Archive of Our Own ^beta

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There's a sigh on the wind as Oyun walks through the steppe, rustling the yellowed grass and herbs. He's searching for something that cannot be found, but he's searching anyways, because he must. Despite the years of weight upon his back, hope still sits heavy in his bones, balancing him upright, carrying his feet as he keeps walking. There's a reason he keeps at his search, however. There's the harsh reality of what he's done keeping him out here. Oyun doesn't regret it, no. He's just aware of what it means for the Kin, and for the town, and for Artemiy most of all. So he keeps searching the steppe, looking for the impossible, and hoping.

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There's been an acrid taste in Daniil's mouth since he came into the town. It's something distinctly natural, but completely alien to him. The townsfolk had told him it was twyre, the herbs used to make twyrine—the favored drink of the Stamatins. That same taste wafts through the air, along with the clogging green of the plague. 

Somehow, through any mask he puts on, that herbal smell manages to claw its way through. He's close to stuffing the end of his executor's mask with flowers and perfumes, like it's centuries earlier during the Black Death.

Every time he speaks, he can taste it on his tongue, lacing through each word he says. Like an infection, a disease, a plague. He can't even do what he does best without the worst of this town trying to claw inside of him and rip him apart.

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She's seven years old when she sneaks into her mother's room and puts on her heels and pearls. Her feet are dwarfed by the shoes, and the necklace hangs off her tiny neck awkwardly, and she's never felt prettier. Maria stands before the full-length mirror, admiring how much she looks like her mother: dark hair cascading down, brow high, eyes half-lidded. But her nose is slanted like her father's, cheekbones cut high, jaw squared. The image is wrong, and she knows it, even at seven years old.

She's twenty-two when she cuts her hair to her chin. The image was never right, and it never will be. She stopped reaching for the impossible the day that the Polyhedron fell.

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Vlad Olgimsky the younger does not stay in the Lump, when he can manage it. His time is spent in the Broken Heart, as Andrey's best customer, or in an old abandoned house where he lays out his plans—and plans he has made.

He knows how he's viewed: he's the moderation. Not as kind as his mother, nor as cruel as his father. Not as pretty, nor as ugly. Not as mystical, nor as powerful. He knows where he stands, but that means he knows how to cut the line close. Digging is taboo in this town. It's something he's always wondered about, but wonder he will no longer. The beginnings of a well is being dug. Vlad Jr. knows just who to talk to, just where to go, to feel secure that no one will find out about this operation. 

He needs to keep his moderation, after all.

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Vlad Jr. stays in the Stillwater while they're rebuilding the Lump. Capella stays with Khan, the two of them plotting out their rise to conquering the town, or whatever they get up to. The place feels eerie, in a different way from his old home. He can't think clearly, and he's always tired. Late at night, it even feels as though there are eyes watching him. Eva Yahn is all smiles and kind words and conversations over coffee each morning. She's a charming girl, in juxtaposition to the strange place he's found himself in. Perhaps, if it weren't for the damned house, he could even come to like her.

Eva doesn't like Vlad Jr. She decides that from the moment he steps into the Stillwater, his hand at his chin, looking over the walls like he's appraising their structure, down to the support beams. Eva feels the Stillwater like her own body, the weathered walls a second skin, the staircase her spine, the water a pool of her hair. She hates Vlad Jr's too-sharp eyes and too-quick wit looking right through her, down to her support beams. Eva wonders whether if he looked hard enough, long enough, he could see if she really had a soul. She doesn't dare to find out.

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The Polyhedron is a bedroom. She cradles souls within her, lulling them into a perfect sleep, so they may dream their perfect dreams. If she were human, one might call it a motherly instinct, but she is neither human nor motherly.

The Cathedral is a machine. She is meant to create, to weave, but to hold none of her creation inside her. Loneliness is a distinctly human emotion, and yet that emotion crawls through her foundations and her gears until it chokes her spinning towers and buttresses.

They are not sisters, in any sense of the word—they were made from different architects, at different times, and a different sort of blood flows through them. When the Polyhedron falls, however, time stills the next day. She will not create their time for them, not the people who took the Polyhedron from her. If they want it back, they will have to force her mechanics back to work, grating hour by hour from her empty and tired shell. No longer will she give freely.

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Simon and Isidor get married in the steppe, with herbs tied around their wrists, and red dye painted over their skin. They're alone when they do it, since none of the town would approve of their bond. Isidor knows that their approval doesn't matter, though. The only one who needs to bless their bond is Mother Boddho. Isidor recites the necessary words by heart, softly, and for Simon only. Their bare feet press into the dark and grassy earth.

"Are you sure about this?" Simon asks—not because he himself is unsure, but because he knows what it could mean for both of them if they're found out, what it could mean for the town itself. The ingrown bones are already fragile, and a scandal would shatter them apart beyond repair.

"Of course I'm sure," Isidor responds, because he is. Entirely. He's never been more sure of anything than his love for Simon.

"When do we say our 'I do's?"

Isidor laughs, taking Simon's callused hand in his own scarred one. "Well, there isn't a real structure to combined traditions, is there?"

Their wedding is of long held ceremonies, coming together into something new. The only precedent is the one they set.

"Then I do," Simon says.

"I do."

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Khan's hair has never looked right. 

As a young child, short hairs had been perfectly shaped by Nina, her lips forming into a smile as she'd cooed, "What a handsome boy." It hadn't been right.

When the Rose was constructed, the Dogheads had taken it over, and shaved hair had been left on the floor of the Nutshell. It was long enough to pull a hand through at the top, and short enough at the sides to feel sharp. It wasn't wrong, per say, but it still wasn't Khan.

The Rose fell, and Khan was left to scrape together what was left behind. Hair grows long, uncut like abandoned grass, and Khan marvels at it. She smiles at herself in the mirror for the first time.

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When the plague is over, Aspity moves to Shekhen. Her hospice is left behind in the Crude Sprawl, not abandoned, but gifted. Artemiy decides to turn it into a school, and what he decides usually gets done. Aspity is no longer involved in the politics of the town, choosing instead to help the worms with the booha and rebuild the old village with the Kin. 

Every day, though, she grows weaker. Aspity knows she will merge back with the Earth, her clay dissolving back into where it came from. The magic may be gone from the world, but she isn't angry, or sad. How can she be, when sweet little Taya smiles so, and Oyun's booming laugh echoes through the steppe. There is no room for such things in joyous company.

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The left side of Andrei's jaw still hurts from yesterday. It's not unexpected, just an annoyance to add on to his list of annoyances that seems to be ever increasing by the day. There's surely a bruise by now, but no one comments on it. His patrons know when to keep their mouths shut, thank Christ.

He leans back in his seat, trying to fight the urge to poke at his aching face—the same urge one gets to pick at a scab, or peel off a bandaid. It's for that satisfying sort of pain that Andrei is good and used to by now. The bandages on his hands covering up his split knuckles more than proves that to anyone bothering to wonder.

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Artemiy's hands sink into the sandbags lining the streets, his eyes peering beyond. He wouldn't be able to get past the waist-high makeshift wall, even if he'd wanted to. Going where he's not supposed to isn't allowed.

The two children on the other side are lit by a street lamp. Their skin is perfectly untouched by the black flakes pervading the air. He knows exactly who they are, even if they've never spoken. The knowledge is some kind of instinct, earned through the dozens of run-throughs of the play they've done thus far. The pages are worn and ripping, the light beginning to come through the seams, and Artemiy knows.

"How many times do I have to go through this before I get my happy ending?" he asks harshly, through the droning of this terrible, awful night. It always begins like this, another piece of circular clockwork, ending in the Cathedral itself.

There's no response to his question, of course. He knows the answer anyways: 'as many times as it takes for us to be satisfied. As many times as it is fun, until we've grown tired of this game, and finally throw away the dolls that we've been using.'

The answer isn't the one he wants. He wants to go home, to Murky and Sticky, and Lara and Grief and Rubin, and his comfortable bed where his eyes can finally shut and he can rest.

The children are still standing there idly, staring at him. Artemiy's fists clench, and he turns away. There's no point in fighting this, is there? There's nothing he can do.

Artemiy moves ahead along the road. He knows that the Director is awaiting him, to start the whole thing anew again. He can almost hear the whistle of the train now, like a ghost sensation.

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She's already seen a dozen men in the time she's been standing outside the Crucible. The servant at the door insisted that 'Viktor Kain is busy right now, you'll have to come back in an hour.' So Agnia waits outside in front of the door, her arms folded, the heat of anger simmering into something low and dangerous.

Finally, finally, the door opens, and she startles in surprise. The servant looks at her with a furrowed brow, as if confused as to why she's still here.

"Mr. Kain is receiving guests, now," he says, and Agnia pushes past.

The walls feel cold and stiff as she walks towards the open door. Kain is sitting at his desk, not bothering to glance up from the paperwork in front of him. He looks tired. Agnia doesn't care.

"Has my boyfriend been in here today?" she demands.

Kain looks up over the rim of his reading glasses with a frown.

"Who?"

"My boyfriend. He's five-nine, blonde hair, the end of his right pinkie is gone."

Kain stares at her silently. The ticking of the clock in the room grates on her nerves.

"I'm afraid I don't recall. Many people come in here a day, Miss...?"

"Agnia. And I don't care, I just want a straight answer: did he come in, or not?"

Kain sighs, pulling the glasses off of his face and folding them. He's buying himself time, and Agnia has little patience for it.

"Well?"

"If you would give me a moment to think," Kain bites back as politely as possible. "As I said, I don't recall. Take that as you will."

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They all assume that he's

the reasonable one. 

He knows how to talk,

how to present himself,

how to stand and sit and smile 

at the right moments.

Do they know that the clocks were his?

Do they realize that he can feel

the movement of time as if

it were blood pouring over his hands?

If they knew, would it change anything?

Or has his place been so thoroughly cemented

that nothing he does could change it?

He dreams of a new world.

one where no one knows his face

and his face is made of glass and time.

He dreams of a world across the river

with his son and daughter and the ghosts

that still follow him, possess him, use him,

But he can't live without them.

And still, and still, he dreams.

Maybe when the clock strikes twelve

and the exam is finally done

he'll be able to reach towards that

new and beautiful world,

with no laws and only structure,

but for now he stands and sits and smiles

at all the perfect times

and gives anything that is required

and hopes he doesn't die before the final toll.

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Yulia's life is a series of calculations; it's how many steps it takes to get to the nearest grocery, how many coffees she needs to wake in the morning, the number of hours she has in each day to make more calculations. Her life is a perfect routine.

The plague puts a wrench in this perfect routine. It's all a part of fate, though, so she tries not to count the number of steps to the medical theater, how many bodies she sees along the way, how many days she hasn't seen her friends. At least her constant counting can be of some use in the hospital, where they need someone to keep their records. There, Yulia can count the number that goes in and out, calculate the exponential increase in the amount of infected people.

Rations, too, need to be counted precisely. She eats them only when she's hungriest, so they can last as long as possible. The money saved in her purse dwindles each day, and she counts each coin as she spends it.

When the plague is finally over, it doesn't feel real. Yulia counts each minute as it passes without another case of the plague. Her friends are laughing around her, half drunk on twyrine, but all she can do is count and recount the number of bottles on the floor, and people in the room, and sips of twyrine she's had.

It seems as though Artemiy's cure really had worked. Is this what fate had always meant to be? Yulia can't possibly know, when her hands are shaking too badly to even hold a pencil. She just tries to trust in Artemiy's kind smile and his warm hand patting her on the shoulder. Daniil gives her a light bump, and passes her another bottle of twyrine. She hadn't even realized her own was empty.

She grabs the bottle from his hands, and tries not to think about how well this bottle would ration over a week. Instead, she just turns her head up, and drinks.

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Big Vlad hasn't lost a single pound since the plague started.

He knows the townspeople are starving, and even the Kains and the Saburovs have begun to ask for his help. The meat industry is entirely controlled by him, so it's not a surprise. He gives out courteous donations at specific times, to specific people, to keep his image up. 

The important thing is that nobody learns how much he and his family have been eating. Three meals a day, when some only get one, if they're lucky. Meat, pickled vegetables, bottles of twyrine and wine. It's the only thing that keeps his son coming back: the food.

When Big Vlad looks into his cellar and finds the food store nearly empty, he swallows hard. There was no way of knowing how long the quarantine would last, but he'd thought it would surely be over at this point. Burakh is hard at work on the cure, and Dankovsky on the vaccine, and the little girl at… something. Surely they should have figured out something by now, right?

For the first time in his life, Vlad skips a meal, and gives his portion to Victoria instead. She gives him a scowl, and asks him why he isn't eating. He laughs, and he says that he's already eaten.

He might be a selfish man, but he's a man who loves his children. If he needs to give up his own assured safety for theirs, then he will do so.

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The tap of his cane echoes through the theater as Mark walks across the stage. He is in a world outside of worlds, outside of the town, but modeled after it. The theater of death. Already, there are people sitting in the audience, waiting as their Haruspex runs around and tries to save those left alive. Each of the actors is positioned just so, their lines made to give the maximum amount of regret as the main character speaks to them.

Mark stops, and smiles. He gets into position. This iteration of Artemiy Burakh has died—starved to death in his sleep. Utterly pathetic. He can only hope that the next replacement will be better. 

He waits in his chair, looking out at the candle-lit theater. The lines he will say to Artemiy have already been pre-written and memorized, and he rolls them in his mind as he awaits his actor's appearance. 

The Haruspex hasn't grasped the meaning of this play, yet, but soon he will. He keeps trying to save each insignificant actor desperately, and keeps failing anyways, and dying himself. Why does he care so much? He knows that this is merely a play, a game. Artemiy has gotten himself far too into his role, even beyond what Mark had expected.

The Haruspex appears before him on the stage, and his eyes open. His expression turns to disappointment, then rage as his eyes land on Mark.

Mark's smile widens, and he opens his mouth to begin his monologue smugly.

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During the plague, the order of the town quickly breaks down. People steal from abandoned houses, or even ones that aren't so abandoned. Children sneak through, taking pills out of drawers and anything else valuable that people haven't already gotten their hands on.

Clara joins them, using her miracles to protect herself from the other looters as she takes what she can. It's not like she'll be punished anyways, so she's free to scrounge for food and money.

The first door she tries today breaks the lockpick she uses. Clara reconsiders whether it's worth it to wear out another lockpick, but her growling stomach decides that for her. She shoves a new lockpick in and carefully adjusts the pins inside until the door unlocks.

She keeps quiet, crouching and looking around each room for hidden assailants before she takes everything she can fit in her pockets. It's not exactly a noble way to get by, but at least she's surviving. That's more than a lot of people in this town can say.

Clara shouts as she bumps into someone running through towards the entrance. Her hands grab on to them, and they try to struggle out of her grasp. It's only after a long moment that Clara realizes who it is.

"Wait, hold up," she says. "Aren't you one of Burakh's kids?"

Sticky throws off Clara's hands, but doesn't make a run for it. He takes a step back, his arms crossing and his eyes narrowing.

"What's it to you?"

Clara puts on her best miracle-worker smile. "I'm a friend of his. Sort of. Okay, not really. But I'm also a doctor!"

"Aren't you a kid too?"

"You don't need to be old to be a doctor. Besides, I have magic on my side." She does jazz hands. Sticky seems less than amused. "Well, anyways, what are you doing here? Doesn't Burakh have that lair of his?"

"I was looking for medicine," Sticky grumbles. "I wanna help people too."

Clara lets out a small sigh. "I think you should just go home. Your dad's probably worried sick about you."

"He's not my dad."

"Well, whatever he is, he's certainly a worrywart, and I don't want to be the one to tell him that his kid got sick and died in an abandoned house somewhere."

Sticky frowns, looking away from her. He finally relents, "Fine, I'll go back. But not because you told me."

"Sure, right, of course." Clara pauses, then pulls out a piece of bread. "Take this, as a gift. You have a little sister too, right?"

"...Her name's Murky."

"Yeah, her. Share some of this with her too. If Artemiy's hungry, you probably are too."

Sticky stares at her suspiciously, looking between her eyes and the bread in her hand. He takes it and puts it in his bag, then scampers to the door. As he opens it, he stops, glancing behind at Clara, who is still standing in the hall.

"Thank you," he mumbles, then disappears outside.

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Andrei is the battering ram. His fist connects solidly with flesh, giving the man a bruised cheek. It's a rush each time, knocking them down and being knocked down himself. It's the back-and-forth of a dance, but with a whole lot more blood.

Peter is the artist. His hands are better suited for holding a paintbrush in his hands than balling them into fists. At the end of these bar fights, though, he occasionally has bruises or scrapes as well. It's not something that Andrei likes seeing—he's the one who's supposed to be getting hurt, not his brother. He wipes the red stains from his face with a wet towel, and tells him to be more careful next time.

He doesn't see Peter's hands hidden beneath his coat, his knuckles just as bloodied as Andrei's own. These marks aren't something he can be proud of, like Andrei can. His brother wears each and every bruise or mark like a badge of honor. Peter's are hidden beneath bandages and clothes, and his hidden desire is as well. His desire to hurt, to fight, to feel that same adrenaline Andrei revels in.

Andrei can never know about it, though. It would break his brother's heart.

—

Peter's hands are shaking from adrenaline. He stumbles backwards, and Andrei catches him—of course he catches him. He feels much smaller without his coat to protect him, but his brother's hands on his arms help with the feeling.

"It's over," Andrei assures him. "It's over."

He pulls his hands up to his face, and Peter almost expects to feel the wetness of blood against his cheeks.

"It's done now. Everything will be alright. Nothin's gonna get in the way of our plans now."

Peter nods, and stands more surely. His brother carefully lets him go.

On the ground lies Farkhad, his neck bruised and his eyes unmoving, unblinking. It should frighten Peter, what he's done. But it doesn't.

"Let's go home, hm?"

Andrei holds out his hand to Peter.

For a long moment, Peter stares down at Farkhad, at where his hands had been wrapped around his throat moments ago.

Peter takes Andrei's hand.

Chapter Text

The building of the Polyhedron feels more like a dream, now. He remembers making the plans, laying out the design in many frenzied nights of creativity, as if viewing it through a fog. Andrei had taken them with a grin and told him that this would be his best creation yet.

And it is. Almost too good to be true. He stares out at her from his window, reminding himself every day that she's real that she came from Peter's own head.

The Polyhedron is a work of divinity. She reaches out into the Heavens, and there will never be anything else like her. So why bother?

That's the question that Peter asks himself as he takes another swig of trywine. Why bother? He can't remember how creativity had once flowed through him and onto the page, how that spark had been created. It seems a sure truth that he'll never feel it again. How could he possibly feel the same after her?

Andrei doesn't try to tell him otherwise, anymore. He merely keeps the supply of twyrine coming, and looks at Peter with pitying eyes.

Peter wishes he would say something. Scream, cry, do more than just sigh as Peter drinks himself into a stupor.

He thinks he might even be ready to listen, if Andrei would just say anything at all.

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She visits each grave on Sunday, putting milk and flowers atop the soil. She knows what flowers they all prefer, and she tries to get them when they're in season. It's important that the souls are kept happy—it's her job to do so.

Murky complains that being around the dead like that so much is hurting her, that she should just learn the real way to talk to ghosts. Notkin says that he has a bed waiting for her in the warehouse, when he brings her chunks of bread and dried meat. Capella doesn't say anything about it, simply sitting beside her in the itchy grass and watching the clouds roll by, but it's obvious that she feels the same.

They don't understand. This is Grace's purpose—it's what she was born to do. And she'll do it, even if it hurts her, even if she isn't quite happy, because that's how it has to be.

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Sometime in the morning, Eva finds the second resident dead at the bottom of the Stillwater's spiral stairs. It's not a surprise, exactly. He'd had a weak constitution, couldn't handle how the soul stretched and weaved in on itself. 

Eva has been the only successful resident, and so the Kains have been testing her against others with similarities to her. This was a man from the Capital with blonde hair and a nervous disposition. Or perhaps he was nervous about the house.

Either way, he's dead now. His eyes are glassy and still, and Eva can't remember what his name was. It's not important, anyways. She drags him outside and drops him into the bottom of the pond. No point in telling the Kains what had happened—after all, he's dead. It won't help in their experiments at all.

She walks back to the house, humming quietly to herself. It's a nice day today. Such a shame she'll have to spend it cleaning blood from the bottom step.

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Capella isn't sure if she's capable of love. Familial love, she knows—she feels it for her father, even with his flaws, and her brother, despite his reclusiveness and secrecy. Platonic, too, she's certainly felt—each of the children under her care are ones she loves deeply, both because she knows that they are chrysalises waiting to bloom, and because of the things they've already accomplished in their young lives.

Romantic love, though, is something foreign. It's as if she's in a glass box, looking out at the loving couples of the town, at her own father's distant eyes, but unable to reach out and understand.

Capella tells Khan as much, when she suggests that they get married.

"It would be something of convenience. I don't know if I'm capable of loving you as you deserve. I want you to know that before you agree."

Khan grabs her hand, his face painted with seriousness. Capella imagines he'll be something beautiful, when he grows, something like those butterflies with many eyes.

"It's ok Capella. I'll do it anyways."

Capella smiles sadly. She squeezes his hand.

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The house hasn't felt right for who knows how long. Saburov can't remember when it started, just that it happened, and now he can't seem to fix it. This thing goes deeper than the walls—Saburov knows, since he'd had them inspected, as well as the rest of the structure. It's not the house itself that's the problem, though, just as it is not a dog's fault for getting a parasite. 

This sort of pest was not something Saburov could wage war against with traps and sprays, though. He'd tried that, too, and found all the traps to be missing their wedges of cheese the next morning. Nothing caught.

He sees it standing above his wife in bed. The thing certainly looks like a rat, but larger. His whiskers twitch as Saburov shuts the door behind him.

"What are you doing to my wife?" He's not sure why he asks it, why he even should believe it to be real, but he does. Perhaps because it makes too much sense not to.

"I am doing what has to be done," the rat speaks. "She's supposed to foretell the end, so that's what she'll do."

Saburov's hands curl into fists. "You're the one who's been giving those visions to her, aren't you? You're the one who's driving her mad."

"No, I simply give her the visions." The rat looks down at her, expressionless. "What she does with them is her own choice."

"You're hurting her." Saburov steps forward. If it were a man instead of a rat, Saburov would have already punched him.

"It doesn't matter. It will all be over soon anyways."

In a flash of light, the rat is gone. Katerina's eyes flutter open, and she gives a sad smile to Saburov.

"Darling? Is something wrong?" she calls, in her low and sleepy cadence.

"No, no, of course not," Saburov answers. He leans over her and kisses her gently. "I thought I heard something. My mistake."

Katerina nods, her head falling back to the bed. Saburov lets out a breath, and stares at the space the creature once occupied.

Chapter Text

Eva finishes lighting one of the scented candles placed atop Katerina's wardrobe. She'd brought them with her as a gift to Katerina, and now seemed like the perfect time to try one out. She sits down upon Katerina's bed.

"Apologies if this is too forward," Eva says, glancing away. "I hope my courting thus far has at least been enjoyable."

"Of course it has. You're a lovely girl," Katerina assures her. She takes one of Eva's hands in her own, and Eva turns a rosy color.

"Perhaps a lovely girlfriend?"

Katerina laughs, a lovely sound that sounds like angel's bells to Eva's ears. Her voice is like dark silk, low and soft and carefully woven. The woman herself feels like silk with their hands clasped together.

"I think you've done quite enough courting."

Eva panics for a moment in misunderstanding. Maybe Katerina had only been trying to let her down easily, she might really have been too forward, or—

Then Katerina leans forward, her painted lips feeling rough and wonderful against Eva's. She melts. The weeks of courting had been worth it, if only for this one moment. She could die as the kiss ends, and she would be happy.

Neither of them die, though, and Eva takes a shuddering breath as they part.

"Oh, Peony... that was perfect," Eva says.

"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind if I steal another." Katerina captures her lips again, her hand going to Eva's jaw, and Eva thinks that she may have found her own little piece of utopia.

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Nina Kaina is everything everyone wishes to be, and she knows it. She walks with her head held high, her lips holding the barest hint of a smile, and her height allowing her to look down on most people in the town. Everyone knows that she's better than them, but not everyone is happy about it. 

She might just be the person in the town with the most rumors surrounding her. That's to be expected from being part of the three families—rumors crop up about them all the time. Whispers happen of Katerina's infertility, the Olgimsky's bastard son, and Nina's own relationship with Viktor. It doesn't phase her, and never has. Rumors are for lower people who have nothing better to do with their time, or have such a low self-image that it matters to them. 

The Lilich-turned-Kaina has never dealt with the latter, and far too much with the former. When she was young, she always had too much time and too many ideas, but her family kept a tight chain around her. With Viktor, though, she's finally free. Nina feels like a falcon, now spreading her wings, hungry.

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Saburov bites the inside of his cheek when he's informed, with very little sugar coating, that the army will be taking over town hall. It feels as though his grip on influence in the town has only been further slipping since the plague started, even with his emergency powers. As if to add insult to injury, the name of the Commander is Alexander Block. He might as well have been replaced with a younger and more successful version of himself. 

He stalks through his dining room, hands folded behind his back. All official business now has to take place in his home. Not that there's much business to take care of. Saburov receives reports of the rising numbers of dead and plagued, unable to do much about it but sit and hope that one of the healers in this town can do something, anything. That doesn't mean he's stopped trying to fight against the plague with all his might—it just means it feels even more useless than it had before.

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Victoria was filled with love, so much so that it overflowed. She loved her husband, as grumpy as he could be at times. She loved her town, for all its strange quirks and stranger people. She loved her children, who were still too young to really know what it meant to love. 

Privately, Victoria loved Nina. She'd run her hands through that flowing hair, until she cradled her face to pull her in closer. She pressed kisses softly upon her brow, her nose, and finally her lips, as if she were savoring it. Or perhaps she just loved every part of Nina too much to only pay tribute to her mouth. 

She loved her life, right up until she died, and she loved it with great fervor. Victoria loved, and was loved back for it in kind.

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Immortell adjusts his scarf in front of the mirror backstage. The costuming for this play was probably the hardest part—the Bachelor's coat is a terror to any tailor, but Immortell had been very specific in his desires. This play had to be perfectly set. The script was triple checked, every choice accounted for. It had been a brilliant first go, if a little… off the rails, at times. The Haruspex was not a man who liked to play by the rules.

They're in-between performances. All the actors pace inside the theater, memorizing their lines with blood-stained hands. The Haruspex's turn for center stage had ended. As they say, though, the show must go on. There will be two more performances to come.

If they're lucky, these will be even better than the first. All the errors have been smoothed, the story straightened out and made perfect for the Bachelor's performance. All he has to do now is not fuck it up.

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It's not a secret that Khan doesn't like his family. Unlike the others, though, Maria dislikes him just as much as he dislikes her. They may have grown up together, but they're very different people. Maria has it in her head that she needs to become their mother. Khan thinks that it's idiotic. The adults of this town are stuck in their ways, running this town into the ground.

Khan knows that being a leader isn't easy—he won't pretend that change is something that always happens quickly and easily. Maybe if the town's leaders got their own personal matters out of the way, however, this town's development wouldn't be at a snail's pace.

Maria wants to change the town, too. The way she wants to change it is all wrong, though. She doesn't want to make it better, just different. Her vision, instead of the *right* vision. 

Capella tempers his foolhardy enthusiasm with realism. They'll take over in time. The town will be shaped by them, made anew in their own image. The adults can't stop it. They're old, and fragile, and soon they'll be gone. Just like Nina and Victoria are.

But they aren't really gone, are they? Nina's terrible ghost hangs over Maria. He knows that Victoria haunts Capella as well, though he suspects not in such a physical way. 

It annoys Khan to no end. His family even has the gall to believe that the Polyhedron should be used as a Focus. They don't even understand the power that it holds, the things it can help him accomplish. It's a real utopia, and they want to use it as a storage box for dead people.

It's obvious that Maria misses the Polyhedron. She has her own little club of people who are sour over being kicked out. There's a reason they have their rules, which Maria doesn't seem to understand. Adults *can't* be allowed, or else they'll ruin everything. 

Besides, Khan had been waiting to kick her out for the entire year leading up to her 18th birthday. Maria didn't understand the Polyhedron, just like the rest of their family. She was leading it entirely wrong.

Now, here they are. Maria dislikes him, and he dislikes her. They're siblings, but they couldn't be less alike, unless Khan somehow managed to erase the likeness of their faces.

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She breathes in a deep breath, the first truly fresh one in twelve whole days. Taya savors it, her feet swinging over the side of the platform. Grace and Clara sit beside her, looking out at the giant Aurochs.

Taya smiles, looking at the painted sky, dark and seemingly endless. It's beautiful, and it's unlike anything she thought possible. More than just returning, the magic has blossomed . If Taya reaches out, she can practically feel it beneath her fingertips, buzzing through the air.

Artemiy had walked by them in a daze just earlier. He seemed just as amazed, but equal parts terrified. Taya can't understand the feeling. This is how the Steppe was meant to be, even if none of them had seen it coming. This is the Earth righted once again.

The breeze mixes with the magical buzz and the smell of twyre, and Taya feels at home.

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Farkhad had not quite comprehended what it would feel like before this.

How is one supposed to imagine their own soul stretching, morphing, pulled into something different? Something beyond human.

It feels as if the blood is rushing up to his head, and he nearly wants to throw up at the turning of his stomach. He's sweating. His hands shake when he's not making the effort to still them. It's hard to imagine that he can stand this any longer, although it feels in the moment like this is the only place he's ever been.

The cool water he drinks calms his body slightly, enough that he feels in control of his own mind again.

He's not sure if this is a failure or a triumph, yet. What Farkhad does know is that he needs to leave the Stillwater immediately if he wants to keep his breakfast down.

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Clearly, Anna had not thought this through very well.

She's standing over this baby awkwardly, hearing it scream out for a mother that will never come to soothe it. Anna herself makes a poor substitute. She's annoyed just being around it, and the crying is sure to get her killed walking through the streets if anyone decides that she'll make an easy target.

That is, if she can even figure out how to pick it up.

They said that the babies should be completely unaffected by the plague, but that doesn't make Anna any less apprehensive. Babies are notably gross. Not that Anna has ever gotten close enough to test that out.

Slowly, Anna reaches forward, still debating with herself whether this would even be a good idea. It's at this moment that the door opens.

Quicker than a rat trap, Anna's arms snap back to her sides as she takes a step away. Instead of some poor infected sap come to kill her, though, it's Artemiy Burakh.

Oh, thank God, a doctor. He can pick up the baby.

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If someone had told Notkin a few years ago that he'd have to do this much negotiating—well, he still would have stepped up as the Soul-and-a-Halves leader, but he would have been frustrated about that fact. Just as he is now, looking at Grief's pitying grin.

"Nothin' I can do, kid. I don't control what comes in an' out of here. I just skim some off the top."

They both know that isn't quite true. Grief has a bit of sway with Big Vlad when he really tries. If Notkin were younger, he might have attempted a growl. As it is now, he simply crosses his arms.

"I'll get my kids to hand over painkillers in exchange. It's not exactly like they can steal things much bigger than that, and most can't lockpick as well as you or me."

Grief pretends to think it over. They both know he'll say yes eventually, as he always does, but the amount that Notkin needs to haggle depends on how much of an asshole he's feeling on that day.

"Okay, deal. I'll send it over to you in a few days, that fine?"

"Fine enough."

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Oyun takes a steadying breath. He's in the kitchen, trying not to think of the body lying just upstairs. It feels as though his hands are still covered in blood, even though he's washed them three times now.

Isidor Burakh is dead.

It's not so hard to accept as Oyun might have assumed. The rage that had consumed him is gone, replaced with steady certainty.

This is what had to be done. Breaking bones to set them right, that's what Isidor had said, just before Oyun had broken his bones and taken the life right from them.

Perhaps they had been accomplishing the same thing. The way that Isidor had spoken of it… it would have been a lot worse than what he has done.

Will be, Oyun corrects himself. The plague has already been set upon the town by now, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He's not a doctor, after all. Just the killer of one.

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Another failed attempt is smashed beneath his hand, and Georgiy frowns pensively. It's already midday and he has yet to make any progress.

His brother's death shouldn't be getting to him like this. 

Logically, Simon Kain isn't really dead. He hasn't been dead for the past one hundred and fifty years, and he's not dead now, even if his body is.

Georgiy's nails scrape through the clay, and pieces get stuck beneath his nails even as he pulls them away. It feels... not quite satisfying, but something towards that. It takes a minute to pick all the pieces out from underneath. That means he doesn't have to worry about sculpting for that entire time, up until he pulls the clay back into a ball.

Start again. Make it right this time.

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Rubin sits upon one of the winding staircases, a mimicry of the very building that was just destroyed. It's one of the few places you can get to with this good a view of the city. 

Above him are Lara and Grief, talking quietly between themselves. They had gotten here first, and Rubin had purposefully chosen the platform below. Talking right now seems like a stretch for him.

He should be dead, probably. There are several times where he thought he might have been. The other option had been getting on that train with the army and going far away from this place. It's never been his desire to leave the Gorkhon, but for Rubin, it had been the only option in that moment.

Until Artemiy. The man who had left them here, begging Rubin to stay. Ironic, in a painful kind of way.

He wonders if Artemiy would have stayed, if Rubin had begged him to that last night. It's not something he really needs an answer to, though, does he?

Cub is here now, and so is he. Neither of them is leaving this place.

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Murky can't quite reach the back of the counter from here. She stares the cookie jar down, as if just this action will somehow make her develop telekinesis. If it were up to her, she'd already be able to do that, but little not-quite-mistresses don't get to choose their powers.

Sticky is sitting in the main room, squinting at a very large book with tiny text and gross drawings that Murky will sometimes try to get peeks of. This time, however, she has a different mission.

She stands beside him, waiting for him to notice her. He doesn't. She makes a small grunt, and her brother finally looks up.

"Can you grab me a cookie?" she asks.

Sticky looks down at his book again, but Murky can tell that he's not actually reading. "You know Burakh said no."

With a huff, Murky moves back to staring at the jar. What better time to develop telekinesis, she supposes, than when her dad is being so terrible as to not let her have a delicious cookie.

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Dinner that night is big. It's never been like that before.

It's always been her and her father, sitting across from each other at the dining table and pointedly not thinking about the next time he'd have to go off to fight. Then each time he was gone, Isidor would be sure to check on her once a day, always right at noon. Those days, she ate dinner alone.

The table is full, now—so full that they've had to pull up chairs from all the other floors. Half a dozen children try to speak over each other, while Artemiy placates them with promises of good food soon to come. Rubin assists Lara in the ways that he can, and Grief sits unhelpfully on the counter, occasionally getting things from high shelves.

It's a lot of food. All of her pots and dishes are set out to carry the food that's been made. The house feels warm for the first time in many years, and not just because of the heat of the oven. The children's laughter can likely be heard from the next house over, but the house deserves a little excitement after years of emptiness.

Even if it's Artemiy's strays that she's taking care of, Lara finds that she doesn't mind much.

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She made a menacing figure, draped in black and harsh light on her face. It's a mock trial, preparing for the real one tomorrow.

Each one of the people below Aglaya is guilty of betrayal. The faceless have their own betrayals, but it's the important dolls that she must pay particular attention to, both here and in the coming days.

Her voice is booming as she calls on each citizen of her small and temporary domain. Their faces look up at her, and she stares down at them, ignoring the bright spotlight above her.

Once she's run through her lines, the lights turn off, and Artemiy begins to walk to the front. Aglaya watches him until he's gone underneath the balcony, outside of her view.

No time to waste. She has a train to be on.