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Chapter Text

Lurien the Watcher sat within his Spire overlooking the City of Tears. Rain peppered the arched windows and filled his quarters with a persistent—if not unpleasant—drumming. Through the soft film of water, Lurien peered at the blurred shapes of buttresses and tall towers. They marched into the gloom and beyond his vision, creating the impression that the City had no end. In empty plazas and at lonely street corners stood Lumafly lanterns that cast refracted domes of light.

With practiced care, Lurien emptied the contents of a silk satchel onto his worktable, one frail object at a time. Brushes. Jars of paint. A worn palette. A cup of water.

Lurien surveyed the instruments and gave a nod. He lifted a blank canvas onto an easel beside the window. The metal stem of a brush chimed against the rim of the water cup as he pondered how to begin.

He settled on yellow—with just a touch of white. A lantern mounted in a courtyard far below had caught his eye, and he resolved to immortalize its celestial glimmer. The most difficult aspect would be depicting the shadowed buildings encompassing it, but to begin, all he needed was the lightest stroke of...

"WATCHER LURIEN!"

He flinched. The brush smeared an ugly trail halfway across the canvas. The mental image—the corona of golden light, the stain of shadow upon rain-soaked cobbles—vanished from his thoughts. Lurien stifled the rising quake in his arm.

An attendant bug, adorned in the King's customary silver, waved frantically from across the room. She wound a stuttering path through the obstacle course of sculptures and fine furniture.

Lurien released a slow breath and set aside the brush. "Yes. Come."

The attendant stumbled over a footstool before coming to a halt beside Lurien and snapping to attention. "Watcher Lurien," she repeated. "I bear news from the Pale King. Will you hear it?"

"I would be remiss not to," Lurien said. "You have foregone the usual channels, so it must be urgent."

The attendant bobbed. "Oh yes, Watcher, most urgent indeed. Our noble King seeks your presence immediately. He has a task that only you are suited to perform!"

"Only I?" Lurien considered what that might entail. It had been some weeks since the King had last called on him. From the attendant's fluster, it seemed to bode ill. But then again, most attendants radiated that same aura of courteous desperation, no matter how mundane the circumstance. "Very well then."

The attendant bobbed twice more. "Excellent news! You are most gracious, Watcher. I am sure with your aid this crisis will be resolved quickly."

"Crisis?"

The attendant gave no sign of hearing. She gestured toward the elevator at the far end of the chamber, as if Lurien were some dazed visitor in need of directions. "If you are prepared, then we will depart forthwith."

Lurien cast a long look at the canvas upon his easel. The yellow smear reminded him of a shooting star, and he supposed that it was not completely ruined. Just... instilled with a new vision.

He stowed the thought away and nodded gravely at the attendant. "Lead on."

The otherworldly beauty that suffused the City of Tears from afar was much harder to perceive when up close. Perhaps it was the cold, pestering rain, or the impenetrable dark of the back alleys, but Lurien felt little urge to paint the drowning gutters and the rust-speckled fences.

At the insistence of the attendant bug, Lurien had forsaken all but mask and cloak on his way out of the Spire. He had not even been granted the time to assemble his retinue of Watcher Knights. It was true that their chronic lethargy would have delayed things had he insisted they accompany him, but still, Lurien felt exposed without their presence.

A particularly fat drop of water struck Lurien on the head, and he hunched into his shoulders. The image of his umbrella—sitting dry and useless within his quarters—flashed through his mind.

Before him, the attendant bug paraded with all the indefatigable purpose of an automaton.

"So, attendant," Lurien began, loudly over the hiss of rain. "Tell me of this 'crisis'. Did the King employ that very word?"

"Yes, Watcher. We attendants take care not to embellish. 'Crisis' was His word, most certainly. That and... more." She cleared her throat and returned to her march.

"More?"

The attendant's step faltered for a tick. "Err, yes. I recall 'catastrophe', 'tragedy', and 'disaster' among others."

Lurien awaited some clarification, but none came. "And? What circumstances brought this about?"

"It was... not entirely clear. Please forgive my small mind, but I could not understand the King's unease. It may involve the White Lady's holiday in Her gardens, but in what way I cannot guess."

Threads of speculation knitted Lurien's thoughts, but he asked no further questions.

The King would explain.

Lurien hesitated to describe the White Palace as ostentatious. After all, it was the King’s own project. Architecture, furnishing, lighting, the King had overseen every aspect of the Palace’s design. None in all the Kingdom could hope to rival His faultless genius. And yet… yet. Lurien always battled a cringe when he set his eye on the silvered glare, the interminable filigree, and the excess of ‘security measures’—as the King had called them.

The attendant led on through the labyrinthine mess of the Palace’s interior and seemed not to be bothered by the shafts of light that regularly struck her in the face. As they rode elevators and ascended staircases, she hummed a long, flat tune that needled at Lurien’s patience.

Eventually, the attendant directed Lurien into a broad atrium with a ceiling of intricately-set glass panes. A creamy glow filtered down from somewhere far above. There was little in the way of furniture or decoration in the atrium, except for a table in the center. Spools of wire, fine instruments, plates of metal, and bulbs of glass littered the table like the pieces of an elaborate game.

Beside the table, stooped forward on a high-backed chair, sat the King.

With a quick inhale, the attendant lifted her voice. “Presenting Watcher Lurien, Keeper of the City, and Royal Adviser!”

At first, the King did not react. His claws were busy at work, adjusting bits of wire and affixing a thin lever to a metal base. He paused to beckon impatiently.

The attendant gave Lurien an emphatic nod and the two stepped forward.

“I have retrieved Watcher Lurien, my Lord,” the attendant said, bowing extravagantly.

The King lifted his eyes just long enough to verify Lurien’s existence. “Well done as always, attendant,” he muttered.

At that, the attendant quivered like a bubble about to burst. She bowed again, even deeper this time, and stepped several paces back.

The object occupying the King’s attention was a lamp. Ornaments of silver in the shape of leafy vines ran up and down its bulb. He tilted the lamp to and fro, jostling its lever into place. “Lurien,” the King said. “It is good to see you.”

Lurien scanned the mostly empty room, looking for any immediate signs of catastrophe, tragedy, or disaster. But he saw nothing except the looming form of a Kingsmould standing guard in the corner. “And you as well, my King.” Lurien said. “I was led to believe this summons was most urgent. There was talk of a ‘crisis’.”

“Allow me a moment,” the King said. He took up a pointed instrument and tightened the lever’s bindings. With a rhythmic clanking sound, the King pulled the lever, and a pinprick of white appeared within the bulb. Like a blooming flower, the pinprick expanded to fill the bulb, shedding dazzling illumination. The King rotated the lamp by its base, and a whirl of giant, leaf-shaped shadows streaked along the walls.

The light was so overpowering that Lurien was forced to squint and divert his gaze. “My lord, this is a marvelous device, but is it related to the crisis that I was summoned to resolve?”

The King shook his head and proceeded to test the lamp with several more jerks of its lever. Seemingly satisfied, he summoned the attendant with a glance. “Take this to my sitting room,” the King said. “On the fifth floor beside the library. Do so carefully. Very carefully.”

The attendant accepted the lamp, as if the very world were housed within its glass.

“I do not mean offense,” Lurien began, “I am honored to bear witness to your inventions, but if the situation is dire, then is there time to waste?”

The King watched the attendant’s slow departure, as she placed one deliberate foot before the other. Her head was bowed, eyes trained on the smooth floor, as if anticipating treachery.

“Lurien,” the King murmured. “Do you hear that?”

Lurien strained his senses, but nothing out of the ordinary came to him. “Hear what, Lord?”

“Exactly.”

The exasperated sigh building in Lurien’s chest was becoming harder and harder to restrain. But he checked himself. Kings were entitled to their idiosyncrasies. Clarity would come, all that Lurien required was patience.

“I do not follow,” Lurien said.

“Appreciate this peaceful facet in the revolving prism of time. You shall not experience it again.”

Lurien cocked his head. “What?”

The attendant reached the far side of the atrium and paused before an open doorway. Her focus was still directed to her feet, and she moved with all the care of a tightrope walker. But as she placed another step, a peal of laughter echoed out of the unlit hallway before her. Two blurs of rippling cloth, the first gray, the second red, shot out of the dark and collided with the attendant. To her credit, the attendant did not topple at the first blow, but the second proved too much. In a confused heap of limbs and colors, the attendant and her assailants went crashing to the ground. The lamp sailed through the air in a languid arc before impacting on the tile and exploding into a thousand pieces. Shards of glass, metal springs, and strands of silver ornament went sliding as if over a frozen pond.

“Not unforeseen,” the King said.

Two small figures extracted themselves from the wreck that was the attendant. The first Lurien recognized to be a gray-cloaked Vessel, tall for its kind, and with well-developed horns, each sporting two prongs. The second was a bug child that Lurien had not seen before. She was lithe and energetic; and bore certain… resemblances that set Lurien’s shell to itching.

The bug child flared her red cloak to the side and revealed a toy nail clutched in her claw. The toy was made of old shellwood, porous and soft. A braided tassel of ruby-hued silk dangled from the hilt and trailed along the ground.

“You are cornered!” The child trilled, pointing the toy nail at the Vessel. “You have nowhere to flee! Now it is time for you to answer for your crimes, Traitor Knight!”

The Vessel stood perfectly still and stared back at the child. It did not flinch at the waving length of shellwood. It did not even seem to breathe.

The child leaned forward and cupped a claw beside her face. “This is the part where you run, and I chase you,” she whispered.

At that, the Vessel set off into a sprint, and the child gave a giggling battle cry before pursuing. The two twined through the pillars along the atrium’s perimeter. The scurry of their feet and the clack of the toy nail on stone echoed about. The child was clearly the faster of the two, but she slowed her step any time that the gap between them grew too small.

The King did not spectate their chase. His intent was upon the obliterated lamp and the stunned form of the attendant. “Lurien. I summoned you this day so that I might lay upon you a curse. You shall not deny me, that much is certain. But shall you begrudge me?”

Lurien almost chuckled. “I would never begrudge you, my King, no matter the hardship. However, I am quite lost. Is the crisis and this ‘curse’ of which you speak one and the same?”

The King gave a small nod and rose from the chair. It slid soundlessly from the cluttered worktable. “As you know, the Queen, my Lady, has departed on a retreat to Her Gardens. It is there she hopes to recuperate from the tribulations of the court. She shall be absent for… several days.” He turned toward the scampering child, as if just now noticing her. “Enough, child. Cease your games. And come here.”

It was not the King’s habit to raise his voice. Lurien had never even witnessed such a thing. As such, this royal edict was lost in the reverberation of the child’s laughter. She either did not hear or did not care.

It was also not the King’s habit to be disregarded, and this put Lurien ill at ease. “The Queen must be enjoying herself,” Lurien said, in an effort to divert. “Her Gardens are a beautiful place.”

“Indeed. Her last correspondence was of good cheer, perhaps even joy. But as all things in balance, one’s joy must be another’s anguish.”

Lurien was unsure how to respond. He tried to parse the King’s meaning.

Out of the pillars emerged the Vessel. It fled silently before the child and made a break for the worktable. With agility unnatural for its size, the Vessel slid beneath the table and out the other side before resuming its flight.

The bug child gave a congratulatory cheer before leaping over the table like a Loodle. However, her trailing leg caught on the table’s lip, and the whole thing flipped to its side with a deafening bang. Even more bits of scrap and wiring were hurled down to join the broken lamp. A spare lever flew particularly far and struck the attendant bug in the head just as she was beginning to rouse herself.

The bug child offered a distracted apology before taking up the chase once more.

The King’s shoulders sagged as he watched his tinkering supplies rattle to a stop. “It is difficult to image that such a brash creature might count itself amongst my spawn.”

Lurien startled. “‘Spawn’? You speak of the Vessel, yes. Not—” He glimpsed the sinuous trail of the tassel as it vanished behind another pillar.

“Oh,” the King said. “I was unaware that you had yet to be informed.” He pointed in the vague direction of the child. “Yes, the red one,” He grasped for a word. “Hornet. She is the result of my contract with the Beast. A grim consequence, but one that must be endured.”

The clockwork machine of Lurien’s thoughts ground to a halt. He could not guess how many seconds elapsed before he gathered his words. “That is y-your child? S-She is royalty?”

“Correct.”

“Is her origin known among the court?” Lurien pried. “Have you affirmed her as your heir? If the nobles of the City hear of this, they—”

“Enough,” the King said. “Do not trouble yourself. That is not the topic of this discourse.” He turned to face the statue-like Kingsmould in the atrium’s far corner. “Awaken,” the King said, barely above his usual speaking voice.

The Kingsmould shuddered to consciousness. Luminous, white eyes appeared beneath its helm, and it stepped forward.

“Apprehend them,” the King said, pointing at Hornet and the Vessel.

The Kingsmould lifted a wicked-looking scythe and stomped in their direction.

“Gently,” the King added, and the Kingsmould stowed the weapon.

Hornet paused in her chase once she set eyes on the Kingsmould. “Wait, wait, stop!” she shouted to the Vessel.

It skidded to a halt a few paces off and regarded her.

“Listen,” she said, huffing and puffing. “Let’s stop playing Traitor Knight. We can play Monster Hunt now. You be the squire. I’ll be the brave Knight. Okay?”

The Vessel gave no sign of recognition, but that did not hinder Hornet.

“Alright, now we’re on a quest to slay that big monster! Look, here it comes!” She leveled her toy nail at the Kingsmould. The armored thing moved at a plodding, but inexorable, pace. “It’s too big to fight. We need to trick it! Here, grab this.”

Hornet held out the end of her nail’s braided tassel, and the Vessel shuffled hesitantly forward.

“Hold tight,” Hornet instructed. “Do as I do, and don’t be afraid.”

The Kingsmould closed the distance, and its steps sent tremors through the tiles. It reached out at the children with four hooked arms as if to scoop them up.

“Now!” Hornet shouted. She darted forward, and the Vessel imitated. With a firm hold on each end of the tassel, the pair ran two quick circuits around the Kingsmould’s spindly legs. “Okay, run!” She squealed.

With its quarry dispersing, the Kingsmould’s attention shifted from Hornet to the Vessel and back again. It snatched at trailing cloaks but came up short. When it attempted a step in pursuit, its legs caught on the silk and it slammed to the ground, hard enough to crack the tiles. The Kingsmould rolled helplessly on its curved back, unable to rise.

The King pressed a claw against his forehead. “Behold my dread construct,” he mumbled. “Insurmountable, save by children.”

Hornet stopped running and placed her claws on her hips. She appraised the felled Kingsmould from a safe distance. “Another triumph for the brave Knight!” she shouted, and then laughed in a parody of a much deeper voice. “Well done, squire!” She wheeled on the Vessel, which had taken up a defensive position behind a pillar. “I must write a letter to the King, so he can know of our great success!” She then pantomimed extracting a scroll from a non-existent hip pouch. “I will make sure to tell the King of your courage,” she said, as she wrote upon the air. “Now, take this and do not stop until you place it in the King’s own claw.” She rolled up the imaginary scroll and handed it to the Vessel.

Lurien watched with fascination as the Vessel took the ‘scroll’ in its grip and trotted over to the King. It extended its arm to him and waited.

The King was still. His claw remained pressed against his forehead, and he seemed trapped in some distant thought.

The Vessel waved its arm slightly, as if reiterating its purpose.

With a sigh, the King held out his claw and accepted the ‘parcel’. He even went so far as to pretend to read it.

Its task done, the Vessel returned to Hornet.

“Did He send a reply?” she asked.

But the Vessel only stared.

“It was the Queen’s duty to supervise the Vessel until it emerged from the uselessness of infancy,”
the King said. “Such a task was not difficult for Her, but circumstances have since changed. This red thing—this Hornet—has been inflicted upon my court. It is willful and reckless, a deleterious influence upon the Vessel, and too great a challenge for my Queen to subdue. My Lady’s ‘retreat’ to Her Gardens was the very embodiment of the word. And now we remain to bear the burden of her absence.” The King turned to Lurien and placed a claw on his shoulder.

Never before had Lurien felt the King’s touch. He fought back a roil of emotion. “My King?”

“I possess neither the time nor the fortitude to fulfill this task. Thus, it is my shame that I must shirk it upon you, old friend. You are to be the children’s keeper until the Lady returns. Forgive me, for I send you to your doom.”

Chapter Text

Lurien the Watcher, Adviser to the King, and newly appointed Royal Babysitter, trudged the dreary streets of the City of Tears.

Trailing to his right—and already drenched from puddle jumping—was the bug-child Hornet. Water had darkened her cloak to a deep maroon, making it cling to her arms and back like a slather of clay. She looked a ridiculous sight, hardly emblematic of her supposed origins. Her laughter came long and loud, punctuated by intermittent hiccups.

To Lurien’s left walked the Vessel, keeping perfect pace, matching his every step. It watched Hornet’s play with fixed interest but did not take part.

Feeling some inarticulate pressure, Lurien cleared his throat. “So, Princess, is this your first visit to the City?”

Hornet’s head perked up at the question, but she pretended not to hear, and splashed on.

“Princess?” Lurien asked, a bit louder. “Have you been to the City before?”

“There aren’t any princesses here,” Hornet said as she stared down into a puddle, watching her own reflection through the ripples. “I don’t know who you’re talking to, but I’m just Hornet.”

Lurien hummed. “Very well, Hornet. Are you new to the City?”

Hornet spun to face him, nearly overbalancing. “Yes! This place is so very big! I’ve never seen anything like it before! It’s bigger than home, even bigger than the palace!” She looked up into the endless dark overhead, and fresh raindrops speckled her mask. “Where does all the water come from?”

“A construction blunder,” Lurien replied with a snort.

Hornet clasped her toy nail behind her back. “What does that mean?”

Lurien considered how best to explain. A great number of mistakes—many his own—had plunged the City into its current state. He could expound on negligent architecture and rock permeability, but he supposed that was not the heart of Hornet’s question. “The water comes from a lake far, far above,” Lurien said. “It leaks through this cavern’s ceiling as an endless rain. Had I known in advance that I was to be an escort then I would have brought umbrellas. If luck favors us, then we may pass a shop where I might purchase a pair.”

Hornet shrugged and returned to splashing. “Why bother? It’s just water. It can’t hurt.”

“The bugs of the City have delicate constitutions. They do not respond well to the wet and the cold.”

Something seemed to occur to Hornet, and she straightened. “Actually, Spirit might want one. You should ask them.”

“‘Spirit’?”

Hornet pointed past Lurien. “They’re right beside you,” she giggled.

Lurien glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to lock eyes with some uninvited companion. But instead, the obvious made itself apparent.

There was only the Vessel to stare up at him.

“A sobriquet?” Lurien mused. “Really?”

“Sobri-what?”

“A nickname. You granted the Vessel one?”

“Oh, yes! A good idea, right?” Hornet adopted a stately pose. “The King is always calling them ‘Pure Vessel’, but how is that even a name? I decided to change it to ‘Spirit’. You know, because they’re always so quiet.”

“Interesting,” Lurien said. “I doubt the Vessel has much desire for a name. Nor an umbrella for that matter.”

Hornet crossed her arms. “How do you know? You haven’t even asked them.”

“Vessels cannot desire. It is intrinsic in their design.”

“The King says that too, but I know it isn’t true. Here, watch!” Hornet leaned around Lurien to get a clear view of the Vessel. “Hey, Spirit!”

And to Lurien’s surprise, the Vessel responded. To a designation entirely incorrect.

“You want an umbrella for the rain, right?” Hornet pantomimed to enhance the effect. “Nod for yes.”

The Vessel nodded with the thoughtless exuberance of a silk-bound marionette. The act launched droplets of rain from the tips of its horns.

Hornet puffed up. “Ha! See? I told you so.”

But Lurien shook his head. “The Vessel is not expressing a desire. It is merely obeying your command to—” but Lurien cut himself off. There was no point in belaboring this argument. If the King had already trod this ground without success, then Lurien knew he would fare no better. “Never mind. Let us continue.”

“Alright,” Hornet said, with a wary lilt. “But if we find an umbrella shop then you better buy Spirit one. Like you promised.”

Lurien did not concede the point and resumed walking. It occurred to him that hunting for umbrellas might not be so grand an idea after all.

As the trio rounded a street corner bathed in the ethereal light of a Lumafly lantern, it became clear to Lurien that fate had aligned itself against him. For, in the distance he spied a sign dangling from a metal awning. The sign was made of shellwood and swung gently in a phantom breeze. A certain, unmistakable shape had been carved into it.

Lurien hastened his step, hoping Hornet would be too invested in her puddles to glance up.

But it was only a heartbeat before a shrill cut the air. “Wait! Look!” Hornet pointed her nail at the sign. “This must be a shop. See the umbrella on it?”

Lurien ground to a halt. “Oh. I had not noticed.”

Hornet crossed the street in balletic strides and pressed her mask against the dim glass of a bay window. “Is it closed?”

“Very likely. Perhaps it is best to push forward. The faster our journey, the less of it we will spend in the rain.”

Hornet disregarded the advice and slipped her toy nail into a loop of silk sewn onto the back of her cloak. She sidled over to the shop’s heavy, engraved door and grasped the handle in both claws. With far more effort than was necessary, Hornet tugged. The door flew open on well-oiled hinges and Hornet tumbled to the cobbles with a splash.

“Princess!” Lurien shouted. Despite his clutching robes, he rushed after her.

The Vessel followed, and even outpaced him, reaching the child’s side and sliding to a halt.

“You must be careful.” Lurien chided, as he helped Hornet to stand.

The girl suppressed a sniffle. “I’m okay. I’m okay. And I already said I’m not a princess!”

Lurien shook water from his claws and scanned Hornet from head to foot. She seemed unhurt, but that did not stop the frantic Squits flitting about Lurien’s chest. The King would not be pleased to find his daughter covered in injuries. Lurien could only imagine the punishments that might warrant.

Hornet wrung most of the water out of her cloak before making a second—far gentler—attempt at the door. Once she had propped it open, she beckoned to the Vessel. “Come on. We’ll get you that umbrella.”

The Vessel obeyed and the two vanished into the store, leaving Lurien alone to stare into space.

A vision of booming condemnations, saw blades, and spike pits danced through Lurien’s mind. It took heroic effort to shake it off and return to the present. He reminded himself that it would do no good to brood about what might come. He had a responsibility to fulfill, and so long as he kept his wits about him, then no ill would befall the girl or the Vessel. He need only focus. For seven days… Seven long days…

He hauled the door open and stepped in after the children.

The umbrella shop was a cramped, yet tidy, place. Several waist-high racks of shellwood ran in parallel lines from one side of the store to the other. Leaning against them at tasteful angles were umbrellas in all sizes, shapes, and styles. Around the store’s perimeter, along the upper wall, ran a bar of polished brass. More umbrellas dangled from it by their curved handles, like stalactites in a cavern.

Behind the counter at the back of the shop sat a wizened-looking bug with a gray shell. He gave Lurien no welcome and did not even bother to stand. This irked Lurien at first, but once the door thumped shut and the babbling rain was muffled, things became clear.

The bug was asleep, slumped and snoring upon his stool. A faint, almost melodious whistle accompanied his every exhale.

Lurien scoffed and considered waking him with an indignant shout, but that somehow seemed in poor taste. Instead, he slinked through the aisles in search of the children. They could not have gone far; the store was small and seemed to lack any other exits.

Just as Lurien began to worry, he spied two pairs of horns peeking over an umbrella rack in the far corner of the shop. He drew close, but not enough to attract attention to himself. Hornet’s mistaken notions about the Vessel had intrigued him. He wondered how she interacted with it when she believed herself not to be under scrutiny.

He took up position beside a bulky wardrobe and set his eye on Hornet. She was pacing before a rack of umbrellas, like a general surveying her troops. Hums and grumbles escaped her as she pondered over the profusion of choices. Every third hum or so, she extended her claw toward an umbrella handle, only to retract at the last instant.

The Vessel was standing beside her, unnaturally still. Its head was the only part of its body that moved, and it tracked her reaching claw as a starving bug would a morsel of food.

Eventually, Hornet came to a decision and plucked an umbrella from a clump of its compatriots. “This one seems good,” she said. “Here. Take it.”

The Vessel obeyed, and the umbrella shifted claws.

Lurien did not consider himself an expert on the City’s ever-shifting sense of fashion, but even by his rudimentary understanding, this umbrella seemed a touch too… colorful.

The umbrella was decorated—from the very tip of its cap to the base of its handle—in alternating stripes of scarlet and cream. Even within the relative vibrancy of the shop, the umbrella came across as loud and garish.

Hornet took up an appraising pose, arms crossed, head tilted. “It’s very pretty. I like it with your shell.”

The Vessel stared at the umbrella and did not move.

“I know that look,” Hornet said. She raised a placating claw. “At least check in the mirrors before you decide that you don’t like it.” She pointed toward an alcove in the nearest wall. Within hung a semicircle of reflective metal sheets.

Again, the Vessel obeyed and trotted over. It held the gaudy umbrella up before its own reflection.

“Hey Spirit, do you know what candy is?” Hornet asked. To no great surprise, the Vessel did not reply, but Hornet continued all the same. “My mother told me about a far-off place that she visited a long time ago. That place had a funny kind of bug—a dumb one, like an Aspid or a Tiktik. It would eat leaves and then sec-secre—” she faltered for a moment. “—secrete a kind of sappy stuff that was very sweet. The smarter bugs that lived in that far-off place used the secre—the stuff to make a food called ‘candy’. My mother had a chest full of it. That umbrella reminds me of the little sticks. They were the best.”

The Vessel maintained its pose but glanced at Hornet over its shoulder. There was something in the slant of its mask that seemed almost… pleading. But Lurien brushed the observation away.

“You don’t like it, do you?” Hornet asked sullenly. “Alright, then. Give it back and I’ll find another.”

The ‘candy’ umbrella was returned, and Hornet resumed her rummaging. Although the second round of deliberation was just as painful, Hornet again singled out a candidate.

This umbrella was a florid thing, in the quite literal sense. For, it had been crafted to resemble the branch of some flowering plant. The umbrella’s pole was even bent at a slight angle to simulate natural growth. Meticulously woven blossoms of dyed silk dappled it. They came in shades of indigo and sapphire and pink.

Again, Hornet bid the Vessel to pose in the mirror, and again the Vessel showed no signs of ‘liking’ anything. But Hornet persisted and returned to the racks, scouring like a compulsive scholar through a disorderly library.

Next came an umbrella dyed to resemble solid gold. It even sparkled in the light of the shop’s Lumafly bulbs. But the Vessel did not approve.

After that came one styled in the fashion of the King’s court: a base of silver, trimmed with pearl, and contrasted by streaks of black. Lurien appreciated its patriotism, but the Vessel did not.

Beyond that came an umbrella of the purest white, like the desiccated shell of something long dead, but of this too the Vessel seemed not to care.

The interval of time between Hornet’s selections shrank with every failure. The minutes of careful thought were reduced to only as much time as it took to snatch another handle from the rack and prod the Vessel over toward the mirrors.

Two dozen more candidates followed, all of the finest materials in the most fabulous of styles. Curtains of dyed silk, rings of sparkling metal, tassels of intricate weave. Yet, not one stirred the Vessel’s interest.

All the while, Hornet’s frustration mounted.

From his clandestine post behind the wardrobe, Lurien monitored this: the tap of Hornet’s foot, the quake of her grip upon the umbrella handles, the cut in her voice. And it puzzled him. Surely the child understood—if not on her obdurate surface, then deep-down—that this exercise was fundamentally futile. It was merely a game of make-believe with an autonomous toy. She would never find an umbrella that the Vessel truly wanted, simply because it could not want in the first place.

And yet…

“This is taking forever!” Hornet snapped. She began to throw a bead-spangled umbrella on the ground but reconsidered and simply set it aside. “There are a million umbrellas here!” She spun to face the Vessel. “You have to like at least one of them, right?”

If the Vessel had an answer, then it did not give it.

Hornet released a defeated sigh. “Well, Lurien is probably looking for us. We should find him before he gets angry. Just pick an umbrella, it doesn’t really matter anyway…”

At that command, the Vessel shuffled over to the nearest rack and lifted a claw.

Lurien leaned around the wardrobe to gain as clear a view as possible, for the game had finally reached its end. Hornet had failed to fulfill the Vessel’s non-existent desire, and it gave Lurien a rueful feeling of victory. The Vessel would follow its newest order and take up the very closest umbrella, regardless of style or perceived worth, and perhaps Hornet would recognize this. Perhaps she would finally abandon her childish presumptions and see the true puppet lurking beneath her illusory friend.

The Vessel’s claw stretched toward an umbrella of bland navy, but just as it gripped the handle, it stopped. And turned. Something else on the far side of the shop had captured its attention. With industrious steps, the Vessel approached a rack that Hornet had not checked. With a smooth motion like drawing a nail from a sheath, the Vessel lifted an umbrella.

The likening was apt, for this newest umbrella quite clearly resembled a nail. Its fabric was gray and merged seamlessly with the tip to create the impression of a blade. It displayed a spiral pattern, the likes of which was only ever seen on masterwork weapons created by the King’s Nailsmiths. To complete the effect, the umbrella even lacked a hook. It ended in a stout hilt that the Vessel held in both claws.

Hornet chased after the Vessel and leaned over its shoulder. “What do you have there, Spirit? Show me.”

The Vessel lifted its nail-umbrella in demonstration.

“Oh, wow! I didn’t even notice that one! Have you decided, then? Is this what you want?”

The Vessel stared.

“Nod for yes,” Hornet added.

And the Vessel’s head bobbed in unequivocal affirmation.

Hornet gave a great and sudden laugh. “Alright, good! Now we can find Lurien.” She rose to her full height and looked around, trying to get a glimpse over the umbrella racks.

Lurien ducked back behind the wardrobe and attempted to process what he had just seen. The Vessel’s action had looked suspiciously like the manifestation of will, something the King had assured its kind did not possess. Lurien scratched at his face beneath his mask. What could that mean…?

After a few ineffectual hops, an idea seemed to occur to Hornet. She turned to the Vessel, which was still displaying the umbrella in the way that a decorative statue would display a torch. “I can’t see,” Hornet said. “Here, you look.” She grabbed the Vessel by the torso and hauled it onto her shoulders. The act was impressive, though foolish, for she nearly crumpled under its weight. “Okay,” Hornet grunted. “Can you see Lurien? Point him out.”

The Vessel obeyed and brandished its nail-umbrella. To Lurien’s surprise, it pointed at him without a moment’s pause, as if it had always known he’d been there. However, this act disturbed Hornet’s fragile balance, and the pair pitched to the ground.

Hornet wobbled back to her feet, seemingly unperturbed, and approached Lurien’s hiding place. “What are you doing back there?” She asked. “Were we supposed to be playing a hiding game? You didn’t tell me first.”

Lurien abandoned his surreptitious posture. “No, not quite. I was merely… observing. I did not wish to interrupt your play. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, okay. Well, we found an umbrella for Spirit, see? Do you like it?”

Lurien feigned a glance. “It is quite a novelty. The craftsbugs of the City are a creative sort.”

“You’ll buy it then? You made a promise to Spirit, you know.”

Although Lurien recalled quite clearly that no such promise had been made, he did not refute her. Instead, he ushered the two children toward the counter at the back of the store and plucked an umbrella at random from a rack as he went. From shoulder height, he dropped the umbrella on the counter before the sleeping bug.

The resounding crack startled the bug awake, and it gawked from side to side. “Y-Yes, hello? May I help you?”

Lurien extracted a chunk of Geo from his hip pouch and placed it meaningfully beside the umbrella. “Two. Mine and the child’s. If you would please.”

Hornet heaved her upper body onto the counter to better see, leaving her legs dangling in the open air. Upon noticing the sparkling Geo, all other affairs departed her attention.

The shopkeeper shook the miasma of sleep from his brain and sized Lurien up. A vacant second passed before recognition dawned. “Watcher… Lurien? The Keeper of the City stands in my shop?! Why, what a momentous—”

Lurien halted the bug with an upraised claw and then tapped the counter beside the Geo.

To his credit, the shopkeeper took the hint and refrained from further pageantry. He busied himself with the transaction and vanished into the back storage room upon completion.

“So that’s Geo,” Hornet said, in a whisper so self-defeatingly loud that it might as well have been a shout. “It’s very shiny.”

As he was about to pocket his change, Lurien looked down at Hornet. The child’s outstretched arms were losing purchase on the counter, and she was sliding almost imperceptibly back to the ground. Though many matters bedeviled Lurien’s thoughts at that moment, he could not help but chuckle. “Indeed,” he said. “Geo is a splendid sight. Would you like some for yourself?”

Hornet’s eyes gleamed with that rare shade of avarice unique to children. “M-Maybe.”

Lurien took up his umbrella and gestured to the shop’s door. Geo rattled enticingly within his grip as he walked. “Well, if you are interested, then perhaps an agreement might be struck between us. If we are to reach my Spire at a reasonable hour, then we must not tarry. I recognize that you wish to experience all that is new and fascinating within the City, but that would merely slow our course. If you agree not to run off during the remainder of our trek, then I will offer you the most lustrous piece of Geo I own. How does that sound?”

Hornet and the Vessel trundled after him, like light-enthralled Aspids.

They reached the door and Lurien opened it with a thrust of his newly purchased umbrella.

“What say you?” Lurien prodded.

Hornet bowed her head in calculation, but only for a moment. She looked Lurien in the eye and lifted an extorting claw. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

Hornet lifted her bribe into the damp air, appraising its detail with all the ardor of a master jeweler. Despite the Geo cluster’s middling value, it did not fail to impress. Under the passing lanterns, its water flecked facets were like diamond encrusted sheets of gold. Slowly, Hornet rotated the Geo on an invisible axis, appreciating every gleaming contour.

She had been at this activity for several minutes now, all while maintaining a brisk pace down the cobbled streets of the City. Her blind strides crashed through puddles and divots, only periodically distorting into graceless staggers. Though Hornet had yet to fall, it seemed an encroaching inevitability.

Lurien the Watcher plodded behind her, his mind elsewhere. The amiable rhythm of the rain upon his new umbrella had lulled him into himself. He dwelt on the City’s sodden fate, on the King’s half-explained machinations, on Hornet’s place in the tiresome game of royalty, and on the Vessel’s emerging… peculiarities.

At that, Lurien’s obligation reared its head, and he checked to ensure that the Vessel was still in tow. No other task had been granted to it, so there was no reason to suspect that the Vessel would stray from the march. Lurien spared only a cursory glance, and of course, the Vessel was still following.

Yet, something wasn’t right.

Lurien looked a second time and let out a snort.

The Vessel was not using its umbrella. In fact, it did not even have the decorum to carry the damn thing.

Worm-like rivulets of rain streaked the Vessel’s shell as it dragged the recently purchased—and expensive—umbrella down the street. The umbrella’s tip scraped over the grates and stones, dislodging pebbles and cutting wakes through the water.

“What are you doing?” Lurien blurted, before he could remind himself that there would be no answer. “Use your umbrella. Do not tug it along like a broken branch.”

The Vessel raised the umbrella out at arm’s length, just as it had done three dozen times before in the umbrella shop. But it made no move to open it.

Lurien allowed the Vessel a moment to amend its mistake.

But it did not.

“Open your umbrella,” Lurien said.

The Vessel pawed vainly at the silken folds.

“Do as I order,” he reiterated.

But the Vessel made no more progress.

With a huff, Lurien took the umbrella from the Vessel’s grip and unfurled it. He gave it an artful twirl before handing it back. “Hold it over your head,” he said wearily. “Use it to block the rain. That is its purpose after all.”

The Vessel followed this new, simpler command without difficulty. Its mask peeked out from beneath the gray canopy, already beginning to dry.

And again, Lurien detected something in those featureless eyes. Was it… gratitude?

Certainly not.

Lurien shook his head and turned back to Hornet. Just as he did, the bug-girl let out a muffled shriek and stumbled a dozen steps. In a dance equal parts dexterous and harrowing, Hornet avoided crashing face-first into the cobbles. She stabilized herself with outstretched arms and resumed walking as if nothing had happened.

Lurien hastened to Hornet’s side. “Princ—Erm, Hornet, perhaps now is not the ideal time to admire your Geo. You nearly fell.”

“I’ll be alright,” Hornet replied, her gaze still locked on her prize. “My balance is great! Didn’t you see?”

“I watched you nearly crack your shell like a piece of pottery, if that is your meaning.”

“Don’t be so scared.” Hornet waved dismissively. “I won’t fall.”

Lurien took a moment to consider his position. Just as the King had warned, Hornet’s willfulness was becoming a formidable obstacle. He suspected that a few harsh words might coerce the girl into obedience but that would surely foster resentment. Lurien could not afford to make an enemy of his charge so early in its keeping.

He decided to alter his approach. “Your poise is excellent, this is true. But consider that if the improbable occurs and you lose your balance, then that Geo might be lost forever. If it were to fall into the sewer, then there would be no recovering it.”

Hornet closed her claw around the Geo and pressed it against her chest. “Oh, I didn’t think of that.”

“There will be an abundance of time to examine your Geo when we arrive at the Spire. Until then, please watch your step.”

Hornet hummed a sort of consent and stowed the Geo chunk in a hidden pocket within her cloak.

For three enchanting minutes, the trio walked in quiet and in safety. Lurien was tempted to allow his thoughts to drift once more, but from the fidget in Hornet’s stride, it seemed she required distraction.

“So, Hornet,” Lurien began, before a subject had even occurred to him. “You are… unfamiliar with Geo, yes? Was today the first time that you laid eyes upon it?”

Hornet took up an awkward, sideways walk, so that she might face Lurien and the far-off Spire at the same time. “Yes, I was surprised at how pretty it was. It’s such a strange kind of rock.”

“A rock? Though that is true in the technical sense, Geo is in fact a fossil.”

“What’s a fossil?” Hornet asked.

“An excellent question.” Lurien said with a scholarly inflection. “You see, when an organism dies, its shell remains behind. If that shell is buried beneath mineral-rich sediment, then over a period of many thousand years the minerals will permeate the—”

“Wait, wait,” Hornet waved her claws as if fending off attacks. “I changed my mind! I don’t want to know!”

“—Oh,” Lurien swallowed his explanation. “I see. Very well then.”

“It’s just that in Deepnest we never used Geo,” Hornet said. “It looks nice, but in the end it’s just a rock. It’s kind of useless, don’t you think?”

Lurien considered the notion of worth, how arbitrarily it was assigned. The merchants and patricians of the City salivated at the mere idea of Geo, but to the mind of this child it was nothing more than a ‘useless rock’. He chuckled. “Does Deepnest not possess a prevailing unit of currency?”

Hornet scratched at her head. “Huh?”

“Does it not have money?”

“Oh, right. For trading? We use silk! And it’s a lot more useful than rocks, too. The Weavers turn it into shields and scrolls and clothes.”

Lurien tapped a claw against his mask. “Interesting. I did not realize that Deepnest’s primary export was also its main form of currency.”

“And silk isn’t just for making useful stuff,” Hornet continued, “but pretty stuff too!” She drew her toy nail and displayed its ruby-red tassel. “My mother had the Weavers make this for me. Isn’t the pattern nice?”

Her mother.

The Beast.

Consort of the King.

It took a lurching effort to reconcile these disparate elements in Lurien’s mind. The Beast’s reputation of martial ferocity and political guile seemed a poor fit for ‘mother’. But here Hornet was, proof of that. Lurien failed to imagine whatever immense fee the King had extracted from the Beast to render their contract equitable.

At Lurien’s excessive pause, Hornet tilted her head.

“I-It is quite beautiful,” Lurien sputtered. “Those Weavers of which you speak must be incomparable artisans. Is… Is it your mother’s usual habit to provide you with such gifts?”

The tilt to Hornet’s head became a droop. “Um, no. This was special.” She embraced the toy nail as if it were a doll. “Mother gave it to me before she—before I had to come here.”

Curiosity overrode Lurien’s good sense. “And why were you sent here, Hornet? Did something happen?”

The girl shrugged. “I guess.” She let out a hurried, abrasive sort of laugh and turned away from him. “So, about Geo! Is it true that you can trade it for anything? Anything at all?”

Lurien restrained himself from prying further. “Yes, I suppose so. The City’s more affluent bugs often claim that ‘everything has a price’. In some aspects, that is the truth. Has a purpose for your Geo occurred to you?”

“Maybe.”

“If you behave, then tomorrow we will venture into the City’s trade district. You will find a veritable panoply of trinkets and toys there.”

Hornet gave a distracted nod and settled back to silence.

Several city blocks passed by, their buildings looming out of the dark like sentinels upon tall battlements. The trio passed residential areas, urban parks, and public plazas, but caught sight of no other pedestrians. It felt as if they’d slipped into some phantom realm devoid of all other life.

Eventually, an incongruous sound pierced through the sibilance of the rain. It was so faint that Lurien would have disregarded it had Hornet not jerked to a halt and set her gaze down a tangent street.

The sound was intermittent and metallic. Perhaps some distant bell? The distorting effect of the rain made it difficult to determine.

“What is it, Hornet? Do you—”

But like a clap of thunder, the girl was off.

There wasn’t even enough time for Lurien to snatch a breath and bellow objections before Hornet rounded a corner and vanished from sight.

The Vessel did not follow her example but still leaned after her as if straining against an imaginary chain.

To Lurien’s surprise, he felt no indignation, no molten ball of outrage wedged in his chest. Just acceptance, not unlike his sentiment on the rain.

“Should I take solace that she honored our agreement for as long as she did?” Lurien asked.

The Vessel glanced up at him but kept its unknowable reply to itself.

“Right. Follow me, Vessel. Do so with haste and remain close.” Lurien set off after the girl, as quickly as his feeble body and vexatious robes would allow.

He pounded down the narrow streets, beneath the dripping arms of awnings, and through the shadows of skybridges. It took only a few moments of activity to set Lurien’s muscles burning. He gasped for air and pressed a claw against his aching side. What an uncouth figure he imagined himself to be. If anyone witnessed him blundering through the streets, then the gossip would spread like flames through a bramble patch.

Again, Lurien lamented the absence of his Watcher Knights. If they had been at his side, then apprehending Hornet would have required no more than a gesture. But as fate had turned, his Knights were nowhere to be seen, and he had only his own legs to rely upon.

The maroon smear of Hornet’s cloak taunted Lurien with every turned corner. Despite his lack of athletic skill, he managed not to lose her trail. However, that mattered little when he had no hope of actually catching her.

He was fortunate that there were no alleyways to complicate the chase. The residential districts through which he sprinted were all tight-packed houses and tenement buildings. Yet, for all his efforts, Lurien’s strength flagged, and Hornet eventually slipped from sight.

Wheezing, Lurien careened around an intersection and nearly slammed mask-first into a signpost. He managed—in a rather unflattering way—to evade the head injury and wrapped his arms around the signpost’s corroded, iron base.

The Vessel scampered to his side, without a hint of strain in its breathing. The nail-umbrella was still high over its head, like the banner of a parade marcher.

“By the King, you’re tireless,” Lurien rasped.

The Vessel did not accept the compliment.

Lurien pushed off from the signpost and tried to compose himself. After a few gasps, he scanned the area for any traces of fugitive princesses.

He stood in the center of a six-way crossing that swirled pleasingly into a roundabout. There were no carts or bugs of burden, no passersby or vagrants, and certainly no princesses. In one way this was a blessing. There had been no one to witness Lurien’s oafish entrance. But in another it was a curse. He had no guiding claws to point out which path Hornet had taken.

Lurien sized up each street, hoping beyond hope for some hint that might improve his odds. None were forthcoming. He deliberated, all the while acutely aware that each second wasted was another step’s distance between himself and the girl.

Just as Lurien was about to set out at random, a keening sound drilled into his perception. It was the same metallic note that had instigated this entire mess. Now, it was much louder—closer. From this distance it took only an instant to recognize what it was.

The clang of a hammer upon an anvil.

Sparing only enough time to glance up at the signpost and confirm the direction of the trade district, Lurien set off with all speed, with the Vessel close behind.

In contrast to the desolate streets Lurien had so far walked, the trade district was a frenzy of activity. Innumerable bugs of all societal class brushed shoulders in a churning sea of commerce. Umbrellas were clutched in every visible claw, and they drifted over the bugs’ heads like a kaleidoscopic bank of clouds. The chiming of bells filled the air as customers entered and exited shops.

Lurien peered through the chaos in search of Hornet’s cloak. He startled more than once, thinking that he had found her, only to realize that it was some other bug dressed in a similar hue. The futility of the task soon became clear, and he instead focused his senses on the ambient wail of metal being tortured into form.

It required some shoving for Lurien to navigate the crowds. Several bugs chittered at him, only to then recognize who he was and mumble apologies. He hoped that no curious onlookers would trail after him. The least that Lurien needed was for the City’s bored nobles to learn that he was playing custodian to a mysterious child. But Lurien did not look back to indulge his paranoia and instead elbowed onward.

The Nailsmith’s shop occupied the central square of the trade district, a fair distance from any other building. It was an imposing, brick structure of rough-hewn stones. Out of its domed roof sprouted a chimney that spewed soot like the proboscis of an enormous bug. An iron sign in the shape of a nail hung out over the main entrance.

If Lurien had nothing else to say about Hornet, she was at least unswerving in her intent. He could hear her treble through the shop’s doorway, loud and inquisitive.

Lurien stepped inside, shook his umbrella, and closed it with a snap.

The interior of the shop smelled of smoke and hot metal. Various weapons were mounted upon the walls like the trophies of a great hunter. The back of the shop was occupied by a ceiling-high forge and attached bellows. A wizened-looking beetle sat before the crackling coals and beat a hammer-song upon an anvil.

Beside the beetle stood Hornet. She held her chunk of Geo in one claw and gestured exuberantly with the other.

“And what’s that one?” Hornet asked, pointing to a nail nearly twice her size.

“Greatnail,” the beetle grunted.

“How much does it cost?”

“Too big.”

“I know that,” Hornet puffed. “But pretend that it isn’t.”

“Four thousand.”

Hornet shot a dubious look at her Geo chunk. “Okay, maybe not that one. But what about this one over here?”

The beetle spared a glance. “Longnail. Also too big.”

“I’m just asking!” Hornet said, with a half-stomp.

“Three thousand.”

Hornet assessed her Geo chunk a second time. “What will this get me?” She extended it before the beetle’s face.

The invariable rhythm of hammering ceased, and a quietude surged in to replace it. The beetle took the offered Geo and rolled it in his claw. After a moment’s thought, he pointed to a barrel, out of which protruded the hilts of several shellwood nails. They looked much denser than Hornet’s, to the point that they might be suitable for sparring.

“No way!” Hornet shouted, before snatching the Geo from the beetle’s claw. “I’m here to buy a nail, not a toy!”

The beetle shrugged and resumed hammering.

Hornet crossed her arms and tramped off, making a show of being interested by a nearby weapon rack.

Lurien waited in the doorway and adopted an identical, cross-armed posture of displeasure. Hornet did not notice him standing there, however, so he made his presence known with a graveled cough.

Hornet almost jolted out of her cloak. She wheeled around to face Lurien. “Oh! It’s you! Um, hi! How did you… find me?”

“With great difficulty.” Lurien strode across the nail shop and took a firm grip of Hornet’s arm. He would not have her running off before they could exchange words. “That was supremely impetuous of you, child. You cannot range half the length of the City on a whim! You have neither the experience nor the authority to do so. The King—” Lurien’s voice dipped to a whisper, and he shot a covert look at the beetle across the shop “—your father, has granted me guardianship over you, and until He deems otherwise you will obey my direction. Do you understand?”

“I just wanted to spend my Geo,” Hornet mumbled.

“Do you understand?!”

“Yes, okay!”

Lurien relinquished Hornet’s arm and let the remainder of his ire slip out as a hot sigh. “Good. Though I may not look it, I am a time-worn bug. I have invested many of my years in service to this kingdom, and my aching shell is not suited to miles-long footraces through the pouring rain. You would be kind to remember that.”

“I’m sorry,” Hornet said, with her first real flicker of sincerity. “I was just excited is all.”

“Most could have perceived that by the length of your stride. But the next time that you are tempted to charge off, stop to consider those in your company first.” Lurien turned and gestured. “Why, I and the Vess—”

A cold chill ascended Lurien’s back. For the Vessel was not there.

Hornet leaned to and fro, as if the Vessel might be hiding behind Lurien’s slender frame. “Did you lose Spirit?” She asked bluntly.

“It… appears that I have,” Lurien breathed. “But it was here just a moment ago…”

Hornet snickered. “They wander off sometimes.”

Lurien wheeled back to face her. “This has happened before?!”

“Mmhm. Plenty of times. But don’t worry, they’ll come back when they feel like it.”

“Forgive me for not sharing that confidence!” Lurien took Hornet by the claw. “Come. We must retrace our steps and recover the Vessel. It is in my care just as you are, and I cannot allow it to wander the streets!”

Hornet wormed her claw free and scurried back. “No, wait. I need to buy my nail first!”

“Preposterous. A princess has no need for a lethal weapon.”

“Right,” Hornet nodded, “and since I’m not a princess, that means I do need a nail!”

Lurien was taken aback by that twist in logic. He replayed their conversation, searching for the point of fundamental disconnect. After a pause he shook his head. “We have no time for games. A nail is dangerous and needless. You may not have one. Now come along.”

Hornet retreated another step. “But what about the Geo you gave me? It’s mine, right? I can spend it on what I want! And I want a nail!”

“As you may recall,” Lurien jabbed, “the conditions of our agreement required that you not leave my side before we reached the Spire. You voided that agreement the moment that you scampered off. Thus, that Geo is no longer yours and you must return it.” He lifted an extorting claw. “You cannot purchase a nail without any money, so cease this quibbling and follow me. The Vessel may very well be in jeopardy.”

Hornet clasped her Geo in both claws. “N-No, that’s—that’s not fair!”

“It is entirely fair!”

Hornet’s breath hitched. “Then h-how will I get my nail?”

“That answer is simple,” Lurien blared. “You will not!” He plucked the Geo from Hornet’s claws and pocketed it.

“But—But—”

And the girl began to cry.

It was not loud. It was not theatrical. Hornet merely hung her head and cupped the eyes of her mask with one claw. A low mewling—barely even audible—leaked from her like rain through a fractured skylight.

All thought of the Vessel left Lurien’s mind. He had never borne witness to a child’s anguish before, and he had certainly never been the direct cause. It suddenly felt as though Hornet were some unfathomably intricate machine on the verge of implosion, with only he there to repair it.

Although Lurien knew that the young often shed Mawlek tears when they did not get their way, Hornet exuded such a pure aura of grief that it denied that possibility. Above everything, Lurien knew that the tears must stop, if only for his own sake.

“Now, now, hush. Do not—Do not weep,” Lurien said, in as soothing a voice as he could muster. “It is only a nail, a sharpened block of metal. It is no great treasure.”

“But it is,” Hornet snuffled. “It really is.”

“Why do you fixate so? It cannot mean this much to you. Does your toy nail no longer please you?”

“No, no. That isn’t it. I just—” Hornet took a breath, and her claw twined the tassel of her shellwood nail. “When my mother gave me this, she said that she was going to sleep for a very long time. She said that when I was all grown up, she’d wake up, and that I could ha-have a real nail, not just a toy.”

Sleep?

Lurien stiffened.

“But when they sent me here, I asked the King how l-long my mother would sleep, and he said forever! That she would never w-wake up! And that I would never go home!”

And the terms of the King’s contract with the Beast finally became clear. Even as the implications turned Lurien’s stomach, he could not help but admire the perfection of it. What a masterstroke it was, to bend a rival and a threat into the most critical of allies.

Herrah the Beast? No. Herrah the Dreamer.

The King had sent her ahead, to carve the bounds of the dream-prison that would be Hallownest’s salvation. And it stung Lurien, in a way that he did not expect. For although Lurien himself had been the very first to take the pledge of Dreamer, Herrah had been the one chosen to pave the way.

All for the sake of this lone child.

“So, do you s-see?” Hornet asked, with a voice so thick that it was nearly unintelligible. “I need a nail so I can show that I’m b-big and strong! Not some little princess, but a grown up! And then if—if I can do that, then m-maybe mother will—” But she could not finish, for Lurien knelt and encompassed her in his arms. She froze, the sobs and broken words crystallizing within her.

“That is enough of that,” Lurien whispered. “No more weeping.”

“Are you mad?” Hornet’s question came out muffled by Lurien’s shoulder.

“At you? Never. I cannot begrudge my King, so I certainly cannot begrudge his child.”

After the span of a heartbeat, Hornet returned the embrace. She let out a sigh, long and tortured, but by its end the tremble had left her body.

“What now?” she asked.

Lurien released her and stood. He brushed at his soot-stained robes as he stalled to think. “Because our previous agreement was annulled… perhaps we should strike a new one. If it is your desire to prove that you are a grown-up worthy of a nail, then I will allow you that opportunity. For the next seven days we are to be companions. If over that interval you carry yourself as a grown-up would—with dignity, restraint, and tact—then on our way back to the Palace I will purchase a nail for you from this very shop. Any that you desire—” He glanced at some of the vicious weapons. “—within reason, that is. Are you interested in such a deal?”

Like an overturned Pilflip, Hornet went from scuttling despair to bounding delight. “What? Really? Really? I can have a nail?!”

Lurien inclined his head. “Yes, but only if you reveal yourself to be a true grown-up. Can you achieve this? For an entire week?”

“Oh, definitely! It’ll be easy!”

Something in Lurien doubted that, but he did not voice it. “Very well. We have penned a new agreement, and henceforth we will adhere to it.”

“Of course,” Hornet said. “I’ll show you just how grown-up I can be!”

With the calamity averted, Lurien could feel the tension between his shoulders unknitting. He was beginning to understand why the King had been so desperate to cede responsibility. Ruling a kingdom was likely a less arduous task than supervising an insubordinate child.

But as Lurien congratulated himself on another job well done, a doubt fluttered at his peripheries.

There was some crisis… some other matter of importance…

“The Vessel!” Lurien barked. “Quickly, girl! We haven’t any more time!”

Hornet laughed. “Oh, right! I forgot.”

Lurien grabbed a clawful of Hornet’s cloak and dragged her out into the rain.

Chapter Text

“Quit pulling!” Hornet shouted. “My mother made this! You’re going to stretch it!”

The bug child’s voice rose high and frail, but the din of the trade district drowned out her protests long before they reached Lurien.

The Watcher kept a grip on Hornet’s cloak as though it were the reins of an obdurate stag nymph. He bustled through the ever-shifting maze of a hundred other bodies, his focus darting from shell to shell.

This was not good. Not good at all.

Lurien cursed himself for his negligence. He had been so certain of the Vessel’s obedience. If he had only spared a single backward glance during Hornet’s pursuit, then this all would have been avoided! How could he have been so foolish? The Vessel was clearly abnormal. He should have accounted for that! Now, without the faintest clue on where to—

Hornet yanked her cloak free. “I told you to let go!” she screeched. “I’m a grown-up, right? I can walk on my own!”

Lurien staggered to a stop and about-faced. He readied a retort but caught himself. The girl’s outburst had attracted attention. A pocket was forming in the crowd—with he and Hornet on patent display in its center. Dozens of curious eyes peeked out from beneath hoods and umbrellas.

With a nervous chuckle, Lurien took Hornet by the claw and ushered her out of the flood of foot traffic. There was an untended cart parked beside a building, and Lurien sidled close, hoping that it would serve as a barrier against scrutiny. “Heed me, child,” he said, “the Vessel is of great importance to the King. If we do not locate it in time, then any number of misfortunes might occur. It could be swept into a storm drain, or trampled in the street, or captured by vagabonds, or—!” He paused to stamp out the rising flames of panic.

Hornet shrugged. “Spirit is fine. You don’t need to be scared. They’ll come back eventually. They probably just heard some music they liked and wandered off.”

Lurien lurched. “What?”

“Did you not know?” Hornet mimed at sawing on a stringed instrument. “Spirit loves music!”

“That is not even possible…”

“It is so!” She twirled in the grip of some imaginary song. “Back at the White Palace the musician bugs have performances all the time, with drums and funny metal horns and silken strings. Whenever they start playing for those stuffy nobles, Spirit always runs off to listen. Even when we’re in the middle of a game!”

Lurien thought to voice more denial but he had no such luxury of time. Though Hornet’s claim seemed ridiculous, it was their only clue. “Allowing that what you say may be true…” Lurien began, “what variety of music attracts the Vessel? Could it be something as elementary as a wind chime?”

“No, no,” Hornet shook her head. “Nothing like that. It must be pretty music, beautiful music! And it could be very far away. Spirit has great hearing!”

Lurien wrung his claws and paced beside the cart. “Very well. If beauty is what we seek, then the Vessel can be in but one place. Let us depart.”

“Okay!”

And they set out, toward the burnished, wide-flung gates of the arts district.

It had been quite a while since Lurien’s last visit. He had attended some nonsensical, operatic production at the repeated invitation of the City’s nobility. He recalled the pomp and presumption of the evening, the stag-drawn carriages, the flower-petal carpets, the menagerie of jewelry. It had soured his taste for music so entirely that he’d pledged never to return. But here he was, once again, strolling the troubadour-choked streets and attempting to differentiate the turmoil of a dozen different songs. Music of all texture and color spilled through open windows and over banisters, eddying, rain-like, upon the cobbles.

Lurien stopped in a plaza decorated with hanging bells. He bid Hornet to do the same and then massaged his temples. The warble of so many instruments was beginning to induce a headache.

As Lurien had expected, the Vessel was nowhere in sight. Music lounge after music lounge flanked the district’s main thoroughfare and diminished into the murk. It would take hours—days—to fully scour the place.

“We arrive at the melodic heart of the City,” Lurien reflected, “but beautiful music is in such abundance… Any among these songs may have attracted the Vessel.”

Hornet swayed in rhythm with the different tunes, speeding or slowing as she switched from one tempo to the next. “I mean, these are nice, but they aren’t beautiful.”

A laugh escaped Lurien almost without his notice. “A bold claim for one so young. Do you think yourself qualified to make that distinction?”

“Well,” Hornet hesitated. “Maybe I do! I’ve probably heard more music than you have. The White Palace is full of it, and I’ve been there for a long time.”

“Is that so?” Lurien laughed. “You are a connoisseur then? It slipped my notice that I was accompanying such a distinguished figure.”

“Yes, that’s right! I’m a c-connoisseur. Definitely!”

Lurien gave a theatrical nod. “In that case, perhaps it is best that you lead the way. Your refined senses will serve as a better guide.”

“Alright, I will,” Hornet said. “Just watch, finding Spirit will be easy!”

“I have the utmost confidence,” Lurien said as he fell in step.

They traveled the thoroughfare, pausing every block so that Hornet could listen. She devoted herself wholeheartedly to the task, foregoing her usual frolic.

This went on for some time, but inevitably, the ironic mirth bottomed out, and Lurien was forced to accept the truth. He was doomed, utterly and completely. The Vessel was gone.

Lurien’s pristine record of service was now marred, with a blemish so severe that there could be no redemption. Though he knew that Vessels were not… uncommon, this one clearly bore great significance to the King. Its loss would herald the end of Lurien’s employ.

He wondered what the punishment would be. Execution seemed doubtful; the King lacked the brutality for it. Dismissal was far more likely, but Lurien wondered if there was any difference between the two. He entertained the possibility of banishment, and to his surprise, it did not seem so miserable. It had been an age since he last traveled the world; much must have changed. The distant kingdom of Pharloom was said to be a wondrous place. Were he to visit, then it might even rekindle his interest in music…

“Lurien? Hey, Lurien? Lurien!”

The Watcher jolted.

Hornet waved a claw in his face. “Are you there?”

“Hmm? Yes?” Lurien gently pushed her claw aside.

“I found it!” Hornet squealed.

“Found what?”

“The most beautiful music in the whole city!”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

He glanced about, attempting to retrieve his bearings. The girl had dragged him halfway across the district. They stood before a soaring tower of over a dozen stories. Balconies and domed glass windows protruded from its surfaces. At ground level was a gilded, triangular door, beside which sat a sign. This stirred a vague remembrance in Lurien. He walked over to get a closer look. In runny, white paint, the sign read Pleasure House.

Here again? It seemed he was fated to revisit this building. Though, it looked different without the carpet of flowers and the shifting sea of aristocrats. He heard a haunting voice from somewhere far above, and it sent a shiver down his shell.

“Let’s go inside,” Hornet said. “I’m sure we’ll find Spirit in there!”

“Indeed…”

The foyer of the tower was warm and softly lit, with an open-faced elevator at the far side. Lumafly lanterns and luxurious curtains of dyed silk hung from the ceiling. Three nobles, each wearing a silver brooch, stood beside a bulletin board and chattered among themselves in that accent unique to the upper-class.

Lurien wiped his umbrella dry before snapping it shut. He supposed that its purchase had been a wise choice, after all. Only the very bottoms of his robes were even damp. He turned to Hornet to comment on this but was immediately pelted by a barrage of droplets.

The girl was shaking herself like an angered Mosscreep. Hours of accumulated rainwater shot in every direction, speckling the walls, the curtains, the nobles. Him.

“Stop! Cease! This very instant!” Lurien howled. He made a futile attempt to shield himself but became soaked in moments.

After one last, violent spasm, Hornet stilled. She planted her claws on her hips and appraised the now-dripping room as if all were well. “It’s nice in here,” she observed.

“Have you forsaken our new agreement already?! In what aspect was that a grown-up way to behave?!”

Hornet flinched. “No, wait! That wasn’t on purpose! I just forgot! I’ll—I’ll fix it!” She ran to the nearest curtain and dabbed at it with her cloak. Both fabrics were equally wet, rendering it a fruitless gesture.

The trio of nobles stared nails at Hornet from across the room. Lurien suspected their response would have been far more severe had he not been present.

“Those curtains will dry on their own,” Lurien said, “but you would be wise to atone for your transgression against those nobles. They have long memories for such slights.”

Hornet gave Lurien a puzzled look.

“Say that you are sorry,” Lurien clarified. “It is what a grown-up would do.”

“Right, okay!” Hornet trotted over to the nobles and dipped into a surprisingly elegant curtsy. “My sincerest apologies, noblebugs,” she said, her inflection eerily like the White Lady’s. “I meant no offense.”

The nobles grumbled something incomprehensible and then piled into the foyer’s elevator. Though there was sufficient room to accommodate Lurien and Hornet, one of the nobles pulled a lever, and with a jangle of chains, the elevator vanished, leaving the pair behind.

Hornet overbalanced, flopping to the floor. She propped herself on her arms and stared up the darkened elevator shaft. “That was rude,” she mumbled. “They didn’t even forgive me. I did the curtsy and everything…”

Lurien helped Hornet back to her feet. “I must admit, it was a valiant effort,” he said. “Your manner was positively genteel. Has the White Lady been instructing you on courtly behavior?”

“Yes,” Hornet sighed. She wiped her claws on her cloak. “It’s really boring. And it didn’t even work!”

Lurien patted her shoulder as they waited for the elevator to finish its rattling circuit. “You will find the nobility to be a unique challenge. Do not spurn the Lady’s lessons over a single failure. Decorum is the only means of dealing with this ilk.”

Hornet made an indifferent noise and went off to explore the peripheries of the foyer. She paused before the same bulletin board that had attracted the nobles’ attention. It stood twice her height and depicted a bug with vibrant pink wings and a scarlet dress. One of the bug’s arms was extended upward, drawing attention to the caption overhead.

Songstress Marissa. A voice to ease all burdens and still all troubled minds.

“She’s pretty,” Hornet whispered.

Lurien walked over. “Quite so. That striking presence has earned her significant prestige in the arts district.” A recollection bubbled up and he snorted. “Let us hope that she will not be in-costume should our paths cross.”

The elevator returned, mercifully empty, and they stepped inside.

“What do you mean?” Hornet asked. She yanked the lever and they ascended.

“When last I beheld the Songstress, it was during an opera at this very building. It was a three-act piece called ‘The Vision of the King’ that portrayed events in His life: the founding of Hallownest, the truce with the Mantis Tribe, the courting of the Queen. In the third act during the courting, the Queen was played by the Songstress herself. At what I can only assume was the director’s behest, she entered the stage in a farcical garb meant to simulate the Lady’s features. It was an immediate disaster. The shellwood headdress caught in the stage curtain, and the strips of the gown tangled the Songstress’ feet. She could not even complete her aria before losing balance and tumbling into the orchestra.” Lurien stifled a chuckle. “The King, the Queen, and I were all provided invitations to that opera, but only I found the time to attend. Surely, that was for the best…”

Hornet crossed her arms. “It’s not nice to laugh. And you know, it’s harder to walk in that gown than it looks. The Lady let me wear part of it once, and I tripped right away! You know how great my balance is!”

‘Great’ did not seem like the most felicitous adjective, but Lurien did not contend the matter.

“Besides,” Hornet continued. “Haven’t you tripped in your robes before? It must not have seemed very funny to you.”

Memories tumbled through Lurien’s mind: staircases taken faster than intended, door frames hungry for trailing silk, a protruding rivet on an elevator that left him bare-shelled before a mob of onlookers.

“Yes, well…” Lurien coughed. “You pose a sound argument.”

Upon exiting the elevator, their path led them into another foyer, this one even more richly appointed than the last. Its most prominent feature was a ticket booth embedded in the far wall. Several nobles were lined up before it, exchanging clawfuls of Geo for tickets of silk.

Beyond an archway adjacent to the booth came the disordered sound of instruments readying for a performance. The nobles shuffled through in their approximation of haste, disappearing into the dark of a much larger room.

Hornet skipped ahead and rested her chin on the booth’s counter. “Two, please!”

The clerk on the other side sniffed and adjusted a stack of tickets. “Another sopping waif seeking respite from the rain? Charming.”

“‘Waif’?” Hornet cocked her head. “No, I’m here for the music!”

“Oh, pardon.” The clerk plucked a ticket free and dangled it like a succulent fruit. “All are welcome, so long as they possess the Geo. Have you any?”

Hornet rummaged in her cloak, but no Geo emerged. “Not right now, but I did.”

“A pity. Move along.” The clerk waved in Hornet’s direction as though she were a foul vapor in need of dispersing.

“But I have to get inside!” Hornet protested. “It’s important!”

The clerk heaved a shrug. “Perhaps by the next performance you will have scrounged the City’s gutters for the necessary capital. Until then, however…”

“But—But—” Hornet coiled and uncoiled the tassel of the toy nail, her gaze darting between the clerk and the archway.

Lurien strode over to stand behind Hornet.

“I have already requested that you move along, waif,” the clerk continued. “You are wasting time, mine and that of the next patron. At the very least, step aside so that they—” The clerk looked up. “Watcher… Lurien?”

“The very same,” Lurien said with a grave nod. “Is my ward proving a vexation to you? I should hope not.”

“Your ward?” The clerk asked. “No… No, n-not at all! I was about to provide her a ticket to the performance—without charge, of course.”

“That’s not what you said,” Hornet quavered. “You said that I—”

The clerk made several rapid, placating sounds and handed Hornet a ticket.

Hornet hummed dubiously but voiced no other dissent.

“You are most generous,” Lurien said.

“No.” The clerk shook her head. “You are the truly generous one. We thank you for accepting this invitation.” She pressed a ticket into Lurien’s claw.

Lurien paused to consider the clerk’s meaning, but Hornet took him by the arm and tugged.

“Come on!” she said. “The show is about to begin!”

“Need I remind you that our intent is to locate the Vessel?” Lurien said.

“We can do both.”

Lurien allowed himself to be conducted through the archway and into the next room.

There was not much to see in the dark, but assorted scents of exquisite food drifted through the smoky air. Lurien’s sight gradually adjusted, and he recognized the soft glow of candlelight. Encircling the room were dozens of tables, each topped with a candle of its own. Nobles of every social rank and order of girth crowded around them, gorging on steamed meats and seasoned mushrooms. Lurien groaned, and the pleasing twitter of musical instruments fell deaf on his senses.

“It’s so dark,” Hornet whispered. “How are we supposed to see Marissa?”

“I reiterate that our purpose is to retrieve the Vessel. If we are so astronomically fortunate as to find it here, then we will be departing immediately after. It is well-past time I returned to the Spire.”

“Oh.” Hornet’s silhouette deflated. “Okay.”

With the slithering sound of drawn cloth, a sudden light bathed the room. Lurien flinched away from it, as did every other bug in attendance.

“It’s starting!” Hornet yipped.

A Lumafly spotlight embedded in the ceiling had been uncovered. It cast an unearthly, smoke-warped radiance onto an elevated platform at the room’s center. Circling the platform was an orchestra pit that bristled with metal and shellwood instruments like a well-stocked armory. Standing atop the platform, faithful to her bulletin’s depiction, was Marissa the Songstress. She lifted an arm over her head and then swept down into a low bow that sent her golden hair tumbling. “Welcome, esteemed patrons of the Pleasure House.” She straightened and then extended her arms outward in an encompassing manner. “You honor our establishment with your presence. It is our humble desire to attend to your needs, in both body and soul. I am Marissa, a songstress of some renown. For many years it has been my joy to perform before audiences much like—”

“Proceed!” A slovenly voice shouted from one of the tables. “Give us song, not blather!”

Marissa’s wings fluttered like startled Maskflies. “—like this one. With the aid of my expert accompanists, I will weave you the most splendid of songs. The inspiration for this piece arose from—”

“Sing, I say! Sing!”

Marissa took a deep breath and waved a claw at one of the musician bugs occupying the pit.

There was a low hum as instruments readied, and the unending mastication of the feasting nobles lulled.

The song began with gentle plucks upon a harp, soft and slow at first, but rising into a resonance that rebounded off the metal walls. The melody gamboled up and down the octaves, simulating the patter of rain. Out of this rose more instruments: strings, shellwoodwinds, and muted brass. They ebbed and flowed together in a harmony so stirring that it caught the breath in Lurien’s chest. The song stretched just long enough for Marissa’s presence to fade from awareness, becoming as inconsequential as the bouquets of old flowers littering her feet. But at the most precise moment, she spread wide the painted sky of her wings and unleashed a crystalline note.

A murmur rippled through the audience.

There was no force in Marissa’s voice. It did not carve through the ensemble like a crude implement, but instead held a numinous quality that permeated the other sounds without destroying them.

The music was so ensorcelling that even the heaviest noble paused in their meal. For a fleeting minute, Marissa was true to her epithet: a voice to ease all burdens and still all troubled minds.

Lurien felt a tug on his robes and looked down at Hornet’s outline. The ambient bloom of the Lumafly spotlight made it slightly easier to see. The girl was pendulating with Marissa’s every utterance.

“I told you,” Hornet said. “Spirit only likes beautiful music.” She lifted her free claw and pointed.

There, cross-legged upon the stage, nail-umbrella resting on its lap, was the Vessel. It sat perfectly still among the bouquets, staring at Marissa with a rapt intensity not unlike that of every other bug in attendance.

How long had Lurien been lost in the music? He hadn’t even noticed the Vessel clamber up. The urge to rush over took hold of Lurien. He was halfway across the room before it occurred to him that leaping onto the stage might be a poor way of avoiding attention. He stopped. The Vessel was in sight, that was good enough for the moment.

Inevitably, others noticed the intrusion into the performance. Though the appearance of an overeager child onstage elicited some tittering, a general rumble of discontent ran through the crowd. Voices were raised. There were calls for the child to be removed, immediately.

Marissa seemed not to be bothered by the Vessel. She was either so taken by the flow of the song that she did not notice, or simply did not care.

An usher ran up to the base of the stage and beckoned for the Vessel, cooing polite but emphatic words.

Lurien expected—knew—that the Vessel would heed a direct, spoken command. It would rise and trot over to the usher, as compliant as it was designed to be. And yet…

The Vessel did not budge. It did not even tilt its head toward the usher. Marissa alone seemed to be the sole object in its universe.

The song approached the climax, rising in both octave and decibel. Marissa flapped her wings to hover in the air, holding a single note so perfectly that the audience seemed to freeze within their shells. The harp plucked a wistful melody as Marissa let the note go and returned to the stage. Her shoulders sagged, but she still lifted an arm in her signature gesture and bowed low for the audience. The echoes faded, and silence flooded in to take their place.

None clapped, as if fearing to disturb the fragile tranquility. Eventually, the scrape of utensils on ceramic resumed and the song was forgotten.

Marissa rose from the bow and flinched at the sight of the Vessel sitting before her. She glanced over at the usher who was still calling to it. Marissa murmured something mellifluous before patting the Vessel on the head and turning to leave.

At that, the Vessel wobbled to its feet and finally assented to the usher’s pleas. It walked over and hopped off the stage without further incident.

“Baffling,” Lurien muttered. “to disregard a command…”

Hornet laughed. “Spirit can be pretty stubborn sometimes, right?”

“‘Stubborn’? Is that the word?”

Having seen enough, Lurien approached the stage. Hornet skipped after him, still humming the final few bars of Marissa’s song.

The usher was in the middle of a pointed—and futile—interrogation. Question after question crashed and broke against the imperturbable bulwark of the Vessel’s gaze.

“Are you lost, young… sir? Did you arrive with your parents? Are they nearby? Can you… understand me?”

Lurien cleared his throat and tapped the usher’s shoulder. “That child is under my care. It appears to have disrupted the performance. I apologize.”

The usher turned and peered at Lurien, as though he had not understood.

Lurien began to repeat himself, but—

“You are Watcher Lurien!” the usher exclaimed.

“…Correct,” Lurien said.

“And you are here! At the Pleasure House!”

“Also correct…”

“At Marissa’s own performance!”

“Truly, you have cut to the heart of the matter.”

The usher seemed to recall himself and dipped into a formal bow. “It is most excellent to see you here, Watcher Lurien. Most excellent indeed! We feared after so many unanswered invitations that you had no interest in attending. But here you are! Marissa will be ecstatic. Shall I escort you to her quarters?”

“Her quarters?”

“Yes, Watcher.”

“The Songstress’ quarters?”

“Y-Yes…?”

Lurien stared off into space. He had been expected? And several times, apparently. But why? The Songstress and he had never even spoken. After that disastrous opera, he’d received no more letters from the Pleasure House.

But then something occurred to him.

He thought back to that event, and to the vehement complaints he had made to his attendants afterward. How had he put it?

‘If I never behold another performance at that ridiculous place, then it will be too soon!’

Lurien’s shoulders tightened. It appeared that his attendants had taken his words to heart. He wondered just how many invitations they had turned away without even informing him.

“Marissa wants to see us?!” Hornet blared. “Really?”

The usher startled. “Erm, if you are a member of Watcher Lurien’s retinue, then yes, you are also welcome.”

“Did you hear that, Spirit?!” Hornet darted over to the Vessel and shook it by the wrists. “We get to see the Songstress! Aren’t you excited?”

Lurien stopped mentally composing a stern speech to his attendants. “Wait, child. As generous as this offer may be, we have no time for conversation. It grows late, and I must find you sleeping accommodations within the Spire.”

“But we’re already here!” Hornet objected. “And I’m not even tired!”

“We have dawdled long enough. I warned you of this outcome.”

Hornet hugged her toy nail. “She invited us. Isn’t it rude not to say hello? That doesn’t seem like a very grown-up thing to do…”

Lurien scoffed. “Do not presume to lecture me on the etiquette of adulthood, little girl. Your behavior so far has done nothing to convince me that you are worthy of a real nail.”

“That’s mean! I’m doing my best!”

“If I may?” The usher clasped his claws together. “I understand that your obligations are quite pressing, Watcher, but Marissa’s desire to see you is not a passing whim. She has a proposal for you that I am certain she would rather deliver herself. Would you please reconsider? It will require only a few minutes of your time.”

“Yes!” Hornet said, sidling over to stand beside the usher. “Only a few minutes! We can at least do that, can’t we?”

A protracted grumble roiled about in Lurien’s throat. He had no stamina for these battles of will. Hornet was so irrepressible, as if the word ‘no’ did not carry the slightest meaning. Perhaps this was how she had bested the King. “…Very well, then,” Lurien conceded. “We will speak with the Songstress.”

Hornet gave a cheer and leaped nearly twice her height into the air.

“But only a few minutes!” Lurien said. “No more.”

“Of course,” Hornet affirmed. “Of course.”

Chapter Text

The inner passages of the Pleasure House were quite unlike the rooms available to the clientele. Gone were the wide spaces, the crass chandeliers, the sprawling murals, replaced by austerity and the feeling of weight that small places so easily conjured. With children in tow, Lurien followed the usher at a brisk pace. He did as best he could to keep his bearings, but the cryptic pattern of the journey made it no easy task. The turns and staircases bled into one another, and inevitably Lurien became lost.

Defeated, he shifted his focus to the children, ensuring that they were not trampled by the marathon of attendants. One after another, the uniformed bugs passed by, carrying all manner of goods: ceramic urns of sloshing drink, silvered platters heaped with food, censers draped in sweet-smelling mist. It was all quite a marvel to Lurien. Not the goods, but the efficiency with which they were ferried. Despite the shadowed halls and blind corners, not a single collision or spill occurred. The attendants were like the threads of a fine garment weaving effortlessly through one another.

“Are we almost there?” Hornet asked.

“I do not know, child,” Lurien said. “I am no more familiar with these halls than you.”

“Well, can you ask the usher, then?”

“To what end? Knowing a journey’s length does nothing to shorten it. Exercise patience as an adult would. We will arrive when we arrive.”

Hornet’s stride became a bounce. “But I can’t! I’m too excited!”

“Observe the Vessel.” Lurien reached back to pat one of its horns. “For all the excitement it doubtless feels, the Vessel still maintains composure. You would do well to emulate.”

Hornet thrashed her head. “That’s not fair! Spirit’s always like that, no matter how excited they are!”

Lurien chuckled. “Come now, settle down. You were unaware of the Songstress’ existence a mere hour ago. Are you already so ardent an admirer?”

“Yes! Why wouldn’t I be? Aren’t you?”

Claw to mask, Lurien took a moment to consider. His opinion of the Songstress had certainly risen after this most recent performance, but even so, that ruinous night of opera would not slip his mind. “It has yet to be determined,” he said, and left it at that.

Without warning, the usher skidded to a stop. Lurien caught himself in kind, but that accomplished little, for the children rammed blindly into his back, sending him staggering. He had just enough time to recover his dignity before the usher turned to them and gave a solemn flourish.

“We have arrived.”

Their point of arrival seemed no different from any other hall: dim, confined, desolate. However, Lurien did note a distinct lack of foot traffic. The perpetual drone of music and merriment was barely a whisper here.

The usher approached a nearby door of carved shellwood. It bore no plaque or marking, but he knocked with the utmost care. “Songstress? Are you present? I have a guest here that wishes to meet you.”

Out came a voice, languid and muffled. “More patrons, Peridot? Forgive me, but I am too weary for visitors. Perhaps another time.”

The usher stiffened. He shot Lurien a look and then leaned in on the door. “You misunderstand, Songstress. This guest has traveled long and far for this meeting.”

“Please, Peridot,” the voice quavered, “grant me just one day of solitude.”

The usher’s frame shrank in on itself like a withering plant. “If you would only open the door, then you will quickly realize that this is no ordinary—”

“Apologies, truly, but I haven’t the strength.”

“Yes, but you see it’s—”

“Send them away.”

The usher pressed his mask flush against the shellwood. “It is Watcher Lurien!” he hissed.

There was a crash, something ceramic hitting the tiles. Everyone jumped, save for the Vessel.

“Watcher Lurien?!” The languor had left the voice. “T-Tell him to wait just a moment, please. I will attend him as soon as I am able!”

A frenzy ensued beyond the door, the scrape of furniture, the swish of a broom, the clatter of baubles.

With perfect, brittle etiquette, the usher turned to Lurien and inclined his head. “The Songstress will be just a—”

“Just a moment, yes,” Lurien said. “I am standing right beside you, Peridot.”

“R-Right, of course…”

A tense minute stretched, punctuated by frustrated noises and the thump of discarded objects.

Hornet poked her head out from behind Lurien and fixed her eyes on the usher. “That’s a pretty name. Peridot.” She rolled the word around, testing its shape.

“Erm, my name is actually Felix. It is just the Songstress’ habit to grant the staff colorful sobriquets.”

“Oh, I know that one!” Hornet perked. “You mean nicknames!”

The usher nodded slowly, as if not understanding. Hornet planted her claws on her hips in triumph.

With the clang of a hidden mechanism, the shellwood door shot open. In a maneuver that seemed long practiced, the usher evaded a bludgeoning by darting to one side. The scent of flowers and candle wax emerged on a curtain of warm air.

The usher flanked the doorway and offered a parting bow. “May your meeting prove productive, Watcher. Please, enter. Make yourselves comfortable. And thank you.”
Hornet took the offer in a heartbeat, surging past Lurien and into the room. Surprisingly—or perhaps unsurprisingly—the Vessel took the usher’s words as a command and shuffled in, head already scanning for something that constituted ‘comfortable’.

For an instant, Lurien lingered at the threshold, even though he knew that the point of withdrawal had long-since passed.

“Do you require anything else?” the usher asked, just barely tremulous. “Shall I remain here and escort you back once your business is concluded?”

Without any other reply, Lurien shook his head and stepped inside.

Lurien wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected from the Songstress’ quarters. Vaulted ceilings? Engraved pillars? Honeycombed chambers of copper and gold? Whatever the expectation had been, it evaporated before the reality, for in truth, the quarters were hardly more glamorous than the sort occupied by Lurien’s own attendants. The ceiling was low, the walls plain, and the only decoration in sight came in the form of flowers—bouquets and bouquets of them, spilling off furniture, pooling on the floor. The shattered remains of a vase poked out from beneath a rug in the corner.

“Welcome, Watcher,” Marissa the Songstress said. She was perched upon a shellwood chair in a pose of hurried regality, dress tastefully draped, shining hair swept to one side. Her shoulders rose and fell faintly with suppressed exertion. She gestured at an ancient-looking couch across from her. “It is an honor to finally meet you. Please.”

“A mutual sentiment,” Lurien said, his eye still roaming. There was a weariness about the room, in every tarnished bit of metal, every scuffed surface.

Still under the usher’s sway, the Vessel gravitated to the couch and took a seat. The old springs whined pitifully beneath the weight, but the Vessel paid no heed. It settled into the cushions and placed its umbrella across its lap. Just as the Vessel seemed to relax, the couch gave a groan and snapped shut like the jaws of a Fool Eater. All that could be seen of the Vessel were a pair of horns and two fluttering feet.

Marissa winced. “Pardon, that couch has accommodated more than its share of visitors over the years. It has grown a bit temperamental by consequence.”

Lurien made a perfunctory noise and moved over to the couch. With several fierce tugs, he was able to free the Vessel. He held it aloft at arm’s length, inspecting it for damage as he would a fallen easel.

“Miss Marissa, I loved your song!” Hornet shouted. She scurried past Lurien and the bewildered Vessel, straight to the Songstress. Almost hesitantly, Hornet took her by the claw. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

“Why thank you,” Marissa said. “It’s a rare thing among the young to show a fondness for music. You must be very mature for your age.”

Hornet giggled and shot Lurien a look more luminous than the King.

“Do these little ones count themselves among your retinue, Watcher?” Marissa asked. She carefully prised herself free of Hornet’s grip. “Have you exchanged your Knights for gentler company?”

Lurien put the Vessel down and nudged it in Hornet’s direction. He rectified the couch before sitting as lightly as he could. “Were you to spend time with these little ones, then you would soon find ‘gentle’ to be a poor descriptor. They are accompanying me at the request of an acquaintance, but they are no retinue.”

“May I know their names?”

Lurien weighed the question, whether revealing Hornet’s name was a greater threat than the suspicion that would arise from withholding it. He was allowed three entire seconds before—

“I’m Hornet!” the girl blurted. She performed a low curtsy and then yanked the Vessel over to her side. “This is Spirit!”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Marissa said. She turned to the Vessel and appraised it just long enough to spark Lurien’s worry. “You are that intrepid young bug from earlier. It came as quite a shock to see you upon my stage. Was the view truly so poor among the nobles?”

She waited for a reply, some sign of recognition, but it was not forthcoming.

“Sorry, Miss Marissa,” Hornet said, “but Spirit doesn’t like to talk. They’re very glad to meet you, though. Isn’t that right, Spirit?”

The Vessel was still, its puppet strings slack.

Hornet jabbed it in the side with her elbow. “Nod for yes,” she whispered, and the Vessel bobbed in accord.

“That will suffice, children,” Lurien said. “Go entertain yourselves as the Songstress and I exchange words. Do not stray too far, we will be departing soon.”

“But we just got here,” Hornet grumbled, though she did as was requested and left their immediate presence.

The Vessel was also quick to accept the command, and with far less argument. It about-faced and marched into an adjoining chamber. Lurien wondered how a hollow being would pursue entertainment, if such a thing was even possible. Perhaps later he’d find the Vessel staring vacantly at a wall.

With a shake of his head, Lurien returned to the more pressing matter. “Songstress, your usher notified me—rather insistently—of a proposition that you wished to deliver.”

Marissa straightened. “Peridot, yes. He is quite the cajoler when the need arrives. Did he let slip the nature of my proposal?”

“He did not, hence my presence here.”

“Good… I thought it best this be a private matter. You see, I wish to beseech a favor of you—a personal favor.”

And there it was, the crux. Like every other mewling noble and aristocrat, the Songstress sought something from him. What would it be? Wealth? Influence? Secrets?

Lurien’s digits drummed against the couch’s armrest.

“It involves my art,” Marissa continued. “Did you care for it, by the by? My performance. I assure you it was far from the best I have to offer.”

“Time is not something I possess in abundance. State your request.”

Marissa recoiled slightly. She broke eye contact and made a show of finding interest in Hornet, who was in the middle of investigating a dressing table on the far side of the room. It was a delicate and tired piece of furniture, but well-accoutered. Shells of powders and creams sat before a wall-mounted mirror, above which hung a fading Lumafly bulb. Hornet amused herself with the reflection, making one silly gesture after another.

“Watcher,” Marissa said, “before I make of myself a fool, I must know something. Why have you chosen only now to accept my invitations? I realize that your service to the King asks much of you, but it’s been so many months…”

The drumming stopped.

How was he to answer that? With the truth? That the opera had so appalled him he’d vowed never to return? That even had his attendants not filtered his mail, the invitations might have just as likely gone unanswered?

“I—”

“Spirit brought us here!” Hornet said. She drew within a few paces, just beyond the imaginary barrier of Lurien’s dismissal. “They heard you sing and ran off to go find you. It’s a very big honor, you should know. They don’t do that for just anyone.”

“Oh. I see,” Marissa murmured. “It was chance, then.”

“Songstress,” Lurien said, attempting to retake the reins, “whatever our reason for attending, we are here now, and if you do not make your request then I cannot consider it.”

Marissa nodded. “Very true, Watcher.” She smoothed her dress with unsteady claws. “I wish to visit the Pale Court. To perform before its constituents. And the King himself.”

The couch creaked ominously as Lurien leaned back.

“Can you help me?” Marissa continued. “Is it within your power?”

Lurien scratched beneath his mask. “You ask no small thing. The court’s reputation of reclusiveness is well-earned.”

“I realize, Watcher, but I must do this. I’ve aspired to it from the very moment I ascended the stage. I’d hoped to achieve an audience with the court on the merits of my own renown but,” she gestured vaguely, “it seems this is my zenith.”

Where was it? Where was the ulterior motive? Lurien could not see. Was this some façade, an excuse to draw close to the King? Could the Songstress be a threat, with some nefarious claw guiding her actions?

This and more flitted through Lurien’s mind while Marissa squirmed in the silence. He took a breath—

“Of course you can come!” Hornet squealed. “We’d love to hear you sing at the palace!”

Lurien lurched. “Now wait just a moment, I will have none of that! This is not your choice to make.”

“But she’d be perfect! We’ve never had a singer before. The normal stuff gets boring after so long.”

The couch made a more threatening noise, and Lurien leapt up to avoid the Vessel’s fate. “Enough, no more impudence, child. Go retrieve the Ve—Go retrieve Spirit. We are leaving.” He looked to Marissa. “My sincerest apologies, Songstress, but I cannot provide you with a royal audience. The King is far too occupied with matters of state to attend any recitals.”

Like a dying Fungling, Marissa deflated. “I… I understand. Thank you for your time, Watcher.”

“Liar!” Hornet shouted, her voice suddenly huge in the small room. “He’s not busy! The King listened to a recital yesterday! I saw it!”

Lurien towered over the girl. “I told you to collect the Vessel. This petulance is unbecoming of an adult.”

Hornet retreated a step, but only one. “It’s her dream. Why can’t she come?”

“It is the dream of every citizen of Hallownest to behold the King with their own eyes. Would you have me waste His time with such trivialities?”

“I don’t know, maybe? It can’t be so hard to help Miss Marissa. Don’t you have a dream of your own?”

“Little one,” Marissa cooed, “your efforts are appreciated, but you needn’t—”

“I do!” Lurien boomed. “To serve the King to the best of my abilities, no matter how many hellions he might inflict upon me. I strive toward that dream every day and wasting His time with musical nonsense seems a poor way to do it. Now go find the Vessel. The decision is made.”

Hornet did not move. She held her ground, tense as a duelist. With a hiss of cloth, she drew her toy nail and pointed it at Lurien. “No! You listen here. I-I order you—As princess, I order you to let Miss Marissa sing for the King!”

“Oh, so now you are a princess? Only as it suits your puerile needs! Heed this, your royal blood holds no power here! The King has entrusted your keeping to me! NOT the other way—” But he stopped, his shell going cold. On a creaking axis, his head pivoted toward Marissa.

“Royal blood?” the Songstress whispered.

Lurien coughed, long and loud and wet. “Well, Songstress, it—it seems that our meeting has ended. It was a pleasure speaking with you.” He cupped his claws to shout. “Vessel, come!” Shakily, he activated the lever beside the main door, which snapped open. “Let us depart, Hornet.” He grabbed her by the outstretched arm.

“Wait!” Marissa rose. “Please explain. Do you mean to say that she is the King’s child?”

Lurien waved his umbrella as though dispersing a fog. “No, no, you misunderstand, it is only a game that Hornet plays, nothing more. You know how every little girl longs to be a princess.”

Hornet dug in her heels, and a thrumming sensation ran up the length of Lurien’s arm. “It’s not a game. I am the princess. That means you have to listen to me!”

Lurien laughed, though it was high and strained. He dragged the girl a step toward the door. “That is enough fun for now. You may play more princess once we arrive at the Spire.”

“I’m not playing,” Hornet growled. She leveraged all her weight and brought the tug of war to a standstill. “We aren’t leaving until you promise to help.”

The thrumming grew like a static charge, and the silk tassel of Hornet’s nail rippled, but Lurien only redoubled his efforts. “Now, now, child, there is no need to make a scene. Just do as I say, and all will be well.” With another good heave, he had her at the threshold. Only a few more steps and they would be done with this fiasco. But the Vessel was nowhere to be seen. If the quarters were as small as they appeared, then it must have heard his shout.

“I said we’re not leaving!” Hornet shrieked.

There was a gust of air, a compression in Lurien’s vision. Light, soft and milky white, flowed from Hornet’s body into the silk of her nail. The tassel spasmed to life, its every strand elongating and whipping about in directionless fury. A dozen blows—heavy as clubs—fell upon Lurien: his mask, his chest, his arms. He lost grip on the girl and stumbled back, landing on his rear with a thump.

The energy vanished as quickly as it had appeared, the wind dying and the tassel returning to dormancy. Hornet dropped the nail as if it had burned her. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Are you alright?!”

Lurien took stock, running a claw over his mask and shell. He was unbroken but not unbruised. As the shock subsided, he felt the ache swelling to take its place.

What had just happened? Was that Soul? Had she infused the silk with Soul in the very same way that the King infused his wards? Heat built beneath Lurien’s mask. Why had he not been warned that the child was capable of such a thing? It was immensely dangerous!

As Lurien wobbled to his heet, Marissa drew close and took him by the elbow. With soothing words, she guided him to her chair, and he took a seat.

Hornet kept several paces off, her claws clamped to her chest as though she feared what they might do if let free.

“What happened?” Marissa asked. “That was the King’s magic, wasn’t it?”

Lurien thought to concoct some plausible denial, but his mind was a whirling mess. “No, it was merely the wind, a Lumafly discharge from—”

Marissa tightened her grip on his elbow. “Watcher, I am no pretty simpleton. Offer the truth, please.”

Hornet was trembling from her horns to her feet. “I’m really sorry, Lurien. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, honest! We-We can go now. I’ll get Spirit and then we’ll go, okay?” She ran off after the Vessel, gasping, but not from fatigue.

Lurien waited for his heart to stop pounding. He gave Marissa a look weighted with all the gravitas he could muster. “It is as it seems. She is the heir of Hallownest, the King’s daughter, and the inheritor of His power.”

“A marvel,” Marissa breathed. “I’ve shared words with not only the keeper of the city, but the future queen as well. The staff will call me mad when they hear of this.”

Though it sent lances of pain through his neck, Lurien shook his head. “No, that knowledge is not to leave this room. The bugs of the City—especially the nobles—need not be privy to the King’s reproductive activities. It would only prove a nuisance to Him. And to me.”

Marissa flicked a claw through her hair. “Oh… I see.”

There came a tumbling crash from the other chamber, followed by a shrill voice. “Spirit, what did you do?!”

Before the sound had even finished reverberating off the walls, Lurien was back up and on the move. It seemed he was undeserving of even an instant’s pause.

Marissa was quick to follow, the nervous flicker of her wings lightening her step.

The adjoining chamber proved to be the Songstress’ bedroom, complete with pillows and frayed sheets. On the far side, Hornet stood before what appeared to be a pile of cloth and wooden scraps, still shrouded in an aura of settling dust. The girl fretted from foot to foot. “Oh, no, no, no. Marissa will be so mad. We don’t have time for this, Spirit. We need to leave, get up!”

Lurien circled the bed for a better look.

“Not the wardrobe,” Marissa moaned.

Beneath the remains of what had once been a stately piece of furniture wriggled the Vessel. An avalanche of dresses, in all shades and styles, had buried the thing up to its head. It was attempting to obey Hornet’s command to rise, but must have been hopelessly tangled, for no amount of effort saw progress.

Feeling eyes upon her, Hornet whirled about. “I’m sorry, Miss, Marissa! It was an accident! We’ll clean it up right away.” She dug the Vessel out to a chorus of tearing silk, and it emerged thankfully undamaged, trailing bits of dress like streamers.

A red strip hung from the Vessel’s neck. Lurien took it to be just another casualty, but upon closer inspection it appeared to be a scarf of a suspiciously familiar red. Hornet tried to pry it off, but the Vessel’s claws were fixed firmly and would not relinquish it.

Lurien trudged closer and trawled the Vessel’s umbrella out from beneath the heap. “I will ensure that you are reimbursed,” he said, wearily. “Deliver a missive containing whatever fee you feel is appropriate to the Spire and an attendant will provide the Geo.”

“That is appreciated, Watcher,” Marissa said, “but can I expect a response from that missive? I mean no offense, but given the history…” She trailed off.

“I will make certain of it. Now, I believe we have done enough damage for one day. Come along, children.”

“But Miss Marissa’s scarf!” Hornet said. “Hold on, I’ll—” She tugged again, but the Vessel would not yield. “Spirit, come on, just—”

Marissa patted Hornet on the shoulder. “It is alright, little one. They may keep it. They’re far more enamored with that scarf than I ever was.”

Hornet conceded and bowed her head. “It was nice meeting you,” she murmured.

Lurien escort the children back to the hallway without further devastation. Though his shell throbbed, Lurien offered Marissa his most courteous farewell.

“Before you go,” Marissa said, pressing her claws together. “All this excitement aside, if I might ask just one last time, is there no way that I may gain a royal audience?”

Though Hornet vibrated beside him with suppressed petitions, Lurien held firm. “No, Songstress. Good day to you, I wish you luck with your art.”

He turned to leave, but Marissa muttered under her breath—something like ‘if I must, then.’

“Luck to you as well,” the Songstress said, cheerfully. “I imagine it will be quite a challenge to protect little Hornet’s secret. You’d be astonished at how quickly rumors can spread from the Pleasure House. So many nobles frequent the establishment, and they are so fond of talk. But you’ve no need to worry about me. I’ll keep my peace.” She tilted her head in mock consideration. “Though, of late, I worry I’ve become a bit of a gossip. Without any meaningful performances to occupy me, I whittle the time in idle banter with the staff. Oh, and we discuss all manner of things; hopefully nothing slips out. But do travel safe.”

Lurien froze, one foot off the ground. He said nothing for a long moment as his mind scrambled for a counter thrust.

But there was none.

Instead. “You have made your point. I will prepare the arrangements. We will come to collect you in one week. Until then, you had best keep that peace, Songstress.”

And he set off.

Marissa waved as they diminished down the hallway. “Thank you, Watcher! You will not regret it!”

As they turned a corner, Hornet piped up. “What just happened?”

But Lurien had no energy to reply.

Chapter Text

“I’m tired.”

“Hush, we are nearly there. A block at the most.”

“You said that a block ago. Can we stop?”

“No. Had you not squandered energy sprinting about the City, then you would not be so exhausted.”

“But my feet hurt.”

“Child, you are not the only one suffering. Resolve yourself a bit longer, then we may rest.”

“…Okay…”

Lurien labored down a rain-smeared thoroughfare, both children lagging along in his wake. Despite the many detours, he had finally amended their course, and the merciful end was in sight.

The Spire loomed in the indeterminate distance, shawled by rain and shadow. Like an optical illusion, it seemed simultaneously near and far. This was not the first time that Lurien had experienced this phenomenon and he was usually much better at gauging it, but with the unfamiliar surroundings and crushing fatigue, his spatial awareness was not at its best.

He hadn’t the slightest idea what time it was anymore. The empty streets and darkened windows indicated that it was late, but how late, exactly? If Hornet’s rapidly fading strength was a standard of measurement, then bedtime had long since come and gone.

Lurien chided himself for dismissing Marissa’s usher prematurely. The return trip through the Pleasure House’s labyrinth of corridors had taken hours—at least he estimated as much. A hot, needling fog had seeped into Lurien’s head, and it took all his effort just to plant one foot before the other.

A block passed in the drizzling, semi-silence. Then two. And three.

Just as Hornet took up a prolonged, siren whine, the Spire lurched forward, and they were suddenly standing at the base of its stairs.

Hornet must have truly been at her limit, for she made no comment about the colossal portico or multi-framed windows. She only plodded up to the landing and slumped against the banister. The Vessel was more energetic—or more aptly inexorable—ascending with a few easy steps and planting itself beside the girl as though the day had only just begun.

Lurien braced his sore joints and climbed.

The Spire’s lofty, shellwood doors were shut, another confirmation of the hour. Upon them, a relief carving of the King gazed down in what Lurien swore was disappointment.

Keeping his own eye low, Lurien pressed on the doors, but they did not budge. He tried a second time, bringing his shoulder to bear, though to no effect.

“Do you have a key?” Hornet asked.

Lurien ran a claw over his robes—his spare robes, he realized. The set he had donned that morning in preparation for a messy day of painting. Empty pockets rustled beneath his touch. “It is here somewhere, surely,” he said. But as the search yielded nothing, a stone settled in his stomach. “I seem to have… misplaced it.”

Hornet resumed her whine, redoubled this time.

Fiercely, Lurien rapped against the door, hard enough to numb his whole arm. “Hello? Hello?!”

After a moment, the treble of a voice rose from the other side. “The Spire is closed to visitors for the evening. If you wish to return a scroll, then do so on the morrow. The guards do not take kindly to those in breach of curfew. Travel safely.”

“I am no visitor!” Lurien bellowed, startling even the Vessel. “I am the Watcher, and I demand entrance to my own residence!”

“Oh, yes, surely,” the voice chortled. “And I am the King himself. But enough jokes, you would be wise to return home. It is unsafe to prowl about.”

Wait.

Even though the dense shellwood, Lurien knew that voice. “Belvedere?”

There was a pause, long enough that Lurien worried the bug had sauntered off. He raised a claw to pound upon the doors a second time, but there came a clank of tumblers shifting in a lock.

On well-oiled hinges, the doors swung inward, parting the visage of the King down the middle. Beyond stood Lurien’s personal assistant, draped in a fine, red uniform and matching brooch.

“Watcher?” Belvedere asked, peering despite the abundant Lumafly light. “What are you doing outside at this hour? Your calendar has today set aside for painting in your quarters.” Belvedere slipped a scroll out of the satchel hanging at his waist and unrolled it with one claw. “Yes, so it’s marked right here. When did—Oh, dear, you are positively drenched! And you have guests! Are those… children?”

Lurien warded the question with a raised claw before herding his charges inside.

Belvedere scurried out of the way and stood at attention. “My profoundest apologies for not granting you entrance sooner, but I was not informed of this change in schedule.”

“Nor was I,” Lurien muttered, “but when the King calls, His Watcher attends.”

“Oh,” Belvedere said, crossing his arms. “I see. Well, you must be wearied by the road. Shall I procure anything for you?”

Lurien wrung his damp robes. “Something to fend off the cold would be welcome. Tea perhaps.”

“I can certainly oblige,” Belvedere bobbed. “Please rest yourselves in the library until I return with refreshments…” He glanced at the expanding puddle beneath Hornet’s feet. “…and towels.”

“Thank you, Belvedere,” Lurien said.

And with that, Belvedere departed, expeditious as usual.

Lurien shook what water he could from his umbrella before depositing it in a basket beside the doors. He took the children by the shoulders and guided them through the foyer. “Welcome to my home. Do your utmost to behave; many precious and fragile things are contained in this place.”

The foyer gave way to the Spire’s library, a single, grand chamber of vaulted ceilings, hanging banners, and rows upon rows of scroll racks. Lurien paused at the periphery and drank in the sight as he always did. A peculiar calm came to him, but he was granted no opportunity to savor it. Hornet pressed past him toward the nearest bench. She collapsed onto it in extravagant fashion, sprawling full-length and draping an arm over her eyes.

“That was so long,” Hornet said. “Why is everything in the City so far away?”

Lurien strolled over and sat on the remaining quarter of the bench. “It is curious how one impulsive deviation can elongate an otherwise simple journey.”

“I know,” Hornet said with a weak chuckle. “Spirit really slowed us down. But it’s not their fault, they can’t help how much they like music.”

Lurien bristled. “I was not speaking of the Vessel.”

Hornet propped herself up. “Do you mean Miss Marissa? It’s not her fault either, you know. She’d been wanting to see you for a long time. It would have been rude not to say hello.”

“Nor was I referring to the Songstress!”

Hornet cocked her head. “I’m not good at guessing games. Are you talking about how you got us lost? Don’t feel bad, all those hallways looked the same anyway. Even I didn’t know where we were.”

“I am not the guilty party here!” Lurien snapped. “It was you that I—” but he stopped himself, pressing down on the acid-bubble of indignation. “Never mind. Regardless of the journey, we have arrived and that is solace enough.”

“You’re right,” Hornet said as she reclined once again. “I guess it’s nobody’s fault.”

Lurien made of his claws a tight ball in his lap and said nothing. As a quiet minute passed, he wondered not for the first time if Hornet was indeed as young as she appeared. Being an offspring of the King, it was entirely possible that she shared in His agelessness. For all Lurien knew, the girl was well into adulthood, only feigning naivety for her own amusement. That would certainly explain the surgical malevolence in some of her actions. Lurien brooded on this potentiality until a slow, rhythmic sound broke his concentration. He looked over at Hornet, tracking the rise and fall of her chest, the tiny rumble of her snoring.

In a matter of moments, she had passed out on a cushion-less, wrought iron bench.

Lurien shook his head. Perhaps his theory wasn’t so plausible after all. He doubted anything but a child could so easily find sleep.

For the time being, Lurien decided to leave her alone. He had no intention of letting the King’s daughter weather the night on a library bench like a common vagrant, but there was nothing wrong with a little peace.

By habit, Lurien turned to the Vessel, if only to confirm it still existed. His faith in its obedience had been sorely tested, to the point that he trusted it little more than the girl.

Fortunately, it stood only a few paces away, inert and unharmed. It had not wandered off in search of wind chimes or crushed itself beneath a scroll rack. With its dripping red scarf and nail-umbrella, the Vessel struck an unusual figure. It was staring at Hornet as she slept, and not in its usual, vacant way.

Perhaps it was the mania of the long day, but Lurien found himself pondering what went on within that horned shell. Was it possible, even in the slightest sense, that the Vessel was thinking about the girl?

“What is it, little thing?” Lurien whispered. “What do you see?”

The Vessel locked eyes with him but offered no revelation.

Eventually, the sound of wheels upon tile echoed through the library, growing louder and closer by the second. From around a corner emerged Belvedere, pushing a silver-plated refreshment cart with all the meager force he could muster. It made a terrible din as it rolled to a halt before the bench, but that did little to disturb Hornet’s sleep.

From the profusion of dishes and decanters arrayed upon the cart, it seemed that Belvedere had become carried away with his duties… again.

“Please pardon the delay,” Belvedere chirped, “but the Spire chefs were more difficult to rouse than I anticipated. For beverages, I have tea, mineral water, berry juice, and a spiced root drink from the market that I was assured is an excellent pick-me-up. For comestibles, I have meat buns, shredded vegetables, moss salad, and—” he leaned in, eyes glinting, “honeycomb! Do not ask how I acquired it; I am sworn to secrecy.”

Lurien pressed his mask into his claw. “All I requested was tea. You woke the chefs?”

“Yes, Watcher.”

“It is the middle of the night!”

“Indeed, it is.”

“This is no time to be badgering the chefs into furnishing banquets.”

Belvedere straightened. “The time of day is no excuse to rescind hospitality.”

“You would have done that very thing to me at the Spire doors had I not called your name!”

There was a pause. Belvedere seemed frozen in some intense calculation. “That is different,” he said slowly. “You are the Watcher… and they are your guests.”

Lurien threw up his arms.

Contritely, Belvedere crossed his wrists at the waist. “If this displeases you, then I apologize. My only wish was to provide a sufficient repast. I will remove it immediately.”

“No, no. I—Your consideration is appreciated, truly, it is only that this is a great deal of food for a night’s snack.”

“One never knows when it comes to the appetite of guests,” Belvedere murmured.

As though on cue, Hornet groaned and sat up. She looked dazedly from Lurien to Belvedere before settling on the cart. Just as it had been with the Geo in the umbrella shop, all else in the world seemed to fade from her awareness. “Is that food?” she asked.

“It certainly is,” Belvedere said cheerily. “Are you hungry?”

Hornet affixed herself to the edge of the cart. “A little.”

Belvedere swept to the side with a flourish. “Then partake as much as you please! The Spire’s amenities are at your disposal!”

Hornet lunged for the nearest meat bun, but she stopped herself. To Lurien’s surprise, she glanced at him, a silent appeal in her eyes.

“Go on,” Lurien sighed.

Hornet made a joyous noise and snatched up the first morsel.

It seemed acceptable enough to Lurien. With a bit of food weighing the girl down, bedtime would likely be less of an ordeal.

Yet ‘a bit’ quickly proved to be an inaccurate estimate. To the clash of dishware and the hollow, metal chime of tipped decanters, Hornet partook all that she pleased. Lurien looked on with horror as she systematically decimated everything upon the cart. Belvedere was barely granted enough time to rescue two helpings of moss salad before all the rest vanished.

“She eats like a newborn Mawlek,” Belvedere whispered. He ushered Lurien over to a nearby reading table before setting down one of the plates. “Have you been feeding her at all?”

“Well, no but…”

“Watcher!”

“It was unnecessary!” Lurien hissed. “The trek to the Spire is not so long—at least it should not have been. Had all gone according to good sense, then we would have arrived here in time for the usual meal.”

“A wise guardian always brings along a satchel of snacks,” Belvedere tutted as he set out some silverware. “The young grow peckish easily.”

“I haven’t the patience for admonishment, Belvedere. The King informed me of my duty a mere moment before dropping these children on my head!”

Belvedere shrank in obeisance, though that didn’t stop him from chuckling. “Well, you needn’t worry any longer. Your dutiful assistant is here to ease this burden.”

Lurien prodded his moss salad with a fork. “You have my thanks. I am not so proud as to deny that offer.”

As though braving the jaws of a Fool Eater, Belvedere retrieved a pot of tea from the cart and poured Lurien a cup. After the Watcher had taken a sip, Belvedere poured one for himself. “So, how long will we be enjoying their company?”

“A week.”

“That seems no great challenge.”

“Be wary,” Lurien warned, “these are not ordinary children.”

Teacup between his claws, Belvedere watched Hornet down the pitcher of spiced root drink in one heroic quaff. “So I am beginning to fathom.” He sipped and shifted his attention to the Vessel.

It had not taken a single step toward the refreshment cart.

“Would the young… sir care for a meal as well?” Belvedere asked. “He must be just as famished.”

Lurien nearly choked. “No, h-he is quite alright.”

Belvedere lifted the remaining plate of moss salad. “Surely a modest bite won’t hurt.” Before Lurien could object further, Belvedere marched up to the Vessel and presented the plate.

The Vessel regarded the offering in its typical way: an inscrutable silence that could all too easily be misconstrued for deliberation. It did not nod. It did not reach. It only stared.

Belvedere, being no novice to the life of an attendant—one spent indulging the mercurial desires of noblebugs—did not budge an inch. He seemed perfectly content to remain a living art fixture for as long as the Vessel needed.

Knowing what he did—and what Belvedere did not—Lurien foresaw that being a very long time indeed. He considered ordering the Vessel to shake its head and end the awkward scene, but before he could, it extended a claw and took the plate.

With a little bow of approval, Belvedere retreated to Lurien’s table.

“A bashful one,” Belvedere observed. “He and the girl are quite the dichotomy. Wouldn’t you agree, Watcher?”

Lurien made a noncommittal grunt.

There it was again: that spark of will. Belvedere had given the Vessel no command, and yet it accepted the plate. Certainly, it had not done so out of need, for Vessels required no sustenance to survive. But why, then?

With the umbrella in one claw and the plate in the other, the Vessel had no means of lifting its fork. Instead, it returned to staring at Hornet as she picked at the last dregs of her feast.

Finally satiated, Hornet fell back onto the bench and let out a great sigh. “That was good. Thank you, Mr. Belbedere!”

Belvedere waved, not bothering to correct her. He leaned over to Lurien. “Shall I prepare lodging for the children?”

“Yes, the guest quarters adjacent to mine will be suitable.”

“Very good,” Belvedere said. “It shall be done forthwith.” He then hastened off, but not before handing Hornet a towel from one of the cart’s compartments.

Lurien nursed the last of his salad and tea, giving Hornet an opportunity to digest. Considering that the girl had consumed half her body weight in food, it seemed a prudent idea.

Soon enough the heavy meal set in, and Hornet grew as docile as a Grub. It seemed that this time Belvedere’s excessive zeal had been a boon and not a hindrance.

Lurien helped Hornet from the bench and the three set out across the library. At first Lurien feared he would need to carry the girl, for she yawned and tottered, fighting at the very brink of sleep. But each step brought with it a peculiar momentum. Hornet steadied, graduating from a shuffle to a walk, a walk to a trot, a trot to a skip.

With mounting unease, Lurien observed this resurgence. He kept expecting Hornet’s energy to dry up—or at the least plateau.

But it did not.

Dashing and skipping, pirouetting and tumbling, Hornet made of the library’s furniture a personal obstacle course. No amount of threats or castigation could restrained her, and all that remained for Lurien was to hustle along in her wake, stabilizing whatever she clambered onto.

It took little deduction to realize that the spiced root drink Hornet had guzzled was far more than a mild ‘pick-me-up’. As the girl scaled a scroll rack with a beast-like dexterity that would have surely impressed her own mother, Lurien wondered about the street legality of that concoction…

Provided he survived the night, he would have words with his assistant.

With profuse cajoling and a dollop of luck, Lurien managed to corral Hornet into the elevator on the far side of the library. The three ascended, and as the chains sang and the mechanisms crackled, Hornet hopped up and down, her body a taut string.

“Oh, I like your elevator, it’s so shiny and loud, I’ve never ridden in one before, there are some in the palace, but the Lady won’t let me use them because she says they’re dangerous, but why have them if you can’t use them, everyone treats me like I hatched yesterday but I’m not dumb, I could use an elevator if they just let me try, all you do is pull a lever, that doesn’t seem so hard, and how can it—”

“Child!” Lurien barked. “Take a breath. Please.”

Hornet paused just long enough to fill her shell with air before springing into another ramble. Fortunately for Lurien, it was directed at the Vessel and not him. In Hornet’s enthusiasm, she took the Vessel by the arm and shook so vigorously that Lurien feared an impending dismemberment.

After a time in dim claustrophobia, the elevator jounced to a stop, and Hornet shot out like a Lumafly released from a glass bulb. The trio traversed the Spire proper, passing empty dining halls, studies, and sitting rooms. Even the scriptorium—a place that rarely went without the flicker of a midnight candle—was vacant.

Hornet ranged far and ahead, but Lurien lacked the strength to keep up with her. She hadn’t the slightest idea where she was going, and as the tassel of her nail disappeared around a corner, there came the thunder of a warning.

“Halt, intruder! Name yourself!”

Chapter Text

Panic sent Lurien into a sprint. From the demands reverberating down the hall, Hornet must have bumbled into one of his Knights. The possibility of an altercation—even violence—flashed through Lurien’s mind. He knew his Knights were slow to anger, but Hornet was in quite a state. They could easily confuse her wild energy for a threat.

“Drop your nail!” the voice boomed again. “Cease! Get down!”

Why were his Knights even active at this hour? They spent most of their time in torpor if not on an assignment.

Lurien cursed and rounded a corner, hopping on one foot at the verge of his balance. “Wait, wait!” he bellowed, “She is but a child! Stay your—”

He stopped.

In the center of the Spire’s sparring chamber stood one of Lurien’s Knights, curved shell lustrous beneath the Lumafly chandeliers. The Knight shifted his bulk from side to side, trying and failing to glimpse something behind him. Upon his back skittered Hornet. She had scaled him like a boulder and was gazing upon the greatnail that hung there from a silken strap.

“Where did you get this?” Hornet chattered. “Did it cost a lot of Geo, I bet it cost a lot of Geo, did you get it from the trade district, are you friends with that grumpy old smith, you look like you’d be friends, can you ask him to give me one, I bet he’d say yes to you, he could—”

The Knight rumbled like a cavern about to collapse. “Remove yourself, beastling. I will become angry.”

Lurien righted himself and adjusted his disheveled robes.

The Vessel, which had been trailing dutifully until this moment, trotted past Lurien and up to the Watcher Knight. Hornet poked her head over the side, craning around the Knight’s pronged horns.

“Spirit! Did you see this one’s nail? It’s as big as me!” She lifted her arms wide to illustrate but lost her balance and tumbled face first from the Knight’s back.

To Lurien’s relief, the Watcher Knight caught her before she hit the ground. He pinned her arms to her sides, holding the girl like a tramway spike ready to be driven into the earth. “You are strange,” the Knight said. “Why do you trespass?”

Lurien strode over. “That child’s presence is my doing. Forgive the lack of forewarning, time has been short of late.”

Though he wasn’t one to admit it, Lurien struggled to differentiate his Knights, not due to inattentiveness, but because they were all so damnably similar. From their physiques to their voices to their mannerisms, little set the Watcher Knights apart. Even their names rang the same: Tarn, Garn, Krom, Korm. Belvedere had once proposed they be color-coded with ribbons of dyed silk, but Lurien had prohibited it; they were Knights, not scrolls on a cluttered rack.

Fortunately, there would be no awkward guessing games this time, for Lurien recognized the Knight.

It was Gram, his Watcher Captain. The crescent scar stretching from his temple to the orbit of his eye socket was unmistakable.

At Lurien’s words, Gram lifted his head. “Watcher, you return. This is good. We worried at your absence.”

“It was merely a trek through the city,” Lurien said, “nothing requiring your services. As you may behold, it was thoroughly uneventful.” He held up his arms.

Gram walked a slow circle around Lurien, as though in search of secret injury.

Lurien remained still for the inspection. He knew that protests would do him no good. Gram’s reputation as a mother Gruz had been well-earned over the years.

Once satisfied, Gram nodded. “You were lucky, Watcher. The City is not safe.”

Hornet squirmed in Gram’s grip, but he did not let go. “Sure, it is! I didn’t see a single Dirtcarver, or Corpse Creeper, or anything. It was almost boring.”

Gram gave Lurien a look, the sort that bore with it a thousand questions, but Lurien only waved it away.

“The King demanded my presence,” Lurien said, “I hadn’t the time to rouse you or the other Knights. And yesterday’s journey had seemed to tire you, so I surmised a bit of sleep—”

“You are the Watcher,” Gram said reprovingly. “We are the Watcher Knights. Bound to you in shell and blood. If you walk, so do we, sleep or no.”

Lurien thought back to the previous morning, before his trip to Monomon’s archives, to the hour-long delay his Knights had caused. How many blows to the head with a broom had it required to awaken Gram? A dozen? Lurien kept that musing to himself.

“This is Hornet,” Lurien said, pointing. “I imagine in her excitement she did not deign to introduce herself.”

“Oh, right, yes!” Hornet wormed free of Gram’s hold, tucking and rolling onto the tiles. She rose in a lopsided curtsy. “Nice to meet you.”

Gram thumped himself on the chest. “Watcher Captain Gram.”

“That is the—that is Spirit,” Lurien said. “For the next week, both he and Hornet are valued guests of the Spire. Inform the other Knights accordingly. Hornet is an… intrepid child, so ensure that she does not endanger herself during her stay.”

Gram inclined his head. He was studying the Vessel with an intensity Lurien had beheld only once before. The last object of such scrutiny had been promptly bisected. Lurien clapped his claws, drawing Gram’s attention.

“Understood, Watcher,” Gram said.

“Can I see your nail, Mr. Gram?” Hornet extended her arms, eager claws flexing. “I want to hold it!”

Gram shot Lurien a sidelong glance. The Watcher shook his head with a vehemence that threatened to unmask him. Chuckling, Gram unslung the greatnail and hefted it over his shoulder in one fluid motion. The tapered mass of metal seemed to hum in the stillness.

“You are small,” Gram observed.

“I’m not that small,” Hornet said. “I’m still bigger than Spirit!”

“It is heavy,” Gram continued.

“I’m strong! I opened a big door just a while ago.”

Gram made a show of considering. He whipped the greatnail around and slammed it tip-first into the floor of the sparring room. With a shriek, the blade sank half its length.

Lurien suppressed a groan. Belvedere had retiled this chamber less than a month ago. He would be horrified to discover this. Could Lurien send for a mender bug this late at night?

Gram crossed his arms. “First, a test. Show that you are strong. Draw the nail.”

Hornet growled and stepped forward. She clenched her little claws while eyeing the deadly instrument. Even half-buried, it rose to her shoulders. Carefully, she grasped the hilt and pulled, at first as a test, and then with all her might.

Something told Lurien that this was a very poor idea. In her struggle, Hornet could cut herself—or worse, actually draw the nail. With her latent power over Soul, there was no way of knowing what might happen.

As Lurien was about to speak up, Gram sidled over. “You tremble, Watcher. This beastling troubles you.”

“At this moment, you trouble me, Gram. Need I remind you that child is a guest? You are to provide her protection, not peril. How sharp is that greatnail?”

“Not. It is blunted. For training.”

“Oh.” The winch that had been cranking within Lurien’s chest went slack. He looked at the embedded greatnail and was reminded—again—of the Watcher Knights’ staggering power.

Hornet toiled at the greatnail for some time before a silent audience. For all her wrenching, twisting, and tugging, she made no progress. Lurien kept expecting her to collapse into exhaustion, but that did not come to pass.

Gram unleashed his long, low laugh. “Youth. I remember youth. Tireless, all the world a game.” He turned to Lurien. “Would the beastling like to spar?”

Reflex conjured a ‘no’ to Lurien’s throat, but he held it back. This was an opportunity, to both appease and tire the girl at the same time. King knew Lurien had no hope of getting the girl to sleep as she was.

“With shellwood?” Lurien asked.

Gram didn’t reply, instead taking the question as an assent and trundling off toward the Knights’ barracks.

Hornet was so invested in her test that she noticed none of this.

Gram returned a minute later with a small crate of hardened shellwood nails, much like the sort from the Nailsmith’s shop. They were battered and chipped, though serviceable. Gram extracted a pair and held them up. They were toys in his claw.

“Ensure that you are gentle with her,” Lurien whispered to him. “She mustn’t come to harm.”

“All will be well,” Gram said, patting the air. “Do you not see her fire? She is a warrior.”

Lurien restrained his doubts and ushered the Vessel over to one of the long benches that ran along the sparring room’s walls. Even though the bench was simple stone, Lurien sank gratefully. It had been such a long day… The first of many…

The Vessel sat beside Lurien and placed its nail-umbrella over its knees. With what Lurien struggled to describe as anything but anticipation, the Vessel watched.

Gram proffered Hornet a nail without comment, though she was too occupied with the greatnail to take it.

“Hold on,” she grunted, assuming a desperate stranglehold. “Just a little more.”

Gram waited for six heartbeats before grasping the greatnail’s hilt and lifting it out of the ground, Hornet included.

The girl wailed as she dangled in the air. “No fair, you didn’t wait! Look how much I loosened it!”

With a shake, Gram dislodged Hornet and several clinging chunks of tile. He stowed the greatnail and handed over a shellwood one. “Another test. Show that you are swift. Strike me.”

Hornet held the shellwood nail as though it were a moldering piece of driftwood. “Can we use real nails?”

Gram laughed: one sharp note. “No. Now, strike me.” He lifted his own shellwood nail, an almost comical defense.

Hornet looked around, spying Lurien and the Vessel across the room. Their attention seemed to embolden her, and she sank into a battle stance. “Okay then!”

Nail high, Hornet sprang into action, prodding and swinging, scrambling from side to side. Her blows were at first timid, as though she were still play-fighting with the Vessel. But as she failed to find her mark, the blows grew wide and fierce, full-bodied attacks that left her arms vibrating.

Gram was unperturbed, however, his lower body perfectly still. He blocked each strike with the barest effort, as though every movement was precious.

Lurien did not consider himself a duelist. Even in his younger years as a far-traveler, he had hardly worn a nail, let alone brandished one. Strife—either firsthand or vicarious—brought him no pleasure. However, being Royal Adviser, Lurien had beheld more than his fair share of duels. Rarely did a visit to the Pale Court go by without an exhibition bout between Knights. Lurien was often forced to update the King on the City’s affairs in the middle of the Palace’s sparring yard, the air thick with the clang of blunted weapons.

If the King could be said to have any recreational passions, then it was undoubtedly the duels of his Knights. How he seemed to delight in the sweep of Loyal claws, the thrust of Fierce nails, the crash of Mighty maces.

This eccentricity had always confounded Lurien, for the King openly condemned blood-sport. There was a reason the Colosseum hadn’t been allowed within the Kingdom’s borders. But as Lurien watched Hornet stumble through her battle, unyielding despite the disparity of skill, striving on in the face of the insurmountable, he began to understand. There was a pleasure to be gleaned from witnessing those under one’s care rise to a challenge—a pride.

The duel dragged on for some time, with Hornet no closer to her goal than before. Gram held his ground, not once lashing out. In her desperation, Hornet had taken to unorthodox tactics, going so far as to leap over Gram’s head and swipe at him as she soared by. But this, too, failed.

Lurien stretched and rubbed at his lower back. How much longer would the girl hold out? Surely, she’d forfeit soon. He glanced at the Vessel.

It was no longer watching the fight. At first, Lurien thought that some small object near the foot of the bench had attracted its eye, for its head hung low, but no.

It was sleeping.

Unprompted, the Vessel had fallen asleep, still half-upright on the bench.

Lurien made an incredulous noise and shook the Vessel by the shoulder. Its head snapped up, gaze darting about before settling on him.

“I thought you a thing beyond fatigue,” Lurien murmured.

But the Vessel only stared, as it always did.

With a pop of joints, Lurien stood. “Very well, then. Come along, we will find you a bed.”

The clash of shellwood diminished over Lurien’s shoulder as he guided the Vessel down a hall. Just as they were about to round a corner, there came another noise, a hollow resonance, like a cauldron being dropped on a stone floor.

“Oh, no!” said a far-off shrill. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

But the only response was the thunder of laughter.

Lurien and the Vessel slipped into another elevator—the last elevator. A few moments more and he’d be returned to the soothing familiarity of his lair.

As they ascended, Lurien about-faced and stared pointedly out of the towering, curved window that made up half the elevator shaft. He could feel the blind eyes of the Spire’s statues drilling into his back. Oh, how he hated them. It was because of those ostentatious things that he never allowed guests. A reporter from the City Tablet had caught sight of them once, and the very next day Lurien had been chiseled a raging egotist. More than once, he’d thought to have the statues covered with sheets, but that would have done little good. His own outline was easy enough to notice, after all.

And besides… that would have wounded poor Belvedere.

During the early days of the Spire’s construction, Lurien had operated out of a modest town house just off the trade district. Belvedere—his only servant at the time—had spied the blueprints to the Spire’s upper chambers and decided to add some ‘enhancements’, as he’d called them. By the time Lurien had noticed, he was already face to face with his stone doppelgangers.

Lurien shook the memory away. He looked down at the Vessel. Its head was pivoting from the statues, to him, and back again.

“I did not commission those,” Lurien said.

But the Vessel didn’t comment.

Lurien’s quarters were just as he had left them: a clutter. Scrolls and shell tablets littered the place, as though they’d been hurled by a powerful wind. His art equipment was still set up beside the west windows. The paints had long since dried on the palette and brush. Lurien looked at his canvas, to the yellow smear that marred it. Though only a few hours had passed since he’d made that accidental stroke, it felt to Lurien like months. He struggled to recall the painting it was meant to become. A comet, yes? He suddenly felt old and doddering.

Lurien took the Vessel by the claw and ushered it toward the guest quarters. Some years had passed since the chambers last saw use, but they would suffice for a week’s visit. Lurien doubted that Hornet cared if her bed was no longer in vogue.

There was no sign of Belvedere about. Lurien had expected to find him fussing over the disorder, maybe stacking scrolls or rearranging furniture. He was always quick to seize such opportunities on the rare occasions that Lurien allowed him up here. Perhaps he had retired for the evening, it was certainly deserved.

Lurien opened the door to the guest chamber only to be assaulted by a storm of dust and the stink of rotting silk.

Within whirled Belvedere, a cloth mask over his face, a Squit-wing duster in each claw. Beside him was a cart covered in cleaning equipment and fresh bedsheets. “Oh, Watcher,” he said, fighting back a cough. “You are here so soon? Pardon, but I’ve yet to finish tidying up.”

“It has been quite some time,” Lurien said. He stepped back, allowing a fogbank of neglect to exit the room and float down the hall. “Have you been at this task since we parted company?”

Belvedere paused, revealing a wobble in his legs. “Well, yes, but it was in dire need of doing. Not a trouble, though. As I promised, it shall be finished forthwith. I beg your patience just a bit longer. The mender bugs informed me that your telescope has been recalibrated. Perhaps the young sir would enjoy a demonstration?”

Lurien crossed his arms. “I feel it would be wise if you retired for the evening. I will conclude this chore before the Watcher Captain arrives with our other guest.”

Belvedere clutched the dusters as if Lurien intended to snatch them from his claws. “No, Watcher, I wouldn’t dare subject you to that! Please, grant me just a moment, and it will be done.” Without waiting for approval, Belvedere pressed the door shut. The swish of Squit wings and Belvedere’s intermittent coughing percolated through.

Defeated, Lurien shuffled back to the main room. Since he had been deemed unfit for dusting, he decided to follow Belvedere’s suggestion. The Spire’s telescope had been under maintenance for some days now, and Lurien missed the tranquilizing pleasure of combing the City’s streets. The Vessel would glean little from the demonstration, but that didn’t concern him.

Lurien looked over his shoulder for the Vessel, but it had stopped following him. There was no music on the air, no contrary order, and yet there the Vessel stood, frozen some steps behind.

“What?” Lurien asked, in the tone one would reserve for a malfunctioning lever. “Come along.”

The Vessel spared him only a glance before returning its intent to something against the back wall.

Too tired for anger, Lurien walked over.

There was a gray blur of movement, the flicker of light. Lurien almost startled, but even his clouded mind understood. It was his mirror: a polished sheet of metal propped on carved stone legs.

The Vessel was gazing at its reflection.

Lurien put his weight on the edge of a sitting table. Here he was, the same conundrum before him: the empty shell brimming with thought, the slack puppet taut with will. But now, Lurien had no hellions to shepherd and no destinations to reach. There was time for contemplation. He could resolve this mystery. All he need do was to embody his epithet.

And watch.

“Do as you wish,” Lurien said, barely over the patter of rain.

The Vessel faltered over to the mirror. It lifted the nail-umbrella out before itself and settled into a battle stance. But this was wrong, it seemed, for it straightened, readjusted. The Vessel pulled at the ruby scarf encircling its neck, draping the limbs in just such a way. Satisfied, it returned to the stance, nail-umbrella pointed forward, ready to strike.

This reminded Lurien of a Maskfly he had once owned—a birthday gift from Belvedere. The simple creature was always twittering away in its cage, though whenever it spied a reflective surface—a mirror, a pane of glass—it went deathly quiet and lifted its wings wide, seeking to intimidate. It saw a rival in those reflections, an enemy, for it lacked the means to understand anything else.

But this was not the same, Lurien realized. It was too precise, too deliberate. The Vessel knew itself as surely as he did.

This was practice. This was emulation. Of a certain, rambunctious girl. In clothing, in weapon, in stance. There was no doubt.

Lurien almost laughed, though he choked it back. Dare he call this endearing? Or dire? His mask felt so heavy. He removed it, though the weight remained.

Did the King know of this? He must. In only a day, Lurien had spied the Vessel’s defects. The King had likely spent many more than that in its company.

The mask rolled end over end in Lurien’s claws. The Vessel pantomimed a duel, using the same clumsy attacks Hornet had employed a few minutes prior. It thrust, and the nail-umbrella struck the mirror, tolling like a bell.

The Vessel stopped. It pressed a claw against the mirror to halt the faint ripple.

Throughout his tenure as Watcher, Lurien had encountered many Vessels within the Palace walls. They had been like mannequins through trade district windows, merely objects in a bug’s form. But their appearances had never been the same twice. Every visit, another shape, another horn, another fracture. The King had deemed each of them impure, but never what that impurity entailed. Where did they go, those mannequins? Lurien feared the answer.

“Enough, Vessel,” Lurien said, donning his mask. “Come, I will show you something.”

The Vessel lingered just long enough to reposition its scarf, then followed.

Lurien’s telescope was a gaudy thing of copper filigree and iron tubes. It stood at the far end of his chambers, leaning out into the dark through a gap in the glass. He sat on the cushioned stool before it and adjusted the eyepiece.

“This contraption is a product of the Archives,” Lurien said, “a fantasy of Monomon’s made real. Through it, one may witness distant things with ease. Splendid, no?”

The Vessel lifted its head but said nothing.

“With minor adjustments,” Lurien continued, “these far-off things may be brought to focus.” He leaned into the eyepiece and twisted a few knobs along the telescope’s casing. The image of a sentry crystallized, walking the streets in a posture that spoke of a long, lonely shift. “Behold.”

Before Lurien was granted the time to rise and cede his seat, the Vessel clambered onto his lap and did as was commanded. It peered through the telescope, head cocked at a curious angle.

Lurien recoiled at first, but then went very still. His arms hovered over the Vessel, as though it were a dozing Belfly that might explode at the slightest provocation.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The Vessel kept to its task; Lurien kept to his paralysis.

This close, Lurien couldn’t help but note the Vessel’s shell, snow-white and smooth, lacking in the blemishes that plagued its kin. Even its horns were without flaw, tall and symmetrical. Princely, Lurien thought.

Slowly, he placed a claw upon the Vessel’s head. It was cool to the touch, almost comforting.

The Vessel flinched, then craned to look up at him.

“What am I to do with you?” Lurien whispered.

But it would not tell him.

There was a snap of a distant lever and a rattle of chains. The elevator ascended, and within towered Gram. Slung over his shoulder like a sack of moss was Hornet. This alarmed Lurien at first, but once the mechanisms quieted, the girl’s snoring came clear.

“Hail, Watcher,” Gram said. He exited the elevator in a crouch, taking great—though futile—pains to avoid scraping the sides.

Lurien was impressed that Hornet managed to sleep through the scream of metal against shell.

“I see the sparring proved effective,” Lurien said. “How did the child fare?”

“Six bouts. One blow.”

Lurien hummed. By Gram’s standards, that was no small accomplishment. Few besides the Greats could boast that they had landed a strike upon the Watcher Captain.

Gram stepped forward and cradled Hornet in his huge arms. “You bring strange company to our Spire, Watcher. A beastling of the Deepnest, and…” He trailed off. That same razor focus claimed him the moment he spied the Vessel.

Lurien lifted the Vessel from his lap and placed it out of the Knight’s sight, breaking the spell. “So, I have,” Lurien said. “Is this a concern?”

Gram said nothing, long enough that Lurien feared he may have fallen asleep on his feet again. Their conversations often ended in that fashion.

But then Gram cleared his throat and shook his head. “No, Watcher.”

He passed Lurien the sleeping girl. She was heavy for her size.

Gram forced his way back into the elevator and offered a bow. With another snap of the lever, he was gone.

Lurien sat through the din, and then the long hush that followed. It was ever like Gram to opt for silence over explanation…

He stood, struggling under his new burden. Now wasn’t the time. “Come Vessel,” he said, and lumbered down the hall.

As Lurien reached the door to the guest chambers, it cracked open, revealing a haggard Belvedere. He was splotchy with dust and wisps of old silk. His cart of cleaning supplies hardly moved, though he leaned wholly against it.

“Hello again, Watcher,” Belvedere said. “Fine timing. Was the telescope calibrated to your liking?”

“Quite. The mender bugs are nothing if not meticulous.”

Belvedere nodded halfheartedly. “Good. The chambers are readied for the guests.” He took a few deep breaths and extended his arms to accept Hornet. “I will put them to bed.”

“The only bug you will be putting to bed is yourself,” Lurien said, lifting Hornet away.

Belvedere bristled. “Watcher, this is my duty. Do not steal it from me.”

Lurien would have laughed at this uncharacteristic asperity had he not feared it would undermine him. “You are mistaken, this duty is mine, decreed by the King Himself. Now, it is time I leveled a decree of my own. You are to take to your rest and remain so until fully recovered. The lesser attendants will maintain the Spire until then. I will not behold you at any labors for the next day at the least. Is this understood?”

Belvedere wiped at his uniform as he grasped for some rebuttal. But the fight left him, and he lowered his head. “As you wish, Watcher.” He started to push the cart down the hall but abandoned even that at Lurien’s glower.

Lurien did not take his eye from Belvedere until the bug stumbled into the elevator and vanished from sight.

“Like a Baldur, that one,” he murmured.

He stepped into the guest chambers to exactly what he had expected: perfection. Not a mote of dust tainted the air. Not a speck of debris littered the floor. The beds, one to each side, had been decorated with new sheets and pillows of purpled silk. Upon the side tables sat jars of herbs that soaked the room with inviting fragrance. A lone candle lit the space from a sconce upon the wall.

“Go to sleep, Vessel,” Lurien said.

He turned to one of the beds and placed Hornet as gently as he could. His back protested, but he reached down to pull the sheets up to the girl’s chin.

A silly little pleasure rose. He was not yet too decrepit for so simple a task.

He looked back to the Vessel.

It was sprawled upon the ground, not two steps away from its bed, with one arm thrown over its eyes. Some dim part of Lurien recognized this posture, but he brushed the observation away.

“Sleep in the bed, Vessel,” Lurien clarified.

This time there was no misinterpretation, and Lurien tucked the Vessel in as he had Hornet.

As the candle was doused, and the door to the guest chambers creaked shut, Lurien began fantasizing about his own bed. However, a lone word warbled out of the dark.

“Lurien…?”

He steeled himself and stepped back inside. “Yes, Hornet?”

“Will you tell me a bedtime story? My mother always used to.”

Claws forward, Lurien found the girl’s bedside and sat. “I am not… the foremost scholar on bedtime stories, but I will try.”

“Do you know the Weaverling and the Bell?”

“…No.”

“The Very Hungry Grub?”

“No.”

“The Three Little Funglings?”

Lurien wracked his mind, but nothing came. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to hear about the King’s border negotiations with the Mantis Tribe? That is a fine story in its own right.”

“N-No, that’s okay. Thanks anyway. Goodnight, Lurien.”

“Of course. Goodnight, child.”

Lurien rose, and the door sighed shut.

Chapter Text

Lurien slept late into the next day. His dreams were fleeting and few, made so by the leaden pall of exhaustion. Even after waking, he remained motionless in bed, staring at the vacant ceiling as he searched for the resolve to rise. Eventually, he found it and fought free of the sheets. With a groan, he stood and donned his cloak. Every inch of him ached, but he couldn’t place why. He lifted his mask from the bedstand and emerged into the rain-murmur of his common room. Even half-asleep, he set to lighting candles with familiar ease. Sparks flew from his metal striker, and soon enough an amber glow draped the old furniture.

It was a fond ritual: bringing light to his home. How many times had he performed it over the years? How many more did he have left? The thought was sobering, like a cold splash of water on his neck.

Few, he surmised…

Lurien pushed that aside and strode toward his office. There was work yet to be done, matters still to put in order. Though, as he passed the guest chamber, a low snoring stopped him in his tracks.

Of course. He had nearly forgotten about the children.

As quietly as he could, Lurien cracked the door and peeked inside.

Hornet lay in her bed, a snarl of limbs and tangled sheets. Her head lolled over the edge, swaying with the rise and fall of her chest.

It seemed like a miserable way to sleep. Lurien considered rectifying her posture but decided against it. That might wake her, and he was not about to squander the quiet moment.

Just as Lurien was closing the door, the Vessel stirred. It shifted beneath smooth sheets and looked at him. Lurien just shook his head, hoping the gesture would be a sufficient command. The door shut, and Lurien was off.

In defiance of his common room, Lurien’s office was fairly organized, a necessity of his bitter war with bureaucracy. However, this had not always been the case. During his early years as Watcher, it was common for the scrolls and tablets that passed his desk to be misplaced. He and Belvedere had spent many a night in this room, sifting through unlabeled heaps in desperate search of time-sensitive legislation. As Lurien sat, he ran a claw over his desk, appreciating the uncluttered expanse of polished shellwood. In the end, he truly had acclimated to this role, just as the King promised.

Soon enough, his new role would come.

Could he acclimate to it as well?

Again, he pushed that aside, puzzled by the welling emotion. Mawkishness was unlike him.

Lurien rooted about in his desk for a distraction, some burden of office to occupy his thoughts. What emerged was a letter, sealed in wax with the signet of the Soul Sanctum.

Ah, yes, the nuisance.

Lurien broke the seal with a flick of a digit and scanned the perfumed paper within. There was little point to this. He already knew its contents. A dozen of its like had arrived in the last month, and he’d sent the same reply time and again.

Satisfied that this was indeed the case, Lurien tossed the letter into the fireplace. How generous of the Soul Master to provide him with kindling.

As Lurien resumed rooting, there came a creak from across the room. The door gave a low protest as it swung wide. Lurien expected a groggy little girl, or perhaps an attendant, but instead, he spied the Vessel. It stood on the threshold, saying nothing, doing nothing, as though awaiting permission to be.

Lurien hummed. “Come in, Vessel.”

It hopped into motion and installed itself at his right claw, an exemplary guard in everything but stature.

Lurien felt himself circling, marching the same path that had formed a trench in his brain, but he let it go. Further speculation would do no good.

Some minutes passed—perhaps hours, he couldn’t say. Edicts were edited, requisitions were approved. All the while, the Vessel was still, watching his work in that alien way. Lurien struck up no conversation, though the urge did take him when the silence grew too deep.

Gradually, Lurien’s stomach began voicing its discontent. He disregarded it at first, thoroughly ensorcelled by his task, but the pain grew too intense, and he pushed free of the desk.

“Shall we recess for breakfast?” Lurien asked.

In lieu of its usual stare, the Vessel reacted. It shuffled after Lurien and grasped the folds of his robes in one claw, affixing there like a spiny seed on the shell of a Mosscreep.

Despite himself, Lurien chuckled and led the way.

The commissary was a high-ceilinged chamber on the fourth floor, complete with gilded chandeliers and spacious dining tables. As it did every mealtime, the aroma of fine food lured hungry bugs from the farthest reaches of the Spire. Atop its serving counters sat lidded pots and steaming platters. A line of would-be breakfasters stretched half its length.

Lurien scanned the sea of bodies, endeavoring to identify as many of his underlings as he could. He lacked Monomon’s fabled memory, so rarely managed more than half, but the Spire was vast, and its staff ever-expanding. He felt a glimmer of camaraderie at every remembered face.

Lurien situated himself at the back of the line, Vessel still firmly attached. He exchanged pleasantries with a cluster of scribes, sometimes answering questions or signing the documents they thrust at him. Any comments on his diminutive companion were swiftly deflected.

After a few start-stop minutes, one of the chefs—a rotund bug in his twilight years—spotted Lurien and the Vessel in line. He hustled up with two plates of food, bowing and lifting them up like a courtly tribute.

Lurien’s first reaction was to protest; his turn had yet to come. But that would have only created a scene. He allowed himself and the Vessel to be led to his private table atop a dais on the far side of the commissary.

He was not fond of this table.

Whenever he sat here, with so many eyes upon him, his shell began to itch. He felt like an idol, a deific totem on display before the masses. The pomp was expected of him, he realized that, but the knowledge did little to ease his discomfort.

The chef lingered, claws clasped, until Lurien took his first bite and affirmed its excellence.

The Vessel sat across Lurien in an oversized chair usually reserved for noble visitors. It peered at its meal as though struggling to understand.

As the contents of Lurien’s plate dwindled, and the contents of the Vessel’s plate cooled, Lurien spied Belvedere at a common table across the room. He was seated in a posture of great focus, with a scroll before him. In one claw he held a quill and in the other a meat bun from which he nibbled. To Lurien’s eye, it looked a decidedly laborious task. He wondered if Belvedere had forgotten the previous night’s mandate.

Lurien retrieved the Vessel’s untouched plate—Hornet would soon be in greater need of it—and strolled over.

“Come, Vessel,” he said.

As Lurien’s shadow fell over the scroll, Belvedere made a harried noise and shifted back into the light.

“Good morning, Belvedere,” Lurien said. “What have you there?”

The attendant’s head snapped up. “Oh, Watcher, it is you.” He quickly set the quill aside. “Just a touch of reading.”

“Regarding what, if may ask?” Lurien leaned in. Even inverted, he could see that the scroll was his own itinerary.

“Nothing of note, nothing at all. Recreation, yes, that’s it.” Belvedere slid the scroll beneath his plate.

Lurien nodded sagely. “I see.” For perhaps a bit too long, he basked in Belvedere’s unease.

“H-How are the children faring?” Belvedere asked. “Was it a challenge putting them to bed?”

Lurien occupied the opposite seat, revealing the Vessel from behind his robes. “Hardly. Gram’s sparring bouts saw to that.” Something occurred to Lurien, and he paused. “Tell me, do you know much of children’s stories?”

Belvedere cocked his head in that Maskfly way. “Fleetingly. Why do you ask?”

“The girl requested a bedtime story… and I could not deliver.”

Belvedere considered. “Perhaps the Spire library? The scroll-keepers are always so boastful that its shelves house every subject known to bug. This would be a fitting test of that.”

“Yes, that seems a prudent place to begin—were I not otherwise occupied, of course.”

“Oh, certainly,” Belvedere bobbed. “You’ve far more pressing concerns in the coming week. The year’s tax codes are due to be updated, and if you are to finish them, then we must allot at least eight hours per day to—”

“Belvedere,” Lurien said, just sharp enough to quiet him, “would informing me of my itinerary be considered work? As I recall, that is not within your purview today.”

Belvedere’s voice rose like an untuned instrument. “Watcher, please, enough with this game. I haven’t the time for silly leisure. There is much too much to do! I cannot sit on my claws for an entire day!”

Lurien shrugged as though it were beyond his control. “Regrettably, you must. Yet worry not, the Spire will survive.”

“But what of the children?”

“I imagine they will survive as well.”

“No—Will you manage them without me? Surely you will need help.”

“Should the children prove too much for me, then I am certain that any of the Spire’s six dozen other attendants will be available.”

Belvedere crossed his arms, gripping them by the elbows. He looked to be holding his breath, straining for a winning argument. Lurien waited. Soon enough, Belvedere let out a great exhale and his frame went slack.

“What am I to do, then?” Belvedere asked, half a whisper.

With a squeak of his chair, Lurien stood. “You might attempt that recreational reading you were feigning just a moment ago.”

Belvedere cradled his meat bun and took a sullen bite. “I suppose…”

*****

Upon arriving at his quarters, Lurien was surprised to find Hornet up and about. She stood at the far side of the common room, facing away, occupied with some activity. Gauzy candlelight played across her sleep-rumpled cloak as she swept her arm from side to side. It took Lurien a moment to realize that she was at his easel. Images of torn canvas and snapped brushes flashed through his mind.

“W-What are you doing, child?” Lurien asked. He deposited the girl’s breakfast on a side table and hastened over.

Hornet spun, loosing a hail of color.

On reflex, Lurien shielded the Vessel. Blues and yellows splattered his robes.

“Painting!” Hornet exclaimed. She extended her arm, displaying her pallet and pigment-stained claw.

As he dripped, Lurien held very still. He took a deep breath and reminded himself of his civility. “So you are.”

Hornet lowered her arms. A purple glob struck the floor. “Oh, sorry, I—”

Lurien raised a claw to hush her. “I will be back shortly. Your breakfast is on the table. Do be careful with the paint.”

“Right, okay. Sorry.”

After a quick change, Lurien returned to the common room to find Hornet already well into her meal. She scooped at the shredded vegetables and stared out the window.

“It was just sitting there,” she said to the Vessel, “so empty and boring. And the paint was right beside it! I just had to. Do you think he’s mad?”

The Vessel offered no counsel, its intent set on what she had made.

Lurien was about to announce himself but instead followed the Vessel’s eyes.

Hornet’s work was… good. It shook Lurien, so much that he halted some paces off.

It depicted the Spire, viewed from afar at a low angle that accentuated the enormity. A thoroughfare—the same that Hornet had walked the night before—crawled infinitesimally toward the pinpoint of the Spire’s door. But this was not the focus of the painting, merely a tool of scale, for above it hung not the cavern ceiling, but a sprawl of stars. They mingled and whirled, melting together into a slurry of color over a blanket of black. And amidst it all was one long, yellow streak.

His mark, he realized. This was the very same canvas he’d marred.

How had this girl stolen his vision? When had she seen the stars?

“Who taught you this?” Lurien blurted.

Hornet flinched and turned. “What?”

“Who taught you to paint?”

All she offered was a blank stare.

“The implementation of negative space, the expression of depth, the adherence to proportion, the-the-the sky. How?”

Hornet stifled a giggle. “Nobody taught me. I just,” She skimmed her claw through the air, “did it—traced the picture in my head. Isn’t that what you do?”

“Were it so easy,” Lurien muttered, striding over.

Hornet shoveled down the remains of her meal and hopped up. She shadowed Lurien as he inspected the painting up close.

“Is it good?” she asked. “I thought it was pretty good.”

Something cutting and small rose in Lurien. It informed him of every trifling error within the piece, the occasional incongruence of color, the blotches of excessive paint. He almost voiced this but caught himself mid-breath.

“Yes,” Lurien confessed. “It is a marvelous work. Well done, child.”

Hornet hooked her claws behind her back and swayed, savoring the praise, though remaining quiet.

They observed the painting—together there in the rain-patter—for some time, far longer than Lurien thought Hornet capable.

“I’m glad you think so,” she eventually said. “If you do, then it must be good.” She waved at Lurien’s other pieces, the rambling cityscapes, the modest still life, the stray portraits. “You’ve been doing this for a long time, huh?”

“I suppose I have,” Lurien said.

At that, Hornet brought the moment to a close. She wiped the paint and vegetable scraps from her claws before turning away as though the whole of the gallery had ceased to exist.

“So,” she said, “what are we doing today?”

Lurien cleared his throat—if for no other reason than to collect himself. It hadn’t occurred to him to pen a schedule for the children, though now that the question had been raised, the encroaching week spread out before him like an uninhabitable waste. “Well, the amenities of the Spire are available to you. Though perhaps not as grand as the Pale Court, you will find a plethora of diversions here.”

Hornet crossed her arms. “Okay, like what?”

“There is a music lounge on the sixth floor.”

“We did that yesterday.”

“A sparring chamber on the fifth.”

“I’m still a little tired.”

“Another art gallery on the second.”

“No more paintings today.”

“A garden on the eight.”

“Maybe later.”

“Very well,” Lurien said through a long exhale. “Does something else intrigue you?”

“The library looked fun.”

“Yes, last night you seemed to quite enjoy careening from rack to rack like a careless gruz. However, the library is for enlightenment, not roughhousing. You will not be repeating that.”

“I know, I meant for reading.”

Lurien paused. “Can you?”

Hornet jerked as though she’d sat on a thorn. “Of course I can read! I’m not a baby! I know Deep-script and City-script. I can even do some symbols!”

Lurien adjusted his mask and recalculated. For some reason that he could not place, the girl’s literacy had not been a possibility in his mind. “I see…”

“I can prove it!” Hornet said, as though he’d just refuted her. “Come on.”

The library bore a different aura than it had the night before. Gone was the stillness, replaced with an even tide of whispers and rustling silk. Bugs of all sorts perused the collection: scholars and dilettantes, nobles and commoners. They were monk-like in their reverence, every lifted scroll an irreplaceable treasure.

Lurien was not averse to this facet of the library. He enjoyed his peace, certainly, but there was something sublime in this collective pursuit of knowledge.

He and Monomon shared that opinion, at least.

Hornet led Lurien and the Vessel through the maze of shelves, blurting out every sign she encountered.

“History! Nailfighting! Arc-Architecture! Soul, uh, Soul tra… trans…”

“Transfiguration.”

“Transfiguration!”

Lurien touched Hornet’s shoulder, bringing her to a stop. “You have made your point, child. I see that you are indeed an adept reader. The Lady has done a fine job instructing you.”

Hornet gave him a hard look. “The Lady didn’t teach me, the Weavers did.”

“Is that so? I had not expected the Weavers to be the academic sort.”

Hornet broke the gaze, finding interest in the floor. “Just because we’re from Deepnest doesn’t mean we’re dumb.”

Lurien retracted his claw. “I-I was not implying that, merely—” But he could not continue, for it would only be a lie.

“Beasts can be smart too,” Hornet murmured. “My mother is very smart.”

Lurien thought to redirect, distract from this suddenly grim subject by bringing up an extraneous fact about the library. But that was cowardice. He knew that much. Lurien squared his shoulders. “You make a sound argument, Hornet. As a subject of Hallownest, I too often dismiss the other kingdoms. Please forgive my presumption.”

Hornet let his words settle then lifted her head. “That’s okay,” she said, and then with a defiant cheer, “So, what should we read first?”

*****

Lurien sat in a luxuriant chair at the heart of the library. Scrolls on tax code and legal procedure overflowed from his lap, onto the low reading tables and inevitably to the floor. His eye burned. He’d been at this task for only a few hours, but already he was nearing his limit. Of all his duties as Watcher, he counted this among the most miserable.

Beside Lurien, seated cross-legged at a table of their own, were Hornet and the Vessel. A single, enormous map depicting Hallownest and the lands beyond was unfurled before them. Hornet pored over the map, tracing the tangled stagways, whispering the names of the stations.

“It’s so big,” she said, her awe almost comical.

“The map?” Lurien asked.

“No, the world. Down in Deepnest, the Weavers have a library. It’s much smaller than this one. They have a map there too, but it only shows Deepnest. When I was small, I used to think Deepnest was all there was.”

“What you see of this map is but a fraction of a fraction. Beyond our kingdom lies Pharloom, beyond that the Land of Storms, and beyond that more still. The likes one could not walk in a hundred lifetimes.”

Hornet turned herself about without rising. Elbows on knees, claws on chin, she regarded him. “Have you ever been to those places?”

“Some. Many years ago.”

Lurien thought he spied something like esteem in Hornet’s look. But he returned to his work.

In the ensuing hours, Hornet roamed the library with the Vessel in tow, always returning after a time with another scroll of interest. Her tastes proved surprisingly eclectic: nailsmithing, spelunking, musical theory. Lurien wondered how much she retained, as some of the scrolls were quite advanced. Periodically, she read aloud to the Vessel in a slow, authoritative voice.

If the Vessel found pleasure in this, it did not show it.

During the spans in which Lurien found himself alone, he slipped a tablet out from beneath his chair. It was an old shell, heavy and chiseled—not painted as was the modern custom. He nestled it within the folds of a scroll to keep any passersby from catching a glimpse. He didn’t want anyone thinking that he spent his leisure time reading children’s stories, after all.

Lurien scoured the oversized script but he noted no mention of a Weaverling and a bell, a very hungry grub, or three little funglings. He had not been able to find any other tablets on children’s stories. This was either an incomplete record, or Hornet’s preferred bedtime fare was not common in Hallownest. Perhaps they were Deepnest-specific. Should he look for a scroll on Deepnest customs instead?

Before he could decide, a bell tolled: three precise notes that played off the high ceilings and pillars. Lurien—and all others familiar with the bell’s significance—perked up, anticipating.

“Attention bugs of the Spire,” called a raspy, far-off tenor. “Presenting the Minister of the Sanctum, Molder of the Immaterial, and Scholar Supreme, his lordship Soul Master!”

Lurien cursed and shot to his feet. He left his chair and the tumble of scrolls behind, searching for a vantage point. He found a bench to stand upon, and no sooner did he rise than the hovering figure of Soul Master came into view.

Atop the landing before the main entrance, a bell-wielding attendant seemed to be in discourse with Soul Master. The attendant bowed and gestured—primarily toward the door. Soul Master lifted his chin and sent a jolt of Soul through his cloak, making it ripple ominously. The attendant stepped back, and Soul Master drifted into the library.

Every time Lurien spied Soul Master, he could not shake the likeness to a Fungoon: overblown, buoyed by hot air, prone to spew noxious gas at anyone in range. Lurien stepped down from the bench and straightened his robes. It appeared that written refusals were no longer sufficient. It was time for a verbal one.

Lurien set what he hoped to be an intercept course on Soul Master. He rounded a corner, and to his surprise, stumbled upon Belvedere, humming to himself and rearranging a rack of scrolls. Upon seeing Lurien, Belvedere froze, then made a show of deliberating over the two scrolls in his claws.

“A f-fine day to you Watcher,” he said. “I heeded your advice. Nothing like a good scroll to relax the mind. Though, I cannot seem to decide between—” he peered at the titles, “Mycology Volume Four, and… Theater for Beginners? What is this doing outside of the entertainment section?”

Having no time, Lurien brushed past Belvedere. “I would recommend theater. Your acting leaves much to be desired.”

Belvedere made an anxious noise and set the scrolls aside before hastening after him. “Do you intend to speak with our uninvited guest?”

“That is my responsibility,” Lurien replied. “If any must endure his hectoring, it is me.”

“Is this visit regarding his previous requests?”

“I can imagine nothing else, given how that one fixates.”

“Do you require assistance?” Belvedere asked.

Lurien considered the offer. Having an ally at his side would certainly be welcome if the exchange grew heated, but this was the furthest thing from leisure Lurien could imagine. Yet, Belvedere had shown no interest in heeding his order anyway…

“No,” Lurien said, “enjoy your scroll.”

“Very well, Watcher,” Belvedere murmured.

Chapter Text

Between his flamboyant attire and the wide berth granted him by the other bugs, Soul Master was not difficult to spot. He floated down the library’s main thoroughfare, hurling imperious looks at any that dared to meet his eye.

Lurien planted himself in what he predicted to be Soul Master’s path. He snatched a scroll at random from a nearby shelf and tried to affect an air of self-assured disinterest. He had no intention of revealing his agitation to an adversary the likes of Soul Master. As Lurien stared at what appeared to be a treatise on the rejuvenating power of fungal paste, it struck him that he had not always used that word—adversary—to describe Soul Master.

Long ago, longer than Lurien cared to calculate, the Soul Sanctum had been a mere subsidiary of the Spire, beholden to all its regulations. Lurien recalled touring the Sanctum’s halls, a young, timorous Soul Master leading the way.

In the span from then to now, what could possibly have transformed Soul Master into such a grandiloquent menace? As it was for so many other things, the answer was likely Geo.

Though the Sanctum’s funding had initially been the purview of the Spire, Soul Master’s endeavors into the arcane had begun attracting the attention of the City’s noblebugs. By whatever wheedling means, he had secured the financial backing of several powerful institutions. What had he promised them? Power? Immortality? Regardless, the new influx of Geo had granted Soul Master all the autonomy he desired. And the emergence of the Infection had only worsened this, of course. Half the bugs in the City were convinced that he alone possessed the intellect needed to develop a cure.

Lurien could say from experience that this was not the case.

As he rolled through his scroll, not really reading, Lurien became aware of a presence beside him. With effort, he suppressed the urge to look up. A throat was cleared, and then again, a moment later, but Lurien did not budge.

Finally, with a protracted sigh came “Greetings, Watcher.”

Lurien lifted his head. Before him, hung Soul Master—vestments billowing in nonexistent wind, atrophied legs pendulating in open space.

“What a surprise,” Lurien said. “Welcome to the Spire.”

Soul Master’s great, flapping mouth tightened briefly. “Surprise? My most recent missive warned of my arrival. Was it not received?”

Lurien considered the red flare of his fireplace. “Oh, yes, of course, forgive the lacking reception, but the Spire has been quite occupied of late.”

Soul Master scanned the library and settled on a dozing scribe. A half-finished scroll was crumpled under the scribe’s mask like a frilled pillow.

“Indeed,” Soul Master said. “I have not seen a bustle of this scale since my last visit to the King’s Theater.”

Lurien did not react to the jab, instead making a show of returning to his scroll. “So, what brings you here? Have you come for reading material? Pleasantries, perhaps? I have enough time to accommodate an afternoon chat but can promise nothing more.”

“As stated in my missive,” Soul Master said—his every word a nail, “I have arrived to inquire about my previous request.”

“A plethora of requests cross the Spire’s threshold every day. You must remind me.”

“The Vault! The Pale Vault, you—” Soul Master’s mouth snapped shut. He exhaled, and the gust faded from his cloak.

Lurien rolled to the next section of his scroll. “Ah, that one.”

Soul Master paused to reclaim his formality. “I await your reply to my humble request of free access to the Pale Vault within this Spire. It is of supreme importance. The King’s endeavors into the nature of Soul could prove the final key to my research.”

“As stated in my missives,” Lurien said, “access to the Pale Vault is not granted lightly. Few are worthy to behold the King’s private thoughts.”

“But I am on the very cusp of discovery! With that knowledge, I could conceive a cure to the Infection!”

“If such knowledge existed in the Pale Vault, do you not suppose that the King would have already eliminated this plague?”

Soul Master turned his head. “The King has ruled Hallownest for generations. Even He is not beyond the grip of time. In his old age, he must have overlooked a critical detail. You understand how distracted the elderly can become.”

Venom burned low in Lurien’s throat. He fought to keep it free from his voice. “Allowing the improbability of our King’s imperfection, I must still reserve time to consider your request.”

“It has been a month, Watcher! How much more consideration do you require?”

Lurien set his scroll aside with intentional slowness. “I have already made it abundantly clear that I will contact you once my deliberation has concluded. There is no need for you to expend your valuable time inquiring.”

Soul Master stiffened. He took a deep breath as though readying a bellow, but instead loosed a breathy hiss. “None could accuse the Watcher of being impetuous. You are correct that my time is valuable—especially now, given this kingdom’s encroaching demise—but if you insist, then I have no choice but to wait.”

Lurien faltered. “…I appreciate your understanding, Soul—”

“However,” Soul Master said, “because every instant is indeed so precious, I will remain here at the Spire until my request is approved. In that way, I may resume my research the very moment it is permitted.”

Lurien made a noise—a long, toneless hum. “Come again?”

“It is the Spire’s custom to accommodate noble visitors, is it not?”

“That is… true.”

“Surely there is ample space for me in this sprawling structure.”

“…In a geometric sense, technically.”

“Then it is settled,” Soul Master said, bobbing almost merrily. “I will send for my things. I require a sizable, well-ventilated chamber for experimentation. In addition, I will need a fully-appointed bedroom within reasonable distance of your own so that we may more easily converse.”

As though he were clutching at a greased rope, Lurien felt it all slipping away. “The Sanctum is an hour’s walk! This is hardly necessary. How much time do you hope to save by lodging here?”

“All that I can. An hour could spell the difference between salvation and oblivion. Do not trouble yourself, Watcher. I will suffer this for the Kingdom.”

Despite the blood pounding in his shell, Lurien stopped to consider. Should he refuse? Could he, even? Although it was within his power—and by the King did he long to do it—such a slight against Soul Master would not go unnoticed. Word would spread among the nobles that Lurien had denied the most basic hospitality to one of their own. He had already offended several families by declining to attend a recent string of galas. Any more of that, and his public approval would plummet. Though Lurien cared little for the nobles’ opinions, he still required their cooperation in matters of state. Bureaucracy was a double-edged nail, and the nobles could make Lurien’s job a waking nightmare if they chose to rally against him. Knowing Soul Master, he would make every effort to foment that revolt.

All this and more raced through Lurien’s mind as Soul Master leered down.

“Well?” Soul Master asked.

Haltingly, Lurien lifted a claw into the air. “Attendant!”

The sound of scuttling feet approached from behind. Lurien turned to address the attendant. “Our illustrious guest, Soul Master, will be residing—” He stopped.

Belvedere stood before him, scroll and quill at the ready. “Yes, Watcher?”

“Not you!” Lurien said. He flicked his wrists as though shooing a Vengefly.

Belvedere lowered his quill and slinked away without a word. In an instant, another attendant stepped up to occupy his place.

Lurien eyed this new attendant. He felt a twinge of remorse for the curse he was about to inflict. “Soul Master will be residing within the Spire for the foreseeable future. Provide him with lodging befitting his station. Do your utmost to fulfill his requests in the coming days. You are to be his prime assistant.”

To her credit, the attendant did not hesitate, instead granting Soul Master a lavish bow and gesturing toward the elevator across the library.

Soul Master chuckled. “Watcher, your generosity is without equal. Once my effects are in order, we will speak again soon. I hope to make of our chats a frequent habit.” With that, he floated off, head high in triumph.

Lurien’s back popped as he fell into a hunch. He shook his head, a tiny, unconscious gesture.

How had it gone so wrong so quickly? What should he have done? What could he have?

“Who’s the funny gasbag?”

Lurien jolted.

Hornet was standing beside him, an enormous tablet balanced on her head. A tremble of exertion ran through her neck and arms, but she seemed unbothered.

Lurien steadied himself—straightened. “That… individual is Soul Master, a noble of significant influence within the City. We will be accommodating him for the time being.”

Soul Master drifted through a choked intersection, berating those that impeded his progress.

“And I thought you were grumpy…” Hornet said.

Lurien did not comment.

“How long is he staying?”

“As long as I refuse to grant what he desires…”

Hornet’s head cocked, and the tablet slid dangerously. “What does he want?”

“To delve a library of your father’s making, a place replete with ancient knowledge—the sort that Soul Master would not hesitate to exploit.”

“But they’re just a bunch of dusty scrolls, right? Who cares? They’re all over the place. Let him look and then he’ll leave.”

Lurien considered how best to respond. “Do you recall our meeting with the Songstress, when you injured me with that feat of Soul?”

Hornet lowered her tablet, resting its edge on the ground as though she were a shielded knight in a pose of contrition. “Yes, I’m really sorry.”

Lurien waved a claw, absolving her yet again. “You wielded a power that you did not understand, and with it came a consequence. Though you have the dignity to regret that misdeed, Soul Master long ago lost such capacity. Were I to grant him access to the Vault, then he might unearth a power exponentially more destructive than yours.”

Hornet reached up to brush the tassel of the toy nail on her back. It was a tentative gesture, as though she feared she might be cut.

“But enough of that,” Lurien said quickly. “How goes your reading?”

“Oh, it’s, um, it’s good.”

“Well, tell me of it.”

With a grunt, Hornet hefted the tablet and flipped it over. Wobbling all the while, she cradled it against her chest and ran a digit over the script. “‘The Land of Pharloom: A Wanderer’s Journal’, by Ellina the Ch-Chron-Chronicler.”

“Ah, I am familiar with that work,” Lurien said. “It paints a glowing portrait of that silk-song kingdom.”

“I know!” Hornet squealed, “Isn’t it amazing? They have this place called a citadel. I have to see it! Can we visit soon?”

Briefly, Lurien envisioned the perils that a journey halfway across the known world would entail. “No.”

“But why?” Hornet implored.

“For the same reason I deny you free reign of the City; you are a princess. Someone of your station is not meant to be endangered.”

Hornet muttered something about ‘scaredy-flies’ but pressed no further.

“And as we circle the subject of personal safety,” Lurien said. “I feel that I must make myself thoroughly understood. Heed me now, child. You are to avoid Soul Master at all costs. He is not like the Songstress. He cannot be appeased with something as simple as a royal audience. If he were to learn your identity, he would—he would—I do not know what he would do, but believe this, it would be utterly despicable.”

Hornet set her gaze firmly on Soul Master. Some other poor bug had attracted his ire and was suffering the verbal lash.

“You really don’t like him,” Hornet observed.

“I suppose I do not…”

“Do you want me to get rid of him?”

“Get rid of?” Lurien balked.

“Yes, I can make him go away. I’ve done it plenty of times.”

“Explain yourself.”

Hornet giggled. “Oh, but that would ruin the surprise! It’s not as fun if you know how it’ll happen.”

Something in those words struck Lurien as profoundly ominous. He thought to interrogate the girl further, but something else came to him. “…Where is the Vessel?”

Hornet pointed. “Getting yelled at by Gasbag.”

Lurien peered at Soul Master’s current victim. They were partially obscured behind a shelf, but then he spied the slender, white horns. “Oh, no.”

Trapped between decorum and haste, Lurien shuffle-jogged across the library. As he neared, Soul Master’s invectives grew clearer.

“Well? Speak up, you gawking ruffian. Have you any defense for bumbling into the Scholar Supreme? Can you begin to fathom the severity of this transgression? Answer me!”

The attendant at Soul Master’s side cooed a stream of consolations, but he heard none of them.

As always, the Vessel met the threats with a dispassionate stare.

“What is the trouble?” Lurien asked through a slight pant.

“This impertinent bug,” Soul Master jabbed a claw in the Vessel’s face, “collided with me and lacks the good sense to plead—”

On some unknown impulse, the Vessel reached out and touched the tip of Soul Master’s claw. There was a faint wind, a warm, white light. Just as it had been in Marissa’s chambers, Lurien felt a whisper of Soul in the air. And just as suddenly, it was sucked away.

Gasping, Soul Master retracted his claw. He held it up as though examining a wound.

Lurien shook his head to ensure his vision wasn’t failing, for the claw was desiccated; drained of life.

Soul Master fell back, cradling his withered limb. “What is the meaning of this, Watcher?”

Had he not been beaten to it, Lurien might have asked the very same question. He groped for a lie but found nothing plausible. He settled for silence.

With a snarl of focus, Soul Master clenched his claw. It crackled like dead moss. Another flurry of Soul rose, setting his cloak to thrashing. Slowly, color crept into his shell, beginning at the wrist and descending to the tips of his digits. From the way he quaked, it must have demanded monumental effort.

Once mended, Soul Master let out a ragged breath. He shot a look at Lurien so deathly that it seemed to imply he was to blame for the injury, not the Vessel. “Explain this!” Soul Master shouted.

“It appears to have been an act of Soul,” Lurien said. He felt as though he were made of shellwood, a thin board about to topple.

“Of course, it was an act of Soul! Anyone could perceive that! Why is this bug capable of advanced Soul manipulation? And without any mechanical assistance!”

Lurien coughed, one wheezing puff. “I… could not say. That is not a field of study in which I have expertise.”

“Curse the expertise! Who is this bug? They crossed your threshold, stand in your very library. You must know their name! Do they realize it is a crime to assault a noblebug? I could have them—”

“They’re my assistant!” came a shrill at Lurien’s elbow. Hornet was suddenly beside him again, materialized out of that liminal space she seemed to always occupy.

Lurien resisted the insane urge to lift his arms and hide her like an embarrassing portrait.

“Your assistant?” Soul Master asked. “And you are?”

“She is—” Lurien said—

“—I’m Princess Flower from Pharloom!”

It required every shred of Lurien’s will not to scoff at the lie. He locked his claws behind his back and nodded gently. “As she says.”

Soul Master shifted his scrutiny away from the Vessel. “Pharloom? The land beyond the wastes? What business could be so vital that it demands a princess make that dire crossing?”

This time, Lurien was quicker to the draw. “Education!” He blurted. “Nothing could be more vital, after all.” He loosed a hollow chuckle, then hastened to embellish. “The Spire was contacted by the Royal Court of Pharloom recently, asking that we foster and educate their royal heir for a period of months. It appears the Spire’s wealth of knowledge has become something of a legend in the other kingdoms.”

“Oh, yes,” Hornet said, bobbing just a bit too eagerly.

“And the Court of Pharloom was not dissuaded from this idea by news of the Infection?” Soul Master asked.

Lurien lifted a shoulder. “Despite our gravest warnings, no.”

Soul Master hummed and spent a troubling amount of time inspecting Hornet’s face. Eventually, he swept into an awkward, hovering bow. “My sincerest greetings to you, Princess Flower of Pharloom. I am Soul Master, Minister of the Soul Sanctum, another institute of great learning in this kingdom. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

“No.”

Soul Master tensed but then chuckled. “After my work here is concluded, we must remedy that. I will personally provide a tour.”

Hornet seemed to weigh the offer. “No thanks.”

Like a bubble in a pool of acid, Soul Master swelled, but he did not pop. “Unfortunate,” he said.

At a covert sign from Lurien, the attendant gestured at the elevator and suggested in a honeyed voice that Soul Master inspect his sleeping accommodations.

But Soul Master did not even glance at her, instead returning to the Vessel. “Tell me, Princess Flower, is your assistant typical in the Kingdom of Pharloom? Their mastery of Soul would be considered quite exceptional by the metrics of Hallownest.”

Hornet tapped her chin. “Mastery? They just started, I think. Is Soul stuff hard for the bugs here?”

“Quite hard, yes. I take your reaction to imply that Soul manipulation is common among the populous of Pharloom?”

Lurien could feel the deception beginning to totter. With every added question, it grew closer to collapse. He placed a warding claw on Hornet’s shoulder, but the girl was oblivious.

She laughed as though having scored a point in a game. “Of course, even I can do it!”

“Impressive, most impressive,” Soul Master said. “Could I trouble you for a demonstration?”

Lurien’s grip tightened.

“M-Maybe not today,” Hornet said, as though finally realizing her position.

“What of your assistant?” Soul Master asked. “I would be willing to overlook their earlier offense in exchange for a show of Pharloomian Soul Magic.”

“They’re tired,” Hornet said.

Soul Master leaned in toward the Vessel. “They do not look it.” He made a curious noise. “Is your assistant native to Pharloom? They bear a certain… familiar aura.”

This had gone long enough. The scalpel of Soul Master’s inquiry was cutting too deeply. Much longer, and it would draw blood. Lurien needed a distraction, something else to occupy his guest. But what would pique Soul Master’s interest? What did he even care for beyond power and his own aggrandizement?

Then it came in a flash.

“My apologies, Soul Master,” Lurien said in his most executive tone, “but these two must be moving along.”

“So soon?” Soul Master asked in a way that bordered on malice. “We have just begun. I have many more questions.”

“Yes, it is unfortunate, but much more dawdling, and they will be late for rehearsal.”

“Rehearsal?”

Lurien nodded, feigning hesitance. “It had been my hope to surprise you, but I have little skill for secrecy. For some time, the Spire has been producing a theatrical performance chronicling your personal history. Given our longstanding friendship—” he paused to choke back the bile, “we thought this an appropriate way to honor you.”

Soul Master faltered, so much so that he nearly fell out of the air. After a few clumsy attempts at a reply, he collected himself. “I did not know you were aware of my fondness for theater.”

“I am the Watcher, am I not?”

“Wh-When will it be complete?” Soul Master asked.

“As chance would have it, a matter of days.”

“I… look forward to it,” Soul Master said.

It was the most guileless thing that Lurien had ever heard emerge from Soul Master’s mouth.

By some sweet mercy of the King, when the attendant repeated her entreaty to Soul Master, he actually acquiesced.

Lurien waved as the attendant guided a dazed Soul Master toward the elevator and out of sight.

“That was close,” Hornet said. “Gasbag is so nosy.”

“‘Close’?” Lurien wheeled on the girl. “An egregious understatement if I ever heard one. We skirted catastrophe! Did I not just warn you to avoid him?”

“Spirit needed help!”

“I am aware,” Lurien growled, “but I could have resolved that situation well enough without you.”

“Okay, fine, I’m sorry. But it’s too late now.”

“Indeed, it is, Princess Flower.”

Hornet wiggled her shoulders. “A good name, right? It just came to me!”

Lurien pressed a claw to his mask. He leaned on a shelf and counted down from ten. At one, he righted himself and set into motion. “Come along, children.”

The girl and the Vessel fell into step.

“Where are we going?” Hornet asked.

“To prepare a play…”

Chapter Text

The doors of the Spire theater whimpered as they parted, giving way to a wall of darkness. Lurien stepped inside, claws outstretched in search of a lever. He found one and yanked with all his strength. Despite the rust, it gave way, and the Lumafly lights overhead convulsed. Slowly, they bloomed to life—at least some of them. A sparse constellation formed in the rafters, interspersed with lightless bulbs stained yellow-brown by Lumafly corpses.

Lurien picked at a seam in his robes as he surveyed the theater. He could not recall the last time he’d visited, and from the looks of it, every last attendant in the Spire would say the same. A growl slipped free as he resolved to seek out the labor logs and censure those responsible for the theater’s maintenance. He drifted down the middle aisle, flanked by a dozen rows of chairs with burgundy cushions. Some of the chairs had been covered by enormous gray sheets, a half-finished bulwark against neglect. He ran a claw over the fabric. It left a white trail like shoveling molt off a marble floor.

A list of suitable punishments began forming in his mind.

There was a hiss, a snap of liberated cloth, and then a deluge of coughing. Lurien turned to see Hornet in the act of cloaking herself with a sheet. She twirled erratically, casting a festive dust cloud throughout the room. The Vessel stood behind her, unfazed by the sudden shower. Gray clumps collected upon its head.

Hornet’s face emerged from her makeshift hood. “Why is it so dusty in here? Isn’t—” She paused to hack, her whole body shuddering. “—Isn’t the Spire supposed to be all clean and proper?”

“That is the expectation…” Lurien said. He wiped his claws clean and approached the stage. The main curtain—a rippling, ruby-red affair—seemed to be the only thing in this place that yet retained any dignity. He attempted to part it down the middle, but the folds were lead-heavy, so he circled around.

The backstage was in no finer shape than the auditorium. A lone Lumafly bulb shone weakly upon the disorder. To Lurien, the place gave the impression of a thicket, of somewhere deep and tangled, rarely traveled by civilized bugs. Ropes hung from the batten like vines. Miscellaneous props crowded the corners like overgrowth. He waded deeper in, half-expecting to hear the trill of a Mosscreep or the hum of a Squit. On the far wall, a pulley caught his attention. It rose into the dark, presumably connecting to the track that controlled the curtain.

Though winded by this point, Lurien hastened over. He tugged experimentally, and then upon making no progress leveraged his entire bodyweight. After a pause, every wheel on the track leapt into a hellish chorus, and the curtain began to part. Light from the auditorium fell upon the backstage in a broadening pillar, and with it came a throb of hope. Perhaps this play could yet be managed. Perhaps with enough moil the theater would be returned to some semblance of function. Who could say, after this, perhaps theatrical performances would become a regular occurrence in the Spire.

Lurien continued to pull, limbs burning, breath heaving. A sharp, percussive sound carried over the track wheels, and he realized Hornet was applauding, her sinuous arms lifted high to be free of the sheet. He managed half a chuckle, then the curtain tore free of its mounting and slammed onto the shellwood stage with all the force of a toppling building. A great gush of dust and debris shot into the air, blinding Lurien. He stumbled back, coughing and cursing. The sound of the impact echoed for several painful seconds, a mocking testament to the theater’s excellent acoustics.

Once the air had stilled, Hornet redoubled her applause. “Amazing! Do it again! Do it again!”

Lurien descended from the stage in a storm. What utter negligence! Was the Spire not equipped with a battalion of mender bugs? Was it so tall a task to oil a curtain track once in an eon?! He would see bloody vengeance done on these attendants, whoever they were. He would have them be made to sharpen quills for a month! To trim every solitary petal in the garden! To—To bathe the Watcher Knights!

Hornet halted her applause. “…Was that not supposed to happen?”

Lurien made it halfway to the theater’s entrance before the bluster drained out of him. He took two agonizing steps and sat down on the lone clean chair that Hornet had uncovered.

But what point was there in punishment? Really? What occasion in the Spire’s history had even required the theater at all? It was vestigial, all in the Spire knew that. Who would have felt compelled to maintain it? Certainly not himself.

Lurien removed his mask and put his face in his claws. It was bad enough that he hadn’t so much as penned a title for this play, but now there wasn’t even a theater to present it in. This was the end. In a matter of days, Soul Master would realize he’d been deceived. His suspicion, his meddling, would increase tenfold, and he’d unearth the truth about the children. What would come of that, Lurien dreaded to contemplate…

Hornet’s sheet hissed over the carpet as she padded close. “Are you okay?” she asked, mirth suddenly swallowed.

“Yes, I am unharmed,” Lurien said. His voice came muffled through his claws.

“No, I mean, are you okay?”

Lurien lifted his head and gave her a hard look.

Hornet doffed her sheet then kicked it under a chair. “Look, it’s not so bad. So, what if it’s dusty? That won’t hurt anyone. And the curtain is fine, we can just put it back up and—”

A quartet of rusted gears fell from the curtain track and struck the stage, landing with a bang, one after the other like the first bar of a ghastly concert.

Hornet grew quiet. She seemed to be formulating a new argument.

Not wanting to allow her the time, Lurien reaffixed his mask and stood. “Follow me, children.” He did not know exactly where he was going or what he intended to do, but remaining in this ruin was not an option. He glanced around for the Vessel. It was—almost predictably—absent. He waited for the usual barb of panic to pierce his chest, but it did not come. He was thankful for that at least. Was this a sign of his growing experience as a caretaker, or his apathy? He couldn’t say. Just as he was about to enlist Hornet’s aid in searching, Belvedere’s voice carried faintly through the theater doors. He seemed to be reciting something.

Lurien stepped outside into the library to behold the Vessel wrapped in a dusty sheet of its own. It was seated before a reading chair occupied by Belvedere. In his claws, Belvedere held a long, beaten scroll. He read from it with grave authority, modulating his timbre as he voiced different characters.

“‘Enter stage left, the King ridding upon a stag’,” Belvedere cleared his throat and feigned a baritone, “‘What happiness to reign a lonely king; Vext — O ye stars that shudder over me; O earth that soundest hollow under me; Vext with waste dreams? for saving I be joined; To the Lady that is the fairest under heaven; I seem as nothing in the mighty world; And cannot will my will, nor work my work; Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm; Victor and lord. But were I joined with her; Then might we live together as one life; And reigning with one will in everything; Have power on this dark land to lighten it; And power on this dead world to make it live.’”

A vague remembrance stirred in Lurien. He tried to place the line. “The Vision of the King?” he asked.

Belvedere paused mid-sentence and looked up, eyes twinkling. “Quite so, Watcher. Your memory is as sharp as ever.”

“Grandiloquent language of that magnitude is difficult to forget.”

“Oh, come now. The Vision is a classic.”

Lurien shrugged.

With care, Belvedere rolled up the scroll and placed it beside several others on a small reading table. “So,” he began, a charlatan’s air of ease about him. “How did your bout with Soul Master go?”

“As well as I had predicted. He will be lodging with us for the time being.” Lurien walked over and removed the sheet from the Vessel’s shoulders. It looked up at him, revealing a face speckled by dust motes. Impatiently, he swiped the Vessel’s face clean. It did not flinch.

“Word around the library is that a play is in production,” Belvedere said. “One about Soul Master himself. This comes as no small surprise, as I wasn’t privy to any such plans before being furloughed. It is… expected within the week, correct?”

“Word travels quickly,” Lurien observed.

“Like fire through a scriptorium.” Belvedere lifted another scroll. It was titled Dramatic Theory for the Novice. He skimmed through it, nodding as though revisiting an old favorite. “Has a playwright been commissioned for this project?”

“I could write it!” Hornet blurted, suddenly at Lurien’s shoulder. She held a bent gear from the curtain track and was trying to force it back into shape. “How hard could it be?”

Lurien ignored her. “As of yet, no.”

Belvedere craned his neck to get a glimpse of the theater. Even from here, the fallen curtain was clearly visible. “Is the stage in operating order?”

“It is under maintenance.”

“Not the most auspicious sign,” Belvedere said, “This production will surely demand a heroic deal of work to reach completion on time. It is a pity I can’t offer any help. As you know, I am much too occupied with reading.”

Lurien squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Very true. I will not keep you any longer, then. Enjoy your leisure.” He nodded at the children to follow him and strode off.

After a beat, Belvedere leapt from his chair, sending Dramatic Theory for the Novice fluttering away. He took Lurien’s claw in both of his and knelt like a Court Knight making a pledge. “Oh, enough with pretense. Grant me this task, I beseech you! All this idleness is driving me mad. As Watcher, it is your onus to delegate excess responsibility. Do so!”

“Foisting my every woe onto you seems a poor way of delegation.”

Belvedere made some flustered noises and tightened his grip into a vice. “I have managed stricter deadlines with greater consequence before! Who else but I could even be trusted to see this through in time? Look.” He groped blindly at the scrolls strewn over the table, snatching one up and presenting it as a holy relic. “I’ve all the resources necessary right here. I could begin this very instant.”

“In the full span of your life, how much of it has been devoted to theater? An hour?”

“An entirely sufficient amount, I assure you!”

Lurien growled dubiously, but Hornet took him by the other claw. “Come on, let Mr. Belbedere do it. I’ll help him.”

A sudden, claustrophobic feeling fell upon Lurien. “Enough, then! Fine! Fine!” He wrenched his claws free and stepped back. “You are hired, Belvedere, as playwright, director, stage manager, and whatever else necessary. Does that please you? Are you satisfied with this rockslide of obligation?”

In a flash, Belvedere was back on his feet, shell straight, voice even, as though the last minute had never occurred. “Positively ecstatic, Watcher. I shall begin immediately.” He produced a small silk sack from a pocket in his uniform and shoveled the scrolls from the reading table into it. “You may expect a preliminary draft of the first act by this evening. I must inform the Menders about the theater’s condition.” He bowed deeply, then shouldered the sack and set off through the library, a living dynamo if Lurien had ever seen one.

As Belvedere diminished, Lurien shook his head. Another verbal duel, another embarrassing defeat. It seemed he could not shield anyone from harm, not even the self-inflicted sort. He thought of the King, of the many perilous tasks he had entrusted to his eager Knights. Did those edicts weigh on him too?

Hornet began to set after Belvedere, presumably to make good on her offer, but Lurien caught her by the cloak.

“Hold now,” he said. “It is best you leave that one to his own devices for now. If he requires your aid, he will solicit it.”

“But you gave him like four jobs. How’s he going to do them all alone?”

“King only knows,” Lurien said. “But I have no doubt they will be done. For now, however, we have other concerns. Our guest will surely expect a banquet in his honor, and the chefs must be warned.”

Hornet started to protest, but another thought came to her, and she nodded slyly. “Okay.”

They made haste for the kitchen, and the Vessel trailed after them, The Vision of the King clasped to its chest.

*****

The Spire possessed many banquet chambers, but none were so storied as the ‘Arboretum’. Though its name was unofficial—a sobriquet bestowed by the serving staff long ago—Lurien could understand why it had stuck. Between the moss-green of the tapestries and the earthy lacquer of the shellwood furniture, it certainly alluded to growth and verdure. To him, its most alluring aspect was the engravings hidden away in the half-shadows of the arched ceiling. In onerous detail, a landscape of thickets, roots and cobbled paths wove overhead. During happier times, he would have made a game of spotting the dozen Mosscreep expertly hidden throughout the piece. But as he lowered his gaze to the seat of honor on the far side of the table, he was reminded that happier times had long since passed.

Over the years, the King, the Queen, Monomon, and even the Beast had all supped within the Arboretum’s walls. Sharing a table with the Beast had been a particularly harrowing experience. Lurien still recalled how she had dismembered a roasted Loodle with her bare claws. But now, at this moment, who was it that sat on the shellwood throne which had carried the frames of so many much worthier Beings? Whose presence, like a defiling stench, had insinuated into this most sacred place? Lurien glared into his lap, rather than direct the spite where it truly belonged. He did not wish to provoke Soul Master in public. As far as most onlookers knew, they were fond friends. How exactly that fabrication had propagated, Lurien could only speculate.

Though assembled on short notice, the congregation ringing the table was varied: Spire scholars, traveling dignitaries, the odd artisan. The first course had yet to arrive, and the air was thronged with talk. The fine dishes had been laid out. Up and down the banquet table they marched, a legion of crystal glasses and plates, all carved by claw. Lurien’s own was flanked by a dozen silver utensils, all recently polished. He had endured enough formal dining to know a salad fork from a Crawlid fork but dredging up that memory never ceased to irk him. So much pageantry yet so little significance.

Hornet was seated to his left, a knife in each claw. She clashed them together, dueling with herself in slow motion. Her tiny parries and ripostes were surprisingly adept for one who had never wielded a real nail. Lurien considered scolding her but held his breath. Though Soul Master was currently prattling about his experiments to one of the other dinner guests, that did not guarantee he wasn’t watching them. If Lurien were to demonstrate authority over Hornet, it might harm her alias as a foreign royal.

Like a meditative mantra, Lurien repeated ‘Princess Flower’ in his head until the words lost all meaning. He could not shake the dreadful sense that he would misspeak in Soul Master’s presence, revealing Hornet’s name and shattering the illusion. He busied himself with the napkin beside his water glass. The purple silk had been folded into the likeness of a Fool Eater, mouth agape. He smoothed it, obliterating the shape, then placed it on his lap.

To Hornet’s left—concerningly out of reach—sat the Vessel. It still held ‘The Vision of the King’ to its chest, as though hoping to absorb the contents through sheer osmosis. What precisely had attracted the Vessel to that scroll, Lurien had yet to deduce. However, he had learned that the Vessel possessed an astonishing grip. It would not be relinquishing that scroll until it very well pleased to, that much was certain. This rapidly emerging willfulness from the Vessel should have been more alarming to Lurien, but he had other worries at that moment.

“Do you suppose Soul Master’s soliloquy would be better placed at the end of the first act following the estate fire, or the beginning of the third act preceding the founding of the Soul Sanctum?”

“I do not know, Belvedere.”

“Because, as you see, the core theme of the soliloquy is agency, its presence or absence in the pivotal moments of our lives, and the events framing the soliloquy will impact the audience’s interpretation.”

“I do not know, Belvedere.”

“If placed in the first act, it may ring as overly despairing, but in the third act it could be seen as egotistical. I am so very torn.”

“I do not know, Belvedere.”

Belvedere lowered his notepad and paced a thoughtful circle. He had, as far as Lurien was aware, been writing without pause for the last eight hours. As was often the case when he took on tremendous workloads, his body trembled faintly. “Perhaps I shall entreat Gram’s opinion,” he said.

“Our captain?” Lurien asked.

“Oh yes, he is quite the theater enthusiast.”

Despite all his faculties, Lurien could not create that mental image.

Hornet leaned back in her seat to lay eyes on Belvedere. “Why not both?”

“Pardon?”

“Why not put the solila—the thing in both places? Make it a little different the second time. It would be like… like an echo.”

“That is an intriguing idea,” Belvedere said. He lifted his notepad and began scribbling furiously.

With what power he could muster, Lurien gestured from Belvedere to the empty seat beside himself. “Sit. Dine with us. You look to be in need of a moment’s rest.”

Belvedere took a step back. “Apologies, Watcher, but there is little time for that. The proverbial iron is hot, and I mean to strike. As promised, you shall have the first draft before the night’s end. If you’ll excuse me.” And he scuttled out of the room, nearly colliding with another attendant along the way.

Lurien let out a long breath and tapped his plate with a claw.

Several more minutes of conversation passed, some murmured from shoulder to shoulder, some half-shouted from several seats down. Eventually the kitchen doors parted with artful slowness, and the first fleet of serving carts emerged, topped with appetizers and carafes of drink. They fanned out like the petals of a flower to encircle the diners. The kitchen staff, looking meek yet professional in their gray uniforms, served without a word. The head chef, the same portly bug that had provided Lurien his breakfast that very morning, stood beside the door, hat in claw, awaiting culinary judgement. His apparent fears were unfounded, however, as all in attendance made quick work of their first plates.

Just as the time came for Lurien to officially welcome the guests, Soul Master cleared his cavernous throat and levitated into the air. A glass of rootwine orbited him, gently swirling as though held in a claw. “Good bugs of the Kingdom,” he began, “It is a great honor to dine with you this evening. I am pleased to have finally experienced the Spire’s legendary hospitality. To the Watcher—” he bowed with mocking extravagance, “—I extend my ardent appreciation. Thus far, my time here has been so agreeable I fear I may never find the will to leave.” He laughed, which elicited a few chuckles from the table. Hornet joined in as well, but hers was not a laugh of courtesy.

“But pleasantries aside,” Soul Master continued, “my purpose here is not leisure, but the deliverance of us all. Take this as solemn oath: here, in this very tower, I will devise a cure for the Infection. With my brilliance and the Watcher’s sage counsel, this Kingdom will live on.” He plucked his glass from its orbit and raised the crystal in a toast. “And do not doubt, I shall be seeking that counsel at every opportunity, day or night.”

Applause rose like a startled flock of maskflies. Gazes shifted to Lurien, anticipating a response, but the only words he could form uncolored by contempt were “Well said.”

Seemingly disappointed, Soul Master returned to his seat and sipped his rootwine. “I anticipate we will all come to know each other quite well by this visit’s end. I hope as much, at least.” His eyes swept the room, but did not settle on Lurien, instead finding the Vessel and lingering there, equal parts intrigue and menace.

The Vessel, oblivious to this, was lifting and lowering a fork, failing repeatedly to spear a morsel of food it hadn’t the slightest intention of eating. Periodically, it stole a covert look at Hornet, who was busy massacring her meal down to the last crumb.

Lurien felt an impulse to draw Soul Master’s attention away, to shield the Vessel from his scrutiny, but he suppressed it. Attempts to obfuscate were often more revealing than mere inaction. In truth—and though Lurien was loathe to admit it—he and Soul Master were likely sharing some of the same thoughts. What was it that granted the Vessel such an aptitude for Soul? If it lacked the coordination to even open an umbrella, then why for King’s sake, was it skilled enough to sap the life from one of the Kingdom’s most preeminent Soul manipulators?

The answer was in the Vessel’s origin, but even to Lurien that was a murky subject. In the past, the King had referred to the Vessels as his ‘spawn’, objects ‘born of his Being’. Had this been a literal statement, or yet another example of the King’s fondness for figurative language? Being the offspring of a god would certainly explain the Vessel’s abilities, but it could just as easily be a construct not unlike the Kingsmoulds. Despite his years of service, Lurien had never sought clarification on this ambiguity. He did not consider it his place to interrogate the King on the minutiae of his methods.

At least that was what he told himself…

On some invisible signal, the first course of the meal was concluded. Though he’d hardly touched it, Lurien’s plate was seized and ferried off. Water glasses were refilled, napkins were replaced, and the serving carts beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen. With their mouths no longer enthralled, the diners resumed the conversation. Lurien contributed where appropriate but found his attention drifting to the head chef. The stiff-backed bug was still stationed beside the kitchen door, scanning the room, gauging the mood. From his years of dining here, Lurien knew full well that every course of the banquet had been prepared in advance. The serving staff were lined up just beyond the door, waiting to sally forth once the head chef deemed the moment correct. But how did he come to that conclusion? What was ‘correct’ in this case? A certain tone of impatience among the diners? A certain thrum of energy in the air? If correctness could indeed be measured, how did one cultivate such a skill? How many blunders would Lurien have prevented over the years had he only known the answer?

As if in retort, the head chef rapped on the door, and the second course began.

It proved to be moss salad, unsurprising, but not unwelcome. The conversation faded again, replaced by the clink of silverware and low noises of approval. This dish seemed to be another rousing success, for even Soul Master was quiet. He scooped up the greens with a hovering fork, clearing his plate in a few moments.

And then he began to cough.

Daintily at first, into a monogramed kerchief that he snatched from his cloak pocket. He took a sip of water, then a gulp, then downed half a glass and shook it in the air. One of the serving bugs refilled it in a beat, but this too was drained.

Soul Master pressed the kerchief to the Tiktik-trap of his mouth and unleashed a deluge of coughs that rebounded off the ceiling like hammer blows. Tears streamed from his eyes, and his breath came in a hoarse wheeze.

“King!” he exclaimed, rising from his seat, “that salad was hotter than a Belfly’s backside!” Almost drunkenly, he claimed the serving bug’s water pitcher and upended the thing, guzzling it dry.

Lurien, too, rose, his chair scraping the tiles. He could feel calamity coming on, a rockslide about to crush him. Hornet let out a giggle. They locked eyes briefly, and she gave a little nod, as if claiming a point in a secret game.

“What buffoon assemble this affront to the culinary?” Soul Master shouted between coughs. “Bring them here. This instant!”

With all the speed propriety allowed, Lurien made his way over, but the head chef arrived first.

“Is s-something amiss?” the chef asked.

Soul Master wheeled on him. “Why, yes! Is that not painfully evident?” He cleared his throat, then gulped another glass. “Who among your staff prepared this salad? Bring them here immediately, I will have words with them.”

The head chef hesitated but then straightened. “I did so, your grace. Forgive me, I was unaware of your distaste for spice. Shall I fetch you something else? Some soothing mint tea, perhaps?”

Soul Master swelled in his vestments. “To the depths with your tea! Do you imagine me a fool? I know an act of malice when I see one. You will rue this transgression, bug.”

The chef murmured another apology and bowed, but it accomplished nothing.

“Soul Master, are you unharmed?” Lurien asked. He kept his voice low, hoping futilely that Soul Master would do the same.

The dinner had lurched to a standstill. Not a fork was raised. The nearly three dozen bugs in attendance were making a pointed show of not noticing the debacle transpiring before them.

“Despite this one’s best efforts,” Soul Master said, “I will survive.”

Lurien swallowed a groan. “Shall we resume the dinner, then? Despite this error—” he shot the chef a curious look “—there are several more courses to come. I assure you they will be more palatable.”

Soul Master wiped his mouth one last time and stowed his kerchief. “Yes, we may proceed, but first, dismiss this one.”

Puzzled, Lurien waved gently at the head chef as though guiding an errant Lumafly out a window.

The chef bowed again and retreated toward the kitchen.

“No! Dismiss him from the Spire,” Soul Master snapped. “Banish him! It is the fate a crime of this scale deserves.”

The chef froze, like one who had taken a nail to the back.

The word ‘absurd’ nearly leapt from Lurien’s throat, but instead he managed, “I do not find that punishment fitting. Mistakes are inevitable in this world.”

“Undoubtedly, but this was no mistake. You would be wise to rid yourself of this wretched schemer before he turns on you as well. In fact, I insist on it. As both your guest and the aggrieved party here, I demand it. Banish him.”

His hat nearly tearing in his claws, the chef fell to one knee. He started to beg, but Soul Master silenced him with a warning crackle of Soul.

“Very well,” Lurien said sharply. “I will have him dismissed immediately. For now, however, let the meal resume. There is no sense in squandering the rest of the evening.”

Soul Master snorted and returned to his seat. Like emerging from an enchantment, the other diners resumed eating, though now lacking in the earlier cheer.

The chef whimpered and seemed to be working his way up to a wail, but Lurien took him by the shoulders and guided him into the kitchen.

“Watcher!” the chef blubbered “Please, this is a mistake, truly! I gave his salad but a dash of deepspice, just enough to draw out the flavor. How could I have known that he had such a d-delicate palate? In all my years serving the Spire, I have never once sought to harm a patron. You must believe me!”

Lurien held his breath as the fleet of serving carts passed into the Arboretum. The chef, tears on his face now, looked up at him as though he were an executioner, an avenging god. Once the din of wheels had passed, and they were truly alone, Lurien spoke. “I have no doubt in your honesty nor your ability, chef, but if my suspicions are correct, then you have been made an unfortunate victim in a game that you did not agree to play.”

“What will befall me, then?” the chef whispered. “This kitchen is all I have.”

Lurien considered. “I recommend you depart through the front entrance—” The chef moaned piteously, but Lurien lifted a claw. “Do so in theatrical fashion, ensuring many eyes witness you. An hour later, return to the Spire through the back entrance and don an apprentice chef’s uniform. The Spire is vast, and nobles have little skill for recalling the faces of common bugs, so you should go undetected. For as long as Soul Master remains here—a blessedly short period, I hope—you must content yourself with de-shelling Squits and washing silverware. Once this disaster is resolved, and our intruder expelled, you may return to your normal duties. Now, how does that strike you? A feasible scheme, yes?”

The chef, though a full head shorter than Lurien, closed him in an embrace so fierce it nearly lifted him off the ground. A heartbeat in, however, the chef recalled himself and let go. “Forgive me, Watcher, and t-thank you, Watcher.”

Lurien chuckled stiffly and unruffled his robes. “Yes, well, a poor Watcher I’d be if I could not discern an innocent bug from a guilty one.”

With incongruous enthusiasm, the chef pulled a crate from beneath a kitchen cabinet and began filling it with his possessions: saucepans, ladles, a half-dozen shell tablets scrawled with recipes. He hefted the clanking crate in his arms and departed through the Arboretum. Lurien followed.

The meal had progressed into the third course: roasted Squit over a bed of mushrooms. Soul Master was already quite invested in his plate, but he paused to watch the head chef go. His chin rose in triumph, as though this petty clash of wills had held any significance whatsoever.

Lurien was no advocate for violence, but it would be a lie to say he did not long to slap the conceit out of Soul Master’s head.

Oddly, Hornet wasn’t eating. Her elbows rested on the table, claws clasped together. She followed the chef’s slump-shouldered departure, and stared at the door once it closed behind him. Her pose, her prison of thought, reminded Lurien of the King, how he would descend into a statue-like stupor whenever confronted with a difficult problem.

And what, exactly, was the problem with which Hornet currently grappled? The interplay of action and reaction? The moral quandary of allowing another to suffer in one’s stead? Perhaps the answer would reveal itself in time.

Until then, Lurien would be watching.

Chapter Text

“Next!”

A column of Lumafly light swept the shellwood stage. It spilled over a plump, young bug with a shock of curly hair. The bug shielded her eyes and consulted a scroll. “Uhm, Millibelle auditioning for the role of estate maid number two.”

“Proceed when ready!”

She cleared her throat and after a pause said, “The estate! It’s burning, come quickly, young Master!”

Out of the dark came a distant scribbling. “Thank you for your audition, next applicant, please!”

The bug did not vacate the stage. She craned her neck and squinted. “Did I get the part?”

“Further auditions are pending. Don’t contact us, we shall contact you.”

As though to nudge her on, the column of light drifted to a set of stairs across the stage. Chastened, the bug tucked the scroll in her shell and trundled off.

Lurien sat beside Belvedere in the shadowed auditorium and watched the bug’s departure. A half-dozen other applicants seeking the same role had preceded her, and none struck him as any better nor worse. He glanced at Belvedere’s notebook. ‘Millibelle’ had been crossed out with a quill.

“I did not recognize that young bug,” Lurien said. “Is she not of the Spire?”

“From the arts district, I’d wager,” Belvedere said. He flipped a page. “Next applicant, please!”

“Has word of the coming play spread beyond the Spire walls already? It’s been but a day.”

A reedy bug in a green garment—one of the kitchen staff—mounted the stage and delivered a line. Her name, too, fell to the quill.

“Fliers were distributed throughout the city this morning,” Belvedere said. “The Spire librarians were kind enough to perform that task.” He extracted a sheet of silk from his satchel and handed it to Lurien.

In Belvedere’s own precise claw, the flier announced ‘Soul Master: A Genesis in Three Parts.’ Beneath the title was a rough but well-proportioned sketch of the nuisance in question, followed by tiny script detailing roles, audition times, and the like.

“You penned these yourself?” Lurien asked.

“Some dozens, last night.”

“Dozens? Have you slept?”

“There will be time enough for that next week.”

Lurien sighed.

Belvedere lifted his voice to address the long line of applicants that wormed up the aisle and through the theater doors. “Auditions for estate maid number two are now closed! Thank you for your cooperation!”

Grumbling ensued, with several bugs abandoning the line and trudging away.

“Next, please!” Belvedere said, unperturbed.

A certain bug girl in a red cloak strode into the column of light. Lurien startled, but only a bit. This sort of thing was becoming expected. Gram had agreed to watch the children this afternoon, allowing Lurien time for administrative matters. Had this one escaped him so soon? Hopefully the girl had thought to bring the Vessel along. If they were to go unsupervised, they might as well remain a single mass of chaos, rather than two.

The girl stood very straight. Despite the glare and the intervening darkness, she seemed to spot them, for she gave a little wave. “Hor—Princess Flower auditioning for the role of Manor Fire.”

“Manor Fire?” Lurien hissed. “That is a role?”

“Proceed when ready!” Belvedere shouted. He leaned over to Lurien and lowered his voice. “For lack of a more traditional adversary in the first act, I thought to personify the disaster itself. The Spire seamstress assured me she could create a suitably fiery garment with a few pleats of dyed silk.”

Hornet took an enormous breath and lifted her claws overhead, stretching almost meditatively for a long moment. At some internal cue, she lunged forward, pouncing upon an invisible enemy and thrashing with a beast’s fervor.

“Ruin! Ruin! I am your end! Naught but ashes in my wake! All are food before this maw! Predator, prey, lord, and pauper. I see kindling, nothing more!” She bounded in a circle upon the stage, sometimes falling to all fours and skittering about. “Cower in your homes, your castles, they will feel my bite the same! The very air is mine to spoil! Smoke and cinder will be your—” She stopped, voice gone small. “Cinder will… will be your…” She stood and glanced into the dark, all ferocity discarded. “I forgot the rest. Was that good, though?”

Lurien chuckled grimly. Could any bug alive claim to be a truer embodiment of fire? Of dancing destruction and blithe caprice? Lurien imagined not.

“She carries the role well,” Belvedere whispered. “Save for the fumbled line, I’ve little complaint. Do you imagine she has the patience for long rehearsals? That is to say, if you approve of her taking the stage, of course.”

Lurien thought back to his original plan for containing Hornet, of hiding her in the Spire’s upper chambers for the full week. What an optimist he had once been… three days ago. And here they were now, the girl a mere word away from joining a stage play that would host hundreds of spectators.

But truth be told, the girl was not to blame. He had paved this road himself, one damning cobble at a time. During that bout with Soul Master in the Spire library, had he managed to devise a less grandiose lie, where would they be? Somewhere less perilous, he supposed.

“Watcher?” Belvedere asked.

“The role does suit her,” Lurien said, despite himself.

What was this feeling? For all his effort, Lurien could not place it. Every rational element within him said that he should deny her the role. No matter her flimsy, flower alibi, the girl was far too conspicuous. And yet… Yet. He did not loathe the idea. Perhaps her avid spark had kindled in him as well, for he did wish to see her perform, to see that wild power transposed into art.

Belvedere’s quill hovered an inch from the parchment. Even in his notes he’d had the prudence to label her ‘Princess Flower’.

Lurien hesitated for just a beat. “Fine,” he whispered. “King knows that girl would bedevil me to Pharloom and back if I said no.”

Before Belvedere could raise his voice, Hornet hissed in triumph, claws clenched before her chest. Even across the theater she’d overheard them. Was it her beastly heritage that granted such keen senses, or her divine? If the latter, Lurien wondered how many of his private mutterings the King had overheard throughout the years. He let the troubling notion pass.

“An excellent turn,” Belvedere chirped. “At our current pace, we shall conclude auditions by the evening.” He cleared his throat and shouted to the crowd of hopefuls. “Auditions for Manor Fire are closed. Next applicant, please!”

Hornet skipped to the edge of the stage and sat, legs crossed, toy nail over her knees. She applauded modestly, and the next applicant emerged from the dark. It was the Vessel.

Where precisely was Gram at this moment? Attending to a dilemma of Spire security? Scouring the halls for his missing charges? No.

Lurien was not a betting bug, but he would wager every mote of Geo in his coffers that Gram had nodded off in the Watcher Knights’ barracks. Again.

The Vessel reached center stage and came to a halt. In the spotlight, its horns cast a shadow like the mandibles of an enormous predator. Though difficult to see from this distance, it held something tight to its stomach.

“What does the young sir have there?” Belvedere whispered.

“The library’s only copy of The Vision of the King, most likely. It-He has refused to part with it since last you read to him. Your oration made quite the impression, apparently.”

Belvedere chuckled wanly. “A pleasure to hear he enjoyed it. Do you suppose he shall recite some for us? Perhaps the King’s proposal to the Lady? I must confess, it is my most favorite scene.”

Just the day prior, Lurien had made a denigrating assumption about another bug’s ability to read. He’d suffered the ethical lash for it, fitting punishment, admittedly. But with that event still fresh in mind… surely the Vessel, at least, could not read. A supposedly hollow being would possess neither the inclination nor capacity, yes? In his baffling wisdom, the King had not seen fit to educate the Vessel in City-script, yes? Would that not be contrary to his aims? Utterly ludicrous, even?

Belvedere cocked his head, puzzled at the long pause.

Ever the tactician, Lurien hummed a monotone note and said nothing.

“Well, we shall soon find out,” Belvedere said. He scribbled briefly, then raised his voice. “Proceed when ready!”

The Vessel flinched, as though jabbed in the chest. It lifted its arms and unrolled the scroll with exaggerated care. For a long moment, it seemed to be on the brink of a recitation, just as Belvedere had hoped, but, of course, no sound escaped it.

Had the Vessel drawn some dim connection between performative language and the scroll itself? Did it perceive that merely holding the scroll up was a sanction of some sort, a ‘key’ that might grant it entrance into the play?

Seemingly unsure, the Vessel glanced over at Hornet. The girl struck a pose, placing one claw to her chest and holding the other high, as though to accentuate an operatic note. The Vessel replicated this gesture, but it elicited no applause.

A needle of sympathy found Lurien’s heart. Whatever the Vessel sought to do, it was clearly an effortful act—neverminding the numerous and troubling implications to that effort.

“Belvedere,” Lurien said carefully, “as we are in the business of personifying fire, might we do the same to an object in the play? A pillar? A signpost? In that way, Spirit might find a chance to contribute.”

“A reasonable idea, Watcher.” Belvedere flipped through his tome of a script and laid another appraising eye on the Vessel. “The young master does bear a certain air of solemn endurance. Ah, I have it! He shall be the manor itself, gazing on in valiant acquiescence at its own destruction. We need only cut a face hole in the fungwood flat of the mansion. Brilliant! Thank you for the contribution, Watcher.”

Lurien fumbled between a chuckle and a cough. “Certainly…”

With a word from Belvedere, Hornet and the Vessel descended the stage. Lurien twitched a claw at them, and they drew close to sit beside him.

“Oh, thank you Mr. Belbedere,” Hornet said, craning around Lurien. “I’ll be the best fire there ever was!”

“I imagine you shall,” Belvedere said. “And the young master shall make a fine manor.”

As though in reply, the Vessel stretched over Lurien’s seat and handed The Vision of the King to Belvedere. It was a bit crinkled, but no worse for wear.

“Hmm, yes, thank you kindly,” Belvedere said. He placed the scroll gently in a satchel.

Hornet bobbed from side to side in her seat, still basking in victory. She pulled a scrap of silk from underneath her cloak. It was covered in hastily scrawled lines. She whispered to herself, repeating one section again and again. A single word halted her like a stone in a river. With uncharacteristic hesitance, she tugged Lurien’s robe and pointed. “What’s this one?”

Lurien peered. “Largesse, meaning gift. It is… a touch florid to be appearing in a play meant for the common bug.”

Belvedere huffed and made a firm mark in his notebook. “All lines are yet subject to change, Watcher.” He closed the notebook and lifted his voice. “Next!”

As the next applicant ascended the stairs, Lurien leaned down to Hornet.

“I do not see the Watcher Captain. He was to be your keeper today. Did you evade him? Such behavior would be decidedly un-grown-up like.”

Hornet shook her head as though dispersing raindrops. “No. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, where then, might he be?”

“Right there.”

Hornet aimed a claw at the stage just as Watcher Captain Gram stepped into the light.

Lurien made a mental note never to enter a gambling den. With his acumen, he’d be rendered destitute in a day.

“The prime attraction,” Belvedere said as he clapped decorously. “We are promised quite a treat now that the Watcher Captain is upon the stage.”

Was this some ploy? Some elaborate deceit of Belvedere’s and the girl? Though Lurien racked his brain, he found not a single memory in which Gram expressed an interest in theater. It was common knowledge that Watcher Knights expended their leisure time in only three activities: sparring, eating, and sleeping. Had that changed? When?

In ponderous fashion, Gram strode to center stage. He scanned the room, as if searching for threats. “Gram, auditioning for the role of Soul Master.”

“The lead,” Belvedere hummed, “ambitious.” He placed the notebook to one side and settled in his seat. “When it pleases you, Captain!”

Gram nodded and began. He paced a short circuit, left to right, and wrung his claws together in a show of disquiet. “What hateful fate befalls this house,” he said, voice rising in mournful resonance. “A mark of spite, divine, no doubt. A bolt hurled down from outer heaven. To smite my father’s old obsession.”

Lurien stifled a gasp. Where had his Captain gone? Where was the monotone rasp? The curt economy of language? Even the posture seemed foreign on Gram’s frame.

“It slinks to me, this foul inheritance. Shall I mimic his act of arrogance?” Gram slashed at the air with an arm and wheeled about. “Dare I claim the shroud of master? Yet to beckon more disaster?”

He sped up, stomping back and forth across the stage, each word more heated than the last. “Power wills and power schemes. Evil feeds upon our dreams. Inaction is no right of mine. This kingdom stands bereft of time. I will harness shell and Soul! I will pay the heavy toll!”

Gram fell to one knee and held his face in his claws. He remained there, body trembling with emotion.

Belvedere shot from his chair and applauded. Hornet was quick to join him, meaning so too was the Vessel. Lurien, however, remained seated with his thoughts.

“Bravo!” Belvedere cheered, “This critic needs no further convincing! The lead is yours, Captain, and you shall make a triumph of it, I do not doubt!” He turned to the crowd to render a more formal announcement, but several bugs were already filing out of the room. One of them, wearing a high-collared cape much like Soul Master’s, seemed on the brink of tears.

Gram bowed and descended the stage. He made the laborious trek up the aisle and halted before Belvedere. Upon noticing Lurien, Gram cringed. “W-Watcher. You are here.”

“So, I am,” Lurien said. “That was a splendid audition, Watcher Captain. Forgive my apparent inattentiveness. I did not know of your enthusiasm for theater. You are quite adept. Have you studied for many years?”

Hornet stepped onto her chair so as to be at eye-level with Gram. “Oh, I’m sure he has, he’s very good! He helped us practice this morning!”

“I see,” Lurien said.

Gram grunted in a vague affirmative. His gaze drifted to the door. “Yes, well, we must go. More… practice.”

“You are quite right, Captain,” Belvedere said. “Now that you have your roles, we mustn’t waste a moment. Here.” He wormed through a large sack at his feet and emerged with a pair of scrolls which he handed to Gram and Hornet. “Your lines. I expect them to be memorized by the morrow. We shall begin rehearsal after the morning repast. Do not be late.”

“What about Spirit?” Hornet asked. “They need their lines too.”

Belvedere tapped at his chin and hummed. “Ah, yes.” He ripped a sheet from his notebook and scrawled rapidly upon it before handing it to the Vessel.

Lurien caught a glimpse as it traded claws. It read:

Act 1: Scene 1; The Manor

[the curtain parts, revealing the manor]

The Manor: *embody gravitas*

After briefly reviewing her own lines, Hornet suppressed a squeal of delight. She began to offer Belvedere further thanks, but Gram lifted her from the chair and tucked her under his arm like a fence post. He gave the Vessel a similar treatment, then hustled out of the room with little more than a nod to Lurien. Hornet’s departing protests faded like a struck bell.

The next applicant was called, and the auditions resumed. Belvedere returned to his notebook, quill ablur as he eliminated one hopeful after another.

Lurien fell into a state of repose, and though he lingered on Gram’s evasiveness, something else leapt out at him, something he couldn’t help but voice.

“Why the rhyming?”

“Hmm?”

“The rhyming couplets,” Lurien said, “in Gram’s audition. Will the role of Soul Master speak exclusively in rhyme?”

“Not entirely, no, but as this production’s aim is to pander to a singular witness, then a tawdry rhyme or two will serve us well.”

Lurien turned to face Belvedere fully. “How are you so certain that Soul Master fancies rhymes?”

“Any playwright worth their quill performs ample research before composing.”

“Surely,” Lurien huffed. “First Gram the thespian, now Soul Master the poet. Need I be informed of any other covert artists hiding among us? And for that matter,” Lurien jabbed a claw at Belvedere, “how is it that you are so versed in Soul Master’s history? I have conversed with that one at length on several occasions and never learned that his father perished in a manor fire.”

With a slight, placating bow, Belvedere returned to the sack at his feet and lifted out a tome—a prohibitively expensive form of the written word—bound in carved shellwood and brimming with pages of silk. However, the shellwood was cracked, as though from a bad fall, and soot stained its edges. “‘Soul Master’,” Belvedere said, reading the title, “‘An Autobiography.’”

“How in the King’s name did you acquire that? Why in the King’s name did you acquire that?”

“I must admit,” Belvedere said, “it is far from a gratifying read, but it has proven invaluable in this endeavor, at least.”

A shudder ran through Lurien’s shell. “Do not tell me the Spire keeps a copy of that thing.”

Belvedere chuckled. “Certainly not, Watcher—not intentionally, at least.” He flipped it open, which cast a faint cloud of soot. “Every month, for… oh, years now, one of these tomes makes an appearance on our library’s shelves. Some come signed, others perfumed, some bear a silver clasp for a scrollmark. I imagine they are smuggled in by Soul Master’s minions. To what end, who can say. Invariably, I find these tomes and make good use of them as fuel for the basement furnace. However, upon hearing of the play and its subject matter, I rushed down to the basement and rescued this one from the coals just as it was beginning to singe. From it, I learned much of Soul Master’s… proclivities, including his fondness for garish poetry. He heads each chapter with one of his own pieces. Shall I read some to you?”

Lurien lifted a claw as though warding a blow. “No thank you. I must protect what remains of my sanity.”

“Prudent,” Belvedere said. He tossed the tome in the sack. “Instead, then, shall we resume the auditions?”

Though he longed to say yes, to continue skulking in the dark and shirking his duties, Lurien shook his head. “You may proceed, but I must go. There is a matter of security that demands my attention.”

“And what is that, if you do not mind the inquiry?”

Lurien stood and straightened his robes. “The Vault.”

“I see. Please take care if you venture within. The King’s contraptions can be… concerning.”

“Wise counsel as always, Belvedere. We will speak soon.”

And he set off into the Spire’s depths.

Chapter Text

Lurien kept to the Spire’s backrooms and maintenance passages, attempting to evade attention wherever possible. Given that the very building bore his name, he had limited success. The eyes of attendants and mender bugs followed him at every corner, no matter how he shooed them away.

He passed through an intersection at the ground floor, a mere dozen paces from the relative isolation of the basement, when he overheard Soul Master barking orders. Though far from gracefully, Lurien darted behind a rolling trash bin. He crouched low, knees popping, and waited.

“Be careful, oaf,” Soul Master said. “That is more valuable than you are.”

Lurien dared the briefest peek and spied several worker bugs bearing a laboratory’s worth of contraptions and glassware down the hall. They moved in a linear procession, limbs trembling against the weight. All the while, Soul Master hovered overhead, as if daring one of them to drop something.

Though he felt a bit foolish, like a child hiding from his chores, Lurien kept quiet and let Soul Master pass. Now was no time for a verbal duel. Gradually, the sound of jangling glassware and grunting worker bugs faded, and Lurien stood. He hustled to the basement door.

The Spire was equipped with a variety of elevators, lifts, and dumbwaiters. The basement alone connected to three of each, but Lurien had avoided them entirely. Taking the stairs ensured that he would not be seen. No one ever used them, after all. It was common knowledge that they were a deathtrap.

A lone lumafly bulb kept vigil over the descent. With its steps of irregular, rough-hewn stone and complete lack of a guardrail, Lurien speculated how many Spire personnel had lost their footing—and possibly their lives—in this very spot.

He moved slowly.

Very slowly.

At the bottom he whispered thanks to the King.

The Spire’s lower passages were tangled and cramped, suffused with a cloying warmth. The distant clang of shovels meeting coal echoed endlessly. Lurien passed through an acrid cloud of soot and stifled a cough. He noticed a battered lantern sitting on a nearby workbench. He lit it with his striker, then hefted the cumbersome thing with both claws. Light would be a crucial ally beyond a certain point.

Despite a close call near the main furnace room, Lurien went undetected, and reached the most remote chamber in the basement. It was much like the others, save for the reinforced metal door. All about it, carved into the very stone, was a message written in several different scripts, some of which Lurien had never even seen.

It read:

Turn back if you value life. Only death waits below.

A sudden thumping started up in Lurien’s chest. This always happened when he spotted those words. The faintest urge to heed them, to flee, to defer this task yet again, gripped him. He held his ground until it passed.

The King would watch over him.

He rooted through his robes—this time he’d remembered to wear the correct set—and produced a heavy iron ring, laden with assorted keys. He approached the door and unlocked it, revealing a descending staircase, at the base of which stood an identical door. This repeated several times, each door requiring a different key. Lurien’s clomping steps and labored breathing rebounded off the low ceilings, suffocating him with their noise. Though it was a linear path, the downward spiral filled him with the sense that he was being hurled into a labyrinth from which there would be no escape.

As he opened the final door, a bitter cold spilled out, coiling around his legs and waist. It came as a relief at first, for the long trek had made his joints ache and his shell swelter, but after only a few moments, the cold permeated him fully.

He shivered.

The door swung wide, lantern light leaping forth, and Lurien beheld the Pale Vault.

Long before the Spire scraped the City’s ceiling, before even its earliest foundations were laid, the King had built this Vault. He’d overseen the construction personally, allowing only his automatons to aid him. Lurien recalled how this region of the city had been cordoned off for months on end. It was only after the Vault’s completion that the Spire received enough funding to begin construction of its own… in the very same spot. He held little doubt that the Spire was nothing more to the King than an elaborate gatehouse, a shield and a distraction for something far more precious.

Lurien’s breath, now visible in the chill, churned beneath his mask. He swept the lantern from side to side, painting the vault with yellow light.

The gate to the Vault had no handles, no keyholes, just a broad archway nestling a pair of featureless silver doors. The remainder of the Vault was built of a strange, black material that resembled clumsily-molded clay. Despite the irregularities to it, the bulges and furrows, this material possessed an incredible strength. Lurien did not know where it came from, but he didn’t like looking at it.

Something lurched at the periphery of his vision. It separated from the mass of the wall and stood.

King, it was twice his height!

Lurien centered the lantern on the thing and stumbled back. It was a Kingsmould, but not the sort that were sometimes paraded before the public. This was an old form, one of the first. It lacked all the stiff-backed regality of its younger kin. And its armor, likewise, was without pageantry, one might have even called it shoddy: a patchwork of metal plates topped by the crude dome of a helmet. The Mould’s eyes—two scorch-white spots—shone through the visor.

There was no weapon in the Mould’s hands. It needed none. From its bulbous shoulders emerged two pairs of long, scythe-like limbs. They moved in sinuous patterns, as if searching blindly for prey.

The Mould took a step toward him, limbs already reaching, their serrated prongs glittering.

Lurien clasped at a cord around his neck and inhaled deeply. “I am—”, but his throat seized shut.

It took another step.

If he did not act then he would be cut down. This fear would be the death of him.

“I—”

The Mould drew close enough that Lurien could see its body beneath the armor, the almost liquid consistency, like a pitch-black sea ready to swallow him.

“I AM LURIEN THE WATCHER! CHOSEN OF THE KING!”

He ripped the cord free and brandished the most valuable possession he owned: a Hallownest Seal, blessed by the King’s own claw. A new light, a sterling radiance, erupted from the Seal. In piercing bolts, it flew, striking the walls, the doors, the Kingsmould. As though met with a physical weight, the Mould came to a halt, a mere step out of reach. It regarded the Seal for some time, as though considering the options before it. And then, gradually, almost contemptuously, the Mould retreated, reversing its steps, and planting its back against the lumpen wall of the Vault. It melded into the material, fusing so fully that only its armor remained to protrude off the surface like huge, discarded scales.

The Vault doors shook and then slid apart, revealing a long, low passage. Lurien placed a claw against the door frame to steady himself. He waited for the pain in his chest to subside.

How many times had he visited the Pale Vault now? Six? He couldn’t be sure. Long ago, the King had bid him to inspect it at least once a decade, to confirm that its contents were safe and that its wards had not waned. Each and every time, that damned Mould had accosted him, and every time he nearly died of fright. Lurien had beseeched the King on multiple occasions to replace the Mould with a newer, more reliable form, perhaps one of the gleaming sentinels that policed the Palace, but he had refused. The King had intimated that replacing the Mould would be a far greater danger than merely leaving it in service.

As he always did in this circumstance, Lurien wondered what precisely the King fashioned his automatons from. The same material he built his walls with, evidently. Did it play a part in the Vessels’ creation, too?

Once the pain had diminished to something manageable, Lurien straightened and approached the low passage. It was absolutely choked with deadly contraptions: blades and spears and crushing slabs. They deactivated as he drew close, responding, he presumed, to the Hallownest Seal at his neck. He considered the practicality of all this. Was a Kingsmould not a sufficient guardian? Did the King really fear intruders so deeply? Or were all these traps meant to prevent escape, and not entry? Even after several visits, Lurien still did not know everything that lurked within the Vault. It possessed many sunken chambers that he’d never found the valor to investigate.

He resolved to keep this stay brief. As usual.

The Vault’s interior was a vast dome, from which dangled many constellations of glowing orbs. They weren’t Lumafly lights, best as Lurien could tell, for those would have died out long ago. Instead, they seemed to be of a similar design to the lever-activated lantern that the King had demonstrated a few days prior. How, exactly, these lights functioned in perpetuity could not be guessed, but Lurien was glad to have them regardless. They radiated a soft warmth that made the vault bearable, if not quite comfortable.

He lowered his own lantern and set out across the polished floor. Several curiosities passed him by. First was an abraded workbench, upon which rested an assortment of metal plates and spools of thread. Lurien supposed these to be reagents for future automatons. An idea rose, halting his feet. He looked for some sign of a Vessel among the miscellany, perhaps a scrap of those strange cloaks that they wore. He found none.

Next, he passed a huge, rectangular frame of metal. It was empty in the center, with enough space to accommodate a dozen or more bugs. The inner lining of the frame was filled with gears, wires, and delicate pistons, implying some complex mechanical function. During his early visits to the Vault, Lurien hadn’t understood the purpose of this object. It was only after the City began construction on its first tram station that he’d made the connection. He wondered how many hours the King had whittled away devising this tram prototype. Seeing it never ceased to fill Lurien with awe at the King’s intellect.

Third, he encountered a small library of waist-high scroll racks that encircled a single desk. Both the racks and the desk were formed of that same black material that made up the walls and ceiling, but these were smooth to the touch, like panes of glass. An open scroll rested on the desk, long forgotten.

Other objects caught his eye, but they were either too puzzling or too unnerving to warrant further inspection. It did not sit well with him to poke about this private sanctum. He felt like an invader of the King’s very thoughts.

Lurien reached the far side of the Vault and did as the King had decreed all those years ago. He extended the Hallownest Seal toward the outer wall, and a glowing pattern appeared, hovering just above the wall’s surface, diaphanous as a sheet of silk. It resembled a script of some sort, with long graceful curves accented with dots and small circles. As had been explained to him, this ward granted the Vault its shape and stability. Without it, the whole structure would dissolve. The King had woven his own power into this ward, and it would persist so long as he did. But why, though, did he require it to be regularly inspected? His power was boundless, meaning the ward would be the same.

Was that not so?

As Lurien circumnavigated the Vault, watching keenly for any abnormality in the ward, he thought of Soul Master. If that braggart grew impatient, would he attempt to force his way in? Soul magic allowed for all manner of miracles: healing, teleportation, the projection of energy and light. If he fully committed to the task, could Soul Master actually infiltrate this sacred place? Lurien doubted that he could overcome the King’s wards. He was nearly certain that he couldn’t overcome the Kingsmould.

However, if Soul Master ignored the warning message and ventured to the Vault’s gate, would that mean the end of him? Lurien did not care for Soul Master, but no one, no matter how vile, deserved a fate like that.

Eventually, Lurien completed his task. The ward seemed strong, the Vault secure. He could ignore this for another decade. But no, that wasn’t true, was it? He did not have another decade. Once he donned his new title, then he would never return to this place. Someone else would need to safekeep it in his stead. But who? Belvedere? No, Lurien would not see him imperiled. Gram? Perhaps. The terror would certainly be easier for him to endure. It seemed like a cruel burden to place on a friend, though.

He stowed the thought and beat a swift retreat, but as he passed the cluster of scroll racks, something about them arrested his attention. He stopped and placed a claw upon the desk. The King had been in this very library, pored over these very scrolls.

“What did you seek to learn?” Lurien whispered. “What did you not already know?”

He sat. A tide of nascent thoughts engulfed him. The Infection, the Vessels, the wards. Hornet…

Hesitantly, feeling almost like an apostate, Lurien lifted the open scroll upon the desk. Dust covered it from top to bottom. Within, he expected to find a tangle of arcane jargon and incomprehensible schematics. Instead, the scroll was penned in large, looping strokes, interspersed with whimsical illustrations. It looked to be the sort of thing a child would read. The scroll was sizeable and quite timeworn. If it was a product of the Spire, then it must have been one of the first. He held it carefully, scanning the colorful volumes within.

This was an omnibus of children’s stories.

He rolled through the scroll’s contents, at first in sheer bewilderment, but then with purpose. Three specific stories came to his mind. Surely at least one of them resided here. As he went, Lurien noted that many of the titles had been struck through with a fine quill. At first, he bristled. This act of vandalism was anathema to his scholarly temperament. What manner of barbarian would deface a good scroll, no matter how simple its subject matter? But then he saw something scrawled beside one of the marked-out titles, a message from the barbarian in question:

Irrelevant - champions no ethics, offers no edification.

Lurien froze. This was the King’s claw. He had seen it on so many occasions that there could be no doubt.

He rolled farther down and encountered another comment beside a story titled ‘The Mawlek That Swallowed a Knight’.

Acceptable - esteems perseverance, defiance before fear.

What was this? Had the King truly seen fit to review a collection of children’s stories? To what end? Was this for Hornet? No, the marks were quite old. They surely preceded her. Who, then?

He continued on. The next title filled him with triumph: ‘The Very Hungry Grub’. He began reading through it, attempting to consign it to memory, but this one had apparently drawn the King’s eye as well, for it was marked in several places.

Problematic – rewards gluttony with ascension and not punishment, may cultivate sympathy for grub-kind, which cannot be abided. Avoid.

Lurien paused and reconsidered. If the King saw this story as a poor choice, then perhaps one of the other two would better serve.

Time passed by in a blur. Despite its size, Lurien made quick work of the scroll. It was a much easier read than his usual fare. A strange sense of camaraderie began to settle over him. He felt as though the King were seated beside him, offering opinions and judgments. From the different inks employed, it seemed that the King had revisited this scroll on several occasions.

At last, near the very end, ‘The Weaverling and the Bell’ appeared. This one, too, bore a comment from the King, but it was smeared and oddly spaced, as though not written with a quill, but with a careless clawtip.

No prime gods to beg forgiveness.

What must be

shall be.

No cost too great.

Lurien stopped. The camaraderie fell away, as though blown by a chill wind. He checked the remainder of the scroll. The King had made no more marks. He’d abandoned it. From the layer of dust, it was quite possible that he had never touched this scroll again.

As though freed from a spell, Lurien stood and stepped away from the desk. He felt sordid, suddenly complicit in some execrable act beyond his ken. He began to leave, to flee the Vault as good sense had previously bid him.

But Hornet’s request echoed, and he lingered just long enough to snatch up the scroll before quitting the place.

Forevermore.

The lantern seemed so much heavier as he ascended the spiraling steps and unlocked the many doors. His mind was afire with dire possibility. He felt almost intoxicated, rendered incapable of coherent thought by some poison. But it would pass. He knew. And that frightened him all the more. The fire would gutter, and only the scorched truth would remain.

He reached the basement after a lifetime of toil and slammed the final door shut behind him. His limbs quaked, and the scroll under his robes knocked against his chest. He wanted so dearly to crumple to the ground. What difference did it make if a labor bug saw him?

But then, the very last voice that he wanted to hear picked up from across the room, “Ah, there you are, Watcher.” Soul Master hovered there, his silhouette red with furnace light. “I thought that I detected a great emanation of Soul in this area. Was that your doing?”

Despite everything, Lurien braced his back against the reinforced door and stood tall. “I was merely fulfilling an errand for the King. No need to trouble yourself.”

“A rather dolorous place for errands,” Soul Master observed.

“Yes, well, the basement is lacking in most amenities to accommodate guests, given that is not its purpose. If you are so curious, then I can provide a tour of it. Or better yet, the commissary. The evening meal is fast approaching.”

“The Spire has piqued my interest, I must admit. However, if I would beseech a tour of anything, it is the Pale Vault. How was your visit, by the way?”

“Harrowing,” Lurien said. The word spilled from him, involuntary like a gush of blood.

Soul Master feigned a sympathetic noise. “As we might expect, given your constitution. However, I have a proposal, Watcher, one that will resolve our respective dilemmas forthwith. Grant me just one night to study the Vault. By wielding the knowledge within, I can fulfill my destiny. I can save us all. Should you do this, I will vacate your Spire and never return. That is what you wish, is it not?”

To his own surprise, Lurien actually considered the offer. It would be such a weight from his mind to be rid of Soul Master. But even in this addled state, he realized the deceit. Just a moment ago he’d read a tale about a Tiktik that begged for a morsel of food, and upon receiving it asked for another, and another, until it devoured every last crumb.

“No. That will not come to pass.”

Energy crackled about Soul Master’s form. “You need not follow me if fear is the cause for you obstinance. Merely show me the way.”

Lurien pushed off the door. He felt so empty, so utterly spent. But even so, he took a breath. “This Spire is a repository of incomparable scale, that grows every passing day. One could invest their entire lifespan into reading all its contents, and still fail. But listen to me now, Soul Master, as you are your own bug, and you will make your choices. If there is but a single line of script worth reading in this entire hoard, it is here.” He placed a claw on the deathly warning carved into the wall.

Then he walked away.

Chapter Text

The backstage of the Spire theater was an utter tumult. Laborers and stagehands raced from side to side, hauling tools, props, and costumes. Lurien navigated this chaos one step at a time, though not always forward. Like a tidal force, the flow of foot traffic dictated his pace far more than he did. At first this irritated him, but after the third passing stage flat forced him to duck and scuttle, he submitted to his new role as a rudderless skiff over open waters.

Typically, the bugs of the Spire offered Lurien precedence in crowded spaces, yet here he was, one of many minor forms in the writhing mass. Given the time, and what little remained of it, he was not surprised that etiquette had been temporarily neglected. However, it stung all the same when a barrel-bodied laborer collided with him, nearly felling them both.

After mutual apologies, Lurien retreated to a wall and checked his cloak pocket, ensuring its contents had not been damaged. Despite his diminishing luck, it was still intact.

He resumed the delivery.

When last he’d laid his eye on this place, it had seemed nearly beyond rescue, nothing but detritus and dust. But now, the Spire theater was replete with vitality, with—dare he say—artistic potential? It was miraculous what could be achieved with an immovable deadline and a small army of mender bugs.

“Watcher Lurien?” a voice wobbled out of the crush.

Lurien turned to behold a familiar, though entirely unexpected bug. It was Marissa’s usher, that lean dutiful fellow from the Pleasure House. Instead of his uniform, he wore a rumpled smock of blackened silk. Bits of glue, grime, and paint speckled it from top to bottom.

The bug closed the distance, winding through the crowd with an effortlessness that spoke of a lifetime spent bumping shoulders. Lurien waited for the machinery of his mind to kick into motion. This bug, the Pleasure House employee, Marissa’s usher, was named… was named…

What was his name?!

It had been less than a week, how could Lurien have forgotten in that span? His whole body tensed, as though the physical effort would somehow aid in recollection.

Ah, of course!

“Greetings, Peridot,” Lurien said. “What a surprise to encounter you outside the arts district.”

Something like a cringe ran through Peridot’s shell. “Oh, erm, yes Watcher. The Pleasure House began renovations a few days ago, so the staff have been left to their own devices. Many of us heard of this upcoming performance and thought to investigate.”

Lurien stepped closer. He and Peridot formed an island in the current of bodies. “And you’ve volunteered as a stagehand? The aid is most appreciated.”

Peridot nodded. “My pleasure, Watcher. I auditioned for several parts, but Director Belvedere was quite the exacting judge. Not a problem, though. I’ve never been the best of actors, despite my fondness for it.”

Lurien thought to pat Peridot’s shoulder, as an act of solidarity and thanks. However, that looked rather… sticky, so he refrained. “Well, take care,” he said, and turned to go.

“You are surely busy,” Peridot blurted, “so I beg your pardon, Watcher, but regarding Marissa—”

Lurien halted him with a raised claw “As per our agreement, I have already executed everything within my power. The grand auditorium of the White Palace has been reserved, and word of the coming performance has been propagated. However, the King’s attendance shall ultimately be determined by his own discretion. You will understand that I have no more authority over him than any other bug.”

“N-No, Watcher, it isn’t that.”

“Well, what, then?”

Peridot averted his eyes, smoothed his smock. “I wanted to express my thanks—my deepest thanks—for aiding Marissa. These last few days she’s been positively effulgent with-with hope. It is a thing that she hasn’t known for a very long time, that perhaps many of us haven’t known. Please excuse the assumption, but it seems of late that your interest in the arts has been renewed, especially given this recent play. We are, all of us, enduring some very bleak times. And it is in these times that I believe art is made all the more valuable. Arias and soliloquies cannot cure the Infection, but they can soothe our hearts. They can kindle hope. So, again, thank you Watcher. Thank you for granting so many of us a chance to pursue our dreams.” He bowed low, with one claw over his chest.

Lurien shifted from foot to foot. He hardly felt a worthy recipient of this display. After all, how had his recent acts of artistic patronage even come about? The first with Marissa had been nothing more than bribery, a means of concealing a dangerous secret. The second with Soul Master had been a diversion, one conjured on a desperate whim. Had the King not entrusted the children to him, then none of this would have come about, at least not by Lurien’s volition.

Peridot held his bow, as though waiting for a sign to rise.

“You owe me no thanks,” Lurien said. He took Peridot by both shoulders—which were indeed sticky—and forced him upright. “A patron is no great thing, tantamount to a pouch of Geo. It is the artists that deserve thanks, nothing could come to be without their passion.”

Peridot shook his head and inhaled deeply, readying another sweeping declaration, no doubt.

Quickly, Lurien shifted tactics. “However, if you truly wish to thank me, then I have a request for you.”

This demand of service seemed to sit more easily with Peridot, and he let the breath go. “Certainly, how may I be of help?”

After a moment’s pause, Lurien concocted something. “My two wards, those young bugs you met at the Pleasure House some days ago, do you recall them?”

“Yes, Flower and Spirit, correct? We have crossed paths during rehearsal.” He lowered his voice, an unnecessary precaution in the din. “Word about the stage is that the girl is Pharloomian royalty. Is that so?”

Lurien ignored the question. “I would like you to keep an eye on the both of them during this performance. Should something go wrong, I will trust you to mitigate it.”

Peridot bowed again. “I will do all within my power.”

“Good,” Lurien clapped his now-sticky claws together. “That eases my worries. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Oh, one last thing, Watcher. I mean no offense—and if that sobriquet pleases you, then you are welcome to continue employing it—but erm… my name is Felix, not Peridot.”

Lurien weathered this heavy blow as he had the many, many before it. “Right, of course… Felix. I’ll keep that in mind.” He waved stiffly before retreating into the blessed anonymity of the crowd.

Not for the first time, and not for the last, Lurien thanked the King that he had his mask on, that way, none of the passing bugs could see the mortification twisting his features. After a few steps, he made an effort to bury the feeling. The night was too young, and his dilemmas too numerous to let himself be shaken so soon.

Along the backstage’s far wall, marched a row of doors that Lurien did not recall being there. He’d either missed them entirely on his first excursion, or they had been recently installed. Surely the former. The Spire’s mender bugs were masters of their craft, but even they could not have achieved this in so short a time.

A hastily scrawled sign hung from a peg on each door. The first read “Soul Master”. On an impulse that he did not bother to interpret, Lurien walked up and cracked open the door. Within, adorned in frilled vestments and a gargantuan cloak, was Watcher Captain Gram. He sat before a vanity with an oval mirror. It was much too small for him, and he hunched in order to see his reflection as he spoke.

“This vital force lies beneath my shell, the likes of which only death can quell.

To my own will it must be bound, and as a Master I’ll be crowned.

Bugs one and all across the land, such suffering do they withstand.

With Soul and reason, I’ll forge the way. A brighter future begins this day!”

Throughout this, he gesticulated solemnly, but at the end something must have soured, and he dropped the act.

“No. A brighter future begins this day! No. A brighter future begins this day! No.” He paused to consult the script. “A Brighter future begins this day! No, no, no…”

Lurien slipped inside. It was a modest space, a private changing room, with a pair of Lumafly sconces mounted on opposing walls. A folding screen occupied the corner, draped with sashes and scarves. He expected Gram to detect him immediately, but that did not happen. Given how sharp Gram’s senses were—at least while conscious—he must have been truly deep in thought.

“Good day, Watcher Captain,” Lurien said, not wishing to prolong the eavesdropping.

Gram moved with uncommon speed, rising from his chair and wheeling about. For lack of a nail, he brought his lethal horn to bear. But upon catching sight of Lurien, he relaxed. “Oh. Watcher. You must be careful. It is… unsafe to skulk.”

“Noted,” Lurien said. “My apologies for startling you.”

Gram returned to his seat and his script. “Startled. Yes.”

Lurien considered finding a place to rest his feet, but there was such a forbidding mien about Gram that he remained by the door. The silence built between them, a not-so-uncommon thing during most of their meetings, but this time it had a presence to it, like thickening smoke. Lurien sought to disperse it.

“Is something amiss, Gram?”

“No. All is well,” he busied himself with the script, rolling it up and down.

Lurien dared a step closer. “Perhaps a touch of apprehension before the performance?”

“No.”

“I ask because you have proven rather evasive of late.”

“Evasive? Not I.”

Lurien closed the remaining distance and reached for the script in Gram’s claws, but it was jerked away at the last instant. Gram hunched his great, rounded shell, as though trying to conceal something indecent.

“By the King, you are impenetrable! What is it, Gram? Are you cross with me? Have I offended you somehow? If so, then explain. Otherwise, what means have I of making amends?”

Gram clung to the scroll for but a moment longer, then the fight left him. He handed it to Lurien. “I am not cross, Watcher. I am… abashed.”

“Whatever for?”

With soft little gestures, Gram pointed to his vestments, his cloak, himself.

“I see,” Lurien said. “It seems I am indeed the architect of your disquiet. Please forgive me for instigating all this. The play was a foolish impulse. Had I enough wit, I might have devised something less histrionic to divert Soul Master. Maybe instead, some form of poetry reading would have served.”

With a low sigh, Gram scratched at the scar on his temple. “No, Watcher. This play, this opportunity pleases me. Greatly. And that makes your gaze a painful thing.”

“Why my gaze?” And then the Watcher finally saw. “D-Do you mean to say that you fear I think less of you for fancying theater?”

Gram nodded, as though anticipating the executioner’s blade.

What had caused Gram to believe this? In the past, had Lurien belittled him over this subject? Made an errant statement without forethought? He hoped not but couldn’t recall. Or was it that his Watcher Knights perceived him in a far different light than he assumed? A harsh, distant light it seemed to be…

“Do you think less of me for my paintings?” Lurien asked quietly.

“Certainly not. But you are a noblebug. In your station, such leisure is expected.”

“But theater is no leisure for a Knight?”

Gram nodded again and stared into the mirror.

“A moment,” Lurien said. He searched for another chair but found none, instead settling for an old chest stuffed with costumes. Its metal feet screeched as he dragged it across the shellwood floor. Then he sat and craned up at his colossus of a Knight. “Allow me to share a secret or five. You have crossed nails with each of the Greats, as I recall. But there is much about them that you do not know. As a consequence of my dealings with the King, I have encountered them many times in the shining halls of the White Palace, and have observed them, in both action and in rest. Perhaps you find the notion of a Great Knight in repose to be strange, but that is not so uncommon. It has been in these times that the Greats have displayed quite intriguing proclivities.”

Despite himself, Lurien paused for dramatic effect.

“What proclivities, Watcher?” Gram prodded.

“Are you aware that Mysterious Ze’mer keeps a garden in one of the Palace courtyards? With a delicate touch she waters and prunes a field of argentine flowers.”

Gram made a low noise.

Emboldened, Lurien continued. “Or have you heard that Kindly Isma spends her hours of leisure not with a nail, but a pair of knitting needles? Near on half the Palace’s royal retainers can attribute their uniforms to Isma’s work. And indeed, Mighty Hegemol possesses a skill for the culinary that rivals the Spire’s greatest chefs. This, I declare with confidence, as I’ve sat at his very table. Even Loyal Ogrim, with his simple claws still creates sculptures of—of…” He stopped, briefly stunned by revulsion. “Of various materials. And though Fierce Dryya ranks the most stoic among the Greats, she still finds the time to carve exquisite figurines from shellwood and bone. One resides on my very mantel, and it counts among my most prized possessions.”

“I was… unaware of this,” Gram said.

“Horticulture, knitting, gastronomy, and sculpting. Do these seem any less Knightly than theater?”

“I suppose not.”

“To be frank, I find relief in your thespian interests, not disdain. We have been companions since the Spire was first erected, and in all that time I only ever beheld you at labor or in sleep. Such a life appeared… hollow: to be an eternal guardian of a bent old bug, shackled to his daily tedium, and lacking any recreation for oneself. I thought that a dissatisfying form of Knighthood.”

Gram shook his head. “Not so, Watcher. This is the Knight I hope to be: a shield for the worthy and the just.”

First Felix and now Gram. Had it become every bug’s goal today to heap him with adulations? He certainly hoped not. It made his shell itch.

“Yes, well, I see then.” He cleared his throat. “To summate my rambling point, you are your own bug Gram, not some martial automaton. Even Knights with their many burdens deserve a time to pursue mirth and passion.” He handed the script back to Gram. “By this bug’s estimate, theater is no worse a means to that end than any other.”

“Fairly said.”

Lurien rose from the excruciatingly uncomfortable chest and stretched his back. “Now that we’ve achieved congruence, I must resume my quest. Best of luck with your performance, Gram. I anticipate it eagerly.” He opened the door and stepped back into the furor.

Not a moment later, Gram joined him. He employed an awkward, sideways shuffle to pass through the much-too-small door frame. “I will accompany.”

“As you please. Though, be warned it is a rather trifling errand.”

They passed a few more signs, but the going was slow, especially with Gram’s mass.

“‘Martial automaton,’” Gram said, unprompted.

“What?”

“You reminded me with that phrase. We must have words. About the quiet child, the one the beastling calls ‘Spirit’.”

“Oh?”

“I have watched. And considered. And concluded.”

It seemed that it was Gram’s turn for dramatic pauses.

“And?” Lurien asked hotly.

“It is dangerous. To you. And even I.”

“How did you deduce this?”

“A feeling.”

Lurien almost scoffed, dismissed the claim on impulse, but after a moment of reflection realized that Gram had a point. Superficially, the Vessel was a ponderous, clumsy thing. It was overwhelmingly passive, and even during those rare displays of will, its desires were naive and trivial. However, the Vessel was still a creation of the King, and not to be underestimated. It had completely overpowered Soul Master, after all, withering his arm in an instant. Had that limb belonged to Lurien, then he would have remained a cripple for the rest of his days. It was an odd sensation, knowing that the Vessel lacked the acumen to so much as open an umbrella, and yet one of the most formidable warriors in all the Kingdom still feared it.

But Lurien could not bring himself to do the same. He could not fear the Vessel. This was no show of bravery on his part—he was not that sort of bug—rather a fuzzy form of confidence. A trust.

Was that foolish?

“Your counsel is welcome, Gram, but my stewardship over Spirit is King-ordained, and never are his commandments without difficulty or peril. I will keep to it as I have to all the others. That is my duty.”

Gram rumbled disapprovingly.

“That is not to say I will be reckless, though,” Lurien added.

And Gram gave the smallest nod.

They reached the very last door, in the most remote corner of the theater. Scrawled in red upon its sign were the words ‘Manor Fire’.

Lurien and Gram hastened inside.

This changing room was similar to Gram’s, though larger and better lit. Within, to his great relief, Lurien found the children. They looked to be in the midst of a private rehearsal.

Hornet, much like Gram, was already in costume. She wore something like a ballgown. It was certainly voluminous enough to qualify as one. Irregular tiers of silk descended her body. They had been dyed in hues of yellow, and red, and orange, creating the striking impression of a lit torch. Dozens of tassels dyed in a similar fashion hung from her back and whipped about with every sudden movement. As Hornet pranced and flourished, the gown made a crackling sound like kindling just beginning to catch.

How in Hallownest had the Spire seamstress conceived this thing in a few days? To Lurien, it eclipsed all the effort of the mender bugs combined.

Though she surely saw them enter, Hornet did not pause for greetings, as she was too caught up in her own performance.

“And lo, the little lordling braves my bright domain! Bask in my rave-ening power and know that your home belongs to me. When all is blackened and I am sated in full, you may sift the wreckage, glad that I did not claim you too. Now, begone, little lordling. Do not think you can endure my touch.”

The Vessel, adorned from horn to foot in a black shell-tight suit, glanced briefly at the script, then pointed a claw at Hornet, as though in accusation. As always, it said nothing.

After a sufficient pause, Hornet resumed. “Boldly stated for a thing so flammable. Has my might scorched the reason from your head? No matter, then. If you seek to make of yourself an oblation, then who am I to refuse? Gladly does this burning god receive shell, silk, and bubbling blood!”

Hornet rushed at the Vessel with such fearsome intent that Lurien nearly called out, but she stopped a mere step away, and her fury was doused, leaving just the girl behind. “Okay, I think that was a little better. Some of these words are really hard. Thanks for the help Spirit.”

The Vessel did not accept her thanks, instead turning to regard Lurien and Gram.

“Ravening,” Gram said, “not rave-ening.”

Hornet flinched and rolled through her script. “Oh, I knew something was wrong.”

“Even still, very impressive. Your fire shows. In more ways than one.”

Hornet paced as she read. “I guess so, but there’s only a few hours left. I can’t mess up anymore.”

Lurien crossed the room and sat on a low couch, pleased to have finally found respite. “At this point, we must content ourselves with competence, not perfection. I suspect that during the performance Soul Master will be so enraptured by his own ego that a few mispronunciations will go unnoticed.”

Hornet hummed and sank cross-legged to the floor, flaring the gown about her like a pressed flower.

“But to second our Watcher Captain’s appraisal,” Lurien continued, “you look to me the very epitome of an unchecked inferno.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do.”

Hornet ran her claws through the multi-hued silk of the gown. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“However, I did not come here simply to bandy praise. I have something. A trinket that I believe will help you to blaze all the brighter on stage tonight. Come here, child.”

Hornet rose, but she approached cautiously, as though anticipating deceit.

Lurien suddenly felt like an old, bench-bound bug along the Pilgrims Way, trying to coax a Maskfly into eating from his claw. He reached into his cloak pocket and produced the trinket in question.

It was a ruby, cut like a ten-pointed star and set into a silver mold.

Just as they had with the Geo in the umbrella shop, Hornet’s eyes gleamed with hunger. “What is that?!”

“A relic from my wandering days. A memento of an old friend. Now, no more dawdling, let us see if it suits you.”

Hornet abandoned caution and drew close. Without pageantry, Lurien affixed the ruby to the collar of her gown and gestured to the wall mirror. The girl suppressed a squeal as she raced over and began to sashay with her reflection.

“Oh, this is perfect! Absolutely perfect!”

The ruby caught the light in just such a way that it seemed to glow from within, like a Lumafly in a prism of stained glass. Perhaps it was merely an illusion brought on by memory, but it looked to Lurien as though a new splendor had encircled Hornet, that the very air was dancing alongside her.

Oh, what a wondrous mistake this play was going to be, such a waste of resources—of time, of energy, of building materials. How antithetical it was to his goal of concealing the children’s presence. And how truly ineffective it had proven at reducing Soul Master’s meddling. Yet what a warmth, what an anticipation, filled Lurien’s shell. He had not felt its like since long before the Infection.

“Well.” he said. “It suits you well.”

Quick as a spark, Hornet pounced from half the room away, landing on the couch and burying him in a vise of a hug. She didn’t speak, just held him there, as though it was all that kept him from fading away.

“You are very welcome, Hornet,” he said.

During the embrace, the Vessel inched closer, doing a poor job of surreptitiousness. Here was yet another act of will, but to what end? Did it not care for this display of affection? Lurien almost laughed. Or was envy somehow within its abilities? Gram hovered over it, ready to do some pouncing of his own if it made a sudden move.

To preclude any possible escalation, Lurien pushed Hornet back onto her feet. “Yes, yes, enough of that. I must warn you, this gift does not come without conditions. I expect you to ensure that it isn’t damaged during the performance, and to return it to my quarters once finished.”

“Okay, I can do that,” Hornet said. “I’ll keep it safe, I promise.”

Lurien rose and took a step toward the door, but only one before he jerked to a halt. The Vessel had a grip of his cloak. Had it hoped for a gift as well?

At a growl from Gram, the Vessel let go. Lurien patted it on the head.

Just before he reached the door, it swung wide, revealing Belvedere. The little bug wore his customary attendant’s uniform, but it was disheveled and smeared with ink. He stepped into the room on wobbling legs, as he had a great deal on his person: a scroll-stuffed backpack, a half-dozen hip pouches, and a full toolbelt.

He cast a glance about the room, wild-eyed and jittery. Upon finding Gram, he said, “There you are, finally! This is no time to wander about, Watcher Captain. I’ve something to tell you. N-Now, what was it…? Something vital…” He tapped himself on the brow, as though that might dislodge the thought. “Oh, yes, of course. I’ve some last-minute alterations to your third-act soliloquy. I trust you can memorize them before call time?” He pulled a scroll from his backpack and passed it over.

Gram held it like a nail. He chuckled: a single, helpless note. “I can attempt…”

“Good,” Belvedere said. He then turned to Hornet. “One of the stagehands collapsed earlier today, and we’ve no replacement. During the second act when you are not otherwise occupied, you shall have to labor in their stead. Here is a list of their tasks.” He extended a slip of silk to her, but unlike Gram she didn’t immediately take it.

“But stagehand work is so boring,” she muttered.

“And yet you will do it still, as it must be done.”

Hornet accepted the slip and muttered further, but it was too low to make out. The very moment it left his claw, Belvedere wheeled on the Vessel.

“The workers could not prepare your headstone flat in time for the second act, so you shall instead play the lamppost. I understand that we had difficulties with it during rehearsal, but there is simply no time. Recall that your performance must convey mournfulness in its profoundest form. Do you understand?”

The Vessel stared.

“Nod for yes,” Belvedere said.

And the Vessel obliged.

Next, Belvedere drew an enormous roll of parchment from his hip pouch and scratched out three lines with a clawtip. His eyes closed for a full second, and he nearly pitched face-first to the ground before catching himself on the frame of the vanity.

“Belvedere!” Lurien shouted. “Are you well?”

Without replying, Belvedere produced a small metal flask from his pocket and took a forceful swig. It sent a shudder through his body, followed by several coughs. As though rousing from a daze, he seemed to spy Lurien for the first time. “You! Soul Master is obtruding upon my efforts yet again. Final preparations have already begun, and he insists on overseeing them. Even now, he floats about the backstage, pestering the workers. Remove him somehow. Lure him to the lobby with promises of banter and comestibles. He shall not sabotage me at this most critical juncture!”

At first, Lurien could not find his words. There was a bite in Belvedere’s tone, a bitter authority so unlike his usual self. This phenomenon had occurred before—on several occasions, actually—but it was still quite jarring to behold.

Hornet made a show of taking interest in Belvedere’s beverage, but he rebuffed her with a glower.

This side of Belvedere only ever appeared in times of great adversity: when a deadline loomed, when sleep was discarded, and when the stress hung in such abundance that it would suffocate the average bug. This was Belvedere stripped to the core, a machine of industry and unbreakable purpose. But this machine was not indefatigable. The juggernaut sprint always came to an end, and never without cost.

Lurien could only hope that he didn’t take ill again once this was all said and done. For the moment, however, he resolved to alleviate Belvedere’s woes where he could.

“Worry not, I will pacify our guest. Upon my title, Soul Master will be within his seat before the first act.” He passed through the open door, but lingered on the threshold. “And Belvedere, please avoid any high places for the time being. We would not want an injury when you—”

“Yes, yes.” Belvedere waved a claw and revisited his flask. “I know, Watcher.”

“Good luck to you all in the performance,” Lurien said quickly, and then he took his leave.

Chapter Text

The second act drew to a close with a mournful sting from the orchestra pit. Applause rose in crashing waves as Gram knelt upon the stage and wept. Scattered about him were dozens of headstones, all carved from shellwood flats. In his hands he cradled a magnificent purple cloak inlaid with opals and patterned with golden thread. Rain—literal rain—poured from the rafters and drenched his trembling form.

From his high vantage in the central booth, Lurien tried to discern how this rain effect had been achieved. An overhead pipe network connecting to the Spire’s gutters? A series of open skylights? And where exactly did it all drain out? Had the theater already possessed this feature before the recent renovations? If not, then how in the King was he supposed to balance this year’s expense portfolio?!

The curtains began to close—devoid of any catastrophic malfunctions this time—and the applause redoubled, drowning out the rain and the last quavering notes of the string section. Many a misty eye among the crowd sought relief in kerchiefs and coat sleeves.

Just before vanishing behind the wall of silk, Gram rose. From the front, he looked a sodden, wretched thing: his shoulders slack, his head bowed. But in a single motion, he donned the cloak and about faced. Now, he stood tall, defiant against the pelting rain. Emblazoned upon the back of the cloak was the Soul Sanctum’s sigil: a lantern flanked by silver wings.

Lurien caught himself nodding in appreciation at this display. The character arc of young Soul Master had been handled expertly so far. From a hot-headed neophyte to a grief-stricken penitent, and finally here, a willing inheritor to his father’s burden of office. He could hardly believe it, but Lurien awaited the third act with impatience. He longed to see how this tale would end.

One after another, freshly installed Lumafly lights sprung to life overhead, signaling the start of an intermission. The applause dwindled, and stiff-shelled bugs rose from their seats. It was quite an eclectic gathering. The theater possessed an impressive capacity, and no admission fees had been levied, so many commoners counted among the crowd. The wind-like susurration of a hundred whispers swept the air as opinions and predictions were exchanged. The main doors opened, and the Spire chefs declared that refreshments were to be had in the lobby.

A suppressed sniffle to Lurien’s right drew his attention.

It was Soul Master. Covertly, he produced a monogrammed cloth from his breast pocket and dabbed at the corners of his eyes. “Masterfully done, Watcher,” he croaked. “That Gram fellow captures my manner as none else ever have. And the funeral scene! It was just as I remember. You know, it rained that day too.”

Lurien did not remind him that it rained every day in the City of Tears.

After a steadying breath, Soul Master hovered free of his chair. “Truly, I feared this would be a paltry production when first you spoke of it. I assumed it to be a mere distraction from our more pressing business, but the attention to detail, the superb casting, the subtle references to my book, oh, Watcher, I misjudged your intent. This is all I could have hoped for. It must have demanded months of effort. Is this why your reply to my missives has been so delayed?”

Lurien shrugged, as though caught in the act, “I may be the Watcher, but you are quite perceptive yourself, Soul Master.”

“Hmm, yes. Considering the City’s current state, that was perhaps a foolish expenditure of time, but I treasure the gesture nonetheless.”

Carefully, so as not to impart anything, Lurien nodded.

“The third act draws near,” Soul Master observed. “I expect it to concern my early years at the Sanctum. Shall we behold your doppelganger upon the stage soon?”

“No, I asked our director to avoid such a thing. We wouldn’t wish for me to steal the spotlight in your play.”

“I see,” he sniffed. “Well, for the time being, you may find me in the lobby. No doubt many a bug will have questions for me. Had I forewarning about all this, I would have brought a few copies of my book.”

Lurien made a vaguely affirmative noise and turned back to the stage.

As Soul Master drifted away, the orchestra pit commenced another song, this one mild and muted, designed to ward off dead air during the intermission. Even still, it was a welcome thing to Lurien. Apparently, Felix had requisitioned the orchestra’s services for the play. Given that the Pleasure House renovations had rendered them temporarily without work, they’d eagerly obliged.

A harp solo began, something impromptu and timid, but the resonance of its notes drew Lurien deep into reverie.

Despite not even existing a week prior, this play had proven to be an unexpected triumph. In the end, the bulk of the Spire’s personnel had contributed to it: scribes, mender bugs, craftsbugs, artisans, and more. He wondered just how many official tasks had been deferred in order to meet this deadline. Soon, when the guests departed and normalcy returned, there would be a great deal of catching up to do.

He did not regret this endeavor, though. Far from it.

Gram had been such a luminary upon the stage, the very epitome of charm and wit. He’d delivered three soliloquies so far, each more striking than the last. At one point, He had even contributed to a musical number, displaying a rich and earthy singing voice. When had he found the opportunity to cultivate it? Lurien couldn’t recall ever hearing him sing before.

Despite Gram’s expert performance, the crowd had chosen a clear favorite in Hornet. They’d cheered every time she took the stage. Lurien liked to think that the ruby at her collar played some part in that. As the manor fire, Hornet’s ravings about impermanence and futility had juxtaposed Gram’s stoicism nicely. The joy had been evident in her every step as she raced across the stage, hurling streamers of crimson silk to represent spreading flames.

Of everything thus far, Lurien supposed that he’d liked the extinguishing scene the most. It had taken place in the manor interior, at the very height of the blaze. This set had clearly received more attention than the others, as it featured a full staircase, rather than just a flat. Hornet had danced up and down its steps, mocking Gram relentlessly. Once he could endure no more, Gram had ripped a tapestry from the wall and the two had charged one another.

Lurien wondered how much of their battle had even been choreographed, as it so authentically imparted a feeling of improvised desperation. In many ways, it was an inversion of their very first duel, when Hornet had just arrived in the Spire. Back then, the girl had been on the offensive, with a shellwood nail in claw, but here Gram had been the aggressor, seeking to smother Hornet beneath the tapestry. They’d lunged and darted about, Hornet’s beastly speed on full display. Periodically, she’d hurled streamers at Gram that made him cringe in agony when they ‘scorched’ his shell.

Eventually, Gram had won out and managed to cover the girl beneath the tapestry. After the final blast of the brass section echoed away, he’d removed it, revealing Hornet, caked from top to bottom in soot. Lurien was unsure if the tapestry had been covered in the stuff or Hornet had been given a satchel to douse herself with while out of sight, but the sudden change had elicited gasps from the crowd. Her once fiery ballgown had been so thoroughly blackened that it resembled a mourning shroud.

Hornet had recited her ensuing monologue with such longing, such despair.

How had it gone?

‘Ever in fear does the fuel lash out, to thwart its grandest transformation. When I am gone, what will you have? Darkness and cold, ignorance and impotence. How can you not understand? All things in this world change: life to death, silk to cinders. Why deny what is destined? Why cling to but a few fleeting moments? Can you not feel it? My embrace is warm… My freedom eternal…’

First painting, and now theater. Had the Lady been the one to instill these interests in Hornet? Maybe the Beast? It was not a displeasing idea, to think that Herrah bore an artistic side. Would he learn of it during their shared vigil?

A bang resounded from behind the curtains, bringing Lurien back. The next scene was likely being prepared. He imagined the many frantic stagehands on the other side, hauling heavy props to and fro.

He chuckled, remembering the Vessel’s most recent scene. In the second act, it had played a lamppost. Unlike its other role as the manor, which had been a mere mask peeking through a flat, this one had been a full costume, quite tall, and wide enough to conceal the Vessel’s horns, yet light enough to be lifted, allowing free movement. With tremendous difficulty, the Vessel had tottered from point to point on stage, seemingly to impart a sense of disorientation as Gram wandered the City’s streets in a sorrowful daze.

However, during a transition, the Vessel had lost balance and slammed flat on its back. Due to the rectangular shape of the costume, it had been impossible for the Vessel to rise, so for a moment it had languished there like an overturned Crawlid. Rather than distaste, though, this blunder had drawn sympathy from the crowd, gentle coos for the clumsy child. Soul Master was the exception, of course, he’d laughed loud as a gong.

Fortunately, Felix, had sallied forth from the wings to aid the Vessel. He hadn’t managed to right it, so instead dragged the poor thing out of sight. What a shriek the costume had made as it scraped the stage slats. Despite the spectacle, Lurien supposed that his entreaty to Felix had proven helpful in the end. Yet, it might have been better if the Vessel had merely played a headstone as Belvedere seemed to have intended.

This gave Lurien pause. The headstones. The funeral. The lamentations. Much of this play struck him as ghoulish. Was it not a disservice to the dead—to Soul Master’s father—making a stage performance out of such a disastrous event? If something like this had been made about his own late loved ones, Lurien did not know how he would react.

This play had certainly cast Soul Master in a more sympathetic light. That had been the intent, of course, to pander without an ounce of restraint in order to prove sufficiently distracting, but even Lurien felt himself swayed by it, if only a little.

A feeling arose in his stomach, at first as an innocuous bubble, but then as a sphere of lead. Had he just unwittingly commissioned the most effective piece of Soul Sanctum propaganda in history?

Oh, heavens, he had. He very much had…

This play was bound to elevate Soul Master in the eyes of the nobles and commoners alike. The cult of personality that he had so diligently fostered would swell the moment that the final act came to an end.

Lurien let out a burning sigh and cradled his mask in his claws. While he was at this game of self-sabotage, why not start hand-raising Belflies?

A sound, a rhythmic thumping, slowly crescendoed as someone ascended the stairs of the booth. It couldn’t be Soul Master. That one hadn’t employed his legs in years. Lurien lifted his head.

Hornet burst through the privacy veil, her arms wrapped about an enormous basket of stage supplies: mirrors and wires, glue and clamps, satchels of sand and powder. She no longer wore the ballgown, having returned to her red cloak. However, soot still smudged her face and horns, looking like some exotic disease.

She coughed between heavy breaths. “Lurien! Mr. Belbedere needs you!”

“What?”

“He needs help!”

Lurien stood. “Elaborate, child.”

“I don’t know,” she shook her head, speckling the railing black. “He just said to come get you.”

Circumstances must have been truly dire for Belvedere to beseech aid. What could it be, though? Hopefully nothing dangerous. “Very well, where might I find him?”

“Backstage! He looked so upset.”

Lurien skirted the girl’s overladen basket. “I’ll speak with him shortly. Do not remain here. Soul Master will be returning before the intermission’s end, and I will not have you two alone together.”

“Okay, okay.”

He hustled down the stairs and out of sight.

The lobby was warm with bodies and astir with talk. Soul Master hovered in the thickest part of the crowd, polluting the air with his typical guff. Several gregarious bugs lurched from the mass to hinder Lurien’s progress. Some came with praise, others queries, a few with proposals regarding art or business. He dismissed them all, as decorously as he could manage, and beelined for the nearest maintenance hallway. Once he was free of the public eye, the journey quickened.

As he arrived backstage, Lurien caught sight of Gram beside a rolling coat rack. Four clothiers, including the Spire’s main seamstress, flanked him like royal bodyguards. They seemed to be arguing over his costume, waving vestments and pleated silk at one another. However, Gram was completely oblivious to this, his eyes affixed instead to a crumpled scroll, over which he gestured and muttered. Lurien opted to err on the side of discretion and avoided them.

He drifted for a time through the river of laborers before spying Belvedere. The little bug stood before a long low table made of an overturned stage flat. A collage of silk scrolls was splayed out upon it. Every third second or so, a stagehand ran up to ask him something. He barked back the answers without even looking up. Like a general surveying the field of battle, he marched back and forth, shifting the scrolls about. Periodically, he took a nip from his hip flask and drummed on the table.

“Belvedere!” Lurien called before closing the distance. “How fare you?”

“Fare? Fair? Faire. Yes, a veritable circus, a troupe of clowns, myself the ringmaster. Wait and see, the whole tent will come down in but a moment more.”

“Whatever do you mean? Reception thus far has been superlative. I just witnessed the lobby buzzing with cheer.”

Belvedere glanced up. “No, put that back! It’s for scene three, not one. Keep your wits, now!”

Two bugs carrying a shoddy purple couch froze mid-step. Belvedere jabbed a claw at the other side of the stage. The bugs bobbed their heads meekly and about-faced, moving double-time.

“Overconfidence is the seed of defeat,” Belvedere whispered.

“I see… well, a certain soot-stained bug informed me that you were in need of help. How may I be of service?”

“Help…?” Belvedere leaned back, eyes gone glassy. “Have you the dozen Soul Sanctum props I requisitioned? My armchairs and decanters, my curtains and armoires? Have you that trio of asides I’d planned to write for Technician Number Two? Have you a bug, whole and hale, to take up the role of Researcher Number One, now that both its actor and understudy somehow sprained their legs descending the basement stairs?! Can you offer me these things in the span of a heartbeat? As any more would be too late!”

Lurien paused, grasped for a reply of any substance. “I could… endeavor to—”

“Better still!” Belvedere shouted, “Have you a mystical instrument of the King’s? A trinket from that Vault? Something to bend time and space? To reclaim for me a dozen hours squandered? Have you a magic satchel of slumbering powder to sprinkle upon the crowd out there? To buy me but the length of a nap?”

In a futile reflex, Lurien checked his pockets. He produced a fine-tipped brush. How had that gotten in there? These were his work robes…

They both stared at the brush, as though waiting for it to emanate numinous power. When it failed to do so, Belvedere struck the table with both claws, his scant strength barely moving the scrolls.

“Then it seems I am far beyond help, am I not?!”

Lurien risked taking Belvedere by the arm, felt him vibrate like a fraying harp string. “Breaths, Belvedere. Breaths. Did you not send for me? Hornet claimed that you sought my aid.”

“What? No.” He jerked away. “The lever is pulled, the contraption in motion. We’ve no time left for tinkering. No time at all.”

Suspicion knitted Lurien’s thoughts. What was that troublesome child up to? Some form of trickery? Or was it merely concern? Had Belvedere’s advanced state of agitation begun to worry her? Had she summoned Lurien in the hopes that he could soothe it?

That was certainly conceivable, but…

“A miscommunication must have occurred,” Lurien said.

Belvedere marked something off a list using an ink-blackened clawtip. “Quite. Now, if you would kindly leave me to my circus…”

Lurien inclined his head and stepped back. “Very well. If you’ll excuse me, then.” And he hurried off.

As he made his way down the maintenance hallway, a voice, tinny and tuneless, echoed from the ventilation ducts.

“Ladies and Gentlebugs, the third act is about to commence. We entreat you to return to your seats.”

Though already skirting exhaustion, Lurien pushed himself further and managed to arrive on the balcony before even Soul Master. He inspected the area, searching for any sign of Hornet beneath the seats or behind the curtains, but he found none. She had vanished.

The tittering of the orchestra suddenly ceased as the conductor took the stand. All was silence, and then with a flick of his wrist, every instrument in the pit sprang to life, conjuring a wall of sound, like the exhalation of a titanic creature. The stragglers in the audience flitted to their seats, and the curtains parted once again. Descending from the rafters on a wire, came the narrator. If Lurien’s memory served, he was one of the scriptorium bugs, an oddly taciturn fellow for a role like this. Over the course of the play, he’d made several appearances in this fashion, usually at the start of each scene, bearing a costume of one flying creature or another. This time, he was an Ooma, dangling long, pale strips of silk to represent tentacles. Lurien didn’t quite understand the symbolism of this, but it was an amusing sight, nonetheless. The narrator took a shell-popping breath and swept into his tale, but just as he did, another voice rose over Lurien’s shoulder.

“Pardon my delay. Did I miss anything?” It was Soul Master, still radiating vanity like a pyre.

Lurien gestured to the seat beside him. “It has just begun.”

Soul Master hovered near. As he prepared to sit, several spotlights activated and glided over the audience. One of the beams found the balcony and lingered there just long enough for Lurien to spot something odd about Soul Master’s seat. A clear, viscous solution had been smeared all over it.

By the King, it was GLUE!

Lurien nearly called out, nearly shouted for Soul Master to hold fast, but the words caught in his throat, and the great, bloated bug sank into the cushions.

Glacially, interminably, a moment passed. Every word of the narrator’s tale crept by like a wounded Baldur. Lurien dared not move, dared not think. He waited for Soul Master to realize what had happened, to explode into an indignant tirade and destroy everything they—Belvedere—had sought to create.

But he did not. Did that mean the world had finally tumbled to a stop? Did that Kingly trinket granting power over time and space actually exist? The one that Belvedere had so pleaded for? Had Lurien possessed it all along and only now learned how to activate it?

No. No such madness.

The orchestra picked up, weaving a tune replete with defiance and heroism. The play continued. Time still marched. Soul Master, in his rapt attention, must have failed to detect the glue adhering to him. It seemed that his detonation had been delayed, though not diffused. Once he attempted to rise, hell was sure to ensue.

Gram emerged onto the stage, adorned now in vestments nearly identical to Soul Master’s. He sat at a lone desk styled in the fashion of the Sanctum, all sharp edges and dark polish. Other characters—technicians and researchers—passed him by, but he paid them no heed. Instead, he wrung his claws and whispered darkly. When Gram was alone once again, he stood and began another soliloquy, something about determination and sacrifice, but Lurien could not follow it.

A fire raged through his head, seeking fuel in every corner. What was he to do now? How was he to salvage this? The longer he delayed, the more firmly Soul Master fused to his seat. A twee idiom about removing bandages ricocheted endlessly behind his eye. The more he thought, the more he realized that there could be no victory, only degrees of defeat. He could ruin the play in that very instant, or let it be ruined when the curtains closed. The outcome was the same, merely a matter of when.

Despite Lurien’s silent agony, the third act carried on. Compared to the previous two, its sets were far more austere, frequently a single, spotlighted prop at center stage, around which the characters gravitated. This fostered a very different atmosphere, one of introspection and confinement. On several occasions, Hornet made an appearance, once again draped in her soot-ruined gown. She said nothing, merely lurked at the periphery of Gram’s vision, a reproving ghost.

There was a narrative here of some sort, relating to Soul Master’s father, to interpreting his research, to constructing some manner of machine. It all passed Lurien by like chatter on a crowded thoroughfare. He was entombed so deeply within his own mind that he could barely see. The only thing clear to him was the scene transitions, each one a ticking hand on the doomsday clock.

He had to devise a course of action. But the only one he could envision was flight, a full rout from the theater. If he could vacate the area before Soul Master caught on, then there would be time enough to warn Gram and the children, to hide them somewhere remote until the incident resolved.

By scene seven, it had grown apparent that the play was nearing an end. Gram had begun construction on the machine: a mess of tubes and metal concealed beneath a sheet. It was meant to aid in channeling Soul, or something to that effect. The manor fire had been triggered by a similar instrument, a fact which Gram repeated frequently enough that even Lurien took note.

In an earlier scene, there had been another musical number, one about realizing the wishes of those that had passed yet not sharing in their mistakes. The chorus had been brilliant, and Lurien lamented not being in a state to properly enjoy it.

He traced and retraced his mental map of the theater, devising the fastest escape route, one that wouldn’t be hampered by the crowds. If he left quickly enough, then there was a chance that Soul Master might ignore this glue incident entirely. The balcony was deep-set and cloaked in drapery, making its occupants nearly invisible from below. If there were no witnesses to Soul Master’s floundering, then he might keep the event to himself. No bug alive valued their public persona more than him, so he had little reason to blemish it voluntarily.

Near the climax, the orchestra broke into a baleful interlude, all ululating strings and stomping percussion. Despite many warnings from his advisors, Gram had completed the machine. It bulged freakishly beneath the sheet, threatening to spill out. After delivering a brief aside with a voice going hoarse, Gram whipped the sheet free, revealing the sprawling thing. It was an impressive prop. Lurien could clearly imagine it residing within the Sanctum. An oval pane of glass occupied the center of it, serving as a window into its large, spherical chamber. Above this was another hole—a mask hole, Lurien realized, just like the manor flat. Was this meant to be another of the Vessel’s roles? But it was nowhere in sight. He considered this oddity for a moment before stowing it away.

Another prop, a simple lever, was pushed onto stage by a laborer dressed in black. Gram gripped the handle and made a booming declaration before slamming it down. The orchestra broke into a fascinating simulation of clanking metal and rushing wind. Light began to fill the machine’s chamber—achieved by a dozen loosed Lumaflies. Once the glow reached its apex, Gram placed both claws against the glass. Every spotlight in the theater converged on him, soaking his body in blinding white. A barely-visible wire lifted him into the air. Lurien wondered if the winch would give out, as the Watcher Captain was far from petite. It held, however, and with arms wide, Gram slowly rotated, alternately surveying the audience and the machine. The spotlights followed him, casting shadow fragments over the theater walls. He laughed, though it carried such anguish.

“Hear me, Father, the deed is done.

The dream you held, at last, has come.

Though apprehension slowed my claw.

Your whispers in my mind did gnaw.

I see it now, the simple truth.

Obscured behind my fear, my youth.

True focus lies within our grasp.

In strength of Soul we all shall bask.

Not wounds or ills or even time.

None shall slow our ascent sublime.

The King beloved shall praise my work.

The end itself shall we avert!”

The orchestra’s mechanical simulation slowly transfigured into a somber melody. The vast, ruby-red curtains began to close. One after the other, the instruments petered out, until only the strings remained, each musician offering a parting flourish before going silent. At the final note, the curtains met, and the entire theater erupted in ovation.

Lurien tensed, preparing to flee, but Soul Master made no move, instead laying back in his seat, gaze set somewhere far beyond the stage. A trance seemed to have taken him. But to where? An edifying place, Lurien hoped, one where he might rediscover a nobler self—assuming, of course, that the glue did not disrupt all that.

From the wings came a flood of color and form. The supporting cast, still fully garbed, rushed out to receive their hard-earned praise. They lined up before the curtains and locked claws, then bowed repeatedly. The roar of the audience was almost frightening. Roses, silk, and even Geo struck the stage. Just as the cacophony began to diminish, the leading roles emerged, and the very Spire seemed to rattle with adoration.

Gram stood center among the cast, but standing looked to be all that he could manage. Never before had Lurien seen him in such a condition. He was spent. Utterly and completely. Even a few months prior, when they’d visited the Pale Court, and Gram had sparred with all Five Greats in sequence, he had not seemed this tired.

Hornet, by contrast, practically sparked with unspent energy. Her bows were huge and extravagant, interspersed with pirouettes and hops. With her every wild motion, she left a curtain of soot in the air. The cheers reserved for her were so fervent that they rang more like shrieks.

Something seemed to occur to Hornet, and she ran off stage, returning a moment later with the Vessel. It was also still in costume, that prison of a lamppost. It earned some cheers of its own, much to Lurien’s puzzlement. As Hornet hurried along, the Vessel stumbled and careened, barely managing not to pitch headlong into the orchestra pit.

Soul Master took a deep breath. He said something, barely above a whisper, but it was lost in the din.

It appeared that the moment of action was upon them, no more deliberating. Lurien stood and placed a claw on Soul Master’s shoulder. “Take all the time that you require. I have other business to attend to.”

With that, he departed, maintaining a very specific pace, one of ease and ignorance. He found himself thankful for the riotous crowd, as it very nearly drowned out Soul Master’s rising protests.

“Oh, and Watcher—w-what? What is this? I cannot—Wait! Watcher? Watcher!”

Lurien wormed through the depths of the theater, keeping mainly to the mender bug passages. At first, the ceilings above him shuddered with prolonged ovation, but they stilled by the time he reached the backstage. He felt like a skulking criminal, emerging from a hatch in the floor to warn his accomplices of approaching danger. To his surprise, the area was deserted, or very nearly.

Gram sat on the floor, cloak discarded, back braced against the manor flat. He seemed to teeter on the edge of sleep, his horn dipping. The lamppost lay face-down beside him. It took a second for Lurien to process that the Vessel was still inside. Hornet, with a sooty towel over one shoulder, had the Vessel by the feet. She tugged fiercely and repeatedly, trying to pull it free through the bottom of the costume.

“Just—Come on. Try twisting. Yes, and then—N-No, no, not that way, the other way. We just need—to get—you—OUT!” She wrenched with a strength far greater than her frame merited, causing the lamppost to split apart with a gruesome crack. She landed hard on her rear as the towel went flying.

The Vessel tumbled free of the shellwood ruin. It lay corpse-like for a moment before wobbled up. Absently, it walked in a slow circle and picked splinters from its cloak. Seemingly pleased to now ambulate unburdened, it went to Hornet and helped her to stand. Almost demurely, it squeezed her claw.

Hornet chuckled through the panting. She rubbed at her rump. “You’re welcome, Spirit. Sorry we got your stuck in there to begin with.”

Lurien had no time for this!

“Children! Watcher-Captain!” he barked.

Like a Loodle, Hornet shot into the air. She landed, and whipped about, spying Lurien half-way free of the floor hatch. “Where did you come from?!”

“No questions, girl. An incident has occurred, and you three are to make yourselves scarce. Find a dark haunt within the Spire and remain until I can conciliate things.”

“Oh, right!” Hornet ran over to Gram and gently patted his cheek. “We need to go hide now.”

Gram glanced about. “Huh—wuh?”

“The Watcher Knight barracks will suit well enough,” Lurien said. “Get to it!”

Hornet made a futile attempt to lift Gram, but he soon stood by his own power. For a cutting instant, he cast off the pall of sleep and looked to Lurien. “Is there danger?” His voice was like a tramcar rusted by use.

“No,” Lurien said. “I do not believe so.”

Immediately, the hone left Gram’s mien, and he allowed Hornet to guide him. “Good… Not much left… Today…”

Hornet retrieved the Vessel and propped the theater’s backdoor open. How agreeable of her. How expedient. How…

“Where is Belvedere?” Lurien blurted.

“But you just said no questions,” Hornet chirped.

Lurien leveled a withering look at her, for more reasons than one.

“Over there,” she said, pointing. “I think we should let him sleep, though.”

In the corner, like detritus hurled to the burn pile, poor Belvedere lay splayed over a mound of old curtains. With a scroll in one claw, and the empty flask in the other, he looked to have simply collapsed there mid-stride. A spike ran through Lurien’s chest. He hastened over. At first, he feared for Belvedere’s health, but the little bug murmured and twitched, clearly deep in sleep.

With difficulty, Lurien retrieved the scroll and the flask. A strong scent of spiced root drink permeated the both of them. He could not halt the exasperated sigh. Grunting, he lifted his most devoted assistant. Belvedere was not a heavy bug, but neither was Lurien a strong one.

It would be a long journey back to his quarters, and already, his back was composing a protest, but he set out all the same.

It was his duty…

Chapter Text

The serving tray wobbled in Lurien’s grip, so weighed down was it with the tools of convalescence. He slowed his steps yet again, barely above a crawl now, and regretted not bringing a cart. To either side passed a seemingly endless procession of identical doors, their brass handles scuffed dull by years of use.

Lurien did not often visit the Spire’s staff dorms. By design, they were far off the beaten path. He seemed to only ever find himself here when tending to Belvedere. As he inched along, Lurien counted in his head. The doors bore no identifying markers, no numbers, no colors, no baubles perched atop their frames. Keeping a close tally was the only means of reaching the correct destination. How many brief and embarrassing conversations had he experienced here due to an errant knock? He made a mental note to requisition some signs, fully aware that this was not the first time he’d done so and would not be the last.

“…seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…”

He rounded a corner and spotted the Watcher Captain emerging from the twenty-fourth dorm room. If memory served, that belonged to Belvedere. Gram moved delicately, closing the door behind him with a barely audible click. He turned to leave, but Lurien’s rattling tray caught his attention.

“Is he well?” Lurien asked, at just above a whisper.

“Well enough.”

“Still slumbering, I take it?”

“He labored greatly. Earned his rest.” Gram’s words came in a barely intelligible rasp.

“And what of you?” Lurien asked, not sure if he should chuckle.

“Well enough. The voice is like a muscle. Without proper training, it can be strained by great use.”

“The leading role in a play would certainly qualify as such. In the future, perhaps you should strive to be more loquacious in conversation, rather than your monosyllabic fare. If you are to make a habit of leading roles, then some proper training would be prudent, no?”

Gram hummed. It sounded like a jammed elevator. “Perhaps. For now, though, a nap will do.”

This time, Lurien did chuckle.

With a shallow bow, Gram took his leave.

After pausing a moment to arrange the tray, Lurien approached Belvedere’s door. Using an ancient key, he let himself through. It was dark inside, the only source of light being a lamp on the bedside table. A lone Lumafly clung to the inner curve of the glass, wings still, body dim, half in torpor.

Belvedere’s quarters were a single-room affair. Despite the abundant furniture and limited space, it managed not to come across as cluttered. Every available inch was used to its utmost. In the corner sat a desk, a trio of sharpened quills atop it in perfect parallel. Beside that was a scroll rack, full nearly to bursting, but organized with color-coordinated tassels. Across stood a wardrobe, its door ajar, a dozen identical uniforms just barely visible within. All was order, all was peace… save for the bed, of course.

It looked as though the sheets and coverlet had been cursed with rancorous life, leading them to tangle Belvedere into a shapeless heap of silk and limbs. It reminded Lurien instantly of Hornet’s first night in the Spire. He imagined that Belvedere would not appreciate such a comparison.

If not for the fear of cut circulation, Lurien would not have interfered, but he placed the tray on the bedside table and carefully extracted Belvedere from his dream-woven prison. The small bug did not wake, only grumbled faintly as he was set right.

Belvedere’s choice of housing had always been a puzzle. Given his consistently sterling service, he was more than entitled to a larger living space—or at the very least a window. But he had refused relocation time and again. How many years had he remained in this modest room? Did he not see himself as worthy of something greater? Or was it a more practical reason? Perhaps the patter of rain on glass soured his sleep. That would surely be true to his character.

It occurred to Lurien that he was staring, looming over an unconscious bug like some dread specter. He became suddenly embarrassed and turned to leave.

But then a tiny voice halted him. “Watcher?” Belvedere’s head rolled upon the pillow. “Is that you, Watcher?”

Lurien cleared his throat. “Hmm, yes. My apologies for waking you.”

As though fighting through a vat of honey, Belvedere pushed free of the coverlet. He tapped the bedside lamp, startling the Lumafly from its own slumber. A soft, cream glow seeped through the room. “…What time is it? Have I overslept…?” He reached for the bedside table in search of something, but his claw struck the serving tray.

Lurien quickly steadied it. “Mid-afternoon. You have been asleep for nearly two days.”

“Two days? That’ll never do. I shall be late for… late for… THE PLAY!” Belvedere bolted upright. “Oh, King! The third act! I’ve missed it, I—”

With all the authority he could conjure, Lurien placed a claw on Belvedere’s chest. “Calm yourself and rest. It is finished. There is no more need for haste.”

At first, it seemed as if Belvedere sought to bolt from the room like a maskfly from its cage, but as sanity returned to him, he eased back onto the pillow. “It is truly over, then?”

“Quite.” Lurien took a wide-bottomed cup from the serving tray and filled it with mineral water. He passed it to Belvedere. “Now drink.”

With the cup in both claws, Belvedere capitulated, at first just a sip, but then in fierce gulps. He didn’t even breathe before it was fully drained. Lurien poured him another.

“Was it a disaster?” Belvedere asked, voice muffled by the rim.

“The play?”

Belvedere nodded and found a corner to hide his eyes.

“Not by the estimations of this bug. In what element did you foresee disaster?”

“Oh, where to begin? The fumbled lines, the cues unheeded, the mechanical failures. Did we not witness the very same performance?”

Lurien lifted a wetted towel from the serving tray and draped it over Belvedere’s brow. “Perhaps we did not, as only one of us was not addled by root drink and sleeplessness. It may have seemed a poor showing from behind the curtain, but the view from the balcony was quite flattering, I assure you. Fate permitting, ‘Soul Master: A Genesis in Three Parts’ may come to be one of the most esteemed stage performances in The City’s history.”

Belvedere returned the cup to the tray. “Pardon my skepticism, but the Watcher would not spread falsehoods simply to shield the pride of an attendant, would he?”

“Ha! Do you think me so treacherous now? Have all those acts of skullduggery eroded away the last of my credence? Well, then, if I am no longer a fair judge, perhaps a third party might convince you.” Lurien reached into his robes and produced a cheap scroll, already fraying. “Today’s edition of The City Gazette contains an expansive editorial on last night’s disaster. Does that interest you?”

Though his claws twitched in his lap, Belvedere kept an even tone. “Somewhat.”

Lurien passed him the scroll and sat at the desk to ease his weary feet.

In grievous silence, Belvedere began to read, as though memorizing the provisions of his own encroaching execution. “What of Soul Master? Did the performance prove engrossing enough for him? If it failed in every other metric, so long as he was diverted, I shall consider that a success.”

Lurien reflected. Excluding the glue incident, Soul Master’s response had been positively effervescent. At no other point had Lurien witnessed him so pleased with anything, not his first encounter with the King, not his acceptance speech to head the Sanctum, not his extravagant birthday gala from the year prior. Somehow, this slapdash play had revealed a side to Soul Master that Lurien had thought long dead. A shame it had been so quickly smothered by lurking acrimony.

“He… was thoroughly enchanted. In fact, since the night of the play, he has yet to antagonize me a single time. It must have so captured his imagination that he still muses on it even now.” Lurien did not mention that this new absence of hostility was proving to be infinitely more alarming.

What did Soul Master suspect? What did he know? If he believed Lurien to be the perpetrator of this glue attack, then what diabolical vengeance was he concocting at that very moment?!

“I see, well there is solace in that, at least.” Belvedere placed the scroll aside, half-read. He patted his face several times then wormed through his pockets. “That is enough dawdling for me. Have you seen my flask, Watcher? Work yet remains, I am sure: flats to tear down, props to stow away.”

“Most unfortunately, the flask was misplaced in the tumult. You may have this instead.” He passed him a meat bun from the serving tray, then planted himself firmly before the bed, denying any egress.

Belvedere rose from his pillow, head high, shell straight. For a long while, he held Lurien’s gaze. Neither of them spoke, as nothing needed to be said. They had shared the exact same debate in this room so many times that it permeated the very walls—lingered like a bitter odor.

Through the heavy silence, point and counterpoint played out, a call and response not unlike a worship service at the King’s shrine:

The plea for rest. The right to work.

The right to leisure. The work as leisure.

The concern for health. The obvious physical aptitude.

The abundance of laborers. The dearth of expertise.

The monopolization of skill. The insufficiency of students.

And on and on and on it went.

But this time, as they glowered at one another, the meat bun moved, inched toward Belvedere’s mouth, climbing like a Crawlid up a rockface. He took a nibble, then after a pause, ravaged the thing down to crumbs.

Barely moving, Lurien gave him another, as though this were some illicit dealing, the passing of contraband from claw to claw. He dared not even breathe, fearing it might annul the transaction.

By the fourth bun, Belvedere’s posture slackened. By the eighth, the defiance in his eyes softened into something else. He produced a kerchief and stifled a belch with it, observing propriety even here.

Lurien loosed his held breath. “Better?” he ventured.

With a surgeon’s care, Belvedere picked crumbs off his coverlet and deposited them in the kerchief before putting it aside. “Skullduggery indeed. Those were Obble meat buns.”

“Your favorite. Yes, I know.”

A tremendous yawn superseded Belvedere’s reply. He lifted his arms overhead and stretched, groaning in both pain and relief. Slowly, he slumped back onto the pillow. “Oh, why must you vex me so, Watcher?”

“What now? It is I that vexes you?”

“Yes, and thoroughly. That tendency of yours to coddle only makes my profession more challenging, you should know.”

Lurien held up his claws and shrugged helplessly, words made utterly insufficient.

“But even so, you are the victor this day,” Belvedere murmured. “I shall keep to this bed, just as you wish. But on the morrow, I shall be back to my duties, with no more of your impediments! Are we clear?”

Lurien laughed, full and unguarded. “Clear as the King’s light.” He stood and retrieved the serving tray but left the water. The small silver dish that had borne the meat buns was now completely empty, save for a few green flakes of discarded seasoning. He had been wise to bring a meal meant for four.

Belvedere reached once again for the City Gazette. He rolled through it with a different eye this time, lingering here and there on certain passages. Some seemed to even bring him pleasure.

Though he would have liked to linger and see Belvedere’s full reaction to the review—as it was truly quite extolling—Lurien instead made for the door. It would be a long walk back to the commissary, and after that an even longer quest to locate the children. For whatever reason, Hornet had grown absolutely obsessed with the basement of late. He would begin his search there.

As he reached for the doorknob, the tray tilted, sending a spice shaker tumbling to the ground. Fortunately, the thick glass did not shatter, and Lurien tucked it hastily into his robes. He thanked good fortune, as that would have been a poor end to a valuable gift.

Isma, the Kindly Knight, had given Lurien a small collection of herbs and medicinals upon their last meeting in the Pale Court. She had gone into excruciating detail about the applications of each colorful powder, some of which were rather obscure. This one she had called ‘Green Repose’ and described it as a ‘pacifying agent’, an additive for tea meant to ease one’s stress and aid in relaxation. She had not provided any instruction on dosage, however, and Lurien wondered if eight buns-worth of seasoning might have been too much.

Once he had collected himself, Lurien opened the door. “Take care, Belvedere.”

“And you in turn, Watcher,” Belvedere said through another stifled yawn.

“I hope this period of recovery goes well enough that you evade the usual bout of post-exertion illness.”

Belvedere made a neutral noise, clearly not hearing him, too engrossed was he in the scroll.

Lurien closed the door behind him, and not a moment after, Belvedere’s voice carried through.

“‘A skimping third act’? Grant any bug the time and resources that I had and show me something better…”

After this came a violent sneeze, and several wet coughs.

Lurien resolved to check back later. Perhaps the Kindly Knight’s gift had also included a remedy or two.

Chapter Text

“Like this?”

“That is closer, yes. Recall that foreground objects require greater clarity than those in the background. That stool, for instance. Use the fine brush to delineate its boundaries from the windowpane behind it.”

“Oh, okay…”

Hornet dabbed at her palette, mixing two shades of gray in a lazy spiral. After some deliberation, she placed a dozen miniscule strokes on the canvas, and then took a step back, inviting Lurien to appraise her work.

“Much better,” he said, nodding. “You see how the detail attracts the viewer’s eye, guiding it on a journey across the image.”

“Right, um, yeah, I see it!”

“Shall we proceed with the condensation on the window? The light refracting off the droplets will require a very certain shade of white. I have it somewhere, just a moment.” He rooted about in his monstrously large chest of painting supplies. From beneath an envelope filled with blackened brushes, he produced a small, sealed pot. “Here it is.”

Hornet leaned around the easel. “Are you alright still, Spirit? Do you need to take a break?”

The Vessel stood beside the window, one foot upon the ground, the other planted high on a purple satin stool. Unsurprisingly, it did not reply. Its gaze was fixed on the ceaseless downpour outside. With both claws resting on its hips, and its cloak thrown back as if by a powerful wind, the Vessel projected a gallant and introspective aura… at least that seemed to be the aim. To Lurien it looked more perplexed and stilted, though he had no intention of voicing that opinion.

How long had the Vessel been in that pose? Well over an hour at least. And yet it showed no sign of fatigue, maintaining a stillness so perfect that it rivaled the very stool on which it stood. Lurien knew many an artist that would pay top Geo for a model with stamina like that.

Hornet shrugged, taking the Vessel’s silence as permission to continue. She accepted the pot of paint from Lurien and got to work speckling the windowpanes. All things considered, she was doing quite well with this portrait. Although she had more natural talent for landscapes, this was still an impressive first attempt, especially for one so young. It pained Lurien to admit it, even within the seclusion of his own mind, but the girl’s grasp of foreshortening was far better than his had been at her age. He wondered if she even knew the meaning of the term. Unlikely.

With a slight shake of his head, Lurien dismissed the acrid thought. “You do excellent work, young lady. And swiftly, at that.”

“Really? I wasn’t sure. I can’t tell if Spirit’s horns are right.”

“No need to worry. They are quite lifelike, especially in this lighting.”

Hornet giggled, a jubilant little melody. It was the same sort of noise she made after scoring a point off of Gram in the sparring ring.

“Time is short,” Lurien said, “but if we can complete the piece before bedtime, then it will likely be dry enough for transport by the morrow. I believe that your father will be well pleased to behold this.”

The giggle tightened. “I hope he likes it better than last time.”

“You have painted for the King before?”

“Sort of. We tried once. It didn’t go so well…”

“Did he not care for your composition?”

“Well, it wasn’t finished. There was an accident. I got excited and made a big mess, so we had to stop.”

Though he did not pry further, a dozen hypothetical depictions of ‘a big mess’ flitted through Lurien’s mind: toppled easels, palettes turned into makeshift ballistics, clawfuls of brushes falling in a needle-rain. He felt an intense pang of sympathy for the King as an imagined bucket of paint struck him full in the face.

On the subject, it occurred to Lurien that the King had suffered—or perhaps to put it more kindly, experienced—Hornet’s company for far longer than he himself had. But how long, precisely? Weeks? Months? The Beast had entrusted the girl to the Palace soon after accepting her role as Dreamer, but had that been enough time for the King to become truly acquainted with his spawn? Given those reclusive tendencies… perhaps not.

Lurien wondered if he should broach the subject with the King when next they spoke. He fancied the idea of commiserating over shared tribulations, but by the same token it seemed like a conversation of great intimacy, a sort he was not entitled to.

“Is this right?” Hornet asked. Her tone suggested that she had repeated the question more than once.

“Ah, pardon me. Yes those droplets will serve well enough.”

“Great! What’s next?”

Lurien tapped thoughtfully at the base of his mask, glancing from the canvas to the Vessel and back again. “The shadows beneath the stool are lacking in depth. I’ve a deeper black somewhere…”

“Can we put something at the top through the window? There’s plenty of space. Maybe some Vengeflies having a fight? Or maybe a bunch of Uoma—you know what those are, don’t you? Oh, wait! We can put the King there! He could be flying by! Have you ever seen his wings? I have. For the longest time, I thought that he just hid them under his cloak, but it turns out that they are his cloak. He tran-transfigures it into feathers of light every time that he flaps. I keep asking him how to do it, but he always says no.”

Lurien made a forbidding noise. “When composing portraits, verisimilitude is paramount. Our intent is to capture this moment just as it is, devoid of any… embellishment.”

Hornet cocked her head. “But that’s a little dull, though, isn’t it?”

“It is real. It is authentic. There is value in that.”

For a fitful moment, Hornet brooded, but instead of furthering the argument as usual, she simply said, “Okay, I guess. Can you hand me the black?”

While Hornet bolstered at the shadows, Lurien once again set his attention on the Vessel and its unusual pose…

As he recalled, the girl had bid it to adopt a number of experimental postures in the early phases of the portrait, ultimately settling on this one, as it seemed the most dramatic. How, again, had she phrased her command? “Stand like a hero.” Yes, that was it. The Vessel had complied with this order as best it could, throwing back its cloak, planting its foot high. Clearly, it had an idea of what heroism looked like, but… how?

He looked about, scanning the plethora of priceless artwork that flanked the second-floor gallery. There were portraits and landscapes within elaborate frames of shellwood; there were sculptures of clay, bronze, and polished crystal; there was even the odd clockwork contraption. Among this, he sought anything that depicted a bug, hoping to find one in a stance similar to the Vessel’s. Over the last week, the Vessel had displayed a surprising mimetic aptitude, even adopting a few of Belvedere’s mannerisms, such as the way that he pendulated from foot to foot while deep in thought. Here, it may have opted to employ a similar tactic by mirroring one of the art pieces.

Despite having perused this gallery countless times before, Lurien found no sufficiently heroic depictions. Of course, it was possible that he’d missed something; pieces did rotate from time to time. Some were sold or leased, and the abundance of ambitious City artists ensured access to swift replacements, but he doubted the Vessel’s perceptiveness exceeded his own.

What, then? Had it learned of heroes from Hornet, from the many games it must have played with her while in the King’s care? Or had this come from another occupant of the Palace? One of the Greats perhaps? It was certainly the sort of pose that the Loyal Knight might favor. However, there was a far simpler possibility here. The Vessel may have chosen for itself how a hero was meant to stand.

No matter the answer to those questions, the ramifications were similarly dire. And yet, they did not feel dire, not anymore.

Had Lurien been so deluged with revelations about the Vessel’s impurity that he’d become utterly numb to them? No, not at all. The opposite, it seemed. A change had overtaken him at some nebulous point within the last few days. Rather than alarm, the Vessel’s displays of agency were now eliciting something not far from delight. The sort that might arise from translating an ancient script, or solving a devilish riddle, or spying on the secret song of a Maskfly, or… forming a rapport with a cryptic child…

A cold claw gripped the core of him and would not let go. For the first time since taking this Vessel into his charge, Lurien felt no relief when envisioning its return. Instead, he found something else: that direful feeling he’d so recently misplaced. What did that mean for him? For it?

“Lurien. Lurien? Lurien!”

“What? What, child!”

“How do you even do that?”

“Do what?”

“Disappear in your head like that. Can you not hear when people are yelling at you?”

“I do not disappear, I—I… Well, what is it that you want?”

With a flourish, Hornet gestured. “It’s done! Look at it!”

Lurien extracted himself fully from the chasm of his own thoughts. He adjusted his mask and leaned back to assess the portrait, following the flow of linework from bottom to top. The girl had done a fine job granting more texture to the shadows within the piece, even capturing the ragged edges cast by the Vessel’s cloak. However, as he looked, her other additions became clear. She’d shrouded the Vessel in motes of silver that hovered almost like fungal spores. They clustered mostly about its shoulders, resembling an extension of its body, perhaps armor of some sort. Behind its head and above its horns hung a halo, a ghostly white aura that radiated out in concentric patterns. There seemed to be tiny script embedded into each ring. Lurien startled, realizing that the script was similar to the markings present within the Pale Vault, the wards scribed by the King himself.

A pained grunt caught in his throat. “You have taken some creative liberties, I see.”

“They look pretty good, don’t they? I started adding sparkles, and since you didn’t stop me, I thought it was okay to do even more.”

An involuntary twitch wormed through Lurien’s claws, an urge to amend, to order. A few coats of paint could rectify the image, bring it back to normality. But instead, he stowed his claws within the inner pockets of his cloak and took a breath. He reminded himself that these additions were not… inexpert. There was purpose to the hanging silver motes. They were a royal mantle. There was a story etched into that pale halo of light, one he may never fully understand. If it had been he that wielded the brush, these elements would not have come to pass, but that did not mean that they were wrong.

Silence reigned for some time, so long that Hornet reached up to wave before Lurien’s eye. “Did you go back in your head again?” she asked, and when he did not immediately reply, began to snap her claws at him, producing tiny sparks. “Hello? Are you there?”

With a burst of motion, he shooed her away like a bumbling Hiveling. “No, child, I am considering! And I beseech you now for the merest iota of patience!”

Hornet retreated a step, arms raised in surrender. “Okay, okay. Fine. I’m sorry.”

Lurien smoothed his robes, paused, and finally said, “Though I believe more mundane methods may have produced a similar effect, your additions have imbued an undeniable nobility in this work.”

At that, Hornet nodded wordlessly, no cry of victory this time, no boasts, just the soft satisfaction of a vision realized.

“Have you any other modifications in mind?” Lurien asked.

“No, I think it’s done.”

“Very well then.” Lurien took the girl’s brush and palette then set them aside. “Now comes the difficult part.”

“What’s that?”

Lurien produced a small shellwood plaque and an old iron chisel gone halfway to rust. “You must give it a name. Something true, something inextricable from its purpose.”

Hornet accepted these new implements as though they might shatter if held too tightly. She grew quiet and seemed to be doing some considering of her own. After a time, she braced the plaque against the easel and set to work. Aside from the eternal rain-murmur, the scrape of shellwood was the only sound in the gallery.

Hornet made one last fierce drive with the chisel and then set it down. “Pure Reflection,” she read, just above a whisper.

“Hmm,” Lurien said. “I believe that will do. Before we depart tomorrow, I will have it framed and plaqued.”

Hornet wiped her claws on her knees and craned around the canvas. “Okay, Spirit, you can relax now. We’re done.”

At that, the Vessel seemed to deflate, a rare show of weariness. It corrected its cloak, pressing the folds back into place. There was something in the gesture that seemed so very bashful. Once it had returned everything to order, the Vessel padded over and studied Hornet’s work. Oh, the troves of Geo that Lurien would have parted with in that moment to hear its thoughts.

But as the Vessel gazed upon itself, it said nothing.

Of course.

Cleanup proved a different sort of challenge. There were brushes to wash and oil, paint jars to reorganize and seal, shellwood shavings to dispose of. Hornet contributed to this effort at first but quickly grew bored and lounged on the stool beside the window, draping her too-long form across it. As her head and legs dangling to the floor, she asked, “Is it dinnertime yet? I’m getting hungry.”

Lurien passed a soapy brush to the Vessel, which—as he had instructed—attempted to twist the bristles back into shape so that they would retain a fine point for later use. Like most activities that required precise motor skills, the Vessel struggled at this, often crushing the bristles rather than shaping them. Lurien made a mental note to come back later and repeat the chore himself.

“If I am not mistaken, dinner will be within the hour,” Lurien said. “Once done here, we can depart for the commissary if you wish.”

“What do you think it will be? I really liked the grilled Dirtcarver yesterday. We used to eat that a lot back in Deepnest.”

“The week is nearing its end, so… roasted Gruz flanks, I believe. You are in luck, as they are the head chef’s specialty.”

As though pricked by something, Hornet sat up. She did not look at him as she spoke. “Didn’t he get sent away, though? Back when Gasbag got angry about the salad spice?”

Lurien fought to keep a neutral tone. “Ah, yes, I had forgotten. An unfortunate event, that. Quite unforeseen. You know, that chef had served the Spire for many years, most of his life, in fact. I recall when he was a mere assistant, slim and bright-eyed, eager for anything, even the mundanity of chopping vegetables.”

Hornet picked at the hem of her cloak, head bowed. “Do you know where he’ll go now?”

Although Lurien knew for a fact that a chef of such caliber could find employment in the City almost instantly, he avoided saying as much. “One can only speculate. It is a difficult world. New homes can be a challenge to come by.”

A rigidity set into Hornet’s frame, as though she were tensing to take a blow. “Oh.”

Feeling that the moment had finally arrived, Lurien pressed on. “The circumstances surrounding his expulsion were quite unusual. He’d never been known to make such serious mistakes in the kitchen. But I suppose that since he alone was to blame, then he alone must suffer the consequences. A shame, though, truly.”

“Right… uh, Lurien… I need to tell—to tell you—” But then Hornet’s head shot up, as though she’d heard something far and faint. She sat high in her seat, craned her neck to look past Lurien. A sharp breath filled her, and she readied to speak, to bark a warning, but at the last moment held it in.

A brutal clamor echoed through the gallery, screams and a hollow metal ringing. It originated from a passage on the far side. Through the haze of brief panic, Lurien tried to recall where that led. It was to the guest chambers, those reserved for noblebugs!

“What now?” He roared, fear combusting into fury.

And just as expected, Hornet shot off toward the noise, darting through the gallery pieces with that beastly agility of hers.

Lurien dropped a clawful of brushes and grabbed the Vessel’s arm. “After her, Spirit! Quickly!” And he heaved his old shell into motion.

Chapter Text

The shrieking gained clarity as Lurien and Spirit drew nearer to the guest rooms. While the artwork blurred by, he tried to discern just what sort of shrieking it was. That of pain? No. Of Fear? No. By no means could it be of joy or revelry—that much was certain. What then? He rounded the corner into a cloud of chaos and quickly understood.

It was of rage.

Something—a great many somethings—both downy and pale danced through the corridor, held aloft by the warm updrafts of the ventilation ducts. Maskfly feathers! They completely veiled the hallway, looking like the bitter ash storms so common at the Kingdom’s Edge. Within this tumult, Lurien thought he spied two figures. One he presumed to be the girl, and the other the source of the screams. Dread began to mount in his throat as the feathers thinned and the voice grew familiar.

A bucket—the source of that metallic sound from earlier—rolled out of the gossamer squall as though recently kicked. It came to a stop at Lurien’s feet. Within he spied the glimmering dregs of a viscous, amber solution. Was that… honey?

By the King, what had she done?

A shockwave, a compression of air that could only be an act of Soul, threw most of the feathers aside, revealing the two figures.

Hornet and Soul Master.

Despite himself, a bark of laughter rose up from Lurien’s gut. Fortunately, it caught on the lump in his throat, emerging only as a squeak.

Soul Master hovered in the air, covered from the tips of his horns to the base of his cloak in honey and Maskfly feathers. That blast of Soul had surely swept some of it off, but the rest stuck tenaciously. He shuddered with a violence, the like one would see from a vagabond in freezing rain. He had ceased screaming, thankfully, but the hoarse furor still steeped his voice. “What is the meaning of this? Who would DARE!?”

Above the doorframe, and Soul Master’s head, a simple contraption had been hastily mounted. A thin board of shellwood—presumably the perch for the bucket—hung loose, now parallel with the wall. Adjacent to that, an empty pillowcase dangled from the end of a short cord and pulley. A few Maskfly feathers still clung to the inner lining.

Engineering? Really? Lurien could excuse the painting and the Nailplay as some reflection of natural talent, but this? How!? Had it been the King? Metal and wire, screws and brackets, these things were his domain. Had he really instructed her on the assembly of such a trap, on such juvenile devilment? Perhaps the girl had adapted some other, more licit blueprint to this end. In either case, something flared in Lurien, a sensation that he had promised never to indulge: a deep and piercing resentment for the King himself. He felt sullied, wronged, and guilty all at once. In that instant, he was both betrayer and betrayed! He longed to interrogate this feeling, to reconcile with it, but—

“Who is responsible!?” Soul Master bellowed. “I will see you ruined! Step forward!” He wiped the sticky mess from his eyes and blinked.

Hornet stood before him. Though no Nail rested in her claw, she had taken up one of Gram’s battle stances. “Hello Gasbag,” she said with icy calm.

“What?”

“I said hello. You asked me to step forward, so I did.” Hornet made an exaggerated show of putting one foot closer.

Soul Master’s eyes bulged in his head, like a Hwurmp threatening to inflate. “You? Of all the bugs in the Kingdom, you?!”

Spirit broke free of Lurien’s grip and rushed through the feather-drizzle to stand beside Hornet. The two of them formed a phalanx that harkened back to their brief battle with the Kingsmould in the Palace.

“I see, then.” Soul Master spat, “This is your accomplice? Yet another act of malevolence from this lout.”

With a ferocious cough, Lurien found his voice. “Soul Master! Are you unharmed? My apologies, but you seem to have stumbled upon one of the children’s games. I will summon the attendants immediately and have them prepare a bath. In fact, perhaps a tour of the spa is in order! Yes, you will find our heated water to be marvelously rejuvenating.” He rushed over and took Soul Master by the dripping sleeve. “Come, I will guide you there myself.”

A lightning sheath of Soul pricked at Lurien’s shell, and he pulled back in alarm.

“Game? Do you take me for an idiot? Did you presume I would dismiss these acts of sabotage as mere coincidence? I am the Scholar Supreme! I will suffer these indignities no longer!” He hovered a foot higher and held out a threatening arm.

Did he mean to attack? Would he wield Soul against a child? Lurien did not know what to do. He found himself readying to leap before Hornet and absorb whatever blow was about to come.

But instead, Soul Master simply snapped his claws.

After a pause, a pallid object—no, a creature—emerged from the floor, percolating through the hallway tiles like a soap bubble through a grate. With a hiss of air, it assumed an oblong form, complete with two quivering eyes and a lolling mouth. Though at first glance it seemed to be a simple blob, it trailed a set of vestigial arms and legs like coattails. In the sudden quiet, Lurien could hear the clotted labor of its breathing.

“Wha—What is that…?” Lurien whispered.

Soul Master loosed a few feathers with a shake of his head. “No need to cower, Watcher. This is an associate of mine. You may think of it as my… porter.” He bent down to address the creature. “Who assembled this device above my door?”

It gurgled something almost intelligible, an honorific perhaps, and deformed its body in a grotesque sort of bow. Though the effort clearly pained it, the creature then lifted a flaccid arm and pointed at Hornet.

“As I suspected!” Soul Master thundered.

“Yeah, of course,” she huffed. “That’s what I just said.”

“You confess, then?! To assaulting foreign nobility! To fomenting conflict between nations?!”

At that, Lurien did interpose himself, though he kept his distance from the blob-thing. “Wait, please. Such claims are uncalled for. No assault has ensued.”

“Oh? How else might one describe these offenses against me? The poisoning of my meal, the unlawful detainment of my person, the fouling of my attire, the public humiliation. Is torture a more suitable word? Does that charge carry any less severity?”

“Please,” Lurien panted, “this is a miscommunication. I entreat you to calm yourself and allow me to explain.”

Soul Master flicked his wrist at Lurien, peppering his mask with honey. “No doubt you were aware of this conspiracy against me from the very outset, Watcher. Nothing within this Spire occurs beyond your gaze. But I must ask, were you a bystander to all this, or the mastermind? As both indolence and spite define you in equal measure, I cannot know which won out. Do you not understand the political suicide of hindering my quest? The literal suicide? Without my research, there will be no cure for this affliction! The Kingdom will fall to dust, and you will follow! Have you become so addled by time that—”

“Hey!” Hornet stomped her foot, and the feathers coating the floor quaked with unnatural force. “Enough! You have been very mean to the help about my pranks. It’s almost like you don’t even know the custom. I did this, not mister Lurien, not Spirit. Me.”

Honesty. Of course the girl had seen fit to be honest at the worst conceivable time. It felt as though a tower was being built upon Lurien’s head, with Hornet’s every word another brick. He languished under the weight, grasping for some diversion.

“Custom?” Soul Master asked. “From what custom could this torment possibly derive?”

“You don’t know anything about Pharloom, do you?” Hornet demanded, jabbing a claw at him. “Some scholar you are!”

Soul Master took the rebuke like a physical blow. He shuddered midair, a Fungoon caught in a gust. “How dare you? I am fully versed in the land’s geography, its exports, its flora and fauna, its—”

“But you’ve never been to the Court, have you? I can tell!”

“And what of it?!”

“Instead of loafing around the Spire, maybe you should go visit. At least you’d learn not to throw a fit every time you got fooled by something simple like this.” She gestured carelessly at the contraption over Soul Master’s door.

“Are you implying this barbarity is common practice in your homeland?”

“Yes, Gasbag, yes. That’s what we do in the Pharloom Court! Pranks and tricks and traps happen all the time.”

Soul Master reeled back, as though evading a stench. “Farcical!”

Hornet stomped again, generating another faint shockwave of Soul that drew Spirit’s attention. “It’s true!” she barked. “I’ve pranked mister Lurien a bunch of times already and he hasn’t whined like you.”

“Watcher,” Soul Master said, wheeling on him, “explain this child’s babble!”

“That’s Princess Flower to you!” Hornet snapped.

Lurien wiped the last spot of honey from his mask. He tried once again to devise a more compelling lie, but nothing came. Only one path appeared left to him. Though he lacked the time and mental faculties to calculate his chances, he barreled on all the same. “Y-Yes, she is not deceiving you, at least not at this moment. In the burnished halls of the Pharloom Court, this exercise is quite common among the nobles. They view the subterfuge as a form of enrichment, a means of cultivating wit, guile, and ingenuity. It has apparently gone on for many generations, though few beyond the bounds of the Court know of it.”

“Tell me, then,” Soul Master said, “if I have never heard of this insanity before, then how are you possibly privy to it?”

“While negotiating to host the young Princess, I was warned by the envoy that this manner of cultural exchange was all but a certainty. Only a week has passed, and I have already lost count of her many ruses. You should see what she has done to my canvases. I fear her antics have stolen years from the life of my lead attendant, and perhaps myself. Nevertheless, it is not this Watcher’s place to criticize the mores of another culture.”

Perhaps in an attempt to fortify Lurien’s claim, Spirit made a vaguely affirmative gesture with their arms. But Soul Master gave them a look of such withering hate that they promptly lowered them.

“Now then,” Hornet said, as she dropped her battle stance, “I’ve spelled everything out for you, and now you know how it works. So, no more yelling and crying. You need to be a good sport, otherwise the game is no fun. If you get tricked or trapped then that’s your fault. You just laugh it away and remember for next time. Okay?”

Soul Master did not immediately reply. His eyes were closed, his flapping mouth shut tight and trembling.

“Great!” Hornet continued, “Because I have so many more ideas. With my help you’ll be a Pharloom courtier in no time.” She rose to the tips of her feet and extended a graceful arm. “My pranks shall be your lar-largesse!” She looked to Lurien briefly, as if seeking some kind of approval. He could do nothing but nod.

“What do you take me for?” Soul Master whispered, the words emerging like scalding steam. “An imbecile? A simpleton? I know what you attempt to do.” He took a breath so deep that it disturbed the feathers glued to his face. The blob-creature beneath him covered its eyes in terror and melded back into the floor. “I WILL NOT BE TOYED WITH!” he roared. “I did not come here to be abused by you cretins! I came here to save you! No matter how many obstructions are laid before me, I will not be denied! I DESERVE this knowledge! I DESERVE this power! Only I can make use of it! Only I can recuse us from doom!” He pointed at Lurien, and an errant lash of Soul whipped just over his head. “I will enter that vault, you wretched dodder!” He pointed next to Spirit. “I will devise the secrets of your power! Nothing is beyond my grasp, do you understand? Nothing!” Last, he pointed to Hornet. “And I will learn your identity, little girl! A Princess of Pharloom? HA, what drivel!” He turned his back to them, and the door to his chambers slammed open before another wave of Soul. “All this and more I swear! You will lament the very instant that you dared to cross me!” He entered, and with a deafening crash, the door closed behind him, throwing a fresh mass of feathers back into the air.

Lurien patted the top of his head, searching for a wound, but he was blessedly unscathed. The hall echoed for a time with the last of Soul Master’s tirade, but it eventually fell silent. The knot in Lurien’s stomach unmade itself one thread at a time. He felt like the survivor of some mechanical disaster, the sort of explosion that leaves one numb and stumbling. He looked at the children, expecting them to be similarly cowed, but Hornet stood tall and intent.

She was counting under her breath.

The knot rewound itself, tighter, fiercer than before. “What? What is it, child?” he gasped, “What else have you done?!”

But she did not answer him. “Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty!”

A new scream, a different scream, one of unmistakable horror ripped through the door with such force that Lurien feared the windows might shatter. Possessed by some vague impulse to rescue, he lunged forward and grasped the handle, but Hornet pulled him aside with startling strength. Not a beat later, the door flew open, and Soul Master burst free. He careened down the hallway, trailing feathers, and honey, wailing all the while. He tumbled into the elevator and slammed the lever repeatedly. It plummeted at full speed, chains singing a garish song.

Through the open door—now dangling on damaged hinges—Lurien saw the confines of Soul Master’s quarters. They were magnificently appointed, and even in that moment a small part of him made a note to praise the attendant responsible. But a motion drew his eye, something slick and pink. On the far side of a low couch flanked by crystal vases, the curtain to the lavatory hung wide. Within the half-shadows of the huge marble wash basin, something flopped and gurgled.

Lurien made a noise, little more than a puzzled grunt, but it was enough. An elongated, noodle-like thing dropped from the basin with a smack. It stood fully upright before directing its eyeless face and circular, sucking maw in his direction. With a phlegmy war cry, it charged at him.

By the King, it was a Flukemon! Fully grown, nearly as tall as himself!

He grasped the battered door and slammed it shut once more, struggling to fit it back into the frame. The Flukemon threw its entire body against the heavy shellwood barrier, burbling and hissing all the while.

“Help me, children! Quickly!” Lurien shrieked.

Hornet and Spirit obliged almost merrily, bringing their shoulders to bear. Though not a hefty creature, the Flukemon struggled ferociously to escape, and it took all of Lurien’s strength to realign the latch. After fumbling in his robes for the master key, he turned the lock with a snarl. The door shuddered with several fresh impacts, but it held. Once it became clear that the threat was contained, he sank to his knees and rested his mask against the coarse grain.

“Sweet mercy, that was close.”

Hornet slumped down beside him with a laugh. “It’s just a wiggler. They’re basically big squishy pillows if you keep away from the teeth.”

“Hardly, girl! They’re a menace! An existential threat to our waterways.”

She merely shrugged.

“Did you plant it here?” He said, rising. “Did you venture all the way down to the Royal Waterways to retrieve this thing?”

“Oh no, I mean, uh, yes.” She gave her head a fierce little shake. “I definitely put it here to scare Gasbag. But I didn’t go anywhere, I promise! I just found it in the basement.”

Cold revulsion slithered down Lurien’s shell. “The Spire’s basement? These things are inside our walls?”

“Yeah! I found it a few days ago. Spirit helped me catch it, they’re really strong when they need to be.”

The Vessel looked up at him, neither confirming nor denying the girl’s story. It simply reached out and placed a gentle claw on his arm. Was it seeking to console him?

Lurien did not react, he drifted past the both of them, caught in a sudden gale of worry. The Watcher Knights would need to be alerted immediately. The basement would be evacuated and cordoned off. Gram would lead a strike team and purge the frightful creatures. Cleanup would ensue soon after, and then whatever breach the things had crawled through would be sealed. The whole affair would take days.

And then…

He entered the gallery. The Vessel’s portrait still stood, holding a silent vigil. Something compelled him to join it, and he stared through the window into the deluged streets. A form moved far, far below, intermittently illuminated by the streetlamps. It was a bug, large and rounded, moving swiftly—fleeing—through the downpour and into the distance. It left no footfall ripples in its wake, only a trail of Maskyfly feathers.

He supposed dully that this was one way to best a foe. “But for every ill deed, a reckoning,” he intoned, quoting something the King had once said.

He sat on the purple satin stool and let out a breath so harrowed that he feared it might melt his mask.

“Are you mad?” It was Hornet, she stood behind him, with the Vessel shadowing her.

“A familiar question,” he murmured.

She stepped closer, put some force in her voice. “When Gasbag first showed up, it seemed like you really didn’t want him to stay, and when I offered to get rid of him, you didn’t say no, so…” She wiggled her claws with muted festivity. “Tada. Problem gone.”

Lurien reached beneath his mask and rubbed his aching eye.

“Was that wrong?” Hornet asked.

“Child, I… I am not displeased to see that one vacate my residence, but the means of his expulsion may cause more harm in the long-term than simply allowing him to remain.”

“He was so awful, though! I couldn’t let him keep talking to you that way.”

Lurien patted the air weakly. “You have a Knightly heart, girl. And it is appreciated. But moving forward I ask that you stay your claw in matters like this. In the realm of the aristocracy, there are other ways to do battle.”

“…Okay. I promise.”

He stood with effort, feeling a thousand years old. “Despite all this turmoil, I must admit, your aptitude for artifice is quite impressive. Do you have much experience assembling gadgets like the one over Soul Master’s door?”

Hornet fiddled with a paintbrush they had yet to stow away. “I guess. I only really do it for the King, though.”

“Truly?” Lurien balked. “He has enlisted your services?”

“Yeah, all kinds of annoying and prissy bugs come to the Court. He asks for my help with the ones that he doesn’t want to deal with.” She seemed to be performing some mental math. “I can’t remember how many, but I’d gotten rid of a lot before Gasbag.”

“Can you recall any names? Any family crests?” Lurien thought back. There had been rumors lately of certain nobles prematurely terminating their stays at the Palace. He’d attributed it to the labyrinthine floor plan and inhospitable glare, but it seemed there’d been other factors.

She tapped at her chin. “I probably shouldn’t say… Anyway, though. It’s too bad Gasbag didn’t believe my Pharloom stuff. I thought I did a good job making it sound real. I guess all that acting practice from the play still wasn’t enough.”

“An already quite fantastical lie can be difficult to embellish further. Nevertheless, Soul Master is no longer our concern—at least for the moment.”

Hornet passed the brush to Spirit.

“I guess so. What happens now?”

Lurien considered. It was like hacking through a low tunnel choked with webbing. “First, I will have words with Gram regarding this infestation. But then… oh, King, I do not know… perhaps a meal?”

“Yeah, that sounds good!”

Something occurred to Lurien, and he managed half a chuckle. “After all, dinner approaches, and there is a certain vegetable peeler with whom we must meet.”

“Huh? Why?”

“To congratulate him on his promotion.”

Chapter Text

The telescope rattled and groaned as it was adjusted. Though well cared for, it had begun to show its age. No amount of oils or polish could beat back the advance of time. Tiny bits of tarnish speckled the iron tubing, like blemishes on an elder’s shell.

As he sat before the telescope, Lurien thought of Monomon, of their very first meeting in the King’s court. She had hovered there in the stark light of the atrium, a cryptic revenant, buoyed not by Soul but by her strange physiology. He’d never beheld something like her before, not once in all his travels. Truth be told, he’d been frightened. This was long before Monomon had earned her reputation as a benevolent educator. Instead, she’d seemed like some alien creature come to barter. She’d even brought a mysterious object, one concealed beneath a gossamer sheet. Oh, swiftly did his opinions changed when she unveiled this telescope and addressed him in her melodic voice.

He chuckled. What was he, a child? That must be the case, if a gleaming gift and a few pretty words could so easily sway him.

As always, though, whenever he thought of Monomon at length, the matter of Dreaming reared its head. She had been the second to accept the mantle, not long after himself. When the news reached him, it had elicited such a mélange of emotion: of solace and grief.

He did not know precisely what it would be like to reside within the dream. Perhaps it would be a lucid state that he shared with his fellow Dreamers, one not unlike a sitting room where they could chip away at eternity with listless banter. Considering that Monomon was perhaps the most adroit conversationalist in all the Kingdom, this was not such a terrible notion. Or instead, maybe the dream would be a more nebulous affair, a coasting half-consciousness like those that sometimes came to him in the early mornings. He could not say which fate would be preferable, because anything, no matter how pleasing, became hell when stretched into infinity.

It granted him at least a small hope to know that Monomon would be by his side at the end. But at the same time, he lamented those that would be divested of her presence. To countless scholars and aspirants, she was ‘teacher’. Without her, the Archives would suffer irreparably. He wondered if that apprentice of hers would take over. What was his name? Did it begin with a Q? Or no, was it a C? Maybe—

The telescope lurched violently, in pursuit of some swift-moving object.

Spirit, who had been peering through its eyepiece for near an hour now, overbalanced yet again and nearly tumbled from Lurien’s lap.

Despite his eroded reflexes, he caught them before they toppled horns over heels. “Another Vengefly, I assume? Heed me, child. If you do not settle, then I will soon grow too weary to catch you. The ground is a far less forgiving instructor than I.”

As they hung in Lurien’s arms, Spirit went slack like a newborn Maggot. They seemed to have taken ‘settle’ as a command, though in a decidedly unproductive manner.

“Oh, really?” Lurien scoffed. “It’s malicious compliance, then? Well, if you do not shape up, then we will be forced to adjourn this telescope session, won’t we?”

Spirit resumed their seat on Lurien’s lap, straight-shelled and prim as a courtier.

“That’s better.”

After taking a brief moment to reorient the eyepiece, Lurien turned Spirit back to face it. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Use the telescope to perceive whatever you please. Do so carefully. It is nearly bedtime, and I would prefer no more surprises from you.”

Spirit took to this task hungrily. They adjusted the mirrors with an expert’s touch, panning the scope from side to side in search of something that ‘pleased’ them.

Lurien gave their head an idle pat and thought of the last week. It had been such a whirlwind that he could hardly keep the days in order. Still, no matter his perception of them, the days had passed. He and the children would be departing the next morning for the Palace. And if the girl behaved herself for at least one more night, then she would earn her iron prize. Lurien considered how the King might react to seeing a real nail in the girl’s claw. Not well, in all likelihood…

This reminded Lurien of something, and he retrieved the fat scroll of children’s stories from his cloak pocket. Just as they had been for days now, the notations from the scroll’s margins skittered through his mind.

No prime gods to beg forgiveness.

No cost too great.

He resisted the urge to unfurl the thing and revisit the King’s words. They would do him no good, though. He could only assume so much about them. The answer would come on the morrow. From the source.

As though unsettled by his turmoil, Spirit leaned back from the eyepiece and looked up at him. Their unblinking gaze then shifted to the scroll.

“Oh, this?” Lurien asked. “It is for the girl. You know well as I that she requires some diversion before bed.”

Spirit said nothing, though for a fleeting instant Lurien could have sworn otherwise.

“Are you satisfied, then? Make certain, as this may be your last opportunity with the telescope for… for some time…”

As though in reply, Spirit hopped from his lap and planted their feet. They stretched almost imperceptibly, like a guard on watch trying to hide their fatigue.

“So be it.” Lurien replaced the shellwood cap over the eyepiece and cast a thin, gray sheet across the rest. He turned to go. “Come along, then, Spirit, there is—”

But he lurched in place, a tram caught in a power surge.

“‘Spirit’?”

How long had that been going on?

He laughed stiffly and looked about, ensuring that there had been no audience to his slip. But there was only the Vessel.

“Come along,” he said, quieter.

And it swiftly obliged.

The children’s bedroom was uncommonly dark when Lurien and the Vessel entered. A single lit candle sat on the dresser, the flame winding a slow waltz with its reflection in the mirror. Hornet was already in bed, though she lay over the sheets rather than under them. She had shifted to one side, head propped up by a claw, the other absently toying with a shiny red bauble.

“Good evening, Hornet.” Lurien said. “I did not expect to find you here quite so soon.”

“Oh, hi.”

“Not as rife with energy today? Are you feeling well?”

“I’m alright.”

Lurien patted the Vessel gently on the back and pointed to its bed. As always, it marched over and slid smoothly beneath the sheets. He considered ordering it to sleep, but something else caught his attention.

The bauble in Hornet’s claw—it was his ruby star! The one that he had lent her for the performance. In all the recent excitement, it must have slipped his mind.

“How many more ways must I be reminded of my age? I am already afflicted with this failing body. Must my memory fail too?” He pulled a chair up beside her bed and reclined. “You could have absconded with that ruby had you the mind to. Months might have elapsed before I even noticed it was gone.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” Hornet mumbled. She passed it to him.

As the ruby contacted his claw, he felt a pulse, like a vital organ. It hearkened back, as it always did, to a different age.

“You said it was from a friend, right?”

“Yes, one long ago.” Lurien began to rotate the star in his claw, like turning a valve on an arcane machine. “In youth, I was a very different bug. Though not possessed of a fire quite like yours, I sought out my share of adventures, of wonders. A lifestyle like that results in many strange encounters: eccentrics and exiles, friends and foes. Sometimes, connections can form from those errant junctions. With enough time, enough hurt, they can crystallize into something physical, that ruby is one such example. It bears the same spirit as its creator: a cordial light, a defiant joy. I am very fortunate to have received it.”

Across the room, the Vessel stirred.

“Rest now,” Lurien told it over his shoulder. It obeyed, though grudgingly.

Normally, Hornet would be a torrent of questions by now, demanding all the details of Lurien’s past, of names, locations, quantity of enemies felled. Instead, she crawled beneath the sheets and rested her head against the pillow.

Lurien reached out and placed the back of his claw to her forehead. It was not unduly warm. She didn’t seem ill. “Is something amiss, girl? How do you feel?”

She warded him away, and then like a snapping rope blurted “I’m leaving in the morning.”

“So you are. I imagine that comes as a relief, though, yes? By this time tomorrow you will be resting in your own bed safe within the Palace. The Lady and your father will be delighted to see you, I am sure.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you not excited to see them as well?”

“I am, I just…”

But she would not let it go, that unformed plea deep within her. And Lurien hadn’t any idea how to coax it. He feared that if she did not speak it now, then it would clot and scar, and she would carry that mass with her forever. He could not allow that.

“Child… when did you see the stars?”

“What?”

“The stars, those ineffable lights that reside at the top of the world, beyond these walls, beyond this cavern, beyond all the others above it. They nestle within that ocean of clouds and reveal themselves only when they see fit. To the average bug they are but a fantasy, never to be seen by waking eyes. Most grow old and fall to dust without ever experiencing them. Even I, in an attempt that nearly spent my life, only saw them once. Yet earlier this week, you depicted the stars upon my canvas. No second-hand account could have rendered them with such verity. You were there, were you not, at the end of the earth?”

Hornet slumped deeper into the pillow, going limp, as though after a titanic effort. “My mother took me there, once. When I was very small. I don’t remember much, only that she carried me. I rode on her back in a sling. She was so big, so strong. Nobody came along with us. I guess they would have just slowed her down. But she climbed and climbed and climbed. There were all kinds of monsters, things I’ve never seen in Hallownest. I remember being very afraid, but they never hurt us. She was much scarier than they were. Whenever we rested, she would play for me. She would move her claws over threads of silk. It made the most beautiful sounds. After a long time, I don’t know, days, weeks? We came to a place so wide, so empty. I thought it was another cavern, but then the ceiling came apart like a meat bun, and a million tiny fires winked down at us out of the dark.” She reached up, as though to pierce through the miles and miles of rock and scoop the heavens into her arms. “My mother said that each star was a memory, one so true and so brave, that it refused to be lost. She said that when a body dies, its memory rises above the world and becomes a pure gem of light. It shines down on us so that we always remember.” She lowered her arms, held them close to her chest. “And I will remember. The stars. And her.”

Lurien tried to speak, tried to console the girl, but his body would not obey him. A feeling he could not quantify held it still.

And then, stinger-swift, Hornet’s claw reached out and took Lurien’s. Her grip was fierce, but somehow still tender. She said nothing for a long moment, as though to speak would be an admission of defeat. But then… “And I’ll remember you too, Lurien. Even when you’re gone.”

He flinched. What else could he do? Abruptly, Hornet released him. She hid her claws beneath the sheets.

What had the girl meant by that? How much had she been told?

“Are you worried? Did the King imply something?”

“No, it’s not what he’s said. It’s what he hasn’t.”

“I am here before you, am I not? I have yet to vanish.”

“Yeah. Yet.”

He could not refute her. It would be hypocrisy to do otherwise. These were the very thoughts that he’d had all too frequently. The scroll of children’s stories felt like a stone in his robe pocket.

“A lot has happened lately,” Hornet said, attacking the sudden silence. “I’ve seen and learned so much. It hasn’t been very long, but it doesn’t feel that way. Every day that I wake up in this bed I feel older, more like a grown-up. And if I am a grown-up, then I deserve the truth, don’t I?”

“…Perhaps you do.”

She tensed, like one about to rip a thorn from their shell. “Did the King lie? What really happened to my mother? What’s going to happen to you?”

“I cannot give you a happy answer, but silence is not, itself, a lie. Are you certain, truly, that you do not wish to remain a child for just a brief while longer? It is not a sin to be young.”

A suppressed sob shook Hornet’s frame. “I don’t think I can anymore.”

And here he was. At another crossroads. Another opportunity to suspend pain, but not to prevent. Never, it seemed, to prevent. “I fear it would sour the evening…”

“Tell me. Please.” The last word was a starved whisper.

“You nettle this old bug, do you know that, girl? But if you desire it, then you will have your truth.” He paused to collect his thoughts, but immediately found himself sterilizing the words. He saw the soft language, the omissions, the seeds of false hope that would only ever bear bitter fruit. It took all he had to cast them aside. “Your mother and I—and even the great teacher Monomon—have pledged ourselves to Hallownest. Eternally. We have agreed to serve as guardians—as jailers—of a terrible threat. Your mother, in her fearless resolve, became the first of us to take watch. Even now, as we speak, she forges the way… that I may follow.”

“But where has she gone, though? Where are you going? Can I not just come with you? I’m strong now. I can climb and jump. I can go anywhere you can!”

Lurien almost laughed, but it didn’t quite survive the journey. “This place is not one that can be reached with able legs and keen eyes. If you crisscrossed the world a dozen times over, then you would not find it. The prison that I will come to call home is a place of the mind. Only through dream can it be accessed.”

“Okay, easy! My pillow is right here.” And she held it up in demonstration, even as her arms trembled.

With gentle pressure, Lurien slowly lowered it. “I am sorry, but that will not aid you either, nor would I wish to meet you in that dream even if it could.” A desperate, Maskfly fluttering lodged inside his chest. How much dire news had he delivered in his long life? To kings and knights and nobles. How much dread had he felt before each proclamation? And why—gods, why—was the entire sum of it dwarfed by this one moment? “The dream is not something one can wake from. It is a vigil, that by necessity, must continue forever. And we have a word for a dream with no end. You know it, as do I. It is death. I am sorry, but the King did not deceive you. Your mother will not return. And neither will I…”

“But why?” Hornet asked. “Why does it have to be this way?”

“What can I tell you that will requite the pain? I have only one word, and its meaning is never the same twice. It is love. When you have tread this world long enough, you will find something of such superlative value that all else will pale before it. When it is threatened, you will sacrifice everything to sustain it: your years, your wealth, your passions, your very life. And you will be thankful for the opportunity. There is no fate more worthy than surrendering fully to love. I cannot tell you how long it will take, how old you will become before that superlative thing catches your eye, but when it does, that is a blessing, I promise you. To me, this Kingdom and its King are that very thing, worth more than all the geo buried on this earth. I have beheld countless realms and ruins. I have seen tyranny and greed in all their forms. Yet never before have I seen anything like Hallownest. It is a living pact, a quest for something more than just another cycle of rot. I cannot stand idly by and let it fail. And though this place is not perfection—I see now that nothing ever will be—it is still good. And it is worthy of my life. I cannot know for a certainty, but I believe that to Herrah, you are her kingdom. You are the future that she seeks to protect. And by saving you, the world follows.”

“But I didn’t ask for that. I don’t want her sacrifice. I want her!”

“And you are not wrong to feel in that way. But we are sometimes offered strange gifts in life, and even those we did not seek should still be cherished, no?” His hold on the ruby tightened, and he felt the reflected warmth.

“No!” Hornet threw the sheets aside and leapt to her feet. “No! If you give a gift that someone doesn’t want, then it’s bad. It’s a bad gift! It means you didn’t listen. You couldn’t hear what they asked for! I don’t want the world; I want my mother!”

Lurien bowed his head. “I am sorry. I have only so much to offer. The truth is a cutting edge, and brave words can only blunt it so much. We did not consign ourselves to this fate on a whim. We tried—I swear to you that we did! We sought to divert this disaster with all our might and all our wit, but eventually only one path remained to us. But we will walk it. And I thank the stars that you will not.”

Hornet shook, with more energy than he had ever seen in her. He feared an outburst of rage or sorrow or Soul, but none came. She held it inside, collapsed it to a single point, until like some rotten alchemy, it transposed into something hollow. Slowly, she crumpled back to the bed and cried without the faintest sound.

It felt to Lurien like glass had been driven into his throat. He had no words left to give, and could not have pierced through the pain to deliver them anyway.

He stood, and stumbling, reached for the door. He pawed like a drunkard for the latch, vision swimming. Were those tears? His? Really?

“Good night, child…”

But Hornet took a breath, huge and sharp, like breaching water. “No, don’t go! Not this way. Please stay.”

He paused but kept his eye averted. How could he not find the composure? Had he not anticipated this? Had he not steeled himself?

“You can t-tell me a story, okay?” she said.

He dabbed meekly at his eye with the hem of his sleeve. “What would you care to hear?”

“Anything. Border politics or whatever you want. Just, don’t leave. Not yet.”

His laugh came as more of a cough, like the last breath of the dying, but it was still a laugh, hot with discovered defiance. “Who am I to deny such an earnest request?” He returned to the seat. “Given how poorly the last attempt went, I did make some preparations this time.” The scroll emerged from his robes. It felt light as air. He took his time unwinding it, allowing Hornet a chance to settle back beneath the sheets. When he reached the desired story, he placed his claw over the heavy marks in the margins. Only the filigreed script and the playful illustrations remained visible. “How does the Weaverling and the Bell sound?”

“You found it?”

“I did. And it was no easy task, I assure you.” He cleared his throat, dislodging the last of the pain, of the doubt. “I know that now you are not quite the child you once were, but perhaps just one more reading, hmm?”

“I’d like that,” Hornet whispered. “I’d like that very much.”

“Very well.” Lurien said. “Now, there once was a clever little weaverling that called Deepnest her home. One night, she found in her web something marvelous indeed…”

Chapter Text

The recently reinstated head chef of the Spire stood beside the kitchen doors, his back straight, his claws clasped behind him, his eyes alight and vigilant. He surveyed the tables of the commissary, assessing the general response to the breakfast that he had prepared. Though only Spire regulars were in attendance—scribes, mender bugs, and the like—the head chef wore his most distinguished uniform, complete with lavender trim and gleaming brass buttons. He looked… triumphant, a beloved hero returned from some harrowing quest.

It pleased Lurien to see him like this.

The meal turned out to be quite a pleasure as well: spiced mushrooms with garnish and a honey drizzle. The expense of the meal did weigh slightly on Lurien’s mind, but he let it go. This was a special occasion.

To his left stood Hornet, absolutely mobbed by admirers and well-wishers. By some means—which he resolved to investigate—word of the girl’s departure had permeated the Spire. Her presence here during the last week had made quite the impression, it seemed, and many wished to share a word with her before the end. Fortunately, her alias had remained intact, even if that alias was rather conspicuous to begin with.

“…I positively adored your performance. A shame you have to leave—and so soon!…”

“…Will the journey be long? I’ve never been to Pharloom myself…”

“…Not to impose, but would an autograph be too much?…”

“…Oh, oh, do the line! The one where you ignite the manor. And the laugh! You have to do the laugh!…”

Though she seemed a touch claustrophobic, Hornet indulged the attention. Swiftly, she reinhabited her fiery persona and delivered a snippet from one of her soliloquies.

To Lurien’s right sat Spirit, their meal untouched like usual. They had not received quite as much fanfare as Hornet—which was to say that they had not received any fanfare. They watched the girl lift her claws high and cackle. The small crowd clapped as boisterously as the breakfast table allowed.

“I, for one,” Lurien said, leaning down to them, “found your performance quite impressive as well. I would call it an ‘elegant minimalism’.”

Spirit’s reaction was difficult to gauge, but he assumed it was positive.

The meal hastened by, almost as if the world itself marched in double-time. As Lurien folded his napkin and stood, Hornet broke free of her adoring public just long enough to shovel down a few bites and dart after him.

They gathered in the foyer overlooking the library proper. It was still early, but dozens of bugs already paced the high shelves. Lurien found himself searching for that blob creature, Soul Master’s ‘porter’. The mere thought of it made his shell itch. If luck was with him, it would not make another appearance. Perhaps it had been sucked down a drain or eaten by a Flukemon…

Spirit retrieved their umbrella from a basket in the corner. Unprompted, they unfurled it, then gave the thing an artful twirl, turning the coiled nail pattern on the fabric into a silver vortex. This reminded Lurien, and he retrieved one of his own umbrellas, a sleek, onyx affair, slightly oversized, just as he liked it. He proffered a spare to Hornet.

“No thanks. I’ll be fine. It’s just water, remember?”

Lurien pressed it into her claws. “Indeed, and as I would prefer remaining dry this time, I must, by necessity, ensure that you do as well.”

Hornet tilted the umbrella from side to side, but no rebuttal seemed to come to her. “Fine,” she said, and unfurled it.

“Excellent, now are we forgetting anything? We haven’t the time for a second trip.”

The sound of hurried feet echoed down a tangent hallway, accompanied by stifled coughing. Belvedere burst into the foyer with a large rectangular package braced against his shoulder.

“My painting!” Hornet exclaimed. “Of course! Thanks Mr. Belbedere!”

The little attendant bowed faintly and leaned the package against the wall. He lifted a claw, beseeching a moment to catch his breath, but the persistent coughing made it a challenge. The cream kerchief over his face rippled like a sail.

Lurien made a sour sound. “Well, this is unfortunate… if not unexpected. You’ve taken ill again?”

“I—*cough*—wouldn’t describe it quite as such. I suspect all that time—*cough*—in my dusty quarters agitated my—*cough*—constitution.”

“Dusty. Right. Well, I hope you did not intend to accompany us while so thoroughly agitated.”

“No, no. I will be—*cough*—quite alright here. I’ve a great deal on my itinerary already.”

“Not too much, I hope,” Lurien said quietly.

Hornet lifted the painting. Despite its size, she held it under one arm. “I’m going to show this to the King! He’ll be so pleased!”

“Oh my—*cough*—what an honor! Did you make it with the Watcher’s aid?”

“I mean, I made it, but he was there too.”

There was a chuckle buried somewhere in Belvedere’s rasping. “I am pleased to see you bonding over a shared interest. When next you visit—*cough*—I shall ensure the gallery is free.”

With the painting in one arm and the umbrella in the other, Hornet gave Belvedere a clumsy hug. She did not say anything, and he—evidently startled—did not either. She broke it off abruptly and shouldered through the Spire’s double doors. “Come on, Spirit!”

Once the children had departed, Lurien and Belvedere were granted a moment alone.

“Have we received any communiques from the Sanctum?” Lurien asked. “I expect Soul Master will demand the return of his research equipment soon.”

“Not as of yet.”

“I see. Remain vigilant. The battle is won, but the war continues.”

“Of course, Watcher. Safe travels to you.”

Lurien nodded and turned to leave, but something seemed to occur to Belvedere. He clasped his claws tightly at his stomach and adopted the formal attendant’s pose. “Before you go, I wished to… articulate that—*cough*—that—*cough*—” He paused, seeming to struggle with something else alongside his ailment.

“Yes, Belvedere?”

“You know that—that I shall be waiting for you. Don’t you, Watcher? Always.”

Something soft and warm bloomed in Lurien’s chest. “I do. And I am so very lucky for it. I will see you soon, old friend.”

And despite the aches he surely suffered, Belvedere offered a deep and regal bow, elbows out, knees slightly bent. He held it, as was the custom, until Lurien left the foyer and the Spire doors sighed shut.

Outside, the otherwise bothersome rain pattered harmlessly against Lurien’s umbrella. He looked for the children, stamping out the fear response that so often accompanied this action. Fortunately, they were nearby, talking to… Gram! And a pair of his fellow Watcher Knights!

Lurien approached, hearing their voices just above the drizzle.

“And how many did you kill?” Hornet asked.

“Seven.” Gram replied.

“That’s way more than I was expecting. I only saw the one down there. Were they scary? I don’t think they’re very scary.”

“Always respect a foe. But never fear them.”

“Did you get hurt?”

“Gorn was… nibbled. But not hurt. It was good exercise, otherwise.”

“I want to come next time! You’ll let me, won’t you? I’ll have a real nail then. And you already gave me the training.”

“One week is not enough—”

Hornet stamped her foot. “Aww, come one! You said I was good!”

But Gram held out a claw for silence. “We will see.”

Lurien drew close. “Or perhaps we will not.”

Rather than voicing an argument, Hornet wheeled around and produced a piteous, pleading noise. It was not unlike something an overturned Crawlid might make.

“Watcher,” Gram said, striking his own chest in salute. The other Knights mimicked him. “We are here to protect you on your journey.”

“It is quite early,” Lurien said. “Did you rouse yourselves?”

Gram nodded. “With difficulty.”

“As I recall, we survived well enough without you last time. If you would rather rest…”

“No,” Gram said. He gave his shell a shake, it made a torturous rumble, like many scraping sheets of metal. “We will not fail twice.”

Lurien braced the umbrella against his shoulder and considered. The immediate impulse was to dismiss them back to the Spire, and not simply because he couldn’t for the life of him identify the other two Knights. There was a roughly fifty percent chance that the left Knight was Krom, as his horn was stouter than the others, but so was Korm’s! From the context, he assumed the right Knight to be Gorn, but that was no guarantee. What would he do if they initiated conversation? But from a more practical standpoint, bringing the Knights would only serve to slow them down. And if they were to insist on a break at any point and doze off, then the trip would shriek to a complete halt.

Spirit reached up and tugged Lurien by the sleeve, as though endorsing Gram’s offer. This did nothing but make Gram grow deadly tense.

“There are many dangers,” Gram said, a steely edge to his voice. “Please, let us serve our purpose.”

Lurien gently detached Spirit’s claw. “Very well, very well. If you desire it so. But we must make haste! There is much to do and little time to do it.”

“Of course. Lead the way.”

And they set off at a slow, stolid pace.

The arts district proved to be quite unlike Lurien’s previous visit. As he and his Knights led the children through the burnished gates, only the sound of rain greeted them. Gone was the tumult of many conflicting songs, gone was the inviting flicker of lounge lanterns, gone was the breathy murmur of distant merriment. He surmised this to be a result of the hour. It was still morning, a poor time for debauchery, but perfect for recovering from it.

The Pleasure House proved to be in a similar state, its many windows darkened and still. They entered the foyer to find it softly illuminated by a pair of night candles. Two bugs stood in the half-shadows, one tall, the other short.

Upon noticing them, the taller one lifted a claw and gestured daintily. “Watcher, it is good to see you. I had begun to worry.”

“He is early, Songstress,” the shorter one said modestly.

Lurien stepped forward and snapped his umbrella shut. “I come to fulfill my lot in a bargain. I hope my collaborator has done the same.”

Marissa the Songstress inched furtively into the light. Her wings were wrapped around her, while a patchy robe draped her head and shoulders. She peeked out from beneath the low hood, a few strands of golden hair dangling. “Oh, you needn’t have worried on my account. I’ve kept my peace. I can swear upon my very heart if you require it.”

“That will not be necessary. However, I do see that you have brought a confidante,” Lurien said. “How informed are they of this situation?”

“Peridot? You recall him, don’t you? He can be trusted. Discretion is an expertise of his.” Marissa guided the shorter bug forward into the light.

Now that Lurien had a better look of him, Marissa’s usher appeared to be absolutely festooned with luggage. He sagged beneath the weight like an old Stag on the brink of retirement. Between the dress bags, the makeup kits, the acoustic equipment, and the full-sized mirror, it was doubtful that the poor soul could make it half the length of the foyer, let alone the city.

That was not Lurien’s primary concern at the moment, though. He took Marissa aside and discussed the last-minute details of the coming event.

The rest of the retinue filtered into the Pleasure House. Although Gram remained on his feet, the two other Knights immediately sat upon the downy carpet to rest. Periodically, Gram thumped their shells with the back of his claw, keeping them conscious.

Hornet entered—with Spirit as her trusty shadow—and immediately let out a little laugh. “Oh, hello Peridot!

“It is Felix,” Lurien blurted from across the room—cutting Marissa off mid-sentence.

“Oh, hello Felix!” Hornet amended. She rushed over to him. “I wanted to thank you for all your help during the play. I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier because they made me hide in the Watcher Knight barracks. It was really smelly, by the way.”

He blinked. “The… the what now?”

“Never mind. Do you need help carrying all that stuff? Spirit and I can do it. We’re very strong, as you know.”

Felix shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No need. It is quite alright. We all have a part to play here, and this is mine. I have come to terms with that. Besides, if you were to remove even a single package it could ruin the balance and send me toppling like a rotten fencepost.”

Hornet shrugged, “Okay!” and she ran off to Marissa.

Lurien concluded the briefing. “Have you any other questions, Songstress? By the extent I am concerned, this endeavor is within your claws now. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you, Watcher. I am prepared. I only ask that we depart soon. The Director of the Pleasure House was not… entirely amenable to my request for leave. If he were to find us here, then there could be complications.”

“Are we sneaking out?” Hornet blared. “Is that why you’re all wrapped up?”

Marissa whipped around. “Princess H-Flower, so good to see you,” she said with affected cheer. “Why yes, and that is why we must be swift and silent. Are you prepared to go?”

“I guess. Is there really such a rush? I wanted to visit the hot springs first.”

Lurien unfurled his umbrella once again. “That must wait for another time. Let us heed the Songstress’ warning. I would rather that my Knights not be forced to dispatch any interlopers.”

Marissa stiffened. “You would do that?”

“No, now follow me. There is but one more detour before us.”

Hornet swallowed a shriek and raced out the door. “Oh, yeah right!”

As though seeking to upstage its slumbering neighbor, the trade district was filled with life and motion. A dozen produce carts ringed the central fountain, each covered with an awning that matched their goods. The mushroom cart was pale and speckled. The moss cart was frilled and green. The Gruz cart was fleshy-pink. Although the prices had risen yet again, and the variety had fallen, this was still a heartening sight: this bounty of Hallownest.

Many delicious smells cut through the dampness, and Lurien heard his Knights’ snarling bellies. Had they not broken their fast just hours before? Regardless, he could not afford to stop and appease them. There would be food at the Palace.

He fixed his senses on the rising coil of smoke in the distance, and the perennial ringing of metal. Hornet, to his side, skipped from foot to foot, periodically pausing to take Spirit by the claw and spin them around.

“King forgive me,” Lurien whispered.

Once they reached the Nailsmith’s shop, a brief halt was called. Felix let out an anguished groan and leaned against the building, seeking whatever relief from his burden that he could find. Marissa lurked beside him, eyes darting nervously over the crowd. Hopefully that disguise of hers would serve its purpose. If not, the Knights were still an imposing obstacle to any would-be solicitors.

“A moment, please,” Lurien said to the group. “The girl and I will be quick.”

Just as their previous visit, the Nailsmith’s shop stank of industry and bristled with war. Excluding the smith himself, the place was blessedly unoccupied. Hornet wasted no time perusing the racks, lifting one weapon after the other, testing their weight and balance. Lurien kept a close watch on her. Although the girl’s nailwork had improved dramatically after just a few sparring sessions, he still worried. One fumbled blade could mean disaster.

Eventually, Lurien became aware of a silence. The smith had ceased his work.

“Back again?” a voice rumbled.

Lurien turned to see the bug in question. “Yes, here for an ill-advised purchase.”

The smith chuckled. “Not so ill. Her grip is firm. Her eyes are clear.”

“You believe so?”

The smith scratched at his cheek with the corner of his blocky hammer. “I have seen warriors in my time. They come in many shapes. Sometimes odd.”

Lurien wanted to refute him, to refute Gram, to refute Hornet herself. He did not see a warrior there among those deadly tools. He saw a girl. So little time had passed. Was this any different from that day in the umbrella shop? Was the girl treating this purchase with any more gravity than back then?

Perhaps so…

Perhaps she was not the same.

He certainly wasn’t, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

Inevitably, Hornet made her choice. And while bringing it to him, she did not dance or skip, she strode with purpose, the nail held flat out before her. “This one,” she said, barely above a whisper.

It was not what Lurien had expected. The weapon was long and slender, with more of a haft than a hilt. It resembled a spear or javelin, not so much a nail. At the end of it, for lack of a pommel, there was a small, closed ring. Had the girl intended a tassel for this one as well?

“Needle,” the smith said, nodding. “A good shape. A good size. Room to grow.”

“But why that one?” Lurien asked her.

“I don’t know. It felt right. It gave me some ideas…”

After a deep, steadying breath, Lurien said. “If this is your wish, then so be it.”

The smith stowed his hammer and trundled off to the counter at the back of the shop. “Hope you have more Geo this time. Two thousand.”

Hornet looked up to Lurien expectantly.

Though it came to him like a gut punch, and he dearly wished to haggle down to something sane, he hadn’t the time. “Two thousand,” he echoed, and reached into his robes.

They journeyed out of the City, into the brief stretch of wilderness separating it from the Palace. During the walk, Gram provided Hornet with an extensive explanation of her new weapon: its historical origins, its favorable combat stances, its weaknesses. She absorbed all this in silence.

Amusingly, Marissa had taken to chatting with Spirit. She expounded about her hopes and fears of the coming performance. And never once did they interrupt her.

The road to the Palace was always congested with foot traffic. Lurien would have considered taking a Stag if not for his Knights. There were quite non-negotiable weight limits to be considered. Given the labor in Felix’s breathing, though, perhaps they should have at least sent Marissa’s luggage on ahead.

But it was too late now. They had nearly arrived.

As Lurien mused and brooded, Hornet wove her way through the procession to walk beside him. She struggled with her effects. Between the new nail, her old toy, the painting, and the umbrella, she looked to be on the brink of tripping.

“Here,” Lurien said, relieving her of all but the nails. “Is the weight proving bothersome? I recall that from my traveling days. Even the lightest nail begins to feel like a boulder after enough miles.”

“I’ll get used to it,” Hornet said. She tried to slip the needle into the loop of silk sewn onto the back of her cloak, but it would not fit beside the toy. With a huff, she pulled the toy free. “I can’t really carry both of these anymore.” She held them up, iron in the left, shellwood in the right. The ruby tassel swept across her arm like a ghostly caress.

“You have two claws, do you not?” he asked. “There is time yet before you must make a choice.”

“Time…”

After a pause, Hornet spoke up again. “Our agreement is over now, huh? You got a grown-up. I got a nail. Everyone’s happy.”

“My wallet might dispute you, but I, at least, am content.”

“Should we make another?”

Lurien’s step faltered. “Another pact? Do we require one?”

“I think we do.” She ran ahead of him, spun around, and dropped one knee to the cobbles.

He stopped abruptly, and the whole procession jostled to a halt like an over-long tram train. “What is this, girl?”

Hornet placed the shellwood nail over her chest. She looked every bit the pledging Knight. “I have a promise for you. Something that I know you’ll want more than anything else. Here goes.” She took a sharp breath. “For as long as I live, I’ll protect this place. I’ll keep Hallownest safe. For you, and for everyone else.”

Lurien tried to laugh, but he only managed a hoarse exhale. “Now, now, no need for that. Did I not just state you have time left? A life is no trifling currency, especially when it has only begun. Do not be so quick to bargain it away.”

“I know that. And that’s why I’m asking a lot from you too.”

“What could you possibly want of this old bug?”

“Something that only you can do.”

Lurien shook his head, confounded. “Tell me.”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “I want you to take care of my mother. When you dream, I want you to keep her company. Forever is a long, long while, and I don’t want her to be alone. Will you do it?”

He did not immediately reply, instead placing his possessions to one side.

Hornet continued, an edge of the desperate in her tone. “I know a life isn’t nearly as long as forever, but that’s still something, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Please, Lurien…”

He felt what he could only call pain, a groaning, an ache deep within his chest. For an instant, he lamented all that he had failed to do, all the wrongs he could not right, the world he could not build, the King he could not aid. But here was something that he could do. Here was a promise that he could keep.

With the measured slowness of ceremony, Lurien grasped her by the shoulders and helped her to stand. “Ever do I feel like the losing party in these bargains of ours, but… I accept your terms, Protector of Hallownest. I trust that you will make us proud.”

Though it came out half-choked, she giggled, pleased with her victory. And with those deft little claws of hers, she tucked the shellwood nail under his arm. He almost recoiled against it, feeling unworthy of this precious thing, this artifact. But just as quick, the girl freed the ruby-silk tassel from the hilt and affixed it to the loop at the end of her needle.

“Something for both of us, she said. To remember.”

Though a protest did rise in him, he pushed it back down. “Fair enough, then. To remember.”

And he clutched the shellwood tight.

Chapter Text

Lurien’s retinue made quite the din as they passed over the coruscating silver bridge that marked the edge of the Palace grounds. Between the Watcher Knights’ thunderous steps, and Felix’s gasping, they needed no page to herald their arrival. A myriad of footpaths divided before them, composed of stones carved into geometric shapes. Though a touch sparse on greenery for Lurien’s taste, this place was a marvel of artistic symmetry.

They reached the gates, which resembled an army of spears in formation. Standing before them were a pair of Kingsmoulds. Lurien’s heart tremored at the sight of them, but these were not like the guardian of the Vault—malformed and hungry—these were the refined model, as noble as any soldier of Hallownest. Even so, Gram took point, shielding Lurien behind his great body.

He spoke with authority and calm, even as his nail claw twitched. “Watcher Lurien, Keeper of the City, Royal Adviser, approaches. He seeks passage into the Court of his King. Stand aside.”

These Moulds did not hesitate like the previous one. Their furnace-white eyes flared with immediate acceptance, and they retreated to either side. The gates, of their own accord, sighed open, permitting entrance.

“Thank you, Gram,” Lurien said softly.

It wasn’t until the entire retinue was well past and the gates were shut tightly behind them that Gram responded. “Did I not warn of dangers?”

“What, the Moulds? They are of Kingly make, you know. He forges them with his own claws. They merit all the same trust that he does.”

Gram did not argue, there was no need. Lurien could hear the dearth of conviction in his own voice. He found himself longing—and not for the first time—that the King relied more often on shell and blood.

“Regardless,” he huffed. “Your service is appreciated as always, Watcher Captain. I believe from this point on we will be safe.”

Though he made a show of distrustfully assessing the Palace, Gram ultimately nodded. “We will remain here. For your return.” The other two Watcher Knights seemed to take this statement as an order and promptly sat down beside the short, flared staircase leading into the vestibule.

“Thank you,” Lurien said. “I beseech your patience. This may… require some time.”

Gram bowed stiffly. “Patience. A thing well known to we Knights.” He bit back a yawn.

Lurien turned to leave, but Gram roused himself with a shake of his head. “Watcher!”

“Yes…?”

“Remember. Care for yourself. You are precious, too.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Lurien said, through half a chuckle.

As the retinue entered the Palace proper, they were greeted with the full splendor of its vestibule. The room was enormous and shaped like a pyramid. An oculus at its vertex filled the place with soft silver light. Embedded into the room’s sloping walls were decorative metal spires that twisted about like root networks. A carpet of softest silk, flanked by Lumafly lanterns, ran across the floor and to the base of the King’s throne.

Yet, neither the King nor the Lady were present. In fact, the room was empty. Lurien hummed, puzzled. He had expected to meet them here, but it was possible that the King had simply forgotten. Of late, his mind was always elsewhere. Perhaps the atrium…

Hornet trotted to the center of the room and performed a slow pirouette. She cupped her mask in both claws and shouted. The echo rebounded several times, which elicited a laugh. Spirit took their place beside her. Lurien almost expected them to mimic her, to ‘cry out’ without effect. But they didn’t, remaining sober and still, eyes upon the throne.

Marissa stepped forward and touched Lurien gently on the arm. “This seems a suitable place for us to part as well. Peridot and I have preparations to make. I trust the Palace orchestra will have a few string players to spare.”

“If my missives were heeded,” Lurien said, “then they should be quite ready for your arrival. I recommend following the path I prescribed earlier. Navigating the Palace passageways can be a bewildering experience—though perhaps not as severe as the Pleasure House.”

“And that is one of the many reasons that I have Peridot here to aid me.” She patted his shoulder affectionately, even though it threatened to unbalance him. “I doubt there is a bug in all the Kingdom with a better sense of direction than he.”

Felix shifted under his burden and managed a vaguely affirmative grunt.

As though reminded, Hornet raced over and took Marissa by both claws. “I’m so glad you’re here! Dreams do come true, don’t they!”

Marissa laughed as she allowed Hornet to slowly spin her about, like two dancers upon a stage. “Oh, they do! With enough passion, luck, and—” she paused to shoot Lurien a look, “guile, they certainly do.”

Lurien tapped his foot rhythmically. “You have three hours, Songstress. Can you afford to expend them here gloating?”

“Well said, Watcher.” Marissa gave Hornet’s claws one last squeeze before letting go. “I will see you soon. During my most shining moment. If I prove worthy of your cheers, then do not hesitate to give them.”

And she swiftly marched off, Felix trailing.

Now only the three of them remained. This should have put Lurien at ease. A smaller band meant fewer heads to count, fewer needs to meet. But why, then, had he grown so anxious? What did he fear?

“Are we prepared?” Lurien said, asking himself more than the children.

“Yeah!” Hornet cheered. “The King still has to see my painting. It’s so much better than last time. Do you think he’ll gasp? I hope so. He’s always so stiff, you know?”

“Now, that would be a sight, wouldn’t it?”

Lurien looked around. Spirit had wandered off, though not so far this time. They had ascended the steps of the King’s angular metal throne and were seated not upon it but beside it, resting at the right claw. Their head hung low, as though in supplication. Were they asleep? Or merely contemplating?

“Spirit!” Hornet shouted, the word ricocheting through the room. “Come on, we need to go!”

They startled, nearly jumping from their seat. For a long while, they stared up at the oculus, fighting off some lingering vision.

Then they all set off.

Just as it had an eon ago—no, wait, a week ago—the King’s atrium shimmered beneath its strange, sourceless skylight. As Lurien stepped inside with the children, some part of him expected the place to be precisely as he’d left it: scattered with mechanical debris, broken glass, and overturned furniture. But no, there wasn’t a trace of disorder, even the scratches in the tile had been erased. The King once again sat before the worktable in his assuredly uncomfortable chair. The only difference now was that a tall and fulgent being stood beside him, craning over his shoulder with apparent curiosity.

It was the White Lady. Her form never ceased to dazzle. At times she exuded a light even greater than the King’s—an observation Lurien had been careful never to voice. But what about her, exactly, proved so captivating? Was it her intricate nest of crown-like branches? Her gelid gaze? Her sheer stature? Perhaps that last one, as she positively towered over lesser bugs, trivializing them in both scale and majesty. And yet, for all of that, she still offered the King such tender attention, such deference, even.

“And to what end shall this one serve?” the Lady murmured.

“That remains to be seen,” the King replied. “Reconnaissance, mayhaps.”

“A creation most splendid. Shall it be demonstrated?”

He lifted his claws and released what looked like a winged, armored sphere into the air. It flitted about briefly before vanishing through an open pane in the skylight. The Lady and the King watched it go. One of her vines looped around his waist and clung there.

“Hi, Lady!” Hornet shouted and darted across the open floor.

The royal pair swiftly separated, and the White Lady whipped about, roots crackling. “Oh, the Gendered Child! To this humble hearth she returns.”

“As does my Watcher,” the King said. He fixed his attention to the worktable, the tools and sheets of curved metal upon it.

Hornet wasted no time in hurling herself at the Lady, extending her arms fully to wrap her trunk.

“How was your retreat?” Hornet asked

“To this weary heart, it was a coveted boon. In my absence, the Watcher tended your needs most ably, I trust?”

“Yeah! I had a lot of fun with Lurien.”

The Lady’s vines explored Hornet’s form, smoothing her rumpled cloak, wiping the dust of the road from her horns. The girl tittered at this, as though ticklish. One vine contacted the haft of the needle, and several others rushed to join it, like a hunting pack descending upon fresh prey. Together, they freed the weapon from its sling and lifted it high into the air. Hornet protested wordlessly, though with hardly any force.

“Do these senses fail me? A dreaded instrument? In a mere sapling grip?” The impossible blue of the Lady’s eyes struck Lurien like a wave.

He bowed deeply, eager to escape them. “Sincerest apologies Great One, but it was the girl’s wish to earn a nail. She displayed admirable maturity in its pursuit. I could not deny her a prize deserved.”

The Lady’s vines thumped the floor. “A prize? Surely a Watcher—one so perspicacious—would recognize a curse in masquerade.” The vines thumped again. “Prize indeed.”

The King lowered his tools and gestured at the Lady to pass him the weapon. Once it entered his claw, he tilted it to and fro, observing the spill of light over the cutting edge.

Though he had prepared for this moment, Lurien still quavered like a leaf in a storm. The Lady’s displeasure was not something he had experienced before. It ached almost worse than the King’s. He braced for impact, anticipating the same from his Lord.

“Only so long a sapling,” the King said. “Time yields not, no matter our efforts. The girl ascends, as she shall continue to. Better danger than impotence.”

“Truly?” the Lady said, taken aback.

“It is of superior, if not immaculate make,” the King said, flipping the blade over. He tapped at a microscopic blemish. “Of domestic origin?”

“Yes, Lord,” Lurien said. He struggled to keep an even tone, to conceal his soaring relief. “Acquired from the Nailsmith’s shop.”

“And instruction was provided prior?”

“Oh, of course, my King. The Watcher Captain saw to it personally. The Princess underwent several sparring sessions.”

“Sparring?” the Lady said icily.

After some deliberation, the King passed the weapon back to the Lady. “I deem it an acceptable course. A necessary thing in a realm of strife. Though lamentable… surely.”

The vines passed the needle about, turning it end over end, and finally the Lady spoke. “We shall discuss this later.” But she returned it to the girl all the same.

Hornet deftly looped it over her back. “Thanks Lady, I’ll be careful, I promise.” Then she pitched her voice deeply low, adding a raspy gravel. “‘A drawn nail is not a game. It is a pact of death. Between you and your foe. One will end. And the other will be ended. Never otherwise is a nail drawn.’”

“Wise counsel from our dear Gram,” the Lady said. “Thus, it is wiser still to heed it, as I trust you shall.”

Hornet nodded emphatically.

Lurien wanted to laugh, to revel in his averted doom, but he didn’t dare. Had the King drawn the Lady’s ire to himself intentionally? As a means of shielding Lurien? It was a warming thought…

“Oh!” Hornet said, “I’ve got something for you!” She retrieved the painting from beneath Lurien’s arm and eviscerated the silk wrapping with a few swipes of her claw. After giving it a shake to dislodge the scraps, she flipped it around, lifting high over her head. “Look what I made!”

“Marvelous,” the Lady exclaimed. “A talent most worthy of cultivation.”

The King lowered his tools for a second time, sitting up gravely to assess the painting. It seemed to remind him of something, and he glanced over at Spirit, as though just now recognizing their presence. A long moment passed as the King compared the two.

“Spirit was very patient,” Hornet chirped. “It took a while to get all the details. Do you like the sparkles?”

“Hmm… Yes, acceptable.” He returned to his tools and began binding two metal plates together.

When it became evident that no more feedback was forthcoming, the painting slowly drooped in Hornet’s grip. She leaned it silently against the edge of the worktable and hid her claws in her cloak.

At the same time, a small group of courtiers entered the room, hauling a dining set, complete with chairs and a pristine, white tablecloth. They set it up with practiced ease, while a second group arrived with polished platters of various meats and mushrooms.

“Ah, the mid-day repast,” the Lady said. “Long journeys do generous recuperation demand. Eat, we insist.” And she guided Hornet to the table.

Quietly, the King beckoned one of the courtiers over. He pointed at the painting. “A silver frame for that one, as would be more fitting. Upon completion, mount it within my sitting room.”

The courtier bowed and hastened to obey.

Though she said nothing, Hornet snickered with victory between bites.

The meal passed comfortably, and long conversation followed. Hornet regaled the Lady about the adventures of the past week, and the Lady, in turn, spoke of the leisures she had indulged during her retreat.

Eventually, as the fateful hour drew near, Lurien stood. With a faint incline of his head, he spoke. “My Lord, my Lady, to celebrate this reunion, I have prepared a performance in the grand auditorium. If more pressing matters demand your attention elsewhere, then I fully understand, but it is promised to be a most… inspiring experience.”

“It’s time?” Hornet gasped. “Finally!” She shot up. “Come on, it’ll be great, I promise.”

The King, who had remained at his worktable throughout the meal, let out a long breath and lowered his tools for a final time. “Disruptions, ever disruptions…” But he stood all the same. “Lead on, then, Watcher. To delight and distraction we march.”

Though it wasn’t Lurien who led the way. Instead, Spirit dashed to the front of the group and gestured down the appropriate corridor, urging everyone on.

As they all exited the atrium, the Lady sidled up to Lurien. She ambulated in that odd, rolling way of hers. One of her vines extended beneath Lurien’s arm and tapped at the hilt of the toy nail clasped there.

“A most precious thing entrusted,” she said. “The Gendered Child learns well where to place her faith.”

“You do me too much honor, Madam.”

“Not nearly enough, Lurien. Not nearly enough.”

Although not expressly designed for artistic performances, the grand auditorium was still a superb place for them. It was a colossal and hexagonal room, with a low stage of polished marble placed in the center. A balcony, complete with seating, ran the circumference of the walls. Though rarely fully occupied, the auditorium had a capacity in the hundreds. Typically, the place was employed to deliver news or royal edicts. As such, the acoustics were exceptional. A mere murmur delivered from center stage could reach every bug in the audience.

Lurien, the children, and the royal pair emerged onto the balcony. Though a special platform was always reserved for the King and the Lady, they made no move for it, instead occupying the nearest available seats. Lurien and the children swiftly joined them, but Spirit opted to sit on the ground beside the King. They crossed their legs and rested their back against the chair. This seemed not to bother the King. His gaze was set upon the ceiling, and his digits tapped at the armrests in silent calculation.

The crowd was sparse at best. Though there hadn’t been a great deal of time to advertise before the event, Lurien had still expected more. A scattering of courtiers and royal retainers peppered the seating. Other than the King and the Lady, the only notable attendees were the Five Greats. They didn’t sit among the crowd, instead lurking at ground level near one of the exits, in evident recuperation after a training session.

Far below, at the very center of the stage, a string quartet had begun preparations. They perched upon modest stools, tuning their instruments. An errant half-melody formed from these efforts, evoking in Lurien old memories, experiences near-forgotten. He tried to order them, but it was like sifting through a mound of shattered pottery.

“Rare is it, of late, that the Watcher deigns to indulge the performing arts. Even rarer that to his peers he recommends them.” The Lady said. “Has he a shift in temperament experienced?”

Hornet began to speak, perhaps to volunteer some damning evidence, but Lurien silenced her with a tiny shake of his head.

“I cannot say with certainty, my Lady. And we will see with time, but this, at least, I believe is worthy of attention.”

Eventually, the quartet concluded their preparations. They glanced to one another, and like the consummate professionals they were, swept into a soft and jocund prelude. Partway through this, a single vocal note echoed from a tunnel on the far side of the room. It repeated throughout the piece, growing in clarity and proximity. Eventually, as the strings faded out, Marissa emerged from the tunnel, adorned in a full-length crimson gown that scintillated with tiny crystal gems. A shawl of diaphanous silk hung from her shoulders and cascaded to the ground. The room was so utterly devoid of distraction that the hiss of the silk over the tiles was audible between Marissa’s notes.

She mounted the stage, standing tall and centered, her wings perfectly still.

Once the echoes had died out, she spoke. “I am Marissa, a Songstress of some renown. Though I dare not squander my time here, if it pleases you to know, I have longed for nothing in all my life half so dearly as this moment, this stage, this audience. Thank you. A thousand times, thank you.” She pressed both claws to her chest. “Now, I invite you to open your hearts, and still your minds. To follow me beyond pain or worry.”

The quartet resumed, though their melodies were subdued. They granted Marissa all the space she required. And gods, did she claim that space, filling the entire grand auditorium with her presence. As she built her kingdom of sound, one perfect note after the other, she did not rise in the air, instead remaining firmly planted, as though in a show of humility.

Her aria came in three parts, each more enchanting than the last. During the brief pause between the second and third, Lurien freed himself from the succor of sound and looked at the King. He had ceased his calculations and was—for the first time that Lurien could remember—granting a performer his full attention. He seemed to blaze with inquiry, as though seeking some secret, some revelation of the world in the composition of Marissa’s voice.

The third part began, and Spirit—just as captured as the King—rocked from side to side. They looked so pleased, so alive. How long had they been anticipating this? Their chance to share a beloved song with their father?

…Their father…

A pang of something came to Lurien, then, a nail in his side. What was he doing? At what point had he been so fully engulfed by this fantasy? At what point had he ceased to see the Vessel and begun to see… Spirit? Not an imperfect shell infested with will, but a quiet child longing for amity.

What was his duty here? Who did he serve? His own whims? His credulous heart? Or King and Kingdom?!

He must inform the King of the Vessel’s defects. Mustn’t he? If greater worries so distracted the King that he could not perceive the simple truth here, then it was Lurien’s place to assume that task. After all, this was the compact that he formed with his Lord so many years ago.

And yet, why could he not speak? Why had his throat closed as though under a vise?

The answer was obvious.

He feared.

He feared what would become of Spirit, of the dark hole into which they would vanish. Imprisonment, banishment, or death, he did not know, but if he spoke up, then Spirit would forever be removed from his life. And he did not wish that…

The climax of the aria neared. The quartet doubled their time. They crescendoed into a haunting motif, a culmination of everything thus far. And Marissa accompanied it, flooding her very soul into every note, creating such a panoply of pining and wonder, of exultation and achievement.

It was then, as Spirit swayed, as the temper of the moment bled into harmony, that the King reached out and placed a claw upon their head, delivering a few faint pats. And they quivered with what could not be misinterpreted by even the dullest of mind. It was delight! As the King retracted his claw, they reached up, and held it there, bidding him to sway with them for just a bit longer. And he obliged, humming with an uncharacteristic warmth.

You sly fiend! Lurien thought, fighting a heat, a burning in his eye. You knew! You always knew! Of course! What a fool I was to assume you blind!

But what did that mean now? He longed so desperately to ask, to brandish the scroll of children’s stories, to demand an answer of his King. Did he seek a Vessel? Did he seek a child? An object to construct and exploit, or an offspring to raise and nurture?

The question came as a wail in Lurien’s mind. If Spirit cannot be the Vessel we require, then by accepting this, do we doom ourselves, Lord? If we were to reject it, would we even deserve to go on living? I cannot know. Can any of us know?

A sob shook his shoulders. It surprised him. He finally noticed the wetness streaming beneath his mask, dripping from his chin. But then something small and strong took his claw. He peered through the liquid film.

At the girl in red.

“Feelings are hard sometimes, aren’t they?” Hornet asked. “They pop up in strange places. But they’re good, you know? They make us who we are. I don’t think we should hide from them.”

For lack of a voice, Lurien reached out and held her close.

The End