerisms were no comfort when she was on the ground and bloodied.

“Well, what you’re doing now isn’t working,” Asellus shot back, simmering with resentment. Whose bright idea was it to drop her into brawls against monsters, when her only experience with fighting was button-mashing at the arcade?

“If you don’t learn to defend yourself, you will not survive here.”

“Are you threatening me now?” Outraged, Asellus glared as best she could. Her leg stung; her pride stung.

“This is not a threat. This is fact.”

Asellus, taken aback, searched Ildon’s face for an explanation. There was no anger present, and that was perhaps the worst part.

“You don’t understand,” he continued, “that your death would make many in this castle happy.”

“I might,” she argued, remembering the unexpected assault from Ciato in the flower garden. She had yet to repay him for that. Never mind that she had no idea how she’d even begin to do it in the first place.

“You don’t,” he repeated. Although his tone remained clipped, Asellus saw something—the briefest moment of his eyebrows lifting in the center, a shadow of human concern, perhaps?—before his face resettled. “Your presence has shaken up the order in the castle. There are those who see you as a threat to be removed. My job is to teach you how to prevent that. But I can’t keep you alive if you refuse to fight like a mystic.”

“I don’t want to die either!” Asellus erupted. The words tumbled out of her mouth, honest and scalding. “And I don’t want anyone to ‘remove’ me! If that’s what they think, then maybe I should remove them!” Her knuckles whitened; she dug her fingertips against the unyielding floor as best she could.

Finally, she took a deep breath. This wasn’t the dressing down that Ildon usually gave her when she inevitably collapsed during his lessons. The word “idiot” hadn’t left his mouth once.

She softened, sensing that he was trying to convey something as best he could. “But I can’t fight anything with this dinky little knife you gave me. I don’t think it could even cut hot butter. Don’t you have anything else I could use?”

“Mystics do not rely on others.” The shiny buckles on Ildon’s long, dark coat glinted in the dim light as he took slow steps around her. “Manifest your faeblade. That must be your goal.”

“Okay, but I’m trying and it’s not working,” Asellus protested, fighting the twin urges to whine and explode in frustration. The tiles under her fingernails were smooth, despite the numerous battles that the fighting arena must have seen. “Don’t you have anything sharper than this around here? A sword or something? Maybe if I actually learn how to use one I’ll figure out how to make that mystic sword ‘manifest’ and then you’ll be happy.”

“Faeblade,” Ildon corrected, coming to a stop before her. He looked down, considering for a moment, before allowing, “That may be possible.”

That was more consideration than he’d offered her before. Asellus sighed with relief.

Ildon surprised her further when he extended his gloved hand to her to help her stand.

At Rastaban’s words, Asellus' body went rigid. It didn’t matter whether he was baiting her or not, as long as he had an answer for her at last. "Ildon? What happened to him? Do you know where he is?"

"He's quite safe," Rastaban assured her. He stood at ease before her, his relaxed posture a stark contrast to Asellus, who remained tense as a taut bowstring. "But he isn't here."

"Not here—" Asellus digested those words. They were bitter, unsatisfying. "Then where is he?"

"Safe," Rastaban repeated. "Away from the thorns and the poison of Chateau Aiguille. It's better for him that way." Were his eyes suddenly a touch wistful, looking farther into the distance than she could see, or had it been her imagination? Or was it another one of his masks?

"It's 'better.'" Asellus repeated the word, frowning. "Then why aren't you with him? Why are you here?"

"I am here, Lady Asellus," Rastaban looked at her expectantly, as if waiting for a reaction, "because someone implored me to look out for you."

"Someone? Do you mean Ildon?"

Asellus had to stop herself from grabbing Rastaban by the fluttery lace tied around his neck. Doing that wouldn’t wring the answers out any faster.

"Oh, no. Ildon wouldn't ask me to do anything.” Rastaban smiled faintly; the waves of hair that fell over his shoulders were the color of leaves, of the vines that choked Facinaturu. Ildon’s hair was a similar color. She’d happily trade Rastaban for Ildon if she could.

“He'd scowl at me,” he continued, “and pretend that the request wasn't truly important to him. And while his grouchiness has a charm of its own, he wasn't the one who asked. It was a lovely lady who cherishes Lady Asellus."

"Do you mean White Rose?" Asellus' voice rose in pitch and volume. The world flashed in new, vivid colors. She leaned forward, on edge. "Did you see her? Is she okay?"

"She's quite all right. The Dark Labyrinth is designed to imprison its prey, not harm them."

"You were—" Asellus stumbled over her words. There was so much left unexplained, hiding under the surface. The question crept to the tip of her tongue, awaiting form, but it made so little sense. "Does that mean that you—"

"You're asking a lot of questions about me, Lady Asellus," Rastaban interrupted. "And yet we have little time before Pollux returns. Am I the one whose welfare is important to you?"

"No. I mean, Zozma. Do you know where he is too?" Asellus hurried to put her racing thoughts into words. Never mind that Rastaban might not be telling her the truth, or that he might expect something in return for the information. She had to know.

"He is not with Ildon. I’m not aware of where he is now, but I believe he survived."

"That's a relief." Asellus breathed in, scarcely noting that the tips of her fingers were twitching, and tried her luck one more time. "The tailor shop in Rootville had a human girl working there. Her name is Gina. Rouge said that he hasn’t seen her. Do you know what happened to her?"

"Oh!" Rastaban looked at Asellus with interest. A slow smile crept across his face, as though they shared a secret. "Now there's a question that I didn't expect. And it's a name that I haven't heard in some time. Were you friends?"

"Something like that," Asellus agreed hurriedly. "Is she still around here?"

"I can't say for sure." Rastaban looked into space as if he were trying to recall. "Maybe, consumed by grief after Lady Asellus left Facinaturu, she threw herself into the flames."

"No!" Asellus choked. The color drained from her face.

Smiling once again, this time with wry amusement, Rastaban continued. "Or maybe, determined to follow in Lady Asellus' footsteps, she found another way out of Facinaturu."

"You—!" Asellus glared as though she held the strength of the eternal flame in her own anger. Was this his idea of a joke? "Stop playing around with me!"

"Who knows the truth, Lady Asellus?” Rastaban’s tone turned curious, as though he were the one asking the questions. “It was a moment in time, and time has passed. I asked you to restart time in Facinaturu, and so you did. Perhaps not in the way that I expected—or the way that you wanted."

His expression remained neutral, pleasant even. In his brocaded finery, he stood tall among the flowers as though he were one himself—a lily, perhaps, or a peony. One that dripped poison.

"How dare you," Asellus hissed. "This isn't a game!" Enough with all the mystics who saw her struggles as a source of amusement.

“We’ll have to see what happens.” Rastaban continued as though Asellus were nodding in voracious agreement. “Even now, things are different.”

“Different.” The word, when she spoke it, was soaked in bitterness. “Yeah, things are different, all right. My friends are different. Orlouge did this to them. I’m stuck here, and I don’t know how to help them.”

“Is being a mystic so terrible?” Rastaban inquired.

Asellus’ jaw instantly tensed. “It is when you’re not supposed to be!” she protested. “Can you even understand that? Were you human once?”

“Does it matter?” he replied simply.

“Fine, then,” she dismissed him even as she shook her head to show that it was not fine at all, “tell me something else. How long has it been since we fought Orlouge?”

Rastaban laughed lightly. Despite Zozma’s past warnings that mystics were easily offended, he showed no umbrage at Asellus’ verbal assault. The heavy brass buttons on his sleeves twinkled in the light. “I’m afraid that I can’t answer that.”

“I told you to stop playing around with me!”

“It’s not a joke, Lady Asellus. I was absent from Facinaturu myself for some time. I had no means of marking time as it passed.”

Surprised, Asellus scanned his face for any indications of trickery, but his relaxed countenance gave no sign.

“What,” she wondered, speaking her own thoughts out loud rather than directing further questions to Rastaban, “happened before I woke up?” She had been confused enough when she awoke in Chateau Aiguille for the second time, and her new, hard-won answers served to confound her even further.

There were to be no further answers for her. Asellus sensed Rouge before she saw him; she turned her head to see him walking toward her. Rastaban also turned to register his approach, and he smiled as Rouge held out one hand.

A small, sparkly bauble rested in Rouge’s palm. It looked like a brooch, Asellus thought. There was a purple gem in the center—an amethyst, perhaps?—set in a gold frame with carved scrollwork.

"Is this what you misplaced, Lord Rastaban?" Rouge asked with the sincerity of one who is determined to be of use.

"So it is!" Rastaban agreed. "Fetching, isn't it? Oh, but that isn't why I had it in mind for you, Lady Asellus. Pollux, have you noticed anything interesting?"

"It contains magical energy," Rouge answered readily, considering the jewel he held. "The magical signature is very familiar, as though it's imbued with mystic power."

"Very good!" Rastaban said approvingly. "This is a relic of the human world. The Purple Eye, I believe it's called. Human sorcerers who wanted to dabble in mystic magic found some success with charms like this."

"Why would humans want to cast mystic magic?" Asellus interjected. It seemed as ill-matched as a mystic flying a plane. What good ever came to people who meddled with things that they didn’t understand?

"Perhaps they were curious," Rouge offered.

"In your case, Lady Asellus, I think it might increase your affinity for mystic magic," Rastaban continued, perfectly playing the magnanimous benefactor. "Perhaps your human blood is more of an obstacle than we realize? Or maybe the obstacle is in your mind. Whatever the barrier is, this bit of extra mystic power should help surmount it."

"Why," Asellus accused, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, "would I want to do that?" Mystics who bore gifts were not to be trusted. She knew that very well.

"Power is necessary to protect what we value most, Lady Asellus." Rastaban's response was relentlessly genial. "Or those who are stronger will take it from us."

While Asellus glared at Rastaban, Rouge stretched his hand out further. "Shall I give this back to you, Lord Rastaban?"

"Ah, no," Rastaban laughed. "It would clash terribly with the color of my justaucorps! Would you help Lady Asellus with it, Pollux?"

"Of course." Rouge obligingly turned to Asellus. "Lady Asellus, if you'll allow me?"

Asellus looked pointedly at Rastaban one last time, because he's up to something, and I want him to know that I know it, before looking at Rouge with resignation. "If it makes you happy," she sighed. Whatever got Rastaban to go away faster.

Rouge moved slowly, as if she were an antique vase at risk of shattering. He took the edge of one of her lapels in one hand, careful to touch only the fabric and not her person, and with the other hand he fastened the purple brooch on it. When he stepped back, Asellus had to admit that he'd done a good job. It hung perfectly straight on her jacket, which was more than she could do without a mirror.

"You look lovely," Rastaban approved, and despite her lack of care for his opinion, Asellus felt her cheeks color lightly. "I hope this will help you in your endeavors."

"It does suit you, Lady Asellus," Rouge agreed.

Asellus touched the jewel's cabochon surface with a finger. She could feel something in there that was not quite a pulse, twitching like a firefly trapped in a jar. The spark it contained was undeniably mystic. The energy felt comfortable, like a worn-in pair of shoes. Never mind that some maniac had apparently found a way to seal mystic energy in an inanimate object, what bothered her most of all was the fact that mystic power felt good on any level.

Doesn't matter, she told herself. Let him pat himself on the back for now. I can just take it off later.

"A flower would complete the look, I think. Your hair is too short, but a buttonhole would do nicely," Rastaban mused.

Asellus backed away from both of them before Rouge could get any ideas.

Chapter Text

"Show me."

How many others had been brought before the throne of the Charm Lord to hear his demands? The number had to be higher than Asellus could even begin to imagine. Of all who had been in the same position, was she the first to respond this way?

"No."

Asellus' voice rang out louder than she'd intended. Perhaps it was a quirk of acoustics, or perhaps she'd delivered the word with more force than she realized. It was fine either way. Let the Charm Lord have a taste of what it was like to be unable to compel obedience.

Beside her stood Rouge, face painted with horror. Stricken, he glanced at her, then at the Charm Lord.

He's afraid of what might happen, she thought, but he's not running away. She felt a glimmer of pride that he still stood beside her, even after all that had come to pass.

"No?" Orlouge looked down at her; his hair streamed in the breeze as always. "I was quite clear."

"And so was I," Asellus riposted. She felt adrenaline begin to flow, readying her for a fight, should it come to that. Never mind that she had no chance of emerging victorious; asserting her own will over his demands felt very, very good. "I'm not going to do what you want just because you say so."

"Do you know what happens to those who disobey me?" Orlouge asked conversationally, as if they were still having tea in his parlor. "The thorns that built my Chateau yet live. When they sup on the blood and tears of those who draw my ire, they grow taller still, and so the Chateau itself becomes grander. Look at the castle in which you now stand, and realize that it has fed upon much greater threats than you."

"Threaten me all you want," Asellus scowled, refusing to be intimidated. "Or feed me to your pet snapdragons, or whatever you've got. I don't care. There's nothing else you can take from me."

She knew that if she pushed him too far, she might not walk away from the encounter. Yet that seemed far less important than the need not to yield—to hold on to the last grasp of control she had over herself for as long as she could.

Asellus and Orlouge regarded each other in the low light of the throne room. Her determined glare met his pointed stare; they clashed wordlessly before locking in an impasse. Neither spoke.

Asellus realized that she had forgotten to blink when her vision began to blur. The world was soundless until a sharp gasp resounded close to her side.

Surprised, she broke the staring contest and looked to Rouge, whose hand now rested against his throat. Eyes widened in shock, he bent forward slightly, and his body shook as though he were trying to cough.

Baffled, Asellus looked at his distressed figure for a clue as to what was wrong—was he trying to distract them?—and understood once his eyes started watering.

She hadn't realized at first, because instead of reddening, his face was rapidly becoming paler in his struggle to breathe. But how could anyone turn red in the face when they lacked red blood?

She whipped around to face Orlouge, who had raised no hands against them and was merely surveying the scene with interest. "Stop!" she shouted, knees beginning to weaken in panic.

When her plea resulted in no respite, she threw her arms wide as if to shield Rouge behind her. "Stop hurting him! He didn't do anything!"

She had already failed him once. Was she meant to watch her friends suffer over and over, damned for no reason other than their association with her?

The voice from the throne was direct and merciless. "Show me."

Asellus swallowed, mentally begging Rouge’s forgiveness and cursing herself for her own weakness. She'd done this just once before, but the action was as natural as breathing. In a swift stroke of will she summoned the faeblade into her right hand.

Rouge let out a deep whooping sound next to her as he greedily sucked air into his lungs once more. Asellus stared at the floor, hot tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

Orlouge regarded her knowingly, as though the result were a foregone conclusion. "This is what it takes to break you," he reflected. "You are so very transparent, my daughter."

Asellus wanted to say so much to him. I hate you was juvenile, but summed up her emotions very well. You're a monster was a close second. She could shout at him even longer about how cowardly it was to drag others into their feud.

Yet the fact that he was willing to hurt others to force her compliance meant that she could say none of it. Instead her resistance would rot on the vine, because she couldn't put Rouge at risk again.

"Pollux," Orlouge intoned, as though he hadn't just cruelly stifled the man.

"My Lord," Rouge answered weakly, followed by a short string of coughs.

"My daughter may have been unruly before, but I think you'll find her a more willing student now. She still has not unlocked her faeblade's potential.” Looking purposefully at Rouge, he added, “You will rectify this, and then you will show me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, My Lord," Rouge croaked.

"Do you understand, my daughter?" Orlouge asked pointedly.

Not trusting her voice, Asellus nodded.

"Then all is well," he concluded, and disappeared.

When she was certain that he was gone, the blade in her hand vanished. Asellus flew the few steps to Rouge's side and clutched at his shoulders.

"Rouge! Are you okay?" she begged. She wanted to pound him on the back, but how would that help? He hadn't swallowed anything.

Rouge regarded her with surprised, watery eyes. "Lady Asellus," he said slowly, his voice still cracking slightly. "I'm fine. I'm just fine."

"Nothing's fine!" Asellus protested. She held his shoulders firmly as though he'd turn to dust otherwise. "I'm so sorry! This is my fault!"

"No, Lady Asellus.” Rouge put his hands over hers and gently removed them from his shoulders. “I failed to complete our lord’s instructions. The fault is my own.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong! I was the one who said I wasn’t going to do it!” Asellus cried, wringing her hands in front of her. Wringing hands, wringing necks. “And you got hurt because of it. I’m so sorry!”

“But you weren’t punished. I’m glad, Lady Asellus.” Rouge offered her a small smile that pierced her heart like a nettle thorn.

“This is wrong,” Asellus spat. “Rouge, all of this is wrong. You shouldn’t be glad, you should run! Get out of here as fast as you can and forget you ever met me,” she pleaded, staring directly into his own red eyes as though she could burn the urgency of her request into them. “Please.”

“What are you talking about, Lady Asellus?” Rouge looked at her as though she were the unreasonable one in the castle. “Our lord gave us a task. Without me, you may not be able to complete it. I don’t want you to be punished too.”

That Rouge, who wanted nothing more than to be of service to the man who'd cruelly tortured him, would put her welfare above his own, even now, drove the sting deeper.

“This is all my fault,” Asellus repeated. Orlouge had use for Rouge and Emilia other than as additions to his retinue. They were also leverage to ensure that she continued to behave.

“I’m sorry to cause you distress, Lady Asellus.” Though his delivery was perfectly solemn, the words were no less ill-fitting. “I think that the best way to prevent it from happening again is to follow our lord’s orders. Will you come with me? We can continue to discuss who is at fault while we walk, if that’s what you want.”

Asellus barked an incredulous laugh. “I don’t want—well, what I want doesn’t really matter, does it? Fine, let’s do it his way. Like we have any other option.” She punctuated the last phrase with a furious kick to the ground. It probably looked childish. It felt good.

“This way,” Rouge said kindly, guiding her away from the throne room. “We just need to head to one of the towers. We can find monsters there.”

“So we’re going monster hunting?” Asellus frowned.

“No, not really. Your faeblade’s potential will reveal itself when you absorb life essence into it. One of the monsters that plague the pathways outside the tower should suffice.”

Rouge spoke of “absorbing life essence” as though it were of no more consequence than mopping up a spill.

How gruesome. How disgusting.

“Great, I get to steal souls now.” Asellus’ face tightened. “Like some kind of ghoul. At least they’re monsters and not people.”

“Oh, no, Lady Asellus. Human essence can’t be absorbed into a faeblade.” He apparently meant to reassure her. “But powerful mystics are able to shape humans to their will by taking their blood.”

“I know that!” Asellus exploded. Rouge backed up a step. “And I don’t want to hear any more about that. Okay? Please and thank you.”

“As you say,” Rouge responded simply.

They walked in silence for a time, Asellus stewing, while Rouge glanced at her now and then, concern evident in his features. Asellus felt the weight of each footstep; the muted clicks rang in her head louder than carillon bells.

"This shouldn't be as difficult as mystic magic for you, Lady Asellus," Rouge tried after a while. "As long as you can fell the monster, your faeblade will do the rest on its own."

"I can ‘fell’ any monster," Asellus muttered darkly, "except the one that matters the most."

"Our lord wants what is best for you, and I'm here to help if you need it." These words, obviously intended to comfort her, were but sick mockery to her ears.

At some point Asellus shook off her dark thoughts and looked around. They’d come to a pathway that wound around one of the castle's spires like yarn on a spindle.

"This is the way we came before," she realized. "All of us, together."

"All of us?" Rouge inquired.

"Yes, all of us. You, me, Emilia, Ildon, and Zozma.”

Let the castle hear their names. Let her words make them real.

“I know you're going to tell me that you don't remember it. But I do. It really happened. And no one’s going to take that from me," she declared. If she could no longer safely refuse Orlouge's demands, she could at least hold on to that.

"I have been here before, Lady Asellus," Rouge agreed, and before hope could spark within her, qualified it with, "several times, in fact. Monsters are allowed to gather here so that novices can practice the art of combat. Some also come here to fight boredom, or work through negative feelings, or so I hear."

Considering the regime that Facinaturu's mystics were forced to live under, it was more than understandable. "Well, let's get this over with," she sighed. "So what am I supposed to do?"

Rouge pointed ahead, to a cluster of creatures resembling dog-sized caterpillars that trundled along the path. "Just harvest a monster, Lady Asellus. Strike with your faeblade. That should be all you need."

"Really?" Asellus put a hand on her hip and cocked her head at Rouge. "Are you seriously telling me to stab a stupid caterpillar when we've fought dragons before? You've been acting like a real mother hen, but come on. That's just insulting."

"My apologies!" Abashed, Rouge's eyes widened as he flailed for the proper response. "I didn't mean to imply—“

Oh. Oh, no. Rouge wouldn’t—couldn’t—be afraid of her anger, could he? Surely not. She must make this right.

"Hey. Rouge."

Sighing, Asellus relaxed her shoulders and attempted to ease her face into something less scary. "Relax. I didn't mean anything by it, okay? I'm your friend—or at least, I used to be.” Raw words, raw wounds.

“And I hope you still think I am,” she added hurriedly. “I'm not Orlouge and I'm not going to hurt you if you make me mad. Besides, I'm not even mad at you! I just hate—“

She swallowed. The words suited her as poorly as the dress coat she’d been forced into. “I hate feeling so helpless."

"Ah. You feel helpless, Lady Asellus? I'm sorry to hear that," Rouge replied sympathetically. His eyes turned knowing; to Asellus’ relief, his posture eased as well. He thought for a moment, then snapped to attention. "I have an idea. Before we do anything else, can you bring out your faeblade?"

"What?" Asellus asked warily. "Why do you want me to do that?" If that was his “idea,” it was a bad one. The wording might have been different, but it was still far too close to Orlouge’s request.

"You might not feel helpless with a weapon in hand," Rouge reasoned.

Asellus blinked. Rather than an instrument of coercion, Rouge meant for her to take it up as protection. She hadn’t expected his explanation to make so much sense.

"And every faeblade is different, which I find interesting. I was told that the shape conforms to the wielder. See?" He gestured, and a sword appeared in his own hand, conjured from his own mystic power. It was only logical that Rouge would have a faeblade of his own. Curious despite herself, Asellus leaned in to get a good look.

The weapon he held was a slim, double-edged straight sword. The guard, upon which was engraved a delicate, stylized butterfly, was just slightly wider than the blade itself. The hilt was nearly the same width as the narrow blade, and she saw that a brilliant red tassel was threaded through the pommel. It looked rather lightweight, and with its symmetric width from grip to blade, easy enough to function as an extension of one’s arm. It was a style unlike any others that she’d seen on her journey, and she found herself wishing that she could hold it and test the weight for herself. Mystic weapons didn’t work that way, she knew; when she’d attempted to steal Ildon’s faeblade after one of his earliest attempts at training her, it melted through her fingers like water.

“That’s actually really pretty,” Asellus told him, and he beamed with pride.

“Thank you, Lady Asellus. I do think I’m more proficient with magic than a blade, but it does have its uses. Look closely.” He pointed the weapon at the ground and held it out carefully.

Asellus stared quizzically. “What am I looking for?” she asked, then realized.

It was the slight sheen, the iridescent aura that clung to the blade. This, too, was unique. Where Ildon’s sword had emanated pure power, this one radiated soft light.

“Healing is the purview of light magic,” Rouge explained, stepping into professor mode once more. “I’m a shadow magic user, so that is lost to me. I absorbed the essence of a unicorn into my faeblade, and with it I can treat serious injuries faster and more thoroughly than I could with the Vitality Rune.”

He smiled wistfully as he continued, surprising her. “In battle, it could make all the difference between victory and defeat—well, that’s what I thought, anyway. I hope that the occasion doesn’t come to test my theory.” He ended his speech with a slightly self-deprecating laugh.

“It could make—” Asellus stopped before her voice could break.

Did he know?

Did some lost part of him, buried deeply below the surface, remember? Did he ever dream, in the shadows of his subconscious, of the desperate struggle to keep his battered allies on their feet? Was he holding on to that still?

Did he also blame himself?

Oh, Rouge.

“Right.” Asellus finished, furiously blinking back her own feelings, trying hard as she could to sound as reassuring as possible. “You’re probably right. I’m sure that’s a good idea.”

Rouge smiled gently at her. “So although I prefer using magic, I can still use my faeblade to strengthen myself. You can do the same, Lady Asellus. Why do you want to be stronger?”

“Why do I want to…?”

The answer was obvious. She’d known all along, but never before had it been safe to say out loud.

“I want to make it up to the people I hurt, but I can’t change the past.” Difficult words. She paused to give them the weight they deserved, then continued, clear of both mind and voice. “So I need to be stronger to protect what’s important to me. That’s what matters now.”

“That’s a noble answer,” Rouge said approvingly. “Do you feel more comfortable drawing your faeblade now?”

“I guess so.” A flicker of will was all it took for her own weapon to manifest into her hand once again.

Asellus' faeblade was a long, thin rapier. The blade was slightly narrower than Rouge's, but its guard was several times wider, and tangled in an ostentatious swept hilt that curled around the grip like questing dodder vines. While presumably it would serve to protect her fingers in battle, Asellus thought it was more likely to ensure that she had the fanciest sword in a scuffle. There were no carvings or adornments on the metal, and it was just as well. Extra ornamentation would make the weapon even gaudier than it already was.

"It's magnificent," Rouge pronounced, his eyes lighting up. "It's a weapon worthy of you, Lady Asellus."

"It's so over-the-top," groaned Asellus. She looked up at him, and away from the theatrical prop she held. "It's what you would go for if you wanted to win a costume contest, not a fight. Besides, this thing is made for thrusting and that's pretty much it. What am I going to do if someone gets close? I don't think it suits me at all. Ildon would just laugh at me if I swung this at him."

"That's what we'll do, then," suggested Rouge. "If you need to attack at close range, we’ll find a way for you to do that.”

“This thing is nearly as tall as I am,” Asellus protested, stirring it slightly to make sure he noticed. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

“It will, Lady Asellus. You just need the right essence.” Rouge nodded emphatically. “But you're probably right that these monsters won't be very helpful to you. They should avoid us if we don't disturb them, and we’ll find better prey farther up this path."

"Ugh,” she commented. It all came down to that, didn’t it? At least the oversize caterpillars would be spared. “Smart monsters.”

The caterpillars did indeed shy away from them as they proceeded. Was it the drawn faeblades that made them wary, or did they instinctively seek to avoid the eldritch aura emanating from mystics? Even monsters know, Asellus thought forlornly.

"Inside this tower, giants sometimes appear," Rouge said thoughtfully as they followed the winding trail. "Lord Orlouge tolerates them as long as they don't cause trouble."

"Like a security service?" Asellus wondered. She remembered fighting a very large creature somewhere nearby, when her group originally passed through on their way to the confrontation with Orlouge. How long ago that was remained a mystery, but the memory was still fresh, as though it happened only yesterday.

"I suppose. But he also permits us to test our skills against them. And if you've fought dragons before, Lady Asellus, I thought you might like to fight a giant rather than an insect."

"That's more like it." Asellus perked up, earning her a much-relieved look from Rouge.

"We might find one around here," Rouge assured her as they walked together. "I'll assist you. I won't let you be hurt, Lady Asellus."

"I'm not as fragile as you think," Asellus began, exasperated, and then held back.

She thought of the way Rouge constantly hovered in the castle, as if he could quiet her distress with his rune magic, and the recent revelation that he'd specifically chosen healing energy to power his faeblade. If some remnant in the deepest recesses of his psyche held on to what had once come to pass, then she'd do her part to soothe it.

"I won't let you get hurt, either," she promised, meeting his eyes directly. "Not this time."

"Lady Asellus," Rouge began, turning his head away slightly, "please don't concern yourself with me."

"Don't say silly things like that," Asellus admonished. "You're my friend. I told you that."

Astonished, Rouge stopped in his tracks. "Lady Asellus, I...I'm not worthy of being called that. And it's hardly proper."

"Ask me again what I think of propriety." Asellus rolled her eyes. "We're friends. I'm not happy with the way things turned out, but...I'm glad you're alive.

“And I'm going to keep it that way,” she continued, determined. “I messed up once and I won't do it again. I said I'm going to get stronger and protect what's important, and I meant it. Even if I have to give in to Orlouge and power up this stupid sword to do it. So...don't worry. Don't worry, Rouge." A lump formed in her throat after she finished her statement.

"You and Emilia," she began again, once she'd swallowed her feelings. "And Ildon and Zozma, if I ever find them. I...I don't think I can fix this. But I can stop it from getting worse."

“Lady Asellus.” Though the meaning of everything she said might have eluded Rouge, the force of will behind it had not. Both stood at a loss for words until, obviously affected, he began to speak once more, slowly and hesitantly. “I still don’t understand why you would call me your friend…but you honor me greatly by doing so.” He punctuated the words with a deep bow.

“Hey! Didn’t I tell you not to—you know what, never mind. I’ll let you have that one.” At her words, Rouge straightened, and she smiled slightly at him to show that all was well. “I guess we’ve got to find our giant, right? Can you sense it or something?”

“That would make this much easier!” Rouge met her smile with one of his own.

We’re okay, Asellus thought. That’s good enough for now.

“Unfortunately, no,” he explained. “If it had a significant magical presence, I might be able to, but giants are unremarkable in that respect.”

“What if we…made a lot of noise?” Asellus suggested, seeking clues from the fairy tales of her childhood. “Or what if we lured it out with treasure? Well, that would mean we need treasure first. So that’s out.”

“There are some giant species that see those smaller than them as food,” Rouge mused. “If we make ourselves appear non-threatening, we might be able to draw them out.”

“I guess I won’t feel bad about killing it if it wants to eat me,” rationalized Asellus. “But how do we do that?”

Rouge’s faeblade disappeared without a sound. “Perhaps we can fool them if we disarm for now. Are you comfortable with that, Lady Asellus?”

“Very.” Asellus followed suit and dismissed her own faeblade, relishing how much lighter she felt without it, even if it was for just a brief moment. “Uh, is there anything else we need to do? Do I have to make myself smell like food or something?”

Rouge looked at her intently, as though she’d solved an age-old puzzle. “You might be the key to this, Lady Asellus. If a hungry giant smells your human blood, it might not be able to resist.”

Though she’d spoken in jest, Asellus was very proud of herself.

“How am I going to make myself bleed—oh, I know.” Asellus felt brilliant indeed as she unpinned Rastaban’s brooch from her lapel. “Sorry to undo your hard work, Rouge. We can always put it back on later.”

“I’ll be supporting you with magic, Lady Asellus,” Rouge told her as she held the delicate brooch in her hand, “but the final strike must be with your faeblade, or we’ll have to find another.”

“I definitely don’t want to do this more than once,” Asellus agreed. “I’m going to draw the attacks, but I’ll have to stay a little farther away than I’m used to. I can’t really slash with this kind of sword.”

“I won’t let you be hurt, Lady Asellus,” Rouge repeated, resolutely.

“And I won’t let you be hurt,” Asellus was just as firm. “We’re both coming back from this.”

Carefully, Asellus poked the fourth finger of her left hand with the pin on the brooch’s reverse. Blood beaded immediately. She wondered what Rastaban would say if he knew that she’d treated his “gift” as little more than a needle. Too bad for him, she thought with satisfaction. I didn’t ask for his help anyway.

“Is this enough?” she asked, watching the single drop of blood swell on her fingertip. Hopefully it was enough to catch a giant’s nose before the skin started healing; she’d rather not jab her fingers repeatedly.

“I suppose we’ll see.” Fascinated, Rouge stared at her bleeding finger. “I know that you have human and mystic blood within you, Lady Asellus, but seeing it in person is incredible.”

“You’ve seen what my blood looks like before. We’ve fought a lot together,” Asellus reminded him, no doubt fruitlessly, while she gingerly repinned the brooch with her right hand so as not to stain her coat. The result was laughable; it dangled at the end of her lapel like the world’s smallest hanging monocle. “Well, I tried,” she huffed.

“I’ll fix that later, Lady Asellus.”

“Sure,” she shrugged. “So…now what?”

“Let’s keep walking,” Rouge suggested, “and see if we attract a surprise visitor.”

“Okay,” she agreed. Eager to continue her streak of good ideas, she tried her best to project her voice.

“Oh no, I forgot my sword! I hope no one notices or it might be curtains for me!” She stopped before she could embarrass herself further. This is why I was never in the school musical. The drama teacher said I was a lost cause.

“I don’t think they understand our language, Lady Asellus.”

“Now you tell me.”

They took a few more steps before Rouge held up a hand. “Wait,” he whispered. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” she asked.

As if on cue, the sound of stomping erupted in the distance and quickly gave way to a sudden crash. Detritus rained down as a large, bipedal ogre landed in front of them. It must have leapt down at them from on high, Asellus realized, grateful that she hadn’t been stomped flat.

“You're probably a giant.” Asellus greeted it casually as she drew her faeblade from nothingness once more.

The ogre was roughly eight feet tall, with tomato-red skin and a tuft of darker hair atop its pointed head. It stared at her with sunken, beady eyes that sat in its parody of a human face. Its lower jaw jutted forward; four fangs poked out like stalagmites to obscure the upper lip. The ogre returned her greeting with a low growl, and then charged.

A glass panel materialized in front of Asellus, momentarily altering her view; to her surprise, it was shaped like a shield. She saw it shimmer in midair once before disappearing. Rouge did that, she realized. That was new, whatever it was. No problem; she'd trust him.

She sidestepped the ogre as it rushed toward her, thrusting with the faeblade as she did. It pierced flesh easily; the ogre aborted its charge and rumbled a complaint.

Energy surged down her limbs; she recognized the heat of Rouge’s Victory Rune. Like old times. As the ogre turned slowly and awkwardly on its ill-proportioned legs, Asellus thrust forward again, effortlessly puncturing the ogre's abdomen. She followed through, jerking her arm back to slice.

This sword doesn't lend itself to the techniques Ildon taught me, she regretted, but I still know my way around. It was as if she'd been practicing with the faeblade for months, instead of ignoring it until Orlouge forced her hand. Like I've always known it...or maybe it's always known me.

"That's it, Lady Asellus," Rouge called encouragingly.

The ogre made its disgust known once again with a throaty burble, then swung its fists. When Asellus moved out of the way, it opened its mouth again, but instead of another vocalization, electricity crackled. Surprised, Asellus was caught off guard as lightning spewed from its mouth.

A bolt arced through the air, followed by the acrid scent of ozone. Hurriedly, Asellus dove to the side. I'm too late to dodge completely, but I don't want to take that head-on.

Lightning crashed impotently into the air in front of her; wide-eyed, Asellus saw that Rouge’s crystalline shield, made manifest once again, had intercepted it before it could hit her. The shield shattered into jagged pieces, and the shards flew through the air, embedding themselves in the furious ogre’s body.

Asellus winced in unexpected sympathy. That had to hurt. She moved quickly to pick herself off the ground; as she did, the ogre howled and charged at Rouge. Move, hurry! she admonished herself, despite the certainty that she wouldn't be able to reach him in time.

Rouge did not attempt to dodge the ogre, and merely watched it approach, his face calm and unperturbed.

To Asellus' shock, as the ogre neared him and swung wildly, Rouge’s form seemed to dissolve into the ether—and then a cluster of ruby-hued butterflies appeared where he once stood. They fluttered easily around the flailing ogre limbs and glided gracefully through the air toward Asellus. A wave of crimson wings passed, close enough that she could reach out to touch them. They clustered behind her, and then shimmered out of existence as Rouge reappeared.

"How did you—" Asellus began, open-mouthed, before her instincts took over. She would ask him about his new tricks later. While the ogre attempted to recover its momentum and process what had just happened, Asellus quickly closed the distance behind it. She thrust once again, her faeblade sinking into its spine.

Asellus attempted to pull the faeblade back, but nearly lost her balance as the resistance of the ogre's spinal column vanished. The ogre did not collapse as a dead animal might. Instead, its entire body drew into itself—flesh, bones and all—as though desiccated by a lethal hex, its skin sagging like clothes on a hanger.

Her faeblade glowed, vibrating dully. Asellus realized, horror sprouting goosebumps on her skin, that it was greedily drinking the essence of the doomed ogre. It was bad enough watching Ildon or Zozma harvest monsters to grow their mystic powers. A living creature draining into a weapon that she herself held was disturbing on a far more visceral level.

Asellus' unease vanished like morning mist when the sordid realization that she was consuming a creature’s soul gave way to something else entirely. Kinetic, delicious euphoria washed over her as though her mind was resonating with her faeblade. For the first time in a long time, the world felt right, as if all was as it should be. Buoyed by triumph and elation, she laughed, exuberant as a child jumping into a fresh snowdrift.

She would have thrown herself on the ground and let bliss consume her entirely, had her sense of awareness not returned at the last moment. I'm Asellus. I'm in Chateau Aiguille. I just fought a monster.

I'm Asellus. Anchored in reality once again, she saw that no trace remained of the ogre, as if it had never existed in the first place. By contrast, her faeblade was gleaming, pulsing with molten energy. The dramatic sweeps on the hilt, once smooth metal, now came to sharp, shining points.

"You did it, Lady Asellus!" Asellus turned to see Rouge walking up to her, smiling brightly. "Well done. Our lord will be very pleased. You must be, too."

"I feel different," Asellus blurted, lowering her sword arm at last. The world before her shimmered in brilliant hues. The faint rustle of fabric on fabric and the soft shuffle of her heels against the ground whispered new secrets. There was a faint, faint ringing in her ears, the delicate sound of silver bells.

"Ah, did the ogre's attack reach you? Are you hurt?"

"No." Asellus looked at the faeblade once more. It was different. She was different. "I feel good."

Vital, radiant energy hummed inside her; her faeblade brimmed with new power. Stealing the strength of another living being was all it took to fuel her own. The feeling was intoxicating. Why had she fought against it for so long?

Chapter Text

"What have you learned?"

It would be so very, very satisfying to respond with a thrust of her faeblade, pinning the Charm Lord to his throne like a tsetse fly mounted in an insect collection. Incredibly, indubitably so. Yet the repercussions would be horrendous. With that in mind, Asellus pivoted to the side before conjuring the faeblade into her hand.

Flames licked across the length of the blade, eager and seeking. It was but a prelude, for to properly access its power, Asellus needed to reach within herself. When she finally raised the blade, a blast of fire roared from it like dragon's breath. Her face and sword arm sweltered from the waves of heat; sweat beaded her forehead.

When the pyrotechnics sputtered out, she turned back to see that Orlouge looked exceedingly pleased. How vexing it was to be the cause of his satisfaction. She preferred to play the role of gadfly, the one irritant in his perfect little world.

"Fire suits you," he said approvingly. "Tell me. From what creature did this power originate?"

Asellus, who merely wanted the meeting to pass without incident, paused a moment before responding. "It was an ogre. At least, I think that's what it's called." She wondered if there was a penalty for a wrong answer.

"Then you have been to the towers," he deduced.

Asellus' mind began to ring alarm bells. This is where he tells me I wasn't supposed to go there and all hell breaks loose, she feared, bracing herself.

Instead, another question followed. "There are many monsters on the path leading to the towers. You could have assimilated any of those. Why didn't you?"

Asellus allowed herself a breath. Rouge was standing to the side, a reminder of what was at stake.

"I saw them," she agreed, "but I wanted to fight something bigger and stronger.” With emphasis, she added, “I'm the one who wanted to keep going farther. Not Rouge."

The Charm Lord looked down at her from his throne, a satisfied smile on his face. "Excellent. Never be content with scraps. Crave power. Always."

Relief crashed upon her like waves at the seashore. "...Okay." Did that sound agreeable enough? She could hope so.

"Now, my daughter," he asked, abruptly changing the subject, "what other mystic gifts have you neglected?"

Asellus, taken off guard, tried to form a reasonable-sounding reply. Her mind spun wildly, trying to guess the expected answer instead of seeking a logical conclusion. Failing to reach either, she could only stammer.

"I thought not." Dismissing her, he turned to Rouge. "Pollux. I know that you have some idea. Tell me what else my daughter lacks."

Rouge, staring at the Charm Lord with unmitigated reverence, wasted no time before he began to speak. "Lady Asellus has been unsuccessful at casting mystic magic." He paused, then added, "But given her success at powering her faeblade, I have confidence that she can do it."

"Yes." Orlouge addressed Asellus once again. "Tell me. Why have you been unsuccessful?"

None of your business. She couldn't say that. Instead, she tried, "I couldn't make sense of it."

"Is that so?" The Charm Lord raised an eyebrow ever-so-slightly. "Mystic magic, like the faeblade, is the birthright of all mystics. It's incomprehensible that you can't 'make sense of it.' There is another reason. I'll pose the same question to Pollux. Why isn't my daughter adept at mystic magic?"

"There are several possibilities," Rouge began, to Asellus’ chagrin. "One theory is that Lady Asellus' human blood makes it more challenging to cast."

"Go on."

"Lady Asellus also told me that the person who previously tried to teach her is no longer with her. She could have formed negative associations with mystic magic for that reason."

Asellus’ heart sank. Of course Rouge would betray her secrets to the Charm Lord if he asked him to. Entangled in his strings, how could he not?

The knowledge that Rouge was unable to resist Orlouge’s request did nothing to prevent the flash of anger she felt toward him.

"Interesting." The Charm Lord eyed Asellus as though she were a frog awaiting dissection. "It must gall you, my daughter, to long for what you cannot have. For want of power, let loss be your teacher. This is what it takes to stir a heart untouched by charm."

Asellus' cheeks burned. There was no suitable response for this direct insult to a wound that had yet to stop bleeding. Her shame amplified Orlouge’s smug proclamation into a screeching feedback loop.

Ignoring Asellus’ distress, Orlouge directed his attention to Rouge. "This is your next task, then. Pollux, see that my daughter learns some form of mystic magic. The details are up to you."

"Yes, My Lord."

“I await your next demonstration, my daughter.” Orlouge vanished without further words, leaving Asellus and Rouge alone in the throne room.

Asellus dismissed her faeblade and immediately turned to Rouge. “Thanks for telling him everything,” she accused, hot with resentment for Orlouge, for Rouge, and for herself. “I’m really glad I went out of my way to stick up for you, if that’s how you repay me.”

She could discern no matching anger on Rouge’s face, only confusion. “What do you mean, Lady Asellus?”

Asellus did her best to imitate Rouge’s voice. “’That person is no longer with her.’ That’s what I mean! You gave him more ammunition to hurt me when you said that. Thanks for that.” Hurt and betrayal welled inside her, accompanied by the bitter realization that she should have known better.

“Hurt?” Rouge looked astounded. “No, no, Lady Asellus. Lord Orlouge asked those questions because he wants to help you.”

“Of course he does!” She punctuated the sarcasm with a laugh. “He’s helped me so much already.”

“With our lord’s guidance, you’ve become stronger,” Rouge pointed out. “You told me that’s what you want. Just look at your capabilities with the faeblade now. With mystic magic, you’ll become stronger still.” The reassuring tone was back in his voice. It didn’t belong there.

“I don’t want to be stronger because he said so!” Asellus protested. How easily her words were twisted when the web was so tightly woven. “It’s for my own reasons and only those. I’m not going to be caught off guard and fail people ever again. I won’t.”

“Then,” Rouge asked, puzzled, “what’s the problem?”

“You don’t get it,” Asellus grumbled. She glared at the ground. “You can’t get it. That’s the worst part.”

“Maybe I can’t,” Rouge ventured, to Asellus’ surprise. She raised her head to look at him once more.

“But you said that you want to build your strength, Lady Asellus, and I believe that you can. And I believe I can help you do it. So I ask that you permit me to teach you mystic magic.”

“Fine,” Asellus acquiesced. “I really don’t have a choice anyway.”

Relieved, Rouge smiled warmly at her. “I feel a very strong affinity, almost a calling, to magic, Lady Asellus. I’m very happy to be able to share it with you.”

He motioned, and she followed him out of the throne room. Rouge paused to bow to her as they exited.

“Of course you feel like that. No surprise there,” Asellus shrugged. Where were they walking to this time? As long as they weren’t off to another audience with Orlouge, it didn’t matter. “But I was never good at magic. You’ve got your work cut out for you here.”

“We’ll see. You won’t know what you can do until you try. And you have the Purple Eye that Lord Rastaban gave you.” Rather than being put off by her criticism, Rouge seemed quite eager at the prospect of teaching magic. He almost looked happy.

She couldn’t decide if that was good or not.

“This thing?” Asellus touched the brooch, now properly pinned on her lapel. A faint stir of energy lay under the crystalline surface. It felt like a stuttering heartbeat beneath her fingertip. “Do you really think that’s going to make a difference?”

“It may, Lady Asellus. Or it may not.”

“I’ll be honest with you. There’s something kind of creepy about it.” She suppressed a shudder. “There’s mystic energy in it, all right, but it’s in a rock. I don’t even want to know how that happened.”

“I don’t know, Lady Asellus.” Her misgivings apparently had no effect on his mood; he strolled easily beside her. “Maybe Lord Rastaban has some idea.”

No. The less he was involved, the better. “You know what? I don’t need to know. Don’t ask him. I still don’t think it’s going to help.”

“We won’t know until we try,” Rouge repeated. Did he even grasp the implications of what she was saying?

“’Try.’ Isn’t that funny?” Asellus folded her arms. “This whole thing doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Rouge, ever eager to help, slowed his steps before looking at her mildly. “What doesn’t make sense, Lady Asellus?”

“You told me about the mystic laws. They say that things you try to learn aren’t as important as the power you’re born with.” Was she reciting the edict properly? Probably not, but that wasn’t the point. “So why are you and Orlouge so gung ho about me learning magic now? Is it because it’s fun to torture me?”

Despite her nettling, Rouge remained exceedingly patient. “You were born with the gift for mystic magic, Lady Asellus.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Asellus protested at once.

“As a half-mystic, you were born with the gift,” Rouge amended. “The ability lies within you already. You simply need to understand it. That’s all.”

“Whatever you say.” She felt a very strong urge to roll her eyes. “You don’t think it seems like there’s one set of rules for Orlouge, and another for everyone else?”

“I have never felt that way, Lady Asellus.”

Her own patience had long since run out. With a frustrated snort, she demanded, “Is cognitive dissonance a mystic law too? That would explain a lot!”

They exited the Chateau’s central keep and came to one of the open-top skyways stretching between its main halls. Rouge paused between two rose-covered arbors. “This is a good place. Why don’t we get started?”

“Okay. So…” Asellus sighed and looked into the distance. Facinaturu’s sky, frozen in never-ending twilight, stretched above her, higher than she could reach. As always, it held no answers for her. “What am I supposed to do?”

“We can start with the basics, Lady Asellus. Most mystics find summoning phantoms to be easy.”

When Asellus opened her mouth to object, Rouge hurriedly added, “I know that you’ve been unsuccessful before. But you have two advantages now that you didn’t in the past.”

At least he hadn’t reminded her once again that White Rose, her original instructor and confidante, was missing. Does he even remember her? Asellus wondered suddenly. The thought chilled her thoroughly. It was enough that their previous experiences were lost to him, but for White Rose to be forgotten too, as though she had never existed, was a new, even sharper sting.

“Ah, please don’t be distressed, Lady Asellus.” Rouge spoke soothingly, despite the irony that he couldn’t possibly grasp the root of her unhappiness. “You have Lord Rastaban’s Purple Eye. And you’ve also strengthened your faeblade, so you’ve unlocked some of your mystic power already. I’m sure that will make things easier.”

“That’s not why I’m ‘distressed,’” Asellus mumbled, but waved him away when he tried to probe further. “Forget it. Just tell me what I’m supposed to do so we can get this over with.”

“Phantoms are interesting creatures!” Brightening, Rouge continued. “Beings that don’t live in any known region—at least, that’s what I’ve read—and have a will of their own, but still assist us. They take corporeal form, even momentarily, to do so. I can only wonder if they have the same forms wherever it is that they come from. Do you think they do?”

“Maybe,” Asellus shrugged. “Or maybe not.”

“And whether they answer the call of their own free will, or mystic charm compels them, is another interesting question.”

“I hope it’s free will,” Asellus broke in.

“I don’t know, Lady Asellus, and I don’t think we’ll get an answer. We can’t communicate with them. But,” he added, as though trying to lighten her mood, “since the caster isn’t able to choose which phantom appears—although I’ve had some success when I vary the power I put into it—that might point to their free will being a component.”

“Well, let’s hope so.” The night air was warm, the temperature of a late spring or early summer night in Shrike. At home. “What do I do?”

“At its core, all magic is the same, Lady Asellus. Start by envisioning what you hope to accomplish, then actualize it.” Rouge probably meant his smile to be reassuring. “What do you hope to accomplish right now?”

“Um…summon animals like you did, I guess?” Asellus ran a hand through her short hair. “Back home, we had a dog. He was getting old, but he was still a good dog.” She sighed again. "He wasn't anything like your phantom dog though. He'd probably just try to lick people to death. And he had a very cold nose."

“You did say that you like dogs,” Rouge recalled. “Is this why?”

“Yeah, probably." Who didn’t like dogs?

“All right…” Rouge paused. “Can you see it?”

Asellus frowned, puzzled. “See it?”

“Can you see the dog in your mind?”

“Well, yeah.” Asellus nodded. “I don’t forget things.” I’m not like the rest of you.

“Can you bring this dog into existence?”

Apparently, he meant that seriously. He might as well have asked if she could make the castle grow legs and walk.

“What? No.” Incredulous, Asellus frowned at him. “How would I do that? I can’t pull rabbits out of hats. And my dog is long gone by now.”

“That’s not going to work, then.”

Rastaban’s brooch on her lapel twinkled in the dim light, mocking her.

“You know what else isn’t going to work?” Irritated, Asellus reached for the brooch and unpinned it from her jacket once again. The magic within it flickered in her hand like a firefly. “If I’m going to do this, then I want to do it myself. I don’t want his help.”

She dropped the trinket into a pocket, out of sight and out of the equation. She doubt it’d make a difference at all, but it was better—much better—to know that she was unquestionably the one in control.

Rouge watched her actions carefully, but if he disapproved, he gave no sign. Instead, his expression turned thoughtful. “Do you recall the phantoms I summoned, Lady Asellus? Or anyone else’s, perhaps? Can you see them in your mind?”

“Sometimes White Rose would summon a cat to help us in battle.” She could safely share that memory without choking up. “It was helpful when we were outnumbered, like we were at Trinity Base. Back then, it was just the two of us and Emilia.”

“Oh, are you talking about your previous teacher?”

More than that. A sister. A savior. An inseparable presence whose shadow defines the lack of light in a world without her. “Yes.” Asellus let her clipped tone speak for her. “But she’s not here now.”

“Then you must have seen her phantom clearly at some point." Patiently, Rouge prodded, "Can you see it now?”

“Sure.” Short black fur, yellow eyes, mouth curled between a snarl and a yowl. White Rose’s phantom was the very antithesis of her personality, captured in feline form.

But White Rose had bouncing curls and soft, smooth skin. And her delicate face was always ready with a gentle smile meant only for Asellus.

“That’s a start.” Rouge looked quite hopeful. “Now, let’s bring one into reality.”

“But how do I do that?” Asellus demanded. His next instruction might as well be “Step off the ledge and fly.”

Rouge, apparently used to her lack of patience, was undeterred. “How did you empower your faeblade, Lady Asellus?”

“I stabbed the ogre,” Asellus recounted, “and then it kind of did the rest on its own.”

“No, Lady Asellus.” Rouge met her bewildered expression with his own calm gaze. “Faeblades have no will of their own—they are an extension of the wielder. You are the one who did that.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Asellus protested. Her face began to feel uncomfortably warm. “I didn’t press a button or say a magic word or anything else. I don’t know what made it happen. It just did.”

“You wanted to grow your strength, Lady Asellus. You wished for power. All was due to your will." Unyielding, Rouge continued. "What do you want now?”

“Along with his blood, you’ve also inherited some of Lord Orlouge’s mystic power.” The cool blue tones of White Rose’s bedroom—coffin room, Asellus’ mind corrected with distaste—added an unnatural pallor to her face that didn’t belong there.

“But I don’t want—” Horrified, Asellus stared at the princess who delivered a terrible truth in such a soft tone. She looked less than ten years older than Asellus, but who knew how ago Orlouge snatched her and sentenced her to languish in a coffin for eternity? “I don’t need that kind of power.”

As if sensing Asellus’ anguish, White Rose reached for her hand. She wrapped her slim fingers around Asellus’ own and squeezed gently, face lit with a reassuring smile.

To Asellus’ surprise, her heart fluttered once, like a hummingbird stirring from torpor.

“Whether you decide to develop the power inside you or let it sleep is your decision alone,” White Rose assured her. “Lady Asellus, what matters most is what you want.”

“I don’t want some stupid phantom,” Asellus cried out. Truth, jagged and raw, burst from her heart as flames had once burst from her faeblade. “I want White Rose. If I’d been stronger then—if I’d known—I could’ve—“

Could have. Should have been able to. Didn’t. For lack of power, because I rejected it when it mattered the most—

Never again.

Kinetic heat and a flicker of static prickled at Asellus as the empty space in front of her shimmered. The distortion widened, before a feline form wavered into existence like smoke from a bonfire. Its fur was dark grey and thick, its eyes the burnt orange of a harvest moon, and it looked directly at Asellus as though awaiting her command, or a spot of catnip.

“A cat!” Asellus gasped, as if she were seeing one for the first time. Wide-eyed, she bent slightly and extended a hand, rubbing the fingers together gently.

Rather than hiss or snarl at her, the cat ambled the short distance to her, sniffed her hand, and then rubbed against it with the side of its face.

“He likes me!” Asellus exclaimed, delighted. She was smiling, she realized; when did that happen? “He’s such a good boy! And he’s so soft…”

“You did it, Lady Asellus. I knew you could.” Pleased, Rouge walked to her side, but kept a respectable distance from the phantom.

“White Rose’s cat was always in a bad mood. Why is this one so different?” With her other hand, Asellus scratched the cat behind its ears.

“I think it stands to reason that phantoms have different personalities. But this is the first I’ve seen that’s so friendly to the caster.” Rouge, apparently delighted to have more minutiae to theorize about, chose to conjecture further. “If mystic charm is a part of what calls them…then it makes sense that your phantom would favor you so. You are the daughter of the Charm Lord, after all.”

Asellus chose to revel in her new friend and ignore the epithet. “He’s so sweet…I think I’m going to call him Midnight.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“I agree. Rouge! Say hi to Midnight. And make sure you pet him, too.”

“…Hello, Midnight.”

Chapter Text

Alone at last in her room, Asellus waited until she was certain that Rouge, the wandering maidservants, and any other lingering presences were gone, and then counted to three hundred for good measure. When she was finished, she peered outside the doorway, then stepped through it carefully into the adjoining room full of coffins.

Just like the second time I woke up to this nightmare. She was walking almost on tiptoe, she realized, a caricature of a naughty child sneaking out after bedtime. She stole a glance outside the coffin room and assured herself that the coast was clear, at least as far as she could tell.

She could summon Midnight to join her in her endeavor. If she were caught, she could use the excuse that she was practicing her magic. After a moment’s thought, she decided against it. If the cat were to make any noise, it would be that much easier for her to be noticed.

I’ll just tell them that I wanted to try out my faeblade, but I got lost. She had no illusions that the excuse would work. It was essential not to be caught.

She left the coffin room at last, heading down the staircase until she reached the lower landing with its intersecting paths. The left route connected in a roundabout way to the rest of the castle, but, if memory served, the right side led to the treasure room. Of course, if that particular path had changed like the others, it could lead somewhere else entirely. She had to try anyway.

Carefully Asellus crept, sidling one foot at a time, with as little noise as possible. Her own body stood in staunch opposition, for her heart pounded with every step.

The path ended abruptly at a set of double doors, each adorned with a ring pull the size of a dinner plate. Asellus gripped one firmly in each hand and pulled. The hinges groaned with disuse; she cringed and hoped desperately that no one was nearby to hear it.

The doors swung open; she waited for dust to emerge from the opening, the expected product of years of neglect. None came. Instead, harsh light streamed through the open doorway, sap green mixing with petal pink in a spurious imitation of springtime. Grimacing, Asellus walked through the door, into the uninviting glare and the treasure room beyond.

Towering floor lamps illuminated the cavernous hall of treasure before her. With their grand fluorescing crystals carved into blooming petals, they were works of art themselves. Compared to the other rooms in the Chateau, this one was mammoth, a warehouse of all that glittered, meant to safeguard whatever Orlouge deemed most valuable.

As she stared at the tapestries that lined the walls, depicting scenes of rich landscapes and fantastical creatures, Asellus couldn’t help but think that the treasures could be put to better use in the rest of the Chateau, brightening the dark, gloomy halls. Instead, they remained sequestered behind foreboding doors that needed no lock to warn away intruders. No one who set foot in the Chateau was stupid enough to steal from under Orlouge’s nose.

Well, almost no one. She’d come for Princess Lion’s sword, lost after the ill-fated battle with Orlouge. If, as Rouge had mentioned offhandedly, it was being kept in the treasure room, she’d take it for herself. If anyone tried to interfere, she’d introduce them to its business end, for Lion’s sword was hers and hers alone. Although she now had a powered faeblade to work with, this would give her extra insurance and allow her the element of surprise, should an opportunity present itself, for no one would expect her to have a broadsword at her disposal.

Recovering the sword would indeed require searching for a needle in a proverbial haystack. The room was crowded with objets d’art both large and small; only narrow passages of uncluttered space, just wide enough to walk through, offered a viable route through the clusters of treasures that surrounded her. How many years’ worth of trinket hoarding did this room represent?

He holds on to his things like he holds on to his people, she thought, and shivered. She refused to reduce herself to a curio collected by a tyrant.

Shaking off the thought, she proceeded past a huddle of vases. They ranged from the size of a tabletop amphora to large enough to fit a person; Asellus was struck by the wild idea that she should peek inside and see if anyone was indeed hiding, or trapped, inside. Realizing that she was likely to fall in herself if she tried that, she dismissed the thought. Nothing good could come of that.

A bookshelf sat against one wall, heavy with thick, exquisitely bound books tooled with gold leaf. Could this be the library that Rouge had mentioned? Asellus considered, then rejected the idea. One bookshelf did not a library make. Every wall of her aunt’s bookshop was lined with shelves containing far more books, although they were not nearly as pretty. It was tempting to hope that she’d spot a book titled How to Get Rid of Evil Overlords, but she gave up when, upon closer inspection, she found that the letters on their spines were not of a language she could read.

She walked carefully among the clutter, passing a table bearing a collection of carved gemstone eggs. One of them was open; a carved miniature of the Chateau sat inside. Asellus frowned. In microcosm, Chateau Aiguille resembled a bramble designed to ensnare the heroine from a fairy tale. Touch it and sleep for a hundred years, Asellus thought. She hurried past as quickly as she could, until a sudden glint of light surprised her.

Asellus stopped in her tracks. Hope rose inside her heart when she realized that the flash she’d seen was lamplight reflecting off the metal of a blade; she made her way to its resting place as quickly as she could.

A sigh escaped, unbidden, when she realized that the sword was not Princess Lion's. Indeed, this particular specimen was different from any style she was familiar with. The blade was long, single-edged and slightly curved. The hilt, wrapped in twisted cord, was also longer than she was accustomed to, with room enough to accommodate two hands.

She'd seen something like this before, she recalled, when she and her companions were traveling through the regions together. Ildon had merely dismissed it as a weapon particular to humans, while Zozma helpfully chimed in that swords like these came from the region called Wakatu. An extra blade might be helpful, even if she had no firsthand experience with this sort, but it wasn't what she came for. It wasn't Princess Lion’s sword. Asellus left it where it rested. It was time to move on.

A long rifle, ornately crafted and ripened from the passing of enough years that it would surely be considered an antique back in Shrike, waited on a wall mount nearby. Surprised, Asellus picked it up.

It was lighter than she'd expected, with a different shape than all the firearms she'd seen in movies. The stock was curved like a candy cane and worn smooth, perhaps by a past owner. Yet the gentle glow under the lamplight denoted the care that must have gone into its maintenance. Its barrel was almost comically long, the metal hardware—brass, perhaps?—bearing the patina of age, but still gleaming softly. This was no display piece. This weapon had been used, perhaps extensively so. And it had been cared for in a way that spoke of its importance to whoever had once wielded it.

Asellus looked around, but found no ammunition. Could it be loaded already? She didn't know how to check. That left only the possibility of using the rifle as a bludgeon. If she abused it like that, she might get one good hit out of it before it broke and became useless. Asellus put the rifle back, but doubts swirled within her.

Why is there a gun in the treasure room? Try as she might, she couldn't imagine any of the castle dwellers using a rifle. They seemed far too patrician for that. And didn’t mystics abhor all kinds of machinery? Silence, IRPO’s only mystic, had carried a service pistol, but she'd never seen him use it. He'd always drawn his faeblade instead.

Ill at ease, she explored the room further. A long credenza, covered in velvet cushions, showcased what she considered to be more typical treasures. Jewels and trinkets sparkled in an extravagant exhibit meant only for an audience of one, stars shining in an unknown sky.

Resting on one of the cushions was a single earring made of gleaming metal wire. Asellus wondered whether its twin was somewhere in the room as well. A belt, overladen with encrusted jewels, lay on a similar pillow next to it.

Did Rastaban's brooch, lying nearly forgotten in her pocket, also originate from this room? Probably not, Asellus decided. Rastaban wouldn't risk Orlouge's wrath for one small bauble. He was untrustworthy, but far from stupid.

A long, long beaded chain, coiled into nearly concentric circles, was next in line on the credenza. Unlike the two previous pieces of jewelry, these beads didn’t seem to be made of precious metal or gemstones. This particular ornament’s sparkle came from an attached circular emblem, its soft golden color glinting gently in the light. Was this a belt, too? The chain was far too long to fit anyone's waist.

I've seen this before, Asellus thought. Confused, she wracked her memories trying to uncover its origin. It was too long to be a belt or a purse strap. A lanyard, perhaps? No, even then it would be too long, unless the wearer doubled it around their neck—

—no.

She knew. She knew.

Her blood chilled at the realization.

The beads should be wound in three layers; the emblem—no, medallion—was meant to hang in front, shining like the moon or the sun. She could hear the owner’s voice steadfastly refusing to remove it, even before going to sleep at night. This belonged to Rouge.

A gasp escaped her involuntarily; she covered her mouth with her hands. The magical characters engraved on Rouge's medallion accused her. They know too. They know I know. Asellus took a faltering step backwards and knocked against something; she heard a crash as whatever it was hit the floor.

Her wide eyes beheld one last soft pillow on the credenza. On it lay a diamond solitaire, winking softly under the lights. A short, delicate chain was threaded through its shank. She'd seen this before too, because Emilia had once lifted it from underneath her jacket to show her. It was Emilia’s engagement ring, which she'd worn as a pendant, tucked away under her clothing. “This way it’s always safe, and close to my heart,” Emilia had confided, eyes misted.

Asellus shook her head desperately. The high, reedy whistle in her ears wasn't an alarm, she realized. It was her breath, heaving from her chest in shallow, shocked wheezes.

This wasn't a treasure room. It was a trophy room.

Asellus ran. She plowed through the spoils, heedless of what she struck or crashed into. They were all the same. Whether taken from captured territory or captured people, their stories must be similar. Their rightful owners were no more, for the Charm Lord took what he desired and reshaped it in his own image. And which of these belonged to White Rose?

Something on the ground tripped her; Asellus tumbled to the floor. Her knees barked when they scraped against the ground, as though she'd fallen off a bicycle. Moaning more from surprise than from her insulted knees, she slowly sat up. The urge to stay there on the ground, hug her knees to her chest, and bury her head in them until the world stopped spinning and the horror became a dull throb was incredibly tempting.

She could have easily remained huddled on the floor until she became a relic herself, but a soft nudge against her shins startled her out of her daze. Surprised, she lifted her head to see a ball of grey fluff winding its way around her form. When she exhaled shakily, it strolled closer to her chest and began to purr.

"Midnight?" Without thinking, Asellus reached out to pet the furry head. "Where did you come from?"

There were no answers in its cinnamon-hued eyes. The cat continued to bunt its head against her, purring loudly.

"I didn't..." Asellus began, regaining her bearings, looking around at her surroundings once again in the faux vernal light. "I didn't summon you.

"...Did I?" she wondered. While she was on the ground, the artifacts surrounding her seemed larger, more grotesque. Carefully, so as not to accidentally step on the cat, she stood up.

Could she summon a phantom beast without consciously trying to? Was it even possible? “It doesn’t matter,” Asellus decided out loud. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The vertigo dissipated; Asellus looked around for the doorway in a bid to reorient herself. There was, she realized, a statue lurking in an alcove to her left. She hadn't seen any other statues in the Charm Lord's treasury, but considering all the works of art surrounding her, it made sense that he'd have at least one. Rather than sculpted from marble, or cast from precious metal as one might expect to see in the Charm Lord's hoard, the humanoid shape was carved from smooth grey stone—limestone, perhaps? That was why she hadn't noticed it before. It blended in too well with the walls and flooring.

Although there was more light here than the other rooms of the Chateau, it still wasn’t enough for her to make out the details. Curious, Asellus moved closer. Midnight promptly wove around her legs as she did so.

"Don't trip me," Asellus murmured. "I already fell once."

She approached the stone figure, and stopped when she was close enough to touch it. The smooth surface was flawless, unmarred by any cracks or weathering that one might expect to see on a statue placed in an outdoor installation. Curiously, rather than resting on a plinth, the statue stood perfectly balanced on its own two legs, which were carved in such exacting detail that she could imagine them taking a step forward, smoothing out the wrinkles in the trousers. An impossibly thin, surely fragile layer of stone, suggesting flowing fabric draped around the waist, anchored on the sides and hanging in lazy loops as if to accentuate the hips, was rendered with such virtuosity that Asellus took an extra step back. She'd hate to accidentally crack something so meticulously crafted.

One stone hand perched on a hip, and the other hung neutrally at the statue's side; both were embellished with seemingly heavy bracelets. Asellus marveled that even the fingertips were unmarred. Similar sculptures that once stood guard over the perimeters of Shrike's historical tombs were now housed in museums; years of erosion had taken their toll and not one of them had arms any longer. This had to be of recent creation, then, or it had been immediately hustled to storage and untouched ever since.

The stone figure's chest was unclothed, showing off chiseled muscles—could that be the sculptor’s idea of a pun? Yes, it was definitely a male figure. Curious adornments decorated the neck and torso, denoting the subject’s importance in a manner similar to a livery collar for an ancient king. Oddly, something—ropes, perhaps?—connected the torso to both wrists.

A closer look proved the mysterious accessories to be chains. Had Orlouge deemed the statue important enough to require anti-theft measures, and ordered it secured? No, probably not, for the fetters weren’t made of metal as she’d initially thought, but stone, proving them to be a part of the sculpture. Each perfect rectangular link interlocked with the others so faultlessly that Asellus had to wonder whether the sculptor was showing off. Was this modeled on something actually worn in real life, or was it meant to be part of an artistic statement?

Asellus looked up at the exquisitely detailed face, whose features were definitely not arranged in a neutral expression. Empty eyes glared out at her above a mouth contracted mid-word, as though the person were shouting something. Asellus' own eyes, unclouded by unyielding stone, widened. She knew this face.

"Yo!"

A shirtless man with scarlet hair tufted into jaunty spikes sat casually on the edge of Asellus' bed, one leg crossed over the other. She'd already run into him on one of the castle's skyways, and he'd quickly disappeared when a cluster of mystic knights came chasing after him. Now he was sitting on her bed, grinning up at her as if he had every right to be there and no concern for her thoughts on the matter. She stopped in the center of the room, next to one of the floor lamps, and wrapped her hands around its slim pole.

"Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier,” the guy on her bed nattered. Why was he wearing a leather harness and chains? Wasn’t he cold? “I'm Zozma. Is your name Asellus?"

“I don’t care who you are. What are you doing here?” Asellus demanded, lifting the lamp off the floor. It was heavier than she expected. She wouldn’t be able to swing it at him, but hopefully the implication would be enough to get him to run off again.

“Hey, hey, easy!” Zozma stood and held both hands in front of himself in a placating gesture. The odd chains on his wrists clinked. “That’s how you make enemies, girl. Mystics hold grudges.”

“What were you planning, coming in here like this?” Asellus accused, holding the lamp in front of herself protectively. Her nostrils flared. “Do I have to scream?”

“Uh, no. I just wanted to be polite and introduce myself. You’re awfully jumpy.” Zozma eyed her warily. "Or maybe this is how people greet each other where you come from. Humans are strange like that."

“You snuck into my bedroom, sat on my bed, and you look like you escaped from some kind of weird, creepy dungeon,” Asellus shot back. “Is that how mystics introduce themselves?”

“I did escape from a creepy dungeon!” Zozma puffed his chest out as if he wanted to make sure that she got a good look at it. "I escaped this castle. And everyone here hates me for it. They think I don't act like a high ranking mystic. But I don't think that's a bad thing. Do you?" He raised his eyebrows and smiled rakishly.

"You...escaped...from this place?" Slowly, Asellus settled the lamp back on the ground. Maybe feeding his braggadocio wasn't a good idea. He might start strutting next. "Then why did you come back?"

"Because it pisses people off." Zozma's eyes twinkled. Unlike hers, they were a light color that might also be found in humans, though there was still something uncanny in the way they almost seemed to glow, as if they could not contain the supernatural energy brimming beneath the surface. "And because I was curious about the human girl that inherited Orlouge's power. And what a pleasure it is to meet the lovely and charming Asellus!"

"I didn't ask for it!" snapped Asellus. "I'd give it to you if it would make this all go away!"

Was it fair to take that frustration out on him, when he wasn’t the one responsible for her misery? Where others in this cursed castle had been contemptuous or transparently jealous of her, Zozma just seemed to be enjoying himself. He was a bright red cardinal dotting the barren winter landscape that was Facinaturu.

"Yeah, no thanks. I don't need it." Zozma tossed his head, bouncing the spikes of his coiffure. "I'm the strongest one here besides Orlouge. The others don't even come close."

"You're very proud of yourself," Asellus said with a frown. Zozma didn't fit into the hellish world she'd been plunged into. "Why did you come here? Just to brag?"

"Not bragging, just the truth." Zozma shrugged. "Well, you're not a lot of fun to talk to. If you're not happy here, try doing something about it. See you around." With that, he vanished.

Asellus shot a look around to verify that he wasn't hiding in the shadows. "What's his problem?" she asked the empty room.

"Zozma," whispered Asellus. She shook her head, trying to reconcile the vibrant persona she knew with the inanimate statue before her. "How...?" Scarcely had the word left her lips before she cut herself off. She knew.

"Can you hear me?" she asked, looking up into his frozen face. He must have been on the verge of delivering a verbal salvo before he was sealed in stone. "I'm sorry about this."

A tail whapped against her feet. Asellus bent to stroke Midnight's head, then picked it up and stood with the cat in her arms. Utterly content, the phantom did not protest. "This is Midnight," she added, remembering that Zozma placed great importance in introductions.

"I failed, you know?" Asellus continued to gently pet the cat. "I told you that I didn't want to take over Facinaturu, but that doesn’t mean I wanted us to lose. When we fought, I thought I was giving everything I had.”

She paused, dreading the conclusion, but certain that she must say it. It was time to finally admit the truth, not just to Zozma, but also to herself. “But now...now I realize that I really wasn't. I had power inside of me that I refused to use, because it was mystic power."

Asellus closed her eyes to hide from Zozma's reproachful glare. "I was afraid of it, so I didn't do anything with it. I just pretended it wasn't there. Because I thought that if I accepted mystic power—“

She swallowed, allowing herself a short respite before the conclusion. “—then I would stop being human. I would stop being me. And that scared me.”

It should have been cathartic, naming the long shadow that stained her soul. But this demon could not be banished, any more than she could remove one of her own limbs. I am a mystic, she thought with resignation, no matter how much I tried to run from it. When she’d fled from region to region, holding on to White Rose as if she were an anchor, she’d told herself that they were hiding from Orlouge—but all the while, she had really been hiding from herself.

"It didn't matter anyway," she said bitterly, "because now I'm sucking up monsters into my faeblade like some kind of...soul eater. Orlouge figured out that if he threatens my friends, I'll do what he says. If he finds out that I found you, then he might..."

Unwilling to finish, she let that thought trail off. "So we'll just keep this between us, okay? I never saw you. You're safer that way."

With that settled, Asellus rubbed her cheek against Midnight's soft fur. "I guess mystic powers aren't all bad. Have you ever seen a phantom this cute?"

When Midnight began to paw at her, Asellus set the cat down on the ground. "I don't know if things would be different now if I had accepted the power in the first place. Maybe I would be different now. What scares me is how addictive it is.”

Her first experience with the faeblade had made that very clear, when her initial horror had bled into exhilaration and finally, a sense of completeness, the recovery of a missing piece of herself that she hadn’t known to seek. “I'm worried that if I keep using it, I won't know when to stop. How did you do it?"

Mute and cold, Zozma had no answers for her.

She smiled faintly at him. “But I need to keep using it. It’s the only way to be strong enough for what I need to do. My powers are growing, but don't worry.”

She could tell herself that Zozma agreed with her, now that he couldn’t tell her his own opinion. She could pretend that he was egging her on, a one-man cheering section urging her toward the finish line. But could she convince herself? Could she withstand the maelstrom that was the lure of power, without being dragged beneath its surface?

I have to. There’s no other way. And it’s not like I’m—

“I'm not like Orlouge,” she concluded, lifting her head defiantly. “I'm doing it for me, and for all of you guys. I can't help you unless I have power, and I don't have enough yet. But when I do..."

Her smile returned, wider than it had been a moment ago. "I think you're going to be the first one to escape, Zozma. What was Orlouge thinking, turning you into stone when there are medicines and magic spells to fix it? All I need to do is get one." She laughed softly. "I don't think Rootville sells any of those, and I can't leave the castle anyway. But we'll figure it out. And when we do, you can get out of here."

Yes, it would be much easier to free Zozma from his stone prison than it would be to extract White Rose from the Dark Labyrinth. And she had yet to pry Ildon’s whereabouts out of Rastaban. What had he said to her not too long ago, when he was an unwelcome spark of color against the bright white flowers of the castle courtyard?

"He's quite safe," he'd told her when she asked about Ildon. "It's better for him that way."

"I never thought I'd agree with that guy," Asellus huffed, "but he's right. You don't deserve to be stuck in a treasure room, Zozma, but you're safe here. At least you're still you inside. That's more than I can say for other people."

Asellus fumbled with Rastaban's brooch in her pocket until she managed to withdraw it, without taking her eyes off Zozma. Careful not to poke her finger, she held it out, as if Zozma could see it. "Rastaban gave me this. He said it might help me unlock my mystic power. I don't know if that's really what's going on with this thing, or what he's planning in the background. I trust that guy about as far as I can throw him.”

A smirk teased her face, a secret shared between her and Zozma. “But the joke's on him, right? Because I don't need it. I don’t need help from him or anyone else. I’ve made my own decision.” Her voice echoed with finality in the small alcove. “I will call on my mystic power because I chose it. And I feel it inside me. It's like a whirlpool. Only...it feels bottomless."

Crouching, she placed the brooch at Zozma's feet. It was not an offering, but a surety. A pledge to do what she must, so that she might right her past wrongs. "Here. Sorry to give you something so tacky, but you can have this. It’s all I’ve got right now. Just hold on until I come back with a cure, or someone who knows the right magic to free you. And I will be back. I just need to build my strength. So wait for me, okay?"

She smiled once more, intending to reassure both herself and her unfortunate friend. "I'll be back," she repeated, and backed up slowly until she could no longer safely do so. It wouldn’t be right to turn her back on Zozma.

"I'll see you later," she said softly, before turning toward the door to the treasure room, Midnight at her heels.

"Come on," Asellus urged as she and the phantom made their way out, "we have work to do."

Chapter Text

"You fought like a woman possessed, Lady Asellus," Rouge remarked as he and Asellus approached the terrace near the Chateau’s front gate. "I'm glad that you're feeling better, but I wonder if you're trying to do too much too soon."

"I feel fine!" Asellus assured him, flush with both stolen energy—stolen lives, a soft voice whispered inside her before she swatted it away—and the thrill of victory. Her quickened pulse was a delightful thrum in her ears. "There were too many monsters hanging around those towers anyway. We're just cleaning up the place, that's all."

"There will always be more," Rouge replied. "I doubt that will change."

"Good." Asellus grinned at him. "More for me, then."

There would probably come a time when the lord of the castle would suspect that her intentions were less than pure, but for now she needed to slaughter as many monsters—gather as much power—as she could. Her salvation, as well as the others’ that she’d unknowingly ensnared in this web of thorns, depended on it. She could always take a break later.

"You have come a long way in a short time," Rouge mused. "Our lord will approve."

"Oh, good." She tried to keep her voice neutral. "Anything to keep him happy, right?"

"Of course, Lady Asellus." He apparently detected no sarcasm. Good.

"Do you want to take a break?" Asellus asked, brushing unruly hair out of her eyes. "We did a lot today. I don't want to wear you out. I don't know what you need to do to recharge your magic or...anything else."

"I'm fine, Lady Asellus."

"Really?"

"Yes. The lifeblood of mystics is magic, after all."

"It is?" Surprised, Asellus checked Rouge's face for signs of fatigue, but realized that he was serious. "Huh. Well, I guess...that suits you."

She hesitated for a moment. An opportunity had presented itself, but she must be very careful with her words. Anything that she said to Rouge could easily find its way back to Orlouge.

“Hey Rouge,” she began, lowering her voice slightly, hoping that she sounded even and nonchalant. “Is there a mystic magic spell that can heal people?”

Rouge shook his head; his braid danced behind his shoulders. “No, Lady Asellus. Not mystic magic.”

“Hmm, okay.” She attempted to sound interested in a theoretical way. I have no secrets, really! “But what about removing...um, abnormal conditions...from someone’s body? What about that?”

“Removing—?” Rouge simply looked puzzled. “I’m not sure what you’re asking, Lady Asellus.”

“Well, I know that some monsters’ bites can have nasty side effects. Like poison.”

When understanding dawned on Rouge’s face, she continued, choosing her words carefully. “And I know that some magic attacks are dangerous, too. Some of them can paralyze people! Or even turn them to stone.” Let it be an innocent footnote, so that it might escape notice. “Can mystic magic reverse that?”

“Oh, that’s what you mean. No, mystic magic can’t do that either.”

Asellus tried, but failed, to keep the disappointment off her face.

“What you’re referring to,” Rouge elaborated, seemingly unaware, “falls under the domain of arcane magic. That particular school of magic stands in opposition to my own rune magic. Are you interested in learning arcane magic, Lady Asellus?”

“Sure,” Asellus agreed. It was important not to sound too eager. “It would be…interesting. Because magic is interesting! Right?”

“Well said.” Rouge, practically beaming, managed to look delighted and proud at the same time. “Perhaps Lord Orlouge will allow you to pursue it when it’s safe for you to leave the castle.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Asellus forced a light laugh at the end, as if they were simply chatting about plans for the upcoming school year.

Their conversation came to a halt when Asellus registered light footsteps. Though the terrace was expansive, she could clearly hear the person approaching from the opposite entrance. The willowy form heading toward them exuded such grace that she seemed to be floating instead of walking. Asellus could not help but stare. The clothing might have changed, but she would recognize Emilia anywhere.

Emilia had wrapped herself in a faded olive drab jacket during their travels, which did little to camouflage her natural beauty. But here, in a draped column dress accented with swirls of crepe, and streaming slit sleeves that trailed through the air, she was transcendent. Her hair was pulled into coiled lobes; it almost resembled a crown. The hairpin she wore to teatime adorned her coiffure once again; its wispy feathers breezed in the air as she walked, every step a dancer’s glissade.

"Lady Asellus!" she hailed, minding the hem of her dress as she made her way to them. "And Pollux, too. How perfect!"

"Emilia," Asellus breathed, at the same time as Rouge's polite "Princess Archangel."

"What a pleasure it is to see you," Rouge continued as Emilia neared. "What can we do for you?"

"I'm so happy to see you again, Lady Asellus!" Emilia chirped. Her face, as perfect and delicate as the petal of a flower, wore a delighted smile that made her all the more radiant. Unlike the smiles Emilia had previously pasted on when she was trying to hide regrets or bad memories, this one seemed genuine.

Asellus swallowed nervously; she looked desperately to a far corner, pretending that she'd spotted something interesting. But what could catch the eye more than Emilia? She'd always been stunning, even without makeup, or the opportunity to do more than run a comb through her hair while they slogged through one region after another. Now, she shone with the brilliance of a star in the night sky.

"Emilia," Asellus whispered, before politely looking at the woman she was speaking to. I owe it to her to look her in the eyes.

But the eyes, too, were different now. Raising her voice to a more audible level, Asellus ventured, "I thought that you weren't supposed to see me alone. Aren't you going to get in trouble?"

Emilia laughed, patting Asellus' arm lightly; tingles danced across her skin. "You're not alone, silly. Pollux is here, too."

Rouge looked back and forth between them. "How can I help?" he asked again.

Asellus almost felt bad for him.

"I have something to show Lady Asellus!" Emilia beamed. Her head dipped forward eagerly when she faced Asellus again. "Several somethings, in fact. I've been planning this for a while, you see. But you've been so busy that I haven't had a chance to catch you. I do hope you haven't been getting into more mischief!" Emilia's voice turned teasing on the last sentence.

"Of course not!" Asellus protested. No, she was toeing the line perfectly now. Let the Charm Lord believe nothing else.

"And that's why now is the perfect time," Emilia concluded. The golden eyes, that matched her hair so perfectly, glittered. "Please, come with me! I just can't wait for you to see this."

"What do I need to see?" Asellus asked warily.

She couldn't imagine her Emilia luring her into a room to attack her, but she knew almost nothing about mystic Emilia. And she certainly didn't want to provoke Orlouge's ire. She didn't want to ponder what he might do if he decided that he needed to “punish” the shining light that was Emilia.

"You'll see! You'll see!" Emilia replied mischievously, turning on her heel as though she expected them both to follow. "Pollux, would you escort us?"

"Of course, Princess," Rouge affirmed. "That is, as long as Lady Asellus has the stamina for another excursion. She has been working hard, as you said."

"I'm fine!" Asellus protested stubbornly, falling into line behind Emilia’s flowing train. She realized too late that she could have claimed fatigue as a reason not to get wrapped up in whatever Emilia had in mind. Her pride had spoken before her mind had a chance to catch up. "Um...where are we going?"

"To my room," Emilia, leading the way, answered, as if it were obvious.

"What?" Asellus squeaked, wide-eyed. If Orlouge found her there, of all places, there was no telling what hell he'd unleash. "Are you serious? You can’t mean—“

"Lady Asellus!" Emilia looked back over her shoulder and wagged a finger at her. "Don't be so silly. Oh, you're so much like your father, aren't you?"

There was no suitable response to that. Asellus' face burned hotter than the surface of the sun; if shame were lethal, both the scolding and the idea that Emilia would so casually compare her to the Charm Lord were enough to kill her several times over. Perhaps she could pretend to fall down the stairs and save herself from further torture.

"But that's why I like you," Emilia concluded brightly, as they navigated yet another unfamiliar stairway. "You're so adorable, Lady Asellus!"

Asellus threw a glance in Rouge's direction. Help, she begged silently. Maybe she could ask him a question about magic. That would get him to start talking for a good twenty minutes, and then maybe she wouldn't have to deal with Emilia’s teasing anymore.

Rouge did not see the plea in her gaze, so Asellus decided to take matters into her own hands. "Hey Emilia," she began, willing her voice to remain steady, "um...do you like mystic magic? Rouge does!"

"Emilia? Rouge?" Emilia stopped in her tracks and looked at Asellus, puzzled.

"Lady Asellus sustained serious injuries not too long ago," Rouge offered by way of explanation. "She’s had a difficult time remembering my name.”

"No I haven’t," Asellus declared, cutting off Rouge’s constructed fantasy world. "I remember just fine."

Asellus pointed a decisive finger at Rouge. "You’re Rouge."

She pointed to Emilia next. "And you’re Emilia."

“And I’m Asellus!” she added for good measure, resolutely jabbing herself in the chest with her finger, a little harder than she’d intended.

She allowed herself the brief conceit that something earth-shattering would happen. All of her attempts to prod Rouge to his senses had been unsuccessful, but with the two of them together with her like this, maybe… Maybe...

The fleeting hope shattered when Emilia clapped her perfectly manicured hands together. “You give people nicknames! How sweet!” She beamed at Asellus as she added, “Again, just like your father.”

“I’m not—” Asellus protested weakly, without her previous fervor. Did it matter if she spoke the truth, when no one believed her?

“You two are already acquainted,” Rouge commented when they began walking again. “How did you meet?”

“Lord Orlouge invited me to tea with Lady Asellus,” Emilia responded. Her voice was full of the breathy adulation of a young girl gushing over a movie star. “I had the most wonderful time with my lord, and Lady Asellus is such a sweet girl. Are you spending every day with her? I almost envy you, Pollux.”

“It’s as our lord decrees,” Rouge confirmed. “Lady Asellus is enjoyable company.”

“Thanks?” Asellus ventured, to remind them both that the subject of their conversation was within earshot.

“My lord commands so much of my time,” Emilia remarked, guiding them through a snarled intersection of pathways. Her sleeves fluttered behind her like milkweed floss drifting on a breeze.

Upon hearing this, Asellus desired nothing more than to clap both hands over her ears.

“But when he heard what I had planned for Lady Asellus, his smile lit up the entire castle!” Emilia boasted, face aglow with delight. “‘How can I deny my Archangel this whim?’ That’s what he said to me.”

“Wait,” Asellus interjected. Her toe caught the ground; she hopped quickly with the other foot so that she didn’t lose her balance. “You ran this—whatever ‘this’ is—by Orlouge, and he was okay with it?”

“Of course!” Emilia exclaimed. “I would never act without my lord’s permission.”

Asellus tried to make sense of what she was hearing. Orlouge, who had forbidden Emilia from spending time with her without a chaperone, had been apprised of Emilia's mysterious plans, and thought that they were a great idea? Was this his idea of a joke? Could it be a trap?

Rouge, on guard for any further stumbles, edged closer to Asellus. "You're very kind, Princess, to think of Lady Asellus like this."

"Oh, Pollux, you should save your praise for our lord," Emilia demurred, sodden with devotion. "We're so very lucky to have his favor like this."

"Absolutely," Rouge agreed, with wretched sincerity.

Once again, Asellus wished that she could stifle her hearing. She rolled her eyes skyward. Perhaps this in itself was the joke. It was certainly a bad one.

"Here we are!" Emilia exclaimed brightly, when they arrived at the door standing between the three of them and whatever she had in mind. The nymphs and blossoms carved into the door panels stared out impassively; they held no answers.

"Pollux, you stay out here,” directed Emilia. “This is for women only, do you understand?"

"Hey—!” Asellus objected.

Emilia and Rouge both turned to look at her.

"I don't think—” Asellus sputtered. “That isn't a good idea!"

"Oh, Lady Asellus," Emilia laughed, patting her arm once more. The gauzy drape of one sleeve lingered momentarily, brushing over Asellus’ arm after Emilia pulled her hand away. "You're so dutiful. Fear not, we aren't disobeying orders. Mirphak is waiting for us inside!"

She was referring to one of the female servants, then. Asellus wondered if it would be one of the women that had already waited on her, or if it was someone new entirely.

"I'll wait out there, then," Rouge agreed, bowing to them. "Lady Asellus, Princess Archangel."

"Yeah..." Asellus sighed. Resigned, she let Emilia lead her inside as though she were a horse wearing a bridle.

When Emilia showed her into the room, Asellus wasn't surprised to see that it resembled her own, illuminated with crystal-topped floor lamps. She was relieved to see a bed, not a coffin, against the far wall. Asellus' own room was devoid of personal effects, but Emilia's contained an armoire, a large standing jewelry cabinet, and a vanity—though there was no mirror.

Apparently, Orlouge wanted Emilia to have nice things. That had to be a good sign. A mistress intended for imminent storage wouldn’t need a wardrobe or jewelry.

Not one "Mirphak" but a handful awaited them, their eyes cast downward. Do they call each other by the same name, too? Asellus puzzled. It seemed improbable.

"Have a seat," Emilia urged, pointing to the vanity. A maid pulled out a padded stool.

"Why?" Asellus asked warily. When criminals sat under the bright light in the interrogation room, did they feel the same?

"Because you can't get your nails done if you're standing, silly!" Emilia admonished.

One of the maids walked over, carrying a small basin and towels. Another followed, with a tray bearing an assortment of implements. Asellus blanched, before she realized that they were beauty instruments and not esoteric torture devices.

"My nails?" she repeated. At Emilia's expectant look, she protested, "But it'll just go to waste. The next time I swing my sword, they'll get chipped and be ruined."

"Then Mirphak will touch it up for you," Emilia assured her. "Please sit down, Lady Asellus. Even Pollux thinks that you're working too hard. You deserve to sit and rest, don't you?"

Surrounded by Emilia and her army of assistants, Asellus gave in and sat on the plush-topped stool. Two maids flanked her immediately. They grabbed her hands—gently, she’d give them that—and began filing the tips of her nails.

"I feel like I'm on an assembly line," Asellus complained. She could hear more maidservants gathering behind her, waiting for their turn to attack her hands. They could file as much of her away as they wanted, but they couldn’t possibly smooth all her rough edges. "That's what this was all about? A manicure?"

"That's the first step," Emilia agreed. "Don't worry. I wouldn't distract you from your training just for this."

"My training." Asellus turned the phrase over.

Ildon had once sicced monster after monster on her and called it “training.” What was happening to her in the castle now was very different. It was slow, calculated, insidious even. And she knew very well who the mastermind was.

But—

"Use what you've been given." Zozma had spoken those words to her before they commenced their ill-fated assault on the Chateau. If Orlouge now insisted on providing her with the opportunity to gain power, she would take advantage of it.

When the maids were satisfied with the shape of her nails, a third attendant set the basin on the vanity. Water sloshed about inside. Together, the women on either side of Asellus placed her hands in it carefully; there were no splashes. To her relief, the water was warm and soothing.

"What's this for?" Asellus asked. She'd never been to a nail salon, and though she’d occasionally painted her nails at home, she'd never dunked her hands in water first.

"It softens your hands, Lady Asellus," Emilia responded. "And I'm sure that it will help relax them after all the fighting you did today."

"Maybe," Asellus agreed. After she’d revisited the towers with Rouge for more faeblade practice, it did indeed feel good. "It's nice of you to go through the trouble, but you really didn't have to."

"Nonsense. All work and no play—well, you know what they say about that."

"What do they say about that?" Asellus asked, as the maids removed her hands from the basin and dried them with soft towels.

"Absolutely nothing pleasant," Emilia proclaimed.

Emilia’s helpers began to brush clear lacquer onto Asellus’ fingernails. The room-temperature polish was cool against her cuticles. Are they going to give me a glass of cucumber water next? Asellus wondered, watching them work. Or whatever it is that people drink at spas.

Emilia disappeared behind her. Judging by the sounds, she was apparently rummaging through something. "No, no—yes. This one."

Asellus heard a clink!, and out of the corner of her she eye saw a maid hold up a small bottle for Emilia's approval.

"It's important to find the right color,” Emilia explained, stepping back into view at last. “While I think pink would look lovely against your skin tone, red will complement your eyes beautifully. And it suits your personality, too. Don't you think so, Lady Asellus?"

One of the maids, satisfied that the base coat was dry, began to painstakingly apply red polish to Asellus’ fingernails. Emilia bent slightly to inspect the handiwork. Her subtly rouged cheeks glowed under the lamplight.

"I guess you know best," Asellus acquiesced. "I painted my nails black a few times. My aunt asked me if it was a phase."

"Black? Absolutely not. That doesn't suit you at all." The feathers in Emilia's hair swung back and forth. "It's so lifeless and dreary. It's the exact opposite of who you are!"

"You don't think it seems appropriate for this castle?" Asellus ventured.

"Why would you think that, Lady Asellus?" Surprised, Emilia looked up, completely taken out of her task. Her eyes, highlighted in pearlescent shadow, met Asellus’.

"Does anyone here seem happy to you?" Asellus asked pointedly, framed by silent maidservants.

"You have such a sense of humor, Lady Asellus." Emilia laughed. Her eyes twinkled. "I'm exceedingly happy.”

Asellus sighed; the servant in charge of the red polish paused, her work momentarily disrupted. “Are you really happy?”

“Such a question, Lady Asellus. How could I not be? I awoke lost, afraid and knowing nothing. But Lord Orlouge embraced me.” A dreaming, faraway expression came over Emilia’s face. “He gave me my name and told me that he would love me always, and that no matter how many years pass, or how many other princesses are born, I will be his only Archangel.”

“Emilia,” Asellus broke in urgently, “he locks every single one of his mistresses in coffins eventually. They’re stuck there forever. You have to know that.”

“I know, Lady Asellus.” Emilia spoke with such complaisance that Asellus thought at first that she’d misheard. “What does that matter? Asleep or awake, I’ll be with my lord for eternity. My dreams will only be of him. I don’t need anything else. Every moment is a delight."

“A delight…” Asellus had never considered that Orlouge’s princesses might welcome the chance to remain in a coffin for him. She couldn’t use truth to break the spell if they equated love with dominion.

"Oh, Lady Asellus, why such an expression? Don't you like the color I chose?"

"It's not that." Pressing the subject would benefit no one, so she asked instead, "What do you do all day, Emilia?"

"Well, my lord occupies much of my time, of course." Emilia’s eyes glazed as though she were lost in a momentary daydream, in marked contrast to the sour expression on Asellus’ face. "But after that—well, you'll see."

"Is it a secret? Can't you just tell me now?"

"I don't want to ruin the surprise, but—oh, I know. Excuse me a moment."

Emilia ran off, leaving Asellus alone with the maids that surrounded her. When the layers of red polish finished drying, they began layering another clear coat on top.

They really are like machines, Asellus thought. Like they do this all the time. She should try to talk to them, to make conversation and remind them that they were people, not nameless appliances.

“Um…” she ventured, wondering exactly what she should say, “I’m Asellus. It’s nice to meet you.”

No response. The servants applying the topcoat kept their focus on her fingers, ignoring the person that they were attached to. The others pointedly stared at the floor. Asellus turned her head to peer at the nearest untasked maid, who closed her eyes momentarily, as if determined to hide from her gaze.

I don’t know what I expected, but I wanted something more than this. Dejected, she pondered why the servants were so set on evading her. There was no reason for them to fear her. It couldn’t be that. Had Orlouge instructed them not to speak to or even look at her?

Emilia reappeared at her side, thankfully breaking the awkward tension. Asellus turned her head to see a sheaf of papers in Emilia’s hand. Curious, she looked to her friend for an explanation.

Emilia waved the papers briefly. "I'll show you when your nails are dry, Lady Asellus, but here are some lovely dresses that I'm envisioning. Maybe you'll see something that catches your fancy?"

"Wait. You design clothes now?"

The Emilia she knew was a former model who rejected the industry after a slew of bad experiences. Her role was to showcase the apparel, not dream it into life.

"Yes,” Emilia nodded. “It’s a hobby. I work closely with the lovely tailors in Rootville to make them real. Lord Orlouge is supportive. 'Whatever amuses you, my Archangel.' Isn't that sweet?"

"So your dress—“

"Yes! I conceived of it myself!" Emilia smiled proudly.

When the maids decided that her fingernails were finished and backed away, Asellus swiveled around to face Emilia, who pivoted slightly on her heel to give Asellus a good look at her creation.

"I sketched it,” Emilia explained. “I’m always careful to pay close attention to the details. The tailors create the pattern. And then I visit them to approve the toile, choose the fabric, and have fittings. Humans are remarkably skilled!”

Asellus, who understood little of what she had just heard, asked, “So...that means you drew your dress and then they made it?”

“Oh, more than just one dress, and for more than just me. I seem to have a knack for style, if I do say so myself!” Emilia laughed brightly; her sleeves rippled in the air. “I enjoy bringing out the beauty in others, and I know very well what pleases Lord Orlouge’s eyes. From time to time, I also show Lord Rastaban my designs. He says that it’s nice to see fresh ideas in the Chateau.”

Looking eagerly at Asellus, Emilia added, “I'd love to create one for you too, Lady Asellus. I have several ideas in mind, but I understand that you have to stay in the castle right now. When my lord decides that it's safe for you to visit Rootville, you and I will have to pay a visit. Your jacket is well-cut, but I don’t think that magenta color is right for you."

Asellus considered Emilia, who, bright and bubbling with joy, no longer answered to a modeling agency or a group of spies. “You don’t work for them now,” Asellus murmured to herself. “You have people working for you. And Rouge gets to study magic because he wants to. Without dying for it."

"What was that, Lady Asellus?" Emilia handed her stack of papers to a waiting maidservant.

"Nothing," Asellus said quickly. "When are these going to dry?"

"Not yet, not yet. Sit still for a moment."

A maid surprised her by heading behind her, a rosewood-handled hairbrush in hand. A second arrived shortly after to set a gilt tabletop mirror on top of Emilia’s vanity.

"What’s going on now?" Asellus asked, bewildered.

Emilia's smile was gentle. "Your hair is a little windblown, Lady Asellus. I'm sure it's from all your hard work today. Let Mirphak restore its shine for you."

Soft bristles passed through her hair. The maid's touch was very soft; she brushed the edges of Asellus' short hair carefully before working her way to the crown of her head.

"Look!" Emilia pointed to Asellus' reflection in the mirror.

Asellus, suddenly self-conscious, winced when she saw the unruly tufts in her hair. She couldn't deny that her hair could use some smoothing; this Mirphak was apparently very practiced at it.

"After it’s brushed, I have some hair ornaments that would be perfect for you.” Emilia patted her own feathered hairpin. “I do enjoy hair accessories!"

"For me?" Asellus repeated. "You don't have to. Really." Her image in the mirror was slightly skewed, owing to the angle, but the maid working on her hair cast no reflection.

"But I want to, Lady Asellus. Your hair is short—I do think it's a little longer than the last time we met—but we still have many options. I have a barrette with beautiful inlays that would look lovely on you, or maybe a tiara for some extra sparkle. Perhaps I'll design hair ornaments next!"

Far be it from Asellus to discourage Emilia from her non-Orlouge pursuits. "Maybe you should," she agreed.

The mirror’s distortion was a mild annoyance; she turned her head to see the maid's work from another angle. The strokes of the brush lifted a lock of hair from her ear slightly; it peeked out from underneath the layers of green.

It was pointed.

Startled, Asellus straightened, jolting bolt upright on the padded stool. Disregarding the maids’ attempts to protect her still-tacky fingernails, she reached a hand to her ear to confirm what she was seeing.

Her ear came to a slight, yet definite point that had not been there before. She was sure of it. She raised her other hand, intent on checking the second ear.

Emilia's hands caught her own and held the backs of her palms gently. "Lady Asellus, you don't want to ruin your nails."

"Emilia!" Asellus exclaimed. She made no attempt to free her hands and looked up, imploring. "My ear—look at my ear! Was it like this before?"

"Lady Asellus, do you think I was staring at your ears during teatime?" Emilia's face wore a teasing smile. “Or are you suggesting that we find earrings for you too? That’s not a bad idea.”

“Did you do it?” Asellus accused, finally wrenching her hands free. Her breath quickened, her pupils rapidly widened. The room was small. Too small. “Did Orlouge put you up to it?”

"Oh, Lady Asellus. Maybe Pollux was right? Maybe this is too much for you after a day of hard work.” Emilia’s features crinkled gently; she bent down slightly, scrutinizing Asellus as if she were a nurse checking for signs of a concussion. “I did want to show you my designs, too. We'll have to make plans for another time."

“Did you do this?”

“We only polished your nails and brushed your hair, Lady Asellus.” Emilia’s face, which should have held anger at being accused, or satisfaction at a plan masterfully executed, was etched with nothing but concern. She patted Asellus’ shoulder. “I thought that some pampering would be good for you, but I didn't realize how exhausted you must be. You need rest desperately, you poor dear!”

Emilia offered her hand to help Asellus rise from her seat. Without thinking, Asellus took it.

Emilia led her back to the doorway, simultaneously tsking at the maidservants and fussing over Asellus. The sounds melded into a background buzz; the room blurred into a muddied smear. The maids clustered around them, as if they expected Asellus to faint at any moment and were angling to be the one to catch her.

True to his word, Rouge was idling in the hallway outside the door. “Lady Asellus!” he greeted, before taking in the entourage accompanying her. “Is everything all right?”

“You were right, Pollux,” Emilia explained with an apologetic smile. “Poor Lady Asellus is exhausted. I didn’t realize just how much, or I would have found you at another time.”

“Oh.” Rouge rushed up to her—too close, why is everyone so close?—and held his own hands out, as if she would crumble without support. “Are you all right, Lady Asellus?”

“I’m fine,” Asellus snapped, “but I need air. Can everyone just back up?”

The crowd parted like water in a ship’s wake. Exhaling shakily, Asellus reached up with dreading hands and touched her ears once more. The tips were still pointed.

“I'll show you my designs the next time you visit,” Emilia promised, “and I’ll be happy to help you start your own collection of hair accessories! I know I'll find one that strikes your fancy.”

“That’s kind of you, Princess,” Rouge acknowledged. “I think that Lady Asellus needs space right now. Lady Asellus, will you come with me?”

“Yes,” Asellus agreed, relishing the chance to free herself from the crowd. With space came clarity.

Struck by sudden regret, she looked back at Emilia remorsefully. “Emilia, I’m sorry I was so rude to you. I guess my imagination ran away with me.” As focused as she'd been on the mysterious change to her appearance, she’d also lost the chance to ask Emilia about the tailor shop, or more specifically, whether she’d come across Gina.

“There’s no need to apologize to me, Lady Asellus!” chirped Emilia. “I could never be angry with you. We’ll have to do this again!”

Asellus followed Rouge down the unfamiliar hallway, listening for the sound that meant Emilia’s door had shut.

“Rouge,” she ventured, once they were well away from Emilia’s room, “have my ears always been pointed like this?” She brushed hair back from her left ear to show him.

Rouge did look as she asked him to, but if he saw anything unusual, he gave no sign of it. “You usually wear your hair so that it covers your ears. Why do you ask, Lady Asellus?”

“Because I swear that yesterday—or whenever we did our faeblade practice before today, time is so ridiculous here—they weren’t. They were rounded, just like always.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like that.” Rouge paused to think. “But I can see that it’s bothering you a great deal. If you think that this is what happened, Lady Asellus, I could search the library for answers for you. I could also ask around.”

“Ask around…” The opportunity she needed had been there all along. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

Rouge was ever eager to be of service, as long as he thought that doing so was in accordance with the Charm Lord’s will. But Orlouge was no longer the only one who held that power.

Filled with sudden certainty, Asellus’ eyes lit up like a firefly lantern. “Sure, Rouge,” she said evenly, “I’d love for you to ask around for me. In fact…”

Speaking in low tones, lest she be overheard, she continued, “I’d really like it if you could go to the tailor shop in Rootville and ask what happened to the human named Gina who used to work there. Would you do that for me, Rouge?”

Her training with the faeblade and magic had granted her familiarity with the mystic power that swirled inside her, roiling like an undertow. She reached for it, its chaos soothing like a warm blanket, and then pushed, wordlessly and urgently. Her eyes captured his, a sea of red for him to drown in.

“Of course, Lady Asellus,” Rouge answered immediately, as though she’d asked him for nothing more than a box of tissues. “After I see you back to your room, I’ll do that at once.”

“Great,” she agreed, triumph welling inside her. It was a small victory, incomparable to the elation that came from feeding her ever-hungry faeblade, but it felt good nonetheless.

Had she still been seated in front of Emilia’s mirror, she might have seen that the teeth exposed in her wide smile were tipped with the faintest hint of points.

Chapter Text

"Show me."

Reaching within, casting her will without, Asellus called wordlessly and decisively into the void. Without any of the fanfare or flashy displays that Asellus associated with magic, Midnight appeared beside her, silent and alert as the smoldering ashes of a forest fire. The cat dismissed the figure on the throne with a sniff before ambling to Asellus and bunting its head against her ankles.

"Hi, Midnight," Asellus murmured. She wanted to stoop down and stroke the cat’s head, but she wouldn't be caught in any position reminiscent of a bow in front of the Charm Lord.

"You named your phantom." Orlouge’s words were tinted with mirth.

"Yeah," she said simply, noting that he’d chosen to address her actions instead of remarking on the cat.

"Amusing." The Charm Lord regarded her with a one-pointed smile. "You have the right to do what you wish with what is yours."

"Okay." Internally, she rejected his words. There were no possible parallels between them. "So...is that what you wanted you to see?"

"We're not finished." Orlouge inclined his head toward Rouge, who stood, as ever, beside her. "You asked something of Pollux, didn't you?"

The cursed blood in her veins turned jagged and cold like ice crystals. Had Rouge immediately told Orlouge of her request, or had he found out through other means? She'd been so very, very careful.

"You can't blame him!" she blurted, taking a half-step toward Rouge as if she could protect him from Orlouge's wrath. "Because I made him do it."

"You 'made' him do it." Orlouge repeated the words slowly, watching expectantly from his throne. The jeweled strands hanging from his headpiece draped over his shoulders, shimmering in the low light. "How did you do that?"

"I—" Asellus swallowed. Time to have it out in the open, then. Let Rouge be angry with her, if he had the capability to do so. Better than Orlouge being angry at Rouge. "I persuaded him."

"And how," Orlouge questioned further, trailing strings of gemstones now rustling gently in his breeze, aglow and eager, "did you persuade him?"

"Because I—" she closed her eyes briefly, one last moment of denial, before lifting her head to stare directly at Orlouge. "I used mystic power. That's how."

"You did." Floating tendrils of long hair drifted merrily, intertwining with the headpiece’s gleaming tassels and briefly framing Orlouge’s face. "Then there should be no issue if Pollux answers your question here and now. Pollux, what have you learned?"

Blithely, as if the entire conversation were trivial and had nothing to do with him whatsoever, Rouge began, "My Lord, I asked the master of Rootville’s tailor shop if a human named Gina was employed there. He told me that wasn't the case.”

Asellus’ eyes widened.

“When I asked again,” Rouge continued, addressing the Charm Lord still, "and stated that the information was important to Lady Asellus, he said that her human had worked there. He also told me that she fled Facinaturu years ago, shortly after Lady Asellus herself left."

Rouge's oblivious placidity was far more disturbing than Orlouge’s broad smile. The latter widened further when the Charm Lord turned back to Asellus.

"Are you satisfied?" Orlouge inquired. A stray breeze escaped the throne, skimming her skin and disturbing Midnight, who yowled in objection.

Asellus' mind reeled. Here was the answer she had long sought.

Gina was no longer in Facinaturu. Asellus had no explanation as to how Gina had escaped, but hopefully she was safe, and hadn't fallen into the hands of another predator, as had Asellus and White Rose upon their own flight from Facinaturu.

Moreover, if the man Rouge spoke to at the tailor shop was the person—the human—who had been Gina's supervisor, another enduring mystery was unraveling. Eons couldn't have passed since she lost her battle with Orlouge, as she'd feared. It had to be a much shorter length of time, certainly less than a human lifetime.

A scrap of forbidden knowledge was now within her grasp. No matter what happened next, she’d still won a small victory.

"I just wanted to know," Asellus said quietly. "Now I do."

"Splendid." The Charm Lord leaned back on his throne. "Pollux, leave us. I will send her out when we finish."

"Yes, My Lord." Rouge’s bow was immediate and predictable.

Unwilling to turn her back on Orlouge, Asellus watched Rouge out of the corner of her eye, marking his departure until she could no longer see him. If the lord of the castle were gearing up to castigate her for her actions, so be it. At least Rouge was safe.

Midnight brushed against her ankles once more. I’m not alone, she thought gratefully.

Despite her grim expectations, Orlouge kept his relaxed posture upon the throne. His attending winds gently ruffled the hem of his garment, lapping against the shimmering fall of fabric like waves upon a shoreline.

After a moment of silence, he looked pointedly at Asellus and asked, "How was your time with Princess Archangel?"

Oh. Her friends weren't out of the woods yet, then. Quickly, Asellus assured him, "We didn't do anything wrong. I didn't try to 'lead her astray.'"

"That is not what I asked."

Surprised, Asellus looked up at him.

"How was your time together?" the Charm Lord repeated. It might have sounded like idle pleasantry, but she wasn’t fooled. This was no less a demand than his previous orders.

"Uh...fine?" Asellus' fingers chanced upon the cuff of one sleeve; she toyed with it nervously. "She really wanted to paint my fingernails. And she thinks I should be wearing a different outfit, I guess."

"She was right," Orlouge observed, resting three fingers casually on his chin. "Your hair is longer now."

"Hair does that," Asellus answered, wondering what his point was, when his own hair was much longer—and far more dramatic—than hers. "I haven't noticed."

"Does it?" Orlouge's lips twitched upwards, briefly. "I hear that your appearance distressed you."

"I was confused, but it’s fine now."

That wasn’t true at all, but she had no desire to talk about the surprise she’d discovered when she’d seen her face—and ears—in the mirror.

"Your features have changed. Isn’t that right?" Orlouge leaned back on his thorny perch once again, but his eyes glittered with interest. "Isn’t that what you found confusing?"

"I’m fine. Everything’s okay," Asellus repeated obstinately. "Unless there’s something you’re trying to tell me."

"And what would that be, my daughter?"

"If I have changed," she began, keeping a careful eye on the figure on the throne, "would that be your doing?"

"I’ve done nothing." His statement, sharper than the pointed horns on his head, bored into her. "If you appear to be more mystic than human, then it is the result of your own actions. Nothing more."

Such a nonsensical declaration. What could she possibly have done that would cause her features to change? Rouge hadn’t taught her any shape-shifting spells.

Orlouge allowed her a short time to remain with her befuddlement, before breaking the silence. "And how," he inquired, lifting one hand idly, fingers curling slightly as if to hold an invisible glass, "does my princess appear to you?"

Blinking, Asellus returned to the real world and attempted to parse that sentence. "'Appear?' Fine, I guess."

"'Fine?'"

"I don't know what you want to hear," Asellus admitted, giving in to frustration. "Why did you tell her not to be alone with me, and then decide that it was okay if she wanted to play beauty salon?"

"Tell me this." Orlouge’s fingers curled further; the thumb and first finger touched. "Was she cursing the cruel, merciless king who locked her in a tower?"

"Huh?" Asellus stared at his questioning face for clues as to what he wanted, but found none. "I don't understand you."

"Did she bemoan her fate and beg you to save her?"

"Of course not." Her frustration was evolving into annoyance. "Why are you asking me questions when you already know the answers?"

"You, who remember your humanity, are in a unique position of all who reside in my castle." Orlouge opened his hand, unfurling the fingers like leaves from the bud of a tree branch, and extended it toward her. "You remember the human world. You remember the uncertainty of existence there.”

A curious, knowing smile crossed the Charm Lord’s face. “Human kingdoms that stand for but a hundred short-lived generations fall in a single night while their subjects cry in vain for a savior. The dead feed the crows; the survivors scatter like leaves on the wind."

"My existence was never uncertain!"

Next to her, Midnight let out a soft not-quite-yowl as its tail began to twitch.

"I didn’t live in a ‘kingdom,’" Asellus argued. Could mystics even begin to comprehend the simple complexities of human life? "I was a kid in high school. I was going to graduate and go to college. My life was normal, and I was happy."

"And what of your playmates? Would they say the same?"

"My—" Asellus' eyes, fiery in her pale face, glared at him. "You shouldn't call them that."

"I am not the one who insists on calling them by names that aren't theirs. By all means, ask them the same question. What do you think their answers will be?"

"They won't answer, because they don't remember. You know that too, because it's your fault. Stop making fun of me."

Rouge and Emilia might profess happiness, but it was all a veneer, a smokescreen to pacify her. What they claimed to want didn’t matter. Not when she knew. She knew.

Midnight's soft presence at her feet was a comfort.

"When life brings suffering, the lack of remembrance is a gift." Orlouge continued, unmoved by Asellus’ scowl. "Tell me. Are you suffering now?"

"Yes!" Asellus thundered, nervous fingers finally clenching in her palms. "I don't want to be here! And I hate that they're stuck here too!"

"Is that so?" One eyebrow arched, thin and curved as a willow branch. "Once you are sufficiently able, you will no longer be confined to the castle. I believe my princess wished to take you shopping."

"And when will that be? When I've given up, like everyone else here?" There was no point in dangling a carrot in front of her face, when his proposal merely enlarged her cage.

"When you are ready." The air currents surrounding him changed direction abruptly. "Why are you and Pollux visiting the towers so often?"

"To kill monsters." That, at least, should have been obvious.

"There will always be more monsters. You answer as though you are dealing with a rat infestation, but that isn't the truth, is it?"

"It's..." Ah, here it was. She could try to bluff, but her previous attempts had all fallen short. Perhaps he would be content with a half-truth. "Because it's making me stronger."

"You've become more than proficient in the use of the faeblade." Orlouge nodded approvingly. "Your progression is prodigious, as befits one who bears my blood. And now you gather power."

His eyes, as well as his breezes, pointed at her, direct and piercing. "What will you do with it?"

He sees through me. He always has. Sweat formed at her hairline and under her arms. The twin urges to either brace for impact, or spring preemptively at him with her faeblade raised, warred and rendered each other useless; she remained rooted in place before him, motionless and impotent.

"I—I—" There was too much saliva in her mouth; the lump in her throat made it difficult to swallow. Nervously, Asellus regarded the ceiling before meeting his eyes once more. "I'll do what I should have done all along."

"You will escape the castle in which you've been wrongfully imprisoned, free your helpless companions, and live in eternal happiness." Orlouge's eyes danced merrily; Midnight hissed at him. "Is that it?"

Asellus glared.

"What you fail to appreciate," Orlouge began, holding his long, sharp fingernails in front of his face as if to admire them, "is that the pursuit of power is its own happiness. You feel it, don't you? When you absorb life essence into your faeblade, are you satisfied, or do you crave more?"

"That doesn't matter," Asellus said spitefully. Who was he to tell her how she should feel? "I don't have to act on every feeling. I can control it. And I can stop any time I want."

"Can you? I wonder."

"Yes," she insisted. Midnight stalked in front of her protectively, ears flattened.

"Now imagine," he continued, resting his hand on the throne and leaning forward as if to ensure that she saw him, "the thrill of claiming blood from a warm human neck. The elation is incomparable. It is well within your reach to not only take life, but to perfect it, recreating what was once mortal in your own image."

Equal portions of horror and disgust jolted Asellus from inaction. "No!" she shouted, legs and feet settling into a ready stance, ready to bolt away from the lunacy. She raised her arms in front of her, as if she could snuff the idea itself out of existence. "I will never do that. That's not who I am!"

"You have not yet discovered the whole of who you are," Orlouge apprised her, watching her reaction closely, "though you walk toward it, a little at a time. What will it take to give you the final push? How interesting it will be to see."

"You. Are. Wrong," Asellus seethed, twitching from the ferocity of her denial. Her floundering hands grasped empty air; instinctively, she squeezed. "I didn't become you. Not when you made me use the faeblade or learn mystic magic. It's not going to happen."

"We'll see." Satisfied, Orlouge waved a hand in the air. "You may go now. Pollux will be waiting for you outside." With that, he vanished, leaving her alone with Midnight in an empty throne room.

Asellus exhaled, tension slowly uncoiling from her limbs. Shakily, she stooped, running her fingers through Midnight's soft fur. The cat leaned its face into her touch and trilled; she welcomed the comfort.

"He's up to something," she complained to the cat, after her heartbeat had calmed to a less agitated state. "And he’s wrong. About everything."

She stood, then made her way out of the throne room, the cat at her heels. The heavy, embellished doors swung open before she could reach out to touch them; she would have wondered at that, but the discussion with Orlouge had left her far too unsettled.

Rouge was indeed waiting outside the throne room. To her dismay, he appeared to be deep in conversation with Rastaban, whose genial chatter was a snake’s rattle to her ears. Both turned when they heard the doors open. Had they been able to hear any of her conversation with Orlouge? She couldn’t imagine Rouge trying to eavesdrop, but Rastaban was an entirely different story.

Conversations themselves were battles in the Chateau, the interplay of words a perfect substitute for the clash of blades. Here comes another, she thought wearily.

"You look well, Lady Asellus. And you brought a friend, too." Rastaban, wearing a pleasant smile above the white ruffles at his neck, was the first to hail her.

"Welcome back, Lady Asellus," added Rouge. Midnight walked to him approvingly; he bent slightly to pat the furry head.

Once the cat was satisfied, it ambled back to Asellus, ignoring Rastaban completely.

"Hi." Asellus hurriedly greeted them both at the same time, making sure to situate herself between them. "Hope I'm not interrupting." Actually, I hope I am.

"It looks like your audience went well," Rouge observed.

"Of course it did," Rastaban answered for her, with a curlicue of acclaim. "You've become much stronger, Lady Asellus. That much is obvious. Lord Orlouge must be pleased."

After expending all her patience on Orlouge, Asellus had no desire to spar with another schemer. She frowned, dismissing his performance, and replied flippantly, "That's what we all do here, right? Anything to please Orlouge!"

"You say that, Lady Asellus, but I wonder if you realize the value in it." Rastaban, eyeing her with curiosity, curled one white-gloved hand under his chin.

"I don't," she answered bluntly. If he was here to play games, she would upset the table. "You know, you never gave me a straight answer. Where's Ildon?"

Let him dance his way out of that question in front of Rouge, if he could.

"Didn't I?" Although the words were delivered in a bright tone, Rastaban's eyes turned cold and calculating. Goosebumps sprouted on Asellus’ skin, as if the temperature had unexpectedly dropped several degrees. "Princess White Rose is taking care of him."

"White Rose—!"

Those two words eclipsed anything else that she could have said. The last time he’d pinned her down for a conversation, he’d hinted at meeting White Rose, but to withhold the full truth from her until now, as though it were a card up his sleeve…

He could not possibly be made of the same flesh and bone that she was, to treat any of this as a chip to be played. If a heart had ever beat in his chest, it was surely swallowed by the Chateau’s thorns long ago.

"Oh, Lord Rastaban! Does this mean you’ve met Lady Asellus' friend?" Rouge, a rabbit among foxes, spoke next.

Rastaban smiled at him, but his eyes held no trace of warmth and his voice was low, a warning. "Careful, Pollux. You’re poking a hornets’ nest."

At Rastaban's words, Rouge's eyes widened in surprise.

"You should have said so earlier," Asellus forced through gritted teeth, her glare as scorching as her faeblade, "so that I knew what I needed to do. How do I open the Dark Labyrinth? Will I be able to do that when I’m strong enough?"

"I'd like nothing more than to tell you 'yes.'" There was no remnant of Rastaban's cheerful facade in his response. Had she glimpsed his true face at last? "But that isn't the case. The Dark Labyrinth answers only to the one who created it."

"Oh, really." Her voice dropped precipitously in pitch. Why hadn’t he hadn't mentioned that, so long ago, when he’d intercepted her on her way to battle Orlouge? "Why didn’t you tell me that before?"

"Would you have listened?" Rastaban countered. "Your mind was quite closed, as I recall."

"My mind was made up," she retorted. She was not willing to allow him this point; nevertheless, her anger wilted into bitter sarcasm. "So it's really interesting that you're telling me this now. Why are you?"

"Perhaps you weren’t ready to hear it then."

Dissatisfied, Asellus narrowed her eyes.

Rastaban waved a hand in the air, disturbing its stillness; his lacy cuff fluttered. "Let us speak instead of the present, Lady Asellus. You don't seem to understand that power comes in many forms. It’s true that you can't pry the doors open with a faeblade. But your growing mystic power pleases Lord Orlouge, does it not?"

No. She wouldn’t allow him to put the mask back on. "Who cares what he thinks?" Asellus scoffed.

"You should." Two words. Simple, shrewd. Unexpectedly direct. As Rastaban spoke, the cat's burnt orange eyes stayed trained on him, as if he were a circling hawk.

"Do you not think that he has grown fond of you?" Rastaban added, as if it were obvious. "If his adoring anointed heir asks him to release the prisoners from the Dark Labyrinth, how could he deny her? An appeal to pride can open doors that raw power cannot."

If Orlouge was at all fond of her, it was in the way that a crocodile was fond of a flightless bird. She had no desire to build on that.

"He won't do that just because I ask," Asellus grumbled. So much game-playing and obfuscation for one simple request. Why were mystics never straightforward? "Is that really what you want from me?"

Rastaban's eyes crinkled. "Then there is more for you to do, isn’t there, Lady Asellus?"

Asellus paused, choosing to study Rastaban critically rather than respond further. He stood before her, his finery clashing strikingly with the Chateau’s color scheme, apparently hale and hearty enough to dodge and weave about her. But hadn’t Ciato nearly killed him long ago, leaving him weak and gravely wounded, before she’d lost White Rose to the Dark Labyrinth? And when that happened, didn’t he—

That’s right. Ciato had attacked Rastaban—opportunistically, she’d gathered—claiming his power when he emerged victorious. She remembered Ildon gravely informing her of this, followed by "He will come for you next."

Can I do that, too?

Choosing her words very carefully, Asellus asked, "Would the Dark Labyrinth answer to the power of the one who created it?"

Rastaban regarded her sternly, as if possessed by Ildon’s spirit—or more likely, his absence—without any trace of his previous merriment. "If you choose to play a dangerous game, you must commit to it completely. Do you understand, now, the stakes if you don’t?"

"Yeah." Asellus mirrored his tone, meeting his eyes without hesitation. "But I just wanted an answer. I don’t need your help."

"How fitting, for I have none to give." Rastaban’s stare intensified, as if he were trying to see inside her.

Asellus instinctively reached for the front of her coat to pull it tight around her; she stopped herself just in time, dropping her hands back to a neutral position.

"But boons often arrive in unexpected forms," Rastaban remarked cryptically. His scrutiny finally subsided, as if he were satisfied. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

"Don’t try to—"

Asellus’ warning died mid-sentence when she couldn’t decide what she was warning him against. How many other games could he play, after twice failing to influence her? She’d refused his initial suggestion to take the throne of Facinaturu, and his Purple Eye lay rejected, under Zozma’s watch in the treasure room. With the only person he had any care for—if he was even capable of it—now a hostage, his options for skulduggery were neatly curtailed. What could he possibly do that he hadn’t already tried?

"Are you all right, Lady Asellus? You're breathing very hard," Rouge interrupted.

Asellus quickly eased her expression, turning to Rouge to assure him that she was, indeed, just fine.

"And this is where I must leave you." Rastaban's amiable smile returned as if it were a hat he’d reclaimed from a rack. "For my duties can only be put off for so long. I wish you success in your endeavors, Lady Asellus, for all our sakes. Take good care of her, Pollux."

"Always," agreed Rouge, who bowed ever-so-slightly as Rastaban walked away from them.

Good riddance, Asellus echoed inside her head. It was vexing for Rastaban to saunter about so easily, unworried about finding her dagger in his back.

"What did he want?" Asellus asked Rouge, once she could no longer detect Rastaban’s presence and was satisfied that he wasn’t in earshot.

"He asked how you were doing, Lady Asellus, and how your training was progressing. You are quite the celebrity."

Rouge must have heard the tone of the previous conversation. Surely it was obvious, even to him. And yet, his relentless optimism remained undiminished. How was this possible?

"Sure. Sure. That's why." Asellus sighed. It was time to change the subject, and also head somewhere far away from the throne room. "So, where are we going today? Want to chop up some more monsters?"

"If you'll allow me one moment, Lady Asellus?" His eyes held a new question, she saw, not the typical inquiries about her welfare. "You knew me when I was human."

She tried to prevent her palm from meeting her face. She really did. There were some things in the world that were unavoidable, even now.

Finally, voice flattened by both weariness and frustration, she asked, "You just realized this?"

"Lord Orlouge told me," he answered brightly. "So I am curious."

Of course. To Rouge, her own claims were but the ramblings of a distressed mind, but Orlouge's were those of a god.

"Okay. Okay then." She lifted her hand from her face just enough that she could see him through her fingers. "What are you curious about?"

"What sort of human was I?"

Would it make any difference at all if she answered? Of course not. It never had before.

But she should tell him anyway. Let him write it in the annals of the library he was so fond of, if he couldn’t inscribe it upon himself. Let it reside forever in volumes of lore, if that kept his true self alive. She would finally be free from the burden of being the lone keeper of his soul.

"Well, you were kind of the same," she began slowly, wondering where to start, "but kind of different. You were always smart, and so good with magic. When other people were busy arguing, you were the calm one. I appreciated that."

At his expectant look, she continued, uncovering her face completely. "You came from a region that seems kind of backwards to me. You said that you were on a mission to learn as much magic as you could and then kill your brother, because if you didn't, he was going to kill you."

Rouge's eyebrows, along with the corners of his mouth, all drew downward at the same time, as if he'd tasted something foul. He looked at her in astonishment. "Is that what humans do, Lady Asellus?"

"Of course not!" she exclaimed. "The rest of us thought that was crazy. We kept trying to tell you that, but you just wouldn't listen." Yes, he’d been as maddeningly stubborn then as he was now, but for a very different reason.

"You kept saying it was your fate," she explained further, when Rouge frowned incredulously. "But I wasn't going to just let you sacrifice yourself for no reason! I would’ve done something to stop it."

"Kill or be killed," Rouge murmured, staring contemplatively into the distance. "How terrible that must be."

"Finally, he gets it!" Asellus threw her arms in the air in a mixture of both relief and frustration. Did she want to hug him or shake him? Perhaps both, in rapid succession. "Why couldn't you have figured this out a long time ago?"

Rouge came out of his daze, and turned to face her. "Then," he declared, placing a hand on his chest, "I must sincerely thank you, Lady Asellus."

"Huh? Why?" Snapped out of her bittersweet moment of triumph, Asellus cocked her head. Next to her, Midnight busied itself grooming its fur.

"You didn't let me sacrifice myself." Rouge’s voice was warm with admiration. It slipped past her defenses, dispelling the tension in the shoulders she’d hunched in anticipation of righteous fury. "You saved me."

"Saved you?" Taken aback, Asellus could only attempt to deny his words. "How can you say that?"

"You brought me here." The words were delivered with confounding candor. "If that was my fate as a human, then you freed me from it."

Rouge finished his proclamation with a genuine smile ill fitting the Chateau, yet it suited him perfectly, a long-lost piece of a puzzle. "Thank you, Lady Asellus."

"Why aren't you mad at me?" Please be mad at me. "You can't be happy here." Asellus blinked, wondering if he was a mirage that would disappear if she turned away.

"It surprises me that you think that, Lady Asellus, when we've had such pleasant times together."

"That's not what I mean," Asellus argued. He must not fully comprehend what she’d told him, or he would be flinging verbal and magical fire at her, instead of thanking her like she’d thrown him a birthday party. "You belonged only to yourself once. And now—"

"I don't consider that to be a bad thing." Rouge tilted his head slightly to the side. "It is an honor to be in the service of Lord Orlouge. His countless years of knowledge and power are breathtaking. I can never hope to come close to that, but I am able to learn the secrets of magic as my heart desires, for as long as I wish."

He favored her with another contented smile. "And watching you come into your own self is a delight, Lady Asellus."

"But you—" You were mine first. You and Emilia.

How could he be so untroubled by it? So accepting? Her mind flailed at the dissonance, churning with both repudiation and the undeniable realization that everything he had said made a perverse sense.

"I am happy," he reassured her, a calm inlet to her roiling depths, "and I like to think that you are too, when we fight monsters and practice magic together. If you have any complaints, please tell me. I don't want to cause you discontent."

"No. I don't have any complaints about you," she agreed in a low voice, meant for him alone. Despite being misguided, he truly did want the best for her. He wasn’t trying to outplay her or take advantage of her, unlike the other inhabitants of the Chateau. She could certainly appreciate that. "You...you only want me to be happy too."

Even if that means I risk losing myself. But I won’t.

"Indeed, Lady Asellus.” Rouge nodded, satisfied. "What would make you happy today? I'm more than willing to accompany you to the towers again, or perhaps Midnight would enjoy taking a stroll with you?"

At the mention of its name, Midnight looked up, then resumed licking its paws.

Asellus allowed herself a look around to take in the entirety of the plaza outside the throne room. Paths meandered in all directions, as though she and Rouge stood at the castle’s beating heart.

"Let's just pick a direction," she suggested after a moment's pause, "and see where our feet take us."

Chapter Text

Asellus stood before the crystal pane of her bedroom window. She had no use for the ghostly figure that was her own reflection; what she sought lay beyond even the castle itself. Facinaturu’s landscape, save Rootville and the Chateau, was colonized by rocks, sparse vegetation, and little else. No civilization scarred the barren panorama; there were no inhabitants other than wandering monsters, who lacked the capability to look at unyielding stone and imagine that it might one day be monuments or bulwarks. It escaped her understanding why Orlouge chose not to expand his territory beyond its current borders. What resistance could mindless monsters offer?

And there were other options besides simply growing feeding the castle. Rootville itself could expand, making room for more resources inhabitants. If the town sprawled all the way around the castle, it could provide a line of defense against any opposing forces idiots suffering from the delusion that they could invade.

It could keep the unwanted out away from me and the wanted they were mine first in. Orlouge either wasn’t smart enough to understand that he is or lies in wait didn’t care.

When a polite knock sounded against her open door, Asellus startled, dragged forcefully from her thoughts. She turned, and smiled brightly when she saw who awaited her. “Hi, Rouge!” she greeted him merrily.

“Hello, Lady Asellus.”

“Are we training at the towers again today? There’s something I want to try,” she began excitedly, walking away from the window. “Ildon—remember him?—had a really interesting technique that used his faeblade and his boots at the same time. He’d stomp on the ground and make a shock wave. I want to see if I can do that too.”

The world fluctuated before her, a symphony of humming vibrato and choppy staccato notes. She was both; she was one again. “I’ve been thinking about how he did it and I might have an idea,” she added. “He might have a few hundred years more experience than me, but I’ve absorbed so many monsters into my faeblade. I wonder which of us is stronger?”

The thought, an ill-tuned chime of discordant pitch, lasted only a brief moment, before she asked, “Do you want to try it out with me? I really want to show him once he’s out of the Dark Labyrinth. I can just imagine the look on his face!”

“Perhaps later, Lady Asellus,” Rouge began, but Asellus cut him off neatly.

“Zozma might be jealous that I’m not copying his moves, but he’ll get over it.” Colors pulsed, bleeding together, running in mismatched tributaries. So beautiful! “You know, he’s got some interesting magic that I’ve never seen anyone else use. When he’s back, you guys should talk! It’s probably right up your alley.”

“Lady Asellus,” Rouge tried again. “I’m happy that you’re so enthusiastic. But I’ve come for a purpose today.”

“Huh?” Asellus cocked her head, swiftly and abruptly derailed.

“Lord Orlouge asked me to escort you. He says that he’s prepared a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

The world settled back into place around her. Sounds faded to a dull, passive drone; the room’s palette darkened to a slurry of deep, sullen purple. Time—or whatever sense of it existed in Facinaturu—resumed its steady stride, sweeping her up once again.

She blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. Rouge couldn’t have possibly said what she thought he’d said. She must have misheard, perhaps because she’d been daydreaming?

Yes. That had to be it.

Doubtfully, Asellus began, “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you just say that Orlouge has a gift for me?”

“Absolutely, Lady Asellus. I came right away. I’m very happy for you.”

His smile was gentle; she could see that he meant those words. But Rouge’s motives were never in question. He certainly had no ulterior motives toward her, but he was an easily utilized pawn for those who did.

“I’m happy you’re happy,” she said slowly, neutrally. “I just don’t understand why Orlouge suddenly wants to give me something.”

“It’s unusual for Lord Orlouge to bestow gifts on anyone other than his mistresses. But the enthusiasm you’ve shown in growing your mystic abilities pleases him greatly, Lady Asellus. Perhaps he wishes to reward you for that.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Maybe they’d progressed beyond the stick and were moving on to the carrot portion of Orlouge’s demands. “I don’t know, though. It just seems fishy to me.”

“Our lord’s methods are beyond my comprehension,” Rouge allowed. “But if you’ll allow me to say so, Lady Asellus, you truly have come far. Is it so hard for you to think that you deserve recognition?”

Rouge’s eyes shone with candor; he wanted so evidently for her to believe as well.

“You’re nice to say that.” Asellus sighed, letting her doubts fill the room. “And if it was a gift from you, well, I’d believe it’s what you say it is. But this is from him. He’s got to be up to something.”

“I truly doubt that, Lady Asellus.” Rouge’s smile diminished by half, as if she were making a joke with an improper setup. “Our lord has spared nothing in your recovery. It’s easy to see that he dotes on you.”

“So that’s what we’re calling it now,” Asellus groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Your optimism is—well, it’s very you—but I don’t agree with it.”

“You won’t know until you see for yourself,” Rouge reasoned. “Shall we get going?”

Asellus shook her head, as if she could settle her misgivings into order. What good were they if they spurred no action? “Well, if I don’t go, then he’s definitely going to be angry, and then…ugh. Let’s do this, I guess.”

They left the room together, Asellus reluctantly, Rouge with an eagerness typically reserved for his commentaries on all things magic-related.

“I do admit to being curious, Lady Asellus. Is that wrong of me?”

“No. It’d be stranger if you weren’t curious.” Asellus frowned as they passed through the coffin room adjoining her own.

“Oh…good.” Rouge looked so relieved at her words that she couldn’t help but laugh, surprising herself.

Rouge looked at her, puzzled, but lightened considerably when he saw her merriment. He didn’t join in her laughter, but his cheeks rounded slightly as though her good mood added to his own.

“You’re funny sometimes,” she told him, after they’d left the room full of caskets.

“I don’t mean to be,” he assured her, which brought a wistful smile to her face.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Sometimes it’s what we need.”

They headed for the teleporter room, Rouge leading slightly. When they reached it, he stood to the side to let her enter first, bowing when she did.

“You don’t need to do that,” Asellus reminded him, turning around to watch him join her. “You’re going to keep doing it, and I’m going to keep saying that. That’s how it’s going to go, isn’t it?”

“It would be very rude if I didn’t,” Rouge agreed. “You are the Charm Lord’s heir, Lady Asellus.”

She knew from his direct tone and set shoulders that he considered the conclusion absolute. He bent slightly to touch the pool of water.

Asellus let the whirlwind of petals envelop her, and watched them settle back into the water when she and Rouge reappeared in the courtyard’s twinned teleporter room. The water’s surface remained unagitated by the dancing petals, but she couldn’t leave Rouge’s statement unaddressed.

“Yes, yes,” she said with distaste, “we all know who I am. But can’t I just be Asellus to you?”

Rouge stiffened.

She’d done that. She’d shaken him from his varnished happiness, tainting it with a stroke of her own brush without even meaning to. With regret—why did she keep doing this to him?—she reached out to him, then hesitated, leaving her hand floating in midair before she dropped it. If he flinched from her, it would be yet another thorn in her heart.

Slowly, Rouge’s posture relaxed and he turned, showing his face first in profile before facing her fully. “That’s highly improper, Lady Asellus.”

Bittersweet relief flooded her. It hurt to be dismissed, yes, but not nearly as much as the sight of Rouge braced as though not me she’d assaulted his mind in Orlouge’s he did this stead.

“But…” Rouge paused, and looked past her, his expression faraway and unreadable. If she turned her head, would she see what he was looking for? Could she help him find it?

“You honor me, Lady Asellus,” Rouge concluded in a softer tone. “I wish that I could bring myself to be the friend that you think I am. I don’t think that I deserve that.”

“I thought so,” Asellus replied, her heart heavy even as she conceded that this resolution was inevitable. “I still had to try.”

Rouge stood chagrined; he spoke hesitantly, as if a word out of place would shatter the peace between them. “I can’t consider myself your equal, Lady Asellus. Every part of my being tells me that it’s wrong. I can’t be who you want me to be.”

“Because he got to you first,” Asellus mumbled under her breath.

Stole he stole

“But you truly honor me with your words,” he continued, “and that makes me happy. And so I thank you.” He clasped his hands as if to bow again, but caught himself before he could do more than stutter slightly forward, like a chicken pecking at a weed.

“You don’t want me to do that,” he offered, bashfully, straightening his back. “I remembered.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” She smiled at him, accepting what he had available to give, and he returned it with one of his own.

“So, are we going to the throne room this time, or is Orlouge having another tea party?” she asked.

It was a mystery indeed how the other mystics in the Chateau could keep all the winding paths and stairways straight. Maybe learning to teleport gives you a built-in compass, she thought.

“Neither, Lady Asellus. We’re going to one of the sitting rooms in the northern annex.”

"The northern annex," she repeated. The words, unfamiliar and strangely sterile, fell from her mouth like marbles. "Have I been there before?"

"If you have, then it hasn't been with me. I rarely make the trip there myself. The rooms there are seldom used."

The description did nothing to ease her suspicion. "And that doesn't strike you as odd?"

"Not at all, Lady Asellus. It becomes our lord to treat you privately, rather than make a public spectacle of it."

Asellus eyed him warily. “He’s telling me to go somewhere that I haven’t been before for a mystery ‘gift.’ How do we know it’s not a trap?”

“Your apprehension is misplaced, Lady Asellus. If Lord Orlouge were angry with you, you would know it. There would be no need of traps.”

There was no help to be found here. Sighing, Asellus conceded, “Let’s hope so.”

Rouge took her acquiescence as a sign that he should lead the way once again; not wanting to trail behind, she fell into step beside him. They wended around the flowers in the courtyard, careful not to tread upon them unnecessarily.

Many winding paths later, they came to an unfamiliar skyway; Asellus considered its trite rose-covered arbors with a disapproving eye. She might have mistaken it for any of the others that she’d already traversed, but this one stretched more than twice as far. The spire on the other side loomed so far in the distance that it seemed a miniature, small and spindly, a tower for mice rather than people. A doll’s house.

The warm night air weighed on her shoulders as they proceeded. "I've never felt the wind blow here," she mused. "Not even the air moves in Facinaturu."

"Lord Orlouge commands the wind," Rouge replied, turning his head to her. "It has no reason to move for those who serve him."

"You know," Asellus began, thoughtfully, "he makes the wind move, but it also moves him." I can do the same.

"I suppose, Lady Asellus." Rouge spoke with the agreeable tone of one engaging in meaningless small talk. "I think I would find it very distracting to have my hair blown about like that."

"Well, it's a good thing you pulled it back then, right?" Asellus remarked lightly. She tugged at her own hair’s choppy edges. "I don't think I would have that problem. My hair is much shorter."

Rouge briefly glanced at her crown of her head. “It is, but I've noticed that it seems to have grown."

Why did everyone feel the need to comment on her hair, of all things? "I really didn't notice. I don't spend a lot of time on my hair." How could she, when silent servants insisted on doing it for her?

She wondered if Rouge had also had an army of servants to attend to his hair. Perhaps that was why it was always so tidy.

“Forgive me for saying so, but your hair seems—” Rouge paused, searching for the word he was looking for, “—thicker now. It shines. It looks lovely, though.”

Asellus lifted a hand to touch her hair once again; was it really that different? Wouldn’t she know if it was? Slightly disconcerted, she dropped her hand and waved it in the still air, dismissing the subject. How long had they been walking this skyway, anyway? Surely they should have reached the other side by now.

“Why is this bridge so long? I don’t remember any of the others being like this.”

“That might be one of the reasons this area of the castle is rarely used,” Rouge speculated. His braid bounced ever-so-slightly with each step.

“Even if you don’t have to walk and can just teleport?”

“I’m not referring to the walking distance, Lady Asellus. The people in the castle naturally wish to be close to Lord Orlouge.”

“Oh.” Asellus let her disengagement signal the end of that subject as well. Whether the people in the castle simply had poor taste, or their judgment was poisoned by charm, it wasn’t something she cared to dwell on.

A strange, yet refreshing, sense of relief settled inside her when they finally approached the other side of the skyway. She’d done it. She’d conquered an obstacle on the path to whatever trick Orlouge had up his sleeve, and the accomplishment was one to relish. The sooner she reached the end, the sooner she could uncover what he had planned—no, defy it.

But she revealed none of that, choosing instead to lead with an observation. “It looks like we’re coming to the other side at last. This part of the castle really did grow far away from the rest of it.”

“Indeed,” Rouge nodded. “Some say that the castle has a mind of its own, Lady Asellus.”

She looked down from the skyway and into the chasm it bridged, disregarding the vertigo she invited, seeking the organic structures that formed the castle’s foundation. This particular stolon had apparently sprouted from the main trunk and extended laterally before growing up, up, into a familiar steepled tower.

Asellus lifted her head once again. “That’s probably just a saying. Castles don’t have minds.”

Finally, filled with the heavy expectation of a grand climax, Asellus entered the unfamiliar tower. Uncertain of what to expect, she braced herself—

—and was greeted by an empty entrance hall whose colors and layout were bleakly similar to the rest of the castle.

Asellus looked around, waiting for the snare to spring. Her eyes and ears sought signs of imminent danger and found none. Darkened hallways led to unknown destinations; a central stairway promised another ascent to come. Everything was the same, bland in its extravagance and ridiculous in its solemnity. The sparse lighting cast soulless shadows as it did everywhere else in the Chateau.

After all the anticipation, this new location turned out to be just another branch of an overgrown thicket. Was that disappointment she felt?

Disappointment felt too much like failure.

Asellus took another look at the stairway, spiraling upward like a crystallized fairy tale beanstalk, and sighed. “We’re going up those stairs, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” Rouge looked at her with a touch of sympathy. “These stairs shouldn’t be as high as the ones in the main castle hall, Lady Asellus.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

Once more they headed upward. One more slippery stairway glinted underfoot, laughing soundlessly at Asellus while she trod its spiral track. The flat heels of her boots thudded dully with each step.

“If this castle grew sideways instead of up,” she complained as they slowly trekked upward, “it would be so much easier.”

“Perhaps, Lady Asellus.”

“Well, I know I’m the only one who actually walks the stairs, so no one cares what I think, but there’s a lot of unused land all around the castle.” She waved an arm in a semicircle. “I see it out my window every day. There’s room for the castle to grow. Why doesn’t it?”

“I’m unsure, myself.” Rouge considered her question, then offered, “When plants grow, they seek light, don’t they?”

“What light? This is Facinaturu.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but I wonder if the sky above was ever lit in the past. I’ve learned that human regions have a sun in the sky. Perhaps it was once that way here as well.”

“I didn’t expect to hear that from you,” Asellus remarked with a touch of surprise. No, not when he eagerly speculated on all manner of magical minutiae, but held nothing but deference for Orlouge and the way he ran his kingdom. “If there was a sun here before, why do you think it’s gone now?”

“It could be that it’s no longer needed,” Rouge pondered. “The region has the eternal flame for any warmth that it requires. And of course, we have Lord Orlouge for light.”

Asellus didn’t try to stop herself from scoffing. “Don’t try to tell me that Orlouge is a light bulb. Or a bug zapper.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Rouge replied instantly. “You must originally hail from a unique region, Lady Asellus. I simply mean that the land requires a great power to sustain it. That is Lord Orlouge.”

“So if Orlouge suddenly disappears, the whole region disappears with him?” Asellus shook her head fiercely. Her heels squeaked against smooth crystal. “No. I refuse to believe that.”

“Let us hope that never happens, Lady Asellus,” Rouge replied gravely. “I don’t wish to find out. But our lord has lived long enough to shape the region as he wishes, until it acquired the form that it has now. It stands to reason that he is the pillar of light that sustains it.”

Asellus found that she had no response to such a distasteful conceit.

Rouge, however, wasted no time filling the silence with a footnote. “This is all conjecture, because my reading has revealed nothing about this. If there is information on the topic to be found in the castle’s library, I’ve yet to come across it.”

“I don’t think you ever will,” she answered truthfully. Why would Orlouge tell his rank and file anything about what the region was like before he drove barbed spines into it—harvesting, seeking? Best that they not start to get ideas.

“I think it’s as you say, Lady Asellus.” Rouge paused his own steps to look at her encouragingly. “We’re almost there.”

“Finally.” They’d have to retrace their steps later, but going downstairs was always much easier than climbing up. Whether a sun brightened the sky or not, gravity was gravity.

A hall of doors awaited them at the top of the stairway. Curiously, two of the castle’s knights, who looked very bored, bookended the door in the center. A vacant hallway atop an untraveled staircase was evidently not a plum post. How long had they been stuck there? Asellus almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

When the knights standing guard caught sight of the two visitors, they nodded brusquely. In a ridiculous pageantry, both knights turned at the same time and stepped away from the door, then turned to face each other again.

“What’s all this for?” Asellus asked, once they came to rest.

The guards remained silent. Neither attempted to answer or even look at her. Just as with all the other servants in the castle, they seemed to find the sight of her either frightening or distasteful.

“I suppose our lord is quite serious about this,” Rouge suggested. There was no trace of concern in his voice; he evidently saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Asellus wondered if there would be a cake waiting for her on the other side of the door, or a bottomless pit. “I don’t like this,” she said firmly, not caring what the guards thought. If they had no explanation for her, she’d give them none for her own opinions.

“Now, Lady Asellus. The fact that our lord has gone to such lengths for you shows how important you are to him.” Rouge raised his eyebrows ever-so-slightly. “And as I’ve mentioned, it’s highly unusual for him to give gifts. This is a great honor. I don’t understand your hesitation, unless you don’t think that you deserve it?”

Asellus offered him a weak smile. He was, as always, trying to help. But as long as Rouge continued to equate the Charm Lord to the sun itself, their understanding would never converge. “Fine. Let’s go in.”

“Lord Orlouge emphasized that this is for you alone, Lady Asellus. I’ll wait here for you.”

“What?” Asellus’ eyes widened, pleading with him. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. But…”

Rouge sheepishly lowered his eyes, but his mouth twitched almost slyly, as if they shared a secret. “I hope that you’ll consider telling me what the surprise is when you’re finished, Lady Asellus. As long as it’s all right, that is.”

His response, that of a curious kid at a friend’s birthday party, matched the situation so poorly that she could have laughed, braying her disbelief into the silent hallway. Every instinct told her to bolt down the stairs, away from the mysterious door, away from Rouge and the knights.

Ah, but she knew that she wouldn’t get far. Instead, she faced the door with the grim demeanor of one about to face execution.

Compared to the rest of the Chateau’s decor, this particular door was unremarkable, adorned with beveled panels and little else. It was nicely polished; the wood gleamed so brilliantly that she could almost see her reflection. She closed her eyes, gathering her wits.

“If I don’t come back,” she said finally, opening her eyes to stare back at the heavy wooden frame, “you can have all my things, Pollux.”

Instead of commenting on her gallows humor, Rouge exclaimed in delight behind her. “You used my name, Lady Asellus.”

“I did?” Asellus paused, one hand reaching for the door handle. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Don’t I always use your name?”

“You used my name, Lady Asellus.” Rouge beamed as though she’d reached into a magic sack and presented him with a gift. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” she agreed, perplexed. She placed her hand on the cool brass handle and pulled.

The door opened outward, its arc smooth and sure; she wondered momentarily if someone had recently oiled the hinges. Leaving the others behind, she stepped through the doorway and into the mystery beyond.

The door slowly swung shut behind her, its deep, echoing thump her indication that the latch had struck home, cutting her off from the small crowd outside.

Immediately, Asellus drew her faeblade from nothingness, sparking it to life in her hand. Her nostrils flared. She stepped forward into a battle stance with the instinctive certainty born of countless hours of training, first under Ildon’s guidance, and later harvesting souls in the towers with Rouge at her side. She scanned the outline of the room, each sense heightened and buzzing with anticipation.

The knife-edge of danger! danger! danger! faded when she realized that she was standing inside an empty room. She stood for a minute, unmoving but ready for battle, taking it all in.

This room was smaller than she’d expected. A single crystal lamppost provided dim lighting; it painted her shadow, larger than life, on the wall and floor. The space was sparsely decorated; the only other furnishings were a floor rug and a single padded bench against each side wall. A doorway cut into the far wall offered a glimpse into a much larger chamber; she realized that this must be an anteroom.

She scrutinized the richly woven area rug in the center of the room, replete with floral abstractions in varying shades of red—in the low lighting, who could tell the exact shades?—and the occasional pop of gold for contrast. Was there a hidden lever, or maybe a hatch?

If the rug hid a trigger panel for some kind of trap, she couldn’t see it. Nevertheless…

With an exaggerated sense of caution, she hugged the side wall, holding her faeblade at her side as if to point the way. She sidled carefully around the rug and whatever secrets it contained.

When one of the benches blocked her path, she scooted across like a child pretending that the floor was molten lava, holding her faeblade clumsily in front of herself. Her mind screamed at her for her carelessness; she risked inadvertently slicing into herself with this approach, or worse, stumbling and falling upon her sword. She would accept the risk. She needed to be prepared for anything.

Whether it was instinct or a small miracle that saved her from injury, she arrived on the other side of the room unscathed.

She paused, letting her heartbeat slow before continuing. The tiny hairs on her skin stood on end; her nerves sang with the timbre of a plucked violin string. She’d encountered no danger thus far, but that meant nothing. No, it merely fueled the certainty that something lay in wait.

The next room looked to be much brighter. Soft light filtered through the doorway, but from her current position, she could see furniture—a lot, as if whoever decorated the place was determined to make up for the furnishings that the first room lacked—and little else. She took a breath, and then crossed over the threshold.

The adjoining room was much larger, and better lit; lamps approximated the perimeter in a fairy ring. A smaller circle of overstuffed armchairs and chaises sat in the center, luxuriously upholstered in shades of burgundy and dark blue. The arrangement was perfect for a crafting circle or a book club, she noted wryly.

She’d been unable to see the room in its entirety when she initially peeked through the doorway, but now, inside, every detail was hers. A small accent table, upon which rested a bulb-shaped lamp, sat between two of the armchairs: a place to set a book or beverage, perhaps?

In the lamplight she could see a person in one of those chairs, dozing.

Perplexed, Asellus wondered who this could be. Had one of the overworked servants found a good spot for a nap? Whoever they were, they carried an odd scent with them that overpowered the floral stench permeating most of the Chateau. This was different: salty, acidic, earthy. It didn’t belong. It was nice.

I’m going to scare them to death like this, she realized, and dismissed her faeblade. She’d call it back later, once she’d seen to this person’s safety.

“Excuse me,” she tried, hoping to spare the woman—yes, it was a woman, she could see that—her dignity. Even if the servants refused to speak to her, she had no desire to make their time in the Chateau more difficult than it already was.

The person in the chair twitched at her words, then slowly opened her eyes.

She had the appearance of a young woman, perhaps one in her twenties in human approximation, though of course that meant nothing to ageless mystics. Her hair, cut into a chin-length bob, was a pale blonde. Oddly, she sported a chunky cable-knit sweater over a pair of stretch leggings. Asellus could imagine wearing such an ensemble on a brisk autumn night in Shrike, but the style was alien to Facinaturu.

She realized suddenly that the woman she was staring at was human; she could smell the red blood that coursed through her body. It was an alien, unfamiliar scent—for there were no humans in the Chateau—metallic and organic at the same time, richly perfumed with vitality and the sour tang of sweat, ripe with slow, certain decay. It was the smell of life.

The woman blinked sleepily, then jolted when she realized that Asellus was staring at her. She gripped the chair’s arms; her eyes darted from Asellus to the doorway, as if she were calculating her chances of escape.

Not wanting to frighten the poor woman, Asellus backed up several steps, holding her hands out to show that she meant no harm. What was a human doing here, in a place that offered no shelter or safety? “Sorry!” she exclaimed hurriedly. “I was just trying to see if you’re okay.”

“Lady Asellus?” The woman asked, her wary eyes widening in surprise. “Is that really you?”

Odd. The voice was familiar. How could that be?

“Yes,” Asellus offered, eyeing the stranger curiously. Perhaps she was a stray from Rootville. And if that was the case, how fortunate she was that Asellus chanced upon her first. “Um…are you lost?”

“It’s really you.” The woman’s voice lowered to a near-whisper. She placed a hand on the side of her head, as if to steady it. “Yes, of course. I added the flounce to that garment myself. Years ago.”

Asellus took a long look at the stranger’s face, scrutinizing the eyes, with their long but pale lashes, and the small mouth, devoid of any lipstick and ruddy only with the pulse of life. Where had she seen these features before? It wasn’t a face with the sculpted, otherworldly beauty of mystics, but the unfussy, fresh-faced loveliness of a woman blessed by nature.

Asellus’ body chilled when she realized. Of course she hadn’t recognized her at first.

That hair should be longer, pulled back and tied with a broad red ribbon. Those eyes had always been troubled, but they’d once been free of the tiny creases underneath. And the owner of those features had invariably worn a simple dress as she worked, with an apron over top to protect her clothing.

“Gina!” Asellus exclaimed, stunned. “Gina! It’s you!”

“Oh, Lady Asellus.” Gina, touched by time, unlike Asellus, looked up at her with glistening eyes. “I always hoped that I would see you again one day…just not like this.”

Chapter Text

“How...do I look?”

A folding screen cordoned off the small dressing area in the upper level of the tailor shop. There was no mirror; Asellus could see what she’d been made to wear only by looking down at the layers of silk buttoned around her—at least, she assumed that to be the fabric, but how could she be sure when the special occasion dresses she’d worn in the past were all mass-market polyester? And this was no dress. This was a fanciful interpretation of a man’s jacket and pants, a costume that a stage performer might wear.

The girl assisting her—Gina, that was her name—looked at her with shy, hesitant eyes. She had to be close in age to Asellus, a teenage girl trapped in a nightmare, just as she was.

“You look beautiful,” Gina said softly. She added, “You looked beautiful in your old clothes too,” before she hurriedly lowered her eyes to the ground, as if fearful that she’d said too much.

She was beautiful in her torn and bloodied hoodie? What an odd thing to say. Perhaps Gina was trying to make her feel better, and it just came out wrong.

“Thanks,” Asellus replied, careful not to take out her frustration on Gina, who’d had no hand in anything that had happened to her. “But I don’t understand why they’re making me wear this. I’ve never worn a suit before. If this even is a suit. It’s not a tuxedo, is it?”

“No,” Gina replied. Her hands were clasped; they hovered in front of the apron she wore. Stray metal clips peeked out from a pocket; had she placed them there for convenience, or simply forgotten about them? She ventured a glance at Asellus again. “No one wears tuxedos here.”

“People dress weird here,” Asellus decided, rubbing a hand down one of the magenta sleeves. It was smooth, so smooth, and cool to the touch. “People are weird here. Uh, I mean...no offense. But everything here feels so strange.”

Gina, fidgeting with her feet as if she were afraid to voice her own opinion, did not answer. The floorboards creaked.

Asellus tested her own feet, confined within stiff new shoes. She wiggled her toes in an attempt to break in the garish, pointy monstrosities. How could she be comfortable in these? In any of this?

The folding screen’s shadow, long and oblique, spilled too close to her heels for her liking. Suddenly chilled, Asellus turned quickly to Gina, as if to make sure that the shadows hadn’t swallowed her when she wasn’t looking.

“I guess we’d better go back downstairs,” Asellus concluded, for the small sanctuary no longer felt safe. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to escape the encroaching darkness.

She’d prefer anyone else’s company to that of the surly-faced mystic who’d dragged her to the tailor shop to replace her “filthy” blood-crusted clothes, but she also didn’t want him angry at her, or worse, Gina, if he decided that she was taking too long. “But um...I hope I see you again. If that’s okay? You and your boss are the only other humans I’ve seen here. Maybe we could actually talk.”

Gina, startled, opened her mouth to answer, but paused with her lips slightly parted, as if she were reconsidering her response before voicing it. Finally, she offered, “I’d like that,” before motioning toward the stairs leading back to the first floor of the tailor shop. Back to Facinaturu itself. Back to insanity.

Asellus’ fingertips tingled; her cheeks lit with warmth. The torpid air, still for far too long, sang Gina! Gina! in the whistling call of a warbler. She was here; she was alive; she bore the mark of time in ways Asellus never would. In marked contrast to the frozen world of the Chateau, she smelled of life and of change, piquant and volatile. And in that moment, however fleeting it might be, their lives intertwined once again. The world was real again now that Gina was in it.

“I’m so happy you’re alive, Gina.” Asellus closed the distance between them and took Gina’s hands into her own. They were so very warm. She held them tightly, as if they would fly away, like birds. “But if you’re here, that means…What did they do to you?”

“You’re here as well, Lady Asellus.” Gina smiled wanly at her. “And yet you ran away. Was it your choice to come back?”

“Yes, but no. Not like this. It’s a long story.” The words tumbled out in a heady rush; she’d be of no help to Gina if her head was muddled.

Asellus released Gina’s hands and sank into the chair next to hers, so that they could see each other in the soft lamplight: two stars in the night sky. “And I want to hear yours. Tell me everything. Please.”

“Everything? All right, if that’s what you want.” Gina sighed, the faint bouquet sweeter than all the roses of the Chateau. “Then I suppose I’ll start from when we last saw each other. When I heard that you escaped from Facinaturu, I decided to leave as well. I thought that if you were brave enough to do it, then I could too.”

The light, rather than casting shadows on Gina’s face, illuminated her features as though she were a celestial being. Her face was a portrait accented in luminous rosy glazes.

Gina continued in the thoughtful tone of one who is recounting a story grown hazy with time. “I used some of the dresses we made for you to buy passage out of Facinaturu. I feel very guilty about that. I’m sure it caused the master tailor a lot of trouble.”

“So you did escape,” Asellus summarized. “And…did it all go okay? Did anything bad happen to you?” Once-buried trepidation trundled through her, resounding with the low-pitched rumble of an earthquake. Facinaturu was lousy with those who would prey on the desperate. She knew that well.

“It was a difficult time, reacquainting myself with the human world, but the trip itself was uneventful.” Gina rubbed the slender fingers of one hand with those of the other.

So Gina had escaped without incident. That much was a relief.

“You said that you left Facinaturu soon after I did,” Asellus continued carefully. “Tell me, how long ago was that?”

“A little more than ten years, Lady Asellus.”

“Ten years,” Asellus breathed. Ten years, give or take, since she’d challenged Orlouge and lost. Ten years since her world ended for the second time. “Thank you. No one else would give me a straight answer. What have you been doing all this time?”

“I found my place in the world. It wasn’t easy, but I did it,” Gina replied, looking into the distance. Looking into her past. “And I’ve since married. We have a son who isn’t quite two years old.”

Asellus froze. The world darkened as though she were peering through a smalt-tainted lens.

“Congratulations,” Asellus said finally, automatically. She was able to force the words out, but the bitter taste in her mouth robbed them of meaning. She was jealous, she realized. Why?

stole

Gina’s eyes were far away, as if she could will herself back to the human world. “I’m still a seamstress, but my business is mostly wedding dress alterations now. Taking care of a toddler…well, that’s work in itself.” Her voice hitched; Asellus’ heart sank.

She needed to help Gina somehow, to make things a little less dire for her. She wanted to wipe the tears off her face before they fell. But what could she do?

One small thing.

“Midnight,” Asellus whispered, tugging mentally at ethereal strings.

Gina’s distress turned to astonishment when the cat emerged from empty space in front of her and leapt into her lap. “Where did—” she began, eyes wide, while the cat nudged her with its head. Her hands lifted from the chair, fluttering with indecision, before she gave into temptation and placed a wondering hand on the furry creature.

It was time to properly introduce them. “This is Midnight,” Asellus offered. She didn’t have a family like Gina, but she did have this. “He’s a phantom, but he’s a nice one, so don’t worry. He likes to be petted.”

“A phantom.” Gina’s caresses ceased. Midnight responded by butting its head into her motionless hand until she gave in and resumed her ministrations.

“See? He’s very sweet.” Asellus smiled, pleased that was able to comfort Gina, at least a little. She could hear Midnight purring, a complementary ratchet among bright, melodic swells. “If I like someone, he likes them too. You don’t need to worry.”

because he’s mine

“His fur is very soft,” Gina remarked, staring at the cat in amazement. “He feels like a real cat. I wouldn’t have known he was a phantom if he didn’t...come out of thin air like that.”

“I can do a lot of things now that I couldn’t before,” Asellus admitted with a measure of pride. “I want to ask you some more questions, but are you going to be okay if I do?”

“I think so,” Gina replied, softly. “You’re very kind, Lady Asellus.”

I am kind. Unlike—

“Okay. You said that you have a husband and a son,” Asellus began, terrified of the forthcoming answer and regretting the unkind feelings I’m kind she’d had toward two innocent people she’d never met. “Are they safe?”

“I hope so.” Gina’s voice was soft and barely audible. Her hands stilled momentarily, before she resumed stroking the cat. “I was out grocery shopping. I was on my way home, but mystics found me. They told me that if I came quietly, they would leave my son alone.”

Asellus cursed. Bright white bursts filled the corners of her vision, sparking on and off like fireflies. “Damn that Orlouge.”

“Lord Orlouge? No, not him. It wasn’t him.”

“Really?” Surprised, Asellus paused to think. The bright flares dimmed, melting into mist, before her brow furrowed and jaw tensed. “But he had to have given the order. If I knew who did this, Gina, I’d run them through with my faeblade for you.”

“I recognized the face,” Gina replied. Her eyebrows drew together, attempting to call up more details. “It was one of the nobles from the Chateau. I’d seen him before because he patronized the tailor shop, but the name escapes me. It’s been too long.”

“Ciato,” Asellus stated immediately, recalling how he and his flunkies had dogged her steps and chased her to the ends of the world and back.

But that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. Ciato was long dead, by her own power hand. He’d come after her, flush with stolen power, but she’d still managed to fell him. Somehow, he’d lingered at the verge of death long enough to challenge her a second time, but he’d fallen my power now in the end. And with Ildon locked inside the Dark Labyrinth, Orlouge had exactly one aide remaining.

Her face a thundercloud, Asellus silently promised that Rastaban would answer for this.

“But I recognized you right away, Lady Asellus.” With this, a corner of Gina’s mouth lifted slightly. “You look the same as I remember, but you’re different too, somehow. More regal.”

Asellus felt her cheeks color, but chose to ignore it. “Did they hurt you?” she asked urgently.

“No.” Gina, her breakdown averted, looked back to Asellus. “I was brought to this room, and nothing has happened since then. I don’t know what they want.”

“I might have some idea,” Asellus scowled. Spatters of dark colors, a child’s depiction of a rainstorm, bloomed before her eyes. “I have a bad feeling that this is all because of me. Gina, I’m sorry.”

“Because of you?” Confused, Gina looked around as if searching for answers, before turning her face back to Asellus. “Why?”

“Because for some reason, Orlouge thinks it’s fun to upset me,” Asellus spat. “He might have ordered this because he knows that we were friends and he thought it would be funny.”

“Lord Orlouge? The Charm Lord?” Gina’s face turned pale. “Why would he ever bother with someone like me?”

“Because everyone is a toy to him. And everything is a game.” Asellus’ own expression darkened. The tinted splashes grew larger, forming ghostly gashes that tore the air before her, weeping bold primary colors. Bleeding. “But at least you’re still human, Gina. He turned two of my friends into mystics.”

stole

stole

“Lady Asellus…” Gina’s hand rose, protectively, to her unmarked throat. “You’ve had a terrible time, haven’t you?”

Content on Gina’s lap, Midnight began to knead its paws into her sweater.

“Hmm, well.” Asellus laughed lightly. The sound echoed in the nearly empty room, a delicate ring of a chime, or a bell. “You could say that. I came back because I thought I would settle things. But now I’m stuck here again.”

As were Emilia and Rouge, as well as Zozma. But Ildon was gone, lost with White Rose in a place Asellus couldn’t reach.

without the power of—

“I had an idea that you might be back in Facinaturu, but I hoped it wasn’t true.” Gina’s eyes, slightly puffy and rimmed in a violet undertone, met her own; Asellus’ mind snapped out of its wanderings. “I had some visitors come to see me few months ago.”

“Visitors?”

“Yes. Three IRPO officers, and a member of Trinity’s board of delegates.”

“Wait. Three police officers and—” Asellus blinked. She tried to make sense of what she was hearing and came up short. “Did you rob a bank, Gina?”

“No, of course not.” Gina looked neither offended nor amused at the question. “My region recently opened an outreach center for refugees from the Magic Kingdom. There was a ribbon-cutting ceremony, and one of Trinity’s board members came to town for it.”

“Wait, refugees? What?” Asellus shook her head and stared at Gina, wondering if she’d heard properly. “Say that again?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard? You must have been here for a long time, Lady Asellus.” Gina’s forehead creased; Asellus thought that she saw a note of pity there. “The Magic Kingdom was destroyed by a monster attack several years ago. There was no warning. It was quite a shock.”

“You’re kidding,” Asellus sputtered in disbelief. “Monsters don’t just do things like that. At least, that’s what I thought.”

“I thought so too, Lady Asellus.” Gina’s mouth tightened. “The rumors say they came out of nowhere. The official explanation is different, but it’s not very convincing. Trinity sent the military to hold them back long enough for survivors to be evacuated.”

“So there were survivors. That’s good...” Asellus, unsure of what else to say, let her voice trail off. The sudden silence was soon supplanted by a slow, methodical clang, the rhythmic ringing sound of struck metal. There was no point in telling Rouge any of this. He’d most likely feel no connection to his lost hometown at all.

But it was Orlouge’s voice that echoed cruelly inside her head, a remnant of a conversation held several days, weeks, or months ago—for marking time accurately in Facinaturu was futile. “Human kingdoms that stand for but a hundred short-lived generations fall in a single night while their subjects cry in vain for a savior.”

No. Those were but the cruel words of a despot. There was no truth in them. It would be impossible for Rouge to save an entire region, even if he were still human and unbound to the Charm Lord. No one person could.

And while he might be trapped with her in the Chateau, at least he was alive.

Gina, noticing Asellus’ discomfort, attempted to reassure her. “Other regions have been doing their best to take them in.”

“That’s good,” Asellus murmured again. Red washes blossomed, cooled, turned blue—and spread. Oh, how they spread.

“And that’s why the Trinity delegate was in town, Lady Asellus, but that’s not why he came to my house.” Gina paused, shifted slightly in her seat, and reached up to brush some hair behind her ears. They were tipped in soft pink, their curvature perfect like conch shells—but they were rounded on top.

Midnight yawned, stretching out its front legs and lifting its back. Gina’s hand stroked almost reflexively along its spine.

Asellus asked the obvious question. “So…why did he come to your house?”

“It was quite a shock.” Gina’s eyes turned to the ceiling as she reminisced. Her delivery evened and flattened, as though she were narrating a film rather than recounting events. “One night, just after I’d gotten my little boy to sleep, the doorbell rang, and Trinity’s delegate was on my doorstep. He was accompanied by three IRPO officers. I was sure that they had the wrong house, but they were looking for me. Specifically, they asked if I happened to be acquainted with you, Lady Asellus.”

Dissonant chords crashed in a hammer blow, rolling and echoing like thunder. Asellus’ mouth hung open in shock. “They asked about me? Gina, what’s going on?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” Gina smiled wistfully. “If I understood them correctly, IRPO has had an open investigation into your disappearance for many years now. One of the officers claimed to be already acquainted with you. They asked if I’d seen you recently, or if I knew where you might be.”

“One of the officers knew me?” Asellus interrupted excitedly. Eager staccato beats bounced about her, questions requiring answers. “Hold on. Can you describe them to me?”

“Yes. The officer was a mystic.” Gina lowered her eyes reflexively. “I was frightened, but the others assured me that he was a true member of IRPO and meant no harm. He had very long hair, and never spoke. One of the other officers did most of the talking for him.”

“That’s got to be Silence,” Asellus murmured.

Yes. Silence, IRPO’s lone mystic, had politely refused to accompany her on her return to Facinaturu. Could he have known all along that this was a foregone conclusion? Had he stood aside and let her march into disaster?

She couldn’t be angry about that. Not when she knew that she wouldn’t have been dissuaded, even if he’d communicated those exact words to her.

“The delegate from Trinity also seemed to know you.” Gina looked at Asellus with curiosity. “He said that you planned to visit Facinaturu again, but you never returned.”

“I don’t know anyone from Trinity,” Asellus frowned.

No, that wasn’t quite true. She’d had a very brief acquaintance with one particular base commander from Trinity, a person not unlike the current lord of Facinaturu, for all their differences in appearance.

“Oh no. Oh no,” Asellus mumbled rapidly. Neon colors streaked before her—venomous insects in flight, a primal warning: danger. “Was it an ugly guy who looked like a pig? Please tell me it wasn’t him.”

“Pig?” Gina stared blankly. “He was an ordinary human, Lady Asellus. I believe his name was Lute.”

“Lute?!” Asellus’ eyes flew open wide. Of all the information that Gina had for her, this had to be the most shocking. The soft lamplight sharpened, turned glaring; its severe halo rendered the rest of the room blurry by contrast. “Lute’s someone important at Trinity? Are you serious?”

“I’m sure that was his name. I remember, because it’s the name of an instrument. I thought it was an unusual name for a person.”

“Are we talking about the same person? Dark shaggy hair, probably nearsighted? I think he was from Yorkland.”

“Well, his hair was dark. He didn’t mention where he was from. He only said that he’d traveled with you for a time and that you parted ways before you returned to Facinaturu. It sounds as though you have friends who are trying to find you, Lady Asellus.” Gina smiled slightly at her, as though she were trying to reassure them both.

“How did Lute—?” Asellus wondered out loud, seeking answers that Gina couldn’t provide.

The Lute she knew was no idiot, but he’d also held no desire to settle down or find gainful employment. If anything, she’d expect him to have found his niche as a traveling musician, or perhaps started a band if he was feeling ambitious. And now he powerful was a delegate at Trinity?

For Trinity was the world’s power. It provided governance, transportation, and defense for most of the regions in the known world. Facinaturu was an exception, of course.

powerful

Plucked-string arpeggios like falling raindrops broke the silence between them, broken by distant blasts of a hunter’s horn. Gina, lost in recollection, seemed not to notice.

Midnight settled on Gina’s lap and closed its eyes halfway, regarding Asellus with a narrowed squint.

“So IRPO and Trinity are looking for me. I wonder if they’re planning something.” Asellus’ mind reeled. The room wavered before her, the shapes of furniture and decorations skewing and becoming indistinct. Silence and Lute hadn’t forgotten her. Would either of them send someone to Facinaturu to sniff out more information? Had they already?

“They seemed honest, Lady Asellus. All you can do is believe in them.” Gina rested a hand on Midnight’s back. In the harsh light, the branched veins on the back of her hands stood out prominently. They were blue through the shroud of human skin. Wasn’t that funny?

“Right,” Asellus agreed. She sat up, her spine straightening to attention. Shimmering glissandos rippled through the air, reminiscent of a stream flowing over river stones—so beautiful!—bringing goosebumps to her skin. Didn’t Gina hear them? “Gina, I need to save you. Before he does something to you.”

“My son needs his mother,” Gina agreed. She looked urgently at Asellus. “But what about you?”

Asellus shook her head. The room’s formless colors bled, diffused, merged together in halftones. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not as powerless as I used to be.”

Gina turned her head slightly to the side. “That’s not what I meant. You don’t want to stay here, do you?” Her skin, pale and translucent like the inside of an oyster shell, glowed with life and purpose.

“They won’t let me leave the castle, so I can’t get you out myself.” A deep, full-bodied drone, reminiscent of beetles’ wings, passed through the open air, through Asellus herself. She felt it in her rib cage, vibrating like a stuttering heartbeat, where it wavered with uncertainty, bending into low, buzzing vibrato. “I could try to charm someone and have them get you out of here. It worked once before.”

“Charm someone?” Disquieted, Gina looked like she wanted to say more, but stopped herself.

“Yes, but don’t worry about it. I only did it for a good reason. But this time there’s three of them…hmm.”

Asellus rose from her chair. It had changed size without her notice; how could that be? Somehow, it now stretched taller—grander—than the Chateau’s throne. She stood before it, considering, then began to pace. Solemn indigo trails followed her, engulfing her when she turned: unshaped larkspur, sprouting in her footsteps. “No, I need to be fast. I can’t let him take anything else from me.”

“Lady Asellus, are you all right?” Gina watched her with the quiet alarm of a mother whose child has taken ill. “You seem very upset. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Asellus assured her. She stopped her pacing and addressed Gina directly, peering beyond the high-key blast of white that surrounded her. Framed her. “It’s okay for me to wait to escape. If Lute and Silence are coming, that means that I’ll have both IRPO and Trinity on my side. Do you know what I could do then?”

“I’m sure they’ll find a way to reach you soon, Lady Asellus. You have very dedicated friends.” Gina’s heartbeat quickened, ever-so-slightly, a dulcet clarion call that drowned out the droning hum plaguing Asellus.

“Yes,” Asellus nodded eagerly. “One with IRPO, and one with Trinity. Nearly endless military might. Gina, can you imagine how much power I’ll have?”

“Lady Asellus?” Gina’s eyes widened. “What—“

“’Accept your power or be ruled alongside the powerless,’” Asellus recited. Harmonic. Resonant. Undeniable.

Her eyes, afire with delight, settled on Gina, whose heartbeat was now a frenzied war drum echoing in Asellus’ ears: a concerto to Asellus’ own ensemble. “Gina, with Trinity on my side, how could I be ruled by anyone? Instead of an army, I’d have the army. And with my own mystic power, too…can you imagine it?”

Gina shrank into the armchair as Asellus stepped towards her with a wide, luminous smile on her face. “Lady Asellus, please.”

Midnight, its slight weight on Gina’s lap a soft, unyielding anchor, closed its eyes and began to purr once more.

“Don’t worry, Gina.” Though Asellus’ figure was slight, the lamplight threw her shadow, taller and grander than life, onto Gina’s seated form. Yes, in chiaroscuro, Gina was all the more radiant. Luscious. “It’s going to take time, but we have all the time in the world.”

Gina, bereft of words, stared up at her with wide, frightened eyes. The rapid rush of blood coursing through her body was the most beautiful sound Asellus had heard since arriving in Facinaturu.

“And I’m not going to fail you like I failed Emilia and Rouge.” Her smile held a promise, for unlike certain other mystics, she was kind. She was benevolent. She had only the best intentions. She would weave their complementary melodies into a grand overture. “No one is going to take you from me, Gina. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Lady Asellus—!”

Gina’s plea was cut off as Asellus sprang upon her, the rapturous smile on her face marred only by the stark glint of needle-like fangs.