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The mists of Nod Krai run afoul. Sandrone purses her lips in silent opposition, sitting primly in the palm of Pulonia.

‘You don’t think I need a Lightkeeper, do you?’ she asks the fog. ‘I’m more than equipped to send you all back to the hell you spawned from.’

As if in answer, a chill races through the fast-disappearing battlefield. She sees faint sparks of violet burst to life from afar; she hears the rising cry of the Frostnight Herra, piercing the air with all its agony.

With the subtlest twitches of her wrists, she commands Pulonia to fly forth.

Who amongst the grunts assigned to the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau can handle this fight? Every day its wrath disappears more Snezhnayans, luring them away with something Sandrone is yet to perceive.

‘Come, Pulonia. Let’s make short work of this.’

Inside a moment,

　　　　　The twelfth Katheryne she ever made crawls across the stone floor,

Finding her master’s feet at the end of the road.

This Katheryne smiles as courteously as ever,

Just to say, ‘Ad astra abyssosque. Master, I have a question.’

Sandrone doesn’t bother pulling her attention from the delicate machinery in front of her, manipulated by the thinnest strings she’s ever woven. If she had breath, it would stir the gossamer and shatter everything. Some calculations are only capable thanks to her frozen body.

‘What?’

　　　　　The twelfth Katheryne she ever made rises to her knees,

Pawing at Sandrone’s lap. Sandrone’s mouth curls.

　　　　　　　‘Master. Where are my eyes?’

Sandrone scoffs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. They’re right–’

　　　‘Master.’

This Katheryne has a face scratched to oblivion, a mess of wood and detritus where her eyes should be.

No fool would ever ruin one of her dolls. Sandrone drops her work, pulling at Pulonia until the machine withdraws her from the desk. ‘Who did this to you?’ she snarls.

‘I don’t know,’ the Katheryne confesses. ‘When I woke up, I was like this.’

‘When you “woke up”? You don’t sleep.’

‘I slept,’ continues the Katheryne, ‘And in the darkness of my mind, the last thing I ever saw was a pile of twitching puppet limbs. I knew I was seeing the ruin of my sisters.’

‘You don’t dream,’ Sandrone objects, to no avail. A cold wind cuts through the laboratory.

　　　　　The twelfth Katheryne she ever made smiles bloodlessly,

　　　　　　　　Asking one more time,

　　　　　　　　　　　‘Master. Why did he take my eyes?’

And the world collapses into a single pearl of suffering, sewn into the lace of Sandrone’s bonnet.

The kuuhenki are screaming.

Of course she extinguishes the Wild Hunt. No matter how many times the flames bounce back to life, Sandrone snuffs them out. This is the might a Harbinger brings to bear.

Yet the mist doesn’t abate. Pulonia soldiers forth, ignorant of fear or loss. Even Sandrone only feels the chill across the few patches of skin that retain feeling. In this way, her lack of sensation is a boon.

‘Where is the Damselette in this?’ Sandrone wonders aloud, and– she wonders at that. She wonders why she is wondering at all. Columbina has surely secreted herself away in the Silvermoon Hall, filling it with echoes of her untainted voice.

Like the chill, though, the thought creeps across her body, demanding entrance. It penetrates her with a ferocity.

‘Keep moving,’ she orders Pulonia, gritting her teeth. More of the Wild Hunt rise to stand in her way. Her task is simple:

Drive the Wild Hunt from the shores of the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau, and find her way back to–

Find her way into the arms of–

The Seven be damned, what is this?

– Find that whore of a woman and carve answers from her writhing body.

‘What answers?’ she snaps. 

As a collective, the Wild Hunt roar.

This is no time to be thinking of ridiculous things.

Inside a breath,

　　　　　Sandrone’s palms lay flat. In them sits the skull of Antoin Guillotin, picked clean.

With all its skin and malice rotted away, vines twine through the gap between his jaw and his temples. White roses crowd his eyes, fighting for attention. This is the ending she has always wanted.

But her hands are stuck like this. It was not her fingers who pulled the muscles and tendons apart. Someone else has robbed her of all the glory.

‘Killing your creator,’ muses a puppet-shaped gap in history, his voice twisted with interest, ‘That’s something I wanted, too.’

Sandrone flicks her eyes to him, but all she can perceive are his undefined edges. Reality is pressing its thumbs into its own eyes, blinding itself. It is unhinging its jaw to shriek.

‘I never wanted to kill him,’ she says. It is both a lie and the truth. Contradiction. Complication. ‘I wanted to be better than him. I want to drag an eraser through his name and consign him to the forgotten darkness of history.’

‘Some people are too big for that,’ the gap answers. ‘Do you really think Fontaine could set him aside? You always were looking down your nose at us.’

‘What would you know about me?’ Sandrone demands. The puppet?– chuckles.

　　　　　Sandrone’s palms lay flat. In them sit the last remains of her creator and master, still so powerful, even in death.

‘No more than you know about me.’

He’s… It’s a broken fragment of nothing, putting on airs. It presumes itself above her. They all do, once they see how little she can truly move, how perfectly useless she was created to be.

No matter how many times she has to drag herself across the ground, how many times she shrieks, she will come out on top. She’ll build herself a castle upon men’s bodies, show them how flimsy they can be.

　　　　　Sandrone’s palms lay flat. In them sits a skull of a simpering, unimportant man, who wasted his life trying to outrun the pall of death.

The roses in his eyes wind themselves up, blooms curling back into wrathful buds.

Why is she wasting her time on this?

There is no gentle in this body. There is the terminal velocity that is falling out of love, and the incredible slowness of forgetting.

Every hole Pulonia blows in the torso of a man– that’s her hand, pushing through. It’s her tears and her effort, slamming into a heart reanimated by the Wild Hunt and wrenching it out. The organ emerges from his chest, burning. The body falls, leaking all sorts of unpleasant fluids. Bleeding. Shitting. All of it is burning up into an acrid ash.

There is no victory in this body. There is the turning away of the Damselette, because of course. Why wouldn’t she leave? Everyone leaves. Unless Sandrone ties a cord around their neck and hoists it across a rafter, holding onto the end of it with her teeth, they refuse to stay.

Pulonia is her husband. He’s the extension of her will into a force. He is as alive as she is, but they’ll never see it. No one considers the slight lift of his chin in inquiry. They see how he turns to look at them when they speak; they shudder. They see a weapon. Nothing else.

There is so much pain in this body. Her creator imbued her with just enough feeling to experience misery. When she tore through the smooth space between her legs, both surgeon and patient, she bit through a gag with her shrieking. Still, her wrists moved. She stared up into the mirror above her chair and ruined his perfect little doll.

She’s just gifting these bodies new holes, new ways to experience pain. As the corpses mount, Sandrone finds herself with a hostile grin on her face. The Wild Hunt understands, doesn’t it? It adulterates fresh corpses to prey upon the people of Nod Krai. For what purpose, she couldn’t say, but she can see the strokes of mastery in its design. Even the Abyss tries to warp the Heavenly Principles’ designs.

And through it all, the Damselette–

sits before her, her clawed-out eyes offered forth in her open palms like a gift

kisses the side of her neck, kisses the places she can feel, presses her fingers inside the new and exciting holes Sandrone has carved

turns her back, turns her back, leaves without a song

(little canary, you’re supposed to stay

and sing disaster until your little heart gives out.)

Pulonia’s steps are a rhythm of thunder, a pounding of war drums.

Deeper into the fog.

Inside the arms of another,

Sandrone bears down on the Traveller, smirking as her hips buck in wild abandon. One Katheryne fingers her clit; another sucks on her folds, tongue darting inside. A third Katheryne kisses sweetly at the back of her neck, encircling her breasts, rolling the buds of her nipples.

This is how she would conquer the unconquerable. It’s a simple task to make a man or woman bend the knee. She dominates every thing she can see.

Except for a lone damsel, who plucks the fingers from her own wings.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Sandrone says, addressing the shadow that hangs above them. The Traveller moans, but she’s lost all interest. ‘The Wild Hunt is trying to find you, Columbina.’

The shadow, who now sews burning eyes into the bones of her wings, smiles. She’s as beautiful as the first day Sandrone ever met her. ‘I just want the kuuhenki to be safe.’

‘They’re going to die because of you,’ Sandrone says cruelly. She wants to drive the knife in. Can she touch what lies beyond her wrists? Columbina is so far away. ‘You’re going to have to bend things. Use your power.’

Columbina regards her sadly.

‘I know you can hear me,’ she snaps. ‘Do you know how much pain you’ve caused? How much suffering you bring those stupid kuuhenki? Have you ever even thought about it?’

‘That’s why I’m going home.’

‘No. You can’t.’ She reaches out with her puppet strings, but they fall through Columbina’s wrists. She won’t let herself be touched. She’s leaving again. ‘There’s no home for you to go back to!’

The Traveller’s back arches as she comes. Her voice breaks on a girlish whimper.

Breaking

　　　the

　　　　world

　　　　　　around

　　　　her,

　　　Columbina

　　　　　　　　　takes

　　　　　　　　　　　　flight.

The Frostnight Herra is still screaming.

‘All you do is run away!’ Sandrone yells. Behind her, every Katheryne falls apart. They erupt into a tangled pile of limbs, worthless.

If she could lock her wrists around the Damselette’s shoulders, then there would be

No escape.

Sandrone grins bitterly. Pulonia, with one final glance at her, sets her on the silver beach. His left arm is gone; he’ll need the one remaining to fight.

The Wild Hunt has a grip on the hilichurls, too. Its purple flame sits atop the mighty shoulders of a Mitachurl, its barbaric language warped by the burn-crackle of violence.

She feels the sand against the back of her thighs, a small patch just above her left knee. A worthless doll discarded by everyone. She has no fear; Pulonia will pull through. The mist forms a wall at their backs, above them, trying to strangle freedom with its bare hands.

‘This is your fault,’ she tells the air. Columbina’s sewn into the breeze; her eyes are everywhere. Some kuuhenki will deliver her anger to the Damselette. ‘If you hadn’t left, none of us would be in this position. You think you just get to–’

Inside a helpless sob,

‘Leave?’ Antoin Guillotin laughs, not even raising his eyes. ‘How? You can’t even walk.’

Sandrone swallows hard. He is like a god. ‘I’m not your toy.’ Brave words. Her wrists tremble.

Like a child’s plaything insisting it can lead its own life. It’s so ridiculous, he doesn’t spare her a second thought.

‘Have Seymour take you back to your garden, Mary-Ann. You don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘I–’ Her voice breaks.

Antoin tsks pitingly,

　　　　　Columbina touches the back of her chair, humming.

Soft, bloody hands draw her up.

Sandrone turns her face into an open palm

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　and drinks deep.